Authors: Lynda Simmons

Island Girl (44 page)

BOOK: Island Girl

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“That’s it then,” Jocelyn said. “You don’t want the business, so screw Grace.”

“I’m not screwing Grace, I’m relieving her of the burden.” I held up the manila envelope. “I’m selling everything to Lori. The papers are here. That’s all there is to it.”

Grace was on her feet so fast she made us all jump. “When were you going to tell me this? When Lori was rolling my workstation out of my room?”

I rose to stand with her. “Grace, you need to calm down. Take a deep breath—”

“I need to go and finish the cage.” She banged back the door and went down the stairs.

“You bitch,” Jocelyn muttered on her way by, and I noticed Mark did not correct her before she crashed out the door as well.

“That went well,” he said.

“Shut up.” I went to the sink, turned on the tap, and let the cold water run. “You might have been more helpful.”

“I didn’t once say that I agree with them. I think that was being very helpful.” He tore open the envelope. “Might as well look this over. Your mind is made up anyway.”

I splashed water on my face while he laid Lori’s offer on the table and picked up a pen. I didn’t care what was in it anymore. Whatever the offer, I’d take it, just to have this whole thing over with. To be rid of the workstations, the roller carts, the daily reminders of what had been my life. I glanced over at the barber’s chair. Even that could go. I’d always wanted a wicker couch anyway.

I walked to the door. Grace had taken the cage apart and laid the pieces on the grass. I watched her snap on rubber gloves, pick up a brush, and go at the bottom section of the cage, scrubbing harder and harder. Her face was red, her hair coming out of the ponytail. Her arms were slick with sweat and her T-shirt starting to cling, Kiss Me I’m Irish straining across her chest with each brutal stroke.

“You’re Scots,” I whispered, fearing an outburst, knowing I’d earned one. Wishing there had been another way, certain there was none.

Jocelyn sat down beside her, picked up a section of cage, and went at it with equal fury. Glancing over at Grace now and then, saying nothing, just being twelve and trying to help, to show loyalty. She looked different from the girl who had first arrived at my door all those weeks ago. Tanned, healthy—still an awkward adolescent, but I could see signs of the woman she was going to be in the curve of her cheek, the cut of her jaw.
Striking
was the word that came to mind.

Grace’s movements began to slow, her shoulders to slump. She closed her eyes and finally took a long, deep breath. I took one myself, hoping the storm was over.

The gate opened. Kylie and Brianne came into the garden, no longer needing to be invited. “Hey, you guys,” Kylie said. “What’s up?”

“Cleaning the cage,” Jocelyn said. “What’s up with you?”

“We’re going to Centre. You want to come?”

“I don’t know.” Jocelyn turned to Grace. “What do you think?”

Grace sat back. Dropped her brush. Stared at the section of cage that had never been so clean, then rose and smiled at the girls. “Sounds like fun. You should go.”

“You don’t mind?” Jocelyn said, dropping the brush and stripping off her gloves.

“Why would I?” Grace picked up the hose, aimed it at the cage bottom, and squeezed the trigger. All four of them leapt back, screeching as the water splashed back. I could have told her that was going to happen, but Grace hadn’t known, couldn’t see it, which would always be the problem. She could never see trouble coming. Now she was soaked but laughing. At least she was laughing.

“This isn’t a bad offer,” Mark said. “Straightforward, nothing hidden or tricky.”

I was about to go back to the table when the gate opened again. Two men this time. One a deckhand from the
Ongiara.
Thirtyish, nothing special to look at, with too much dark curly hair. Italian probably. Or Portuguese. I couldn’t think of his name. The other was a neighbor from down the street. Stewart? Yes, Stewart. Doris’s husband. Tall and round-shouldered, like his wife.

The deckhand had a fried chicken box in his hand and he was in a hurry. “Grace,” he called.

She stopped laughing and turned. Dropped the hose. Straightened her shoulders. Pushed at her hair with the back of her hand and smiled. A gesture so feminine, so adult, it took my breath away. “Hi, Joe,” she said.

Hi, Joe
? She knew him? What the hell was going on here?

He held out the box. “Some kid was trying to get on the ferry with this.”

“I heard it when they came on board,” Stewart said. “I asked the kid what he had and he said it fell out of a tree.”

She opened the lid and peeked inside. “A baby robin.”

Another bird-in-a-box. More proof that there was no God.

“Let me see!” the girls said, the three of them clamoring around her, trying to get a look in the box.

Grace knelt down and lifted the lid. “He’s very scared. So you have to be quiet.”

The girls were instantly six years old, peering into the box, eyes soft, mouths round. Their fingers twitching, eager to touch but holding back, being quiet.

Grace covered the box again and stood up. “Why did you bring him here?” she asked this deckhand, this Joe who should be working, not talking to my daughter.

“I couldn’t let the kid take it to God only knew where,” he said. “And once I had the box in my hand, I thought of you.”

His smile was awkward, shy. He wasn’t sure of himself around her. The deckhand liked her. My spine stiffened. Not this, not now.

Behind me, Mark said, “Ruby, don’t.” I turned my head. How long had he been standing there? “He’s just a nice guy with a baby bird. She’s fine.”

“Everybody knows what you did with that mockingbird,” Joe was saying. “I thought maybe you could help this little guy too.”

A nice guy. That’s what people said all the time after they found out a serial killer was living next door. ‘He seemed like such a nice guy.’ Not that Joe looked like a serial killer. Just large. And hairy. And what did he want with Grace anyway? Why hadn’t he stayed at his post on the
Ongiara
? Let Stewart come with the bird on his own. Irresponsible, that’s what he was. And standing far too close to my daughter.

“Fly or Die,” Brianne said, and held out a hand to her sister. “Five bucks to fly in three days.”

Kylie shook on it. “Five bucks to fly in four.”

Stewart shrugged. “Put me down for five to die in two.” He headed out the gate. “Sorry, Grace, but he looks pretty shaken up. I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

“You’re on,” Jocelyn shouted after him. “I’ll take five to fly in five.”

“We should set up a board at the tennis court,” Kylie added. “A lot of them there will take ‘die.’” She gave Grace a small, embarrassed grin. “Sorry, it’s just the truth.”

“That’s all I ever want,” she said. It just wasn’t always what she needed.

Kylie motioned Jocelyn to follow her to the gate.

“I should call Courtney,” Jocelyn said as they walked.

“Tell her to get over here right away,” Brianne said, letting the gate close behind them.

Grace peeked into the box again. “Poor little thing.”

“Can you help him?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know.” She held the box close, as though keeping it warm. “He’s got lots of feathers so he might have been on the ground on purpose. He might have been learning to fly. Did the kid say where he found him?”

“Near the fire station I think.”

“Then you should take him there and put him back on the grass.” She held the box out to Joe Deckhand. “His parents may be looking for him. That will be the best chance he has.”

He looked disappointed. “Are you sure?”

“At this age, he’d need to be fed every few hours, and I don’t have anywhere to keep him. That cage is too big, and besides he shouldn’t get used to one. He needs to be outside where he can see other birds, learn what he needs to do.” She glanced up at the lilac. “Once the lady mockingbird lays her eggs, the male will probably try to run him off or worse.” She held the box out again. “You should try the fire station first.”

He still didn’t take it. What was wrong with that man? Irresponsible and pigheaded.

“What if it doesn’t work?” he asked. “What if his parents don’t come for him?”

She peeked into the box again. “Someone should stay with him to make sure they do or at least make sure no one picks him up again until they have a chance.”

The ferry horn sounded, still at a distance but on the way, and none too soon.

“I have to get back to work.” Joe moved in a little closer, peeked into the box with her. “I’ll take him back, but could you stay with him?”

“I don’t know.” She turned her head. They were the same height, standing eye to eye and much too close. “I have to think a minute.”

“That’s okay,” he said, and gave her that same awkward smile. “I can wait.”

“Oh no you don’t.” I hit the door and was on my way down the stairs before Mark could stop me. “What’s going on here? What are you up to?”

“Nothing.” He backed up one step, then another. “I just brought her a bird—”

“Mom, stop.”

“I saw that. And I need to know why you felt it necessary to bring it yourself. Why didn’t you let Stewart bring it down?”

“I didn’t mean any harm,” Joe said. “I was just worried about the bird—”

“And I’m just worried about what you want.” I glanced over at Grace. “Is this the black something cuckoo you’ve been looking for so hard? Is this the reason you go out early every morning?”

“No. Mom, I swear.”

“I don’t know anything about cuckoos,” Joe Deckhand said. “But I give you my word I don’t want anything—”

“Liar.” I put a hand on his chest, pushed hard enough to get him moving. “She’s asked you to take the bird and leave. I suggest you do that. We’re not running a wildlife rescue here.” I gestured to Grace. “Give him the box.”

“No.” She backed up, clutching the box to her chest.

“Grace, give him the box now.”

She lifted her chin. Looked me straight in the eye in a way she hadn’t since she came home from the city. “I’m taking the bird to the fire station.”

Joe smiled. “You’ll do that?”

“And I’ll sit with him till his parents come. And if they don’t, I’ll bring him back here.”

“Grace, don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “You said yourself he needs to eat every few hours. How will you manage that?”

“I’ll figure it out.” She turned to Joe. “Let’s go,” she said, and went through the gate with the deckhand and his damned fried chicken box.

It was happening all over again. Grace turning her back, walking away.

I gripped the post. “Grace, don’t do this. You know what happened the last time.”

She drew up short but didn’t turn around.

“Grace, you said yourself you need to think.”

The ferry horn blew again. Closer now. Joe Deckhand reached for the box. “It’s okay. I’ll take him.”

Grace shook her lovely head, straightened her back, and turned. There was no anger in her face. No confusion, no hesitation. Just a steely determination that froze me to the spot. “I have thought about it, and I’m going to the fire station. I’ll see you later.”

She started walking again. Joe Deckhand said to me, “I’ll take care of her,” and ran to catch up.

I stood with my fingers wrapped around the post and my feet stuck in one spot, watching my daughter, my baby, walk away with a man whose hands were big and probably far too strong, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t say a word. My head was filled with bits of thoughts. Go get her. Stay here. Where’s Lori?

But I was clear on where I was and what was happening. I could see the tourists approaching, snapping pictures of our houses, pointing at our gardens. I could hear the ferry horn and wondered if Joe would be on it when it left. And how he possibly thought he could look after my girl who would sit by the fire station watching a baby robin for who knew how long.

I started to sweat. Blood roared in my ears. Any second I expected the fog to descend, to wake up somewhere else in an hour or six, with Big Al laughing and saying,
Gotcha last
, just for the hell of it. But it was Mark’s voice I heard saying, “Still winning hearts and minds, I see.” And his hands I felt on my shoulders. Big hands. Strong. Slowly kneading away the tension, making me relax.

“You should go after her,” I said. “Bring her back.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, his fingers moving, working out the knots, the worry, the stress. “If she said she was going to the fire station, then I believe her, and so should you.”

“You are so naïve,” I said, the roar slowly quieting, calming.

“Yes I am,” he said. “And we should stay right here.”

LIZ

BOOK: Island Girl

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