Safe Harbor (13 page)

“Where'd you find a mermaid model?”

“She was human. One hundred percent human,” Dana said quietly.

“Well, you fooled me. The mermaids you paint look like they belong in textbooks of pelagic species. How do you do it, blend them into the scene?”

“I worked their tails into the kelp, I turned their scales into a school of fish. No one else sees them.”

“Not even the girls?”

Dana shook her head.

“I guess I see them because I was once rescued by them. That's how it felt that day in Newport. When I came to with my head bleeding, being kept afloat by you and Lily.”

“Oh, Lily would have loved that. You thought we were mermaids.” Dana smiled, not telling him that she loved it too.

“Have you painted any of the Sound?”

“Not since I've been back,” she said, her chest tightening. “Home is tricky. I don't find it easy to paint here.”

“No?”

“I always live far away,” she said. “I'm not exactly sure why, but it seems to feed my painting. Where I live is always beautiful but always unfamiliar. Lily used to say I thrive on being off-balance.”

“Quinn feels off-balance now,” Sam said.

Dana glanced over, waiting for him to go on. Suddenly, the darkness seemed too much, so she leaned over and lit the candles on the table. His eyes glowed, and his skin looked quite tan. In this light, she could see the muscles in his arms. They looked very strong and well-developed, as if he spent as much time working out as in his lab. She stared at the way his upper arms strained against the short sleeves of his white polo shirt, and she found herself feeling incredibly attracted to him.

“She does?” Dana asked, blushing as she looked away.

“Well, she doesn't sail anymore.”

“I noticed.”

“And she wants you to paint.”

“I know. She said that before you came.”

“Are you going to?”

“I'll start soon.” Was it a lie or a promise? A breeze came through the open window, and Dana watched the candle flame flicker. It looked almost as unsettled as she felt. She loved talking to him, hearing the insights he had into her niece.

“Well, it's getting late,” he said, setting his coffee cup down on the table. “What time do you want me back here?”

“Back here?”

“In the morning. Actually, I can't make it tomorrow. I have to analyze some data coming in from Bimini, turn it around, and send it to Lunenburg. Friday I have some meetings at Yale. But how about Saturday?”

“Sam,” Dana began, wondering what she was missing. “What are you talking about?”

He stood up, stacking his and Dana's cups on the tray.

“To get the boat ready,” he said. “So we can launch it.”

“The boat . . .”

“The one in the garage. Quinn told me about it. She might not want to, but you're going sailing, Dana.”

“I am?”

“Yeah, you are,” Sam said, and the way he said it made her start to smile back, sent a shiver down the length of her spine that had nothing to do with the breeze coming through the open window.

CHAPTER
9

“I
NEED SOME MONEY,
” Q
UINN SAID MATTER-OF-
factly.

“For what?” her aunt asked.

“Things,” Quinn said. Then, taking a deep breath because she knew she had to be patient, and because Aunt Dana wasn't up on kids and finances, she made sure to speak kindly. “You're not supposed to ask.”

“Why not?”

“You're supposed to trust me.”

Aunt Dana was sitting outside on the stone terrace, reading her mail, waiting for Grandma to come over for tea. The white market umbrella was up and the pots of geraniums and petunias were in full bloom. Aunt Dana wore a big straw hat and dark glasses, and she looked as if trust for Quinn was the furthest thing from her mind. Staring silently, she let the letter drop to her lap.

“I know,” Quinn said. “You're thinking I constantly run off and mouth off. ‘Why should I trust you?' is what you're about to say, right?”

“No. I was about to say ‘How much money do you need?' ”

Quinn could barely smile. This was too easy, and now she felt guilty for the move—Aunt Dana was a sitting duck. She was trying so hard, wanting her nieces to accept her. She'd probably give Quinn anything she asked for. Calculating fast, Quinn figured she could get Sam to do the work for fifty clams.

“Fifty dollars,” she said.

“Hot dog stand,” Aunt Dana said.

“Excuse me?”

“You'll have to earn it. You could get a paper route, but I'm sure the Point's already covered. If you have a hot dog stand and charge a dollar fifty each, you'll have to sell only thirty or so hot dogs. Not counting sodas. I'll front you the startup costs.”

“Mom never made me work,” Quinn said, outraged. “She gave me an allowance.”

“How much of an allowance?”

“Five bucks a week.”

Opening her bag, Aunt Dana pulled out a five-dollar bill and handed it to her. “Here. Now you have to earn only forty-five.”

“Who's that letter from?” Quinn asked, changing the subject and making it sound like an accusation.

“Jonathan Hull.”

“Who's
that
?” Quinn asked, staring at the onionskin envelope postmarked Honfleur, France.

“My old boyfriend,” Aunt Dana said, going back to reading her letter and leaving Quinn with her mouth wide open and the five-dollar bill flapping in the summer wind. Aunt Dana had had many boyfriends over the years, but Quinn had no idea that one of them was still in the picture—she could say “old boyfriend,” but if he was in the past, what was the letter all about? Quinn thought of Rumer Larkin, the lady who lived a few doors down. She was about Aunt Dana's age, but she was already one of—what were they called?—“Les Dames de la Roche.” The old ladies of the Point who never married, didn't need men. Her mother had seen a unicorn once. Rumer helped hurt animals, and Quinn had heard her talking to them. They were weird, but in a cool way. If only Quinn could get Aunt Dana to be a Dame de la Roche—and forget about that Jonathan Hull guy back in France. Recovering eventually, she walked through the sliding door into the house.

The brass box was back on the mantel. Quinn went to stand before it. This was the little altar she visited every day, the exact reason she didn't want her parents' ashes being scattered anywhere. They were right here, where Quinn needed them.

“She has a boyfriend,” she said out loud. “In France. No wonder I feel her wanting to go back there. And she's making me work to earn the money to hire Sam. It'll be worth it: I'll find out everything that happened to you. Whatever it was, I'll know. And I'll take care of your debt. . . .”

Quietly, she listened. If her parents could talk to her, if she could hear their voices, she believed she knew what they would say:
We love you, we love you, we love you so much.

But if they loved her so much, why had they died?

 

S
ATURDAY MORNING
Dana got up early. Knowing Sam would be there by nine, she went down to the garage to clear things out from around the boat. The sky was hazy with locusts humming in the trees, letting her know the day was going to be hot. The girls had ridden their bikes to the post office and then were going to the store to buy supplies for their hot dog stand. Dressed in work clothes, drinking a second cup of coffee, Dana felt more excited than she had expected.

The old boat looked tired. Its trailer was rusty, one tire flat. The paint was peeling, and the bottom was coated with very old, dried algae. She assembled scrapers, wire brushes, paper masks, and a new can of antifouling bottom paint.

A bushel of kindling and a paper bag of soda cans stood behind the trailer. Dana cleared them away, then moved several rakes and garden tools. She righted a tipped-over flowerpot and moved Mark's fishing rods to the back wall. Several lures were lightly hooked to a wooden beam. Working them free, she reached for his tackle box to stow them inside.

The plastic box was padlocked.

That surprised her. No one locked a tackle box. What could possibly be inside—rusty hooks, worn leaders, lead sinkers? Dana jiggled the small brass lock, moving the hasp. Maybe Mark hadn't wanted the girls to hurt themselves on fishhooks. Or perhaps he had found a new place to hide valuable documents, like the deed to the house.

Dana worked the lock a little harder. She tugged hard, examined the padlock. This was interesting. Her curiosity building, she held the box before her eyes as if it were a Christmas present. She shook it. Still, the lock didn't give. Bemused and knowing she'd get to it later, Dana set the box down and stuck the lures back where she'd found them.

Soon afterward, Sam pulled up out front. He wore his painting clothes: an old T-shirt and shorts stained with that distinctive chalky, royal blue paint used on boat bottoms.

“Looks like you've done this before,” she said.

“I paint my boat every year,” he said. “It's a ritual of spring.”

Dana offered him coffee, but he said he'd stopped for some on the way. They got right to work. They wore white masks even for scraping off the accumulated barnacles and algae. The bottom paint was the most toxic stuff there was and would prevent future growth. Glancing over at him, around the edges of his mask, Dana noticed that he had sleep wrinkles on one side of his face.

“Did you sleep well last night?” she asked.

When Sam looked over, she couldn't miss the delight in his eyes peering over the mask. It sparked a shock of emotion in her, and she smiled at him. “Yes, thanks for asking. Did you?”

“I did,” she said. “Something about that old house just lulls me to sleep. It's like being in a rocking cradle.”

“Because it's your childhood home?”

“I guess so,” she said, vigorously scraping. “All those happy memories.”

“Tell me one.”

Dana kept working, but her mind spun back. There were so many. Some blended together, but others were as clear and distinct as a full moon in the sky. “Let's see. The day Lily and I bought this boat. Our father drove us over to Old Mystic; we paid for it with money we'd earned ourselves, and when we got it home, we went sailing right away. It was incredible—a beautiful breezy July day.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A long, long time ago,” she said through her mask. “When Lily and I were younger than Quinn and Allie are now.”

They worked for a while in silence, and then they met at the back of the boat. There, on the transom, was the mermaid with two tails. “Your symbol,” Sam said. “You were painting mermaids even then.”

“I guess I was. We both were—Lily painted half of her.”

“We'll leave her alone,” Sam said protectively. “Work around her.”

Dana's gaze slid toward him. She thought of the way things came together and dissolved. Lily's life was right here, in this garage. Her heart hurt so much, working on this old boat, and she knew that Sam knew. She put down her scraper, feeling the tenderness he had for her and Lily's history.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I'm not sure,” she said, staring at the paint scraper. How could she answer that? The clear-cut answer was no, she wasn't. Lily was everywhere—or, to be more accurate, memories of Lily. She had loved her sister so much. This little boat was where their two passions—sailing and painting—had come together.

“Does it make you want to paint again?”

“I hadn't been thinking that,” she said.

“Maybe it would help,” he said.

“Help how?”

“Ground you. Give you something to focus on besides missing her.”

The earth shifted. Dana could swear it really did; that a small earthquake occurred right there in the old garage. Holding herself steady, she knelt beside the Blue Jay and concentrated on the transom. It had been Sam's words: missing Lily. Those were huge words, and they took in more than he, or even Dana, could imagine.

This was the hardest part for Dana—seeing the section she and Lily had painted together. Was it possible these old brushstrokes were all that was left? Dana thought of all the painting she had done over the years, all the mermaids she had hidden there. As Lily had said in her letter to Monique, they were supposed to be their guardian angels, saviors from the deep. . . .

Watching Dana from the corner of his eye, Sam had started to work again. Scraping harder, he had paint chips flying everywhere. Blue flecks covered his hands and forearms. His shoulders strained his gray T-shirt—black with sweat—and his muscles glistened.

“You'd think it would be simpler,” she said, making herself smile. “Here you are, doing a good deed, and I'm a basket case.”

“Really? I don't think that.”

“You're just being polite, saying that.”

“No, Dana. Really—if you're not ready to launch the boat, we don't have to. We can stop right now.”

“I'm tempted. But thinking about me and Lily buying her, sailing her, makes me think about the girls—Quinn and Allie. What they're missing with her in the garage.”

“So we'll keep at it?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” she said, attacking the job with new vigor. They were across the boat from each other, and she glanced over now and then. His eyes were bright, curious, as if even scraping paint made him happy. Dana knew she had been that way once. It was the part of her Jonathan had been drawn to: awake, alive, open to the world.

Now she had armor on. It couldn't be seen, and it wasn't material, but she couldn't for the life of her begin to take it off. Being with Sam, feeling his concern, made her want to soften her heart. She wanted to go back to how she had been when this boat was new—in love with the sea and sky, hardly able to wait a minute to go sailing across the waves. Now she felt so guarded, so hurt by what life had given her, she hardly wanted to step outside. Her sister had died, and her boyfriend—the man she had loved because he had seemed to want her for who she really was, love her because she could paint as if she lived under the sea—had been too impatient to wait and see what might come next.

The sanding complete, they started to paint. Down the road, Winnie Hubbard rehearsed, singing scales. People strolling down Cresthill Road slowed to check things out. Some called hello, others just passed by. Rumer Larkin drove past in the barn truck, hay bales piled in the bed. Marnie, getting into the car with her daughters and armloads of library books, backed out of her driveway and called hi through the open window as she pulled away.

“Friendly place,” he said.

“Everyone knows everyone,” she said, brushing with thick, even strokes.

“Newport used to be like that. Do you remember?”

“I was there for only two summers, but yes—I do. It was a really fun place, and if you had a boat, you fit right in.”

“I didn't have a boat,” Sam said.

“Neither did I,” Dana said. “I was just the sailing teacher. But we used to hang around Bannister's Wharf after work, meeting people from all over.”

“I saw you there once,” Sam said, glancing across the boat. “My mother worked on the next dock over. She had to stay late one night, and I was wandering around, waiting for her to finish. I saw you and Lily at the Black Pearl.”

“Were we behaving ourselves?” she asked, picturing the lively outdoor nightspot.

He laughed. “You were the center of attention. Guys were swarming all over you. I remember hoping you wouldn't ask them to go sailing instead of me.”

“Did you think I would?”

“I wasn't sure. I couldn't believe you'd asked me at all.” Leaning over, he painted with fierce concentration. His glasses had slid down his nose, and he bumped them up with his shoulder. “I was a runt from the wrong side of town, and the other kids were all preppies waiting to happen. I never got over you letting me sail.”

“You were a student just like the rest of them. I didn't care about pedigrees, and neither did Lily.”

“I know. You were both great. But when I saw you with those guys at the Black Pearl, I thought, forget it. She's going to kick you off the boat so fast . . .”

“Never. They never stood a chance,” Dana said. She had dated her share of Newport sailors, but they weren't really her type. Even back then, as young as she was, she had been serious about her art, not just looking for fun on a hot summer night.

“Well, I'm glad. I would have fought to stay—I loved those lessons so much.”

“There wasn't anything to fight. I couldn't resist you, Sam.” She laughed, relaxing as she remembered how much fun they had had. It felt good to flirt a little. Since breaking up with Jonathan six months earlier, she had kept her guard up, but what was the harm in this kind of banter? When she glanced up from painting, she saw that Sam had stopped working.

His eyes were very intense over the edge of his mask, as if he were waiting for her to go on.