Safe Harbor (25 page)

 

Q
UINN HAD THE RUN
of the house. Let's face it: Grandma was no Aunt Dana. She stationed herself by the window and watched everyone on the beach, sighing to herself just about every minute on the minute. Quinn went upstairs. She went into her parents' bedroom and lay on the bed. She smelled their pillows and checked their bedside tables. She shook the mermaid globe and watched the minuscule fish swim around.

“Mermaid, mermaid, tell me true, what's a girl supposed to do?” she asked.

And the answer came!

Quinn was going to build a window so Aunt Dana could have the north light. She tore downstairs, past Grandma sighing at the sunny day. She had to keep Aunt Dana here, painting happily, so she wouldn't go back to France. Hoisting the heavy garage door, she slid inside.

Her father's tools hung on the back wall. Dragging over the stepladder, she pulled down a saw. With a worn wood handle and a rusty pointed tip, it had long been used to trim shrubs, cut the lower branches off Christmas trees. Using her superior sense of direction, Quinn once again located north and went to work.

Standing on the ladder's top rung, she examined the wall. It was old and uninsulated; light came shining between the boards. She slid the saw's point between two slats and began to move her arm back and forth.

Aunt Dana, Aunt Dana, the saw seemed to say. What if Aunt Dana decided not to come back? What if she liked New York more? Quinn's mother had always said Aunt Dana was a vagabond, that nothing could make her settle down.

“Settle down here,” Quinn said, sawing as hard as she could. The noise seemed very loud in her ears, but who was around to hear? Grandma was going deaf, and she was too busy watching the beach. If Allie came along, Quinn would threaten her with the death of Kimba. And Mrs. McCray and Mrs. Campbell spent most of their time on the rocks and pier, listening to the waves, too busy having a good time to worry about. Sam, on the other hand, might hear.

At that thought, Quinn began to saw faster. Sam wouldn't mind—in fact, he might even help her. Quinn knew he was her ally. Something deep inside told her he wanted Aunt Dana to stay around almost as much as she did.

The thought of Aunt Dana with that gold key was strong in her mind. If Sam stopped by, Quinn just might share with him the location of certain things. His brother was a treasure hunter; Quinn would see whether that trait ran in him as well.

She sawed with all her might, thinking of her artist aunt, in search of the north light.

CHAPTER
20

S
AM COULD FEEL
D
ANA
'
S PRESENCE IN THE CITY,
as clean and clear as the Atlantic wind, cutting through the hot smog of the New York streets. First, he took care of business. He had a meeting at Columbia University, way uptown, with a colleague who specialized in dolphin psychology. Then he took the nine train down to Ninety-sixth Street, switched to the number three express, and rode two more stops to Times Square.

He made straight for the offices of the Sun Corporation—the parent of the Sun Center complex in Cincinnati, Ohio. Late nights without Dana, he'd found himself hitting the Internet, searching for clues about Lily. He'd surfed around, hitting sites on, of all things, retirement villages. There he had found the Sun Center with its home office located on Broadway and Forty-sixth Street.

Times Square was jam-packed with kids. They crowded the island in the center of the street, screaming up at the studios of MTV. Some were college-age, most much younger. Sam scanned the girls in their bathing-suit dresses. Some were Quinn's age. He stopped short, face-to-face with one of his Plankton 101 lab students.

“Juliana,” he said, surprised.

“Professor Trevor! I didn't know you liked Pink Frog.”

“Pink what?”

“The group. I know—you probably think Yale students don't listen to pop, but what can I say? It's summer vacation. I thought you were going to be in Bimini.” She took a step closer. She was very pretty, and her body was barely covered by the nylon fabric with nearly nonexistent straps, and she smelled like flowers.

“Nope. I changed my mind.”

“So you decided to come hang out in the city?”

“I'm meeting someone.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, giggling as she tripped slightly, steadying herself on his arm. “Because I don't really have to hear Pink Frog. I'm just bored. I live in the city—Upper West Side. I thought maybe I'd try to get on Urban Blanket Bingo, hope to get discovered so I never have to do a thesis, but oh, well . . . would you like to get a cup of coffee?”

“Thanks anyway,” Sam said, backing away. He could still smell her perfume, and he looked down at her cleavage, at her skin damp with sweat. She was a junior, nineteen or twenty years old, closer to his age than Dana. But he didn't care about her any more than he did about Terry or any of the others. No matter what Dana thought, there was only one woman for him. He smiled and waved good-bye.

“Even Yalies should walk on the wild side. You're missing a good time,” she called after him.

“No, I'm not,” he said under his breath, heading north toward the offices of the Sun Corporation. The midday sun was straight up, beating down. Crowds jostled him on their way to lunch. He walked between the tall glass towers of midtown Manhattan and thought about what he was doing, helping Dana.

This was what partners did for each other, he thought. He hadn't had good role models at home, but during the last two years, he'd gotten to watch Joe and Caroline. They had the kind of marriage he wanted someday. They respected each other's differences, and they worked hard to be each other's mate.

Caroline helped Joe cut through the red tape necessary for international dives, and he let her know he wanted her along, that his life was better with her there. They spent one month a year at her hotel, the Renwick Inn, connecting with its spirit and helping it to run smoothly the other eleven months, and they made time for her family and for Sam.

What Sam saw himself doing today was helping Dana cut through the red tape of her sister's story. He walked into the marble lobby and told the guard he wanted to visit the Sun Corporation. A phone call was made. Sam was told he could stop by the public relations office on the twenty-fifth floor. They issued him a badge, and he walked to the second bank of elevators.

The Sun Corporation lobby was yellow. Graphics of the rising sun covered the walls. The receptionist buzzed him in, and he walked down a brighter yellow corridor to the PR office. Framed photos of the sun shined down from all sides. Sam was greeted by a tall, balding man wearing a blue suit and red tie.

“May I help you?” he asked, smiling in a way that made Sam think he believed Sam had elderly parents to consider.

“I'm interested in the Sun Center in Cincinnati, Ohio.”

“Ah, the Buckeye State! I'm a Midwesterner myself. Got family out there?”

“Well, not quite,” Sam said.

The smile became less radiant. Still, the man seemed friendly. His name was Francis Corwith. Shaking hands, Sam introduced himself. They sat in Francis's office, a small yellow cubicle with no windows but several photos of the sun. Francis slid a glossy brochure across the desk and began talking about the company philosophy, about wellness and optimism going hand in hand. “A sunny day is a healthy day,” he said. “That's our motto.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sam said, rolling the brochure into a tube, wondering how to start.

“What brings you to us today?”

“Well, something sad,” Sam said, deciding to be straightforward. “A friend of mine had a brother-in-law who died last year. Mark Grayson?” He paused, watching for any reaction. Francis Corwith looked startled, but then he just shrugged and reapplied his smile.

“And someone's in need of a place to live? Would it be his mother? I didn't know Mark, but when someone young dies, the word spreads. Terrible thing. Well, if we can be of help. Normally, I'd suggest you go straight to the facility—Cincinnati, did you say?”

“Yes, but—”

“Here's some literature on that particular property. We're very proud of it—it's one of our newest. Built on beautiful parkland, with a natural pond and old maples, a waterfall that many people say is the prettiest they've ever seen.”

“Mr. Grayson developed that property?” Sam said, watching for a reaction. The only ones he perceived were regret and sympathy.

“Mark Grayson, yes, I believe he did. Well, it's a testament to our operation that the families of many people who have worked with and for us make the choice to join us when the time is right.”

“I'm sure it is,” Sam said. Francis Corwith shook his hand, just as friendly as he'd been before. So Sam tucked the brochures into his bag and wondered what he'd do until seven o'clock that night, when it was time to meet Dana.

 

D
ANA LOVED
the experience of lunch that day—at a restaurant with starched white linen napkins, not the kitchen table with paper towels torn off a roll.

The northern Italian food was delicious, but even better was the fact that she didn't have to think. She didn't have to worry about Quinn sitting on her rock, about getting Allie to swimming lessons on time, about what to have for dinner. She didn't have to stand in a dark, damp garage with no north light, painting the first canvas she'd touched in over a year. She didn't even have to let herself be haunted by images of Jon and Monique, lying on her studio couch.

All she had to do was eat good food, be flattered by Vickie and Sterling Forsythe, talk about her work, and wonder what would happen when she saw Sam. They sat outside, on a narrow wraparound porch painted blue and white, with beautiful tiles hand painted with scenes of Italian beaches. Sterling's tape recorder whirred along, reminding her that this was an interview.

“Underwater,” Sterling said. He was a big man with wavy dark hair and glowering eyes. He had the habit of saying words, single words, just dropping them in the middle of the table like little bombs set to go off and make Dana start talking.

She twirled a strand of black cuttlefish pasta.

“Undersea,” he said, trying again.

“Dana, darling,” Vickie laughed. “Don't be obtuse.”

“I'm not,” she said. “I'm just wondering what to say about it.”

“You paint it,” he said. “You have lived it—all over the world. Coastlines from here to Japan, am I right?”

“One year in Japan, yes.”

“Which, among them all, would you say was your favorite?”

“Well, New England,” she said.

“Yet you haven't lived there in over a decade. You reside in Normandy. What keeps you so far away from a place you claim to love?”

Dana ate quietly. She had been asking herself the same thing. Was it because she loved it so much that she had wanted to stay away? Loving a place, loving people, always led to heartache. It was easier to choose beautiful places she wasn't quite so tied to, places whose landscape didn't make her feel like crying, whose hills and sands weren't inhabited with the ghosts of those she loved. But all she said was “I've wanted to see the world. I thought it would make me a better painter.”

“And I daresay it has,” Sterling said. “Something else for your consideration: blue.”

“Blue?”

“Yes. You know it's your signature color. With all your undersea Impressionism, having explored each ocean's shades and hues, how many shades of blue do you think you've used over the years?”

“One hundred and four thousand, six hundred and eighty-one,” she said deadpan.

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely.”

Vickie looked unsure whether to laugh or get mad. Dana smiled at her. She hated being interviewed. What did she have to say that was worth reading? She was just a person profoundly unsuited for nine-to-five work. She had found a way to support herself, make a good living, that let her use her God-given talent. But she couldn't exactly say that.

She had to play the game. Art critics liked her to be mysterious and cool. They loved the fact that she was an expatriate, that she had never married, that her paintings contained so few human elements. Although very few people, even journalists, actually saw the mermaids she disguised as weed and currents and fish in her work, this man was saying she painted like a mermaid, down in the deep.

“Love,” he said, bringing his hand down on the white tablecloth.

Dana stared at his knuckles, at the back of his hand. The word brought three faces to her mind, and they were there right now, surprising her by their particular presences.

“Tell me about love,” he said.

“Dana doesn't talk about her personal life,” Vickie said, leaning forward to chide him; he was her friend, and he was supposed to know what was off limits.

“The art world was fascinated with your mentorship of Jonathan Hull,” he said as if Vickie hadn't spoken. “Although personally, I thought him beneath you all along. An opportunist.”

“I didn't see him that way,” Dana said, staring at the bottle of olive oil. Golden as sunlight, filled with sprigs of rosemary and thyme, it smelled as sweet and fragrant as France, but to Dana it suddenly went sour.

“He wasn't an opportunist,” Vickie said. “He's incredibly talented. Dana saw it first, but the rest of us see it now.”

“Vickie, I love you,” Sterling laughed, “but you seem to forget: I'm interviewing Dana, not you. Dana, would you like to have dinner tonight? I promise you, going out with a man my age will be much more fun. I'll like the same music you do—we'll have the same frame of reference.”

“Thank you,” Dana said, trying not to show her anger. “I can't. I'm meeting a friend later.”

“Not Jonathan Hull?”

Dana shook her head, her shoulders tightening.

“Personally, I'm glad. Although it would make a great end to my story—you two getting back together.”

“It won't happen.”

“Never say never,” Vickie chided.

“Never,” Dana said.

“There's never an end to Dana's story,” Vickie laughed. “Don't try to pin her down—she'll just move to a different continent. Make herself a brand-new home.”

Dana laughed then. Jonathan and Monique faded, replaced by three different faces in her mind. Usually the thought of a new continent would send a jolt of electricity through her: a dream, if not a plan, to move on. She had never lived in Australia, for example. Or Antarctica. Plenty of ocean in both those places.

Instead, listening to Vickie and Sterling talk, she knew she didn't want to go anywhere new. She felt just as happy as she had that morning, to be on her own in New York for a day. But right now, the thought of home meant Hubbard's Point. It meant the gray shingled cottage, Lily's overgrown gardens, the dark garage, the stone steps down to the beach. It meant Quinn and Allie, and to Dana's amazement, it seemed also to mean Sam.

She couldn't wait for this luncheon to finish so she could go to her hotel for a shower and a nap, to change for the night ahead. After coffee, when Sterling asked and was denied a third time for dinner that night, Vickie made Dana promise she'd stop by the next day.

“For your check,” Vickie said. “And a little something extra. You haven't forgotten about money, have you?”

Dana shook her head, shivering as she kissed Vickie's cheeks three times and remembered the money in the box. They promised they'd see each other tomorrow, before she left, and then Dana grabbed her bag and started walking uptown.

 

T
HE WINDOW
was a piece of cake. Quinn couldn't believe it. She sawed ten inches down, ten inches across, ten inches up, and ten inches across the top. Her father would have been proud. It took her all day, and she now had a muscle in her right arm the size of a grapefruit, but no one could accuse her of lack of determination.

Now Aunt Dana had the north light.

If Quinn could have wrapped it up in a bow and handed it to her, she would have. The window was pretty much square. Not perfectly square though, more like a leaning trapezoid. The leaning window of Hubbard's Point.

Just as she was getting ready to clean up the old boards and head over to her rock, she heard voices outside. Moving closer, she saw it was Grandma and Old Annabelle. They stood in the road, talking to each other, just the way Quinn's mom and Marnie had done, the way Quinn and Cameron sometimes did now.