Safe Harbor (30 page)

Built in a circle, surrounded by a stone wall, the garden was twelve feet in diameter. Lily had planned it herself, laid out every inch back when she and Dana were still in school. Even then her love of flowers and herbs was great; her specialty as an artist had always been to paint landscapes and botanical specimens, and their mother had given her this spot to plant any kind of garden she liked.

Flat blue stones had been placed at intervals to make weeding and planting easier. The herbs were arranged in perfect Lily-order: sage plants to the north for wisdom; thyme to the west for long life; lavender to the south in memory of their father and others who were gone; rosemary and mint to the east for love.

The spicy, mysterious scents rose around Dana, mingling with the richness of soaking-wet earth. She dug around the rosemary, Lily's favorite herb, and around the thyme, Dana's own. Racking her brain, she tried to remember. Years before, she had seen Lily sneak out to the herb garden at night, her diary in hand. It had clicked instantly: She's going to bury it there, to hide it from us.

Dana still didn't want to read her sister's diary. She thought of how it had always been her big-sister challenge to find it, know its location. That was all: Knowledge had been power or, perhaps, love. Actually reading it was different.

She couldn't explain why, but just then she felt it was her last hope, the only chance she might have to save her nieces' lives. Lily, or the mermaid, or both, had sent her out there in the pouring rain to find Lily's diary and find the truth.

But it wasn't there.

The garden was pocked with holes, as if a dog had forgotten where it had buried its bones. Leaning back on her heels, Dana let the rain pour down her face, soaking her mud-stained hands and knees. She wished Sam were there to help her dig, tell her what to do next.

Her eyes traveled around the small garden and suddenly came to rest on the sundial. She hadn't seen it at first. The old brass dial, green with verdigris, nestled beneath the herbs. Verbena and blue moon lobelia grew around it, and tendrils of white honeysuckle had covered it over. Cemented into its base since the house had been built in 1938, the sundial had been placed there by their grandfather.

Touching the brass pointer, rusted greenish-blue, Dana was amazed to feel it wobble. She leaned forward in the mud, rain in her eyes, and pulled the entire sundial out of its cracked cement base. There, hidden in the well beneath, was Lily's diary.

Wrapped in thick plastic, it had sat in its waterproof tomb all this time. Dana pulled it out, held it to her chest with the key in one hand, and let the rain wash her tears away. Lily had knelt here every day, weeding her garden, hiding her diary—first from her mother and sister, then from her husband and children.

Now, rather than having a sense of betrayal, Dana had the definite feeling of collaboration. Lily had led her here for a reason, and Dana believed it was to save her girls.

“I found it, Lily,” she said, her right hand tightly holding the key she had just taken from the moonstone box, “and I'll find them too.”

Then quickly, but being careful not to slip or drop the precious book in the mud, Dana walked into the house. She bypassed her mother, staring silently out the living room window with Maggie once again lying on her lap. It was as if the dog had done her job and could rest again.

Dana walked straight upstairs, water streaming onto the polished fir floor. Into Lily's bedroom, where she pulled the door closed behind her, she wrapped a towel around herself and sat down on the bed.

Fingers shaking, she held the tiny key. She inserted its tip into the small round lock and turned. Nothing happened. Withdrawing it, she used her towel to clean any rust that might have formed on the lock and tried again. The key fit.

This time the key turned. The lock released, and Dana pulled the strap. She began to read:

Hello, new diary. You're just the latest in a long line, but I love you already. Get ready to hear it all, the good and the bad. I tend to be an emotional kind of girl, and it helps me to pour my heart out on paper. This saves my loved ones from bearing the brunt of my feelings.

I don't like to yell at my husband, and I really don't like to yell at my kids. But no one's perfect—life happens. Mark is my mirror—I look at him and see what I could do better. When he's abrupt with Quinn or impatient with Allie, I get so mad at him. Not that he's that way often. He's a great father. I'm really lucky.

What an interesting start to my new diary! It's all about Mark. Well, it's always easier to look at his behavior than my own. So let me gripe a little, tell you what he's been up to.

His company is doing great. Grayson, Inc., is developing two major new projects, one in Cincinnati, Ohio, one right here in Connecticut. Both are retirement communities: the wave of the future. Of course we both know this: Mom's getting so old, and Mark's parents both died in that gloomy place near Providence. So developing old-age homes is good—Mark's a kind, good-hearted man, and he's very conscientious about the properties he's doing.

The bad news is that Cincinnati's so far away. He travels there a lot—and I mean a lot. The way he oversees the project is unbelievable! He practically has to check every hammer and nail to make sure it's up to code. The contractor calls with one tiny question, and Mark hops a plane to the site.

I think I liked it better when he wasn't so successful. We didn't have as much money, but we had enough. Who cares about new cars, a bigger boat? I like the
Mermaid
just fine. It's only January, and he's already talking about buying a big sailboat for the summer.

February second—Groundhog Day. I hope the little critter doesn't see his shadow. I don't want six more weeks of winter! Both girls have colds. Allie is a little dream. All I have to do is give her crayons and paper, and she's happy. But Quinn. My God, she's the stuff-up beast of the Western World. She's driving me crazy, wanting to go outside and play. When she can't breathe and has a fever of 101!

She wants to visit her aunt for spring vacation. Excellent idea, my beautiful beast! I could use a dose of Dana. France wouldn't be so bad either. But I'd probably take one look at her life—nonstop painting, that romantic studio she has, that handsome young lover—and want to trade places.

Dana could come home here, take over motherhood and Mark, let me have painting and France. I am mad at Mark today, in case you can't tell. He's in Ohio again. Something went wrong with the yoga room. The flooring wasn't padded enough, or something. He was concerned about the old people's knees.

What about my knees? I asked him on the phone. They haven't been wrapped around your hips nearly enough lately. I'll be home tomorrow, he said—hold that thought. Yeah, well, if he's not careful, I'll fly off to France and trade places with my sister. I'll have my knees wrapped around some young stranger before he can say Abracadabra.

Dana smiled at her sister's words, skimming through the pages. She went through all of February and March, stopped in April.

First shoots up in the garden. Branches pink on the trees. Allie doing ballet and soccer at school, Quinn confounding everyone as usual. She loves to hike, climb trees, listen at keyholes. Schoolwork needs attention. Mark never here to help with homework—Cincinnati done with, but something new in Massachusetts. Got to run, pick up Allie at ballet—

New boat came yesterday. Okay, I was wrong: She's gorgeous. I love her, and so do the girls. Our first major sail is going to be to the Vineyard, but right now we're just going to sail around the Sound. We're naming her
Sundance
, in honor of the project that paid for her: the Sun Center in Cincinnati. It's such a fine place, and Mark is so proud of it. If only there were another one like it here in Connecticut, it would be perfect for Mom and Maggie, even fussy Old Annabelle. The place he developed in Hawthorne didn't turn out to be half as wonderful. Let's hope the one in Massachusetts is more like it. For some reason, he doesn't want to talk about it though! Massachusetts is a big state—is the place in Boston or Springfield, I asked. Neither, he said. Well okay . . . twenty questions, anyone? Then he smiled, said “southeastern Massachusetts.” Ah, your home territory, said I. The Cape and Islands? Close enough, he said. Fine, my darling. In the category of well-enough-alone, I'll let it be. He has ancient aunts living in Hyannis, Chatham, and Edgartown. Perhaps it's getting too close to the bone. Building old-age facilities in Ohio is one thing; building them for your aunts might be quite another. I'm just glad Mark's the one doing this—he really cares.

The boat is great. She's so seaworthy, last night we were lying on the deck, imagining what it would be like to take the girls out of school next year, sail across the Atlantic to France. Surprise, Dana! We're going to live together again, one way or another!

Unfortunately, I don't think it's really likely. Mark's business is absolutely exploding. Since the Sun Center, lots of communities are interested in his work. He was always good, but this has brought him a new level of attention.

He says we'll have no financial worries after this year. The girls' education will be nearly paid for, the mortgage almost paid off. I know this is the accumulation of years of hard work, of being true to a vision.

Mark is so kind. He hires good people, the ones he can trust. He is true-blue, and he's absolutely scrupulous. When he found out that plumbing supplier was using shoddy materials, he made sure the contractor fired him on the spot.

I love our life. We sail, we garden, we take care of our family, we're good to each other. I get to paint, and I have a beautiful house to do it in. Plenty of scenery around here. Mark loves my sister, and she loves him too. If only she lived closer—then everything would really be perfect.

The June Full Moon—mating season for horseshoe crabs everywhere. Maybe Mark and I should try to make a new baby tonight. When he gets home from Massachusetts, maybe I'll take him down to the boat and show him my new moves. Do I have any? Maybe it's time to find out.

Is it possible that just last week I was saying our lives were perfect? What a lie. Or should I say, what a liar. Mark's been lying to me. He says he hasn't, but that's a lie too. He says when he said “southeastern Massachusetts” it wasn't just a way to squirm out of saying “the Vineyard.” That's right—his new development isn't a retirement community at all. He claims he never said it was, I just assumed—based on the fact that that's what he's been developing the last three years!

Mark's new development is a tract of four big, huge, ugly houses on Martha's Vineyard. My beloved island—the place where Dana and I first lived and worked as artists, Mark's and my first home, the place where Quinn was conceived and born. But worst of all: the land is Honeysuckle Hill.

Our sacred ground . . . he proposed to me there. We've camped out so many June sixteenths, the anniversary of his proposal. I can't believe it.

He says he grew up on the island. It's more his than mine, he says. Off-islanders never understand, if he wants to make money off the rich summer people, that's his prerogative. He says I was always too romantic about the place, too unrealistic. His excuse for not telling me!!! I wanted the sandy roads to stay unpaved, the moors to stay wild: well, islanders have to eat, he said. His brother needs the work, and old-timers—the heirs—need to sell their land.

I hate this. I think he's making the mistake of his life.

Dear diary, I think you're my only friend. At least for today . . . I had another fight with Mark. He showed me plans for the development—it's on the west side of Honeysuckle Hill, thank God, not the east, the part where he proposed. But still, the houses are so huge and gross. They look like McMansions: point and click your way to yet another bay window, another fanlight, a widow's walk on the roof. They're the stuff I hate to see on the islands, everywhere on the New England shore. Even here in Black Hall
. . .
they're springing up everywhere.

Do I sound like a supportive wife of a real estate developer? No, I don't. Have I had my head in the sand, just because most of his work has been out of sight, in areas not dear to my heart? I want to call Dana, but I'm ashamed to tell her what Mark's doing.

Dana held the diary and cringed. How could Lily have been afraid to call her? But on the other hand, what would Dana's reaction have been? She would certainly have taken Lily's side, wished Mark could keep Honeysuckle Hill unspoiled. She read on, one page after another now, without skipping anything.

Today I bundled up my paints and brushes and took the girls out to Gull Island for a painting expedition. En plein air . . . It was wonderful. We borrowed the Campbells' rowboat, and all I could think about was the
Mermaid
. Why haven't I launched her in so long? I've been so busy with Mark's dreams, I'd forgotten about some of my own. What about painting, sailing the Blue Jay? Dana would have been proud of me.

Quinn's been worried lately. She's heard Mark and me fighting a lot lately. Yesterday she asked me if we were getting divorced. No, I told her. Sounds like it, she said.

So today I was a good mom, true to myself at the same time. Mark and I love each other. We'll get through this. We're both strong-willed people with definite opinions. Mine is that he should leave the Vineyard alone! I think about all the birds that live there, the migratory hawks and ospreys, the owls . . . he says four families will love the houses he's building. I'm jealous of those families.

Oh, God. Help me stay calm, not show the girls how upset I am. Tonight Mark came home, said he had something to show me. He was laughing in that great way he has, appreciating everything and everyone. I was ready to laugh too—we've been so angry at each other.