Siren's Song (16 page)

There's a pause. “Okay, Jule. But be careful.”

* * *

I knock on the oak door with the ornate inlaid window in the center. A flash of red comes through the glass and it swings open. Jake stands there, or rather stoops there, long shoelaces extending from his shoes to his belt loops, forcing him into a bent-knee position. “Hey, Jule.”

“Um…” My eyebrows rise at his weird stance. “Hey, Jake.” I didn't think there was anything “special” about Luke's little brother. He seemed like a pretty normal middle school boy last night.

He laughs a little but blushes anyway. He shrugs. “It's the hockey stance. My dad makes me walk around like this on the weekends.” He quickly pulls the knots on the laces and stands straight, rubbing his thighs. “Builds my leg muscles. His dad made him and my uncles all tie their laces to their belts when they were growing up.”

“Sort of like my mom making me lie with my legs in the air and sing scales,” I say reassuringly.

“Uh…okay.”

“She's an opera singer,” I remind him. “And she thinks I have potential.” That seems to click with him.

“Oh yes, I hear the ‘you have potential' talk at least twice a week.”

“Sorry,” I laugh.

“Nah, it could be worse. Luke gets it practically every day.”

“Is he here?”

“Yeah, downstairs working out.” He points to a set of stairs leading into a basement.

I set his mom's clothes on a bar stool in the kitchen. “I brought back your mom's clothes. They're washed.”

“Cool, she's out shopping or something.” Jake flops down on the couch and turns on the TV.

I stand there, not quite sure what to do. “O-okay. I'll just go down to say hi.”

“See ya,” Jake murmurs and starts channel-surfing.

Pictures of famous hockey players line the stairwell. The walls are red. A black and gold jersey, framed and lit, hangs at the bottom landing. “Whitmore” is sewn across it. Must be his dad's old jersey.

Rap music pounds in the background, Eminem I think, punctuated by the sound of heavy thumping.

“That's it, Luke, boy! That's some power,” Luke's father booms. “It's a mistake to think hockey only requires lower-body strength.”

I step off the landing by a pool table and turn the corner into a huge room painted red and blue. Weight benches, an elliptical machine, and other home gym equipment sit around a red mat in the middle. One wall is nothing but mirrors. A rectangular area of the floor on the far side is white and slick-looking, like imitation ice. Luke dances on the mat, his dad holding a punching bag in front of him. Luke's shirtless, loose athletic shorts shifting around his thighs as he moves. His biceps bunch and lengthen as he punches, nearly knocking his dad backwards behind the heavy bag.

“Ha!” Mr. Whitmore laughs and steps away to throw Luke a towel. “You're going to knock your old man over with that right hook.”

I'm still by the pool table, not sure if I should interrupt. Luke wipes the sweat from his face. His dad lobs a sports drink towards him and Luke catches it out of the air without even looking. He inhales deeply–and turns directly towards me. Dark and sharp, or warm and laughing? His eyes narrow.
Shit, dark and sharp
.

“Hey, Jule,” Luke says, and his dad turns.

“Hi. I…” I motion to the steps, “…brought back your mom's clothes.”

“Oh, she's got plenty of those little skirts,” Mr. Whitmore dismisses me with a smile. “Thanks, though. Very prompt.” He looks back at his son. “We're about done, anyway. Good work this morning. You're stronger than I've ever seen you.” He chuckles. “Mom must be feeding you Wheaties or something.” He pats Luke on the shoulder, then smiles at me as he mounts the stairs.

“Nice gym.” I glance around the room. There's even a hot tub in the corner.

Luke heads for the free weights and lifts some huge-looking dumbbell. “My dad insisted on finding a place with a big basement.” I watch in fascination as Luke curls the large weight. The muscles of his arm bunch into a mountain. Even his lower arm looks like steel over bone. His voice barely wavers as he does ten curls and switches arms. “It's convenient. So I don't have to go out to a gym.”

I sit down on a bench nearby. “Must make you good at hockey.”

“Yeah,” Luke says.

“Your dad must be happy.”

A strange look passes over Luke's face. “Yeah, he is. I'll follow in his footsteps.” Luke replaces the dumbbell and straddles the bench I'm sitting on. Even with sweat all over, he doesn't smell bad. Just like fresh deodorant. And the slick sheen makes his muscles look even more amazing. Luke leaves his towel hanging over a shoulder. I'm tempted to snap a picture with my cell phone.

“Is that what you want to be, then? A pro hockey player?”

Luke tilts his head to the side as if he's considering the question. After a long moment he produces a lopsided grin. “I've said yes to that question my whole life.”

“But…that's not what you want to be?” I guess, leaning a little closer to him.

“I don't know. Doesn't matter, it's what I
will
be.”

My eyes narrow. “Why? Just because of your dad?”

Luke stands up. “And what are you going to be when you grow up?”

I blink at the 360. “I'm applying to a vocal program at Boston University.”

“Let me guess, it's where your mom went,” Luke says and hands me a water bottle from a small fridge behind the bar.

“Well, yes, but—” Luke's “told ya” look stops me. “I want to go, really. I love singing. It would be my choice even if my mother wasn't an opera singer.”

Luke nods as if he's willing to let that argument die, but his expression shows that he thinks he's still right.

“So, what would you be if you couldn't be a hockey player?” I ask.

Luke walks around the room, paces really, almost like a caged panther. He guzzles some of the red drink. “Haven't thought about it.”

“Come on,” I urge. “What if you got injured, couldn't play hockey? What else are you interested in?”

Luke leans against the hot tub and crosses his arms over his chest. He stares at me for a long moment. I start to think he's not going to say anything. He looks up at the ceiling and says, “I draw.”

“Like, pictures?”

“Yeah. I'd probably try to do something with that.”

I remember his schedule. “You're taking AP Art this semester, right?” He nods and throws a gray T-shirt on. “So…can I see some of your drawings?”

“No.” The word is flat, final, like the guttural slide and lock of a ten-ton vault door.

I stand up and shake my head. “You're moodier than a PMSing girl. I'll see you at school.” I start toward the stairwell. After a couple seconds I figure he's not going to stop me. I stride briskly up the steps. At the top I try the doorknob, turning it, but it's locked.

“It sticks.” The voice comes from directly behind me; I freeze. Luke leans around me, his arms on either side of my body. His hand twists the knob. But before he lets it swing open, his breath whispers by my ear. “Stay. Please.” I don't know if it's the tickle of his breath on my skin or the sad undertone in the two simple words, but a shiver runs up from my knees to my scalp. He pushes the door open in front of me. I step into the hallway.

“Oh hi, Jule!” Mrs. Whitmore beams at me as she points Jake toward an overflowing trash can in the kitchen. “So good to see you again.”

“I brought your clothes back. Thank you again for loaning them to me last night.”

“No problem.” Mrs. Whitmore looks behind me at Luke and her smile falters just slightly. “Working out still?”

“All done,” Luke says and I can hear the forced smile in his voice.

Mrs. Whitmore's gaze turns back to me. “Can you stay for a bit?”

“Uh…yes. Luke just invited me to stick around.”

Mrs. Whitmore's face lights up like Christmas. “Wonderful! I was just going to bake some cookies. These boys eat us out of house and home.” She laughs.

“I'd better shower,” Luke says. I turn to him and there's a light in his eyes, not a smile really, but maybe…hope. Man, he doesn't know what he just did, asking me to stay. Because I'm not leaving until I get some answers.

I sit down on one of the bar stools while Luke heads down the hall. Mrs. Whitmore starts measuring flour into a large blue bowl.

“You're the first girl he's ever introduced to us,” she says. I pause, the water bottle halfway to my lips, wondering how to respond. Finally I just nod and take a small sip. “He's a bit of a loner,” his mother continues.

“He seems real tight with his cousins,” I say.

“Cousins?”

Maybe Luke had only said Taylin was his cousin, not Matt. “Taylin Banes? I just assumed Matt was a cousin, too. They all sort of look similar.”

Confusion mutes Mrs. Whitmore's smile. “We don't have any family here. Everyone is back in Boston. Poor Jake and Luke didn't know a soul here. I've met Matt Kenzie. Nice boy.” She shakes her head, eyebrows raised. “But not related.”

I think I mumble an apology but I'm not sure. No cousins. No frickin' cousins. Okay, so lie number one. I am
so
keeping track.

“So, Luke draws?” I ask. Shall we go for lie number two?

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Whitmore says. “I encourage him, really,” she whispers with a wink, and glances toward Mr. Whitmore, who is tying the shoe laces back onto Jake's belt loops. “But he's committed to following his dad's path. I'd have him draw instead.”

“Why?”

“You haven't seen any of his work, have you?” She smiles knowingly.

I glance around the empty walls. “No.”

“I've been too busy to put anything up yet. You should take a look at his sketch books.”

Should I mention he said no just ten minutes ago? Not a chance. “Really? Do you have any?”

“He has stacks in his bedroom. He's always drawing. Fills book after book. It seems to…” her face looks a little tight, “…relax him.”

I can't imagine Luke sitting and drawing. I apparently haven't paid close enough attention to his notebooks in class. He must at least doodle.

Mrs. Whitmore points down the hall where Luke went. “Go take a look. His room is the last on the right. He takes long showers.” She shoos me with her hand. I move slowly because I keep waiting for her to call me back. After all, her son is currently naked down this hallway and may want to pop into his room to dress. But she doesn't.

I pause inside the doorway. The room is painted a deep blue that makes it seem dark even with the bright sun infiltrating the window blinds. Luke's double bed is made, the floor clean. Hockey trophies sit on a couple of shelves, but what grabs my attention are the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining an entire wall. And they are crammed full of books. There must be a thousand. I run my finger over the spines. Some are new, many are old, antiques. There's a whole shelf of Shakespeare. I pull one.
Romeo and Juliet
. Tabs stick out of pages. I open one up.

“These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder
,

Which as they kiss consume.”

So deep. I shiver. My gaze falls on a towering stack of sketch books in the corner near the closet door. I pick up the first. There is an August date on it, from about a month ago. I open it and a bird stares back at me, a raven of some kind, done in charcoal pencils. Its black eye has caught the light of a full moon above it on the page. I swear I can almost make out each individual feather. The bird looks like it could take flight right from the page. God, what incredible talent! No wonder Luke's in AP Art.

I flip the page and my breath hitches. My house, the front of it. A perfect rendering. The lilac tree has buds on it. There are puddles in the dip around the mailbox like it has just finished raining. My curtain is pulled slightly to the side as if I'm peeking out. He must have sketched it right after he moved in, although the lilac tree would have been in bloom by then.

I swallow and turn the page. Mica, tongue lolling out to the side, her coarse curls wispy around her head. I hear the water running in the bathroom and my gaze slides down the stack. There are dates on all the books, some going back years. I wheedle out one near the bottom with a child's handwriting on the front. A quick calculation puts Luke probably at seven years old. I flip to the middle and stop everything—moving, breathing, even blinking.

I stare at the back of a girl as she stands in a flower garden. The sketch, done with colored pencils, is downright prodigal for a child. But it's not the realism or the mature setting that stuns me; it's the girl. She is glancing back over her shoulder, her long, dark, wavy hair flowing free. I can only see one eye, the profile of her nose, her long fingers loosely holding a bouquet of…lilacs.

I slam the book shut and stare at the date on the front. Confusion mixes with panic. I need to breathe. Then I can think. “Coincidence,” I mumble. As I release my gaze from the stack of books, I notice that Luke's closet door is cracked open.

I glance toward the bedroom door. The water is still running in the bathroom. I guess it's really only been about five minutes. How long will his shower be, when he knows I'm waiting for him? I turn back to the dark closet and push it open, letting the light from the room spill inside. I run my hand along a row of black T-shirts and hockey jerseys. Luke's scent clings to them and I inhale. At the very back is another full bookshelf. I kneel down and run my finger along the spines. Some are cracked leather, others bound with string like they were single sheets of parchment until they were gathered together.

I guide one of the older-looking ones out and brush my hand over the age-stained cover. Maybe Luke collects antique books? Because this is definitely old. I shiver as I study the date on the cover,
March – September 1792
. I stand up and bring the book out of the closet to compare the handwriting on the top sketch book from the stack on the floor. “God,” I whisper.
Identical
.