The Mermaid Collector (19 page)

Beverly offered a polite but short smile. “Certainly.” She removed her wallet, sliding past the two women, and she pushed a folded bill through the slot.

Paid in full, she began to browse the exhibit cases, the
displays inside looking as worn and weary as the seasiders’ faces who lined the walls in old photographs. She paused a moment at a photograph of a bright-eyed lightkeeper, or so the nameplate under him said.

“Handsome, wasn’t he?”

Beverly turned to find Vera Blake beside her.

“Lydia was bonkers for him,” Vera continued. “Truly crazy. No sane woman with a newborn throws herself off a lighthouse gallery. I don’t care how much she misses her husband. Besides which, Linus was hardly well himself when he disappeared. All that mercury, you know. They used to float the lenses for the beam in the awful stuff. Lots of keepers went quite mad from it eventually.”

Beverly considered the photograph again, recalling the story she’d come upon in all her Internet searches on the town, the Harbor’s prized legend of four residents who walked into the ocean to be reunited with their mermaid lovers. “But there were others who left too, men who weren’t lightkeepers,” Beverly pointed out. “Mercury doesn’t explain why
they
did it.”

“Now you see why it’s a legend,” said Vera, winking. “Wouldn’t be much fun if we knew all the answers, would it?”

Wouldn’t it? Beverly had come here specifically for answers, so what was this nonsense about looking the other way? She glanced around the room, seeing the other two women still conferring at the desk. Beverly recognized
the thin one from an article she’d downloaded, the one who’d been so outraged by Frank’s broken promise. Surely that woman could understand Beverly’s impatience, her hunger for answers.

“What can you tell me about the keeper’s house?” Beverly asked.

From across the room, Edith Hawthorne’s head rose up, her eyes looking their way.

“What is it you’d like to know?” Vera asked.

“Can I see it?” asked Beverly.

“Unfortunately, no.” Edith approached, snapping her glasses closed and letting them hang from their chain. “You can see the lighthouse, though. There’ll be plenty of opportunities this weekend. I assume you’re here for the festival?”

“I really would like to see the keeper’s house.” Beverly could hear the urgency in her voice now.

“So would we,” added Mary, stepping into their circle.

“It’s not open to the public,” Vera said. “Not yet, anyway.”

Beverly looked between the women, seeing her opportunity and seizing it. “And why is that?”

Edith answered before the others could. “There’s somewhat of a disagreement currently on the status of the property,” she said. “It really should have been turned over to the historical society—”

“That was always the intention,” Mary added.

“But for some reason it wasn’t made official in time for the previous owner’s passing,” Edith finished.

Beverly nodded, trying to keep her expression light and calm. This could be it, she thought, the explanation she’d been seeking. Her heart raced, try as she did to slow it when she finally asked, “So who
does
it belong to?”

Edith shrugged. “Frankly, we don’t really know.”

“I mean, we
know
,” clarified Mary. “We know their names, but we don’t know how the gentlemen came to—”

“It’s really not something we can discuss at this time,” Edith said curtly. “It’s a legal matter. You understand.”

“I do hope you’ll visit the lighthouse, however,” added Mary. “The tower will be open all weekend. There’s a schedule of festival events at the reception desk if you’ve not taken one yet. You’ll want to get there early on Saturday. It can get quite crowded.”

Beverly slid one of the pamphlets free from the stand beside the donation box, skimming it quickly while the women resumed their conversation.

Stepping back into the sun, she felt a rush of panic. She’d been so sure she’d arrive here to find a townspeople united in their need for answers, a townspeople as indignant as she was about being kept in the dark. But two days after her arrival, she had no more clues, no more answers. And the one place she’d been so certain would share her outrage was instead as even-tempered as a church social.

Then fine, Beverly thought. She’d not come here to stir up trouble, but if the women in the museum meant to keep a stiff—and sealed—upper lip, then Beverly would have no choice but to go straight to the source. She’d simply visit
the keeper’s house herself, come straight out and ask those men who they were and who they were to Frank. Certainly it would be awkward, and there was the chance they would refuse her an answer. After all, they didn’t know her from a hole in the wall. They didn’t owe her an explanation, but if they
should
grant her one, as painful as it might be, she had to know: Were they, or were they not, Frank Hammond’s sons? Knowing that would mean case closed, end of story. Then she could climb back into her car and drive away from this place, get on with her life, put an end to this anger and hurt once and for all.

Back in the car, rolling down her window to draw a breeze, she steered through town, hoping she could find the Point without much effort. Sure enough, a half mile down the road, the white sign appeared, and she turned in, her heart crashing against her ribs with each frost heave. But it was for nothing. The driveway was empty, the house deserted. She could wait, she thought, and just be there when the men returned. But the longer she sat staring out at the house, the quicker her conviction sank, until finally she left. She’d go back to the cottage, she decided, pulling back onto the road. She’d gather her frazzled wits, make herself a cup of tea, and return in an hour or two. Surely they’d be back by then.

She had just glimpsed the steeple of the Baptist church over the top of the pines when she heard the telltale clunk of the tire, then seconds later the tugging and shudder of the wheel.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered, letting up off the gas and steering the car to the shoulder. She had only to open the driver’s door and lean out to see the tire was flat. She found her phone and sighed. No signal.

She tented a hand over her eyes and scanned the road, sure with the growing traffic someone would stop. Walking was out of the question. No, she’d simply wait.

SOMETIMES, SAY, WHEN HE WAS
driving a familiar route as he was doing now, Buzz would try to pinpoint the first time he knew Ruby wasn’t the woman he’d believed her to be.

It was a natural investigation for a man mourning a lost love, though with each period of contemplation, the answer seemed different. Some days he was certain it was as early as their wedding, a casual ceremony they’d organized down at the cove almost a year after she and Tess had moved in with him, a five-minute exchange crowded with old friends who’d come to witness and celebrate, pitching tents on the lawn, or cramming into the cottages, some with as many as a dozen guests inside.

It was no wonder Joan had refused to attend. Aside from her deep-seated objection to the romance, Buzz’s sister had never had much tolerance for his “hippie-dippy” friends, as she’d called them.

Frank, however, had enjoyed himself immensely. At one point he’d even joined the wedding party in an impromptu swim, drying off on the sand with the rest of
them, swigging cheap beer and tapping his fingers to the bluegrass music they’d all taken turns playing with a pile of guitars. Much later, well into the middle of the night, when a bonfire was still glowing and popping on the beach, Buzz had found Ruby crying in the bathroom. She’d tried to deny it, but he’d heard the sounds even before he’d seen her moist eyes. For a moment, brief but terrifying, he’d wondered whether she’d regretted marrying him, whether the desire he’d watched bloom in her eyes in the months before had been false, but he’d pushed the fear away before it could grow, and they’d returned to the circle of their friends together, hand in hand, and toasted to their union under the electric pink threads of dawn.

Other days, when he was feeling more optimistic about life, Buzz was certain the warning signs came much later, when Ruby started to spend days in her studio without emerging for meals and refused any visitors except for Tess. She hadn’t even cared that Tess would gladly skip school to keep her mother company in her time of need, a trend Buzz eventually put a stop to, much to his stepdaughter’s outrage.

“You don’t understand anything,” Tess had said. She had missed the bus intentionally, and Buzz had had to drive her to school. “I have to stay with her. She needs me.”

The fierceness in her expression and the look of panic crushed him. It wasn’t right, he thought, a child being a parent to her mother. Never mind the hurt it caused him
to think that Ruby might not have seen his love as sufficient emotional support.

“She’s sick right now, kiddo,” he’d said as gently as he could. “She needs medicine to get well.”

“No,” Tess had said, her eyes welling up. “You don’t understand anything. The medicine only makes it worse. It goes away eventually. I just stay with her until it does.”

Buzz had stared at Tess then, nearly steering them into the shoulder.

“You mean you’ve been through this before?” he’d asked. “Missed school before?”

“Sure I have,” said Tess, without apology. “Plenty of times. I don’t care. I know it’s just school. It’s nothing I can’t figure out on my own.”

After that, Buzz had never doubted his right to step in between mother and daughter—no matter that he wasn’t her biological father, no matter how attached Tess was to Ruby. His devotion to Tess alone entitled him to protect her, to make choices for her safety; blood had shit to do with love.

He’d expected Ruby to hate him for it, but strangely she’d never fought him when he’d insisted Tess return to school. It had been his suggestions—his
pleas
—that she get medical help that Ruby had vehemently rejected. Just as Tess had said, Ruby claimed to have tried medication once before, explaining that it had left her hollow and numb, unable to paint. He’d consequently backed off on his demands, and eventually Ruby’s depression had lifted, replaced with the feverish passion that he’d fallen in love
with years earlier, when he had never thought there might be something harmful in that free-spirited lust for life.

“I’m not a doctor, Buzz, but I’d say she’s manic-depressive,” Frank had suggested soon after when Buzz had confided in his brother-in-law. “She should be under a doctor’s care.”

“I’m trying,” Buzz had said. “I’m trying.”

After that first episode, Buzz had found himself watching his wife differently, any shift in mood, no matter how slight, suddenly cause for alarm. And while the change in his demeanor might have been dismissed by Ruby, it wasn’t by Tess. From the start, Buzz felt her resistance to his growing curiosity over her mother’s daily well-being. Once, knowing how often she wanted to ride the wave of her inspiration for as long as she needed, he might never have worried if Ruby had gone two days without leaving her studio, and he’d have let her, gladly. Now if more than a day went by, he would knock on her door, refusing to leave until she’d let him see that she hadn’t fallen into a despondent hole. And always, there’d be Tess right there, rushing in ahead of him, like a lawyer ready to tell her client not to answer any questions. Over the years, Buzz’s instincts grew strong, or maybe it was just that Ruby’s bad days began to fall into a dependable pattern. Whatever the reason, his heart broke each and every time he found her struggling.

Stop looking at me as if there’s something wrong with me. People get sad all the time.

Sometimes it’s more than that.

It’s not. Tessie knows it’s not. Don’t you, lovey?

How many times had Buzz waited for Tess to shake her head, to just once see her mother’s depression for what it was? But Buzz came to understand that for Tess, admission would have meant betraying Ruby, or worse, abandoning her. And as old as Tess got, as bad as Ruby got, she never could.

And while Ruby hadn’t said so in her suicide note, Buzz had always believed that she’d taken her life so that Tess might get on with hers. Had Tess never thought so too?

The sun burst through the clouds, startling Buzz from his thoughts as he came over the rise in the road. Squinting against it, he caught the shimmer of a car’s roof along the shoulder, a white sedan with rental plates. As he neared, he saw the familiar statuesque woman standing primly at the front end.

He pulled over, seeing Beverly’s face brighten briefly.

“I tried calling for a mechanic, but I couldn’t get a signal,” she said, meeting him where he’d parked behind her.

“Even if you could, I doubt you’d have much luck getting someone out here before dark,” said Buzz, already moving to the sedan’s trunk. “The guys who run the body shop are in charge of the floats, so unless you plan on driving this in the parade, I doubt they’ll be in any hurry to help.”

Beverly folded her arms. “I’m sure it was from that awful road down to the Point,” she said, watching him
unload the spare. “I’m surprised no one has sued over those potholes. They’re criminal.”

He would bet she’d do that, Buzz thought with a grin as he knelt down in front of the flat. Sue Mother Nature over a frost heave.

“This won’t take but a second,” he told her, twisting off the lug nuts. “You’re welcome to wait in my truck if you’d like.”

Beverly glanced over her shoulder at the rusted yellow pickup, her eyes narrowing on the stretch of papers and crumpled fast-food wrappers that littered the top of the dashboard.

“I’m fine,” she said decisively.

“Suit yourself.” He slipped off the flat, leaned it against the car, and put on the spare. “So, what were you doing down at the Point?”

He’d only been trying to make conversation, but when he glanced up, Buzz found her looking down at him as if he’d accused her of something.

“Sightseeing. Just sightseeing.”

“Good place to do it,” he said, threading the lug nuts back on. “You get a look around the lighthouse?”

“Good enough,” she said.

“Be glad you did. In a few days there’ll be a line up the road to get a peek.”