The Mermaid Collector (2 page)

Monday

Four Days before the Mermaid Festival

A
UGUST
, P
RESENT
D
AY

Cradle Harbor, Maine

THE LITTLE GIRL WAS BREATHLESS
with excitement as she pushed through the fence of hedges toward the water’s edge, skinny freckled legs and lopsided red pigtails spinning in opposition as they disappeared into the fog.

Tess Patterson stood at the window and watched her nine-year-old neighbor make the same pilgrimage she’d been making almost every morning for the past week, but it was always the same at this time of year in Cradle Harbor. With the Mermaid Festival just five days away, every
girl under the age of twelve—and a few girls above it—found herself helplessly swept up in the excitement of the town’s impending celebration, rushing to the surf to make sure she would be the first of her friends to find a mermaid’s purse washed up on the shore or to catch the faintest chime of what surely had to be mermaid song and not simply a mourning dove’s faraway call.

It was a feverish time in which for one long weekend the smells of blueberry custard and bonfires built with cedar starters would fill the air of the coastal village with such an insistent thickness that not even the sour scent of the lowest tide could overtake it. It was a time when the ocean was the warmest it would be all year, a time when inns teemed with guests and Puffin’s Good Basket would always run out of its famous whoopie pies before noon. Impetuosity ruled like some kind of stalled weather system, casting down showers of romantic stirrings that would quiet even the most notoriously discordant couples for a time and make friends of lifelong enemies. No wonder so many flocked from so far away to stand in the path of the storm.

Tess raised her coffee to her lips, blew across the top, then took a long sip, tasting the hint of clove she’d lately started to mix into her grounds. Even at twenty-five, she was still every bit that fanciful girl; her own heart still pounded while, ears perked and eyes wide, she crouched on the cold sand in the liquid light of dawn, turning at every tossed pebble, every gull’s squawk. But of course
she’d been raised on the promise of fantasy and the certainty of fate. Nine years after losing her mother, Tess knew her belief in life’s magic was the legacy Ruby had left her with, one she treasured, no matter what the locals still whispered in her wake. And anyway, not everyone in Cradle Harbor thought she was a bad apple that hadn’t rolled far enough from the family tree.

Bedsprings groaned behind her. Tess turned from the window and smiled with relief at the sight of Pete Hawthorne, his broad back rising and falling with sleep.

Several times in the night, she’d felt the pangs of panic shake her awake, and she’d reached across the bed to make sure he was still there. Now in the soft light of early morning, there was no mistaking it. But it was always the way when they’d been apart too long. Her brain would need a few hours to catch up to her heart.

She hadn’t been in love with Pete forever, but most days it felt that way. In the months after her mother had drowned, Tess had been so lost, feeling so untethered and yet so desperate to attach herself to someone; then there he was—Pete Hawthorne, the golden boy of Cradle Harbor, the object of lust for every girl in town. And he’d chosen
her
.

Not that theirs had been a smooth road. The past year had been a particularly hard one. In January, after months of what Tess had been certain were advances toward a real commitment, he’d blindsided her by moving in with Angela Whelan. Sure that he’d regret the decision and
come back to her, Tess had waited through their affair, much to the frustration of her stepfather, Buzz, busying herself with work through the coldest winter months and an unusually wet spring.

But it had all been worth it. Just two nights before, Pete had arrived on her doorstep with the news that he and Angela weren’t working and that he was moving out of their apartment on Mercy Road. Tess had cooked him a mushroom omelet, and they’d made love three times. Tonight, she was making his favorite meal—seafood lasagna and pumpkin cheesecake. She’d special ordered the scallops and lobster meat from Russell’s Market. She’d cleaned her bathroom. She’d emptied the biscuit tin on her dresser and managed to find a pair of earrings that matched. After all these months of waiting, she had a date—a real, live, honest-to-God, shave-your-legs-all-the-way-to-your-ass date, the sort of date that came with a promise, an assurance of something more, something binding.

It was all the more reason Tess wanted to get an early start on the day. She would need most of the afternoon to prepare, and there were still three cottages that needed cleaning for incoming guests. Buzz would tell her that she didn’t have to help him. He’d insist that she finish her sculpture instead of sweeping out windowsills or scrubbing sinks, but Tess knew her stepfather could never manage the rentals on his own. It was the least she could do, considering that he never charged her rent on her cottage,
or the shed he’d helped her turn into a woodworking studio when she’d lost her lease in town.

When Tess stepped out of the small yellow house, the morning air was damp and crisp with chill as it always was by the sea. The fog was still thick enough that she could barely see the tops of the rental cottages that stood on the other side of the driveway, each with an unobstructed view of the cove. The early mist would lift in a while, burn off like smoke, and give way to a humid August day. Until then, she would need more than just a thin T-shirt. She saw Pete’s navy sweatshirt draped over the arm of the wicker couch, and she tugged it on, sliding her bare feet into her unlaced sneakers. Above her, the collection of wind chimes dangled without touching, the air too still to incite their usual symphony, so she tapped them on her way down the stairs for good measure, and they rang out a brief but clear song.

She took her time crossing the lawn, through the dew-dusted grass to reach the shed, not caring that her toes were quickly soaked, squishing against the canvas with every step. Even cold feet wouldn’t bother her this morning. When Tess reached the garden shed at the bottom of the slope where her sign rocked gently on its bracket, she pulled the heavy door along its rusted rails and revealed her studio. The warm, coppery smell of her tools, followed by the leafy scent of fresh wood, rose up to greet her as she stepped inside. She pried off her sneakers, leaving them in the doorway to dry for when the sun came up in full, and
moved to her cluttered workbench where her most recent order—a sign for Poe’s Landscaping—lay buried, neglected, under weeks of dust.

The company had called twice to inquire about its status. Tess had promised it to them more than a week ago, and she was nearly done carving it, only one daylily to go, but in the past month her sign business had taken a backseat to another project. She picked up the chisels she’d sharpened the night before and crossed to the other side of the room where an ivory sheet hung over a bulky shape. Carefully, she pulled off the sheet to reveal a two-foot-tall wooden sculpture of a mermaid. Its form was still rough in places, looking more fish than female, but as she ran her fingers over the wood, Tess imagined it complete—how smooth the wood would become after she’d sanded it, how it would glow to a creamy tan with its finish coat of tung oil. For now, though, it was carved out just enough to create a basic shape, the only discernible part of the mermaid’s body being her curving crescent tail and the upturned round of her still-featureless face.

Tess had debated for almost a week which wood to use. The old figurehead carvers, among them Buzz’s great-great-great-grandfather, a black-haired Scot who’d carved for clipper ships, had always used a softer wood such as pear or pine for their mastheads, since those pieces would always have been painted. But she’d needed a harder wood. Aspen had a fine grain and sanded easily, but Tess loved the dark color of walnut and mahogany. In the end,
she’d settled on basswood. With its grainless appearance, it certainly wasn’t the most interesting wood to look at, but it was lightweight and ideal for intricate carving.

Tess picked up her chisel and mallet and began to cut away thick curls, savoring the grassy smell the fresh wood released into the air. She’d been struggling for the past two days to get the torso just right. She’d checked her own body in an old mirror she’d propped against the wall, tugging up her T-shirt to study the curves of her own breasts, the contours of her ribs, and arching her body as she’d outlined the reach of her maiden, places where the hard edges of bone melted into soft flesh, then into scales.

For any other piece, she might have been less fussy, but not for this one. This sculpture had to be perfect.

“She’s looking good.”

Tess turned to find Pete standing in the shed’s opening, his light blond hair tidy now.

“You really think so?”

“Absolutely.” He came up behind her. Tess guided his arms around her waist and leaned into his chest.

Still, the knot of doubt twisted in her stomach.

“What if they hate it?” she asked.

“No one’s going to hate it,” Pete said.

Tess lifted his hand to her lips, kissing his fingers one by one. “Your mother will.”

“No one cares what my mother thinks.”

“Liar. Everyone does.” Which was exactly why it pleased Tess—and why it always had—to think on Edith
Hawthorne spitting nails over their romance. After all, Pete’s mother had always been first in line to spread fresh gossip about that “bohemian” woman from California and her “ragamuffin” daughter. How Tess had wished she’d been a fly on the wall when Edith was told that Tess’s entry had been selected out of the ninety-six submitted, the panel of judges—Edith Hawthorne among them—having been kept blind to the identities of the artists involved.

Just last night, while Tess had fixed him a second rum and Coke, Pete had confessed that in her fury, his mother had insisted on a recount, but the panel’s choice had prevailed.

“This commission is a big deal,” Tess reminded him, tracing the lines of his palm.

“I know it is. You won it.”

“It’s not just that.” She turned in his arms to face him. “Now they all have to admit it.”

Pete frowned down at her. “Admit what?”

Tess saw the genuine bemusement in his narrowed eyes. She didn’t expect him to understand. Pete was Harbor royalty. He had no idea what it was like to be the source of town gossip, to have to prove your worth, your innocence. Tess’s grudge match with the Harbor’s old guard had been going on from the moment she and her mother had rolled into town in Buzz’s truck sixteen years earlier and wandered into Puffin’s for a bite to eat, both of them stinking of bonfire smoke and incense, unwashed and uncaring. It had been a first impression that would
seal their fate as outsiders. It had outraged Tess—and it still did—that in all the years her mother had lived there, the residents had never given her talents their due, never acknowledged what an accomplished painter Ruby was.

But all that would change now. This sculpture, and its prominent display in the foyer of the library, would finally secure those long-denied accolades. Tess had entered the competition as much for her mother as for herself—and winning it had been a victory for both of them.

“Speaking of parents…” Pete nodded to the door. “I was sure I’d wake up and find your old man had slashed my tires in the night.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Tess. “Buzz isn’t in much of a tire-slashing mood these days.”

She glanced reflexively to the window where her stepfather’s red trailer was visible, his porch light blooming in the mist. Losing Frank had taken so much out of him. The brothers-in-law were close, closer than many would have guessed. They were as different as could be, but still a friendship had blossomed when Joan, Buzz’s younger sister, had married the successful businessman who’d grown up in Cradle Harbor. When everyone else in town had judged Buzz harshly for bringing Tess and her mother back from the music festival and moving them into his home and his heart without hesitation, Frank had been kind and welcoming.

Buzz had never forgotten that. Neither had Tess.

“I would have thought he’d be
exactly
in that kind of
mood,” Pete said, “after the whole thing with the keeper’s house.”

“Why would he be pissed off about the keeper’s house?” Tess asked.

Pete shrugged. “Because he and Frank were family. And Frank goes and gives it to some guy nobody’s ever heard of.”

“Buzz didn’t want it. He and Frank talked about it.”

“Then you and Buzz must know this Tom Grace guy.”

“I’d never even heard of him until last week,” said Tess.

“What about Buzz?”

“He knows he’s a teacher from Chicago.”

“Yeah, but how did he know
Frank
?” pressed Pete.

“God, you sound like your mother; you know that? Where’s the microphone?” Tess playfully searched him, peeking through his shirt buttons and lifting one arm to inspect his armpit. “Come on—I know it’s here somewhere.…”

Pete chuckled, easing her hands off him. “Very funny.”

Tess stretched to link her arms around his neck. “I don’t want to talk about Tim.”

“Tom
.”

“Whatever…” Tess kissed his chin, then his throat.

“I just think it’s weird that no one knows who this guy is,” said Pete, breaking their embrace.

Tess groaned. “Please don’t tell me you’re taking up your mother’s crazy campaign too?”