The Mermaid Collector (22 page)

“And no one has any idea what happened to them?” Pearl asked.

Lydia shook her head. “And they can’t locate the wreck. They’ve tried for more than a week now.”

“You must be so anxious to know everything.”

Was she? Lydia wasn’t sure. The truth was a part of her had terrible dread for the moment when the real story of their journey would come to light—as if something had happened, something best left out there. But that was silly; Lydia knew it was. It was so silly that she didn’t speak of it to her sister. She simply nodded and rose to clear their plates.

“You sit,” Pearl ordered, standing. “I’ll clean up.”

Lydia smiled gratefully, watching as her sister carried
their dishes to the sink, setting aside the remaining ends of meat and cheese to be saved.

As she faced the window, Pearl’s gaze locked on a figure in the distance. She squinted. “Who is that?”

Lydia stood up to see to where Pearl pointed. It was Angus, marching down the lawn toward the lighthouse. A surge of warmth filled her to see him. He’d kept his distance since news of the rescue, despite Lydia’s attempts to speak with him. Not that she knew what to say now or what to do. Still, she wished to know what he was thinking, certain he had to be confused, maybe even sad. She only hoped he wasn’t sorry.

“That’s Linus’s assistant,” she said, afraid to say his name, afraid she would reveal herself if she did.

“Does he live on the grounds?”

“No,” Lydia said, sitting down again, glad for the chair since she was suddenly unsteady on her feet. “He lives with his brother just below the hill.”

Pearl smiled, pumping water into the sink. “You’re lucky to have him.”

Yes,
Lydia thought.
Yes, I was
.

LINUS WAS BROUGHT HOME THREE
days later. Officers helped him inside, though he insisted he didn’t need their aid. Lydia stood in the corner of the parlor, feeling useless and lost, waiting for her husband to offer her a signal of his love, of how much he’d missed her, how happy he was
to see her. But it seemed all Linus could manage was to get across the room and reach the stairs. His gaze remained low.

“Give him time, sweetie,” Pearl said as she and Lydia prepared to part the next morning. Lydia knew her sister could see the distress in her face. She’d cried off and on for hours, anticipating Pearl’s departure.

Lydia nodded bravely, wiping at her eyes. “He’s home now; that’s all that matters.”

And it was, Lydia told herself as she gave her sister one last long embrace and waved her carriage away, slipping eventually behind the pines. In time, the last few weeks would seem like a dream. She’d have no memory of these strange days, these feelings of such absolute fear and worry that she could barely keep herself upright.

She walked back to the house, wondering how it was she could hope to see Angus and yet hope not to. Their time together had also been the stuff of a dream. But she was grateful to him, more than he could ever know.

Back inside, she paused a moment before ascending the stairs. She wasn’t sure Linus would be awake, if she dared disturb him, thinking about the doctor’s warning that he would need continued rest.

Still, she came into his room and sat beside him for a while, just to be near him, just to touch his hand, his jaw, not accustomed to the beard that had grown there in his absence, the light brown hairs flecked with white strands that shocked her.

“You’re home,” she said, not sure what to say, but the words poured out, the only ones that seemed important. “When you feel better, we’ll talk.”

Linus squinted at her, then swallowed. “I don’t want to talk about it, Lydie. I just need to forget.”

His eyes looked strange to her. She didn’t remember them so dark a blue.

“Forget what, my love?” she asked.

But he’d closed his eyes again and turned his head away from her.

LYDIA WAS AT THE KITCHEN
window, admiring the blanket of lavender that the setting sun had spread out over the lawn, when she saw Angus walking up the path from the lighthouse. She set down her dishes, tugged off her apron, and stepped out into the warm evening air, crossing the grass to meet him.

He looked up. “I was just leaving,” he said. He shifted his gaze to the tower, squinting into the soft breeze. “It should be a clear night. I don’t expect you’ll have any trouble out there.”

Lydia nodded. “I’m sure not,” she said.

They looked at each other. Angus shoved his hands into his pockets. “He’ll hear things. Once he’s better, we both know he will. And I feel bad for that.”

“He won’t believe rumors. Linus is too good a man to
listen to gossip.” Filled at once with regret, Lydia closed her eyes, knowing the foolishness of what she’d said.

Angus stared at the house. “I never should have—”

“No.” Lydia moved to him, then stopped, realizing they were in plain sight and panicking that Linus might miraculously find the strength to climb out of bed, rush to the window, and see them there. “You were kind to me, Angus. You were there for me. It was natural that we’d…”

When Angus looked back at her, Lydia couldn’t finish the thought; she couldn’t say the words out loud. The longing in his eyes was so fierce; Angus must have sensed it too, because he turned from her again. This time she reached for him, laying just her fingertips on his left wrist where it hung out of his pocket.

“He’ll be all right now,” Angus said. “You’ll see.”

He smiled at her then, the sort of smile that one could describe only as halfhearted. Lydia wanted to press herself against him, to let Angus know that there was a piece of her, smaller certainly than her love for her husband, but a firm and defined piece that cared for him, that even missed him and the smell of warm earth that had filled her lungs those nights, and comforted her when she’d been certain nothing could.

She hadn’t expected to feel anything more than relief at Linus’s return, and now this. She wanted Angus to know that, but how could he understand something she
didn’t understand herself?

“Good night then.” Angus tipped his cap and moved past her. He got several feet away before he stopped and said over his shoulder, “I know I should be sorry it happened, but I’m not. I’m not sorry I knew you. I couldn’t be if I tried.”

Lydia bowed her head, her eyes squeezed shut as tears seeped out the edges. Frozen, she waited for him to get all the way down the hill before she finally turned and made her way back to the house.

LINUS RECOVERED QUICKLY
. It seemed to Lydia every day that as the burn of the sun drained from his face, he grew stronger. Soon he was back in the lighthouse, keeping records even more fastidiously than before. But inside their home, his recovery wasn’t nearly as quick. When they made love, he seemed hesitant, as if he were learning her body for the first time. The same was true of their conversation. He inquired of things he’d once known by heart. Lydia told herself to be patient. She kept indoors, papering the downstairs in lattice and trellis designs, and making curtains and new spreads.

One Sunday evening, while they cleaned up from dinner, Angus knocked on the door.

“I can’t stay,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know I’ve taken a job at the cannery. Full-time.”

Lydia’s hands stilled reflexively, the news startling.
She could feel Angus’s eyes shifting toward her; she didn’t dare look up.

“Miles has put word out in town, sir. You shouldn’t have much trouble replacing me.”

“No need. I think I can manage without an assistant now.” Linus extended his hand. “Best of luck to you, Angus. I guess you’ll be moving into the village then?”

Angus accepted the shake. “Yes, sir. I’ve already got a place.”

Lydia said nothing, then worried her silence might seem more suspicious than her congratulations. She lifted her gaze to Angus and found him already looking at her, his eyes pooling with affection.

Her smile came reflexively, her words too.

“Thank you,” she said.

Angus nodded. “No need to thank me, ma’am. Just glad I could help.”

But of course, he couldn’t know the real reason for her gratitude.

There was a visit to the doctor that still remained, but a woman knew these things—even one as confused and scared as Lydia.

At last, she carried a child.

Thursday

One Day before the Mermaid Festival

EVEN IN THE MILKY LIGHT
of dawn, preparations in Cradle Harbor were already under way. With only one day to go until the opening of the festival, the narrow streets of the village were teeming with activity. Shop owners stood in their doorways, accepting last-minute shipments of mermaid-themed merchandise. Bakers with blueberry-stained fingers rushed around their kitchens, stockpiling reserves of their trademark dishes and barking orders at sleepy-eyed high school students who were looking to
make a few extra dollars during the busiest season of the year.

Down at the Point, morning rose through the keeper’s house, cold and damp. Tom walked quietly past Dean’s room and downstairs to make himself some coffee. He rubbed his chilled hands together, glancing to the cold woodstove; he didn’t want to start a fire, knowing he and Dean would be heading out in a few hours. Memories resurfaced as he boiled water on the range. He remembered dinner on the grass, shared glances between himself and Tess as the sun had dropped. How beautiful she’d looked in that dappled evening light; how much he’d wanted to grab her when they were alone in the house and kiss her deeply.

“Morning, sunshine.” Dean ambled into the kitchen, his hair crooked from sleep.

“I can make you some coffee before we go,” Tom said.

Dean scratched at his stomach, squinting at Tom. “Go where?”

“The clinic. Today at noon. The consultation. I told you about it last night.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. You were smoking on the porch. You just don’t remember.”
Because you were drunk,
Tom wanted to say but didn’t. Instead, he watched his brother carefully as he wandered to the counter.

“By the way, I need some money,” Dean said.

Tom frowned. “What happened to the two hundred I left you with?”

“What do you think happened to it? I was on the road for two days, Tommy. Do you want me to go out to the car and dig up my gas receipts—is that it? Maybe I can find the one for the egg sandwich I lived off for eight hundred miles?”

“Okay, okay…” Tom fished out his wallet, fanning out the billfold and withdrawing a twenty. “It’s just that we need to watch what we spend here, Dean. I don’t have a job yet, remember.”

“You’ll get a job. You always do,” Dean said, taking the money and pocketing it. He scooped up his keys. “I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m out of smokes.”

“There isn’t time,” Tom said as Dean stepped into his sneakers. “We’ll stop on the way.”

“There’s plenty of time,” Dean countered. “I’m not waiting two hours for a cigarette, Tommy. Not when there’s a gas station just up the road. Relax. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

Relax
. Tom wondered how one word, especially one intended to soothe, invariably made him want to jump out of his skin every time Dean used it.

Still, he knew better than to push any more than he had. He was just grateful Dean hadn’t refused to go to the appointment. Maybe the night’s magic had worked its spell on Dean too. Maybe he saw the hope in this new start as Tom did.

Dean tugged on a Cubs baseball cap and twisted it into place. “Back in a flash, Captain.”

IT WAS THE PROSPECT OF
snow that had scared Tess the most. She and Ruby had arrived in Cradle Harbor in the heat of the summer, on a still and muggy day when winter seemed a million years away, but still Tess dreaded it. It had been hard enough to watch the leaves, bursting with color for a short time, crinkle and drop, leaving gnarled, naked limbs in their place. What would it do to her mother to look out one morning on a world of white? Tess had wondered fearfully. All the paint in the world couldn’t compensate for that.

Amazingly, their first winter on the cove was blessedly mild. Only a handful of snowstorms came, each producing barely enough to cover the ground. Where it did, the flakes were so heavy and wet, they took on the hues of the ground beneath them. Browns and grays—dingy colors that on any other day would have seemed disheartening, but Tess was grateful for them. On those cold and blustery January mornings, those shades might as well have been psychedelic.

When her mother had made it through that first winter, Tess had felt certain they’d be fine. Even more than the temperatures, they’d weathered the gossip, the rumblings about Ruby’s fondness for wearing bikini tops into
Puffin’s (“This
is
a beach town, isn’t it?
Isn’t it?
”) or her frequent sales calls, with Tess and armfuls of her paintings in tow, to get the local businesses to display her work.

Though the rumors had flowed slowly at first, like cold honey, their bite had been swift and deep once the town’s teeth had finally been bared, but it was Tess who lost the greater amount of blood.

“Don’t listen to them,” Buzz had said when she’d been sent to the principal’s office for squirting ketchup into a classmate’s face after he’d taunted her all through lunch.

“They don’t even know her,” Tess had said, glaring out the truck’s window on their way home.

“That’s right; they don’t. And people who don’t know people say dumb things about them instead of admitting they don’t know. So what? It’s not worth getting into trouble over it.”

But it was, Tess had decided. In her opinion, it was worth any amount of trouble to defend her mother, to champion her talents as a painter, her abilities as a parent—both of which were constantly in question, no matter how much Buzz beamed in Ruby’s company.