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Authors: Erika Marks

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BOOK: The Mermaid Collector
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Tom gripped the banister as he came down the stairs, dizzy with it all.

He needed air; he needed space.

He thought of Buzz Patterson, his bright red trailer on the hill, his stepdaughter walking barefoot through a sea of woodchips on that uneven floor.

Anything you need,
Buzz had said.
Day or night
.

Tom looked at the clock, frowning at the late hour and hoping the man meant it.

WHEN THE TURN TO THE
cottages was caught in the pale cone of the Volvo’s headlights, Tom followed the road and parked at the bottom of the slope, relieved to see Buzz
Patterson’s porch light on. He climbed up the path to the door, a change of clothes in a roll under his arm, and knocked several times on the metal door, waiting in the faint light while squinting and swatting at an onslaught of moths drawn to the bulb just as he had been. He pulled the collar of his sport coat up to his jaw and folded the corduroy lapels across his chest. It wasn’t a cold wind, but it had a bite to it.

After several minutes, he gave up and walked back down to the car. He was reaching for the door handle when he heard a woman’s voice behind him.

“He’s at Pike’s.”

Startled, he turned and found Tess Patterson standing at the screen door of her porch. He wondered how long she’d been there and whether she’d watched him go to the trailer. Maybe she’d even seen him swinging at bugs like an idiot. Most likely she had.

“Buzz goes every Monday.” She pushed open the door and stood on the top step, leaning against the screen to keep it ajar, a glass of wine in her hand. The faint smell of cream sauce floated toward him. “It’s dollar-draft night,” she said. “He never misses it.” She gestured to the bundle under Tom’s arm with her glass. “Moving out already?”

“No,” he said, glancing down. “I was actually going to ask Buzz if I could use his shower. I can’t get the one in the house to work, and I’m…well, I…”

“You stink.”

“Right. That.”

Tom met her eyes then, seeing a brief flash of softness there. She was drunk; he could tell at once. It wasn’t just the wine in her hand—it was her voice. He had learned to recognize that faraway sound, the tone of someone who thought she might be in a dream, or maybe just hoped.

Above them, a set of wind chimes knocked together, filling the air with their music.

“Why so many of them?” Tom asked. “They’re all over town.”

“It’s tradition. To honor Lydia.” Tess rolled her wineglass under her lip, giving him a narrowed look. “You don’t know much for someone living in the keeper’s house, do you?”

“I guess not.”

“Don’t you care what happened there? Don’t you want to know about the Mermaid Mutiny?”

“I don’t have much interest in fairy tales.”

“That explains that line down the middle of your forehead,” she said, pointing with her glass. “You shouldn’t worry so much.”

Tom touched his brow reflexively. Easy for her to say, he thought. This woman who was so carefree, she worked with sharp blades over her bare feet.

He glanced to the trailer. “I can wait for Buzz in my car.”

“He could be hours.”

“I don’t mind waiting.”

“Or you could use mine.”

“Yours?”

“I do have one, you know,” Tess said, a teasing smile pulling at her lips. “I do bathe.”

“I’m sure you do. I didn’t mean…” What
did
he mean? Suddenly Tom was aware of the emptiness around them, the vastness of the night; he wasn’t used to the blackness of the country. Then behind her, in the beckoning sliver of soft light where her cottage door had been left ajar, he caught the smallest glimpse of a warm cocoon just steps beyond where they stood. He wanted to come inside. Looking at her, a glance intended to be quick that caught and held instead, he thought, he
believed
, she wanted him to say yes.

“You’re sure it’s no trouble?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t have offered if it was,” Tess said. “I tell people when I don’t want them in my house.”

Tom thought it over a moment longer, but there seemed little point in waiting. He climbed the steps, and without a word, he followed her in.

THE SMELL OF CREAM SAUCE
and garlic was much stronger once he stepped inside. He couldn’t remember a time when anything had ever smelled as good. More evidence of her work filled the interior. There were several sculptures, a wood relief of an underwater scene, carefully carved crabs and scallop shells, a sandpiper and a heron. Tom’s eyes drifted around the room, catching briefly on a blue and green painting of a girl at the edge of the shore.

Then he saw the table. It was neatly set, candles flanking an uncut pan of lasagna, an opened bottle of wine, and unmatched silverware on a lavender tablecloth.

He looked at her. “You’re waiting for someone.”

“I thought I was.” Tess scooped up the bottle of wine and held it out to him. “Join me?”

“No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” She refilled her glass and drank deeply.

Inside now, under the light, Tom could see that she’d been crying; her eyes were slightly puffy, her lashes clumped and wet. He wondered what sort of man she’d been expecting and why that man had changed his mind.

Tess carried her wine to the table and took a seat, her toes curling over the chair rail. Tom felt out of place suddenly, this exposure of her heartbreak more revealing than seeing her breast that morning. He stepped toward the door, reached for the knob, then stopped. A warm rush of concern filling him, he turned back to her, suddenly not sure he should leave her this way.

“Will you be all right?” he asked.

“I don’t think so.” Her eyes filled. “You want to know the craziest part?” she asked. “The cheesecake didn’t even crack. They always do, but this one didn’t. It was perfect. Anyone would have said that was a sign. Wouldn’t
you
?”

Tom nodded, not because he had any idea what she was talking about but because he felt it was the kind thing to do. She seemed so fragile to him now, the indignant
woman outside her woodshop that morning nowhere in sight.

He couldn’t help himself. “He’s a fool not to come. You’re beautiful.”

Tess looked up at him, her moist eyes bright and wide. He’d startled her, Tom thought. Or maybe she didn’t believe him. He couldn’t quite believe himself that he’d said it, even as the words had sailed out of him. It wasn’t like him. It was nothing like him.

He forced his gaze to the bathroom door. A shower, he thought. He needed a cold shower. But the room was so comfortable, full of smells he never got to enjoy. There was so much color—and the music. He rarely had music playing anymore, and he missed it. Life with Dean never afforded him the luxury of those pleasures.

“Maybe a quick shower,” he said. “I’d be grateful.”

And as he moved to the bathroom door, as he opened it and stepped in, he heard her whisper behind him, “Me too.”

IT WAS A TINY SHOWER
, so small Tom could barely turn around in it, but he didn’t care. He groaned the minute the hot water hit his scalp, closed his eyes, and let the stream pour down his forehead, his nose, his shoulders. A collection of nearly empty shampoo and conditioner bottles sat crowded and dented in a plastic basket that hung from the showerhead. He didn’t want to smell like anise or cinnamon
or pears, so he scrubbed his hair with the bar of soap he’d brought with him, the lather meager but enough.

Done, he took a towel from the wicker shelf and looked around as he dried off, marveling at all the decoration in the tiny space, the dried roses that wreathed the mirror, the mirror itself painted silver and covered in stenciled purple stars.

And mermaids. Christ, there were mermaids
everywhere
. While he shaved, he stared at a tiny figurine perched in her soap dish. A painting of one, no bigger than a postcard, hung on the back of the door. Another mermaid, this one ceramic and no doubt a Christmas ornament he decided by its telltale hanger, swung from the arm of the room’s only light. In the hollow of the toothbrush holder sat a plastic cup with a mermaid decal on it.

So this was how it was to live in Cradle Harbor, he thought. It meant growing up in a world of fantasy. Indeed, she’d acted as if the town’s legend were fact and not folklore. But no wonder she had such delusions, surrounded by all these trimmings, this soft blanket of magic. Tom envied her just a bit. What he wouldn’t have given for one night of fantasy, to surrender to the unexpected.

When he stepped out of the bathroom, he found her asleep, one leg dangling over the side of her bed. He approached her slowly, not wanting to startle her a second time in one day if she woke up, but it was clear from her breathing, her mouth open and releasing a whistling snore, that there was little chance of that.

Gently he lifted her legs onto the bed, but when he moved to pull the quilt over her, Tess stirred and reached for him, catching his tie, her tug just enough to unbalance him. There was a moment when her eyes fluttered open, an instant when Tom was certain she saw him, saw who he was, and who he
wasn’t
, but still she found his lips.

It was a warm kiss, tasting of wine and gingersnaps, but when Tom tried to right himself, Tess’s arms circled his shoulders, her hands linking, locked, and then he was dragged down on top of her, the movement so swift that he didn’t have time to shift before she’d spooned against him, pulling his arms around her.

He froze, staring at the crown of her head, seeing the uneven part of her auburn hair. He could smell the pear shampoo he’d seen in the shower and couldn’t help taking in deep, sweet breaths of it.

When he moved to slip away, she gripped his hands. He stilled.

“Hold me,” she said. “Hold me tight.”

So he did, wrapping his arms around her, feeling the fullness of her breasts push against his forearms, her breath hot against the insides of his wrists.

It made no sense to stay. He’d only come for a shower. He didn’t know her, and what he did know of her, he didn’t understand. But still he remained, his palms curved over the swells of her breasts where she’d set them.

Just a few minutes, he told himself, until she was asleep, deep enough that he could untangle her from his arms,
until he could gently unlace her fingers from his. Over the top of her head, he watched the clock on her cluttered nightstand, her glass of wine precarious atop a pile of magazines. Five minutes passed, then ten.

It was almost thirty minutes before Tom finally tried again to move away from her, and when he did, he did so carefully, like a lover not quite ready to leave.

Tom knew it would have been best to flee, to head for the door before Tess woke up, but he couldn’t. Instead, he took her glass of wine off its dangerous post on the nightstand and carried it to the kitchen counter. He covered her perfect cheesecake and the pan of lasagna and returned them both to the fridge. On his way past the table, he blew out the weeping candles. Only then did he finally go, closing the door quietly behind him as he finally stepped back outside into the crisp night that no longer seemed so vast, the ceiling of stars above remarkably bright.

Text sent 9:14pm to 312-555-1614:

hey, tommy. just left cleveland.

how’s the lighthouse?

seen any mermaids yet?

c u soon. dean

The old mattress released a breath of warm, mildewed air when Tom dropped onto it; the sheets, cool and worn,
smelled faintly of mothballs. He’d seen a clothesline on the side of the house. He’d hang everything from it tomorrow.

It was stifling under the eaves. He rose and pulled up the window sash, a gust of damp air blowing in and cooling his warm skin. He could see the tower in the distance. Moonlight painted its ivory shell a shade of periwinkle, just pale enough to contrast its tapered shape against the blue-black expanse of the sea, the lantern room and its iron gallery glinting faintly at its top.

He lay back down on the bed and rested an arm under his head. He didn’t know what to do with himself when Dean wasn’t around, when he didn’t have to constantly keep on top of his brother to make sure he wasn’t drinking too much or eating too little, when he wasn’t driving Dean’s one-night stands home because Dean’d had too much to drink the night before and couldn’t be roused from sleep. For the last one, a stripper named Burgundy, Tom had even made breakfast, scrambled eggs and wheat toast, while she’d regaled him with stories of five-hundred-dollar lap dances. When he’d dropped her off at her apartment, she’d tried to give him money for gas, fistfuls of crumpled singles; he’d declined.

Now Tom closed his eyes, demanding sleep, but instead, warm thoughts of Tess Patterson tore through him like sore muscles each time he turned on the mattress. He remembered the way she had fit her body against his, the smell of her skin, the view of her nightstand interrupted
by her hair, pear-scented and tinted copper, the mole behind her ear, the lobe dotted with three holes.

He opened his eyes and stared at the sloped ceiling, trying to focus on the tiny cracks in the plaster.

He was tired. Lonely. And Tess Patterson was beautiful. It was natural he’d be aroused. Not that he could ever be interested in a woman like her, a woman that unpredictable, that uncontrolled. God, no.

Tom kicked the sheets free at the end of the bed and let his feet hang over the edge.

There, he thought. Much better. He closed his eyes, seeing the shape of the tower behind his lids, black against a pewter sky. He’d sleep now.

And soon, he did. But several times in the night, he dreamed he heard the phone. Once he even rushed from bed to answer it. But every time, the cell sat dark, and eventually he slept through.

Tuesday

Three Days before the Mermaid Festival

BANKS’S WIFE, A PRICKLY WOMAN
named Millicent, told her husband that he had no business buying a boat he couldn’t steer, so Banks assured her he knew a man who could: a lighthouse keeper just a few months into his post, a sailor who missed his time on the water. Linus Harris was his name, and he had assured Banks that he could manage a modest boat with ease, and certainly take leave of his duties at the tower for a short sail.

—The Mermaid Mutiny and More: A Complete History of Cradle Harbor

BOOK: The Mermaid Collector
8.7Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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