The Sea Taketh (Alex Singer) (7 page)

I open my eyes and suck in a deep breath. My body trembles as I begin to sob.  “The darkness,” I say, over and over, trying to free my mind from the nightmare.

“We’ve got to get this damn window replaced!” he says, angry with himself. “I’ll do what I should have done to begin with; I’ll sell the truck!”

*     *     *

A huge headache welcomes me in the morning. I stagger to the kitchen. Gramps is at the table, praying. I silently fill a bowl with hot oatmeal and take a seat next to him.

“Gramps, we’re not selling your truck,” I say quietly.

“It’s not your decision.” He opens his eyes. “I can’t let you sleep in that room the way it is.”

“I’ve already decided to sleep on the couch.” I point to the living room. “The windows are just fine in there, and it will give us some time to save the money. I sold some driftwood to Bill. We have a hundred and fifty dollars in the window fund.”

“I don’t want you sleeping on the couch.”

“It’ll only be for a short time.”  I smile reassuringly at him. “You need the truck for work. We’ll figure something else out.”

“Joe and I are going back out tonight, after dinner. We’ll be gone a week. If things don’t look up, I’ll sell the truck when we get back.”

On the way to school, Jen listens intently as I tell her about the windows and Gramps’ truck. She pulls over and hands me her emergency cell phone and Colin Wright’s business card. “Just call and find out what it’s all about,” she says. “You can always hang-up.”

I clear my throat nervously as I wait for him to pick up. Jen supportively pats my back.

“Who in their right mind is calling me this early?” a man answers.

“Is this Colin Wright?” I ask nervously.

“Yes, who is this?” He yawns.

“My name is Alex Singer. You gave me your business card in an ice cream parlor in Maine.”

“Oh!” he exclaims. “Black hair, green eyes?” he asks excitedly.

“Yes, I have black hair and green eyes.”

He squeals like a little girl. “Please tell me that you’re going to let me shoot you!” he pleads.

“I checked out your website, to make sure you’re not some kind of pervert, and it checked out. I just want to know how much you pay per photo shoot.”

“For your face, I’ll send you a thousand dollars right now, and I’ll give you another thousand just to show up,” he quickly says.

“Where is this shoot going to be?” I ask.

“It’s going to be in Maine. I was actually there scouting out different locations when I saw you, but I’ve settled on a beach near Portland. Give me your e-mail, and I’ll send you all the particulars, including a permission form for your parents to sign. As soon as I hear from you, I’ll transfer the money to your account.”

*     *     *

School is kind of a blur. With keeping up with my classes and trying to catch up my required reading for English, I spend all my time with my face in a book. I am even able to avoid Jackson for an entire day.

             
When I get home from school, I find the house empty and that Gramps has moved my bed to the living room, behind the couch. It takes up a lot of space, but there is no use in arguing with him. I put down my backpack and get to work. I read on my bed until Gramps gets home. He opens the door and frowns at me.

             
“Why aren’t you dressed?” he asks, looking at my jeans and t-shirt. He is wearing a polo shirt and khaki pants, which is kind of freaky because he never dresses that nicely.

             
“Do I have to dress up?” I whine as I put down my book. “It’s only Marjory.”

             
“And her guests.” He puts a bag on the kitchen table. “We don’t want them to think that I raised you in a barn.”

             
“No, but maybe I should wear my raingear because I was raised on a fishing boat,” I tease.

             
He doesn’t think I’m funny. “Go put on a dress. I’m leaving in ten minutes,” he says.

             
Ten minutes later, I am grudgingly walking behind Gramps across the street to Marjory’s house. I’m wearing an antique, black dress from Peggy and a pair of matching sandals. Because I didn’t really have the time – and I don’t care – my hair is down.

             
Marjory opens the door before we knock.

“Thomas, you and the beauty have arrived!” she says happily. “Come in!  Come in!”

              “I’m sorry we’re late, but Alexandra was doing some homework,” Gramps apologizes as we step into the house.

             
“Smart beauty!” Marjory pats my cheek. “Come see our men!” She pulls me into the Victorian parlor. The dust and sheets are gone, but it’s just as creepy as it ever. Sven, Henrik, and Christian are having a heated discussion over maps of the coast.

             
When he sees me, Christian does it again, he softy blows through his lips so quietly and quickly that most people wouldn’t have noticed. Sven and Henrik put down their maps.

Hypothesis #
9 – There is something up with this blowy thingy.

             
“Good evening, Alexandra,” Christian inclines his head slightly. “This must be your grandfather?”

             
“It’s Thomas and the Singer beauty!” Marjory lovingly takes Christian’s hand and kisses it.  Marjory has always been a bit odd.

             
“It’s nice to meet you,” Gramps offers his hand. “I’m Thomas Singer, and you’ve met my granddaughter at school.”

             
Sven steps forward, and shakes Gramps’ hand. “I’m Sven Pedersen, and these are my cousins, Henrik, and Christian. Do you own the fishing boat,
Singers’ Lady
?”

             
“Yes, that’s my boat,” Gramps answers.

             
“We hear you are well respected in these waters,” Henrik says matter-of-factly.

             
“Thomas is our good neighbor and friend,” Marjory interjects. She gestures to the door. “We have prepared a wonderful meal. We will eat before it gets cold.”

             
She shows us into her formal dining room. It is as large and gaudy as the rest of the house. The massive table is set with fine china, silverware, and crystal goblets. It goes against everything I know about Marjory. This is a woman who will eat a wormy apple without a second thought. It’s a complete oxymoron to know she set the table.

             
“What can I help with?” I ask, not wanting to have to talk to the Pedersens. It’s completely out of my comfort zone. I’ve always been uncomfortable with strangers and more a watcher than a talker.

             
“Come, come,” Marjory takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen. She dexterously covers china plates with large fillets of pollack. With them she serves lobster and shrimp. It’s strange to see the plates without a fruit or vegetable, but Marjory has always really liked fish.

             
“Go down for wine,” she points to a door to her old wine cellar as she heads to the other room with the plates.

             
I don’t know a thing about wine but follow her instructions. I descend the rickety stairs into the dark wine cellar. Because there isn’t a light, I fumble around in the dark. An eerie breeze sends chills up my spine. I stagger around until I feel a bottle. I grab it and a couple of its neighbors before running up the stairs as fast as I can move.

             
“Good, good!” Marjory exclaims when I hand her the bottles. She washes a thick layer of dust off them and puts them in buckets of ice. I am given a bucket and follow her into the dining room.

             
There are only two empty seats when I return. I cringe to see that one is between Sven and Henrik, and the other is between Gramps and Christian. I choose the one next to Gramps.

             
Marjory shows Sven a bottle of her wine. He reads the label and nods, taking the bottle from her. He uncorks it and pours a small amount in his glass. He smells it before taking a sip. He then pours a glass for Christian, Henrik, and himself before passing it to Gramps.

Hypothesis #
10 – Sven is the leader of the Pedersens.

             
Gramps blinks his eyes once. “Marjory, do you have some water for Alex?” he asks.

             
“Oh, we forget that your American drinking laws are so different from our Danish ones,” Henrik says. “We can drink when we’re sixteen.”

             
“It’s not a problem,” Gramps says, taking my glass and going to the kitchen. When he returns, it’s full of water.

             
Sven tears into his meal. He eats furiously, tasting everything on his plate. Then he takes another drink of wine. “Marjory, you have outdone yourself,” he says as he wipes his mouth with a napkin.

             
Marjory smiles blissfully at her exchange students. “We are so happy to have you here!” she exclaims.  “Eat! Eat!” she instructs Gramps and me.

             
I begin with the lobster and find it absolutely delicious. The shrimp and pollack are also wonderful. I’m stuffed long before my plate is empty. When I put down my fork, I find that Christian hasn’t even touched his food. He’s too busy staring at me. It makes me uncomfortable.

             
“You have cobwebs in your hair,” he says. He lifts a gloved hand and gently removes them.

             
Sven and Henrik angrily cross their arms. Christian sees their reactions and picks up his fork. He finally begins to eat his meal.

             
“Marjory this is a wonderful meal,” Gramps says, breaking the silence.

             
She smiles and pours him more wine.

             
“No, it’s too expensive,” he tries to object.

             
“We think wine is for drinking, not storing,” she answers as she fills his glass.

             
He takes a sip and puts the goblet back on the table. “What do your fathers do?” he asks the Pedersens.

             
“My father is a civil servant,” Christian answers as he cuts his fillet.

             
“Like an IRS agent?”

             
“Yes, very similar,” Henrik interjects.

             
“And our fathers are in law enforcement,” Sven adds, gesturing to him and Henrik.

             
“Why did you come to Maine when you could be sitting on a beach in Australia?” says Gramps.

             
Henrik gives Christian a dirty look. “We came here for an education.”

             
“Have the Singers been in the village long?” Christian asks Gramps, changing the subject.

             
“Many generations,” he answers. “All of us, fishermen.” Gramps takes another drink of wine.

             
“Gramps, we forgot to serve the berries we brought for dessert.” I stand up. “Marjory, I’ll go get them.”

             
I go into the kitchen and search for the bag we brought with us. I’m looking through the seafood filled fridge when I hear the kitchen door shut.

“Marjory, where did you put Gramps’ bag?” I ask.

              “I think she put it on the counter behind the door,” Christian answers.

             
I look up from the fridge and find him holding out the bag.

“Thanks,” I say as I take it from him, avoiding eye contact. I just want to eat dessert so I can get the evening over with. “Do you know where she keeps her dessert plates?”

              “I haven’t got a clue where she keeps any of her dishes.” It’s not so much the answer that surprises me, but the way he says it; like it’s such a trivial matter that he can’t be bothered. It is completely irritating.

             
“You’ve been here almost a week and you don’t know where she keeps the dishes?” I raise an eyebrow. “You sound like a very bad houseguest.”

             
He laughs dismissively. “Yes, I suppose I am, but we’ve been busy.”

             
“Yeah, school’s keeping me busy, too,” I say, trying to remember what Gramps said about being a good neighbor, but I’m annoyed. How can you live with a little, old lady and not help around the house? I begin to angrily rummage through Marjory’s cupboards.

             
“I’ve noticed. Is this the reason you ignore me?” he asks. He is far too confident and far too smooth.

             
“No, I ignore you because I’m going away to college next year, so I have no interest in dating anyone.” I search through more cupboards.

             
“Is this why you ignore Jackson Powers?”

             
“I ignore Jackson Powers because he is an arrogant, self-centered jerk.  Oh, here they are.” I finally find the dessert plates. I gratefully start dishing up the fresh raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries, wanting to get out of there as soon as possible. Christian continues to stare at me.