The Summer of Chasing Mermaids (28 page)

Chapter 38

When I finally broke
through, everything was calm. Everything was clear. I'd journeyed to the witch's watery realm beneath Thor's Well, but here above the water it seemed that only a moment had passed. The moon cut the same silver-white path across the Pacific, the
Queen of Cups
floating gently beside it. Just as it was when I'd gone under.

My mouth was whole, unbloodied.

Deeply I drank in the cool night air, but though I'd risen out of the water, I still couldn't fully breathe. Something was pressing against my lungs, squeezing. Restricting.

I felt my body, pressed my hands against my chest.

The dress.

The dress that once held the memories of the best day of my life, the promise of an entire future. Now it was only the past.

I slipped the straps from my shoulders, slid my arms out.

I hesitated only a moment, heard Atargatis's words again.

You are ready.

Sometimes life's most important moments are quiet, a decision made quick and calm. Still bathed in the sea, I slipped the dress from my torso. There was no struggle, no herculean, adrenaline-fueled tearing of fabric and lace. Just a simple shiver, a loosening, one last shimmy.

I slipped the dress.

Set myself free.

Naked, I pulled myself up the safety ladder with exhausted but triumphant limbs, floating in a state of suspended wonder. The instant my feet touched the deck, Christian emerged from the companionway, wrapped in a blanket, his eyes glossy in their half sleep. When he noticed me, they narrowed, then widened.

“Elyse?” It was a whisper first, laced with grogginess. I waited for the fog to lift, for it was still clouding my memories too, and when it finally passed he burst through the companionway, launching himself at me, at my wet nakedness. “What are you doing? What happened? What—”

I pressed a finger to his lips, smiled to let him know I was okay.

“Okay, okay . . . you're okay.” He was stammering, shaking his head as if it really might've been a dream. His arms closed around me, pressing our bodies together beneath the blanket “You're freezing. God, Elyse. I woke up and you weren't here, and . . . Come inside.”

I turned my head then, glanced at a point in the water just beyond the stern where a slip of blue silk twisted and floated in the gentle
waves. Beneath the glitter moon, it lingered only a moment longer before the sea, finally claiming the life it'd been promised all those months ago, dissolved it into foam.

The most beautiful dress in the world—all that I was and all that I could've been—was gone, the old life shed to make way for the new.

I followed Christian into the saloon, where he wrapped me up alone in the blanket, clicked on the lantern, and quickly tugged on a pair of sweatpants. He sat me on one of the benches, frantically ­rubbing heat into my arms and legs. Once I stopped shivering, he leaned me over the small sink to wring out my hair, then gently wrapped my head in a towel.

“Were you sleepwalking?” he whispered. I shook my head. “Did you fall in? What happened?”

I shrugged.
Don't remember.

He narrowed his eyes, waiting for me to explain, but that was the truth. One minute I'd been counting stars, my heart heavy with the weight of our loss, of all we still had to lose.

And then I was underwater.

Weightless.

I shivered again, the whole thing fading before my eyes like a dream not quite remembered. If not for the water pooled at my feet and the chill in my bones, I might have been able to convince us both it really
had
been a dream.

It didn't matter.

Despite the worry in Christian's eyes and the tremble in my limbs, I
was practically giddy, light with life. Christian didn't return my smile, though; he was still frantic, concern giving him speed and purpose. He was on his knees before I could stop him, rubbing my feet between his strong, determined hands.

“I need to get you warm,” he said. “Fast.”

I watched in silence as he boiled water on the hot plate, poured most of it into the bilge bucket with some fresh water from the tap. With the rest of the hot stuff, he made a mug of tea, then placed the steaming bucket on the floor and instructed me to put my feet inside. The feeling was utter heaven.

“So this was your Lieutenant Dan moment, Stowaway?” He lifted an eyebrow in question, and I realized then that I'd waited a beat too long, expecting to hear Kirby's whisper at my neck.
It's from a show,
she'd say. Or maybe a movie or a song, some bit of American pop culture I'd clearly missed. I smiled now, thinking of her.

“Ah. You never saw
Forrest Gump
,” Christian said. “Remind me to show you next time you come over.”

Anticipation rose in my limbs, grateful that there would even be a next time.

“Come to terms with the sea?” he asked. His voice was lower now, but insistent. Concerned.

My fingers trailed up my sternum, found the familiar star on my throat—that pale marker that had, up to now, divided my life into its befores and afters. With Christian's eyes full of worry, watching my every move, I mouthed the words I'd never before been able to find.

I'm never going to speak or sing again.

It hurt, saying it like that, but not as much as I'd expected. Feared.

I wanted to tell Natalie. To say it, as best I could, across the distance.

But there would be time for that later.

Christian's smile softened. He handed me the tea, now steeped. “Drink this. Small sips, okay?”

I wrapped my hands around the offered mug, closing my eyes as the steam enveloped me. Unbidden, unexpected tears slipped from behind my lids, warm and salty, streaming into my mouth. I'd nearly forgotten the taste of them, the feel of their soft tracks on my cheeks.

The ocean.

Tears.

Illumination.

With my eyes still shut, I found Christian's face with my free hand, pulled him close. With the strongest breath I could call forth, I said it.

“I love you.”

The words flowed in a whisper without expectation, and for the first time in my life they didn't make me feel as though I was giving something up, giving away some irretrievable piece of me. Instead, my heart expanded, embers burning, and when Christian lifted the top edge of the blanket and pressed his lips to my bare shoulder, my heart expanded farther still, and I knew, this time, it
was
real.

Christian was the first boy to know me after the accident, the first person I allowed to get close. His feelings weren't connected with old memories of the girl I used to be, and the pity that inevitably followed
whenever someone realized I couldn't be that girl anymore. When Christian looked at me, I didn't see sadness reflected in his eyes, sympathy and sorrow.

I saw a boy who wanted to know my soul.

A boy who believed I still had one.

Beautiful soul . . .

I set my mug on the table, rose from the bench, and walked to the berth. I let the blanket slip from my shoulders, and I turned, standing before him, naked in the moonlight.

Christian's eyes never left mine. In a ragged, barely restrained voice, he said, “You're beautiful.”

I'd lost track of time and space the moment our bare bodies touched, but after, I opened my eyes, desperate to see Christian, to know he was real. His eyes were on me, too, smoldering.

“Elyse . . .” It was a soft moan, half whispered into my mouth, and in it were all the promises and hopes of a boy who wanted to believe we could still save each other. Save the houses. Save the Cove.

I breathed heavily in return, the haze of ecstasy tricking me into copying his motion; my lips formed his name, but the sound didn't reach his ears. His stillness shattered the illusion, and I knew in that moment he'd never know the pleasure of hearing his name on my breath, of feeling the melodic rhythm of my accent. When I opened my mouth against his ear, the only sound he captured was
a wet emptiness, a faint heartbeat that echoed through the canyon where once my voice rang true.

I whispered his name anyway; this time, I knew it would be enough.

“Sure you're all right?” he whispered, and when I nodded, he covered my mouth with his, kissing me with fresh hunger. I returned it, desperately alive.

Repaired, renewed, recovered.

Rejuvenated.

Restored.

All the
RE
s complete, and I was whole.

Because I'd always, always been whole.

Hours later, when dawn's soft glow awakened me, Christian and I were still entwined. I lingered in his arms, overwarm but glad for it, until his eyes finally fluttered open.

I held my hand before him, opened my fingers to reveal the message I'd written on my palm as he slept.

We're not giving up, Captain.

Chapter 39

The Pacific was frothing
mad with rain and wind. After the placid night, it had recovered, channeling with urgency all its vast power to delay our return, to keep us at sea.

But Christian had seen the determination in my eyes this morning, and he'd made it his, shaking off his exhaustion and piloting us through the storm. When we finally reached the marina, it was near afternoon and the docks were deserted, every boat battened down and tied up. Gone was the evidence of yesterday's race, the portable barbecue pits, the balloons, the pirates and mermaids.

It was as though none of it had ever happened.

But I knew better. The race had happened. Our
Queen of Cups
had taken second. Admirable, but not enough to save the houses.

By the strength of Atargatis, I had to make my last stand.

As soon as Christian had safely navigated the boat into the slip, he waved me on. “Go,” he shouted over the storm. A fierce wind howled,
clawing at my hair, at the too-big sweatshirt and pants Christian had given me. “I'm right behind you, soon as I tie her down. Be careful!”

I kissed him, and then I disembarked.

My feet hit the dock.

Rain needled my face, my neck.

I ran.

Bare feet slapped the wet cement, gritty with sand. I ran faster, harder, ignoring the sting on my feet and the burn in my calves. I ran all the way through the marina, into the sand and up the beach, past the small cottages and then the larger homes, and still I didn't pause. By the time I hit the last of the dunes and saw the rise of the houses of Starfish Point, I was winded, but I didn't feel the cold. Adrenaline and purpose kept me warm until I finally reached the Kanes' door.

“Elyse?” Mr. Kane stood in the doorway, a glass of scotch in hand. His face said a lot of things, all at once:
What the hell happened to you? I'm tired of your meddling. I'm just plain tired. Is this summer ever going to end?
But all he said out loud was, “Where's Christian?”

He's fine,
I mouthed. I pointed inside the warm house.
May I?

“Oh, of course. Come on in.” He finally stepped aside. “Sorry. Let me get you a towel.” He led me into the kitchen, gestured for me to sit at the counter.

He returned with a fluffy bath towel, fresh out of the dryer, then put on the kettle. With a smile that wasn't altogether unfriendly, he said, “Looks like you could use something hot to drink.”

I nodded, grateful, and asked him for a pen and paper.

Christian's fine. Tying up the boat. We had it out all night, just got back. He'll be here soon.

I showed him the note to alleviate his concern about Christian, then held my finger up, asking for some time.

This,
I thought,
might take a while
.

As Christian had drifted off to dreamland after my return from the ocean last night, I lay awake, thinking about this moment, this plan taking vague shape from the mist in my mind. It was a long shot, but we'd lost the bet—a long shot was all we had left. Andy Kane had no reason to listen to me, but after everything, I couldn't just
not
try.

Somewhere deep inside I felt the flames of Atargatis, twin lights with just enough warmth to keep me going.

I set my pen to the paper and wrote, straight from the heart.

Mr. Kane,

I know you made a bet, and Christian and I lost. I get it—you don't go back on your word.

But despite the name on the deeds, the houses were never yours to bet. If you go through with this deal, Ursula and Kirby will be forced to move, and I'll probably go back to Tobago. Inconvenient, yes, as you've said, but that's not why I'm not asking you to reconsider.

When I say the property wasn't yours to bet, I mean this: Whatever it once meant to you, to your father and grandfather, it's clearly just a house to you now. A burden, perhaps, one you can easily turn into a profit. If it meant any more to you, you never would've taken the mayor's wager.

But to Christian and Sebastian, it's a home. It's old memories and new ones. Summers that you've spent together as a family.

In the time I've been with your family, I've seen enough to know things aren't perfect (whose family is?). I don't pretend to know the ins and outs of that, but I do know this: Those boys love each other, and they love being here. Together, where Sebastian can look for mermaids and Christian can sail, where they can hike and spend time together as brothers and friends, and where they can be accepted and loved by the friends they've made here.

Mr. Kane set a steaming mug on the counter before me. “I understand you're not a fan of American chocolate, so I skipped the hot cocoa and went for tea. Okay?”

I nodded and set down my pen.

He read what I'd written so far. At the end he let loose a heavy sigh, taking the seat next to me.

“Elyse,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “I realize that I've been unfair to you. Particularly yesterday, after the race. With Sebastian. I'm sorry for that. As a father, it's not easy for me to . . . I just want what's best for my boys. That's the truth. It's a harsh world, and people don't like what they can't label and stick in a box.” He let his eyes drift to my scar, purposely lingered to make the point. When I nodded, he continued. “I appreciate that you've gotten close with my sons this summer. Christian and I don't have many conversations these days, but it's obvious how he feels about you. And Sebastian can't stop talking about you either.” He laughed. “Frankly, if you go back to Tobago, we may have to send him with you.”

I smiled, thinking immediately of all the things I'd show him. The cocoa pods, how they grew, how they transformed from puffs of red and yellow into fine chocolate. The birds, hundreds of species all over the island, with colors as varied and bright as a rainbow. And the massive leatherbacks, giant turtles who swam thousands of miles every year to lay their eggs on the moonlit beaches of Tobago.

He'd go bananas for it.

“I know you care a great deal about the boys,” he said, bringing me back across the seas. “But I'm not sure what you're asking me here.” He slid the paper toward me again, his gaze weighted and serious, tired but not impatient. Whatever he was about to say, he
meant for me to answer honestly. “Elyse, what do you want?”

The question, simple and obvious as it was, shocked me.

Not because it was unusual, or even unexpected. I had, after all, shown up soaked and shivering on this man's doorstep, asking for his time and some paper. I'd obviously wanted
something
.

But in his asking of it, I remembered a similar conversation with Christian on the Vega, Fourth of July. I'd asked Christian the same question, and he'd told me that he didn't know. That no one had ever asked him.

Now, with Mr. Kane draining the last of his scotch, waiting for my response, I realized that before I came to the Cove, no one had ever asked me, either.

For so long there was never a need. I was a singer, a dancer, a performer. I'd been singing almost as long as I'd been speaking, and the moment Natalie and I joined our voices in song, our entire future spiraled out before us, solidified years later at our last Carnival performance. With Bella Garcia, and the promises of greatness she'd offered us.

Last March.

But all of that had changed. One night. One moment.

Last March.

And I'd gone from someone with a future to someone who needed to be asked what she wanted. Someone who needed to consider options, to make a decision.

And Mr. Kane, for all his faults and flaws, for all he'd intimidated
me this summer, for all he'd made me burn with quiet rage at the things he'd said to his sons, was giving me a chance to think about it. To make a choice.

To speak up, just like Kirby had done the night I'd found her in the dress.
What do you want, Elyse?

I grabbed the pen, dashed off the last of all I'd come here to say. The most important part.

Mr. Kane, I want you to call it off. Back out. Cancel the proposed offer, turn it down. Yes, I realize I'm asking you to put your winning reputation on the line, and to disappoint the corporate buyers, and to walk away from a profitable deal.

But sometimes life asks us to make those kinds of choices.

The hard ones, the inconvenient ones, the ones that feel like anything but our first choice, the best choice, the plan A.

That's why I'm sitting here now, asking this of you, even though I'd rather be anywhere else.

For Christian. For Sebastian. For the brothers I fell in love with this summer.

I know that I'm no one to you. And maybe
you feel the same way about Ursula, despite having known her your entire life. But please, consider my words. My request. For your boys.

I want you to keep the houses.

That's what I want.

I signed the letter and slid it across the counter, closed my eyes. Waited for him to read it.

Moments passed in silence. He rose, finally, and his heavy steps thudded across the kitchen. The freezer creaked open, three ice cubes clinked into the highball. A bottle cap twisted off, liquid sloshed into the glass, ice cubes shifted and settled. The bottle was re-capped, put back on the shelf.

A sigh, another one, the sound of the glass lifting from the counter and tipping back, landing once again on the counter, and still Mr. Kane didn't say a word.

I opened my eyes, met his across the kitchen.

My hope was small, fragile.

“I'm sorry, Elyse,” he said softly. “Truly. But there's nothing I can do.”

Dashed.

“Nothing you can do about what?” It was Christian, panting and soaked in the doorway.

Mr. Kane sipped the scotch, set the glass firmly on the counter. When Christian reached us in the kitchen, his father looked at the floor. “Parrish and Dey already bought the place. Done deal, guys.”

I tossed Christian the towel.

“But . . . already?” he said, scrubbing his head dry. “We just lost the bet last night.”

For a tense moment no one spoke but the rain outside, lashing the house. Mr. Kane had the decency to look apologetic, but I knew things were about to get worse. The air inside was electric, as though lightning would strike any moment.

“Christian, this house was becoming a liability for us,” Mr. Kane said. “Your mother and I don't have the time or inclination to keep up with it. P and D offered a more than fair price—well above market value. I'd have been a fool to turn it down.”

“A fool? Or maybe just a father.” Christian threw the towel into the kitchen sink, leaned back against it with his arms crossed. “So you were planning to sell all along. You thought this'd be our last summer at the Cove?”

Mr. Kane shook his head. “I had no idea P and D would be interested. But when I heard about it? Come on, son. Do the math.”

Christian pinched the bridge of his nose, spoke into his hand. “So the regatta was just, what? Your way of proving what a screwup you have for a son?”

“I tried to talk you out of it,” Mr. Kane said, but it was a weak attempt, and he knew it. “Christian, I didn't . . . it just . . .” He let the words die. There was no explaining this bitter game, the way he'd so casually yanked his son into the middle of his own childhood rivalry, the way he couldn't just back down from the mayor's taunts. No apology would excuse the invisible, nameless faults he'd found with Christian and Sebastian again and again. No words would erase the
pain he'd caused in all his years of doubting, of judging, of resenting, of projecting his own failures onto his sons—one, a mermaid queen; the other, a boy who almost wasn't his.

My heart broke for them. Despite everything laid bare before him, Mr. Kane still couldn't see how much he'd hurt his family.

Christian's eyes left his father, landed on the counter, the letter I'd written. My last-ditch plea. He picked up the paper and read, eyes scanning faster and faster, just as I'd written it. Frantic to the end. Desperate. Hopeful.

“You wrote this?” he asked me.

I nodded. I hadn't told him the details of my plan this morning, only that I thought I could talk to his father, get the houses back, stop the inevitable.

Christian dropped the paper, took my hand instead.

“I want you to know something, Dad,” he said, pulling me close. There was no rage left in his voice, only honesty. “I'm not you. I don't want to be you, a man with no heart, all ambition. My whole life, that was your favorite word. Ambition. The key to your love and respect. But the thing you taught me about your kind of ambition is that it means selling people out. Always.”

“Christian, I—”

“No, you're going to listen to me. Elyse was right in her letter—I love it at the Cove. Sebastian loves it here. But you wouldn't know that, because you never asked. You sold us out.”

Mr. Kane took a step back, folded his arms over his chest. “Last
time I checked, it's my name on the deeds to this property. I regret that I've hurt you guys, but I stand by my decision. I don't need your permission to sell homes that I own and pay for.”

Christian sighed. “No. But you could've told us you wanted to list it. Could've warned us that we wouldn't have a place at the Cove next summer. Never mind what the Cove's going to become, thanks to Wes and those douches from P and D.”

“What's a douche?” Sebastian asked. He'd been lingering in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs, and now he joined us, climbed up on one of the counter stools. “And why are you guys all wet?”

“Out chasing mermaids, kiddo,” Christian said, ruffling Sebastian's hair. “Slippery as ever.”

Christian clearly had more to say to his father—he'd held it in for years, and now that he'd cracked the seal, there was no going back. But he stowed it for now, turning his attention to his brother. The kid was hungry, asking about grilled-cheese-and-hot-dog sandwiches, and Christian got to work, glad to have a job, some concrete goal he could actually accomplish.