What the Waves Know (12 page)

“Can't have everything, I suppose.”

“I'm glad you all find this so blasted amusing,” Mr. Herman growled. “I guess if I come down to the police station and knock a hole through your window you'll really have a good laugh.”

“At least no one was hurt. Why, that rock could've hit Betsey, but it didn't. That's something to be grateful for.” The sheriff patted Mr. Herman's back.

The thought hit my gut with so much force I actually felt it. Glancing at the girl inside the store, I swatted a tear from my lashes.

“Betsey's cheek I can stick a Band-Aid on. What am I supposed to do, stick a Band-Aid over my window? We
got a thousand people coming for the festival, and I've got no front window. I make more than a quarter of my annual profits during festival week. People aren't going to come into a boarded-up shop unless they're looting it. And there's no way I can get someone over here from the mainland to measure and set it before that. Someone could march right through that hole and rob me blind.”

“Well, I don't know. It'd have to be a four-and-a-half-inch-tall thief to get through that. How much do you guess a four-and-a-half-inch bandit can make off with, Remy?” Officer Dillon quipped.

“All right now, you two. He's got a right to worry. That's a good chunk of change.” The sheriff's tone took on a hint of concern.

“It's enough to close me down for part of the winter. You got tonight to figure this out, Jim. Then I have to press charges. My insurance isn't going to cover losses that I didn't file a formal complaint on. I'm not playing here.” Mr. Herman snatched up the broom, which was still standing on the stoop, and began to beat the sidewalk with it as though hitting it hard enough would make it cough up the slivers of glass stuck in its crevices.

“Don't get yourself all worked up.” The sheriff gazed at me. “I'll figure it out. Maybe Merchant's has enough glass in stock to cut you a pane.”

“I've still got to get someone to board this up tonight and then get the broken one out and scrape the edges before it can be set and glazed.”

“I'll send my boy by to help hammer this up for the night.”

“And Izabella will come down and help knock out the window and scrape,” Remy added, leaving me wide-eyed and trying to catch her attention, which she skillfully averted.

“That be okay, Maynard? And whatever Merchant's charges, it comes out of her pocket.”

“You'd better believe that's true,” Mr. Herman huffed.

“I'll see to it,” the sheriff assured him. “I'll go over right now and find out how much that will cost and call this young lady's mother to let her know.”

Remy kissed the sheriff on the cheek like an old friend and watched him get into his car while Officer Dillon shuttled me and the grocery bags into the passenger door of the Purple Monster. I just gleaned the question scuttling over his expression as he caught Remy's eye, nodding in my direction.

“Hasn't said a word since the stuff with her dad,” I heard her say before the door slammed shut. I couldn't make out the rest of what they were saying on the other side of the window, but it was impossible not to notice the strange look coming over his face while Remy spoke.

Officer Dillon opened the door for Remy. “I guess it goes without saying you should make sure she's back here tomorrow to help clean this up. You, yourself, might want to do your shopping at Salva's for a few days. Better yet, you could break down and let me take you out to dinner
and then you wouldn't need groceries at all. I'll even make you breakfast the next morning.” He winked.

“Well, thanks for the offer,” Remy said, folding herself behind the wheel. “But I imagine Maynard will touch back down, soon as he needs a ride to shore to cash his checks.”

“I'd imagine.” He shut the door, leaning into the window as if I wasn't sitting right there listening to their conversation. “Remy, let me ask you a question.”

“What would that be, Officer Dillon?” I wondered if she realized that despite her gruffness, an affectionate light danced into her eyes when she spoke to him.

“How many more years are you gonna keep turning me down? It's a meal—food, wine, maybe a dance. I'm not askin' you to accompany me to a human sacrifice.”

“Well, there's not much difference, now is there?”

“Is the idea of sitting across a table from me really all that bad?”

“Yes.” She smirked.

“Well, you can't blame me for trying.”

“I don't blame you one little bit, Dillon. I can't hold you responsible for being part of the male gender any more than I hold a skunk responsible for stinking. But that doesn't mean I'd hold hands with one.” Winking at the officer, Remy turned the key, igniting a deep roar under the hood of the Purple Monster, and pulled away from the curb, leaving Officer Dillon standing there alone watching her go.

It was five minutes later and we were just turning onto Knockberry Lane when she finally spoke to me.

“You want to grab that pad of yours and tell me what the hell's eating you?”

Yes, I thought, shaking my head no.

“Okay then, you want to tell me what bird of fancy flew into those curls of yours and made you think it might be a grand old idea to skip a rock through Herman's windowpane?” Remy pulled the car to the side of the road, throwing the stick shift into park.

I shook my head weakly.

“They overcharge you?”

I shook my head.

“Kick your cart? Give you the wrong damn pasta? Call you a green-faced alien?” She grabbed a crumpled envelope from the console, dropping it in my lap, and poked a pencil at me.

Some girls were trying to kill a bird with the rock.
That's all
, I scrawled, before tossing the pencil back at her and fixing my eyes on the crest of Knockberry Ridge, where the sun was slipping over the cliffs in a ribbon of orange.

“Ah.” Remy's voice sidled down a notch, edging on a whisper. “Well, are you done throwing things? Because I don't know what those girls said to set your belly ablaze, but I have a bad notion it may not be the last harsh word you hear today.” I followed her gaze down the lane to the Booth House, where the thin form of my mother was pacing back and forth in the front yard.

I rolled my eyes.

“I guess it's not easy having a mother sitting on your shoulder, watching everything you do.” She pulled the car back onto the lane. “But, I can tell you this, it's easier than not having one around to do it.”

As soon as I opened the car door, my mother turned sharply on one heel and pointed to the house. Remy followed us, balancing a bag of groceries in each arm.

Once the front door closed, my mother spun around, planting her right hand on her hip. I could not remember the last time I saw her naked—unlike Grandma Jo, who romped around on a daily basis without clothes—but under there somewhere I was positive her hips donned five permanent dimples from always pushing her fingers into them.

“Two days!” Her voice cracked. “We have been on this island for two days, and I get a call from the police saying the owner of the local grocery is threatening to sue me for damages for a broken window from a fight. Seriously, are you enjoying driving me stark raving mad? Is that it? Really, I want to know. Do you just walk out of the room and have a good laugh?”

“Well,” Remy quipped, “maybe not an outright belly laugh. Perhaps a chuckle—”

“I'm not asking
you
!” My mother reeled. “And I don't appreciate you making a big old joke out of it!”

“There seems to be some agreement on that point.” Remy sighed, winking at me. “But in all honesty, it wasn't
a fight.” Her voice was calm as that of a person backing away from a riled bear as she made her way to the kitchen with the tattered bags of groceries. “Nobody was hit or hurt,” she glanced at me, “and I guess it goes without saying she didn't swear or yell.”

“Really, I wasn't asking you,” my mother snapped.

“Fine. Izabella, was it a fight?” Remy called from the kitchen counter.

I shook my head.

“There you have it. It wasn't a fight.”
Zing!
I fell in love with Remy in eight words flat, in love with the grace with which she could heave my mother straight off her pedestal in two sentences or less every time.

“Okay, Iz. Why don't you tell me why it is then that Mr. Herman wants to sue me because you smashed his window with a rock?” My mother flipped the page back of a legal pad she'd been using to keep notes and shoved my pen to the end of the table.

“Not so much smashed as sailed a rock through it. It's just a small hole,” Remy began.

“Would you
please
!” My mother glared at her as she stuck the pen in my right hand.

It isn't smashed
, I scribbled.
It's just a small hole.

“I couldn't care less what it isn't; tell me why I am paying a hundred dollars to repair a broken window.”

They started it
, I wrote, hating the way it made me sound like a baby.
They were killing a seagull. I just threw the rock away.

“Right through Mr. Herman's front window!”

“It was a hell of a shot. Would've clearly been a home run.” Remy sauntered back into the room clutching the nearly empty bear-shaped jar of honey. “But you need more honey.”

“Be . . . quiet!” My mother turned to Remy, her voice climbing three octaves and threatening to break some more glass. “And what's all over you?” She tugged the corner of my brand-new sweater. “What's all over her?” She looked at Remy.

“Oh, now I can speak?”

“What . . . is . . . it?” My mother pushed the words in her direction one at a time.

“Honey.” She waved the bear in the air. “At least it's good for your skin.” With my mother's face all clouded in anger, I couldn't tell who she hated more—me or Remy. “Moisturizing, you know, like lotion?”

“Remy . . .”

“Yes?”

“Go home.”

It isn't her fault
, I scribbled.
Leave her alone.
She wasn't even there.

“Are you kidding me?” My mother raised a brow at me. “You cost me a hundred dollars and now you're going to go and be mouthy?”

I should say right here, mouthing off is not an easy feat for a person without a voice.

“That's true.” Remy pointed to the paper then snatched
an apple, which had fallen on the table from a grocery bag, and took a bite.

“Why”—my mother reeled around—“the hell are you still here? I'm talking to my daughter. Do you need something?”

“I need to drive her down to Herman's tomorrow to help clean up the mess. If Maynard doesn't get it fixed in time for the festival, he's threatening to file formal charges so his insurance will cover his loss of profits.”

“Anything else?” The words were so controlled they threatened to die of strangulation in my mother's throat.

“Nope, that pretty well covers it.” Remy pushed a wayward curl from her forehead with her free hand. “I'll be back in the morning.” She yanked the front door open just as Grandma Jo was coming through it and the two women nearly collided on the front step.

“Did you find Kit's Cove okay, Josephine?”

“I did, thank you very much. It's perfect; not another soul in sight. One of the most peaceful spots I believe I've ever done yoga. My spirit is calm and right with the world.”

“Well then, you may want to reconsider going in there.” Remy stepped aside.

Grandma Jo leaned through the door, letting her eyes bob back and forth between my mother and me. Her long hair was swept into a loose bun and the tranquility of the beach seemed to have followed her home. After a moment, she patted Remy on the arm and walked into the room
barefoot and sandy before closing the door behind her. As she stooped over to brush her feet clean, my mother plucked a second apple from the table and launched it at the door, sending it bouncing off the wood and across the floor.

“Arrrrrrrrrrgh!”

“Ladies.” Grandma Jo gazed from me to my mother. “What's all the ruckus?”

“Nothing,” my mother snapped, rubbing her temples.

“Okay then, would you like to tell me what the door did to deserve being pelted with fruit?” She retrieved the apple from the floor and placed it back on the table.

Chewing my lower lip, I looked at my grandmother for help. She didn't look one bit shaken by the fact that I was standing there bathed in honey and, for the kazillionth time, I wished my mother had inherited her innate calm.

I didn't do anything
, I wrote before handing the note to my mother.

“Right!” She steamed. “Other than throw a rock through a damn windowpane.”

“All right.” Grandma Jo's voice was hushed as she walked over to the sink and wet a towel. “I don't know what's going on here, and I don't care. There's no need for such high drama unless somebody's dead or in jail. And even that is debatable.” She padded back into the dining room and pushed a waxy wad of honeyed hair behind my ear.

“It's only luck on both fucking counts!” My mother shook her head.

“Isn't it always a matter of luck?” My grandmother dabbed at my face.

“I'm telling you, Iz, I have reached my very last nerve with this.”

Translation: with
you
.

“Zo . . .” Concentrating on wiping the sticky streaks from my cheeks, Grandma Jo didn't bother to look up. “Why don't you go back to work? I'll take care of this.”

“Why don't you take care of the hundred-dollar bill while you're at it?” My mother stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Grandma Jo didn't question what happened even as she stepped back to examine me. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, even though I was so not okay that it would take me a solid year to tally the damage. It was the first time anyone had stopped to ask.