Amber House (16 page)

“Sarah.”

I looked up into Kathryn’s face.

“You’re turning into a prune. Come help me, hon.”

Lord, yes, please, give me
something
to do.

So I stood and spooned frozen fruit and ice cream into a blender for Kath. She was making smoothies. In between the roaring of the blender, we talked.

“You’ve known Richard a long time?” I asked.

“We’ve been in the same schools together since we were four. He’s practically a brother.”

A brother.
That sounded promising. “You must have known his mother.”

“Oh, sure. She was always at the school parties and stuff.”

“Was she nice?”

Kath choked a little on her taste test of the latest batch. “Um, sure. What do I know? I was a kid. She just seemed a little … loony. You know? Liable to go off? And she
hated
your mom. She was, like,
obsessed
with her.”

“My mom?” How did Richard’s mom know mine? Mom had moved away to college and never really gone back — had they been in high school together?

“I remember once we walked by this trophy at school with your mom’s name on it, and Mrs. Hathaway started going on and on about how your mom didn’t deserve it. This other time, when we drove past your house, she told us your family were all devil worshippers.” She giggled. “Can you believe th —”

Her eyes widened slightly, and her voice got a little louder. “So I didn’t know whether I was supposed to wear a mask or what. Are people wearing masks?”

“What?” I said, utterly confused.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Parsons!”

It was Richard. He grabbed a strawberry-peach smoothie, took me by the elbow, and led me away. “Yum,” he said, tasting it. “You make this, Parsons?”

“Not really,” I said. “I just followed orders.”

“Kath can run to bossy,” he said. “What d’you think of her?”

“That’s not what I —” I tried again. “She seems like she’s —”

“— deep as a puddle, right? Her dad’s got more money than God.” He stepped in front of me, snagged one of the belt loops on the boy shorts. “Wanna find someplace more private?”

I should have been expecting it; I should have been prepared. But I wasn’t even sure what he was asking. What was it exactly that people were doing in the “more private” places? The truth was, I had never even been kissed. And this guy was clearly the type who was used to girls throwing themselves at him. It was hard to admit even to myself, but he scared me.

“I gotta get home,” I said in a rush of words that poured from my mouth like they had lives of their own. “Gotta get up early. We’re going to church with your father. Should I call home for a ride?”

He took it better than I expected. A snort, a little shake of the head to let me know what a punk kid I was. But he said he’d drive me home. “I gotta get up for church too, don’t I?”

I went upstairs and changed back into my clothes, then tracked down Kathryn to say good-bye. She gave me a big hug, like we’d been best buds forever. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

Right. At the race that I — like some idiot — just agreed to compete in. What in God’s name is the matter with you, Parsons?

I walked with my head bent, out to where Richard was waiting in the car. But as I left, I noted with some satisfaction that every single one of my brownies had been eaten.

Richard gunned it when we hit Amber House’s gravel drive. The tires spun, the rear end of the car slewed. I had a death grip on the armrest. We skidded to a halt before the front door.

“Thanks, Richard. It was great to meet all those people. Tell your dad how grateful I am for Ataxia.”

“No problem, Parsons.” He flashed me one of his crooked smiles.

“Well,” I said, “good night.” I opened the door, but he caught my arm. I didn’t even have a chance to worry about my lack of experience. He just pulled me toward him and kissed me.

Soft lips. Stubble. Strawberries. The smell of cologne. The tip of his tongue just barely brushing my lips. His hand still tight around my arm. The stick shift mashing into my ribs.

Not what I had imagined, with infinite variations, for the past five years. But very interesting. I don’t think my lips had ever
felt
so alive before.

He let me go and I snapped back in my seat. I had just been kissed for the first time by the boy of every girl’s dreams, and I didn’t know what to think about it. Did this mean I wasn’t a hopeless loser? Did this mean — he
liked
me?

“Night, Parsons.”

“Night, Hathaway,” I said, attempting a breezy tone. It was just a tad too high-pitched. But it provoked a satisfied and crooked grin.

I got out, shut the door behind me, and made my legs start walking. I didn’t look back.

Richard revved the Beemer’s engine, kicking up gravel. He shot down the driveway.

And Jackson stepped out of the shadows in front of me.

“Oh, God!” I gasped, first startled, then embarrassed. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.”

“Um. That” — I gestured vaguely — “wasn’t my idea.” Why on earth was I making excuses? “It’s so late. I didn’t expect you to be here.”

He shrugged, then nodded toward a flashlight sitting on the steps. “Thought we could poke around a little more.”

I cringed inwardly. I was home late from an exhausting night of tension at a party where I hadn’t known a single soul, and had
been given my very first kiss by a guy who could make me stammer, and truth be told, right at that very moment, I just didn’t feel like opening even one more silverfish-contaminated box.

My reluctance must have shown. Jackson’s expression clouded over. “Never mind.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just tired, is all. I don’t think I can face bumping into any echoes tonight.”

“It’s all right. Some other time.” He reached up to undo a strip of leather tied around his neck. He lifted it by the cord, from which hung a smooth drop of burnt yellow stone. It caught a glow from the porch light.

“I’ve seen a stone like that before. What is it?”

“It’s amber,” he said. “Ida told me once that it’s supposed to have some kind of blessing on it. All I know is, when I wear it, I feel a lot more confident that things will work out the way they’re supposed to.” He held it out for me to take.

I took it from him. It was warm in my fingers. There was something dark in it —
jeez
. My skin crawled. The flaw in the amber was a spider, its long legs still spread in the stance it had taken when tree sap enveloped it millennia ago. Graceful and deadly. Hideous and beautiful at the same time.

“I — I think you’re supposed to have it,” Jackson said.

“I can’t take that from you.” I handed it back to him.

He took it, stepped behind me, lifted the pendant over my head and around my neck. He tied a careful knot, then pulled a stray lock of my hair free, his fingertips brushing across my skin. It made me suck in my breath.

“What’s the matter?” he said.

“Just — got a chill,” I said, and primly tucked my hair behind my ear.

He turned the amber so the spider crouched on my heart. “It’s pretty late,” he said. “Maybe we can try again another night.”

“Maybe,” I agreed. “I have a lot to do tomorrow. Which reminds me —”

“What?”

I took a stab. “You know the
Liquid Amber
better than anyone. How ’bout crewing for me in the regatta?”

“Down at the club?” he asked, and shook his head. “You got to be a member.”

“Richard said he’d get me in.” I looked him in the eye. “I want to beat him. I can’t do it without you.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Beating Richard Hathaway would be fun,” he said. “But maybe not such a good idea.”

He might have been right. But —

“If I’m gonna race,” I said, shrugging, “I race to win.”

He grinned at that, a wide smile, his teeth shining in the darkness. “You and me both, coz.”

He stuck out his hand — large, warm, strong, sturdy — and I shook it.

Done deal.

It had been years since I’d been inside a church. My mother liked religion about as much as she liked anything else supernatural. But she led the way up the steps the next morning.

The church was all brick and stone, with a pointed arch over the front entrance filled with stained glass. Inside, the arch’s point was repeated in a thousand delicate stone ribs arrowed toward heaven. Five golden spires crowned the altar. The pews were deep, but space was limited. Just large enough to hold all the right set — the old money in this part of Maryland.

We were the obvious outsiders, and we received a good number of questioning stares as we made our way up the aisle to our seats at the front. The senator had saved us a place in the pew behind his. He was all smiles until he saw my father walk up with us, holding Sammy’s hand. Even then, he kept his smile in place — it just dimmed considerably. One hundred watts down to forty.

Richard flashed me his own blindingly white grin, and I returned it, trying to hide the embarrassment that made me want to stare at the floor. I wasn’t quite sure how to behave with a guy who’d kissed me the night before.

Mom and the senator both worked the crowd after mass. Richard grabbed me by the arm and introduced me to some more of my future party guests. I tried to memorize names, but I found it
hard to concentrate. My mom kept squealing in the background: “Joe, it’s been ages! Liza, my God, you haven’t changed an iota!”

Dad and Sammy sat quietly on a bench to one side, waiting for all the hugging to end. After an eternity, we all loaded into Mom’s car and followed the senator to brunch at the club.

I ate with Sam and Dad. I don’t think my mother ever once sat down or took a single bite. With a champagne cocktail in one hand, she circled the room, continuing in her meet-and-greet mode. It seemed like she knew everybody south of Baltimore.

Her non-presence in our little family grouping gave me a chance to slip Dad a question I’d been dying to ask: “Gramma told me once that Mom used to paint,” I lied. “Really well. Did you know that?”

“Yeah, I knew.”

“Why’d she stop?”

He considered. I wasn’t sure he was going to answer the question, but he did, carefully. “I think she felt it had gotten to be too big an obsession. That it controlled her, and not the other way around.”

That sounded a little obsessive all by itself. “Why?”

“She was working on a canvas once when she should have been doing something else, and it —” He rethought the end of that sentence. “It had some bad consequences. So she stopped.”

“What sort of —”

“That’s all I’m going to say on the subject. Let’s talk about something else.”

Jeez. Fine.
As quickly as I could after that, I excused myself and went outside.

I walked down the dock, checking out the floating real estate. Not just sweet little sloops like the
Amber
— although there were plenty of ultra-modern versions of those — but also yachts, with levels, motored or (for the sailing purists) double masted. Boats you could pop on over to Greece in.

The club had set up a small bandstand to seat the regatta’s spectators. I sat and stared out toward the Chesapeake, thinking to myself that maybe it would be better if I didn’t find Richard in time to sign up for the race.

In which case, I probably should have found a less conspicuous place to sit.

Richard came and sat beside me, all casual grace. “Saw you go out. Trying to ditch me, Parsons?”

“Ditch you? Wouldn’t dream of it, Hathaway.” I leaned back, attempting to match his casual style. He reached out to finger a lock of my hair.

Involuntarily, I made some room between us. He smiled and let the hair fall back into place.

“I owe you an apology,” he said. “For last night.”

“No, not at all,” I said.

“Yeah, I do. Our parents are friends. I shouldn’t have done that. I hope you didn’t tell your mom.”

“No, of course not,” I said, trying to pretend it had been no big deal, but thinking how perfect it was that my mother was the one who was killing this for me. Although what “this” was, I had no idea. Just that I didn’t want it dead quite yet.

He shrugged. “Thought I should apologize.”

“It’s okay,” I said, wishing I were brave enough to add,
“I liked it.”
But I wasn’t anywhere close to being
that
brave.

So then he smiled, and said in a confident, teasing voice: “What do you say, Parsons?” He nodded back toward the boat club. “Shall we go sign you up, or have you chickened out and decided you’d rather just cheer me on?”

“Let’s go,” I said.

“You don’t back down,” he said, amused.

“Well,” I answered, summoning up what courage I had, “I don’t want to lose points.”

It was an almost-under-the-radar flirt, but he caught it. He grinned, and on the walk back, he draped an arm over my shoulders. It was kind of a strange feeling. On the one hand, I felt awkward, because I didn’t necessarily know Richard well enough to be wearing his arm. On the other hand, some secret part of me was absolutely loving being this guy’s armrest.

I mean, it was every girl’s fantasy, wasn’t it? I decided to relax and enjoy it.

It took a while to find someone who could sign me up — we were passed from one person to the next. Finally, we found this old gentleman with a club insignia stitched to his jacket.

He seemed reluctant to add me to the entrants. “Well,” he said, hedging, “not a member. Whose boat’re you going to sail?”

“It was my grandmother’s boat. The
Liquid Amber
.”

“The
Amber
?” he said. “You’re Mark and Ida’s granddaughter?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, then,” he said, suddenly effusive, “of course you should race. Your great-great-grandparents helped
found
this club. You’re practically an honorary member.” He got out a clipboard with an entry form. “You sure you want to give me this?” he asked, taking my wad of wrinkled cash. “Smart money is on your boyfriend here,” he said, clapping Richard on the back.

My boyfriend?
I thought, expecting Richard to correct him. But Richard just smiled. I said, “It’s for charity, right?”

“Yes, indeed. You know, she could give you a run for it, Richard.” He smiled broadly. “The
Amber
’s taken home the trophy before,” he told me. “It’s been a few years, but I remember when your grandparents crewed her in this race a few times.
They were a good team, back then. Damn shame what happened.” He shook his head. I hoped he would say more, but he’d already changed subjects. “That girl’s always been a fast boat,” he finished. “Made for these waters.”

The old guy gave me a chart of the course and pointed out over the water to general areas where the marker buoys could be found. He shook my hand. “Best of luck to you and the
Amber
,” he said.

Richard and I headed back to the dining room. “I don’t know, Parsons,” he said, “maybe I oughta start worrying. After all, the
Amber
won this before — what? Seventy years ago?” He laughed heartily at his own joke.

I laughed too. “Just watch your back, Hathaway, ’cause I’ll be coming up behind you.”

“
Oooh
,” he said in mock terror.

He went back to his table and I went to join my family. Dad and Sammy were polishing off their desserts when I got there. Mom had finally parked herself next to them and was nibbling a piece of dry toast. I asked Dad for the keys to the car.

“What for?” my mother asked with some suspicion.

“I’ve got to change.”

“Why?”

“I’m sailing in the regatta, and I’d rather not do it in a dress.”

“You’re
what
?” Mom blurted.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dad said. “That’s great.”

“Did Richard ask you to crew?” Mom asked, disbelieving.

“No,” I said. “I entered myself. I’m sailing the
Amber
.”

“The
Amber
? This is
not
a good idea, honey —”

“It’s all settled. I paid the entrance fee and everything.”

My mother’s mouth was tight. “I wish you’d ask me before you go off and do things like this. You could ruin everything.” She crooked her finger, signaling me to lean in close. She put her mouth near my ear and whispered, “You’d better not win.”

I changed into some capris and a sweater, stowed my dress back in the car, and headed down to the municipal dock. It was noon. Jackson was just tying up the
Amber
.

I pulled out the map the old guy had given me.

“Let’s go out and check the course,” Jackson suggested.

“Was thinking the same thing,” I agreed. We put up the sails. We’d sail out far enough to spot markers, and use the practice to get into a rhythm together.

The race started in Spa Creek, just beyond the mouth to the Old Harbor. It ran northeast into Severn Bay, looped around a marker in the cove that cut into the Naval Academy’s northern acres, then swung east into the Chesapeake to a second marker. From there you bore south to Howard’s Point and made a careful circle around the rock island that held a lighthouse a small distance from the shore. This would be the trickiest part of the run, since the shoals, Jackson informed me, were shallow and rocky. But fortunately, by that far along in the race, the pack would be spread out, so there wouldn’t be too much jockeying for position. Then the course ran back to the mouth of the Severn, around the cove marker, and southwest back to Spa Creek. The first boat to pass the Old Harbor won.

The race kicked off at three, just after the under-fourteen sailors finished up a much shorter course. There were eleven entrants in the fourteen- to eighteen-year-old class, all of us in a cluster, backed up Spa Creek. Richard’s
Swallow
was in the front, as was Morgan’s new sloop. Jackson and I were in the last group of two.

When Mom saw me take my place with Jackson as my crew, I could feel her displeasure, even at a distance. But Sammy jumped and cheered: “Go, Sarah! Go, Jackson!”

I found both reactions pretty gratifying.

The wind was blowing northwest, whistling through our small forest of masts, teasing the slack, luff sails, rocking the boats. Coupled with the current of the river, the wind’s direction would make for a fast start, since the first leg of the race was all northeast to the marker buoy.

In every sloop, crews were ready to set sheets. The pack leaders fought not to drift across the starting line and lose place.

The starting flag dropped, the horn sounded, and Jackson smoothly pulled our main sheet into place, while I held the rudder slightly to port. The sail snapped into a perfect curve and the
Amber
strained forward. I threw my weight starboard to keep the hull even in the water and help build up speed.

As the creek mouth widened, the pack started to thin. We came about in front of our neighbor’s nose and leapt forward. The
Amber
was shallow but well-balanced. Fast. Like everyone else, we chased the
Swallow
, in the lead, shadowed by the
Backdraft
.

I didn’t do much more than point the nose of the boat in the general direction of the buoy that marked the first turn. Jackson worked the sails — setting, trimming, adjusting the jib — to get the greatest possible thrust from the wind.