Beach Girls (19 page)

“How did they fly all the way up here?” Nell whispered. Just watching them—no larger than dragonflies—made her knees feel strange. She wobbled a little, thinking of how hard it could be for little things, how much they had to go through to get to the red nectar.

“They fly halfway around the world,” Stevie said. “They are strong and determined.”

“They look so small,” Nell said. The wind was blowing, and she felt afraid it would dash them into the castle's rock walls. “What if the wind kills them?”

“It won't,” Stevie said, taking her hand. “Their wings are powerful, and they resist strong winds.”

“How come only one has a red throat?” Nell asked, watching the pair dart in and out, noticing their iridescent green feathers, wings a blur, long beaks reaching into the flowers.

“That's the male,” Stevie said. “They're ruby-throated hummingbirds. Nature gave the male brighter markings, but I think the female is just as beautiful—maybe even more. She's subtle and mysterious.”

“How come nature did it that way?”

“So she would be attracted to him. And so she would be protected from predators.”

Nell's eyes filled with tears. She didn't know what “predators” meant. Was it a rough and bumpy country road? Was it a wrong turn taken by a loving aunt, who had lost her way in the dark? Was it the monsters that came out of the night, any night, to remind a girl her mother was dead?

“What is it, Nell?” Stevie asked, her voice steady but her eyes sad.

“I miss them,” Nell whispered.

Stevie hugged Nell close, and held her there without letting go, and Nell felt her thinking of the beach girls, of Nell's mother and aunt, and Nell heard her whisper back, “I know. So do I.”

THAT NIGHT,
after Nell was asleep, Jack picked up the phone and dialed a now-almost-familiar number. His heart was racing, but not quite as bad as the first time he'd called. This time he was ready—this time he'd speak, say hello, ask how she and Chris were doing. He would tell her he'd heard she had been to visit Stevie. He'd tell her that Nell missed her.

She answered on the third ring.

“Hello?” she said.

Jack closed his eyes.

His heart picked up the pace. This wasn't a flatlands sprint, it was an uphill climb, too steep for him to handle. If he talked to her, really talked, he'd have to drop the charade and the story, the steel that had gotten him through this last year. He'd have to acknowledge that he believed what she'd told him about Kearsage. And Nell might find out the truth. . . . His hands were sweating so hard, the phone slipped.

“I'm glad you called,” she said, her voice breaking.

How could she know? Or could she? Even if she had caller ID, how would she recognize the number of this rental cottage?

“I miss you, I do,” she said, her voice full of tears. “I wish I could turn back time and do everything differently. . . . I miss my big brother.”

Jack's throat was too closed to speak. He heard her sobbing softly, and he didn't want to make it worse. Quietly, without a word, he hung up.

Chapter 17

MADELEINE KNEW IT WAS JACK. SHE HAD
caller ID, and the number was from Hubbard's Point, Connecticut, and she checked her phone book and saw it wasn't Stevie's, so she knew it had to be his. She sat in the study of her Federal house, wiping her eyes, feeling cold in spite of the warm summer air coming through the open window.

Chris poked his head into the room. She looked at his bright blue eyes and graying blond hair and forced a smile, nodding to let him know she was okay. He'd been checking on her more than usual since she'd come home from seeing Stevie. In fact, his attentiveness reminded her of how he had been in the months immediately after the accident, when she'd been in such bad shape.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Wrong number,” she said.

“I thought I heard you talking . . .”

At least he hadn't said “crying.” Madeleine smiled and said, “I was just being polite.”

Chris believed her and went back to watching the baseball game on TV. Madeleine shivered. She hated lying to her husband. But she knew if she told him that her brother had called, he'd hit *69 and give Jack a piece of his mind. A part of Madeleine wanted to do the very same thing.

She couldn't believe that he still wouldn't, or couldn't, talk to her. She took responsibility for driving, for taking Emma away. But the rest—Jack had been unable to handle hearing the truth. Madeleine remembered how—through the Demerol haze that first day in the hospital, when she came to and found Jack at her bedside—she had told him, and only him, what had really happened. He had broken down—shaking his head, wailing like a madman, smashing his fist against the wall.

The nurse had run in—whisked Jack away, to bandage his hand—and Madeleine had slipped back into a shocked and tormented sleep. Chris had stayed with her day and night; doctors came and went. They had her see a psychiatrist. The police showed up, but Chris convinced them to come back when Madeleine was more alert.

She couldn't remember much about the accident. The psychiatrist told her she was having a “trauma reaction.” The words pricked her—they brought her too close to the trauma itself. The screams, the crash, the blood.

Other things came to her easily, from the days and hours before. She recalled picking Emma up at their house at the start of the trip; she could see the white fence and the peach tree in their front yard. She could feel Nell's hand in hers, hear her niece chatting brightly about school and the story she was writing about a pony named Stars. She remembered kissing Jack goodbye, thanking him for letting her take Emma away for the weekend.

And the weekend . . . lazy mornings over coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice, power-walking on the beach for exercise, finding the right spot for their blanket and chairs, settling into the hot sand with nothing but hours for talking to Emma. Maddie remembered looking into Emma's eyes that very first day, smiling at her, saying, “Oh, the beaches we've been on together.”

“We've come a long way from Hubbard's Point,” Emma had said.

“That's where we first came together. I remember the day I first met you and Stevie Moore. We thought we'd be together forever . . . remember how inseparable we were?”

Emma hadn't seemed interested in remembering, but Madeleine couldn't stop. “Remember how her father got her that little English car . . . what was it? A Hillman! That's right. It was so cute, just perfect for the beach. And she'd put the top down and take us to Paradise Ice Cream?”

“We'd all be squeezed into the front seat in our bikinis,” Emma said, unable to resist smiling. “Eating ice cream cones as we drove along . . . all the boys beeping at us. Remember how Jimmy Peterson nearly drove off the road?”

They'd laughed, remembering rides in the sea green Hillman, the mysterious powers they'd had at seventeen. Madeleine had glanced over at Emma, remembering buying
Summer of the Swans
for Nell. How negatively Emma had reacted to Stevie's work . . .

“Stevie was so shy about boys at first,” Madeleine said. “I guess she was so sheltered, living alone with her father.”

“The professor,” Emma said. “I remember his English accent . . . I had a little crush on him.”

“Me, too,” Maddie said.

“Stevie had it lucky,” Emma said with surprising harshness. “She found a career to take care of herself, so she didn't have to rely on any one man to support her. She made up for being shy with boys by marrying and divorcing anyone she pleased.”

“Emma . . .”

“I'm sorry, Maddie. You're not going to want to hear any of this. But it's why I came away with you. I need to talk. . . .”

They had tilted their sunscreened faces toward the sun, reveling in the warmth even as Maddie felt the chill of what Emma was saying. She had known of her sister-in-law's unhappiness; she just hadn't realized the extent. She had known about her drifting away from Jack, but she hadn't known there was someone else. She hadn't had any idea at all.

The beach, the island, the cottage, the long, wrenching talks—all were indelibly recorded in Madeleine's memory. She remembered feeling completely shocked—no, those words weren't too dramatic—by what Emma told her. How would she keep it a secret? From her own brother? As the hours passed, the sun kissing their skin and the waves gently lapping the island's white sands, Madeleine listened and listened. And her skin began to crawl. . . .

She was Emma's best friend. But she was also Jack's sister. It was that statement that had, finally, sent Emma off in the car. When Madeleine had finally spoken up, told Emma she couldn't hold back any longer, that as much as she loved Emma and was trying to understand her choices, her behavior, she was, after all, Jack's sister.

And Nell's aunt.

It was the mention of Nell that had made Emma slap Madeleine. At the end of the weekend, they were hours into the ride home. There had been a buildup of tension between them; Madeleine had had to stop herself more than once from sounding sanctimonious. Emma must have sensed Madeleine's growing anger and disapproval, her disgust with what she'd been hearing. And her worry over how it would affect Jack and, especially, Nell.

“You ought to think about your daughter,” Madeleine said finally, very softly, as they drove through the Georgia countryside, east of Atlanta—so Emma could show Madeleine where Richard Kearsage had come from.

“How dare you say that? She's all I think of!”

“It doesn't sound that way.”

“You think you care about her more than I do? She's my daughter!” Emma had said, her right hand flying through the air—striking Madeleine's cheek as she drove, shocking her more than she could ever recall—till that moment—being shocked.

So, when Jack had stood by Madeleine's bedside, and she, weeping, had told him the whole truth of what had happened, she had expected him to thank her. To see how she had stood up for him and Nell—at the risk of angering Emma, of losing Emma's friendship.

But he hadn't seen it that way. To Madeleine's shock, he had seemed to blame her for what Emma had done. Or maybe it was just the shock and shame of having his sister know. He was wild with grief over losing his wife. If he believed what Maddie was telling him, he'd be forced to see her in a whole new way.

Sitting in her Providence home, Madeleine stared at the phone and wished it would ring again. She had heard of estrangements in other people's families. They had always seemed so unnecessary, so petty. She, secretly, had always believed that the family members involved had to be awfully unreasonable or selfish, to keep such feuds going. She had assumed that they were always, or mostly, about money—the inheritance or the family home. The siblings must not have been very close in the first place. They probably just wrote each other off with no great sense of loss—just moving on with their lives.

How very little she had known.

The greatest shock she'd had to face was that it only took one person to bring about an estrangement. Just one person had to decide to close the door, to stop talking; just one person had to determine that life was easier without the other. The other had nothing to say about it. Or, at least, no opportunity to say it . . .

The minutes ticked on, and Madeleine had to face that the phone wasn't going to ring again that night. She leaned her head toward the window and saw the big moon—just past full—shining in the sky. Her eyes filled with tears, to think of how beautiful it must look, on the bay at Hubbard's Point.

She thought of the view from Stevie's house; somehow she knew that her old friend had prompted Jack's phone calls. She wasn't sure how or why, she couldn't imagine what Stevie had said, but she felt that somehow her fellow beach girl was touching her brother's heart, putting in a good word for her.

Gazing up at the moon, she imagined its light forming a path all the way from Providence to Hubbard's Point. The girl in the moon . . . Maddie saw the face and prayed she could reunite her with her brother . . . Nell. Stevie.

A cheer burst out in the other room—the Red Sox must have scored, she thought as Chris called her in to watch the replay. She wiped her eyes, took one last look at the moon. It was glowing white in the dark blue sky; it looked like something Stevie would paint.

If only Stevie could paint a picture and bring them all back together, she thought with a catch in her throat; if only it could be that simple. Her throat burned, but instead of going to the kitchen for some wine, she sipped her Diet Coke. Day four without a drink . . . she thought of the words Stevie had used to describe her first husband:
lost in the bottle
. They had stayed with her.

Calling to Chris that she'd be there in a moment, she paged through her address book. Finding the number, she dialed it.

The answering machine picked up, so she left a message.

“Stevie, it's Madeleine. I just wanted to thank you. That's all . . . just, thank you. Give them my love, okay? You know who I mean. Talk to you soon.”

Hanging up, she felt better. And then she went in to sit on the arm of her husband's chair, and give thanks for what she had under her own roof.

MADELEINE'S MESSAGE
had meant so much to Stevie, somehow giving her permission to open her heart more. She felt the closeness of her fellow beach girl, urging her along. She got up really early the next morning, made coffee, and took it in a thermos to Jack's house. Nell was still asleep.

The birds were busy, singing in the trees. She and Jack sat outside, side by side on a picnic bench. He leaned against her side, pouring the coffee. The feeling sent pins and needles through her skin.

“This was so nice of you to do,” he said.

“I just . . .” she began. “I can't stop thinking—you're leaving so soon.”

“I know. I don't want to rush it, by thinking about it. But you're right.”

“What will you do about someone for Nell to see over there? Can Dr. Galford recommend another doctor?”

“He's looking into it,” Jack said. “The strange thing is, she's been sleeping fine lately.”

“Since going back to Dr. Galford?”

“I think,” Jack said quietly, “since spending more time with you.”

Stevie leaned over, pressed her face into his neck. She couldn't believe he had said that. She wanted to believe it was true.

“Would you mind if I took Nell swimming early tomorrow?” she asked. “I have to turn a painting in today, and I'm meeting my aunt tonight.”

“I know she'd love that,” Jack said, touching the back of Stevie's hand, in spite of the fact that the sun was all the way up and that Nell could very well be awake, looking out the window. . . .

Stevie waited for Nell by the tide line early the next day, before recreation class began. She had the beach to herself—the rest of Hubbard's Point was just waking up. The air was fresh and clean, the sky brilliant, cloudless. The Sound was blue glass, and the only sounds came from seagulls wheeling and crying, and from a lone fishing boat putting out to sea.

Nell came running down in a red bathing suit, flying off the boardwalk with a towel fluttering behind like Supergirl's cape. She did a broad jump, landing with a grin in the sand at Stevie's feet.

“My dad told me you wanted to meet me! I've never seen you on the beach before,” Nell said.

“I'm making a rare daylight appearance,” Stevie said. “Don't let the other kids know, or my reputation as a witch will be ruined.”

Nell laughed. “I like your bathing suit,” she said.

“Thank you,” Stevie said, smiling. Her suit was one in a long line of black tank suits—sleek, no frills. “I like yours, too.”

The tide was out, and they walked barefoot along the dry seaweed left behind by last night's high tide. Their feet made soft impressions in the hard sand, up above the waves' reach. Sunlight warmed their heads and shoulders, but the day was too early for any real heat. They picked up moonstones, jingle shells, and sea glass, holding their treasures in cupped hands.

“Tell me how the beach girls started,” Nell said.

“Well, it began right here,” Stevie said. “Your mother and I. When we were young, even younger than you.”

“How did you meet?”

“Our mothers were friends. . . .”