Beach Girls (25 page)

Her heart was pounding, and her insides were throbbing. Jack was whispering in her ear, but she could barely hear the words. She gripped his back, holding on with everything she had. Their eyes met, and the truth was right there. They each had reasons for not wanting to say it out loud, but on a moonlit night when an offshore wind was blowing and the tide was flooding in, all bets were off.

“I've fallen in love with you,” she whispered in a voice much too low for him to hear.

“I've fallen in love with you, too,” he whispered back.

She felt him in the wind and the tide, and she knew she would feel him in every swim she ever took, and she felt him right then, inside her, his arms around her, holding her, just holding her.

Somewhere during their lovemaking, the moon set. They were alone in the dark, on a raft anchored fifty yards out from the beach. Waves beat against the rocks and raft, mysterious music singing from the deep. Stevie thought of Henry calling her Luocious, the siren with the dangerous song, and her eyes filled with tears again. She remembered him saying, “It's your boat that always gets wrecked.”

Jack looked into her face, but it was too dark to see the tears. She held him inside her for as long as she could. She thought of all the mistakes she had made in love, all during her life, and she knew that this wasn't one of them.

They fell asleep in each other's arms. When they woke up, the sky was turning light in the east—the sun was getting ready to rise. Stevie watched Jack's face—long dark lashes on his lean cheeks, eyes flickering beneath the lids, alive with dreams. Would he dream of her after he left?

She kissed his lips, to wake him up.

“The sun's coming up,” she said.

He stared moodily east, as if he wished he could send the sun back below the horizon. Or maybe he was thinking of Scotland.

“You'd better get home to Nell,” she said.

“I know.”

They pulled on their suits and stood, hugging. Jack held her hand, looking at her as he got ready to dive in. She shook her head.

“You go,” she said. “I'm staying here.”

“It's windy—the waves are kicking up. Please, Stevie?”

“No,” she said. “I need a little time . . . I'll be fine.”

He held her hands for a long time. She watched the expressions cross his face, the worry lines in his forehead. If only they had met sooner, or later, or differently; if only they hadn't so much history. The waves splashed in, and Stevie thought,
If only, if only
. . .

“I don't want to leave you,” he said.

“Please,” she said. She had a lump in her throat, and this time she wouldn't have darkness to hide her tears.

“Stevie?”

“Please . . .” she said again. He nodded. He kissed her once, then dove into the water. She watched him swim the whole way back to shore, getting farther and farther away. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she watched him climb out of the water and pick up his shirt. He turned and raised his hand briefly in a final wave and then turned and walked away, back to his sleeping daughter, to their future on another rocky coast an ocean away.

Stevie just sat down on the raft and watched him go.

Chapter 22

NELL COULDN'T BELIEVE THAT THIS WAS
really happening. The bags were packed, her father was sweeping the kitchen floor, the soda cans and water bottles were stacked by the door, ready to be thrown into the recycling bin, and the real estate lady was standing there saying “Oh, I hope you come back next year.”

“I'll let you know,” her father said, holding the broom.

“Well, you've paid through till the end of the month,” the real estate lady said. She was tan and pretty, with curly brown hair and a pink flowered dress. “I'm sorry I can't refund your money, because I don't have other renters coming in this summer.”

“That's okay,” her father replied. He kept sweeping. He gave the strongest hints possible, but the real estate lady wasn't picking up on them.

“Was there something wrong with the cottage? Were you unhappy at Hubbard's Point?”

“We
loved
it here,” Nell said, standing in the corner in her yellow sundress, the most dressed up she'd been in weeks, since coming here, with her arms folded tight across her chest.

“Then—?”

“A change in plans,” her father said. Then, as if he'd heard how clipped and rude he sounded, he leaned on his broom and said, “It's business.”

“It's crummy!” Nell chimed in.

“Nell . . .”

“It's so unfair! I want to stay. You go to Scotland, and I'll stay here. We paid for it, Dad.”

Her father threw a watered-down smile toward the real estate lady, who was looking half horrified, half starved for the gory details of the father-daughter showdown. “I don't think Mrs. Crosby would think that's such a great idea.”

“No, dear, it's probably not,” she said. “Besides, don't you want to go to Scotland with your daddy?”

“About as much as I want to have my eyes pecked out by seagulls,” Nell said under her breath.

“Scotland's lovely!” the lady said, in a way that Nell knew was designed to please her father. “All that heather, and the lochs and castles . . . and great bargains on plaid and tweed. And scotch . . .” she laughed, “for your father . . .”

“Dad,” Nell said, ignoring dumb Mrs. Crosby and her flirty ways. “We have a castle right here. I'm not going. I'm staying with Stevie.”

“Nell . . .”

“She'll let me! She'd love it! I could help her with her painting. I could tell her what kids like to read. She told me that I inspired her a
lot
for the story she was writing about the hummingbirds . . . we could do
tons
more things.”

“We're not going to bother Stevie about this.”

“Stevie Moore?” Mrs. Crosby asked, cocking her eyebrow in a funny way.

“She's our friend,” Nell said.

Mrs. Crosby seemed momentarily speechless. Nell's father just kept sweeping. And Nell knew she had to use this moment to escape, or she'd start to cry.

“I'm going out to say my goodbyes, Dad.”

“We're leaving at two. I want us to be on the road at two sharp. You got that, Nell?”

She just scrunched up her nose and nodded her head—he was her dad, but even if she had to do what he said, she didn't have to like it. Then she raced outside. She kicked her shoes off in the yard, savoring the feeling of hot tar under her bare feet.

The salt wind blew through her brown hair and stung her green eyes. As if in honor of her dark mood, the day was overcast, threatening rain. A storm was whipping up at sea, driving big waves into the beach. She stopped on the boardwalk, flung her arms out to the sides, and leaned into the easterly wind.

It held her up. Blowing so hard, no matter how steeply she leaned forward, it pushed her back. She swallowed the wind, tasting the sea. She looked up and down the beach, trying to memorize every inch. Gone were the bright umbrellas and beach blankets. A few diehards were huddled in beach chairs, trying to read as their book pages fluttered wildly. Some kids bodysurfed the waves—Nell recognized Billy McCabe and his friends, as well as Eliza and Annie. She scoured the group for Peggy—then realized that she was waiting for Nell at home.

Nell left the beach, heading for the marsh path. Just twenty yards from the beach, the wind dropped. It was protected here, quiet and warmer. Her bare feet squished through the marsh mud. The tide was up, the creek overflowing its banks. She peered into the murky water, saw blue crabs clinging to the spartina. Their claws flashed azure blue in the dim sunlight, as they danced and moved in the flowing water.

When she came to the plank bridge, she thought of her father. He built bridges for his living. He was taking her to Scotland, so he could build some over there. The whole world would be filled with her father's bridges, but if he didn't use them himself—to cross them and get to the people who loved him—then what use were they?

Nell balanced on the silvered wood, step by step, thinking of the people she wanted to see on the other side: Peggy, Stevie, her aunt. Her father would probably build a span across the Atlantic Ocean, if he could, to get away from everyone.

Running now, Nell got to Peggy's house and knocked on the door. Peggy's mother and Tara were waiting inside, both looking sad. Peggy was sitting on a stool at the counter, and she couldn't even turn her head to greet her friend. The women hugged Nell in a sort of huddle; she wished she could hide there and stay.

“We're going to miss you so much,” Peggy's mother said.

“I wish we could kidnap you and keep you here with us,” Tara said. “But my fiancé would probably get in trouble with his bosses at the FBI.”

“I wouldn't press charges,” Nell said hopefully.

The women laughed, kissed the top of her head. Then she turned to Peggy, whose eyes were red. Nell stared at her, and felt a huge weight in her stomach. Neither one of them could talk. Nell gestured to the door, and Peggy shrugged and followed. A quick glance at the kitchen clock told Nell it was one-fifteen. Forty-five minutes till doom-hour.

The girls climbed on the blue bicycle, with Peggy in front. She set off along the marsh road, then down the dead end behind the seawall. Blustery wind whipped their hair into their eyes and mouth, but Nell didn't care. It was warm and strong, a tropical system heading up from the Georgia barrier islands she loved so well; she swore she could smell mangroves, Spanish moss, wild ponies.

They pedaled along, and without being asked or told, Peggy pedaled up toward the Point. At high tide, the parking lot flooded with water from the boat basin and a patch of marshland, so they splashed through the salt water, scattering minnows as they went. Up the hill behind the tennis court, and then onto the Point.

When they got to Stevie's house, Peggy pulled over.

“How did you know this is where I wanted to come?” Nell asked.

“I'm your best friend,” Peggy said.

Nell nodded, the weight in her stomach even heavier. They headed up the hill, and when they got to the sign—it wasn't there! Nell saw a little hole in the ground, where the small post had gone. Maybe some kids had stolen it. She hurried up the hill, to knock on the door, but Stevie was right there, waiting—as she had been that first day, when Nell had come to call.

“Your sign's gone!” Nell said.

Stevie nodded. “I know. I took it down.”

“Took it down? How come?”

Stevie smiled. Her eyes looked serious, through her dark bangs, but the smile was slow and warm, and Nell felt it imprinted on her heart. “That would take a long time to explain,” Stevie said, “and I'd rather spend this time talking about you.”

“Where's Tilly?” Nell asked, looking around. But then she looked down and saw the cat right by Stevie's side—pressed lightly against her leg—as if she somehow knew that Stevie needed protecting today.

“Come on in,” Stevie said, and they all went into the living room. From here, they could see the beach, with the big storm waves rolling in. They were more like ocean breakers, not the calm little Long Island Sound waves Nell had known all summer. It was as if the weather knew her mood and was responding accordingly.

Nell and Peggy sat on the loveseat, and Stevie and Tilly sat in their wicker chair. Stevie had made sugar cookies, and they were on a flowered china plate on the table, but no one felt like eating them.

“Tara said we should kidnap Nell, and I think that's a good idea,” Peggy said, gulping tears.

“I had some thoughts along those same lines myself,” Stevie said, her eyes still warm and serious. “But I know . . .”

Nell blinked slowly, hanging on Stevie's words.

“I know her father knows what's best for her. And he has a good plan. And . . .”

“And what?” Nell asked, because she didn't believe the first part at all.

“And we'll both write her lots of letters—right, Peggy?”

Peggy nodded, red hair bobbing into her tearstained eyes. “My mom already got me some overseas airmail stamps. They're more expensive than the other kind. But she said she'd get me as many as I wanted.”

“Oh, I remember . . .” Stevie began, then bit her lip. She tried to brush whatever she'd been about to say away by focusing on Tilly, who sat on the chair arm beside her. “Tilly, Tilly—will you write to Nell too?”

“What do you remember?” Nell asked. She leaned forward, and Stevie must have seen that she needed to hear.

“I remember being just like this when your mother and aunt would leave at the end of the summer,” Stevie said. “We couldn't stand to go away from each other. Our goodbyes were endless. We'd say goodbye, and forget one thing we'd meant to say, and then our parents would have to drive us to each other's houses on the way out of Hubbard's Point, so we could say it.”

“Like what kind of things would you forget?”

“Like, ‘Remember when we rowed over to Rocky Neck for a picnic?' Or, ‘Don't forget how we convinced all the beach kids that the ice cream man was buying crabs for bait, and how all summer his line was filled with kids trying to sell him crabs and he couldn't figure out why!'”

“We should have tried that!” Peggy said, laughing and sniffling.

“My mom and aunt did that?”

Stevie nodded. “The three of us did—that first summer we met, when we were still young enough to get away with such things. The later summers, the things we wanted to say had more to do with boys.”

“Oh, like kissing at the movies, right?” Peggy asked.

“Yes, like that.”

“Kind of gross,” Peggy said.

Stevie just smiled a little sadly, as if she knew things they didn't. Nell shivered—as if the wind had turned cold, which it hadn't. She looked out the window, saw crows in the sumac on Stevie's hill.

“Are they—?”

“Ebby's family,” Stevie said. “I think he might think I'm his aunt or something. See? There he is—”

Nell pressed her face against the window. Sure enough, there was the young crow—smaller than the others, but just as glossy and proud. She thought of how important family was, so important that a baby crow would stay loyal to his adopted aunt.

“The one thing I want to tell you,” Stevie said.

Nell turned to look at her.

“Both of you,” Stevie continued, “is how much I wish I'd stayed in touch . . . with my dearest friends.”

“My mom and aunt?”

Stevie nodded. “We meant so much to each other. And we swore we'd never grow apart. But life gets so busy, and before you know it, you forget who you used to be, those summer days with your best, best friends . . . and you stop writing to each other.”

“Never,” Peggy swore passionately. “My mother and Tara never
stopped. . . .”

“They're smart, and they're lucky,” Stevie said.

Nell was silent, clenching her fists. She knew what it was like to stop. To love someone so much you'd spend every Thanksgiving and Christmas together, to call each other every Sunday, to remember birthdays and anniversaries—and then to just
stop
. “If I feel this way about my friends, you,” Nell said to Stevie and Peggy, her voice thick, “I can't imagine how I'd feel about a sister. How could a person just stop speaking to a sister?”

“I'd never stop speaking to Annie,” Peggy said.

Stevie just sat there, gazing at Nell with grave eyes. Nell knew that she knew this was about Aunt Maddie. She remembered the scene upstairs, weeks ago, when her father had carried her out in a weeping mess. She felt that way again, but she held the tears inside.

“I don't have any sisters either, Nell,” Stevie said. “But I asked my Aunt Aida about it.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she understands . . . because brothers and sisters can grow up being so close, the hurt is just that much stronger. So when it comes, the hurt, there's sometimes no other way out, except to hide from it.”

“But he's making me hide from it, too,” Nell said, feeling the tears spill over. “Hide from her, and now hide from you. I don't want to go to Scotland.”

“I know, honey,” Stevie said. She opened her arms, and Nell didn't even care that Peggy was right there watching her be a baby: she fell against Stevie and cried and cried. She cried for so long that she emptied herself out. She felt Tilly's whiskers tickling her face, and she felt Stevie's warm breath on her hair. She could have stayed there forever.

Finally, very gently, Stevie eased her right arm away, and reached for a portfolio—it reminded Nell of the ones her father sometimes carried his engineering drawings in. But this one was beautiful red leather, and small, just the size to fit under Nell's arm.