Beach Girls (26 page)

“This is for you,” Stevie said, handing it to her.

Nell blinked away tears, untied the red grosgrain ribbons that held the case together. It fell open—and inside were loose pages that looked just like pages from one of the many books of Stevie's that had gotten her through the summer's sleepless nights.

“What is it?” Peggy asked.

“It's
Red Nectar
,” Nell whispered. “Stevie's hummingbird book—right?”

“That's right,” Stevie said. “These are the first set of page proofs. I wanted you to have them.”

Nell saw beautiful, bright paintings of the pair of hummingbirds outside at Hubbard's Point, with the beach curving in the background and the blue cove and swimming raft . . . and on another page, another pair—feeding at the red flowers growing up the crumbling walls of Aunt Aida's castle.

Breathless, she turned the pages, seeing the birds flying high over the world, migrating across oceans. And then coming back to Black Hall . . . she saw that Stevie had shown the hummingbirds flying above two girls on a blue bicycle-built-for-two—one with brown hair and one with red.

“Me and Peggy!” Nell exclaimed, and Peggy gasped.

And then there were pictures of the castle, the pair returning from their migration to see Aunt Aida painting another canvas of the beach and sea . . . the vine growing up the gray stones, brilliant with red trumpet flowers . . . with Nell's father standing at the top of the tower with Nell, and with his brass scope.

“It's all of us!” Nell said. “Except you . . . where are you, Stevie?”

“Oh,” she said, “I'm watching over you, painting what I see.”

“Look, Nell,” Peggy said, picking up a page without pictures that had fluttered to the floor. “It's the dedication!”

Nell read it out loud: “To Nell, who has the heart of a hummingbird.”

She clasped the book to her chest and couldn't speak. The heart of a hummingbird . . . those beautiful, strong, brave birds that flew so high and far . . . She wanted to say thank you, she wanted to ask Stevie why she'd picked her to dedicate the book to. She had a million questions, but they all just jumbled together. Suddenly Tilly heard something alarming, because she sprang off the chair and hid under the loveseat.

A knock sounded at the door. Just then Nell looked at Stevie's watch, and saw that it was after two. With Stevie's hand on her shoulder, they all walked into the kitchen.

Nell's father stood at the door.

“How did you know I'd be here?” she asked.

“Because I knew you were saying your goodbyes.”

“Can you come in?” Stevie asked, through the screen door. Nell saw something cross her eyes that reminded her of the wind outside—warm, salty, troubled. But her father, of course, just shook his head.

“We'd better get going.”

“He hates goodbyes,” Nell explained.

“I've noticed that,” Stevie said softly.

There were hugs that Nell would never forget. She held and rocked Peggy as if they were dancing. Peggy went on, almost blabbering, about writing every day, and Nell said the same things back to her. Then, Stevie. Nell reached up her arms, and Stevie bent down for a hug. It went on and on, and Nell didn't want it to end. She felt a lump in her throat, and she knew she would have it forever. Her cheeks were wet with tears—so were Stevie's.

“Thank you for the book,” Nell said.

“You're welcome. Thank you for
everything
. All the inspiration.”

“I inspired you?”

“More than you'll ever know.”

“If you talk to Aunt Maddie,” Nell said, “tell her about the book, okay? I want her to know.”

“I will. I promise . . .”

“Say bye to Aunt Aida.”

“Of course I will.”

“I don't want to go,” Nell said, clinging to Stevie's hand. She thought that if she held on hard enough, maybe Stevie would somehow keep her from going . . . would keep them both from leaving. . . .

Stevie crouched down till she was eye-level with Nell. Stevie's dark eyes were violet, calm, deep, full of such kindness and love that Nell felt a shiver from the top of her head down to her toes, at the idea of ever leaving her.

“Nell,” Stevie said. “You . . . well . . . you
have
to go.”

“No,” Nell whispered. Couldn't Stevie at least pretend to fight to hold on to her, to show her father how much she didn't want them to go?

“It's a mission,” Stevie whispered.

“A what?”

“A mission . . . you have important work to do. For the beach girls.”

“For the beach girls . . . What kind of work?” Nell asked, feeling her hair tingle again, as if a breeze had just swept through the kitchen.

“Well, you have to check out the beaches in Scotland. To see what they're like.”

“I already know they're not
half
as good as Hubbard's Point.”

“Well, I can understand why you'd think that—but they might be. They could be even better.”

“I know they won't be,” Nell whispered hotly.

“Maybe ‘better' isn't the point. Maybe you could just look them over, and report back on what you see.”

“Like what?”

“Well, the different kinds of shells you find there. And whether the sand is white, or pink . . . whether it's smooth or rocky . . . whether the seaweed is the same as here . . .” Nell closed her eyes, picturing the springy brown weed of Hubbard's Point rock pools, the long tendrils of kelp that lay in heaps along the beach's tide line after storms, the delicate, lettuce-y green weed to which tiny, almost microscopic periwinkles attached themselves. She felt her insides melt with grief, just at the thought of leaving Hubbard's Point seaweed. . . .

“What the sea glass is like,” Peggy added. “Whether the beaches have boardwalks, movies, crabbing places—right, Stevie?”

“Right,” Stevie said. “Those are exactly the kinds of things we need to know.”

“But why?” Nell heard herself ask, opening her eyes.

“Because maybe we'll go visit her in Scotland, right, Stevie?” Peggy asked, tears spilling over.

Nell saw the look in Stevie's eyes as she glanced up at Nell's father. Nell knew that parental code all too well—adults never wanted to get kids' hopes up or make promises they couldn't keep.

“Well,” Stevie said, “I don't know about that, exactly. But whether we go or not isn't even the point. We just want to know, Nell. We want to know about the way the sand feels under your bare tootsies . . . and how salty the water tastes when you go swimming . . . and what the sunsets look like reflected in the bays . . . and how bright the stars burn over the sea—because we're beach girls. That's all. That's the only reason.”

“It's a good reason,” Peggy whispered.

“It's time to go now,” Stevie said, squeezing Nell's hand a little tighter. Nell saw the tears rolling down Stevie's face, and suddenly she knew that Stevie had just made up the whole beach girl assignment—to make her feel better about leaving. Her feelings bucked inside her. She didn't know how she would live through this.

Her father had been standing outside the door. She thought he was just waiting for her, watching her say her goodbyes, but when she turned around, she saw that he was staring at Stevie. The look in her father's eyes was intense and mysterious, and it sent a fast, furious shiver down Nell's spine—she didn't know why. She hadn't seen him look at anyone like that before—maybe not even her mother. Or maybe she'd just been too young to notice. Or too happy and secure. But seeing his eyes do that for Stevie felt like magic, wildly filled with home. Those eyes were lightning bolts—and they told Nell he didn't want to go.

“I notice you took your sign down,” her father said, the look in his eyes sharper than ever.

“I did,” she said.

“What made you do that?”

She didn't reply. Nell grabbed Peggy's hand. They stepped aside, by the stove, holding on and never wanting to let go.

“Wish, wish,” Nell whispered. “Wish that Stevie can bring us back, me and my father, from wherever he has to go. . . .”

“I'm wishing,” Peggy said, her eyes closed tight.

“Me too,” Nell said, feeling the magic of the summer and the hummingbirds and the beach girls swirl like gold dust, straight into her heart.

Then the screen door opened, and Nell felt her father's hand touch her head. Stevie was pushing her out the door, portfolio in hand. Nell heard Peggy crying softly, and she heard her father whispering, “Come on, Nell.”

And then she heard something quiet and fast—two people kissing over her head. And then she heard her father say again, softly, “Come on, Nell.”

And then no one could speak, not even to say just one more goodbye.

And Nell and her father went to Scotland.

Chapter 23

STEVIE TRIED TO PAINT. SHE TRIED TO
garden. Neither seemed quite possible. It was mid-August, her favorite time of year, but she hardly noticed. She no longer got up before dawn. She found herself staying in bed as long as she could, pulling the covers over her head to block the light and stay asleep—to help the days along, so they wouldn't feel so interminable. Paradoxically, she felt very tired—for, although she never seemed to fall into a deep sleep, she also never quite felt that she was all the way awake.

“It's called depression, darling,” Aunt Aida said to her on the telephone one day when Stevie had called to apologize for forgetting a meeting that her aunt had wanted her to attend with the lawyer, regarding the setting up of a foundation board.

“Really?” Stevie asked. “I've never been depressed before. I'm not the depressed type!”

“Be that as it may. What you are describing is classic. It's exactly what I felt after Van died.”

“I'm okay,” Stevie said.

“Darling, you're an artist, and an Irish artist at that. There's a certain amount of pain that comes with
that
territory, and once you throw love into the mix, forget it!”

“Love?”

“Let's not fool each other, shall we? We've been through too much together, dear girl. Jack and Nell. They're gone, and you're grieving.”

“I'm also thinking about my whole life, all the mistakes I've made,” Stevie said, her eyes flooding, “that led me to this point. Henry used to say I was a siren called Lulu, wrecking men's boats, wrecking my own. Aunt Aida, I really wanted this one to stay afloat,” she said, choking on a held-back sob.

“I know, Stevie,” her aunt said.

Stevie closed her eyes. Sunlight blazed on the bay's surface, filling the beach with pure white light. She couldn't look.

“You're having what Saint John of the Cross would call ‘a dark night of the soul,'” Aunt Aida said. “Follow it through, darling. Try to abide with the feelings, and know that you're being shown something you've never seen before. Have faith that morning will come.”

Stevie swayed as waves of despair washed over her. A dark night . . . on such a beautiful summer day. She loved and trusted her aunt too much to dispute anything she said. But she could hardly believe that the feelings would pass. Summer's colors seemed dim, gray, as they had when she went color-blind after her mother's death. She felt that at last, after so many illusory paths, she had found lasting love, happiness right on her doorstep . . . and that now it was gone forever.

Aunt Aida said a blessing in Gaelic, and then Stevie hung up and lay back down. Tilly lay on the bed beside her, stretched out against Stevie's right leg. Stevie petted her gently. She had had the cat for so long—truly, Tilly had been with her through it all. Stevie thought about what her aunt had said . . . to abide with the feelings. She looked across the room at her easel—and the blank paper. She knew she should work, but she couldn't. Her heart hurt so much.

She had received six postcards from Nell—one of Inverness Castle, on which she'd written, “The castle's nice, but not half as magical as Aunt Aida's!”—and one of Loch Ness. The rest had been from the Orkney Islands, where her father had taken her on business, and Nell's messages had duly reported on the sand, seaweed, and shells.

Last week she had received a note from Jack.

“We're settling in—sort of,” he wrote. “How are things with Aida, and setting up the foundation? I've jumped right into the job—designing bridges to connect refineries to other outposts in the Orkneys, mainly occupied by people involved in North Sea oil development. Nell let me know how she feels about it by cutting a picture out of the paper of ducks killed in an oil spill—in the town to be served by my first bridge. The poor birds were covered in black crude, and Nell drew a balloon over their heads with the words, ‘Stevie, write your next book about how oil kills ducks!' Nine years old, and she's already an activist. I know she misses you.”

She had first focused on the photo—which he had enclosed in the letter. She had seen all too many pictures like this—waterfowl tarred by spilled oil, unable to fly or escape, sometimes held down in the water until they drowned. When she was a child, such pictures had made her sad—now they made her angry.

During other difficult periods of her life, she had used her work to get through. Each of her divorces had been so painful, and she'd survived each by doing another book—and by falling in love again. Even the breakups had been charged with a sort of raw energy—that had driven her to her easel. She hadn't succumbed to depression then—so why should she now?

Outside the window, the brilliant light of Hubbard's Point seemed to explode. It bounced off the water and white sand. The flowers in the backyard absorbed the light, gave it back. The light of Hubbard's Point was rare, incredible—especially from Stevie's house on the hill. It was as if her parents had chosen this location with the knowledge that their daughter would become an artist.

Through all her summers here, the wild light had inspired her to go forward—but today she turned away from it, her back to the window. The darkness inside was weighing her down, and she couldn't fight it—even the brilliant sunshine couldn't penetrate.

When the phone rang, Stevie almost didn't answer it. Who could it be, that she would want to talk to? Tilly just lay there, inert and uninterested. Stevie listened to the ringing—five times, six—and then she reached over to pick up.

“Hello?” she said.

She swore she heard the whole Atlantic Ocean passing over the line, announcing the caller's great distance . . . a time lag, and then a madly exuberant voice: “Stevie! It's
me
!”

“Nell!” Stevie said, sitting bolt upright.

“Did you get my postcards?”

“I did—I love them.”

“I've been on beach patrol . . . every chance I get, I make my dad drive me to a new one. There are lots of them here.”

“Well, Scotland has a lot of coastline,” Stevie said.

“Did you like what I reported, on the weird shells and the eelgrass?”

“Yes—excellent reporting, Ms. Kilvert.”

Nell giggled, and the sound was so tender and familiar, Stevie felt it in her ribs, her collarbones, her heart.

“The Isle of Harris is supposed to have pink sand and palm trees—we're going there soon. Not for business, but for a fun weekend,” Nell said, sounding so excited that Stevie actually felt her heart fall.
Come on—pull yourself together for her,
she told herself.

“My father's been working himself to death,” Nell continued. “He does nothing but toil at his drafting table! I have to remind him to eat. It's a nightmare.”

Stevie smiled at the expression, then asked, “And what about you? Have you seen your school yet? Met your teacher?”

“Uh-huh, Dad's going to have to travel all the time, so he found me a tutor. She's nice. Miss Robertson. I showed her your book.”

“You did?”

“She saw the dedication and said that you and I must be really good friends.”

“We are,” Stevie said. “Maybe you can tell her about the real-life
hummingbirds. . . .”

“I will,” Nell said. “I miss you.”

“Oh, I miss you, too, Nell.”

They were silent for a few seconds. Stevie wondered whether Jack was standing there.

“I wish I were back there, at Hubbard's Point,” Nell said.

“The beach will always be here, Nell. Whenever you come back,” Stevie said, welling up with tears.

“I know,” Nell said.

“Keep up the beach girl reports,” Stevie said. “They're really great.”

“I will,” Nell said. “Are they really helping?”

“They really are,” Stevie assured her. Another long minute of silence stretched out, and then Nell said a soft goodbye and hung up.

Stevie lay back on her pillow, holding the phone. The dial tone rang in her ears. If she closed her eyes, she could almost see Nell: her green eyes, short brown hair, big smile. She could almost see Jack walking up the hill behind her, on the way to visit. She could almost hear their voices . . .

But it was just the dial tone. The strange thing about a phone call like the one she'd just had was that it made her loneliness even deeper. She thought of her aunt's words:
Abide with the feelings as long as you can.
It seemed almost unbearable.

Tilly lay motionless, lost in a dream. Closing her eyes, Stevie tried to hold on to the sound of Nell's voice, that she'd heard just a few minutes earlier, and the sound of Jack's, that she'd heard weeks before. But the voices were already gone. . . .

JACK WAS
swept up in the whirl of moving to a foreign country, getting Nell settled, and starting a new job. The relocation department at IR—the engineering firm was named for its founder, Ivan Romanov—had found Jack and Nell a house on the outskirts of Inverness, in the shadow of the Western Highlands. It was an old vicarage, built of river stone, dating back to the 1600s.

Nell's first impression had imprinted itself on his memory—she'd been overtired from the flight, hungry because she hadn't liked the food on the plane, sullen because she had set the alarm on her watch to beep at exactly three o'clock every day—the precise moment she had said goodbye to Stevie and Peggy—and it had just beeped.

They had climbed out of the airport taxi, stood on the sidewalk in front of the bleak, imposing gray manor. Although Georgian, elegant in design, something about it seemed institutional.

“What is this?” Nell asked quietly.

“It's our house,” he said.

They were met at the door by Ms. Dancy Diarmud, the IR relocation liaison. She was about thirty-five, very pretty, trim in a cherry red wool suit. Bright and friendly, she greeted them warmly.

“Welcome to Scotland,” she said, shaking hands. “Mr. Kilvert.”

“Jack,” he said. “And this is Nell.”

Dancy smiled, and led them through the first floor—a living room, dining room, parlor, chapel, kitchen, pantry, and what she called “the flower-arranging room—the vicar's wife often prepared the funeral arrangements.” Nell gave Jack a brooding look. Although numerous, the rooms were small, the ceilings low. There were front stairs, curving up from a narrow hall, and back stairs, proceeding up, steep and vertical, in what Dancy called “the stair closet,” from the kitchen.

She walked them through the bedrooms—six of them. There was a sameness to rental property, Jack thought. No matter how expensive looking the sofas or beds or paintings were, they had a soullessness to them—as if they were never meant to be lived with for long. They were like the one-night stands of furniture. He thought of Stevie's lived-in house, with so much of her present in every inch, and his chest hurt.

JACK GOT SETTLED
at work. IR had planned a series of cocktail parties, to introduce him to the other engineers and the clients—oil executives based in London, Moscow, and Houston.

The production schedule was intense—he had to visit the Orkney Islands, to see the sites where his bridges would be built—stone spans pleasing to the islanders, yet rugged enough to accommodate the refinery traffic currently handled by ferry boats. Luckily there was no shortage of extraordinary beaches for Nell to visit.

The chain of seventy islands stretched north from the northernmost point of mainland Scotland. A short flight from Inverness landed them on Ladapool, one of only seventeen inhabited islands. The landscape was wild and mystical, all sea and sky, with sites of ancient cairns and standing stones, reminding him of the Scottish trip he'd taken with his family, of how Madeleine had been so intrigued by the power and magic of standing stones.

Unfortunately, just around the corner from some of the most spectacular bays were Brooks Oil refineries, tankers waiting to offload—offshore at anchor, supply ships clogging docks, and parking lots lined with oil trucks. Jack couldn't help thinking of the photo Nell had cut out of the newspaper . . . and of the book she wanted Stevie to write about birds affected by the oil spills.

Nell came along on the trips. While Jack walked the road, talked with other engineers, viewed the site plans, she did her schoolwork with Miss Robertson. During free time, she scurried down the roadside to the beach—a long stretch of pebbly sand along a glassy-smooth protected cove. The shape reminded Jack of Hubbard's Point—a half-moon bay, embraced by headlands. He could almost see where the raft should be, the raft where he and Stevie had made love . . .

He forced his attention back to the other IR engineers while Nell collected shells. When she was finished, she came up to stand beside him—with eyes steady and grave.

“What's wrong?” he asked her when he had a break.

“Nothing,” she said.

“You look upset.”

“I'm just thinking,” she said. “Trying to memorize everything about the beach. So I can report to the beach girls.”

“Ahh,” Jack said. He reached into his pocket, gave her a small notepad and his fountain pen. He didn't have to tell her how precious the pen was—it had been his college graduation present from his sister.

“What're these for?” Nell asked.

“For taking notes. So you don't forget anything that you might want to tell the beach girls.”