Life Guards in the Hamptons (29 page)

“His grace?”

“The Duke of Royce. There is one, you know. Half-brother kinship to my own family. Of course they have been elevated to a dukedom by now, thank goodness. Or else my line might be forced to hold the world together.”

There was that smile again.

“He keeps his eye on all the comings and goings of both realms. We were both sorry about Thaddeus, Viscount Grantham, that is. We’d hoped to lure you to England as his bride.” He waved his hand in the air. “I know, two old men should know better than to plot others’ lives. What will be, will be. But to get back to your books, I found them delightful, exciting and mostly true to what I have seen.”

“I didn’t understand, at first. I thought I made everything up.”

“Oh, you did. You never went to Unity, never had a conversation with one of its people, not when you wrote your early works. You had—and have—a vivid
imagination that tapped into your burgeoning power, plus the atavistic memories we all carry in our subconscious of when the spheres shared a common world.”

I brushed at my eyes, to get rid of the dampness. “You cannot know how much your words mean to me. I feared I was a mere stenographer, scribbling down what others dictated.”

He patted my hand. “Never, my dear, you are an artist!”

Damn, I was turning into Peg. I used one of Grandma Eve’s linen napkins to wipe away my tears of pride and happiness and relief. “You know, I have read your books, too.”

“Mine? I have no books, my dear. I’ve never published my childish stories. Think how that would look to the academic world, a scholar penning silly fairy tales. They were merely teaching tools for my students, to open their minds to creativity and imagination. I never found one half as talented as you.”

Which kind of talent did he mean? I wondered, but this conversation was not about me. “You did not publish them under your name, no. But, you see, we have an amazing librarian here. She kept giving me books about mythological realms. I glanced at one called
A Bestiary of Fabulous Beings
. By an Everett James, and could not put it down. You, sir, happen to be James Everett Harmon.”

“Ah, vanity. All is vanity, no? I could not let my children molder away in some dank corner of the university library with the rest of my lecture notes.”

“You should claim them! Let them thrill other readers the way they thrilled me last night. Your books are truly brilliant, sir, and special. I could almost see the creatures through your eyes.”

“Ah, I have seen remarkable beings, haven’t I? Such colors, such sounds, such grace of movement—with scores of new species. There is a world of wonder, my dear, that we are fortunate to see, you and I.”

I didn’t know how lucky we were to face sea monsters, but yes, I felt blessed. Sometimes. “Of course I cannot see as much as you. I cannot go
there
.”

“But you can speak with those who come here.”

“Only when they speak to me.”

“I envy you.”

I envied him. I think. I had another grape. Or five.

He went on: “I had to put the marvels onto paper. I simply had to.”

“I understand how it is with the need to write, even if no one sees your work.”

“Exactly. If I had your talent with a brush, I might have tried to paint what I carried in my mind, still hiding the connection to a fusty old retired dean, of course.”

I didn’t tell him I used markers and the computer. “Yes, it’s hard to describe colors in words. Especially colors that change and vibrate and transmit feelings of joy and good will. I doubt any artist could capture all that.”

“Perhaps we should collaborate some day.”

“I would be honored, if we get through this situation.”

“A bit of a pother, isn’t it?”

“You tell me. I believe you have faced the serpent before.”

“But it is stronger, angrier. I never could send it back whence it came.”

“It’s been banished here, so it cannot return to Unity.”

“Ah, that makes sense. Yet it stayed quiescent for decades after I confronted it. Now?” He shrugged inside Lou’s shirt. “I cannot communicate with the Others as you can.”

“It’s the pictures. I try to draw a picture in my mind, and they can see it sometimes. I cannot speak their language either.”

“I doubt any of us can because it is so complicated and so much of it is telepathic. Although your young man tries.”

“Grant is not my anything. He does not even return my calls.”

“Oh, did you expect the telephone to work from the International space station? I doubt it works that way.”

“He’s in outer space?”

“Yes, but that is very hush-hush. We are trying to see if anyone—anything—has been tampering with the
ozone levels. And the lines of power, although not even the Russians know that part of his mission.”

Good grief, I’d be a space widow if we’d married. I’d live in a state of anxiety glued to the TV or waiting for the phone call from NASA. Or the mental message from who-knows-what kind of official. I could live with occasional jealousy. Not constant panic. “Does he ever miss an opportunity to put his life in danger?”

The professor laughed. “Not since I’ve known him, which is since he was first out of nappies. Not good husband material, eh?”

I shuddered at the thought.

“Ah, I wondered about the veterinarian.”

“We’re friends.”

“And somewhat more, by your blushes. That’s not what the busybodies at Royce had in mind for you.”

“He can see what I see. What you can see.”

“Dash it, I must have missed that memo. Excellent. I’ll be delighted to meet another of us.”

The way he spoke you’d think we were related, which appealed to me. Dr. Harmon was the grandfather I never had: wise, caring, encouraging. And accepting me for what I am. “There’s nothing romantic between Matt and me. We’ve never had a real date.”

He patted my hand. “What’s meant to be, will be.”

I wondered if he had a bit of Doc Lassiter’s genes, too. His touch, his voice, his smile all contributed to a feeling of well-being and confidence. I could handle Matt’s lady friends. I could handle a sea serpent.

No, I couldn’t.

“What’s meant was for you to survive to fight another day.”

He spoke with deep regret: “Yes, I suppose so.”

Before he could tell me about the assault on the
Nova Pride
, Grandma Eve brought in brewed tea and tiny croissants and small jars of her homemade jellies. “It’s not quite a proper English tea, but dinner is still an hour away and you need to keep eating small meals to regain your strength.”

When she left, he said, “Your grandmother is a fine woman, Miss Tate. You come from excellent stock.”

“Please call me Willow, or Willy.”

Now he was the one to brush away a tear. “I wish I had a granddaughter like you.”

Why did everyone cry around me? I was embarrassed for both of us, so I held out the platter. “Please, have a roll. They are still warm and Grandma Eve’s jams are the best you’ll find.”

He studied the handwritten labels on the jars. “Ah, rose hips. I haven’t had that since I was a lad. I don’t think I ever tasted beach plum jelly.”

While we ate—I needed to keep up my strength, too, didn’t I?—Dr. Harmon finally told his story.

He never knew why he went on the cruise ship, just that he had to go, kind of like my father’s presentiments. When first the dolphins— “Pink ones, Willy, with kaleidoscope eyes!”—forced the boat off course, and then a sudden storm cropped up, he realized why he’d bought a ticket to a place he never intended to see. He tried to warn the captain, who laughed and told him to put on his life jacket if he was so worried. He urged everyone near him to don theirs, too, which might have helped saved some lives.

Then came the wave. People screamed, panicked, nearly trampled each other in their efforts to escape. The crew couldn’t lower the life rafts fast enough. The professor could see the wave growing, could see the whirlpool eyes, the whitecap fangs, that abyss of its giant maw, but he could do nothing. Not until the thing got closer. Then he started to shout at it, some in words he’d heard in his trances, some in words Grant’s father had taught him ages ago, some in words from ancient texts.

He spoke in syllables and breaths and clicks I could not possibly understand, then translated: “Get thee hence, foul wyrm! Begone, I say, by the pact between the worlds. Begone or lose thy powers.”

This time the words did not work. Perhaps he’d forgotten a phrase or an intonation. Perhaps the monster
had nowhere to go back to, if it were forbidden Unity. The serpent came on, the boat tipped, and the professor found himself flung through the air, smashed into the sea, carried deep under the waves. He knew he could not survive. No mortal man could.

Yet suddenly those dolphins were beside him, beneath him, carrying him toward the surface, blowing bubbles into his face so that he could breathe. And then a giant hand lifted him. The hand of God, he thought, but I believed it to be M’ma, the serpent’s true foe.

“I must have cried out then, about wanting to go home to Royce. I wished to be buried there, amongst my ancestors. Instead I found myself in that cottage, alive, with the most amazing lantern beetles hovering nearby, warming me with tiny fires, drying my clothes, keeping the darkness at bay. Then I slept. I dreamt of dolphins and birds and fish, and birdfish or fishbirds. And a willow tree. I knew it must be you. I knew you would come.”

He pushed the last croissant in my direction. Tears filled his eyes as he looked at me, sad, fearful, yet resigned. “I knew the fight was not over.”

W
E LEFT THE PROFESSOR’S STORY full of dolphin life guards and freakish waves and some unknown Samaritan transporting him to Paumanok Harbor because he must have mentioned Royce in his delirium. Then he’d slept through any calls or searches, recovering from an ordeal no octogenarian should survive. Now he needed to be in seclusion to protect his fragile health.

Close enough.

All of it rang true, as far as it went. Even Uncle Henry could digest Grandma Eve’s amazing butternut squash ravioli in contentment. Everyone knew there was more to the story; most knew they’d never see what Dr. Harmon didn’t want to talk about.

I whispered to Matt beside me at the table that I’d tell him later, though I was still guessing about a lot: that M’ma and his minions had come to the aid of the dear old friend who visited Unity in a trance state. Or perhaps they helped total strangers because they felt responsible for inflicting the monster on us. Now I doubted M’ma remained in our world; he would have vanquished the serpent for us.

Whatever the reason, the results were incomprehensible to ordinary, normal people. Telling the average citizen or the news-hungry reporters the truth would be like telling them the water molecules separated out breathable oxygen, or the grains of sand decided to build themselves a skateboard ramp, right under an ocean liner. Dolphins
were known to help people since the earliest times, so people could accept that. Not even Matt’s imminent expert could disprove their capabilities, because she’d never get to see the so-called new breed, much less experiment on them. So she’d leave.

Which thought was as sweet as the homemade peach ice cream Grandma Eve served for dessert.

During the meal, no one dwelled on the danger we all knew loomed on the horizon or in the ocean depths. We spoke about the immediate future instead. My grandmother had already put a call in to her niece, Lily, Rosehill’s housekeeper. Lily said she’d be thrilled to have a gentleman at Rosehill to care for again—a real gentleman, not the Hollywood moguls and dot-com millionaires who’d been renting the place. Besides, looking after a retired scholar had to be easier than chasing after her young granddaughter and infant grandson. She loved her daughter’s children, of course; she’d be in Paumanok Harbor tomorrow, Sunday.

Lou had called England, and the grateful people at the Royce Institute instantly named Dr. Harmon liaison adviser at the new facility, with a lifetime residency if he wished to stay, and a more generous pension. Both the professor and Paumanok Harbor were that valuable to them. Lou did say they were hoping Dr. Harmon would agree to remain until the current crisis had been resolved.

Since the professor had absolutely no intention of getting on a boat or a plane any time soon, and since he’d received such a warm welcome, to say nothing of my grandmother’s cooking, Rosehill’s wine cellar, and ideas for our new collaboration, he allowed as how he’d be pleased to stay, and to be of service to his new friends.

Lou raised his glass of wine in a toast, and we all drank to Dr. Harmon’s health and longevity. He turned pink with pleasure.

The chief had called off the search, to the whole East End’s relief, and joy that the survival rate was one hundred percent. More, if you counted the five dogs. Less if you counted the lost parrot no one claimed. The papers
and online news feeds and TV still carried pictures of the ship, with tugs and barges and floats all around it, waiting for the right tide. They mentioned that no one had seen any new dolphins or the rare bird, which was yesterday’s news. Some senator’s mistress turned out to be a transvestite, and another celebrity couple’s marriage ended in a knockdown brawl on a red carpet, so the public’s interest focused elsewhere. After all, the Hamptons had no celebrities to speak of in the off-season, so why bother?