Revel (4 page)

I walked to the edge and peered down. Strands of seaweed undulated in water so clear I could see the rocks and sand at the bottom as if through a green glass lens. Tiny fish no bigger than my pinkie darted in and out of the shadows. Something made a gurgling sound beneath my feet and I could hear, very faintly, the sound of dripping.

Drip, drip, drip
.

The oddest notion came over me: that something had just climbed out of the water and was under the dock. Waiting and listening.

I backed away from the edge and bent, trying to peer through the dark spaces between the planks. A spurt of water suddenly shot up through one of the gaps, accompanied by a hissing noise.

I bolted up, grabbed my things and ran.

I was out of breath by the time I got to the top of the hill. My chest was tight and the familiar dry cough began.
Stupid asthma
. If I was going to run for any length of time, I had to use the inhaler beforehand. That’s what I did for gym. Unfortunately, getting scared out of my wits didn’t lend itself to taking proper preventive measures. Fumbling, I got out my inhaler and took two quick puffs. There was probably a perfectly normal explanation for the eerie noises beneath the dock. I just couldn’t think of one. So I tried to forget that peculiar hissing noise and the feeling that something had been peering up at me from the dark. As the ache in my lungs eased, I looked around.

Where the steps leading up from the dock stopped, it was only a few yards to a small, gravel-covered parking lot with a few dusty trucks and golf carts. Past this was the downtown area of Trespass, if that was what I should call it. A single paved road meandered away from the parking lot, lined on either side with small houses and shops with old-fashioned-looking glass-fronted displays. There was a hardware store, a coffee shop and a place called Flo’s Wave-n-Curl. At the
corner closest to me, a sign read
TRESPASS CHAMBER OF COMMERCE WELCOMES YOU
. A traffic sign on the other side of that warned
SPEED LIMIT 20 MPH
.

This wasn’t what I’d expected at all. Somehow the words
private island
made me think of luxurious homes and manicured lawns, people drinking martinis on their speedboats. This was more like a quaint, run-down fishing village. Sun bleached and sea washed, it smelled of balsam and something sweet I couldn’t pinpoint. The largest building I could see was on the corner, close to the parking area. It was a faded blue metal structure with a painted wooden sign that read
GUNN’S LOBSTER COMPANY—SINCE 1898
. That sign was painted with squiggly symbols and pitchforks, just like the dock. It was like some kind of weird graffiti.

I sat down on a wooden bench and propped my suitcase next to me. The lower half was soaked; it would probably smell like really bad sushi when it dried out. Thankfully, my backpack was dry. I opened it to check the contents and zipped it closed again.

I twisted on the bench and saw a small group gathered across the street. Six or seven people stood looking at me silently. One of them, a woman in a flowered apron, turned and whispered to a man beside her.

Okay. They were watching me like I was an animal escaped from a zoo. Maybe not a particularly dangerous one, but unapproachable. A deranged porcupine or something.

The thought was so strange I had the sudden urge to laugh. But the humor of it wore off as they kept watching me. It was
as if they were waiting for something to happen, and as the seconds passed it became more and more uncomfortable.

The door of the coffee shop swung open and a girl and a guy came across the parking lot.

They looked roughly my own age. The girl had shiny waves of espresso-brown hair and tanned legs beneath frayed denim shorts. She carried her willowy form very straight and reminded me of something exotic—an Egyptian statue, maybe. The boy beside her looked more ordinary, a freckled redhead with a tall, skinny frame.

“Hi,” I said.

The girl stopped a few feet away. She was tall, with striking features: high, wide cheekbones, a strongly angled jaw and a cleft in her chin. Her wide-set green eyes, heavily outlined and lashed, flicked over me. She bent and picked up a rock.

“This is private land,” she said in a low, quiet voice. “You’ll have to leave.”

“I’m … visiting someone,” I said uncertainly. “I’m Delia.” I pushed up my glasses on my nose and dragged a lock of hair behind my ear. “McGovern,” I finished in a dry whisper. The girl made no response, just fingered the rock in her hand as if trying to decide whether she should add it to some collection at home or fling it at my head. Suddenly I thought I’d rather be back in the leaky boat.

Neither of them spoke. Apparently they’d come to join the community stare and simply wanted a closer view.

“Who are
you
?” I said impatiently.

The girl frowned. “I’m Zuzu. There was no announcement about you.”

“Announcement?”

“Usually we’re told ahead of time if there’s going to be a newcomer. So we can prepare.”

“Zuzu, come off it, you’re scaring her,” said the gangly guy beside her, and smiled at me. Most of his face was nose, and what wasn’t nose was freckles and bright coppery brown eyes. “I’m Reilly.”

“Well, it’s true,” said the girl, frowning at him. To me she added, “We don’t get a whole lot of visitors. Well … any. It’s not allowed.”

It’s not allowed
. That was what Ben Deare had said too. I wished he hadn’t taken off like that; I suddenly felt like I needed backup here.

“What the heck is going on here?”

My head snapped around at the voice.

A woman approached with long, striding steps, kicking up gravel from the parking lot. She was tall with big shoulders and a low, heavy bosom that stressed the buttons of her sleeveless blouse. Gray hair fastened in a loose braid hung down over one shoulder. The look on her face as she caught sight of me became one of … I wasn’t quite sure what. Horror? Disbelief?

The woman stopped short. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” she said, staring at me.

Believe it or not, I recognized her instantly. Oh, not her face; the woman had dark eyebrows that contrasted with her stark gray hair, and square, raw-boned features. It was a stranger’s face. But that was my mother’s
voice
. A little ragged-sounding, maybe, but the rise and fall of it was familiar and unmistakable.

I was suddenly sure that this was my grandmother.

“Are you Marianne McGovern?” I said tentatively, and smiled. “I’m Delia. Helen’s daughter.” But I could tell she’d recognized the resemblance already.

The woman made no movement to come closer. “Holy Mary,” she whispered. She stared at me like I’d just been pulled out of a magician’s hat. “How did you
get
here?”

Okay, not exactly what I’d imagined. I walked forward, closing the gap between us by a few feet, and held my arms up. When she didn’t move, I let them drop.

My grandmother didn’t smile. Her breath came in short puffs through her open mouth, as if she’d been running. Some of the other people headed our way, and soon I faced a rough half circle of curious faces standing behind my grandmother. The women wore mostly plain skirts and blouses under aprons or flannel work shirts. The men, dressed in T-shirts and overalls, had stern features and weather-beaten skin, as if they worked hard in the elements. This included a tall young man with sun-streaked blond hair at the back of the group. I only noticed him because he stood a full head taller than any of the others.

A chubby, red-cheeked man at the front eyed me and asked my grandmother, “Well now, who’s this, Maisie?”

Maisie?
My grandmother hardly looked like a Maisie to me.

A red flush tinged my grandmother’s cheeks. “No one,” she answered deliberately. Her hard wintry-gray eyes shot back to me.

“Ben! You stupid old fool,” she hissed to Ben Deare, who’d appeared in the crowd and eased his way through. The old man’s Red Sox cap was off again, this time twisted between his hands.

“What have you done, bringing that girl here?” she asked, jerking her chin in my direction.

That girl?
“I asked him to bring me,” I said, my voice shaky. I felt like a bug pinned beneath a magnifying lens. It didn’t help that my grandmother was so imposing. She must have been almost six feet tall and had hefty upper arms. Not saggy old-lady arms either, but solid-looking and freckled.

I lowered my voice so the others couldn’t hear. “I wanted to come and see you. I thought if I came maybe you would talk to me and tell me …” My voice died away as I waited for my grandmother to come closer, to smile. To
say
something.

But she didn’t do any of those things.

The stupid smile was still stuck on my face, like something embarrassing that had dried there. “I’ve come a long way,” I whispered.

Marianne McGovern wasn’t looking at me. And wasn’t
listening. She just stared at the ground and shook her head. No. No. No. As if trying to block out my voice.

Now I understood. This woman wasn’t just shy or eccentric or “set in her ways,” as my mother had hinted. She didn’t want a granddaughter. Or at least, not me. I glanced around at the irregular semicircle of strangers. They were all looking at me.

A burning fullness began behind my eyes but I blinked hard to stop it.

No one was going to see me cry today.

“You can’t come around here,” Marianne McGovern said. She raised her head and looked around. “She’s not staying. It was a mistake,” she announced clearly, as if making a public service announcement.

She’s embarrassed
. The thought struck like a blow inside my chest. Marianne McGovern was worried about what her neighbors thought. What kind of godforsaken, ass-backward place
was
this?

I shifted my backpack on my shoulders. “I came here to—”

“You have to leave. Go back now,” she said harshly.

Okay. It was becoming obvious what the truth was. This old woman hadn’t been able to stand the fact that her daughter got knocked up at sixteen. She’d thrown her out like so much trash.

“You listen to me,” I said. Louder now. I didn’t really give a damn if everyone on the stupid island heard. And given the size of the place,
that
was entirely possible. “When my mother left here, she was—”

“A willful, selfish little brat,” said Marianne McGovern in a loud voice that overtook mine. “Just like
you
are, I s’pose.” She seemed to have gotten control of her breathing but smoothed down the fabric of her denim skirt in a nervous motion with red, chapped hands.

“That’s not true!” I cried. “She was wonderful. And a good mother. Something you obviously don’t know crap about.”

There was a disapproving murmur from someone in the back of the crowd.

And so much for unobtrusive
.

But my grandmother’s voice was deathly quiet. “Was?” she whispered.

“My mother died about six months ago,” I said quietly. I’d wondered if my mother had ever had any contact, contact that she’d kept secret from me. I guess she hadn’t. From the devastated look on her face, I knew my grandmother had known nothing about her daughter’s death.

“Helen.” My grandmother’s mouth twisted and it looked like she whispered something under her breath. But when she spoke again, her voice was a quiet monotone. “You have to go now, child. You don’t belong here.”

Even after the other stuff she’d said, the coldness of those words took me by surprise. And hurt.

“Fine,” I said at last. “Mr. Deare will take me back. Don’t worry. You’ll never see me again.”

Next to me Ben cleared his throat noisily. “Sorry, miss. We’re not going out again today.” He pointed out to the harbor. “Not in that.”

Out over the water a heavy mist had gathered. As I stared, it rolled toward the island, spreading over the boats and the pier like a blanket of gauzy wool. The sun, piercingly bright a moment ago, was blocked out, leaving only a pale fuzzy disc behind the fog.

“She’ll have to at least stay the night,” Ben said.

My grandmother heaved a sigh. Her shoulders dropped as if she were defeated by fatigue, or a burden too heavy to carry anymore.

“Girl’s a newcomer. We should let the mayor know,” said a man near the back holding a fishing pole. There were several nods of agreement.

“No need,” said my grandmother with a sharp glance around the gathered locals. “She’s leaving. Ben, I’ll expect you to take her back to Portland first thing in the morning.”

“All right, Maisie,” said Ben.

“Come on, then,” my grandmother said, waving a hand.

“Hold on there.” One of the island men spoke, a burly sunburned guy with his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. He scuffed his feet. “Maybe we
should
see what the mayor has to say about this.”

“That’s right. Those are the rules,” said the girl named Zuzu. She still wore that composed, faintly curious expression as she watched me. And she was still holding that rock.

“No. It’s time to get inside.” It was the tall guy at the back, the one who’d been so stern and silent up until now. “The mist is rising,” he said, jerking a nod. “You know the rules.
Everybody back to your own house,” he said. He gave me only a glancing look. “Let’s go. Miz McGovern will take care of her own business.”