Shining Sea (6 page)

FALSE FRONT

My bed. I’m in it.
How?
A thousand sharp needles prick the underside of my skin
.
Blankets falling away, head pounding, I sit up. Start to swing my legs over the side of the bed—

Then suddenly stop.

Voices. Voices just loud enough to echo slightly off the bricks of the tower out in the hall.

“Bo, you should go.” A voice like Bo’s only different. Deeper. But just as musical.

“No,
you
should go. You’re the one who can’t handle—”

“Save it—this isn’t about me. So she’s what’s got you revved, yeah? A girl who’s—”

“Like you said, this isn’t about you. It doesn’t concern you, J.”

“Oh, but it does. And if you were thinking straight, you’d be concerned too—”

“I don’t have to be. I’m not you, Jordan.”

“Obviously. Check it out—you’re shaking. Good thing I got here when I did.”

“Not a good thing. I don’t follow you everywhere, what the hell, J?”

There’s a long silence. I realize I’m holding my breath.

Then the voice that isn’t Bo’s, the low voice that makes me want to lie back down for some reason, to close my eyes, and surrender to sleep, says, “Will she remember?”

“No. Not most of it, not—no. Maybe. I don’t know!” Bo is clearly angry, but his voice is still beautiful.
A storm at sea.
“I’ve never done—this.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that.” The speaker pairs this comment with a derisive snort of laughter. “But you did—”

“Yes! I already told you. It was instinctive. Like being on autopilot.”

“That—is why I’m worried. You need to be
in control
.”

“I am in control.”

“Yeah, now maybe. What about the father?”

“What about him? It helped that she was basically in the beginning stage of hypothermia, if I hadn’t had her up against me— Hold on. Doesn’t that count as control? And what about now? She’s behind that door, alive. I’m standing in this hallway, with you. In control.”

“Bo, don’t you get it? If you’d fucked up this close to home—”

I don’t hear what comes next. I’m too busy examining my pants—I’m wearing
yoga
pants.

Earlier, I wasn’t.

I had jeans on earlier. I know I did. I was wearing jeans when—

When I fell from the cliff
.

I let out a small involuntary sound.

The speaker breaks off. My head snaps up. I stare at the door. A long moment passes.

Now all I hear is a soft ringing in my ears. They’ve gone. Bo, and whoever was out in the hall with him. Their conversation made no sense, but the questions racing through my mind are just as incomprehensible.

Had I really fallen? Had Bo actually caught me? And these pants—who dressed me?

Whoever it was, they must have undressed me first.

Frantically, I look around. Wet clothes hang from the top of the bathroom door, from the doorknob. An empty glass and a bowl with a spoon sit on the bedside table. I jump up—

Bad idea. Head swimming, I cautiously sit back down on the edge of the bed. My feet are stuffed into wooly socks, and I’m wearing three shirts. No underwear. No bra.

There’s a knock on the door. I slip back under the covers.

“Arion?” The door opens— Dad eases into the room. When he sees that I’m awake his shoulders seem to straighten. “How are you feeling, sweetie?”

“Fine.” And I am, as long as I don’t move. Ignoring the mug in Dad’s hand—not that he’ll let me do that for long—I make another attempt to get out of bed.

“Whoa, just a minute, young lady, you’re not going anywhere, not until you drink this.”

My head throbs, but I manage to roll my eyes. He can command a crew, but with his family, Dad’s usually a complete pushover. Love for him surges through me, and something catches in my throat as I imagine my body spinning through space.
How much does he know?

He hands me the hot mug and I lean back. “So, um, how did . . . I’m a little tired.” I look up at him hopefully.

His face pales as he concludes that I have no idea what happened—which is mostly true.

“Bo Summers showed up at the house, carrying you. You were soaking wet. He said the two of you had been horsing around, that you’d fallen into one of the tide pools.”

“How long have I been asleep?” I ask casually, wanting to erase the worry on his face.

He tries to make his voice equally casual. “About a day and a half.”

“
A day and a half?
I have to get down to school!” I have two tests today, but more importantly, I need to find out about Bo Summers. Mary must know—

“Ari.” Dad watches me carefully. “It’s Sunday.”

“Oh.” I relax against the pillows—then tense. I’d lost both Friday
and
Saturday night? Not like I had big plans, but—
scary
. Taking a sip of the broth, I try to calm down, try to hide just how freaked out I am. “Dad, this chicken broth is, like, gourmet. Did you put in lemons?”

“Glad you like it. And yes, it’s got lemons. But don’t think I’ll give you the recipe.”

“Way to go with the reverse psychology. Did you learn that from Mom?” He laughs, and I’m relieved, wanting things to get back to normal. But suddenly images assail me: churning water, oceanic eyes, immense white wings. Not the normal I’m looking for.

“Dad? Did you say a day and a half?” He nods, his smile vanishing. I force one of my own. “Who’s the stylist?” Like a game show hostess I sweep one hand down the length of my body.

“Oh, ah—I picked out your clothes.” He rearranges the empty dishes on the bedside table.

“Nice choices,” I say, waiting for the rest.

“The doctor was the one who actually dressed you.”

“Doctor?”

“Old Doc Watson. Local guy.”

I duck my head. Dad knows how much I hate hospitals. He hates them too. We’d spent entirely too much time at UCSF Medical Center with Lilah. “Thank you,” I whisper.

“And don’t worry. He kept things private. Used your top sheet here, kept you covered up. He said you were in the early stages of hypothermia, and Bo said that made sense, that you’d gotten cold, too cold. You had all the symptoms, you were talking some strange talk.”

“Can you touch your thumb to your pinkie?”
Now I remember where I’d heard those words before: scuba diving lessons. I was thirteen, then fourteen . . . I’d loved those classes. Lilah’s accident had changed my feelings, but the memories remain. Scuba safety. If you can’t touch your thumb to your little finger, you’re on the way to hypothermia. I shudder.

“This far north, the water can be deceptive,” Dad says. “Cool one day, frigid the next.”

Deceptive. Right.
Instinctively I keep quiet about the fact that I hadn’t seen any tidal pools, let alone fallen into one.

“Bo seems to know everything there is to know about hypothermia,” Dad says. “Impressive. Although I don’t know why he wasn’t worried about his own body temperature, kid only had on a bathing suit.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I offered to lend him some clothes, get him a towel. His only concern was for you. I got busy making soup and forgot all about the fact that he was wearing next to nothing. Guess his brother brought him something dry.”

“His brother?”

“His older brother stopped by. Twice. Very concerned about you. And Bo. Never met him before. He was here when Doc said you’d be okay. He seemed as relieved as I was. I’ve met their dad, of course. Nice guy. Smart as hell.”

So the other person in the hall had been Bo’s brother. That doesn’t help me understand their weird conversation any better. But does it really matter?
People die from hypothermia.
I shove the thought away. I’m fine. Only frustrated at not being able to remember the doctor, or how I got home. Bo, I remember. And the—the wings. They aren’t something I’ll forget, ever.

“I’ve never seen Bo at school, do you know if he goes to Blaine?” A chill runs through me despite the hot mug in my hand.
What kind of person can do what he did?

“Professor Summers homeschools his kids. Although I’m not sure how that works out. He travels a lot. His wife passed on soon after the birth of their youngest boy . . . I don’t know the details.”

“Oh. That’s sad.”

“It is.”

“Do the Summers use the cove next door? I think I saw Bo surfing over there.”

For just a second Dad’s face looks like it did the night he’d come home after seeing what was left of the
Lucky
. Then his expression clears and he says, “They live there.”

“They
live
there? You mean they live in the park too? But—that cove looks so wild.”

“Like I said, the professor travels quite a bit. Sometimes he takes his family with him, but yes, that’s their home. And it
is
wild. In fact, I don’t want you going over there.”

“What? Why not?”

Dad picks up the dishes and gazes out the south-facing window. “Summers Cove. That’s what folks have always called that stretch of land. Summers have owned it forever. But it doesn’t really belong to the family anymore. The government is taking over this end of the peninsula in the name of your favorite project, Rock Hook National Seashore.” I make a face.

“The state of Maine wants to make the national seashore part of Pine Park, over on the mainland. I’m not sure how that’ll fly; the Summers used to own that land as well. I believe the adjoining land still belongs to them, so they may still have some say. They’ve got a lease now at the Cove, which means they can live there as long as they want. Looks like they’re going to stay, though I don’t know why they’d want to, after—” He breaks off abruptly.

“After what?”

“Nothing. Forget it. Look, next summer their land will open to the public, just like this place. But for you”—Dad comes close to scowling—“Summers Cove is closed.”

“Dad, you can’t just—”

“I can. The professor’s a good man; don’t get me wrong. He created the Clean Ocean Zone, and that protects the waters all along the coast . . .” Dad’s train of thought seems to pull out of the station. “But I still don’t want you over there.”

I give a mumbled response that could be construed as a yes or a no, then watch Dad mentally slap his forehead as he remembers he’s talking to his teenage daughter.

“Arion.
If
you ever go over there, be careful, okay? And don’t go by yourself.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Rush.” I salute him.
Bo lives there. How dangerous can it be?

Balancing the dishes, Dad returns the salute. Then he picks up a pile of newspapers stacked on the overstuffed armchair I’d insisted we drag up here, an armchair being an essential factor of the getting-lost-in-a-good-book equation. The blanket from the living room hangs off one side.

“Dad?” I nod toward the chair. “Aren’t you a little old for babysitting?”

He stops in the doorway. “Aren’t you?” We both laugh, but his chuckle is off. Embarrassed. “I didn’t want to leave you by yourself, sweetie, I admit. I stood watch for a while. Sat here talking with Bo, actually, had a nice chat. Read the paper.”

Bo Summers,
in my room
.

“Front’s coming in.” Dad continues standing in the doorway, as if he has more to say but hasn’t decided if he wants to say it. Today’s talk is already the longest we’ve had in years.

Finally, he confesses, “Bo and I sat here for quite a while on Friday night. It got late. I started to doze off. I’d been up since four. At some point, when I nearly rolled out of the chair, he told me to go to bed.” Dad looks apologetic. “I was worn out. He said he’d stay, make sure you were all right.”

I try to imagine what it must be like for Dad, starting a new job, a new life, with a seventeen-year-old daughter in tow, worrying about his other daughter’s health, waiting for his wife. It must be hard, but he loves me, and love shows on his face as his words come faster now.

“He’s a responsible boy, bringing you home like that, making sure you were okay. Said he wanted to stay whether I slept in the chair or down at the house. I couldn’t say no—and I
tried
to. He said he wouldn’t dream of leaving. Kept saying something about this being his fault.”

His fault?
Goosebumps spring up along my arms.

“I didn’t let him stay in
here
, of course. You two barely know each other, is that right? He said he met you at the library.”

The library. He remembers. The odd conversation I
just
heard between him and his brother is already fading, but Bo remembers our humiliating non-meeting at the library. Great.

“So I told him to stay as long as he liked, and I put your dressing table chair out in the hall. He left for a bit yesterday, last night he came back, saying all the same things, insisting he wanted to stay, that he
had
to stay.” Dad looks impressed. Again. “Early this morning he was wide awake. Told me to go get some breakfast. So I did. And I made more broth. He stayed until I came back. Passed him on the stairs. You were alone for about one minute.

“He’s quite a guy. Actually thanked me for letting him sit in that cold hall all night long, on a straight-backed chair. You must have made quite an impression on him.” Dad gives me a little smile, then shuts the door.

Another shiver passes through me, a series of shivers. I need a hot bath.

Afterward, I examine my cowboy boots—still wet, probably ruined—then open the door to the hall. The antique ladder-back is still out there. The chair doesn’t exactly match the dressing table, but Mom had painted both with climbing vines that hid curling words, phrases like, “Know thyself,” and “Art fills the void,” and given me the two as a pair.

Trying to imagine the tall surfer sitting there, keeping watch while I slept, I sway just a little on my feet.
Two nights.

You could knock me over with a feather.

BEACH WALK

Carrying
Maine Lighthouses
under one arm,
I finally leave the bedroom, intending to take the big book of photographs down to the cottage. Compared to the companionable clang of hard-bottomed boots, my sneakers are nearly soundless on the metal stairway.

Nearly soundless
,
unlike Bo’s footsteps—and his brother’s—which, I realize now, had been
completely
soundless. I heard them talking in the hall but never heard them leave. Not like that’s important, but it feels like another hole in my memories. I’ve lost an entire weekend.

But once I’m outside, inhaling one balmy breath of salt air after another, I remember enough to know that all I want to do is forget Friday afternoon—when I’d been unable to catch my breath—forever. I just want to curl up on the couch, near Dad.

Only, when I get down to the cottage, I have an almost physical craving to stay outside. Sitting down on the landing, I lean against the front door and open the library book. On page fourteen, Rock Hook Lighthouse juts up into a stormy sky.

Rock Hook Light is 208 feet tall, almost as tall as the tallest lighthouse in the country, but that’s nothing. The Pharos, when it had existed in 330 BC, had stood 450 feet high.

Tourists destroyed the Pharos. They were referred to as invaders back then. Okay, so it was earthquakes, but tourists could have done it, if there’d been any around . . .

The book slides from my lap. Had I dozed off? I blink—

An image of enormous wings flares in front of my eyes like a flash from a camera.

Standing quickly, I nearly stumble as I start down the steps to Crescent Beach.

I’d vowed not to come down here, but it’s like I’m being pulled. Leaving the book behind, I tear off my sneakers and plunge one foot, then the other into the cool sand.

The relief is immediate.
This is where I belong.
The sound of the surf, the slightly feral smell of the sea, the ocean itself—although too close for comfort—all say,
You’re home.

Music became my life over the last year, but music isn’t something you can touch, not like the sand I scoop up now. Letting it fall through my fingers, a thousand aches seem to fall with it, leaking from a heart that music sutured but didn’t heal. The music brought flashes of joy, but this—the sun, the sea . . . this is what I love.

But—the water. It scares me to be so close to the water. And yet I feel like I
need
to be.

I begin humming a melody, a song I’ve been working on, and try to imagine that fear is something I can simply walk away from. Lifting my face to the sun, I walk south.

The waves slide up— 
Shh
 . . . spreading glassy transparency over the sand before slipping back to the sea. Gulls plummet from an almost piercing-blue sky, diving down into the dark water.

Soon, the giant black jetty is just up ahead. It sprawls from the bottom of the bluffs down to the water and into the waves, which . . . makes no sense at all.

The breakwater in front of Crescent Beach was built parallel to the beach in order to protect it, and to protect the bluff that the lighthouse stands on. This jetty is
perpendicular
to the beach. It’s basically a towering wall. A wall big enough to hide something behind.

Like, maybe, the fact that you aren’t the same as other people.

Even though I’m thinking about him, I startle as Bo appears at the top of the rocks. Still, I only hesitate for a second.

“Come down,” I call to him, beckoning with a hand that’s suddenly trembling.

He stands motionless, as if considering. Then all at once he’s climbing down the rocks, his movements like falling water. What would have cost me at least ten minutes and a twisted ankle takes him two seconds. Before I’ve even taken another breath, he’s standing next to me.

I’m not sure why, but I take a step back.

He gives a short laugh. “Smart. So why aren’t you smart enough to stay away from here?”

“What the—” I scowl. “Whatever. In case you’re interested, I came to thank you.”

“Oh, I’m interested. My brother, apparently, thinks I’m very interested. How much of our conversation did you hear?”

“How did you know—”

The sharp look he gives me now is enough to make me catch my breath. At the sound, a thin smile appears on his handsome face.

Confused, I simply glare at him. Then I stammer, “Enough. I heard enough to know that I have no idea what you were talking about.” And I don’t.

Impulsively, I shut my eyes, pretending Bo isn’t the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen. When I open them, I make sure to look
past
him, to the bluffs. If this is how the conversation is going to go, I’d better cut to the chase.

“Why did you lie about the tide pool?”

“Tide pool?”

His voice is all innocence, and so melodic—my eyes shift involuntarily back to his face.

“Y-you know what I mean; you said I ‘fell into a tide pool.’ You told me, and my dad.”

“Would you prefer he knew the truth? Because I can—”

“No!” Briefly I imagine what Dad would do if he knew I’d fallen from Rock Hook Cliff. “No, actually, now that I think it through.” Our eyes catch, and I try to look away, try to remember the questions that seemed so urgent just a minute ago, but I can’t do either.

Then he drops his gaze, and my head clears. Quickly I say, “But
I
would like to know the truth.”

“Oh, would you? Well. The truth is, you should go home.”

“Fine, I’ll go home. And you can go—”

“To hell?” Bo looks amused. “I probably will. If not for my sinful thoughts, then for my rude behavior.” With a lithe movement, he sits and begins cupping handfuls of sand—releasing the grains slowly over the tops of my feet. “You’re welcome.”

He sounds slightly chagrined. I look down at the top of his golden head, not sure what to think, but finally decide to sit down.

The sand on my right foot slips off.

“You should be more careful,” he says, covering my foot back up.

“Maybe if I knew exactly what I needed to be careful of . . .” I begin adding to the hill of sand.

“But that’s the problem, isn’t it? There’s nothing
exact
about building a sandcastle.”

The blond hairs on his forearms glint in the sunlight. He has long fingers, the hands of a musician. Remembering how he’d held me in his arms, warmth spreads through me. It’s embarrassing to be so physically drawn to him, someone I hardly know.

The three buttons at the neck of his shirt are undone, showing his collarbone, the hollow at the base of his throat. I examine his thick gold lashes. Lowered, they hide his eyes.

“There are no blueprints,” he says, shaping the tower that rests on my feet. “Nothing but constantly shifting sand—and imagination. Shovels should be banned, I think, because hands”—he smooths the base of the castle, his fingers brushing my ankle—“are far more articulate.”

The brief touch sends me drifting somehow, so that I have the sensation of floating . . . on my back . . . in a warm bath, or . . . or . . .

“Friday,” I say. The word is an unsteady thing. “When I fell. How did you catch me?”

“Water, of course, is the third ingredient.” He bends over my feet. “Sand, imagination, and water. Some people would put water first on the list.” He lifts his gaze until we’re eye to eye. “Not you.”

It feels like—I’m slipping into the sea. “How?” I demand faintly. “How did you do it?”

“How did I do
what
?” A hint of a smile plays on his lips.

I tear my gaze from his. “You know what—you just said it. You admitted you lied to my dad. So, how? How did you drop out of the sky and into the water just in time to save my life?”

In an instant Bo is on his feet. “I did
not
drop out of the sky.” His voice is rough with anger.

“You did—I saw you.”

His eyes are on fire. Blue flames, green, a shimmer of gold. “Go home, Arion.”

A thrill speeds through me. On his lips, my name is a song.

“I just wanted to say thanks—”

“You said it.” The three terse words cut through the salt air, and before the sound of them has time to fade, Bo disappears behind the black wall of the jetty.