Siren's Storm (7 page)

Asia leaned over and whispered something into Mrs. Cuthbert’s ear—or maybe she didn’t. Gretchen didn’t see Asia’s lips move. But the old woman smiled slightly.

“Thank you, dear.” She glanced at Gretchen, but the claws had retracted from her eyes.

Wordlessly Asia took the mug and steered Gretchen—still tense from the expectation of a fight—away from the table.

When Gretchen looked back over her shoulder, she saw that Mrs. Cuthbert was gazing out the window. She was smiling faintly, her head swaying back and
forth slightly, as if she were bending with a breeze that no one else could feel.

Asia headed behind the counter.

“Are you going to toss that coffee? There’s nothing wrong with it,” Gretchen told her. “I just brewed it. And it’s still hot.” Bella’s was known for its coffee—delicious and always brewed to be melt-your-lips-off strong.

Asia nodded, smiling softly. “Yes, I know.”

“Then—?”

“I’m just going to stand here, count to sixty, and then bring her the same mug all over again. She’ll be happy with it this time.” Gretchen looked doubtful, but Asia gave her a confident smile and touched her on the arm. “You’ll see.”

Gretchen watched as Asia made her way to Mrs. Cuthbert’s table. The old woman turned away from the window to pick up the mug. She took a sip, then smiled up at Asia.

“Is Asia charming the cobras again?” Lisette asked as she reached behind the counter for a yellow squeeze bottle of mustard.

“It looks like it,” Gretchen admitted.

“That girl could charm the cute right out of a Cabbage Patch Kid.” Lisette rolled her eyes as she held the mustard aloft. “All right, keep your pants on,” she called to one of the guys at table four, who had just hollered that his burger was getting cold.

The bell behind Gretchen rang. “Table seven, order up,” Angel called.

Gretchen stifled a groan. Seven was Mrs. Cuthbert’s table. Gretchen half expected her to put up a fight about the quality of the sandwich, but Mrs. Cuthbert’s mood had clearly shifted. “Thank you, dear,” she said pleasantly as Gretchen set the platter on the table.

Surprised, Gretchen mumbled an awkward “you’re welcome” and retreated. Since Bella’s was half empty—it was three forty-five—Gretchen wiped down the countertops. Then she filled the paper napkin dispensers. Then she sorted cutlery. And when all of that was done, she went back to her sketch. She wanted to capture the interlocking spiderweb of wrinkles on Ms. Cuthbert’s neck. The way they danced as she ate was fascinating.…

“Beautiful.”

Gretchen started again. “I need to get a bell to put around your neck,” she told Asia, who was peering over her shoulder at the sketch.

Asia smiled. Her fingers traced the drawing lightly, the touch too delicate to smudge the work. She reached for the sketchbook, then hesitated. “May I?” She flipped through several sketches, studying each a moment, then moving on. Most people looked through her book with limited attention, like they were flipping though a magazine. But Asia really seemed to be studying each drawing. She came to a portrait and stopped. “I know this person, I think.”

“No.”

Asia’s eyebrows lifted, and Gretchen felt like a fool. She knew her voice had come out harsher than she’d
intended. “It’s just—this is a picture of someone.…” She couldn’t say it. A thousand emotions threatened to overwhelm her—rage, pain, love, fear.

“Someone …” Asia studied her face. “Gone.”

Gretchen nodded.

Asia let the words hang in the air. After a moment, Gretchen could almost feel them floating away. She inhaled.

Asia looked down at the sketch—at Tim’s grinning face. Gretchen studied the portrait of Tim, with the almost-too-long nose, the straight teeth, the shaggy hair. She’d drawn it at the beginning of last summer, before he’d had a chance to buzz his locks. Before he vanished.

“I do know him,” Asia said. Her voice was low, almost a murmur, like the babble of a brook running over rocks. Her finger traced the edge of the paper. “There was someone who looked like this, who came into the restaurant. But with a scar.” She traced a line from her temple to her cheekbone. “Here.”

“That’s Will.”
Asia met Will?
Gretchen shifted uncomfortably. “He’s—” There were many things that Gretchen could have said here, but she chose, “This picture is of his brother.”

Asia nodded. She didn’t ask any of the usual questions:
What happened? How did he die? Was he sick? Were they close? How did you know them?
She just sat with Gretchen. Normally Gretchen hated those questions. But, somehow, having them just sit there unasked was worse. Almost involuntarily: “It was an accident. Tim drowned last year.”

“You were there.” It wasn’t a question.

“No.” Gretchen’s voice wavered. “Will was, though.”

“What happened?”

“Nobody knows.”

Asia tilted her head, looking at Gretchen carefully.

“Will can’t remember. And the body was never found.”

Asia took a moment to digest this piece of information. “Sorrow,” she said.

It was such a strange thing to say.
Sorrow
. Yes, that was what she felt, in many different ways. Overwhelming sorrow.

With deliberate slowness, Asia turned to the next drawing.

“Do you like art?” Gretchen asked suddenly.

“Doesn’t everyone like art?” Asia asked.

“Not really.” Gretchen shrugged. “That is, a lot of people aren’t very interested in it. People our age, especially.” This was one of the reasons that she found it so hard to talk to the girls in her prep school in New York City. None of them was interested in the things she was interested in. Frankly, most of them didn’t seem interested in
anything
.

Asia seemed to absorb Gretchen’s comment for a moment. “True. I suppose not everyone likes all art. But everyone likes some kind of art—dance, music, movies …”

“I guess I meant visual art.”

Asia smiled, and Gretchen studied her face.
She is charming, that’s for sure
, Gretchen thought. It was more than just the fact that she had taken care of
Gretchen’s angry customer. There was something in her voice, in her fluid manner, that made people feel relaxed around her. For some reason, Gretchen felt as if she knew Asia. Yet there was something a little reserved about her. Gretchen felt a coldness radiating off her, like vapor from dry ice.

“Were you thinking of some particular visual art?” Asia asked.

“There’s an exhibit at the Miller,” Gretchen said. The Miller Gallery was the tiny local gallery that often showed surprisingly excellent work. It featured local artists, which—out here—meant world-renowned artists. The list of luminaries who had started their careers there was bright enough to light the eastern seaboard. “ ‘Gifts of the Sea,’ it’s called. It’s terrific. I went there the other day. You should check it out.”

“Perhaps I will,” Asia said. She passed by Gretchen on her way to take a plate from Angel, and her physical presence gave Gretchen a shiver.

There’s definitely something cold about her
, Gretchen decided.
Cold as the bottom of the sea
.

“Don’t eat the merchandise,” Will told Gretchen as she popped a blackberry into her mouth. Will shoved his finger into a pod and let the heavy beans fall into the aluminum bowl with a gentle
ping-ping-ping
. Shelled beans meant more money, just like washed mesclun greens versus straight from the field.
Prep work is for peons, like me
.

“I’m buying this,” Gretchen insisted as she took another blackberry from the stained paper crate. She grinned impishly. The dark juice had stained the edges of her teeth purple. A breeze ruffled her wild
dandelion hair, and for a moment Will could see the six-year-old Gretchen again.

“When was the last time you bought anything from this stand?” Will demanded.

“It’s not my fault that your father never lets us pay.” She picked up a large box of golden cherry tomatoes and placed it in a shallow cardboard tray next to the blackberries. “These are like candy,” she said as she popped one into her mouth.

“They’re my favorites.” The golden tomatoes grew fat and sweet, as if they’d soaked up the flavor of the sun. The heavy rain had caused a few to split, their sweetness calling the fruit flies to come feast. Will knew that they would have to sell them fast.

Gretchen leaned down and patted Guernsey, Will’s old black Lab, who was curled up in her usual spot beneath the wood table that held the cash register, fresh honey supplied by a local apiary, and stick candy. Guernsey lifted her dark eyes and sniffed Gretchen’s hand, then tucked her head back onto her foreleg and went back to drowsing.

“Sweet old thing,” Gretchen said.

Guernsey didn’t deny it.

Gravel crunched as a beat-up Ford rolled into the lot. It was late afternoon, and folks had been trickling in all day. Usually the farm stand was busy early—the caffeinated type A personalities liked to shop for freshly baked scones and fruit at seven in the morning. It would stay quiet until four-thirty, when the cocktail crowd started to appear, looking for something to serve alongside their artisanal cheeses and
imported crackers, and gourmet cooks would frown over arugula and thump cantaloupes.

But this was no epicure coming to inspect peaches. “Great,” Will said as long legs unfolded from the tiny silver car. “Another freeloader.”

“Hey!” Angus called as he loped over toward them. When he saw Gretchen, he ran a hand through his bushy brown hair. “Where have you people been hiding?”

“Angus!” Gretchen waved, and Angus’s face lit up like something that had just been plugged in. “You have to try one of these.”

Angus was about to protest, but she popped a cherry tomato into his mouth. “You’re doing tastings now?” Angus teased.

“Will never gives anything away for free, but these are mine,” Gretchen told him. “Have a blackberry.”

Angus opened his mouth and let her feed him again. He smiled at her as he chewed.

“We rinse off all the manure before we put the stuff out,” Will told him.

Gretchen rolled her eyes, but Angus looked a little unsure.

“Kidding,” Will told him. “We don’t rinse anything.”

“Wi-ill.”
Gretchen stretched his name to two syllables. It was her complaining voice. “Ignore him, Angus. Want more?” She held out the box of fat, glossy blackberries.

“Um, no thanks,” Angus told her. He hopped onto the wide wooden table and sat down. “Listen, I actually came over to invite you guys to a party.”

“Your mom is unbarring the gates?” Will asked.

“No way, dude. Not after what happened last year—my place is in lockdown until graduation. But Ansell’s having a thing. Next Friday.”

“On his beach?” Gretchen asked, and Angus nodded. “Sweet.”

Harry Ansell was rich. Seriously rich. But his parents did a lot for the town, so the regular Walfangers didn’t completely despise them. Will knew Harry and didn’t think he was a bad guy. Not the brightest, but not horrible.

“I’ll drive,” Gretchen volunteered, looking at Will.

“I’m not coming.”

“Yes, you are.”

Will shook his head and glanced over at Angus, who was watching the argument with amusement. Gretchen didn’t seem to understand that Will wasn’t like her. He couldn’t just go to parties and act happy all the time. Sometimes, being near people made him feel like he was going to break apart. Okay, sure, he had to work at the stand. His family needed him. But he didn’t have to go to a party and pretend to drink vile beer and endure everyone’s sympathetic looks and sad murmurs.

“You’re coming.”

“No.”

“Okay, I’m glad we’ve discussed this. I’ll pick you up at nine.”

“Forget it, Gretchen.”

Gretchen just smiled and took her tray of half-eaten blackberries, tomatoes, and lettuce. “Thanks for
the invite, Angus. See you! And remember, Will—nine on Friday.”

“Gretchen, I’m not—”

But she was sashaying away, singing at the top of her lungs. Her long Indian skirt swayed as she walked. Her hair hung halfway down her tan back, barely skimming the top of her lavender halter.

“She’s so freakin’ hot,” Angus said, half to himself. Then he sighed and turned back to Will. “Hey, dude, so I checked with my uncle.”

“Which uncle?”

“Barry.”

“Right.”

“The police chief. About the …” He dropped his voice to a dramatic whisper. “Dead body.” He stared at Will with wide brown eyes.

“And?”

“He wouldn’t tell me anything.”

Will snorted and went back to shelling beans.