The Perfect Summer (Hubbard's Point) (34 page)

Putting their hands together in the middle of the circle, Bay and Tara locked eyes. They had been together forever, as had their grandmothers before them. Now came Annie and Eliza, so excited but solemn, clasping hands beneath theirs, part of the unending and unbroken circle of Irish sisterhood.

“Thick and thin,” Tara said.

“Faugh a ballagh,”
Bay said, invoking the grannies' Gaelic battle cry.

“Fog-on-baylick,” Annie said, repeating slowly.

“What does it mean?” Eliza asked.

“‘Clear the way!' ” Tara translated.

“Because we're coming?” Annie said.

“Exactly,” Bay said, overwhelmed with love for her daughter and Eliza. “Because we're forces to be reckoned with.”

“The sisterhood,” Eliza said. “I've never had real sisters before!”

“None of us has,” Bay said, “except Annie.”

“Some sisters,” Tara said, “are truer than blood.”

“That's how it already seems to me,” Eliza said.

Annie nodded happily, looking around from Eliza to Tara and, finally, to her mother. “When Pegeen turns twelve, we'll have to induct her, too.”

“We'll be waiting for her,” Bay said, smiling back.

ONE SATURDAY MORNING, BAY WAS HANGING WASH
outside;
Eliza had slept over the night before, and Joe and Tara had taken all the kids mini-golfing at Pirate's Cove. The sunlight had burst forth, as Tara had promised. It warmed Bay's head and bare arms as she soaked it up, savoring the delight of late spring, slowly shaking out the wet clothes and pinning them to the line.

She felt almost like a flower herself, coming back to life after a long winter underground. The clothes felt cool to her fingertips; the wooden clothespins clacked as she fixed them to the line. All of her senses were wide awake. Nearly a year had passed since the day Sean disappeared; she had been hanging out wash that day, too. She had felt happy that day—or had she? She remembered loving the summer weather, trying to love her life.

But there had been so much she didn't know. So many secrets covered up with layers and layers of lies. Bay felt so much wiser now. She had spent this past winter healing, helping her children, promising herself to live with her eyes wide open from now on. And it was working, because she felt herself starting to feel joy.

She heard soft splashing in the inlet behind her house. She turned around, and there, coming through the marsh from out in the Sound, she saw a beautiful, classic dory moving through the reeds and the calm, still water.

Dropping the basket of clothes, she ran down to the water's edge, her bare feet sinking into the warm silty mud. Grabbing hold of the bow, she pulled the boat up onto the shore.

“Dan,” she said.

“I had to see you . . . I rowed over from the boatyard.”

“All that way?” she asked, scanning the sparkling horizon.

“I left early,” he said, pulling the oars into the boat, gazing into Bay's eyes. “May I come up for a minute?”

She nodded and he climbed out of the lovely boat. Bay touched her sides, feeling the smooth beauty of the wood, the superb fairing, the finished brightwork. Then she looked up at Dan: He wore jeans and a T-shirt, a sweater tied around his waist, and he looked rugged and tan, with blue eyes so incredibly vulnerable that Bay couldn't stand it.

“Why did you come?” she asked.

“How could I stay away?” he asked, stepping forward.

Bay inched back. Her heart was pounding, and her mouth was dry. The warm sun beat down on her head, and she felt her eyes fill with tears.

“Bay, what's wrong?” he asked.

“I never thought I'd make it through this winter,” she said.

“Neither did I.”

“The whole time, I've wanted to call you,” she said. “I've wanted to.”

“You have?” he asked, his eyes bright.

“So much! But we've been pulling together, just the four of us till now—well, five, with Tara. But getting ourselves back on solid ground.”

“Just like me with Eliza,” he said, nodding.

“And are you there?” she asked. “On solid ground?”

“I think so—better than we've ever been. She's doing so well, and I know a lot of it has been Annie. And you. She loves coming over here. I've wanted to join her.”

“I've wanted you to,” Bay said.

“But I didn't want to confuse the kids,” Danny said, taking a step closer. “Because I knew that once I got here . . . things would start to change.”

“I knew that, too,” Bay said, feeling the heat shimmer between them, rising from the earth and sparkling in the air. They took a step closer.

“I hope it's okay I'm here now,” he said. “Because I really couldn't wait any longer.”

“We've made it through a lot, Danny,” Bay said. “We made it through a very long winter.”

“We did,” Dan said, taking her into his arms.

He held her then, kissing her in the sun, with the summer in and around them, pulling them together. She felt herself unfolding, like a blade of green grass, as new and delicate as the ones springing out of the earth. And she felt Dan's kiss, like the sun, warming her and making her want to come to life again.

They held hands, and Bay found herself leading Dan down to the beach, onto the path up the hill and into the woods. About halfway to Little Beach, they took a right and headed into deeper trees, until they came to a clearing.

“This is where I put the swing,” Dan said, with delight and wonder, looking all around. Black walnut and oak trees grew in thick groves, but in the middle was a soft sandy rise covered with salt hay. Nestled into the grass was the weathered piece of driftwood, carved by the sea into a crescent moon.

Dan picked it up, running his hands over the wood, feeling the two rusted bolts and eyes, where he had tied the ropes to hang it. Looking overhead, he saw the two frayed rope ends, wafting in the breeze.

“It didn't last,” he said.

“It lasted many years,” Bay said. “The sun beats down, and the wind comes off the beach and marsh . . . it lasted many years. I'd swing on it every summer after you were gone, and think of you. And I brought Annie over here, when she was little . . . I'd ask her if she wanted to swing on the moon, and she'd know exactly where we were going. When the ropes broke, we were so sad.”

“Couldn't you have asked someone to fix them for you?”

Bay thought of Sean, of how she had asked him, how he had said, “Sure, I will. As soon as I finish . . .” whatever it was. When she didn't respond, Dan took a step forward and put his arms around her.

“I would have come,” he said. “If you had ever called me.”

Then he began to kiss her. He slid his arm behind her back, supporting her as he very slowly lowered her onto the sandy ground. He untied the sweater from around his waist and spread it out; she noticed the way he smoothed it down, and the way he gently eased her till she was lying back upon it.

Here in the clearing of the crescent moon, she felt his lips so tenderly kissing hers, his rough hands stroking her face, her hair, his face buried in the side of her neck. She tasted his skin, salty and warm with sweat and salt spray from his long row. His hands moved gently, but their surfaces were rough, and she moaned, liking the feel of the friction.

It all seemed new, in every way, as if it was the very first time for everything: making love outdoors, being touched with such hunger and tenderness, both at once, by the man she had always loved. She wanted to pay attention to every detail, so she would have this moment with her forever: the way the sun struck Danny's hair, and how the leaves threw dappled shadows on the ground, and how his mouth felt so hot on hers, and how engrossed and in love was the look in his eyes.

But then something happened, and Bay was separated from thought. Her senses took over, and she was taken by the sun, and their skin, by the hard and the wet, the slide of their bodies and the solidity of the ground, the heat in his kiss and the passion in hers, his strong arms holding her and the feeling that although making love to Dan Connolly was brand-new to her, it was also ancient and familiar, and something she had wanted for her whole life.

When it was over, they lay still in each other's arms, far from words. The sun moved above the branches, writing time on the sandy ground. Bay must have dozed, because she woke with a start, with Dan holding her.

“I'm right here,” he whispered, and Bay opened her eyes and knew that his words were true and always would be.

“So am I,” she said.

After a winter longer than this last season, than the last few months—years of winter, of feelings being frozen and buried inside herself—Bay felt the summer inside her skin.

Summer meant the garden. It meant roses, hollyhocks, larkspur, geraniums. It meant birds. It meant long days and starry nights. Summer was hot sand and blue water. It was the season of pleasure, of holding on to every joy and blessing for as long as possible, before letting it go, to welcome the next and the next.

They pulled each other up, brushing off sand and dry grass, feeling like teenagers, only better—teenagers were too young to know how swiftly moved the current, how powerful was the tide. When you found something worth keeping, you picked it up—because you never knew when the sea might rise and wash it away.

Dan pulled the driftwood moon from the sand, dusted it off, tucked it under his arm—to make it new again, she knew. To hang it in the sky for her. His movements were slow, the aftermath of their lovemaking, and when Bay took his hand, she felt it trembling. Or perhaps hers was. She wanted to tell him what she was thinking—that she loved him. That she always had.

But instead, she just looked up into his face, squinting in the bright sunlight, and felt grateful that he had come back. That after all this time her first love was here again. It was spring now, with all of summer still to come. There would be time to find the right words.

So they walked back through the path, past the turnoff to the Indian Grave and the one to Little Beach, back down the hill to the main beach, and along the sandy road to Bay's house.

The children had returned from playing mini golf. Tara and Joe sat on the porch, swinging back and forth on the glider. Billy and Pegeen were having a catch in the side yard, the thwack of the baseball hitting their gloves hard and rhythmic.

“Dad, I didn't know you were coming over!” Eliza called.

“Yep, I did. I had to.”

At his words, Bay blushed, but didn't react.

“It's a really pretty boat,” Annie said. “Did you make it?”

“I did,” Dan said.

“My father builds the best boats around,” Eliza said.

“It reminds me of the boat I made for Daddy,” Annie said. “My little green dory. The one where he hid the shell . . . and the letter.”

“The letter that saved my life,” Eliza said.

“I know,” Dan said. He reached into the boat and pulled out the oars—they were brightly varnished, gleaming in the sun. “It's supposed to remind you of that boat.”

“Why?” Annie asked, frowning, still not understanding.

“Because it's for you, Annie,” Dan said.

“Me?”

“Your father wanted you to have it.”

Bay held back tears as she watched her daughter's face. Annie's eyes widened with shock, then a dawning realization. “But I thought—” she said.

“Yes. I think your mom told you that he came to see me last summer, to talk to me about building you a boat just like your dory.”

“I know,” she whispered, her eyes flooding. “Mom told me. But I thought he died before that could happen.”

“No,” Dan said. “He told me exactly what he wanted. He brought me the model you'd made, to show me. He was very proud of it . . . and you, Annie.”

“He said that?” Annie asked.

Danny nodded, handing her the oars. “We talked about you a lot. He said you're wonderful and talented, and he wanted to make sure the boat I'd build you could live up to the model you'd made for him.”

“Thank you, Mr. Connolly,” Annie said, crying for a minute, hugging the oars to her chest.

“Can you take me for a row?” Eliza asked after a moment, bumping Annie gently on the arm.

Annie looked at her mother, to ask if it was okay. Bay still couldn't quite speak, but she also couldn't quite stop smiling. She nodded, and holding the bow steady on the sand, Danny helped the girls climb in.

Bay watched Annie, thinking of how brave people had to be, to accept the wonder of life—the gift of a new boat, the chance to be with friends on the water and forget the fears that had held them down before, the kiss of the sun, the fact that no one, not even your own father, was perfect, but knowing, somehow, that love was integral to it all, inherent in every moment.

And so, Bay took a step forward, into the clear water of the shallow cove, and helped Dan give the boat a gentle push. It floated like a stick on the current, hovering still for a moment, and then Annie got the oars settled into the oarlocks.

She dipped one oar into the water, and then the other. The dory weaved back and forth, with both girls laughing, with Tara and Joe calling encouragement from the porch, with Peggy and Billy looking on and razzing their big sister. Bay took Danny's hand; if the kids saw, that was okay with her.

Suddenly Annie got the rhythm, dipping both oars at once, pulling the handles into her chest . . . The boat began to move in a straight line, the water behind rippling in a V. And as she did, Bay could see that Dan had painted the boat's name on the transom—the same name Annie had put on her model boat, to remind her father who he should row home to:

ANNIE

“I'm doing it,” she called. “I've got it!”

“You do, Annie,” Bay called out. “You do.”

“Faugh a ballagh,”
Tara shouted the sisterhood's battle cry from the porch:
Clear the way . . .

Dan squeezed Bay's hand, and once again it was all she could do to keep from saying the words out loud: I love you. They were right there, in the air. They were shimmering like quince blossoms on a branch, like morning glories on a vine, just waiting to be picked for a beautiful bouquet.

But Bay McCabe was a gardener, and a mother, and a woman in love, and this year she had learned that there was a season for everything. Every single thing. There was time, plenty of time.