The Summer King (4 page)

“Little girl lost,” he said. “You look more like her now.”

“Don’t talk about her! I can’t stand it!”

Laurel’s voice broke.

His anger dissipated, and his tone took on a softer edge.

“Do you still blame me? It’s not my fault … We couldn’t have known—”

“I don’t want to talk about it! Leave me alone!”

She spoke harshly, to push him away, yet she didn’t go herself. It was as if she were caught there.

All his emotions simmered in his face: dismay, hurt, fury. Then he went cold. He leaned against his bike, took out a pack of cigarettes, and offered them to her.

“You know I don’t smoke. And I thought you quit.”

He shrugged, lit one for himself.

“People change,” he said, inhaling.

“You haven’t.”

His look was veiled behind the cloud of smoke. She knew she was being unfair. The first time they met, he was only five years old, while she and Honor were four. Nannaflor had brought the twins to the minister’s house so they could play with his son. When Ian pulled Honor’s hair and made her scream, Laurel thumped him so hard he ran off crying. That was their only encounter as children. Last year, the three met again as teenagers. Though Honor had shown little interest in the tall young man who arrived at the door, Laurel was immediately attracted. He made a joke about “losing his honor over Honor,” and challenged her to a duel. She couldn’t help but laugh.

And then there was the motorcycle. She had always wanted to ride one and when she told him so, he was quick to offer her a ride. They roared off into the Wicklow Mountains, through the Sally Gap, and over the bogs. He drove aggressively, swerving past cars and trucks, and leaning into the curves. The road was a gray streak, the landscape a green blur. Pressing against his back, her arms around him, she had loved the rush of wind and speed.

Then he took her clubbing in Dublin. She was surprised when he said he loved to dance, and more surprised that he was good. He moved like his bike, sleek and powerful.

The first time they kissed, she got a mild shock, like static electricity. He had felt it too. They both recoiled at the same time.

“Shall we try that again?” he said.

And then the fatal day. She was supposed to visit Powerscourt Gardens with Honor and her grandparents, but had canceled it at Ian’s request. He was test-driving the new Fireblade he hoped to buy, and wanted her to come with him. She couldn’t resist.

They were at the showroom when it struck her, like a great soft blow. She doubled over, clutched her stomach.

He moved to help her.

“What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“We’ve got to get back to Bray!”

“What?”

“Now!”

And when they arrived at her grandparents’ house and discovered the terrible news, he had tried to hold her and she had pushed him away. Lost in her own horror, oblivious to his anguished look, she had screamed hysterically.

“I should’ve been with
her
, not you!”

Now standing before him, faltering under the weight of those memories and the catastrophe that was her sister’s death, she repeated the words.

“I should’ve been with her, not you.”

She didn’t see him flinch, didn’t see the hurt that was swiftly smothered by rage. All she saw was the sharp intake of breath as he drew on his cigarette, and the deliberate aim of smoke in her direction.

A spark of her old self ignited.

“Do you enjoy being a jerk?”

He returned her gaze coolly.

“If I wasn’t bad, how else would the rest of you know you were good?”

Once again he drew on his cigarette, but before he could exhale she made her move.

Perhaps it was a burst of pent-up emotion, so many strong feelings held down for too long. Or maybe it was the old image of him bullying Honor. She didn’t intend to be violent, but her push was strong enough to knock him and the bike over. Turning to leave, she heard him coughing out smoke and swearing vociferously behind her.

In the hall, she found her grandparents with the minister.

“I’d like to go now,” she told them quietly.

He was gone by the time they came out, but she could hear the motorcycle howling in the distance. She felt a perverse surge of gratitude toward him. He had awakened something in her. She had arrived in Ireland with a purpose, a plan, though unsure and anxious about carrying it out. Now the fire had been kindled. She was ready to do what she had come here to do.

ater that day, Laurel set out for Bray Head. It was early evening, still bright and sunny with the long June hours. Though she could feel her jet lag slowing her down, she was too uneasy to rest.

The sea front was bustling with a summer festival. The air rang with a medley of musics from a carousel of golden horses, a folk group on the bandstand, and drummers on the boardwalk beating lambegs and bodhráns. Clowns on stilts strode through the crowds, while children with painted faces played chase below them. As the Ferris wheel twirled overhead, screams echoed downward like the cry of the seagulls.

Laurel walked along the promenade, a little dazed by the din. On her right, green lawns accommodated the festival rides and stalls. Behind them was a Victorian terrace of hotels, bed-and-breakfasts, and noisy pubs with canopies over open-air seating. On her left, beyond the wrought-iron balustrade and a stony strand, shone the Irish Sea. The tide was out. Ripples stirred the glassy surface that mirrored the silvery blue of the sky. Children paddled in the shallows or built castles in the wet sand by the water’s edge. But Laurel noticed little of this, for her attention rested on the small mountain ahead of her.

It rose up at the end of the boardwalk like a humpbacked giant tumbling into the sea. Though cloaked in heather and gorse, its uneven slopes showed bare patches of rock that shone white in the sunlight. On the summit stood a concrete cross.

Like a tombstone, she thought.

She had dreaded returning to this place. There were cruel reminders everywhere. Circling the peak were hang gliders soaring like giant butterflies. Were they the young men she and Honor had flirted with on the day of their picnic? The same shocked witnesses who had raised the alarm and reported what happened?

I saw her climbing onto the ledge. She was moving slowly, carefully, but then she lost her balance.

The winds were strong that day. Gusts were coming from every which way.

I heard her cry out, saw her waving her arms before she fell.

There are signs and warnings all over the Head, but people still take chances. They assume it’s safe because it’s only a hill, but it can be dangerous.

There was no one near her. No one to help her.

I saw her hit the water. It was awful. I’ll never forget it. A boat went out, but not soon enough.

By the time we got to her, it was too late. She was already gone.
Laurel’s feet dragged, as if reluctant to continue, but she forced herself onward. The iron railings along the promenade became a low stone wall where people sat, eating their ice creams. The boardwalk itself tapered away into a tarmac road that curved upward to the Head. She knew where she was going. There were passages in her twin’s journal that she knew by heart, and they were her guide.

There are lots of holly bushes up here. “The gentle tree” they call it. Hardly any berries, though. The birds eat them. The same birds that are doing all the cheeping and peeping, I bet. The air is thick and sweet. It’s like an earthy perfume, lush and green. I love being here with the sea and the sky and the mountain. It makes me feel part of something so much bigger than myself.

Laurel did not share Honor’s love of nature. The pungent leaf mold caught at her throat, making her cough. The dense press of greenery was suffocating. Twigs cracked underfoot like brittle bones, and gnarled roots kept tripping her. The wind made a mournful sound in the ragged branches of the Scots pine.

It wasn’t long before she discovered the tract of nettles that had attacked her sister. Though Laurel’s jeans protected her legs, the weeds stung her hands as she pushed her way through them. She didn’t stop to look for the dock leaves Honor had mentioned, but took some comfort from the shared experience. She imagined her twin forging ahead and yelping in panic as she tried to spot the hornets she thought were biting her.

The higher Laurel climbed, the harder it got. The brambles grew thicker, the briars thornier, and the path so steep her legs ached. She began to feel uneasy. A stray thought crossed her mind.
The mountain’s working against me.
Though she told herself not to be ridiculous, she kept looking behind her. The shadows seemed to deepen in the undergrowth. The air had grown chill.

Then someone burst out of the bushes and onto the path! She cringed instinctively, but the runner veered past her and up the hill. An athlete in shorts and sneakers, with red hair tied in a pony tail, he had barely even noticed her. She tried to laugh at herself, but she was shaking.

As Laurel approached the peak, she heard the hang gliders calling to each other high in the air. She hunched over in case they saw her. She didn’t want to meet them. They were not the people she was looking for.

Now the path brought her through a spinney of tangled trees. Many were shattered and blackened by lightning. With a pang, she found the one Honor had described as a witch pointing upward.

At last she came to the edge of the mountain where it sheered into the sea. White gulls wheeled in the air, screeching at each other. She could see the strand far below, the tiny people on the promenade, and the Ferris wheel twirling like a toy in the wind. But she was more interested in what lay only a few feet down. There a narrow shelf jutted out from the cliff, like a brow frowning over the rock face.

Laurel was overcome with the knowledge that this was where Honor had spent her last moments alive. She could see her twin sitting in the sun, journal on her lap, writing a story about meeting “them.” But what madness made her climb onto the ledge? If only Laurel had been there, she could have,
would have
stopped her.

On a sudden impulse, Laurel lowered herself over the cliff edge. Ignoring her own protests, as if driven against her will, she inched her away along the shelf, slowly, carefully. Her sister believed it led to a doorway. Was there an opening somewhere along the ridge? A high cave in the mountainside? Where she pressed against the rock face, the stone was surprisingly cold despite the sunshine. She could hear the sea crashing below her, but didn’t look down. Though she had a head for heights, she felt dizzy. What was she doing? This was crazy! A gust of wind blew around the corner. The sudden buffet nearly threw her off balance. She teetered on the edge of terror. A chilling thought slid into her mind. This is where Honor fell. Would she follow her? Was that why she had come here?

No.

As quickly as she had decided to do it, Laurel changed her mind. Battling a wave of despair, she retreated to the point where she had started. Only then did she discover, with a shock, that she was not alone.

He was carrying a load of dried sticks in his arms: a short, stout, red-faced man. His ginger hair sprouted out from all angles—curly locks that fell to his shoulders, bushy beard, and tufts that grew from his ears and nostrils. He was just under five feet, more stocky than plump. His woolen trousers were tucked into rubber boots and he wore a tatty vest over a grimy red shirt. A patched top hat was perched on his head. Something about him made her think of a red badger. The eyes, dark like two blackberries, squinted down at her.

“Ye shouldn’t be at that,” he said. His voice was gravelly. “Ye might fall, and then where would ye be?”

She felt a shiver of fear. Honor had made him sound cute and funny, yet this little man seemed neither. There was something vaguely unpleasant about him. She was struck by a terrifying suspicion. The gliders might not have seen him from the air. He could have crouched down. Did he push Honor? Would he push
her
?

He dropped the sticks and reached out his hand.