Dark Water: A Siren Novel (2 page)

Of course, by the time we pulled off the highway, they didn’t have to. Not out loud anyway. Mom looked in the rearview mirror more than she did at the road, and Dad gave a bag of pretzels an extra coating of salt before propping it between the two front seats.

“I’m fine,” I said, as my pulse pounded in my ears. “Promise.”

This seemed to appease them until we neared the sailboat-shaped
WELCOME TO WINTER HARBOR
sign. That’s when Mom jerked the steering wheel to the left—and we took an unexpected detour bypassing Main Street and all the local businesses. I started to protest but then hesitated. Did I really want to sit in traffic and inch past Eddie’s Ice Cream? Which had
always been our first stop—and the official start of another wonderful family vacation?

Probably not. I let my parents have that one.

I took another water bottle from my backpack and focused on drinking. A few minutes later, the detour led to the same intersection we would’ve reached had we stayed on Main Street. Turning right would take us toward the mountains and down a long, winding road I knew so well I could drive it at night without headlights. I listened for the clicking signal, waited for the gentle pull west. Neither happened. We went straight instead.

As we drove, the straight, flat road began to incline. The houses grew farther apart, the trees closer together. I’d never been in this part of Winter Harbor; before I could decide whether that was a good or bad thing, the road ended. The car stopped. We all stared straight ahead.

“Is this a joke?” I asked, peering between the front seats.

“I don’t think so,” Mom said, after a pause. She handed the directions to Dad, rolled down her window, and pressed the button on a silver box next to her door. The tall gates, which featured iron mermaids with ornate tails rather than simple bars, swung open.

“Let’s give it a chance,” Dad said, then busied himself with folding and refolding the directions.

I wanted to take the stack of course descriptions, hold them in front of my face, block out everything I didn’t want to see. But I couldn’t. My eyes were glued to the faceless heads, the flowing hair, the intricate fins. I told myself that
these mermaids were decorative art, nothing more, but I still searched for something, anything familiar about them. As the gates closed behind us and we continued down the driveway, I even turned in my seat to watch them grow smaller. Or perhaps more accurately, to make
sure
they grew smaller.

The steep driveway curled through dense forest. About half a mile in, Mom, growing nervous, impatient, or a combination of both, hit the gas. The SUV shot up a small hill—and toward the edge of a cliff.

Dad and I reached for the grab handles above our doors. Mom gasped and slammed on the brake. The car skidded a few feet before rocking to a stop.

“A fence,” Mom said, exhaling. “We’ll just get a good, strong fence.”

She opened her door and hopped out. Dad slowly leaned forward, started to turn. Sensing a fresh wave of concern approaching, I opened my door and stepped down before it reached me.

“Jacqueline! So glad you could make it on such short notice.”

A woman strode down a wide stone path to our left. She wore white linen pants, a white caftan, and leather sandals. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail so tight, the corners of her blue eyes lifted. I must’ve been even more shaken by the iron shield of swimmers we’d passed through than I thought, because for a split second, she looked just like another woman I’d met last summer.

But that was impossible.

Wasn’t it?

“This must be your beautiful daughter.” The woman shook Mom’s hand and beamed at me. “The Ivy Leaguer. I’ve heard so much about you. Dartmouth, right?”

I forced a smile as I joined them. “Right.”

“You’re a parent’s dream come true.”

I looked down.

“Vanessa,” Mom said quickly, “this is Anne. Our realtor. And, Anne, yes, this is my beautiful daughter.”

“I’m the perfectly average-looking husband and father,” Dad said, shuffling up behind us. “And this is quite a place.”

“I told you. Didn’t I tell you?”

Anne took Mom by the elbow and led her down the path, rattling off details about bedrooms and bathrooms and energy-efficient construction. Dad followed close behind, hands in his pockets, eyes turned to the horizon on our right. I followed a few feet after him, keeping my cell phone in one hand in case someone turned around and I needed to look distracted. It wasn’t that I wasn’t curious; I just didn’t want to influence the decision any more than I already had.

“The house has never been lived in,” Anne said, as we neared the building. “The owner, an architect from Boston, designed it for his wife. It was supposed to be a gift for their tenth wedding anniversary, but then, just last week, the missus decided to celebrate early with one of the mister’s male coworkers. It’s awful the way these things happen, isn’t it?”

Under his red plaid shirt, Dad’s back muscles tensed. Mom’s head dropped as her hands shuffled through the papers she carried.

“Yes,” she said. “But happen they do.”

“Is that a pool?” I asked.

Anne, instantly recovered from her disappointment in the state of modern-day relationships, shot me a quick grin. “And hot tub. Wait till you see.”

She and Mom hurried inside the house. Dad paused by a tall, coral-shaped stone planter. I stood next to him.

“Thank you,” he said.

I nodded.

“It’s not quite what we’re used to, is it?” he asked, a moment later.

It took me a second to realize he referred to the house, which looked like a cluster of glass boxes connected by wooden hallways. There was no rickety front porch. Thanks to countless windows, I could see the backyard from the front yard, and there was no deck, either. Peeling paint, crumbling bricks, and dangling gutters were also missing.

“No,” I said. “But what is?”

I went inside. Mom’s and Anne’s voices echoed through the house from the right, so I headed left. I passed through the living room, dining room, and two bedrooms, all of which were decorated in various shades of taupe and still smelled like paint and sawdust. One particularly long hallway ended at a set of glass doors. I pushed through it into a third bedroom—and was nearly knocked over by a rush of wet, salty air. I automatically closed my eyes and inhaled, savoring the warmth as it traveled down my throat, soothed my aching body.

When I opened my eyes again, I saw water. As I stepped into the room, the slate blue horizon seemed to curve, wrap around me. I kept my gaze level as I walked to a second set of glass doors and out onto a stone patio.

And there it was. The ocean. So close I could feel the spray each time it lunged against the rocks on which the patio rested.

“We won’t do better than this.”

I jumped. Spun around. Mom stood in the open doorway, arms crossed over her chest, eyes aimed past me.

“The only way we’d get closer is on a houseboat … and no offense, sweetie, but my stomach simply can’t handle that way of life.”

Personally, I thought she was a trouper for trying to handle this one. Not many women would.

“Do you like it?” she asked, joining me on the patio.

A wave slammed into the rocks below. I rubbed the spray into my bare arms. “Yes. I don’t know if it’s really Dad’s thing, though.”

“Your father will be fine with whatever we decide.”

I knew this. I also knew why. If it were possible to assign blame to such a thing, my parents agreed it was his fault we were here.

Mom tilted her chin toward the water and breathed deeply. “I think someone else would’ve approved. The possibilities for unobstructed sunbathing are endless.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Justine would’ve loved it.”

We stood quietly for a minute. Then Mom put one arm
around my shoulders, pulled me close, and pressed her lips to the top of my head.

“I’ll go work out the details. Stay here as long as you’d like.”

When she was gone, I walked to the patio’s edge and surveyed the grounds. The pool and hot tub were off another patio about fifty feet south of this one. Bright green lawn filled the space in between. A stone stairway led from the yard down to a private beach.

Or, a nearly private beach. As I watched, a tall figure dragged a red rowboat across the sand. He had dark hair and wore jeans, a T-shirt … and glasses.

My heart thrust against my rib cage. My breath lodged in my throat. My feet moved, off the patio, down the rocks.

How did he know I was here? Did he find out from Paige? Had he stopped by the restaurant to ask? But how did he know
she’d
be there? Maybe he’d been checking in regularly, just in case?

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was here. He’d found me. And we’d be together on my first day in Winter Harbor, the way we always were.

I scrambled across the last rock, jumped into the sand.

“Simon!”

He stood up straight, started to turn. I quickened my pace, wondering what he’d do if I threw my arms around him the way every inch of them ached to.

“Hey.”

My heels dug into the ground. My smile vanished as his widened.

“It’s Colin, actually.” He released the boat, brushed his hands on his jeans, and held one toward me. “Anne’s son.”

I heard his words but they made no sense. Until I saw that he wore sunglasses, not eyeglasses. And that his hair was blond, not brown. And that the rowboat was really a kayak.

“My mom’s big on staging,” he said, noticing me notice the kayak. “Not that this place needs it. Have you ever gone?”

My eyes raised to his. “Gone?”

“Ocean kayaking?”

I shook my head, took a step back.

“Then you have to.” He stepped toward me. “Maybe we can go together sometime. I’d be happy to give you a lesson.”

I stopped. My legs trembled. My chest tightened. I opened my mouth to thank him, to say I’d love nothing more than to be taught by such a skilled expert, to ask if we could make a date as soon as possible … and then I closed it.

When I was weak, only one thing made me feel better than salt water did, and that was enticing the interest of the opposite sex. But I hadn’t resorted to such measures since doing so cost me the only relationship I ever had, the only one that had ever mattered, and I wasn’t about to start now.

I didn’t know if there was still a chance for Simon and me. But I did know I wasn’t going to risk losing it if there was.

“Thanks anyway,” I said.

And turned around just as the tears started to fall.

C
HAPTER 2
 

“E
GGPLANT, BOYSENBERRY, BLUEBERRY PIE.”
Paige leaned the paint cards against a napkin dispenser. “What do you think?”

“I think they all look the same,” I said.

“Finally.” Louis, the restaurant’s executive chef, came up the stairs and headed toward our table. “A voice of reason.”

“What do you mean, finally? Reason is how I narrowed it down to these three. You try choosing one perfect color from eight hundred pretty choices.”

Louis smirked as he placed plates before us. “That’s just one of the many differences between you and me, Miss Paige. I’d never choose from eight hundred pretty choices because the color we have is already perfect.”

“Gray? Gray’s not perfect. It’s barely even a color.”

“I disagree. In the right light, it can even look … purple.”

Paige opened her mouth to argue, then speared a strawberry
with her fork instead. Louis topped off our coffee cups, winked at me, and headed back downstairs.

“A candy store,” she said when he was gone.

“Sorry?”

“That’s what he thinks we’ll look like if—when—we paint the place. He said if we change the color, we should also change the name. To Marchand’s Marshmallows and Other Gooey Goods.”

I smiled. “It’s not bad.”

“Except it’s totally inaccurate. We’re a chowder house. We’ve sold fish and clams and lobster for sixty years, and we always will. A new look won’t change that.”

“You’re right. Ambience matters, but food is most important. Like the regionally famous Sea Witch breakfast platter I’ve been dreaming about for weeks.” I cut into the pancake-wrapped lobster patty.

Paige was about to bite into a bagel but stopped. I held my full fork in front of my mouth.

“What?” I asked.

“That’s not the Sea Witch,” she said, sounding sorry. “I mean, it is—it’s still eggs, lobster, seaweed, and pancake. But it’s now called the Winter Harbor Sunrise.”

“That’s going to be even harder to get used to than the color change.”

“I know.” She put down her bagel and picked up the eggplant paint card. “But what can I do? Business is down. Like, ocean-floor down. Grandma B thinks the only way to stay afloat
is to try to distance ourselves from last summer as much as possible. And since
Sea Witch
might suggest killer sirens to potential diners … let’s just say it’s a small change that can make a big difference.”

We weren’t the only people on the employee break deck. In the far left corner, two waiters drank soda and fiddled with their cell phones. In the far right corner, a busboy and dishwasher sipped tea and watched the boats bob on the near-empty harbor. Maybe I imagined it, but at the mention of killer sirens, they all tensed, stilled. I waited for their conversations to resume before leaning toward Paige and lowering my voice.