Gifts from the Sea (10 page)

slept not one wink that night. I felt like a ship dashed on the rocks, with the sea pushing me one way, and the wind pulling me another. How could I decide between staying and leaving, between living with Papa or abandoning him to go with Margaret and Celia? There was the lure of faraway places, and my love of Devils Rock, both of them strong and tugging at me.

Not having slept, I rose early to fix breakfast. Margaret stumbled in and I could tell that she hadn't slept, either. Neither of us was hungry again, so Mr. Callahan got three servings of porridge, and I kept Papa's hot on the back of the stove. But Papa didn't come for breakfast.

I knocked on his door. When there was no answer, I peeked in. His bed hadn't been slept in. I checked the tower. The lamps were still burning. Papa had not been in the tower room. With fear beginning to prickle my skin, I ran down to the boat landing. Papa's skiff was gone.

Papa had never left like that before. Something was terribly wrong.

Margaret was as worried as I was.

“Why would he just leave without telling us?” she said.

“I'm sure there's no need to worry,” Mr. Callahan said. “He probably just went for supplies.”

“He would have told us,” Margaret said.

Mr. Callahan frowned. “Has Mr. MacKinnon ever left the light unattended before?” he asked.

Margaret whirled on him, and I swear her eyes were snapping blue sparks.

“The light is
not
unattended,” she said. “Quila is here and she's every bit as capable of keeping the light as Mr. MacKinnon or Abby Burgess or anyone else, for that matter!”

I smiled, thinking Abby just might have met her
match in Margaret Malone, and I was grateful for Margaret's loyalty, but worried no less.

“I guess I can wait here one more day,” Mr. Callahan said, “but I'll have to leave tomorrow. If Mr. MacKinnon hasn't returned by then, I'll have to appoint a replacement.”

I blew out the lamps, trimmed the wicks, and polished the reflectors. I was grateful I had something to keep my hands busy, but wished the same for my mind. I couldn't come up with a good reason for Papa to leave the way he had, and worried about his state of mind. His heart had never healed from losing Mama, and to lose Margaret, too … maybe he'd left us for good. If that were true, and if Margaret left with Celia, I'd be truly alone. I could see myself roaming the cliffs at night, my hair wild, keening into the wind, growing mad as Mrs. Blair had.

I spent the day on the cliffs, my eyes trained on the horizon, watching for Papa's boat, but there was nothing but the grey sea.

Margaret brought out a woolen blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders.

“Come in for some hot tea,” she said, but I shook my head.

“He'll be all right,” Margaret said. “If ever a man could take care of himself, it's your father.” She hesitated, but I knew what she was going to ask. If I'd made my decision.

“I cannot leave the light unattended,” I said. “And I won't leave Papa. He seems strong, but he isn't. He needs me.”

I watched for Papa as long as there was daylight, and then climbed the tower steps to light the lamps. I'd seen Papa do it a thousand times, no, three thousand times, and I'd even helped him do it, but still, my hands shook as I held the match to the wicks.

Margaret put Celia to bed. I heard her singing:

I wandered back down to the kitchen. Margaret joined me and we sat, not speaking, listening to the tick-tick-tick of the clock, and the wind, but I was listening
more for the creak of Papa's oarlocks, and the sound of the skiff scraping against the rocks. Sleep tugged at my eyelids. My head nodded, once, twice, and then Papa was in the room, smelling of salt and the sea, and even though I was fourteen and almost as tall as he, I ran into his arms and buried my face against his chest.

“The light guided me home,” he said. “I knew I could count on you, Quila.”

“We were worried about you, Franklin,” Margaret said. I couldn't remember her using his first name before.

“No need,” Papa said. “I brought you something.” He stepped outside and came back carrying a pail. Papa tipped the pail onto Margaret's lap, and blueberries tumbled out, filling her apron.

“I wish they were emeralds,” he said. Margaret looked dazed.

“You went to pick blueberries?” she said.

“That,” Papa said, “and to work up the nerve to ask you to be my wife.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in, for both Margaret and me.

“It's as hard as that, is it?” Margaret said.

“Thinking of a life with me?” Papa shook his head.

“What's hard is the life you'd be agreeing to. I'm more married to this light than to any woman, with nothing to offer but long hours and loneliness, little pay and even less place to spend it.”

“Sure, and you've given me plenty of reasons to say no,” Margaret said. “Can you give me one reason to say yes?”

Papa was quiet so long I didn't think he was going to answer her. Then he took her hand, and she rose to follow him. I trailed along behind. Papa led Margaret out to the cliffs, where the moonlight spilled onto the sea.

“That Land of Light where the fairies live,” Papa said. “What did it take to keep the door open?”

“Metal,” Margaret said. “A piece of metal formed by human hands.”

“Like this?” Papa said, and moonlight glinted off the ring he held in his hand. Above him, the tower flashed its light far out into the darkness.

“The Land of Light,” he said. “I'm hoping you've found it right here.”

apa and Margaret were married a week later, on a day when the weather was fine enough for us to row over to the mainland to find a minister.

Before the ceremony, Margaret gave Celia a small mother-of-pearl comb.

“This was your mother's, when she was little,” she said. “Someday I'll tell you all about her.”

To me, she gave a jar of sea glass, bits of red and blue and green.

“When I first came to Devils Rock, I could tell you liked sea glass by the pieces I found on the windowsill
in your room. I've been collecting them for you ever since.”

I held it up to the light, and the colors sparkled like jewels, one shade of blue like Mama's eyes, another like Margaret's.

Mr. and Mrs. Richardson came to the wedding. Mrs. Richardson clasped Margaret's hand.

“You make sure that husband of yours brings you by to visit now and then,” Mrs. Richardson said. “It can get pretty lonely out there.”

I felt Margaret's other hand tighten around my waist.

“Oh, I shan't be lonely, Mrs. Richardson,” she said. “I've got my family now.”

After the wedding, Papa hired a horse and buggy and we drove into the highlands of Maine. Everything was new to Celia and me, and we squealed at each new sight—mountains and rivers, deer and rabbit and moose—and I felt my heart pound to see the trees, especially the maples. They were every shade of orange and yellow and red, even more beautiful than Mama had promised. Papa pointed out spruce and fir and hemlock, and we ate our picnic lunch under trees
with white bark that curled and peeled. Papa said they were birches.

While Celia napped, I slipped away into the woods and lay under a golden canopy of leaves.

In my whole life, I'd never been where I couldn't hear the sea; it was like a second heartbeat to me. Here, under the trees, there was no wind, no pounding surf, only the soft chitter of songbirds.

Using my hands and a stick, I dug up two small spruce trees and brought them back to the picnic spot.

“What are those for?” Margaret asked.

“One for Mama's grave,” I said. “And one for your sister.” As soon as I'd said it, I was sorry because Margaret began to cry.

“They're tears of happiness, silly,” Margaret said, hugging me. “Oh, how did I ever get so lucky to find the three of you?” But I think we're the lucky ones.

The sea brought us Celia and it brought us Margaret. We're a family, and there's no greater treasure than that.

his book was inspired by a true story that happened off Hendricks Head Lighthouse near Boothbay Harbor, Maine. In the mid-1800s, following a terrible storm, a lighthouse keeper did see a bundle floating in the water and found a baby girl inside. The keeper and his wife adopted the girl and raised her as their own.

I was sitting at my desk one day, working on another book, when the first sentence of this book came into my head. I wrote it down, set it aside, and continued to work on the other story. But a girl's voice came to me, Aquila's voice, and said, “Tell my story. Now.”

I have tried to do just that.