Moondance Beach (4 page)

Lena shook her head to clear away the memory. She stepped into the mudroom off the back of her sunny kitchen, happy to spend another day “rattling around” in her oceanfront retreat. She didn’t care what people said—the size was not excessive and it certainly wasn’t for show. Lena required high ceilings and elbow room for her canvases. She needed lots of natural light and huge windows to observe the sea and sky. And being alone did not mean she was lonely—she got more than enough socializing during the gallery receptions, art shows, and media appearances that took up a full week of every month. At the end of each trip, she was relieved to trade the noisy, wine-sipping crowds of Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, or Boston and return to her sanctuary by the sea.

A long, hot shower washed the sand from her hair and skin. She threw on a sundress, grabbed her second cup of coffee, and headed to the upstairs studio to greet the work of the day. The space spanned about two thousand square feet, which was most of the second floor, and the studio’s entire south-facing wall and most of the ceiling was constructed of “smart glass,” window panels with built-in tinting. With just the tap of a button on a remote control, Lena could optimize or block the light, whichever was needed, no matter the season or time of day.

She worked barefoot that morning, her preferred state for all but the most brutally cold North Atlantic winter days. She’d learned long ago that if she wanted to
stay focused, her feet needed to be in contact with the wood floor as she painted. It centered her to be bound to an earth element while her mind and spirit drifted away to the sea.

Lena clicked on the studio’s speaker system, and the delicate sounds of Debussy danced in the sunbeams. She stood before her most recent commission and stepped into the world she had created—a voluptuous creature sunning herself as waves crashed against a rocky shore, her blond curls and curvy flesh glowing with life, her eyes flirty and laughing. It didn’t take long for Lena to detect an error in the play of light and shadow, of air and water. She loaded a fantail brush with a dab of sienna and a hint of crimson, then set about darkening the value of water-slicked mermaid scales.

Here’s how she saw it: if a Seattle dot-com genius shelled out a half million dollars so that she could portray herself as a sunbathing sea nymph—and if Lena’s distinctive signature would be at the bottom-left corner—then
Rhonda on the Rocks
would be technically perfect.

Lena accepted two such “vanity” commissions each year without a twinge of shame. Why shouldn’t she strike while mermaid-themed works were hot? The art world was fickle, and the fine-art economy testy, and she knew she had been extremely fortunate that her passion had any kind of sustained commercial value. Almost all of her friends from art school were bartending or bill-collecting to fund their painting habit. Lena was an anomaly—a working, wealthy painter, and she did not take her good fortune lightly. With the help of her business manager, Sanders Garrett, she was secure in knowing that every penny of outrageous profit from these vanity commissions would go toward paying off the
Moondance Beach mortgage. At this rate, it would take only another five years before she would be free to do whatever she pleased for the rest of her life, without regard to the vagaries of Wall Street or the temper tantrums of art critics. All that from taking on two commissions per year. The rest of her paintings could sell for a fraction of the price, and she would have no worries.

When she had completed the finishing touches, Lena selected a delicate rigger brush and cradled it between her thumb and fingers. She had raised her left hand to sign the finished painting with her stylized “A.S.” when suddenly, the colorful glass beads of her bracelet caught the light. They sparkled against the elaborately knotted black and white twine encircling her wrist.

The simple beauty of it made Lena smile.

Twenty-four years ago . . .

L
ena Silva was seven years old the night she arrived at the Safe Haven, and her brain hurt just trying to piece together all the sudden changes that had taken place in her life. The most dramatic difference was in her own mother.

Back home in Rhode Island, Mama had never said much and had mumbled when spoken to. She’d let Daddy’s mother and his sisters be in charge. Lena had heard her mother’s real voice and real laugh only when the two of them were alone. She would sing Lena to sleep with her Portuguese songs, or she’d try to read aloud from the storybooks Lena brought home from school. More often than not, Lena ended up reading to her mother, who would fall asleep next to her in the small bed.

Sometimes, when it was just the two of them like that, her mother would talk about maps and little towns Lena had never heard of, and weather, and the ocean. Or she’d tell fairy tales. Some of Lena’s favorites were about how
her family had always made a living from the sea, respected it, and understood its magic and mystery.

“Grandmother doesn’t believe in things like that,” Lena had pointed out.

Her mother nodded. “If a person’s spirit is too small to believe in the magic of the ocean, they will never be comfortable with its power.”

How suddenly things turned upside down! When Lena’s daddy left, her mother instantly seemed taller. Her voice was steadier than it used to be, even at home with Daddy’s family. Her mother now looked straight ahead instead of down, and she looked people in the eye. Her mother sang for no reason and whenever she felt like it. She smiled almost all the time.

It made no sense to Lena. Her grandmother and aunties were so sad Daddy left that they yelled and cried. They even told her mother that she was the reason he left. They called her a witch.

“He would never have abandoned us if you hadn’t put a spell on him. You drove him out, you evil harpy!” Grandmother then pointed at Lena with a shaking finger. “And you—you are nothing but the spawn of a witch!”

Lena had been so frightened by the words that she’d cried. Her mother had later explained that people sometimes said cruel and untrue things when they were overwhelmed with sadness and anger. Her mother said to stay as far away from her grandmother as possible.

A few weeks after all the crying and yelling and mean talk started, Lena’s grandmother pulled her aside and told her that her daddy went to a place called Brazil and was never coming back.

“Is Brazil the same as heaven?” Lena had asked.

Her grandmother assured her it was not. Then she told her to pay attention because she had something important to tell her. “Your mother is from a family of sorceresses in the Azores, and they shipped her to America to marry the kind of decent, upstanding man she could never get at home.”

The story confused Lena. It hurt her heart.

Maybe it was Lena’s fault Daddy left. Maybe, as Grandmother said, there was something wrong with her.

Just days later, Lena’s mother came to school early to get her. She had their suitcases waiting in a taxi. They got on a bus and then a ferry. While they were out on the water, it began to rain very hard and Lena got sick. But soon they landed and walked in the dark and the rain down a road until they reached something called the Safe Haven.

Lena’s first morning there was difficult. First she met the father, who patted her head at breakfast. He was a tall man with red cheeks who smiled a lot and got very loud when he laughed. Then she met a girl close to her own age named Rowan and a boy named Clancy. And now the mother of this new family was walking them up two flights of stairs, and Lena clutched at her mother’s leg the whole way. Who else would she be forced to meet today? How many people lived in this big old place, anyway? The mother led them down a hallway, heading toward a big sunny window and a closed door on the left.

Lena noticed the door was made of heavy old wood with big black hinges, and the doorknob was a greenish metal carved with a fancy pattern. Everything in this place was big and fancy—but too old to be pretty. And everything was salty, too, like the sea air, and the rooms
were so big that they echoed. She didn’t like it. She worried there were ghosts around every corner.

The door opened. Lena hid behind her mother as a sharp medicine smell came from the room and spilled into the hallway.

“Imelda and Adelena, this is our oldest child, Duncan. He’s Rowan and Clancy’s big brother. Duncan, please say hello to Mrs. Silva and her daughter, Adelena. Mrs. Silva will be helping us around the house now.”

Clutching at the fabric of her mother’s cotton dress, Lena dared take a peek. A gasp escaped her lips.

The boy wasn’t anybody’s “big” brother! Clancy was a lot bigger than this kid. He was skinny, and his skin looked too white. His hair, as dark as Lena’s, was cut close to his head. Immediately, she felt so very sorry for him, because she understood something was wrong with him. He was sick.

And then the boy looked up from his puzzle. Lena felt his eyes like a hot bee sting in her chest. His eyes were deep blue and sad, trapped inside dark circles. But they were on fire from the inside. His eyes were filled with a kind of light she didn’t know the name for. She decided the boy might be sick, but something inside him was powerfully alive.

Without thinking, Lena slipped out from behind her mother and stood in the middle of the bedroom. She fiddled with her hair as she glanced around at the bedside table covered in books, pencils, and markers. A nearby desk had a mini music player with headphones, a Game Boy, and the family’s computer. She saw papers and sports magazines scattered on the floor and movies for the VCR player stacked against the wall. There was a tissue box sitting on top of his Boston Red Sox
comforter, and a little machine whirring in the corner, blowing out air. She wondered why one little boy needed all this stuff.

“Hi,” she said. “You can call me Lena.”

The boy lifted his chin, then looked away, as if he didn’t know what to say to her. Maybe he didn’t get a lot of visitors.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Adelena!” She felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder.

“It’s all right,” the other mother said.

The boy turned back to her. “I’m sick, Sherlock. How old are you, anyway?”

“Seven.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Great.”

“Duncan. Be polite.”

“How old are you?” Lena asked.

“Ten.” He sighed, tossed the puzzle from his lap, and collapsed down onto his pillow. Without another word, he flipped on his side to face the wall, his back to Lena.

The visit was over.

The women ushered Lena out into the hallway again. She couldn’t help it—before she turned the corner, she looked back. The boy had already sat up and turned around. He had been watching her. And when their eyes met, Lena felt that hot sting again.

Was it her imagination? Or did the sick and sad boy tip his head and
grin?

“G
ood morning, Lieutenant Flynn! How’s it going? Ready to get to work?”

His home-based physical therapist out of Nantucket was newly minted from the program at Northeastern, extremely efficient, and probably the perkiest person Duncan had ever encountered. Brandy was five feet tall and one hundred pounds of positivity, and though other patients might enjoy having Tigger as a physical therapist, she gave him a nasty headache.

Brandy had barely made it through the threshold of the bed-and-breakfast fitness center before she began clicking on her tablet and asking questions. “Are you icing regularly? Taking your medication as prescribed? Hitting your daily exercise goals?”

He smiled at her from his perch on the weight bench, forearms resting on his knees. “Good afternoon. The answer is yes, no, and no.”

Brandy glanced up from her tablet with huge eyes. Her index finger hovered over the screen. “Yes
and
no?”

“Right. Yes, I ice down at least twice a day, and no, I stopped taking pain meds last week ago. And I’ve been
doing about four times as many reps as I’m supposed to, plus my own training regimen.”

“But—” She frantically scrolled through his digital chart, becoming flustered. Within seconds she had bounced over and sat down next to him on the bench. “You can’t do that, Lieutenant. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Duncan didn’t want to yank the girl’s chain. She was only doing her job. But he knew exactly how to get back into shape, and it sure as hell wasn’t five sets of thirty leg raises, resistance bands, and three trips up and down a flight of stairs per day. “I’m already doing it.”

Her mouth pulled tight and she placed a hand over her heart, covering the P
IN
O
AK
P
HYSICAL
T
HERAPY
logo embroidered on her polo shirt. “I’m supposed to make sure you follow the doctor’s rehabilitation orders. That’s what your benefits are paying me for. If you insist on pushing yourself too hard, you could destroy everything the surgeons have put back together. You could end up back in the OR or in a residential rehabilitation facility. Is that what you want?”

“I know my limits.”

“You’re doing yourself harm.” She waved her hands around in frustration. “Prescriptions help control the pain so it doesn’t control you. If you are too uncomfortable, you won’t do your exercises.”

“That’s not a problem, Brandy.”

“Ha!” She jumped up from the weight bench and shoved her hands in the pockets of her uniform shorts. Clearly, Duncan’s lack of compliance had upset her. “How many surgeries have you had since you were airlifted out of that battle in Afghanistan?”

“You can call me Duncan. It was an ambush. And I’ve had eleven surgeries.”

“That’s correct. I’ve seen your chart. You were a mess. Burns on your left side from under your arm to your thigh. Surgeons rebuilt your hip, put screws and pins in your broken femur, and fixed your knee—and despite all those injuries, you somehow managed to lift a damn jeep off your ass and crawl into the fire to try to save your friends. I don’t need to tell you how lucky you are to be alive.”

Duncan nodded. “I agree. You do not need to tell me.”

Brandy began bouncing on her heels in frustration. “So you’re shooting for a dozen surgeries? Is that it? You’re trying for an even number or something?”

Duncan weighed his response. He didn’t want to alienate his physical therapist, because her opinion would eventually end up on Captain Sinclair’s desk. Duncan had requested and been approved for outpatient rehab in conjunction with regular doctor visits, and it was essential that her reports eventually showed he was following orders, was in optimal physical condition, and was fit to return to his preinjury duties.

That said, Brandy needed a reality check.

“You’re doing a fine job, and I appreciate your dedication.” Duncan stared her down until she stopped bouncing on her heels. “You understand how the human body works, but I know how
my
body works. Have you ever had a SEAL as a client before?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips. “Well, no. Not really.”

He chuckled at her answer—she either had or she hadn’t. “If not, then you cannot possibly understand that for a guy like me, those pain meds were way worse than the pain itself. I can handle pain. The concept of mind over matter is at the heart of my training. But if
my mind is dead from narcotics, it doesn’t matter if I burn through a whole case of your resistance bands—I will never heal.”

She shook her head. “I’ve had other patients say that, but most go back to taking their prescriptions because they can’t cope.”

“Those other patients are not U.S. Navy SEALs.”

By that time of day Duncan had warmed up on the stationary bicycle, stretched out on the yoga mat, and was moving pretty easily. So he decided to put on a good show for ol’ Brandy. He stood from the weight bench without pushing or steadying himself with his hands, and as he had hoped, the physical therapist’s eyes widened in surprise. He stood straight and tall in front of her, hands at his sides. She would not see how unsteady he really was.

“Okay. Wow. You’re a lot stronger than just a few days ago.”

“Because I’ve been pushing myself.”

Brandy looked up at him and scowled. “You’re a very stubborn person.”

That made Duncan laugh. “So I’ve been told.”

“All right.” She raised her hands in surrender. “Walk me through whatever it is you’ve been doing to yourself. At least let me make sure you’re doing it with correct form and—”

Duncan’s eyebrows shot up.

“Not that your form would be anything but perfect.”

Forty-five minutes later, Duncan had taken Brandy through his own version of physical therapy. She didn’t lecture him during his stretching, weight lifting, and scaled-down grinder calisthenics, but she went nuts watching him ruck up the back stairs of the Safe Haven.

“You can’t do that.” She began springing up and down on her heels as Duncan strapped on a rucksack filled with forty pounds of rocks. “You’re going to kill yourself.”

On the third trip, Duncan nearly blacked out and had to catch himself by gripping the banister, but he made sure it didn’t look like a big deal.

“Are you okay?” she asked, getting right up in his face.

“Of course. I’ll be doing fifty round-trips by the end of the summer.”

“You’re the worst patient I’ve ever had.”

“I’m an all-or-nothing guy.”

Brandy’s expression turned serious. “Look, Lieutenant. You’re a human being who’s been through hell, and you’re pushing yourself awfully hard. I don’t care how many steel plates and bolts you’ve got inside you—you’re not the freakin’ Terminator. Keep that in mind.”

*   *   *

Frasier was twenty minutes late to his own party, which shocked no one. Mellie, Evelyn, Rowan, and Annie had taken great care to make the dining table fancy. They’d sprinkled glitter on the white tablecloth, wrapped little ribbons around the stems of the wineglasses, and arranged a pretty floral thing in the middle of the table.

Duncan watched everyone running in circles, busy and laughing. He decided to ask his sister if he could help, since he was the only person sitting around doing nothing.

“Sure!” Rowan grabbed a stack of white cloth napkins off the sideboard and told him to start folding.

He looked at the pile. “How?”

“I don’t care. Do you know how to make a French pleat or a standing fan?”

“Those are yoga positions, right?”

“Goofball.” She kissed him on the forehead and walked off.

In the Navy, Duncan had learned to fold undershirts and U.S. flags and to create razor-sharp hospital corners on bedsheets, but the topic of dinner napkins had been overlooked. So he decided to create neat trifold napkin packets, like mini flags, the ends tucked in to the fold. As he finished one after another, he observed the organized mayhem going on around him, fascinated by how the pieces of his family fit together. If he asked anyone on the island to give a name to the collection of individuals at the Safe Haven that night, they would answer, “The Flynns.” They would give that answer knowing there were as many McGuinnesses, Wallaces, Parkers, Ravelles, and Silvas as there were Flynns in the room. And if he asked them if they were all locals, they would answer “yes,” even though some of them came from California, Maine, Connecticut, Boston, and Portugal via Rhode Island.

Duncan wondered why that was. He wondered how Bayberry Island could claim people like that, act as an umbrella over whoever and whatever anyone happened to be, and offer them a home.

He realized it was ironic that he had been born and raised on the island—a Flynn, no less—but didn’t consider Bayberry his home. He didn’t consider anywhere “home.” He couldn’t wait to be on his way.

“’Sup?” Clancy smacked Duncan on the back as he walked by the table.

“Hi, Uncle Duncle!” Clancy’s five-year-old adopted daughter hopped by on one foot, performing what was known as “the tee-tee dance.” Christina’s bladder must
have been the size of a raisin, but Duncan had to admit that his niece was pretty damn cute.

“It’s Dun-
can
. Not Dun-
cull
, you little stinker.”

“Good luck with that one,” Clancy said, following Christina to the half bath off the large formal dining room.

As Duncan went back to his napkins, he moved his attention to Annie and Nat. They were so affectionate with each other, giving little kisses for no reason, whispering private jokes, teasing each other. Duncan had known Annie all his life, and he liked her husband just fine. Nat was finishing final edits on a documentary about the mermaid legend. He’d been working on the film for three years, and all anyone could talk about was whether he’d get a spot at a film festival. Duncan could tell Annie was proud of the guy. It was obvious by the way she looked at him while he talked about his work. For just an instant, Duncan wondered what it would be like to have a good woman at his side, sharing in his achievements like that.

And his struggles.

Rowan swooped in, jiggling baby Serena on her hip. “How’s it going?”

Duncan held up a napkin.

“Nice,” she said. “But I was kind of hoping for swans. Are swans out of the question?”

“Swans are always out of the question.”

Rowan laughed as she handed him the baby. “Here,” she said, securing the squirming bundle in Duncan’s lap and tossing the pacifier on the tabletop. She began fishing around inside the front pocket of her apron, eventually pulling out a strange-looking ring of hard, bumpy plastic. “Just talk to her; make silly noises. If she gets fussy, give her the teething ring.”

Mystery solved.

Rowan grabbed the stack of napkins and placed one at each plate, adding the silverware as she went. As with most everything his sister did, the job was done quickly and well.

As she worked, Rowan chatted about Serena, the tourist season, the research institute, and a few other things. Duncan didn’t pay close attention to her words. He simply observed his sister. Motherhood agreed with her. She was still smart, funny, and pretty, but she seemed softer around the edges. Some of her signature snark had been smoothed out, too, probably the result of being worshipped by Ash and letting him lift the weight of the world off her shoulders. Rowan deserved every bit of the happiness she’d found, Duncan knew. She’d gone through hell a few years back, when her smarmy Wall Street boyfriend swindled what was left of the family’s money, earning him a prison sentence and sending Rowan back to the island to run the crumbling Safe Haven Bed and Breakfast—which she’d done out of sheer guilt. Things were different now. Ash’s money had revived the Flynn family’s ancestral home, and they operated the B and B during high season only because they enjoyed it.

True, when Duncan had first met Ash two years before, he’d found him a little heavy on the starch. But he had mellowed out, too. He’d gone from being a high-stakes real-estate consultant to the chairman of a marine-life foundation and research center, an enterprise that had brought an infusion of money and people to Bayberry for something other than the Mermaid Festival, which was good for everyone. And Ash had helped make another contribution—Serena Flynn-Wallace.

That fascinating creature was now tucked in Duncan’s lap, staring up at him with big baby eyes fringed in wet baby eyelashes. Duncan couldn’t help but smile at the contrasts he saw in that chubby face. Nine-month-old Serena possessed the purest and most unspoiled human skin he’d ever seen, but she stared at him with unblinking judgment. Her expression reminded him of the Navy’s BUD/s Hell Week instructors at Coronado, whose only goal was to make him beg to “DOR”—request to drop out of the grueling SEAL training. Who knew? Maybe Serena was tough enough to be the girl who finally broke the Naval Special Warfare Combatant gender barrier, becoming the first female SEAL in the nation’s history.

He bent down, inhaled the baby smell of his niece’s neck, and whispered in her ear, “You’d never DOR—would you, sweetie?”

Serena raked the teething ring across his cheek.

“Whatcha talking about over there?” Rowan asked.