Safe Harbor (23 page)

“You don't even know what he's doing down there,” Quinn said.

“Sure I do,” Allie said. “Finding Daddy's boat.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Because it doesn't belong on the bottom,” Allie said as if Quinn were an idiot. “It's supposed to be
floating.
”

Quinn smacked her head. “If you were any more of a genius, I'd be in trouble.”

“Thanks for noticing,” Allie said, clutching Kimba.

“How could I miss it?” Quinn asked. At the stern of the boat, Matt was lighting up a cigarette. Quinn would watch him, and if he didn't throw the butt overboard, she'd grab it for her own.

“That's enough, Aquinnah,” Aunt Dana warned.

At the sound of her voice, Quinn forgot all about smoking. In fact, she stopped being twelve and went straight back to three. Curling up against her aunt's side, Quinn felt like a tiny girl. Her aunt's arm came around her. Quinn closed her eyes tight and tried not to see. She just wanted to feel: the sea rocking her, her aunt holding her, the sun on her face.

But even with her eyes closed, she saw: The boat was untouched, unharmed. Sam was going to come up and tell her her father had opened the seacocks. She just leaned against Aunt Dana and settled down to wait.

 

S
AM HAD ENOUGH
air to last an hour, and that was good, because what he had thought was the
Sundance
was actually an old container. Forty feet long and twelve feet wide, it was about the same size as the sailboat. The echo sounder had picked it up, and Sam had assumed the rest. Marked in German, it must have fallen off a freighter coming from Hamburg or Bremen.

He and Terry swam slowly south into the shipping lane. She came from San Diego, and she was a good diver. The insurance company's information had
Sundance
just north, but that big storm last summer, Desdemona, had shifted the bottom. Sam used his knowledge of tides and currents—along with models he had worked out on the Yale computer—to project drift.

“Has to be around here,” he said into the murky water. Bubbles left his mouth, and he imagined them going straight up to Dana. She was on deck, watching out for him. He'd never brought anyone out with him before. He thought of the
Cambria
dive, with Caroline waiting on deck for Joe, and as he thought of Dana, he was beginning to realize what it felt like to have someone.

Beds of kelp and colonies of mussels drifted in the current. A huge vessel passed overhead, creating a blast of stormy surface swells. Sam kept his focus on the bottom, straight ahead. He saw a shadowy shape the size of a sailboat lying on its side.

Sam swam closer. He circled the hull. The stern stuck slightly up, as if the bow had taken a dive straight from the surface to the sand. Stenciled in dark blue, made almost black by algae, was the name and port:

SUNDANCE
BLACK HALL, CONNECTICUT

A chill went through Sam's body, and he couldn't help thinking of the divers who had found his father's truck. The stainless steel rails and rigging were coated with green seaweed. The white paint was dark green with plant growth. Terry pulled out her camera and began snapping pictures.

Trying to breathe steadily, Sam swam toward the stern in search of the seacocks. The insurance company had stated that they had been closed, indicating an accident; although that first sighting had been sufficient,
Sundance
had shifted before final photos had been taken. Wanting to be sure, Sam swam down. There they were, both seacocks shut tight, just the way the investigator had found them.

Sam knew a trick the insurance diver might have missed. It took all his courage to make him proceed where he had to go. He was doing this for Quinn and Dana, but even more, he was doing it for Lily.

He knew that now. She had been his friend, Dana's sister, and one year ago she had died here. She had been young. Her daughters were the spitting image of her and her sister, and she had been raising them with everything she had. God, it was sad that it had come to this, the end of a beautiful life in the cold water at the bottom of Long Island Sound.

Sam edged his way through the seaweed, across the deck, into the cabin. It was dark as pitch in there, darker than Dana's garage at night and twice as cold. Sam could hear his own breath in his ears. The current swirled around him, a frigid salt river. It tugged him away, making it hard for him to maneuver into the hold.

Secrets of death, secrets of the deep. Sam felt the spirits of Lily and Mark, and he felt the spirit of his father. He had come close, twice, to dying like them at the bottom of the sea. Once Dana and Lily, the other time Joe, had saved his life. Grasping on to the companion ladder, hauling himself deeper into the cabin, he knew those were the people he loved.

You needed love to get yourself through a thing like this, Sam thought. There was no other way. Two people had died in there. Their kids were waiting up above. Sam's hands were shaking as he switched on his light, pointed it into the dark. The beam picked up tables and settees, now on their sides, their cushions chewed up by fish and crabs. It illuminated pots and pans, lanterns, nestled on the bottom, on what had once been the vessel's starboard side.

Sam went straight for the floorboards. He took a quick, thorough look. Except for buckling that must have resulted from the sinking, from one year of lying on the sea bottom, everything looked normal. He lifted the trapdoor, shined his light into the engine compartment.

What did Sam know? He was an oceanographer, not an engineer. But everything looked okay to him. He paid special attention to the Lion shaft, a section of the engine that flowed directly into the sea. The skipper of his grad school research ship had once shown him how to reverse the switch and let seawater in instead of cooling water out—“the surest way to scuttle a boat and fool the insurance companies,” the captain had said.

But the
Sundance
's Lion shaft was in full-forward position, showing no bad intent on the part of the Graysons. Exhaling with relief, Sam turned to leave the cabin. Halfway out the door, he turned for one last look. He remembered Lily's locket. If only he could find it for Dana, he would give her something to hold on to.

His beam swept the cabin. It picked up dull glints of brass and steel. Several pictures, bolted to the wall, had disintegrated into shreds. Sam held his light steady, wanting to find that final gift. Eventually, he had to give up.

Swimming out of the boat, he found Terry waiting to return to the surface. Sam nodded, circling his hand to indicate he wanted one last swim around the boat. Nodding, Terry followed. They held tough against the current, pushing forward toward the bow. When they got there, Sam held on to the rail. Tendrils of green seaweed blew backward like hair in the wind. It coated the stanchions and lifelines, the broken halyards and forestay. Short strands of hair mixed in, thin and brown.

Sam frowned behind his mask. He reached out, very carefully freeing several bits of hair. It felt rough and scratchy. He knew what it was, a better gift than the locket. He had Quinn's answer, and taking care to stay below his own bubbles, Sam swam for the surface.

CHAPTER
18

“T
HEY HIT A TOW ROPE,
” S
AM SAID, WATER
streaming from his wet suit.

Dana held out her hand, and he placed the crimped, twisted bits of hemp in her palm. The girls huddled over, as if she were holding something beyond value, as if she possessed the golden fleece. Allie had Kimba in a fierce headlock, trying to get a closer look.

“Are you sure?” Dana asked.

“A tow rope?” Quinn asked.

“I'm positive,” Sam said. “One of the things about being a marine biologist is knowing every variety of seaweed known to man. I did my thesis on Chondrus crispus—that Irish moss stuff you see in tidal pools. Believe me, I know seaweed. And this ain't it.”

“So what if it's a tow rope?” Quinn asked. “What does that prove? What about the seacocks?”

“They were closed,” Sam said, smiling over the girls' heads at Dana. He had been right all along. He had encouraged Quinn, and in spite of Dana's reservations, he had been absolutely right.

“Thank you,” Dana said. Her heart felt so free, she couldn't believe it.

“Will you please tell me about the tow rope?” Quinn asked, stamping her feet.

Dana watched Sam sink down to Quinn's eye level. Dana placed her hand on Quinn's shoulder as Allie scrambled into the circle of her other arm. She wanted to defend her nieces against what they were about to hear. Because even though the news was good, there was no evidence of sabotage, their parents were still dead, and they had died a terrible death.

Terry was at the helm, steering the ship back toward Black Hall. Matt lay on the foredeck, sleeping in the sun. Moving across the Sound, away from the site, Dana held tight to her nieces and waited for Sam to speak.

“They were in the shipping lane,” he said.

“I know,” Quinn said.

“Why were they there?” Allie asked.

“To get from one side of the Sound to the other, it's necessary to go through it.”

“Your parents were out for a moonlight sail,” Dana said. “It was a gorgeous, clear night. They must have caught the wind, taken off on a broad reach toward Orient Point. . . .”

“Mommy said that's what sailing was,” Allie said. “Flying on wings that weren't your own, anywhere you wanted to go.”

“That sounds like your mommy,” Dana whispered.

“But the tow rope,” Quinn said sternly. “Tell us what happened.”

“They must have sailed between a tug and a barge,” Sam said. “And hit the rope.”

“But their boat was big,” Quinn said. “A lot bigger than the
Mermaid.
They could have snapped any dumb rope.”

“Not a tow rope,” Sam said gently. “It's thick, Quinn. The diameter of a tree trunk. You saw the one that went by before.”

“They would have seen it,” Quinn said, talking fast, gesturing with her hands. “If it was that big, Daddy would have headed off the wind, waited for the barge to pass. And what about those markers you told us about—showing the length of line?”

“Tugs carry warning lights,” Dana said, agreeing with Quinn. “They would have seen the lights. . . .”

“We weren't there,” Sam said. “Anything could have happened.”

“But I want to know,” Quinn said, her eyes glittering with angry tears.

Dana tried to pull her closer, but she snapped her arm away. She stared at Sam, waiting for him to speak.

“My brother is an expert on shipwrecks,” Sam said with compassion in his eyes and voice. “He's an oceanographer, just like me, but he's made his living diving on wrecks all around the world. He told me one thing, Quinn, when I was feeling just like you, when I wanted more answers than the wreck was able to give me.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That some things we're not supposed to know. We have to look as hard as we can, then know when it's time to give up. That's the time we have to lay the whole thing to rest.”

Dana watched Quinn, feeling her throat tighten. She knew Sam was talking about a grave, about laying Lily and Mark to rest for good. Quinn's eyes closed, and two tears squeezed out.

“You've done so much, sweetheart,” Dana said. “You hired Sam to investigate the sinking, and he's told you it was accidental. He'll report what he found to the Coast Guard and the insurance people. Right, Sam?”

“I will,” he said.

“You don't have to worry anymore—your parents wouldn't have left you on purpose.”

“They wouldn't,” Allie said, tugging Quinn's hand.

“It's like my brother says,” Sam said. “Some things we're not supposed to know. We've looked as hard as we can, Quinn, and now it's time to give up.”

Quinn stood in the middle of the deck, her braids shooting out like angry lightning bolts. Her fists were clenched; if she felt her sister's touch, she gave no sign. Clear tears streamed down her tan, freckled face. She refused to open her eyes, and she spoke so softly, it was almost impossible to hear her voice.

“I'm not ready to give up,” she said. “Mommy, Daddy, I'm not ready.”

 

T
HAT AFTERNOON,
after Sam had dropped them off at the Moonstone Dock, Dana put the girls into the car and went back to talk to him on deck. Matt and Terry were in the wheelhouse, ready to go. Sam held the spring line, ready to cast off.

The vessel nudged the weathered old dock. Other boats moved slowly by, mindful of the no-wake rule. In the golden-blue light, Sam's eyes were soft green, the color of rushes in the marsh behind them. He looked at Dana and through her, as if he could somehow see what the day had meant to her.

“Sam, I wanted to thank you for what you did,” she said.

“It's okay, Dana,” he said. “I wanted to.”

“I was with Quinn and Allie on deck while you dove down below. We never took our eyes off the surface; it was as if you were their guardian . . .”

“‘Their'? You mean the girls'?”

“I mean Lily's and Mark's. We felt so grateful to you. And that you found those rope fibers . . .”

“You knew all along how it would turn out,” Sam said.

“I did.”

“Quinn will figure it all out. Her head's spinning right now—I know mine was when I was in her shoes, when they came up from my father's truck. . . .”

“Thank you, Sam. You really will report what you found? I want the tugboat found. I want them to know what they did.”

“I will, Dana. There's one more thing. . . .”

“What?”

“I looked for her locket.”

Dana's heart sped up. “Her locket?”

“The one you bought for her at Miss Alice's. If she always wore it, and no one has found it, I thought it might be down there. But I couldn't see it anywhere.”

“You looked . . .” she said, too moved to speak.

“I did.”

“Oh, Sam.”

“You know why.”

“So the girls could have it?”

He shook his head. “Because of the way I feel about you, Dana.”

Terry cleared her throat, and Dana looked up to see the younger woman pointing at her watch. She was lithe and blond, with southern California ease and elegance. At that instant Sam saw the look on Dana's face, and he took her hand.

“She's not even here,” he said, staring straight into Dana's eyes.

“She wants to go.”

“I want to stay.”

“Sam . . .”

“I have to get back, and you probably want to be alone with the girls. You have a lot to talk about.”

“She's your age,” Dana said, her throat raw as she looked at the beautiful girl, as light as Monique was dark, waiting for Sam to take the boat down Long Island Sound. “She's lovely.”

“She's my crew, that's all,” Sam said. “I didn't dive on her sister's boat, look for her sister's locket. I don't care about her sister's kids. I don't love
her. . . .
”

“Love?” Dana asked, her heart racing.

“She doesn't fill my mind, take up all the room in my heart,” Sam said. “But you . . .”

“Don't, Sam!” Dana said, feeling panicked.

“Let him go,” Sam said. “Whoever he is, whatever he did to you. I'm not like that, Dana.”

“I know you're not,” she whispered. But did she really know that?

The girls couldn't see from the car, and the crew had their backs turned, so he kissed her hand. Dana felt a light shock go through her skin and bones, all the way through her body. She had seen Sam in his wet suit, his shoulders straining the tight black. She had kissed him in the dark, felt his arms around her body. Now his eyes were burning into hers, telling her the fear she felt was a lie, that the truth was as plain as the moon rising in the sky.

Suddenly, looking into his golden-green eyes, she believed that something between them was ready to shift for good—if she would let it. He squinted into the sun, a starburst of lines around his eyes. She found herself wondering whether he remembered New York, their plan to meet there on Thursday, and she wondered also what she dared to hope would happen.

As if he could read her mind, he asked: “The fountain, right?”

“Lincoln Center, Thursday night?”

“I'll see you at seven,” he said. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she said with one last glance at Terry.

She had hung the gold key she'd found in Mark's office from a length of silk twine around her neck, too long for the girls to see, in the place where she wished she could wear Lily's locket. Leaning forward to kiss her, Sam held the cord between his fingers. She didn't want him to let go; his mouth felt hot against hers, and it tasted salty like the sea. When she pulled back, he glanced down at the key.

“Is that Lily's?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, touching it. “It doesn't seem as important now. None of it does—I wish we'd never found it. Or opened the box.”

“The box of money,” Sam said. He kissed her again, as if he could take back what he'd just said. Terry called again, and when she said impatiently that she had a date that night, she wanted to get home to get ready, Dana had to smile.

But even as she backed away to return to her nieces waiting in the car, his words hung in the air. The hidden cash, the secret key: two things that didn't add up to the happy ending she wanted to write to her sister's mystery.

 

A
T
G
RANDMA
'
S CONDO
, all was peaceful. There was a crazy, somber tone that reminded Quinn of a nightmare or the day of her parents' funeral: bizarre and unreal, as if all you wanted to do was wake up.

The condo looked across the marsh. Hello! That's why they call it Marshlands Condos! Quinn banged her head against the wall to remind herself not to be stupid. Her little braids formed handy shock absorbers that kept her brain from banging around.

God knows her brain was getting a workout. Trying to analyze those kinky little rope fibers, see what Sam and Aunt Dana were jumping up and down about. Quinn got the part about her parents hitting the tow rope, but she didn't get the part about her mother crying that night before, saying he'd thrown their life away. Brain bruise deluxe-arama.

The meal sucked. Poor Grandma didn't realize how much everyone hated cube steaks. As a supposed treat, she had marinated them in Wishbone salad dressing. She served them with Tater Tots and green ketchup. For dessert, what else: pudding pops.

Quinn chowed down just so they could hurry up and get back to the beach. Allie refused to touch the steak, so Aunt Dana went into the kitchen to make her a toasted cheese sandwich. For at least the tenth time that day, Quinn's eyes filled with tears.

How had her mother become such a good cook? With Grandma frying steak and Aunt Dana burning the bread, where had her mother gotten her cooking talent? Quinn missed her all the time, but she honestly didn't believe she had ever missed her mother so much as she did at that moment.

Tenderloin, swordfish, soufflé, chicken cordon bleu, veal stew, Caesar salad . . . her mother cooked like a dream. She had fed her family the same way she had loved them: with passion and fervor and constant creativity. Tonight Quinn didn't want to remember that her mother had yelled at her father, that she had read Quinn's diary. She wanted only to recall the love in the hugs and kisses and food on the table.

“May I be excused?” Quinn asked the minute she had hidden her last bite in her napkin.

“Sure,” Grandma said. “I was watching old movies before, honey. If you want, there's one still in the VCR.”

Quinn ran into the living room. One thing she had in common with Grandma: They both loved home movies. While Allie colored pictures on the low table and the adults talked in near whispers, Quinn hit the button and watched the tape begin to play.

It was their last vacation at Gay Head, many summers ago. The weathered cottage, its field of salt hay. There was Mommy, beautiful in one of her bright sundresses. Daddy stood behind her, coming toward the camera with Quinn standing on one of his shoes and Allie on the other. They were happy together the year before the yelling started. The sun was out, glaring into the camera lens.

“Grandma, you always shoot into the sun!” Quinn shouted now.

“I know, I know. I'm too old to learn,” her grandmother called back.

Now she and Aunt Dana started talking in a low voice. Quinn got the gist: Aunt Dana was explaining about how Mark had run into a tow rope, how it was a horrible tragedy that shouldn't have happened. Grandma was clucking at first, but soon she started sniffling, saying, “My baby, my baby,” under her breath as the sobs came and Aunt Dana had to comfort her.

Quinn watched the home movie. There was her mother—Grandma's baby—smiling into the camera, dancing with her family. It was a Vineyard reel—their family name for the dance they had created—swinging each other to the sound of the waves and wind.