Safe Harbor (28 page)

“You didn't have to paint for both of us,” she said. “You didn't have to do anything. You just had to let me be.”

“Let you be—”

“Let me be with Lily. That's what I was doing.”

“You mean
without
her!”

“She's my sister,” Dana said sharply. “I'm never without her.”

“Joe would like that,” Sam said, quietly supporting her.

“She was gone,” Jon said, ignoring Sam. “And I was trying to pull you back to reality. You were lost, Dana. Say what you want, but she was gone and I was losing you too. That's why I—”

“She was with me,” Dana glared, interrupting him.

“However you want to put it,” he said, laughing awkwardly. “It's over now. Let's talk it all out, Dana. Vickie was nice enough to get us together—have lunch with me. I'll listen all day. Please—just calm down.”

“I am calm, Jon,” she said.

“I want you to come home. Honfleur misses you.”

She shook her head. “My boat's on the beach and the weather's changing. I have to go.”

“A change, great!” Jonathan said. “A storm. We love storms, Dana. The higher the waves the better, right? You can take me up on the roof—I'll supply the wine. We can watch the tide rise and the wind blow. We'll end this fight and get on with things.”

“She says she has to get her boat off the beach,” Sam said.

Jonathan looked at him, angry, dismissive, amused. Jon had perfected that hip, edgy look Dana knew well from cities in Europe and even in New York. Sam, in his spectacles and rumpled shirt, looked like he'd been up all night, studying for an exam.

“Then I'll help her do that.”

“Jon,” Dana said, moving between them. She held his wrist and looked into his face. She had thought she loved him once. He was young and bright and full of promise. They had had a wonderful, wild, creative time together. She didn't want to hurt him to get back at him, but she knew she could never be with him again either.

“What?” he asked, for the first time looking afraid. “I want to help you. Show me your family place, Dana. Show me what made you, what you love. I thought you'd be bringing your nieces home by now.”

“I am home,” she said, so definite that she shocked herself.

“What?” Vickie asked.

Sam didn't speak, but Dana could feel him at her side, almost as if they were connected by an invisible thread.

“You're home?” Jonathan asked.

“Yes.”

“There? In Connecticut?”

“It's best for the girls.”

“And what about for you? You're an artist, Dana. Just look around the gallery—you think you can produce this level of work with two brats to take care of? Give me a break—”

Dana didn't wait to hear the rest. She really couldn't blame Jonathan for what he didn't have in the first place.

“Good-bye, Jonathan,” she said to his face.

“We'll talk later,” he said. “When you're alone, and not under the influence of whoever—”

“His name's Sam, and I'm not under his or anyone's influence. It's good-bye, Jonathan. All on my own—just good-bye.” As he stood there with his mouth open, Dana turned away.

“Good-bye, Vickie,” she said, kissing her friend three times as Vickie handed her her check.

Then Sam reached out to take her hand and pull her to the curb, into a cab, just as the first raindrops started to fall. Dana turned to look at him, and although she thought he was grinning, she didn't get to see because he pulled her into his arms to kiss her as the cab bolted into the traffic.

 

Q
UINN SAT ON HER ROCK
, staring hard into the distance. The weather was brilliant. The sky was bright blue, with no trace of the red line they had seen that morning. She could see the Hunting Ground, for the moment as calm as glass. Boats sped past, both sail and motor, on their way somewhere.

Beside her, on the big rock, were the
Mermaid
's sail bag, Quinn's diary, a duffel bag filled with supplies, the tackle box, and the gift she always brought with her. She wouldn't stop bringing her presents, but after today she wouldn't be leaving them in the waters of Little Beach.

Quinn was leaving. Her heart was too filled with pain to stay. Finally, she understood what Aunt Dana had meant, wanting everyone to go to France instead of living here.

Hubbard's Point was full of memories. Everywhere Quinn looked, she thought of her mother and father. The good memories, like planting the herb garden and filling the picnic basket, and the bad memories, like standing in the upstairs hall, listening to the yelling, like waking up in the morning and realizing her parents weren't in their bed, like the look on Grandma's face when she told Quinn and Allie their parents weren't coming home at all, like finding the tackle box filled with money under Aunt Dana's bed.

This was what Quinn's mother had been talking about: the bribe. Quinn had put together the rest. She hoped Aunt Dana wouldn't hate her for taking it, but Quinn had something she had to set right—and she needed the money to do it with.

Quinn sat ramrod straight, immovable on her rock. She thought about the window she had cut for Aunt Dana. It was a good deed, done out of love and just the smallest amount of selfishness. Yes, it was true: She thought if she gave Aunt Dana some north light, she might feel more inclined to stay forever. But more than that was the true desire to make her aunt happy.

Grandma and Annabelle had come along, accused her of making the garage unsafe. What if it collapsed and someone died? That's exactly what Annabelle had said, and it had reminded Quinn of those terrible words her parents had said to each other that last night.

“What if someone finds out?” Lily cried. “Have you been doing this all along? You've ruined us, killed our family! Taking bribes—is this how we afford our life, the boat?”

“Lily. You know it isn't, and you know that isn't even what's bothering you. The kids will hear, you'll wake up all the neighbors.”

“That beautiful land . . . our sacred ground.”

“Someone would have developed it, Lily. The owner died, what did you think was going to happen? The heirs approached me because they know I love the island, that I'd respect the land.”

“Honeysuckle Hill . . .”

“We have kids to send through college. We have bills to pay.”

Lily wept silently. She didn't speak, but Mark did. “You know I don't take bribes. Jack Conway gave me jobs when I was a kid. He's old now, and he didn't think I'd hire him if he didn't”—Mark chuckled, as if he thought the whole thing was hilarious—“pay me a kickback.”

“It's not funny!”

“No kidding. What am I supposed to do with a goddamn tackle box filled with five thousand dollars? ‘Five large,' he said to me in that smoker's voice of his, from about a million Camels. You'd have thought we were two gangsters making a deal.”

“He hasn't built anything to code in twenty years,” Lily said. “He'll probably do it wrong, and the houses will collapse.”

“That should make you happy.” Mark's voice was full of affection and amusement.

“Don't patronize me, Mark Grayson.”

“Come on, Lily. Cheer up. Jack just wanted to be involved—he's not the primary builder.” He cracked up again. “Five large! You'd have thought I was Marky the Mobman. I guess he thinks that's how we do it in the big leagues.”

“I don't really care about the money—I know you'll give it back to him. But Honeysuckle Hill . . .”

“I know. I'd preserve it if I could. But that would cost millions of dollars. We can't afford to buy it, so wouldn't it be better if I developed it than someone else?”

“No,” she whispered stubbornly.

“Come on, Lily. Me and Jack—we're islanders. We'll take care of the place.”

Lily sniffled.

“Sweetheart. Jesus Christ. The girls are asleep. Let's go for a sail and talk it over. I love you. I didn't do anything wrong, or at least nothing very wrong. People make mistakes, and if I did that, I'm sorry. I was just trying to save an old man's pride.”

“I know.”

“Come on, honey. It's a beautiful moonlit night. We'll take the boat out for a sail, get rid of the cobwebs and talk it over. What do you say?”

“I don't know. What if they wake up?”

“They'll be fine. We'll just be gone a couple of hours. Look, if it'll save our marriage, don't you think it's worth it?”

“I guess so. . . .”

Quinn shivered with the anguish of remembering. Not having slept at home last night, she felt exhausted. After Grandma had finished yelling at her, she grabbed her flashlight and came over here to write in her diary. Then, instead of going home, she curled up in the
Mermaid
and fell asleep. With the stars above and the sound of the waves on the beach, it was the closest she felt to her mother in over a year.

And when she woke up, she had her plan; it came to her in her dreams. She would sail away. She would sneak up to the house, get the sails, and take
Mermaid
somewhere far from here, to an island just over the eastern horizon.

Her diary was with her now. Double-wrapped in plastic to survive any waves that might come into the boat, it was ready to go. All Quinn had to do now was leave the gift. . . .

“Don't trip, Grandma,” came Allie's voice down the path through the woods. “Watch out for that root.”

“Run ahead, Allie,” Grandma called. “See if she's there, will you? My hip isn't doing so well.” Maggie barked with the joy of being loose on a forest trail. Even a shar-pei probably heard the call of the wild.

At the sound of Allie's footsteps, Quinn slid down from her rock as fast as quicksilver. She pulled her things after her, shoved them into a dry tidal pool. Huddled at the rock's base, she heard her sister approach just so far, take a quick look, and then go running back. Maggie came running over, but Allie grabbed the dog into her arms. “Don't, Mag,” Allie said. “You'll get wet and dirty in the seaweed.” Hearing Allie's breathless little voice filled Quinn's eyes with tears.

“She's not there, Grandma,” Allie said. “We'd better go back home and wait for her on the hill.”

“Oh, I'm worried. I hope she's there.”

Quinn cried. She knew she'd miss her grandmother, but even more, she'd miss her sister. She'd miss her blond hair and curious eyes, the way she sucked her thumb and twirled her curls, the funny faces she made to crack Quinn up. Quinn would even miss the total devotion she gave to that dumb feline scrap, Kimba.

But she wouldn't miss the way Allie thought she was the only one who knew her mother liked white flowers. Once she was positive, one hundred percent sure she was alone, Quinn reached into the sail bag and pulled out the gift.

She always left it, every day, for the mermaids that swam in the Sound and spun their nets from the moonlight above Hubbard's Point. Even more, she left the gift—one every day, whatever was in bloom—for her mother. A white flower.

“For you, Mommy,” Quinn whispered now, laying the white lily in the calm water, watching it float on the surface, beneath the clear blue sky, toward the Hunting Ground. Quinn would be there soon. She would follow the white flower, follow her mother, sail the
Mermaid
to where she knew she had to go.

CHAPTER
23

T
HE STORM SEEMED TO FOLLOW
S
AM
'
S VAN FROM
the Henry Hudson Parkway to the Connecticut Turnpike. The road ahead of them was dry, the miles behind them drenched with rain. It was one of those summer gales that came out of nowhere. The radio reported airport delays and flash flooding; tornadoes had been reported in Lincroft, New Jersey, and Windsor Locks, Connecticut.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked.

“Jonathan, you mean?”

“Yes. It couldn't have been easy to see him.”

“It was the best thing that could have happened. It was good-bye, and we both knew it.” She paused, thinking back. “A real face-to-face good-bye, I mean. Not just anger or hurt feelings. The last time I saw him was a frenzy of drama—a lot of dust had to settle. I've realized it was over for months now—”

“Since me,” Sam said, grinning.

Dana grinned back. “That's possible, though I was the last to know.”

“You're a fast sailor but slow in certain other areas, Underhill.”

“Like what?”

“Like finding a good guy to love you.”

“That'd be you?”

He laughed. “Yes. Better late than never though. Solitude is one thing, but just wait till you see what togetherness does for your painting. . . .”

“That's what Lily used to say,” Dana said. Thunder sounded, and she glanced out the window.

“We'll beat the storm,” Sam said, leaning forward to look up at the sky. It was dark behind them, in New York, sunny ahead, in Connecticut.

“I hope so,” Dana said. “My little boat . . .”

“We can't let the
Mermaid
wash away,” Sam said. “She's a Blue Jay, the boat that first brought us together.”

Dana smiled. Sam was a sentimental man. He kept track of things in a way that reminded Dana of herself and Lily—and Quinn and Allie. Leaning forward, she saw what he did: a line in the sky. The front was traveling slowly, obliterating the blue sky with black clouds. She felt as if they were racing it, trying to reach Hubbard's Point before the front did.

The goal was to save the boat, she thought, holding Sam's hand as he drove the van. But why was her mouth dry, her stomach flipping? She had a feeling the stakes were higher, much higher, than a small sailboat sitting at the end of the beach. She had the feeling she was trying to get to her sister's home—her home—before something terrible happened.

 

T
HE SAILS
were heavy and huge. Quinn tried to remember which was the head and which was the clew. She rigged the jib first, threading the sheets through the blocks, letting the sail flap in the breeze. Next, she stowed all her stuff—her canteen, a blanket, and the tackle box full of money—up front. She had a long sail ahead of her, and although the day was sunny, waves could get pretty big and she wanted to keep everything as dry as possible. To be extra safe, she secured her double-wrapped diary around her ankle with a bungee cord.

Last of all, she rigged the mainsail. Once she hoisted the sail up the mast, she might as well announce her intentions to the world. Grandma would be sitting in her chair by the window with Maggie, and this would really give her something to sigh about. If she happened to be watching the beach, the white sail would be as obvious as a red flag. She might just call Hubbard's Point security to stop Quinn from sailing.

Now, trying to push the boat down the beach into the water, Quinn threw her back and legs into the mighty effort. She moved the boat a foot, and then another foot. This would be much easier with another person. Sam, Aunt Dana, her mother, her father. Thinking of those faces gave Quinn the strength she needed to keep pushing. “Two are better than one,” her mother always used to say, grinning when Quinn would help her in the herb garden.

“Quinn, wait a minute!”

“Oh, shit,” Quinn said, looking up. She had asked, and she had received: Here came Allie, running down the beach in a cloud of knees, elbows, and Kimba.

“You think I didn't see you at Little Beach?” Allie asked. “Well, I did! And I didn't tell!”

“You'd better not tell about this either,” Quinn warned. She made her face and voice mean to scare Allie away. Dammit, now she was going to get choked up. She had wanted to avoid saying good-bye.

“Who would I tell?”

“Grandma, Aunt Dana . . . but you'd better not.”

“I won't, how can I?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm going with you.”

Quinn couldn't believe her ears. Allie would be no good on this mission whatsoever. She would be right in the way.

“No way,” Quinn said.

Allie just nodded, her blond curls bouncing with fervor. “Yes.”

“You don't like sailing. You're afraid of heeling, and we're going to heel—a lot.” When Allie's determination seemed only to increase, Quinn widened her stance and knew she had to get tough. “You'll cry. You're a baby—look, you couldn't even leave Kimba for one minute. There he is, stuck to you like glue. That dumb feline scrap . . .”

That did it. Allie's eyes filled with tears. They ran down her cheeks, and her lip trembled, making Quinn feel awful. But she had to stay focused: She was on her way, and she wanted to leave before Grandma saw the sail and called to stop her. Glancing at Allie, her heart ached. But she started pushing the boat into the water.

“I'll leave Kimba behind,” Allie cried, pulling on Quinn's shorts, “if you'll take me with you.”

“I can't, Al,” Quinn said, starting to cry herself.

“Where are you going?”

“Far away, Allie. Really far away. I'll call you when I get there, okay? You can take the ferry out.”

Standing in the shallow water, her feet buried in sand, Allie held Kimba to her eyes and sobbed. The waves splashed her ankles and the boat. Quinn held the side, keeping the boat steady. She watched her sister, and her heart did somersaults. There was no one in the world Quinn loved more than Allie. She wasn't perfect, and she cried a lot—but even Quinn was crying now. The trip
was
long, and it
would
be lonely. . . .

“Okay, Allie. Jump in.”

“You mean . . . ?”

“Yes, you can come.”

“Should I run up to the house and take Kimba back?”

Quinn shook her head—partly with impatience at the idea her sister actually thought Quinn would wait while she went up the hill and back and partly because Quinn herself kind of wanted Kimba along. He was a tie to their babyhood, to their parents. “You can bring him,” she said. “Put on your life jacket.”

“Thank you, Quinn,” Allie said, scrambling over the side into the
Mermaid
.

Quinn followed. She adjusted the tiller, lowered the centerboard. She checked her diary, made sure it was secure to her ankle. Pulling on her orange life vest, she told Allie to do the same. Trying to remember everything Aunt Dana had taught her, she sat on the leeward side and trimmed the sails.

“Where are we going anyway?” Allie asked as the boat caught the wind and wobbled around the rocky promontory of Hubbard's Point. By way of answering, Quinn reached into her pocket and handed her the compass.

“Martha's Vineyard,” Quinn said.

“That's far!”

“Yes,” Quinn said, looking up at the blue sky, the puffy white clouds along the western horizon, “but it's a beautiful sunny day, and that's where we're going.”

“Why?”

“To pay someone back for Mommy and Daddy.”

“Who?”

“I'll tell you when we get there.” Then, drawing on her amazing sense of direction, Quinn said, “It's easy, Al. All we have to do is sail east, exactly east, over the horizon. Watch the compass and make sure it stays on ninety the whole way.”

“Ninety,” Allie said, clutching Kimba and the compass.

“And don't worry—we'll stay out of the shipping lane.”

“Good,” Allie said, sounding only a little frightened.

“Here we go,” Quinn called out over the whistling rigging to the soft white clouds quickly encroaching from the west.

 

M
ARTHA HELD
M
AGGIE
and paced the yard. Now they were both gone: Quinn hadn't been home all night, and Allie had run off to find her. They were so young, such little girls, and the storm was coming. Then Maggie nestled in Martha's arms, licking her cheek. Needless to say, Maggie would rather be off chasing raccoons, but she sensed Martha's deep worry. Oh, the uncomplicated, gentle love between humans and pets: if only family relationships were this simple.

Annabelle and Marnie had gone off in their car, searching all the beach roads. Martha could almost see them inching past the recreation area, the tennis courts, the old cemetery, the small beach by the railroad tracks, the tracks themselves—especially the bridge over the channel, where kids loved to fish and jump into the water. Cameron and June had scoured the rocks, sweeping their binoculars over the sea as well, all the way out to Gull Island.

Now, walking down the yard, Martha saw an old van pull next to the wall at the foot of the hill. Dana and Sam got out, wreathed in smiles. Waving, they started up, but then Dana's attention was pulled toward the garage.

Paul Nichols had left the door open. Walking down, Martha saw Dana and Sam inside, gazing around at the new window, at the metal supports Paul had brought over from the boatyard to stand under the beams. Dana's easel had been pushed to the side, the painting covered with a drop cloth.

“What's going on?” Dana asked.

“Your niece decided you should have some north light,” Martha said gravely, pointing at the crooked square cutout.

“Quinn did that?” Dana asked, sounding delighted.

“Yes, she did. Failing to notice, poor child, that that is a carrying wall, that it wouldn't take much to make this old garage collapse. I asked Paul to do what he could, especially with the storm coming.”

“Is Quinn okay?” Dana asked.

“Well . . .” Martha began, Maggie nuzzling her for support.

“She means so well,” Sam said. “I was like her when I was her age. Ready, fire, aim.”

Dana laughed, pulling up the drop cloth to check on her painting. Martha hated to say what she had to say—she knew how hard it had been for Dana to start working again. Healing was taking time for all of them, and this was nothing more than a slight setback. “Quinn seems to have gotten it into her head . . .” Martha began.

“Did she move the boat?” Dana asked.

“The boat?”

“The
Mermaid,
” Dana said. “She—or someone—must have moved it to higher ground. Sam and I drove by the beach on our way up here, and it was gone. I figured with the storm coming, you must have told Quinn to get someone to help her move it.”

“She's not here,” Martha said. “I thought she must be at Little Beach, but we couldn't find her. Annabelle and Marnie are out looking right now. I called Rumer, so she's on the lookout too.”

“The boat's not on the beach,” Dana said, turning pale.

“This is Hubbard's Point. It's so safe, she wouldn't leave. Running away to Little Beach didn't seem like a very bad thing, Quinn does it all the time,” Martha said. “Should we call the police?”

“We should call the Coast Guard,” Sam said.

 

D
ANA COULDN
'
T SIT STILL.
She walked all through the house, in and out of the rooms. The storm had hit full blast, and waves were pounding the beach. White foam topped the Sound's surface. The wind blew leaves off the trees. A branch fell from the tall pine nearest the road.

Sam was out with the Coast Guard. Boats had been dispatched from New London and Groton. Small-craft warnings had been replaced by full gale warnings. A shiver ran down Dana's spine. If her sister and Mark had died on a calm, moonlit night, what could happen to Quinn and Allie in a storm like this?

Her mother sat by the window, keeping vigil. Sheets of rain pelted the glass, but her mother just stared through them, looking for a white sail. When Dana came downstairs, she held back for a moment. She thought of all the loss her mother had suffered, and her heart aching, she went to stand beside her.

“Hi, Mom,” she said.

Maggie looked up and barked. “It's the Mags,” Dana said, glad to see the dog keeping her mother company, glued to her mistress's side.

Her mother couldn't look away from the window. She stared at the Sound, from the beach where the boat had been, all the way out to the red and green buoys of the Hunting Ground.

“Where are they?” her mother asked.

“I don't know,” Dana said.

“I want to blame someone. When Sam told us about that tow rope, I felt so grateful. Someday soon we'll know what company owned that tug, which one owned the barge, and we'll know who to blame for Mark's and Lily's deaths. But when I think of the girls, all I can blame is myself.”

“No, Mom. It's not your fault.”

“I should have watched them more. The minute I knew Quinn hadn't slept in her bed, I should have called the police. But I kept telling myself
It's Quinn—she's a free spirit, just like her aunt. She's just on one of her adventures. . . .
”

“You think she's like me?” Dana asked, filled with emotion.

“Exactly like you. Lily thought so too.”

“What do you mean?”

“The way she's always seeking,” Martha said without taking her eyes off the sea. “Looking for more, the most life has to offer. Lily loved that about her.
She'll be a nomad, just like Dana, I'll be visiting them both in Timbuktu,
Lily used to say.”

“I didn't think Lily liked that about me. She always wanted me to come home.”