Safe Harbor (8 page)

Sam wished they wouldn't go. He hadn't seen Dana in a long time, but he was very glad to be seeing her just then. There were things he'd like to tell her, others that he wanted to learn about her life. Old friends were rare enough, and when Sam reencountered one like Dana, he was in no great hurry to let her go.

“To the airport?” the little sister asked, still with that smile.

“You can't ask him to drive us,” the older sister said, incredulous at the very suggestion.

Sam certainly hadn't planned this, but the idea wasn't bad at all. If they had to go, at least he'd have a little extra time with Dana. “I'd be happy to,” he said. “If that's what your aunt wants, I will.”

“Sam, you don't have to—”

“I know,” he said, nodding as the idea took hold and he heard Augusta's voice in his head, egging him on. “But I'd like to—I really would. I mean, how else will you get to the airport?”

“Good point,” Dana said, starting to smile.

“Let him,” the younger girl said.

“You're a jerk,” the older one hissed at her sister.

“Okay, Sam. We'll take you up on it,” Dana said. “Come on, everyone—get your bags.”

Sam pitched in, lifting suitcases and canvas bags. He noticed how the older child grabbed her suitcase and refused to let him near, but he let that pass. He was too busy congratulating himself for driving out here today, too busy feeling thankful to Augusta for pushing him along.

 

T
HEY WERE RIGHT ON TIME.
Sam knew his way to JFK, and he explained that he had made the trip before to pick up and see off Joe and Caroline. The blue van bounced over the potholes; it was a camper, with Sam's tent and other equipment stowed in back. Quinn seemed intrigued, but she had too much invested in being angry to ask any questions.

Dana sat in the front seat, wondering whether she was doing the right thing. While Sam asked the girls questions about the beach and tidal pools and whether they'd ever thought of being oceanographers, Dana tried to keep her heart from beating out of her chest.

Gazing out the window, she watched Connecticut slide by. She loved this state. Her sister had lived here for most of her life, and Dana had returned as often as she could. The low hills, the dark green thickets of mountain laurel, the stone bridges over the Merritt Parkway: She could honestly say it was the landscape of her heart.

Yet she had always felt the pull to travel away. California, Canada, Greece, Italy, France: new and different oceans, coastlines, houses. Lily had always teased her, told her she was just afraid.

“Afraid of what?” Dana would ask.

“Afraid of settling down,” Lily had said. “You're afraid your life will look like mine.”

In a way, her sister had been right. Hearing her niece's silence in the backseat, Dana's heart ached. Being their aunt had always seemed so easy. Lavish them with gifts and attention, then send them back to their parents. As much as she loved her family, her place at Hubbard's Point, she had always enjoyed the freedom to leave.

Painting was her gift. The ability to see beauty and meaning in life, allow it to flow through her and onto the canvas. With it came certain responsibilities; where other women put their husbands and children first, Dana did the same with her art. She had no husband, no kids.
When you have a gift,
she remembered telling her own protégé,
you have to sacrifice a lot of what you once might have wanted very much.
Jonathan.

“What's Honfleur like?” Sam asked now.

“It's wonderful,” Dana said as much for her nieces' sake as for his. “It's an ancient port, with tall, narrow houses on three sides of the harbor. Sidewalk cafés where you can eat crepes and drink apple cider, hillsides filled with orchards. The light there is incredible, the best any artist could hope for.”

“We're not artists,” Quinn reminded her.

“What are you?” Sam asked, looking into the rearview mirror.

“Excuse me?”

“If you're not an artist, what are you?”

“How am I supposed to know?” she replied. “I'm only twelve.”

Sam laughed. “With hair like that, you know who you are.”

“What about my hair?” Irate, she leaned forward.

“Nothing. I like it. But you can't tell me it's not there for a reason. Like, when I was a kid, I didn't mind wearing glasses.”

“Glasses? What do they have to do with anything?”

“Well, I wanted to be a scientist. Hate to say it, but I thought glasses made me look the part. Half the time now I want to trade them in for contacts, and I sometimes do, but that's another story.”

Glancing over, Dana looked at Sam. He drove easily, as if he liked doing it. His hands were very big, the size she'd expect for someone as tall as he—he must be six foot three, she figured. He wore the same style of glasses she remembered from when she first met him—round wire-rims. Behind them, his eyes were hazel. Looking over, he caught her watching him and smiled.

“He did look like a scientist when he was a kid,” Dana said.

“You knew him when he was a
kid
?” Quinn asked, disbelief in her voice.

“Younger than you,” Sam said.

“My age?” Allie asked.

“Eight,” Sam said. “I knew them both. Dana and your mother.”

Silence filled the van and grew. Dana heard the pounding of both girls' hearts, and although she might have bet otherwise, it was Quinn who spoke first.

“You knew our mother.”

“Yes, I did.”

“How?”

“She taught me sailing,” Sam said. “She and your aunt.”

“You sail?” Allie asked.

“Yeah,” Sam said, sliding a glance over at Dana.

“You do?” she asked.

Sam nodded. “From that summer on, I've never stopped. Last year I bought a Cape Dory, and I live onboard. When you come back from France for a visit, I'll take you all out.”

“I don't sail anymore,” Quinn said loudly. “I used to, but now I don't.”

“Me neither,” Allie said.

“Oh,” Sam said. Dana saw him redden slightly, and she knew he was thinking of Lily. She could see he felt sorry to have brought it up, and it made her realize what a very nice young man he had become.

“I'd like to go out on your boat,” Dana said.

“You would?” Sam asked, turning to her quickly, a wide grin transforming his face.

“Yes. I'd like to check on your progress. Make sure you remember everything Lily and I taught you.”

“You two were tough,” Sam said. “We all thought you were so nice, but one sloppy jibe and you'd have us doing drills all afternoon.”

“I'm still tough.” Dana smiled. “Just ask my students in France. It's not all painting over there, you know. I still teach sailing, and when someone jibes when I say tack, forget it. I'm a brute.” But she thought: It's no painting over there. It had been so long since she had picked up a brush.

How does an artist know why her painting has stopped working? Is it preferable to analyze, pull the whole thing apart bit by bit, lay the elements out to better understand them? Or should she put on blinders, refuse to look at anything at all, curl up and wait for inspiration to return? Glancing back, she wondered whether her painting would come back with the girls there, whether she was wrong to hope they might become her muses.

“Well, you and Lily taught us to sail right,” Sam said. “That's all I can say.”

“They taught us right too,” Quinn said.

Allie laughed, and Dana relaxed. The ride was getting easier. The girls' fear and anger weren't so palpable. Maybe she was doing the right thing after all. And then Quinn kicked the back of Dana's seat so hard, she felt it in her spine.

Sam jammed on the brakes, but Dana gestured for him to just keep driving. Although Quinn didn't speak, Dana knew what she was thinking: If Lily was such a good sailing teacher, why hadn't she been a better sailor herself? How had she drowned that clear July night with her own husband in their own boat?

The rest of the ride to JFK felt uneasy, and Dana wanted it over with. Once they got on the plane, she told herself, she'd be able to handle things better. The kids would be distracted by the flight, by the movie. She had chosen three seats right over the wing, for stability. Dana would sit in the middle, and both girls could rest their heads on her shoulders. . . .

When they got to the airport, Sam drove into short-term parking. Dana would have expected him to drop them off at the door, but she felt strangely grateful to have his company a little longer. He carried their luggage, except for Quinn's. She wouldn't let him, or anyone, touch her bag.

At the check-in counter, Quinn refused to put it on the scale.

“It's a carry-on,” she insisted.

“The plane will be crowded,” Dana explained. “Why not just check it here, so we can go duty free shopping without lugging it around?”

“I want to lug it,” Quinn said, her eyes wild. “Daddy used to take it on business trips, and he said it was
carry-on
. If it was good enough for him to carry on, it's good enough for me! Easy on and easy off, he always said. It's regulation size! It has wheels and a handle! So if I want to lug it—”

“It is regulation size,” Sam said steadily, as if Quinn had just stated the most reasonable request possible. “Looks like carry-on to me . . .”

“Fine,” Dana said quickly. “No problem.”

She sighed, shuddering with the force of her niece's emotion. She hadn't realized that the worn black suitcase was sacred, that Mark had used it on his frequent trips. She watched Sam bend over, admiring the case's construction. Quinn pointed out the wheels, and she let Sam test the retractable handle.

“Excellent luggage,” he said.

“Very,” Quinn said, her lower lip quivering as it had when she was a baby, when she'd be overtired or frustrated, when she felt close to crying. Dana wanted to hug her, to look her in the eye and remind her that they had traveled together before. But it seemed the child couldn't raise her gaze. She stared at the old suitcase, at the place where her father had gripped the handle, as if she could bring his hand into focus.

Hesitating, filled with doubt, Dana heard their flight called over the loudspeaker.

“Well,” Sam said, “that's you.”

“Ohhh,” Allie said, looking into Sam's eyes as if he could save them. “I would sail with you, maybe,” she said. “If we didn't have to go.”

“Maybe someday,” he said.

“It's time,” Dana said.

Sam walked beside her, straight toward the security gate. She liked the feeling she had with him by her side, and that surprised her.

“Have a good flight,” he said, looking at her with such warmth in his hazel eyes that she suddenly felt everything just might be okay.

“We will,” she said. “Thank you so much for driving us. I appreciate it more than you can know.”

He nodded. They hesitated for a minute, and then Sam reached forward to hug her. It lasted only a second, but she gripped his arms and felt some of his strength flow into her. Standing back from Sam, she flashed a reassuring smile at her stony-faced nieces.

“Come on, you two,” she said. “We're off to France.”

“Try not to get too excited,” Quinn muttered.

Aware of Sam watching them, Dana shepherded the girls forward. They waited in line, behind other travelers to France and elsewhere. When the time came, the people slid their belongings onto the conveyor belt. As the X ray picked up every image, Dana and her nieces walked through the metal detector. She was one step closer to France, her studio.

With one last wave to Sam, she became aware of the inspectors opening Quinn's bag. At first, assuming the action was routine, she wasn't concerned. But then she saw Sam step forward, alarm on his face.

“Is there a problem?” Dana asked, walking over.

Quinn went pure white, rushing forward to throw herself onto her father's suitcase. “Leave that alone,” she gasped, ripping the officer's hands off the bag. “Don't touch that, goddammit.”

“Move away from the table,” he ordered.

“Give it to me!” Quinn pleaded.

“What's in there?” one man asked.

“They think it's an explosive,” someone in line exclaimed, and the buzz of voices grew sharp and loud.

“Would you care to explain this?” asked a female guard, slim and Asian, who bore a shocking resemblance to Monique.

“Get your fucking hands off it,” Quinn yelled.

Dana's hands went to her mouth. As the inspectors frowned and began to examine more carefully the large metal box they had taken from Quinn's bag, Dana walked forward and slid her arms around her niece.

“Sweetheart, Quinny,” Dana said, her voice shaking. “It's okay. Don't worry.”

“Mommy and Daddy,” Quinn gasped.

“Grandma will kill you when she finds out you took it,” Allie said.

“We weren't ready,” Quinn said as if hypnotized. “We weren't ready to scatter their ashes. How could I just leave them there?”

“Quinn,” Dana said softly.

“Ashes?” the customs official frowned. “You mean remains? That's what's in here?”

“Would you please give that to me?” Dana asked, still holding Quinn and facing the woman.

“Lady, you'd better check with France,” said someone else in line. “You can't just go bringing someone's ashes over in carry-on luggage!”

“Yes, you can,” a woman shared. “I know someone who scattered her husband over the Tuileries. . . .”

“Please, Aunt Dana!” Quinn said, her eyes swimming. “Get it. . . .”

When the Monique-like officer handed the brass container to Dana, she put it straight into Quinn's hands and watched the girl hug it to her chest, head down to hide the tears streaming down her face.