Safe Harbor (9 page)

“Move along,” the official ordered. “You're cleared to go.”

Grabbing her handbag and the girls, Dana heard a loud voice.

“Dana, over here.”

It was Sam. He was standing just across the barrier, his eyes wide open, and his hands held out like someone waiting to catch a pass. Her heart steadied slightly, just seeing him still there.

“Aunt Dana,” Allie said. “We're going the wrong way.”

Quinn just sobbed, holding the brass container.

Dana couldn't quite speak. Looking from one niece to the other, she bent down to see into Quinn's eyes. “Are you okay?” she tried to ask, but Quinn wouldn't look at her.

“Quinn?”

They kept walking against the grain of travelers heading for France.

“We're going to miss the plane,” Allie said, sounding anxious.

“I think that's what your aunt has in mind,” Sam said quietly as they came around the security gate, and Allie said “oh” as Dana just leaned into Quinn.

Taking Quinn into her arms, making sure not to jostle the brass box, Dana held her only sister's elder daughter and knew her days as a free-wheeling artist were over, that she was in for the ride of her life.

CHAPTER
5

S
AM DROVE
D
ANA AND THE GIRLS BACK THE WAY
they had come. Although the sky was still light, dark shadows fell across the highway. The flight they had just missed would have left at seven
P.M.
Planes flew overhead on their way to Europe, their vapor trails catching the orange light of sunset. Looking up, Sam wondered which of those flights his passengers should have been on.

“What made you change your mind?” he asked Dana.

She took so long to respond, he thought maybe she hadn't heard. But then she turned fully around to check on the girls. Both were fast asleep, as if even so short a journey had completely exhausted them. They slumped toward each other, Allie's smooth blond head resting on Quinn's tangled brown one.

“Quinn,” Dana whispered, staring at her for a few seconds.

Sam waited. He knew exactly what she meant, but he wanted to hear Dana say more, to understand what she was really thinking.

“The look in her eyes when they took everything out of her bag,” Dana said quietly, picturing it.

“Not a simple kid,” Sam said lightly.

“Not at all,” Dana said, a snort escaping somewhere between laughter and tears. “She never has been. Give her six choices, and guaranteed Quinn will pick the hardest way.”

“You could have gone, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“You could have passed through. Once the guards knew what they were dealing with, that it wasn't drugs or a bomb, they would have let you go.”

“I know,” Dana said. “They cleared us.”

“So why didn't you let her take the ashes with her, stick to your plan?”

Dana stared out the van window. It was past dusk, and deer were edging out of the woods along the Merritt Parkway. Their eyes glowed in the passing headlights, and they grazed without much apparent fear on the tall grass.

“Because now I know. She needs to be here,” Dana said.

“Here?”

Dana nodded. Glancing across the seat, Sam saw that her eyes were wide and alert. Her russet hair, glinting with silver, was stylishly cut. She wore black pants and a jacket, and he thought she looked exactly like an artist bound for Europe.

“In her parents' home,” Dana said. “As much as my mother tried to tell me, I had to see for myself. I can't take her away from there right now.”

Sam cleared his throat. He had to ask—not to be cruel, but to understand. “Why did you think you could?”

“Because Lily took care of them,” Dana whispered.

“Lily—”

“She took care of the girls, and I take care of myself. That's what I'm used to. I didn't think I could stand being at Hubbard's Point, in Lily's house, so I decided not to put myself through it. I thought I could get them to adjust to my way. Kids are so much more flexible, I thought. Until I saw Quinn's face . . .”

Sam nodded. On his own at an early age, he had learned how to carry his own weight, rely on himself for most things. He took what came his way—from Joe and the rest of the world—with gratitude and real joy and not much clue how to work others into the equation. Now, looking over at Dana, he saw her grappling with the same stuff.

They crossed onto I-95 and drove in silence most of the way. Sam turned on the radio. When he was alone, he liked to sing out loud. Now he saw Dana's lips barely moving, and he realized she was used to doing the same thing. She seemed comforted by the music, so he let her listen in peace.

Just past the Connecticut River, he turned onto the shore road, and they drove over the Ibis River, through the Black Hall marshes, and under the train trestle into Hubbard's Point. The small guard's shack—unmanned until the summer people arrived—stood on the side of the road, and Sam saw her nod toward the locked door, as if in silent greeting.

Instead of going home to France, she was coming home to Hubbard's Point. Sam drove up the winding road past empty cottages and groves of oak and pine. As if sensing how near they were to their own beds, Quinn and Allie began to stir. Something made Sam clear his throat and look across the front seat, until he was sure Dana was paying attention.

“You're a good aunt, Dana Underhill,” he said in a voice too low for the girls to hear.

“I'm not sure about that,” she said, and he noticed her staring at her fingernails with intensity, as if she hated them for not being rimmed with paint. Could artists work just anywhere? She probably did her best painting in France, couldn't wait to get back to it.

“You might not be,” he said, “but I am.”

Her mother had been loading up her car, preparing to return to the condo, and she looked up as the headlights came down the street. Sam parked at the foot of the hill. In a sleepy voice, Allie said, “Grandma.” Quinn said, “Home.” Dana said nothing, but she was staring at Sam as if he held the secrets to the universe.

“I'm sure,” he said again, more firmly than before. Dana took his words in. Then, nodding, she took a deep breath and opened the van door.

 

D
ANA AND HER MOTHER
stayed up late drinking tea while the girls played in the yard. Their nap in the car had refreshed them completely, and now they wanted only to run in circles and use their flashlights to draw pictures in the sky. Maggie lay in the cool grass at her mistress's feet, watching the action.

“I realized the minute you drove away,” Martha said, “that the box was gone.”

“The
minute
we drove away?” Dana asked, trying to picture it.

“Okay, so I wanted to have a word with Lily. I walked over to the mantel, as I've done a hundred times since I've been alone with the girls, to tell her they were in safe hands, flying away with you, and guess what I found. Or didn't find.”

“I know,” Dana said, sipping tea. “Quinn had it in her luggage.”

“Her father's magical, wonderful, mysterious travel bag,” her mother said with what sounded like resentment, or at least resignation. Maggie, as if sensing Martha's distress, let out a low growl.

“Do you blame her for using Mark's bag?”

“I'm just saying, if only she knew what Lily thought of her father's trips, she wouldn't be so madly in love with his suitcase.”

Dana poured more tea. This was one of those classic moments when she wished Lily were there. It was vintage their-mother. Martha would make a mysterious, slightly—but only slightly—disparaging comment about someone in the family who wasn't there to defend himself, and then, if pressed, would refuse to say more. Just to test her, Dana smiled.

“What did Lily think of Mark's trips?”

“Mmm,” her mother said, shrugging. “It doesn't matter now, does it? The point is, you are here. The girls are here. The stars are all out. Summer is going to be fantastic.”

“Fantastic!” Allie called, swooping in close enough to pick up her grandmother's word. “Fantastic, fantastic!”

“Summer, summer, summer,” Quinn cried, arms out like a gull in flight.

“I like Sam,” Allie sang, running in wide circles.

“Sam, Sam, Oceanographer Man,” Quinn chimed in.

“Yes,” Martha sighed. “What a nice young man for driving you down, but especially for driving you back. I am so unutterably glad you decided to miss that flight.”

Dana nodded, watching her barefoot nieces play with mad abandon in the same yard she and Lily had run through many years before. A rabbit—one of the family of rabbits that had lived on Hubbard's Point since before Dana could remember—scampered into Rumer Larkin's yard. Dana watched Maggie taking it all in through deep brown eyes. Velvety brown eyes, so like those of someone Dana knew well.

A vision of Monique flashed across her mind: Part of it felt terrible that a dog's gaze should remind her of that young woman of whom she had once been so fond, whom she had once used as her mermaid model. She thought of Sam, of what he had said about her being a good aunt, and hearing her nieces sing and picturing Monique, she said, “Yes, I think maybe I'm glad we decided to miss it too.”

 

E
ARLY MORNINGS AT
Hubbard's Point were chilly. Dana needed a sweater just to fill the bird feeder and water the herb garden. She walked around the yard, listening to the Point come alive. A school of bait fish had swum into the beach below, and terns and seagulls were working loudly. Allie ate her Cheerios on the top step, humming to herself as she threw cereal to a squirrel. Quinn had left without a word, as she had the four mornings since their thwarted departure, to watch the sunrise from Little Beach.

Dana directed the spray from the hose at the rosemary and thyme plants, stopping to pull weeds. The ashes were back on the mantel. Her mother was back at the condo. Allie hung on to Kimba. Quinn spent nearly every daylight moment outside. Dana thought about her paintings-in-progress, wondering when she would ever get back to France. She and the girls were going through the motions of living together, carrying on as usual, when there was no “usual.”

This childhood home of Dana's was most definitely her sister's house. Lily's sheets and towels filled the linen closet. Her pots and pans lined the cabinets. Under the bathroom sink were her pink rubber gloves. Her taste in reading tended toward poetry, mysteries, and self-help. Perhaps that last, more than anything else, had surprised Dana: With her good life, what help had Lily needed?

Lily, unlike Dana, had chosen the path of their childhood. Family life, normal routines, a husband and kids. Art was a selfish profession: Dana had wanted to stay available to her muse as much as possible.

She would go out with men she met, enjoy their company, sometimes long to get closer. Once, with Philip Walker, she had almost gotten it right. They had gone out for eight months, six years ago. He was a lawyer, intrigued by her work. At first, she had been in love with the novelty of a conventional life.

But then she'd be seized by inspiration, stay up all night trying to mix the exact right shade of blue, have to sleep all day and miss the events, whatever they were: the picnic, the sail, dinner with a client, the drive to meet his parents. Philip didn't understand, and she wouldn't have expected him to. No man understood her.

Until Jonathan.

She had avoided artists for so long. Men artists had lives like her own—too focused on their own work to share life with another painter. But Jon Hull had seemed different. At the beginning of their time together, he had made her believe nothing could come between them. He had watched her work and told her she was the most brilliant artist there was. He had told Dana she was his artistic hero.

Not to mention the most beautiful woman in France. He didn't care about women his own age. He never looked twice at French girls. Watching Dana paint in her studio, the blinds slanted to get the right light, Monique lying on the daybed—he'd barely even glanced at the younger woman with her taut brown body curved, posing like a sea nymph. He had seemed—for those months Dana had found herself falling in love with him—to have eyes only for her.

But that seemed like years ago, Dana thought now. The Vietnamese woman was no longer her friend, Jonathan no longer her lover. Trust had been shattered. Dana could hardly stand to look at beautiful young Asian women. She would see men Jon's age and feel shame wash over her, asking herself how she could have been so stupid as to think it could have ever worked.

Watering the herb garden, she wondered whether Lily's shelves contained any self-help book on older women whose boyfriends had gone from fantasizing about their artist's models to sleeping with them. She wondered whether there was any self-help for a woman who had come to hate all twenty-five-year-old women with honey-colored skin and tightly toned bodies.

When the sun had risen high over the bay and the two Brothers north and south—rock islands inhabited only by seagulls—Quinn came home. Moving furtively through the yard, as if she didn't want Dana to notice her, she slipped into the house.

Following Quinn inside, Dana found her looking through the kitchen cupboards. Bright morning sun splashed across the highly polished fir floor. Dana couldn't help remembering the linoleum that had been there when she was young, admiring Lily and Mark for pulling up the old tiles to discover the natural wood beneath.

Growing up on Martha's Vineyard, Mark had been a carpenter. He had apprenticed with a builder, become one himself. Lily had loved his work—no one had ever been so turned on, watching a man swing a hammer, wield a level. But when he had become a developer, she started getting nervous. Lily loved nature. She adored woods and fields. Why build new houses over beautiful land, she wondered, when there were already so many wonderful old ones?

“Would you like me to make you breakfast?” Dana asked, remembering how she had encouraged Lily to be diplomatic there, to ask herself whether—as the wife of a builder—she was being supportive by suggesting that everyone live in old houses.

“That's okay,” Quinn said.

“I used to like it when my mother made me pancakes or waffles.”

“We have hot breakfasts on weekends.”

“I don't see the pancake police,” Dana joked. “What do you say we break the rules and have some on Monday?”

“Usually I eat granola during the week,” Quinn said. “Grandma buys it for me, but I guess she didn't last week. She thought we—”

“Were going to France,” Dana finished, having a flash craving for a brioche and café crème.

Quinn blushed, reaching for the Cheerios. “That's okay,” she said quickly. “I'll eat Allie's cereal. She won't mind.”

Dana nodded, taking the half gallon of one percent milk out of the refrigerator. Quinn looked at it stoically, then poured it into her bowl. Allie had already told Dana they liked two percent, that anything less reminded them of blue water. Dana had started a grocery list and stuck it to the refrigerator, telling the girls to write down whatever they wanted her to buy.