Seven Tears into the Sea (19 page)

S
ALTSPRAY
R
OSE
(Rosa rugosa)

T
ea brewed from the petals of this wild pink rose inspires dreams of risky and passionate love. Sporting large fragrant flowers and spiny thorns, this strong and beautiful rose has been crowned queen of the seaside garden.

Whether it was the extra work for the Midsummer celebration, or my failed reading, Nana seemed weary.

When I came into the kitchen, I noticed her paleness right away. But in the busyness of breakfast, I had forgotten until the guests dispersed and Nana was having tea in the kitchen. Her fingers wielded the sugar tongs between her cup and the sugar bowl so many times, I knew she was using it for energy.

“Gwennie, if you don't mind, I think I'll have you do my errands. There are just so many little things I've let go,” she said.

“And those Hobbits kept her up, singing on the widow's walk half the night,” Thelma grumped.

I knew she was talking about the Tolkien fans, but her words had painted an amusing picture.

“You did want to drive into Siena Bay for gasoline, didn't you?” Nana asked.

“Sure,” I agreed, though my feelings seesawed between excitement and dread.

Anticipating my protests, I'm sure, Nana told me she'd left her list posted on the refrigerator. Then, for someone who was exhausted, she made a pretty speedy retreat upstairs.

I read the list as I walked home. The first item on the list stopped me dead.

Special fog headlights for the Cadillac, gleaned from a Los Angeles junkyard, could be picked up from Dr. Jack Cates.

No way, I thought. This was a setup.

“Nice move, Nana,” I muttered. Of course I knew Dr. Cates was an avid amateur car repairman, but still.

Nana needed a bottle of lime oil, which I could get at Mrs. Leoni's grocery store, the place where I'd overheard, as a kid, that some people thought I'd been molested. The only errand which didn't require facing down my memories was ducking into Village Books for the new issue of
Tea Cozy
magazine.

I wanted Jesse to go with me, but the problem with having a boyfriend who had no address was that you
couldn't find him. I didn't see him out on the Point. He wasn't down at the cove or sitting on my front porch.

A lot of cheeping and fluttering came from inside the swallows' nest. I wondered how long it would take them to learn to fly as I entered the door, bent to intercept Gumbo.

“Don't even think about it,” I warned her. And when I gave her calico chest a gentle push, she actually hissed at me. “You have plenty to eat, inside.”

Gumbo stalked away, flopped on the floor, and arched her neck to lick the patch of fur I'd contaminated with my touch.

I changed into clean shorts and a T-shirt, and I was out the door, headed for the Bug, when I finally remembered to check for the spare key.

It wasn't there. It wasn't my faulty memory either, because the little brass cup hook, under the kitchen windowsill was there, but it was empty.

I ignored the gooseflesh sweeping over me. I'd just have to keep track of my key, I thought, as I drove down the bumpy gravel road to the highway. I hadn't looked for that key in over seven years. The fact that it was missing didn't mean a thing.

Siena Bay looked better by daylight than it had at the farmers' market.

Since I hadn't spent any money all week, I paid for a double mocha at a little cart near the parking lot and drank it as I strolled around, surveying the bustle in the town square.

With card tables and metal hoops, tissue-paper flowers and fringe, booths were being made and canopies constructed. Midsummer Madness sales were advertised in each store window, but the square was beginning to look like an old-fashioned carnival.

I walked a lap around it, glad I didn't see Zack or his crew. But I didn't see Jesse either. In fact, although I got my share of grin-at-the-tourist smiles, I felt pleasantly anonymous.

Thelma was right. My childhood trauma wasn't the main thing on anyone's mind but mine.

I sipped down the rest of my mocha, tossed the cup, and headed toward the grocery store. I was adjusting the hem of my shorts when Red O'Malley appeared before me.

What was it I like so much about him? He was Nana's friend, owner of the Buoy's Club bar and a bait shop, but no more than that. Still, I was genuinely glad when he greeted me.

“Good morning to you, Miss Cook, and how go preparations for Midsummer up at the Inn?” He took my hand in his and gave it a few affectionate pats.

“Oh, fine,” I began, but he interrupted, holding up his index finger as if he'd just remembered something I should know.

“Saw a friend of yours down on the docks.”

My pulse kicked into gear. “You did?”

“Sittin' there eating bait, he was.”

Jesse.
In my strangest fantasies I'd never imagined I'd thrill to such a description. But that was my heart's response. My head was shouting that Jesse and I had a few issues to sort out.

“Now, there's some who think that's strange,” Red was going on, “but I tell them, take those same mussels, write 'em up on a fancy menu as sushi, and you'll be payin' ten times the price as you do at my bait shop. That's why I say that Jesse's smart. Gave me the idea for my new T-shirts too. You'll see them in all the shops if you keep your eyes open.”

“I will,” I said, but I was already moving toward the docks.

Gulls wheeled and dived overhead, looking for a handout of deep-fried fish and chips from vacationers, or scraps from fish caught and cleaned on the dock. But I didn't pay much attention to anything except Jesse.

How long had it been since I'd seen him? Counting in hours didn't work for me. All I knew was that it had been way too long.

Shirtless and smiling, Jesse sat on the pier with his
strong brown legs dangling and his wet black hair sleek against his head.

“Hi,” I said, looking down at the black mussel shells that lay empty on the newspaper they'd been wrapped in. Most of them lay open to show the iridescent blue and pink inside. “So, it's not just clams you eat raw?”

“No,” he said, and as I settled beside him on the rough boards, he touched my cheek with a decidedly fishy-smelling hand. “Any fresh seafood will do.”

As bad habits went, it wasn't awful. Some guys drank or kept tobacco bulging in their cheeks. Zack reeked of weed and preyed on weak things.

So, Jesse ate raw fish.

“I've been thinking about broadening my own culinary horizons,” I said.

He studied me, mystified until I picked up one of the shiny, unopened mussels. Then he laughed. Do you know how many raw mussels I would eat to hear him laugh again?

I pried at the shells, but they were closed tight.

“Let me,” he said.

Jesse opened the mussel and offered it like a ring box. I drew a deep breath then yanked the wet beige meat from the shell and popped it in my mouth.

I have no idea how it tasted. Salty, probably, but I was looking at Jesse. Weird Jesse, with eyes so dark his pupils weren't even there. Handsome Jesse, with his black hair
dripping on high cheekbones and golden brown shoulders. My Jesse, who knew I was loving the sun's burn on my shoulders while I wished the world would stop.

If time stopped now, before Midsummer's Eve, before high school graduation, before Jesse had to leave, it would be great. That's what I was thinking, and Jesse seemed to echo it back to me.

So it's a good thing no one asked me how raw mussels tasted because I might have said something silly. For instance, mussels taste like love.

“Damn, I guess you just can't help draggin' people down to your level.”

I recognized Zack's voice without turning.

Jesse ignored him and so did I.

He swaggered around in front of us, rubbing his eyes as if he'd just awakened, then shoving his tangled blond hair away from his eyes.

“I remember the time he got me to eat a razor clam,” Zack said.

“He puked,” Jesse said, but the words didn't seem natural on his tongue. I had a feeling he was remembering Zack telling the story some other time.

“Look at you.” Zack looked down on me. “You're all clean and neat, but you sit down on that dirty pier, sticky with tar and fish guts, to be next to him.”

Convulsed with disgust, Zack's face reminded me of
black-and-white photographs I'd seen of Ku Klux Klan members during the early days of the Civil Rights movement. It was like he thought I was lowering myself to be with Jesse.

He didn't spit at us, but I wouldn't have been shocked if he had.

When he trudged on down the pier to his job at the video arcade, it was a relief. Neither of us said a thing until a girl walked by wearing a T-shirt lettered
RED'S BAIT SHOP AND SUSHI BAR
, and somehow that reminded me I had errands to do for Nana. I must have jerked or something, because Jesse noticed.

“You have to go,” he said fatalistically.

“I promised Nana I'd do some things for her,” I said, “but come with me. Please.”

He did. And this was more like having a boyfriend.

He held my hand as we walked to the grocery store. Inside, it wasn't scary at all. It was like going into a haunted house that had terrified you as a little kid, then going back as a teenager.

In Siena Bay everyone—except Zack—seemed to love Jesse. When we first came into Mrs. Leoni's grocery store, a cashier pointed at the
NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE
sign on the wall.

As Jesse hesitated in the doorway, Mrs. Leoni appeared.

“Oh, it's you, Jesse,” she said. “And Gwennie Cook,
how nice.” She lowered her voice. “You two go on ahead.”

You two.
I liked the sound of that.

At Sadie Linnet's bookstore, a marvel of skylights, hanging plants, and fish tanks, Jesse had admirers as well.

“Just let me look at this a minute,” I said, paging through a beautiful, big hardback book about the cliff divers in Acapulco.

Jesse fidgeted beside me. He couldn't wait to get back outside.

As I looked at the photographs I lectured myself about bravery. I should trust my instincts. See the spot. Aim for it. And dive off Mirage Point as I'd always wanted to do.

My eyes lost focus as I stared at the book. Walking around the village square, I'd spotted Dr. Cates's office, but it had been closed for lunch, and I wasn't going back. I knew the fog lights for Nana's Cadillac weren't crucial. In fact, I was pretty sure it was just a ruse to get me to talk with Dr. Cates again.

Well, I didn't need to talk with him. I was working things out on my own.

I felt Jesse's hand on my waist before I registered what he was saying.

“I'd love to see you dive.”

I closed the book and positioned it back on the shelf, then looked up. It was weird how close I felt to him,
when he knew nothing of my life in Valencia.

“I used to dive,” I told him. “But not like that.” I nodded at the book. “When I was a child, I wanted to dive off Mirage Point, but I always got scared at the last minute.”

“Do it now,” he said.

I raised up on tiptoe, and right there in Village Books, I kissed him on the cheek.

He left me just after that, refusing a trip to the gas station and a ride back to Mirage Beach. Jesse didn't like cars any more than he liked being inside houses or shops. As I drove back to my cottage, I sympathized. The roads around here were so rough, they almost made me bite my tongue.

The next day we were busy at the Inn, so busy, that I arrived at 7
A.M.
and didn't get to go home at all.

We draped flower garlands, wove ribbons every place ribbons could be woven, baked trifles full of peaches and cherries, and iced King's Cakes to be eaten after midnight.

I wore a green and gold gown patterned with vines and roses. It was long, clingy, and actually easy to move in. I was just climbing down from dusting Nana's Queen crowns above the hearth when one of the college kids—or Hobbits, as Thelma persisted in calling them—hailed me.

The casement windows were open, and the Hobbits sat on the patio, talking and reading and waiting for the solstice fun to begin.

“I'm a recovering nerd,” confided Arnold, the bespectacled one. “And I'm the only one who remembers your grandmother's way of telling the selkie legend correctly.” He looked pointedly at the others before turning back to me. “Could you help me out, here?”

Blowing my hair from my eyes, I looked at the others.

“Yes?”

“He's saying it's a local legend,” the girl named Myra said.

I wobbled my hand back and forth.

“It's a Scottish legend transplanted here and probably Americanized a little.” While I drew a breath, she bragged, “See!” so I tried to stay in Arnold's corner. “The word 'selkie' comes from the Scottish for seal, and we only have sea lions here, but if you look out there”—I gestured toward the beach—“it's clear how the legend started. Look at that, beyond the shine on the water.” I pointed at a black rock. “There, where the waves are lapping up and over.”