The Deep Blue Sea for Beginners (9 page)

“Thank you,” she said. He nodded, about to leave, but she grabbed his wrist.

“Did you want me to carry the bag on board for you?” he asked, confused. “I figured with my boots, and your nice teak deck and all …”

“What do you hear from her?” she asked.

“Her?” he asked. “You mean Pell?”

She nodded. Her face was impassive, but some indefinable emotion clouded her eyes. “Yes. Has she contacted you?”

“Of course,” he said. “We email and call each other.”

“Does she say how she is?”

“Pell is fine. She says that Capri is beautiful, and—”

“How is her mother?”

Again, Travis felt shocked by the conversation. The fact that Mrs. Nicholson was talking to him, that she would come out and ask him anything, was surprising.

“Pell said they’re enjoying time together,” Travis said, careful not to divulge too much of what Pell had told him. It was up to her, if she wanted to confide in her grandmother.

“Her mother is not the person Pell wishes her to be,” Mrs. Nicholson said. As he watched, the old woman’s eyes turned sad and bitter.

“No, but she’s still her mother,” Travis said.

“Do you think that’s enough?” Mrs. Nicholson asked.

“For Pell it is,” Travis said.

“She insisted on taking this trip,” Mrs. Nicholson said. “Against my advice. She will be disappointed.”

Travis wanted to tell her that she didn’t know Pell, but he held back. He watched her step on board
Sirocco
. Then he turned and jogged up Memorial Boulevard to Newport Academy. Huge old trees shaded the grounds; like many other Newport mansions, the grand and imposing main building was set on Cliff Walk, overlooking the ocean.

Travis’s family had recently moved to a slightly bigger house, with a bedroom for Carrie and Gracie, in a wooded grove behind the academic buildings. Opening the screen door, he felt exhaustion overtaking him. His arms ached from pulling nets, and he couldn’t stop yawning. The smell of coffee came from the kitchen; he walked in, found his mother at the table, reading the paper.

“You’re home!” she said as he bent to give her a kiss.

“Where’s everyone?” he asked.

“Carrie had to be at the library by nine, and Beck and Lucy already took Gracie to the beach,” she said.

“Is Lucy okay?”

“I’m keeping an eye on her,” his mother said. “She misses Pell.”

Travis worked long, strange hours, and on nights Lucy slept over, he’d find her pacing the house, or sitting in the living room, staring at TV with the sound off. Sometimes even with the picture dark, just a black screen. Travis was used to traumatized young girls—his sister Beck had gone through a massive stealing phase after their father died.

“Pell’s kind of worried about her,” Travis said.

“Sounds as if you are too.”

“She’s not sleeping much.”

“I know, honey,” his mother said. “But I think it gave her a huge lift to talk to her mother. They’re trying to work it all out.”

Travis sat across from his mother, feeling lucky. His family had been through a tough year. Moving to Newport, coming to grips with his father’s death, his sister’s absence, watching his mother try to get her life together. That had included reuniting with Carrie’s father—J. D. Blackstone, his mother’s old boyfriend from a Newport summer long ago.

The Shaws were getting through it. Mainly because his mom, no matter what mistakes anyone made, including herself, reminded them that they were a family, that’s what counted. They talked, argued, took time for themselves, but always eventually worked it out. For most people, there were no guarantees in life or love.

“I have the feeling Lucy will be fine,” his mother said. “I hope she’s relaxing this morning, down at the beach. There’s nothing more soothing than sun and salt water.”

Travis hoped she was right. Pell and Lucy had held themselves together all this time. Everyone had secret ways of getting through.

Lucy and Beck took Gracie down the hill from Newport Academy to Easton’s Beach. It was really early, so they had the whole strand to themselves. The waves rolled to shore in long, silvery frills, trailing white foam behind. Beck dug a huge hole by the water’s edge, and Lucy held Gracie, dipping her little feet into the chilly, shallow wave wash, making her laugh each time.

“Almost ready,” Beck called as she dug deeper and deeper, throwing sand aside.

Gracie wriggled, wanting to be free, and toddled over to the big pile of wet sand. She buried her hands, and made Lucy find them. Lucy pretended to be surprised each time, gasping with shock, making them all laugh. It was strange, playing on this beach. Most of Lucy’s best young memories were of her dad; like when she’d ride her tricycle in their Grosse Pointe driveway, and he’d watch her going up and down as long as she wanted, until her legs got tired. Or when he brought home her first baseball glove and played catch with her in the backyard until after dark, when fireflies would appear in the bushes and tall grass.

But the beach belonged to her mother. When Lucy and Pell were very young, the year before their mother left, they had come to Newport to stay. All four of them, for their father’s vacation. He’d gone fishing with his old school friends—three men like uncles to Lucy and Pell: J. D. Blackstone, Stephen Campbell, and Ted Shannon. And Lucy and Pell and their mother had come to the beach.

Perhaps it had been this very stretch. Lucy remembered wearing a pink bathing suit; Pell’s had been light blue. Their mother had worn a navy one-piece, sleek and beautiful, and sunglasses and a big straw hat. They’d spread out their blanket, weighting down the corners with rocks.

Their mother had seemed happy, as if just being at the beach, by the sea, made her better.

“You’re smiling so much,” Pell had asked, a five-year-old trying to figure out the magic formula of why things seemed different. Lucy had tuned in too, wanting their mother’s happiness to last.

“I love salt water,” their mother had said. “And I love seeing my girls on the beach….”

They’d built sandcastles, and gone swimming, and picked up clamshells all along the tide line. Bubbles poured from tiny holes in the hard sand, and their mother told the girls if they dug fast, they’d find quahogs. They tried, but never were quick enough. Their mother had found bits of brown and green seaweed, and they’d draped the pieces on their arms and hair and pretended to be mermaids.

“Look, Gracie,” Lucy said now, finding a long cord of sargassum weed, brown and glistening, dotted with glossy round air pockets, remembering how she and Pell had loved to pop them. Gracie reached for the seaweed, smiling and feeling the smooth, wet surface. Lucy draped it around Beck’s neck.

“Gracie, want a mermaid bracelet?” Beck asked, getting into the spirit and smoothing a slippery band of pale green sea lettuce around Gracie’s tiny wrist, making her squeal with delight.

Lucy watched Beck and her niece. They dunked into the big hole Beck had dug, which was filling up as the incoming tide pushed the water higher up the beach. Everyone laughed, and Lucy felt hope sweeping over her. It came from seeing family together. Lucy had a weak spot for family. She thought of her sister in Capri, and she thought of the sound of her mother’s voice.

Lucy wasn’t sure how long she could wait. She had a feeling of wildness, deep in her center, that seemed to be getting bigger. It felt as if her heartbeat was pushing hope outward, into her ribs, her muscles, her skin.

Beck looked over; Lucy felt as if she was sprouting wings.

“What is it?” Beck asked.

“I want to fly there myself.”

“Like a bird?”

Lucy laughed. “Yes. A homing pigeon who knows her way to Italy.”

“Flying’s better than swimming.”

“Hey, I only tried to do that once!”

Beck held her hand. “You can stay right here with us,” she said. “Pell is going to bring her back.”

“Do you really think so?”

Beck nodded, ferociously. Lucy felt both buoyed up and held tight by her best friend. Her back itched, right on her shoulder blades, as if wings really were trying to grow there.

“I love salt water,” Lucy said out loud, because her mother had said it once, and it had made her happy. “I love the beach.”

Beck gave her a huge smile, because she was her best friend, and because she got it, and because she understood Lucy wanted more than anything to fly away to her mother and Pell.

Eight

M
ax sat at Café Figaro in the Piazzetta, face tipped toward the sun, black notebook opened on the small marble table. Aurelia, the waitress, brought him a short macchiato, and he sipped it, savoring the milk foam.

Tables close together, multicolored umbrellas touching overhead. The clock tower, with its rounded Moorish cupola, shaded the square. Max thought about the play that had come to him last night.

Four characters: a boy and a girl, a woman and an older man. All had lost the most important people in their lives, come together on an island: Capri. An epic storm blows up. A modern-day
Tempest
. He made notes, imagining the characters.

How do people find their way back to life? How does love heal? How does forgiveness take place? Redemption was an overused word and theme, yet the only one that mattered to Max. He had just written the words
where is love to be found?
when he heard someone clear his throat.

John Harriman stood over him, newspaper tucked under his arm.

“The world comes to the Piazzetta!” he said. “Drawing room of Capri.”

“Hello, John.”

“So glad to see you here. Last night was ever so interesting. Thank you for a lovely evening. May I … ?”

Max nodded, gesturing for him to take a seat. He covered his page, closed his notebook, but not quite in time.

“Ah, I was right!” John said. “The muse is speaking to you.”

“She’s never far away,” Max said.

“Of course not,” John said. “She lives in your back garden.”

“Harriman,” Max said warningly.

“Oh, stop. You’re very taken with Lyra.”

Max began to disavow the statement, but he found he couldn’t speak. It was as if the truth had become as much a part of him as his eyes. He tapped his pen on the marble tabletop.

“We’re old friends, Max,” John said. “If you can’t reveal yourself to me, who’s left? I’ve known you since Cambridge. I’ve seen it all.”

“Enough, John,” Max said.

“I loved Christina,” John said, ignoring Max’s raised hand. “You two had an epic marriage, one of the great ones. Christina was the sun—all warmth and light, no two ways about it. What happened in her last years was tragic, beyond words, to see her mind go …”

“John,” Max said sharply.

“And Lyra loved her too. That was quite obvious. She soaked up Christina’s goodness and care, as we all did. That last year, you and Lyra were completely devoted to Christina. It was touching to see, for all of us who know you well.”

Aurelia delivered coffees. Max stirred the foam with a tiny silver spoon, thinking of that last year. John was right: Lyra had been by Christina’s side. She had fed her, by hand when necessary. She had sat with her in the garden, tending the flower beds as Christina had taught her. Many days Lyra read to her, from Christina’s favorite books and new ones Lyra thought she might like.

That’s when Max’s feelings for Lyra had started to shift. He had always been fond of her, but thought of her as a troubled, spoiled, somewhat flighty American woman with endless money and a trail of wreckage left behind. Christina had gotten close to her, come home to Max with wrenching stories about Lyra’s lonely childhood and, worse, how devastated she was about leaving her own children.

Seeing her minister to Christina, reading to her with such patience, tilling the garden and planting flowers with her looking on, had filled Max with peace. Later, as Christina declined even further, Lyra took care of her in a different way. She would wipe her chin during meals; she would change her soiled clothes. She’d changed her diaper. There were nurses as well, but they were professionals. Lyra’s actions were borne of love.

“Why don’t you tell her?” John asked now.

“Don’t be foolish,” Max said.

“Don’t be cowardly.”

“I’m old enough to be—”

“Don’t say it!”

“Her father.”

“Max, you’re only as young as you feel. You go up and down those steps to the dock how many times a day? You give young Rafe a run for his money, although maybe that’s not so remarkable considering what he’s done to his body.”

“Stop it,” Max said, so sharply this time John had no choice but to take heed.

“Sorry,” John said.

“Just leave Rafe alone. He burned too brightly, hit rock bottom. He’s overcome his problems, he’s getting his life back.”

“Perhaps a romance will bloom between him and Pell. Summer love? Lyra’s daughter is lovely.”

“Yes, she is,” Max said.

John chuckled. “You and Lyra, Rafe and Pell.”

“You’ve gone round the bend, Harriman,” Max said, pushing back his chair.

“I’m an old romantic,” John said.

“Old fool, more like it,” Max said.

Max paid for his coffee, then stood up. He shook John’s hand, walked away. He strolled through the Belvedere, a loggia of white columns with a spectacular view of the Neapolitan Gulf from Ischia to Vesuvius. John Harriman was one of his oldest friends. He had figured out Max’s secret, the old spy.

It was with that thought in mind that he walked to the Belvedere, for fresh breezes and an open view of the water, and came face-to-face with Pell. The elder daughter of his heart’s desire.

My father divorced her? Was my mother lying or just crazy? Everything feels wrong. I feel sliced to ribbons. How can I tell her Lucy and I need her when I don’t trust her? Coming here was a mistake. I ran away from my mother’s terrace as fast as I could, headed toward town. The Piazzetta. On the way, I called Travis.

“I miss you,” I said.

“Same for me,” he said. “It’s driving me crazy.”

“Me too. Four thousand miles between us.” And I felt every one of them.

“How’s everything going?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You don’t know?” he asked, giving a little laugh.

For some reason, his laugh felt like a slap. We were so close; couldn’t he tell when something was really wrong? I felt myself shut down.

“I saw your grandmother this morning,” Travis went on. “She asked about you—and your mother.”

“That’s surprising,” I said. “I think she wrote my mother off long ago.”

“Maybe not. She was definitely curious about how things are going. So am I, Pell. Did I say the wrong thing?”

“It’s just that things are tense here right now. We’re just getting to know each other. I don’t even know what to hope for.”

“A relationship with her,” he said.

I said nothing. Did he think that hadn’t occurred to me? What was happening, going wrong with me? I felt sensitive to everything Travis said. I’d felt so together when I flew over, able to handle my life and Lucy’s, at least temporarily. I’d thought I would act calmly and rationally, explain to my mother my concerns. But it was as if all Capri’s mountains and cliffs stood between me and what I needed to do, to say. I couldn’t get there from here.

“Why are you mad at me?” he asked.

“I’m not. I’m sorry, I’m just in a weird mood.”

“Are you hanging out with anyone over there?” he asked finally.

“No.”

“What about the mystery man on the beach?”

“It turns out he’s Max’s grandson, and what my mother calls ‘troubled.’”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Family problems, I guess.” This is odd, but I found myself not wanting to tell Travis about Rafe. Travis picked up on it, and he went silent. Nothing was going right. Travis and I had always been great. So why couldn’t I talk to him?

“Travis. I’m sorry….”

“Don’t keep saying that, okay?” he requested.

“Okay”

“It’s just, I wish you’d tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on! Maybe I shouldn’t have come here.”

He was silent for a few seconds. A lesser man might have agreed with me, suggested I return home. Not Travis. “You’re there to get to know your mother,” he said.

“If that’s possible,” I said, still not wanting to believe what she had told me about my father. Everything was swirling around—my parents, Lucy, the terrible fact that I didn’t feel like talking to Travis. I started to sweat; the sun was hot. “I’d better go,” I said. We said goodbye.

Walking down the Phoenician Steps, I lost count at seven hundred. I was a zombie, an unhappy sleepwalker. I’d told Travis that Rafe was troubled, but maybe I’d been talking about myself instead. Suddenly I was in Capri town; that had to be the Piazzetta, café tables everywhere. I glimpsed John Harriman, his tan face tilted to the sun; thankful he didn’t see me, I ducked down an alley, began walking toward the blue: breathtaking, shocking sea and sky. The beauty began to calm my spirit and soul, but also made me feel like crying.

“Hello, Pell …”

I looked up, and guess who was taking in the same view? Max. An angel out of nowhere.

“Hi, Max,” I said. I saw him staring at my red eyes. He smiled gently. I loved how he didn’t ask me what was wrong. I had the oddest idea that he didn’t have to, that he knew. He knew my mother; he understood something of our family pitfalls.

We stood on the Belvedere, gazing out at the endless blue bay. Down below, boats thronged the harbor, white wakes splashing behind. The Marina Grande was bustling. Even from here, it reminded me of Newport—of Travis. That gave me a pang of guilt.

“Another beautiful view,” I said, feeling miserable.

“Yes, Capri has many lovely overlooks,” he said.

“Nothing could be better than the one from your terrace.”

“Or your mother’s,” he agreed. “We are very lucky. Although she’s luckiest to have you. A wise daughter willing to come all this way to make things right.”

“You know that’s what I’m doing?” I asked.

He nodded. There was such wisdom in his blue eyes. Once again, I saw the spark of youth there—eternal energy and hope. It made me think of my father; my eyes stung with more quick tears of missing him, and anger over what my mother had told me, and everything. Max saw again.

“Shall we walk?” he asked.

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. We strolled across the piazza, and he pointed out the spot where Greeks built their acropolis in the fifth century B.C. He showed me the ruins of ancient tombs from that period. We admired the clock tower, which once had been bell tower to the now-gone cathedral, and Max pointed out the tower’s eastern influences, Moroccan tiles. Bougainvillea seemed to cascade over every wall, and hummingbirds thronged.

I found comfort in his knowledge, in the way he showed me around, pointing out structures centuries old. We saw Town Hall, former home to the bishop, then the Church of St. Stephen, a brilliant white seventeenth-century building designed by Picchiatti. Lucy would have loved it, baroque with a Byzantine rounded cupola, built on the site of the ancient monastery. I stopped and stared.

“My sister would love to see this,” I said.

“Lucy,” he said.

I nodded. Suddenly tears spilled out, and this time they couldn’t be stopped. “I miss her,” I said. “She’s my little sister, my responsibility. Last year, in school, she became obsessed with contacting our father’s ghost. When he didn’t come, she felt so let down. She doesn’t sleep enough. And sometimes when she does, she sleepwalks….”

We walked, entering the medieval district, a maze of lanes and alleys. Small white houses stood close together, some first floors filled with shops and workshops, the passageways narrow, tilting up the hill, then a set of steps, a twist in the lane, a covered alley, a flash of brilliant blue sky, stone arches, more bright blue, an overhang of lush greenery and red trumpet flowers, sunlight splashing at our feet. When we came to another impossibly steep and narrow stone staircase, Max turned and gave me his hand to help me down.

“How did Lucy try to contact your father’s ghost?” Max asked.

“Through mathematical formulas,” I said. “‘Ghosts of departed quantities,’ she called it. Lucy’s very smart. But also so sensitive … she idolized my father. We both did.”

“He must have been a wonderful man.”

“He was,” I said. And then I turned to face Max. “Did my mother ever tell you they were divorced?”

He nodded, gazing at me with sadness and compassion, as if he knew the whole story, felt sorry we’d gone through so much.