The Summer of Chasing Mermaids (13 page)

Chapter 16

“In total defiance of
American tradition, they don't do Fourth of July fireworks here,” Kirby said. “The Cove saves them for the Mermaid Festival. But if we were anywhere else in the States? Fireworks.”

Why are we going?
I asked. After weeks of turning down invitations to hang out with Kirby, Vanessa, and the gang, I'd finally agreed to this one, mostly because Lemon had threatened to make me an herbal-lotion lab rat if I didn't leave the house tonight.

Kirby shrugged. “We always go. And I've been working my butt off lately, so I need a fun night out. And anyway­”­—she grabbed my sleeve; she could sense I was about to turn back, and she held firm, kicking up her campaign—“there's a bonfire, with hot dogs and s'mores and sparklers. Sometimes people bring beer. I mean, usually they do.” At my ongoing reluctance she tossed out a final bone, though with markedly less enthusiasm. “Christian and those guys will be there.”

Noah?
I wanted to know. Even in the twilight haze, her face brightened. I smirked and marched ahead, but she ran to catch up, linking our arms.

“One more thing. Um, Vanessa? I already told her you wouldn't go for it, but she has this kind of fun but also crazy idea that the three of us should sign up for the—”

“My girls!” Vanessa bolted for us as soon as she saw us cresting the last dune. Behind her they'd already gotten the bonfire going, a roaring orange blaze that the folks over at Coos Bay could probably see. “Let's get this party started, y'all.”

She handed each of us a plastic cup filled with something that smelled like peaches and burning.

I downed a few gulps, let the alcohol soak in and loosen the tension that had been building steadily since my call with Granna earlier. With Natalie.

But I knew that no matter how much I drank tonight, no matter how many hours or days passed, I wouldn't be able to erase her image from my mind. Her voice from my ears.
Elyse?

“Elyse? Did Kirbs tell you about my master plan?” Vanessa asked.

“She'll say no,” Kirby said.

“She did?”

Kirby sighed. “No. But she will. That's not Elyse's thing.”

I looked at Kirby.
What's not?

Kirby held up her drink. “This? Peach schnapps and fruit punch. Vanessa calls it Texas tea.”

“We're talking about the mermaid parade, Kirby,” Vanessa said. “God, you two are, like, I don't even know.” She grabbed my hand, flashed her impossible-to-ignore smile. “Before you say no, we'd all be doin' it together, and we'd look smokin' hot and it would basically be the most fun.”

It was hard not to get caught up in Vanessa's current. I offered a guarded smile.

“Mermaid parade,” she said. “Tell her, Kirbs.”

“Fine.” Kirby was ready with the full-on talking brochure. “It's all part of the festival,” she said. “Friday night is the fellowship walk 'n' feast, where everyone sets up food and drink stations outside their doors, and people just walk around stuffing themselves silly.”

“And fellowshippin',” Vanessa said. “Being neighborly and whatnot.”

“Exactly,” Kirby said. “And drinking, too. Hence the walking thing.”

“Stumblin', more like,” Vanessa said.

“Saturday is the big day. Arts-and-crafts festival, sea glass competition, parade, and then the regatta.” Kirby paused for a sip of Texas tea, then went on. “After all that, there's a closing party at the Black Pearl for anyone left standing. That's when they do the fireworks, right off the back docks. The parade is awesome—totally campy, but super fun. We all compete for the mermaid queen crown, but unlike the regatta, our stuff is really good-natured.”

Vanessa laughed. “Damn, girl. You should work for the chamber a' commerce.”

“I would if we had one. Anyway,” Kirby said, “the parade is usually
over by ten, ten-thirty, rain or shine. And the boats sail at noon. You could get there on time. I mean, if you were thinking about it. Which I totally understand if you're not. But if you
were
, and you don't mind sailing in your mermaid gear, you could swing it.”

Gear?
I mouthed.

“Costumes and accessories,” Vanessa said. “I don't think there's a girl in town who doesn't march. Local or not. It's, like, the
thing
to do. People start planning months in advance, but I don't need that kind of lead time—give me sequins and a glue gun, and I'll
Project Runway
us a whole school a' mermaids.” She looked at Kirby, her eyes fuzzy. “Are they called schools? Or gaggles?”

This sent the two of them into a giggling fit. If I wanted to last the night, I needed to catch up. I finished my drink and grabbed Kirby's, downed the rest.

The mermaid parade sounded a little like Carnival back home. Playing mas, we called it—masquerading. Soon as one Carnival season passed, we were already thinking about the next, planning our costumes, mapping out the best parties and fêtes, scheming ways to stay out all night and hit them all.

“Anyway,” Kirby said, finally taking a breath. She looked around for her drink, not even realizing I'd finished it. “We could get ready together. Ooh, we could do a theme!”

“Far as I'm concerned,” Vanessa said, “any day we get to wear glitter eye shadow and seashell bras is a good day. Am I right?”

“It's a good day for
me
,” Christian said. He'd come from behind the
dune, carrying a plate of bun-wrapped hot dogs that smelled fresh off the fire. “Wiener delivery. I've come to tempt you gorgeous ladies back to the fire with my extra-long—”

“Check yourself before you wreck yourself, hot stuff.” Vanessa grabbed three dogs, passing one to each of us. Mid-chew, we followed Christian back to the bonfire, where Noah and a few other people had gathered. I didn't know the newcomers, but I'd seen most of them around, passing through the marina or getting shakes or coffee at the Black Pearl. As usual, they looked at me with a mix of curiosity and over-politeness, a strange blend I'd come to expect in Atargatis Cove.

Christian's friends from the docks last week were there too—Gracie and Brenda—and I was relieved when they offered a matched set of genuine smiles.

There were blankets spread out around the fire, and I settled down next to Vanessa, kicking off my shoes and stretching my toes toward the fire.

All around me the group chattered and gossiped, roasting hot dogs and marshmallows, their laughter set to the soundtrack of the sea. After a while Gracie and Brenda stood, sauntered closer to the shore to where a few kids were writing their names in the air with sparklers.

The beach party reminded me of our reggae fests on the island, outdoor gatherings full of laughs and food and strong drinks. But ours would last all day and night, pulsing with music, and this one was way too mellow for a true fest. Roasting hot dogs and marshmallows on a
stick was fun, but they were no substitutes for the grilled kingfish and mangoes from home.

After the hot dog I'd been working on a marshmallow, but handed it to Kirby, needing suddenly to stretch my legs. I walked to the shore, away from the sparkler girls, and let the icy Pacific nibble my toes. The sun had set, but the sky was still fingered with purple and pink, the first of the night's stars glittering in the Oregon mist.

I kept a safe distance from the crashing surf. I had no intention of tempting Atargatis again.

My toes went numb in the sand, and again I wondered if I'd ever get used to things here, if I could ever learn to call it home. In this ­little cove, the music was soft, the food mild, so many of the ­people cool and stiff. I didn't mean it as an insult, only a comparison, a simple observation that left me wondering again and again where, exactly, I belonged.

Heaviness tugged at my heart as I thought of Granna and Natalie. Would they even
want
me back? Did
I
want me back?

“Don't take this the wrong way.” Christian's voice should've ­startled me, but the ocean was so loud, so constant, I'd barely heard him.

I looked at him, raised my eyebrows in question.

“You're a tough one to crack,” he said, stepping closer. The breeze whipped against us, and we instinctively huddled for warmth, backing away from the tide.

Even through his Stanford hoodie his body emanated heat, a slow and tender warmth that caressed my exposed neck. My throat.
I tugged my thin sweater sleeves over my hands to keep them from reaching for him.

“All this time we've been spending together, and this is the first you've hung out with us,” he said. “Not working, I mean. And Indian-food day doesn't count.”

No?

“Work related,” he said. “You were practically obligated.”

I shook my head, coughed out what passed for my laugh these days.

Christian ran a hand over his face, then leaned in even closer. With one arm around my shoulders, he bent his head toward my ear, and my heart raged at his familiar scent, at his closer-than-closeness. It was getting to be a regular thing with us, this casual intimacy. But each time it electrified my nerves anew.

In a raspy voice that sent a wave of desire through me, he said, “I think you have more than a few secrets, Elyse d'Abreau.”

He pulled away, cocky smile back in place.

A joke. A flirty taunt. But still I sensed that he'd tried to go there again, to dip a toe into the waters of my real story, and scared as I was, the comment had done nothing to douse that spark inside. The ember. The flame. All I could do was close my eyes, shake my head.

Nearly two months ago I'd washed up on the shores of this little Pacific hamlet from the twin-island nation of Trinidad and Tobago, with little more than a pair of sunglasses I didn't actually need and a suitcase full of memories I didn't actually want. I had five sisters, a nosey but devoted grandmother, and a loving father, all of whom
I'd walled out of my heart. Though they were all too polite to say it to my face, this entire town likely whispered and speculated about my story. I couldn't utter a word, I had a scar behind my seashell necklace that hinted at some past tragedy, and despite Kirby's and Vanessa's and even Christian's efforts to include me, outside of our time on the Vega and rare outings like tonight, I was secured in my self-imposed cocoon.

Of
course
I had more than a few secrets, Christian Kane.

I opened my eyes, flashed him a smile that I hoped couched my fear.

Christian's cocky grin didn't slip, his mischievous gaze unwavering as he said, “Speaking of secrets. I could've sworn you told me you don't dance.”

My body buzzed, skin almost as hot on the outside as the things Christian had stirred up on the inside. I opened my mouth to deny it, but he cut me off with a laugh.

“Don't even try it. I saw you out here the other night, gettin' your groove on.”

I turned away, considered asking the sea to make good on its promise. But Christian was at my side, elbowing me with a playful nudge. “You're really good, Elyse. Amazing, actually.”

We stood in silence for a moment, the heat between us fading as the breeze picked up again. Without words we marched back to the bonfire, where Kirby had done a first-rate job torching my marshmallow on account of her drooling over Noah.

“Sorry,” she said, handing me what looked like a tarred sock on a stick.

I pitched the mess into the flames and grabbed a fresh stick, speared two new marshmallows. When they reached golden perfection, I pulled two graham crackers from the stash and mushed it all together.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Christian stole my s'more before I coud take a bite. “Emergency intervention for the tourist. You can't make a s'more without chocolate.” With his free hand he dug through the bag between us for a Hershey bar, but I recoiled as if he'd offered me a snake.

That's not chocolate.

He examined the wrapper. “Well it's not vodka or whale blubber or a shoe.”

“Forget it, Christian,” Kirby said from my other side. “Elyse's ­family owns a cocoa farm. They're totally organic. We're talking legit old-school cocoa roasting. All the pods are harvested by hand and turned into chocolate the old-fashioned way.”

Christian looked impressed. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Kirby went on, “Elyse's dad was featured on the Travel Channel and everything. You'll never get her to eat commercial chocolate. Even what we consider the very best stuff here? Like, expensive stuff? She'll totally turn her nose up.”

“Dudes.” Noah opened the cooler he'd been sitting on. “All this talk of chocolate is making me thirsty. Who needs a brew?” He passed
beers to a few takers, Christian among them. When the two clinked bottles, Noah said, “I know we're supposed to be all
Fight Club
about this, but I'm buzzed and it needs to be said: This regatta blows.”

Christian took a swig of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Preach.”

“I don't want to lose
Never Flounder
. You don't want to lose the houses. What the serious hell, right?”

“Serious hell,” Christian agreed, but he'd turned away from Noah, meeting my eyes instead. In the orange light of the flame his face was soft and warm, but those eyes held a dangerous fire all their own.

Gracie and Brenda had just returned for more sparklers, but on hearing the conversation, they sat down again.

Brenda said, “I don't know about you guys, but my parents are totally fighting this Prop Twenty-Seven thing. There's a reason they bought property at the Cove instead of some big tourist place. I mean, where else can you find whole sand dollars?” She procured a few from her pocket, stacked them in a pile at her feet.

“Right?” Vanessa said. “I mean, sure, I have to drive an hour for a decent pedicure, but so what? That's not what the Cove is all about.”