Two Weeks in August (2 page)

Her shoes flipped from her feet and she waded in heedlessly. The foamy water grasped teasingly at her calves, let go, then grabbed again. She breathed deeply of the spicy breeze, feeling warm contentment steal over her. This was definitely home.

Later, after a simple brunch of fruit salad made from peaches, cantaloupe and strawberries, Nina got right to work.

Although her parents always pushed to take care of her financially, and her grandfather’s death had left her well off, Nina still preferred to work. She actually enjoyed her job. She had always loved to read, even as a small child, so when she had seen an advertisement soliciting readers for a large publishing company while still in college, it had seemed a dream job too good to be true.

Investigating further, she discovered that although the pay was nominal, she would be the first to read some of the newest novels published. In fact, she would have a part in deciding how
a pending novel would be promoted. Because she had a degree in psychology, Jennings-Ryder Books had assigned her to the young adult market and she had been asked to create a detailed questionnaire about how certain novel elements would affect age-specific readers.
 
The challenge had been daunting but Nina had leapt upon it with enthusiasm. Now, after completing each preliminary manuscript, she would fill out a detailed psychological profile of the book and note possible outcomes.
 
She had taken the job two years ago and never regretted the decision.

Martha Jennings, the editor she answered to, had become Nina’s second mother and personal cheering section. During the past year, Martha had developed a close friendship with Nina’s mother as well and often spent weekends at the Alexandria home of Nina’s parents.

Nina sat at the desk, the manuscript before her, and slowly read the final two chapters. Then the work really began. Opening her computer, she thoughtfully, carefully, referring often to notes made earlier, completed a five-page detailed synopsis of the book, a sword and sorcery fantasy this time, then typed in several pages about possible reaction to the work and specific points she liked or disliked as she completed the questionnaire.

Free wireless Internet access had been one of the selling points of Channel Haven and Nina logged on, using the information provided on a card next to the lamp. She called up her e-mail account and wrote Martha a long chatty letter, attaching the questionnaire and summaries. Afterward, Nina hesitated a considerable time, gathering courage, and then opened her inbox. She was crushed to see nothing from Rhonda. Her mother had written, however, and Nina was glad to hear gossip from home. Her old home. Several friends had written as well and Nina spent a good while answering everyone, telling each how excited she was about her new island home.

Altogether, it took her four hours and after sealing the annotated manuscript into a mailer, she was shocked to see that it was half past three o’clock. She rose from the desk and stretched. A hot shower was in order. In the bathroom, a tousled, weary-eyed Nina stared back at her from the well-lit mirror.

Thank goodness this book was finished. Rarely had she encountered such trouble getting through a novel. Sword and sorcery was not something she would have chosen for herself but she was sure the fans of this particular author would welcome it. Now she would have several days free until Martha sent another manuscript for her to read and review.

She stripped and stepped into the hot shower, scrubbing tension from her body, and then slipped into a fresh T-shirt and shorts. Few things in life felt better than a hot shower and clean clothes.

As it was still only late afternoon, Nina decided she would take a quick ride around the island. It would be interesting to see what had changed since her last trip here when she and almost the entire island had gathered to say a final goodbye to her grandfather, Captain Tom.

Chapter 3

Leaving Channel Haven, Nina headed left, circling toward the causeway which provided entry onto the island from the mainland, or actually, from the Delmarva Peninsula. This was familiar ground and she always enjoyed the drive alongside the water. Chincoteague Island wasn’t very big so only by going deep inland to the biting-fly infested pine thickets could she escape a view of the surrounding water. Although she’d traveled inland extensively, nothing pleased her as much as witnessing the vagaries of ocean where it met the island shore.

To Nina’s left, in the green and gray salt marsh, a lone white egret lifted in unexpected flight. She watched the graceful soaring spellbound until an ominous humming alerted her that her Volkswagen had strayed dangerously close to the guardrail. She sighed and returned her attention to the road, her entire being sated by the beauty of crisp white wings against dappled blue sky.

The causeway road sloped downward and memories escaped their dwelling within her heart. How many times had she traveled that string of bridges during the past twenty years? Many times, it was Nina and her mother, her father too busy maintaining his real estate empire to accompany them. But mother and daughter came nevertheless, drawn irresistibly by the call of the ocean tides and the spirit of the islands.

And Grandpapa Tom, of course.

Nina’s mother, Freda Burley, had grown up on Chincoteague Island, the lovely narrow ten-mile long island sandwiched between the Delmarva Peninsula and Assateague Island, the barrier island of Virginia and Maryland. She had spent the first eighteen years of her life in the care of her father, Captain Tom Burley, and a mother-hen housekeeper named Anna Cargill. Freda’s mother, Emily, died suddenly when Freda was three, from a cerebral hemorrhage brought on by a second pregnancy.

Yet Freda’s childhood had been idyllic. The pampered child of a grieving father and in the charge of a devoted housekeeper, she roamed the island freely, known well by the locals and living closely with the nuances of nature. She had, as the old salts said, the sea in her.

When her own daughter was born, Freda and husband Patrick Christie deliberately made their home in nearby Alexandria, Virginia so visits to the island were a common occurrence. And Freda told Nina the island lore, about the ponies, about the ghosts that haunted the islands, and especially about the one in Woods Grove who carried glowing orbs of other spirits as she searched for her own orb. Freda had also told Nina about her own childhood, her reminiscences full of detail and joy.

Nina wasn’t sure she had the sea in her—not yet, not having lived on the island full time, but she did realize her own childhood visits to the island were a precious jewel she would always cherish.

And now Chincoteague would be her home.

Nina studied the small island village, somewhat isolated and abused by the harsh salt climate. The red and blue trawlers, their mooring lines trailing like too-long whiskers from dancing boat to dock, reminded Nina of Grandpapa Tom. She saw his long, fine mustache swaying with each exhalation as he told her stories of the ocean, recalling his days as a deckhand on
Little Murphy
, Norfolk, then as captain of his own boat, the
Lady Say
out of Chincoteague.

Seagulls sported above her car, begging with playful cries. Normally Nina would grin at their foolishness but today pangs of sadness tugged at her. The
Lady Say
was gone, sold to an old friend of Tom’s, and she would never hear Grandpapa tell another story, or smell his rich pipe tobacco, or feel the almost painful hug from his strong, heavily muscled arms.

Perhaps living in his house would help keep Grandpapa Tom alive in her heart. Perhaps escaping her life in Washington, DC, would help the memory of Rhonda fade from that same heart.

Rhonda. Nina missed her so much. It was sad to realize that she would never again see Rhonda’s lean cheeks crease as she laughed at Nina’s bookish ways. Never smell the expensive scent she wore, designed especially for her by her father’s perfumery, and never again feel her possessive kisses.

Distracted by persistent thoughts of Rhonda, Nina suffered a momentary confusion at the first stoplight she encountered. Did she want to go left or right? This was only her second trip alone to the island and she regretted those oblivious days of gaping at the scenery while her mother or father drove. Her most recent solo trip, to attend Grandpapa Tom’s funeral, had passed in a somber fog.

A large truck slowed behind her and habit pulled her car to the right, onto North Main Street. The sight of familiar tourist shops inundated her, narrow storefronts crowded crazily into their brothers, each window loudly touting the goods within. As a child, Nina had wandered through these stores on scuffed flip-flops, access freely granted by proprietors who knew her by name or as Freda’s “gull,” the island equivalent of girl. The wild colors in the stores had amazed her; still did today. Nothing in life compared to the bright neon of beach colors and she experienced a pleasant thrill of recognition and longing each time she spied them, no matter where she was.

She passed Dean’s Fish Fry where Grandpapa Tom had eaten religiously every Wednesday evening, where Nina and her mother always did as well, whenever they were on the island.
 
Once they’d even ventured out into the empty streets during a hurricane watch just to eat at Dean’s. And strangely enough, Dean and his wife, Early, had cooked for them and for the two or three other brave souls who had ventured out under leaden skies.

“I’d just as soon die eating Dean’s hush puppies and crab legs than at home,” her Grandpapa had stated that night, the words accompanied by a hearty laugh.

Nina smiled at the memory and confidently turned right at the next stoplight.

Here, on Church Street, a different, less busy scene met her eyes. Small groups of rental cottages framed the occasional restaurant, and many private homes, all quaint and well maintained, spread out in welcoming harmony. Sporadic human voices carried to her through open windows, highlighting the constant screech of the gulls. The noise of the sea birds had already become barely discernible background noise, she noted; she had to pay attention to hear them now. Smoke from numerous charcoal grills inundated her senses, making her mouth water just from the memories evoked by the scent. She waved to friends and strangers alike as she passed them by.

Salt marsh stretched to her left, rare on this Assateague side of the island, appearing in certain choice inlets only. The ripe smell of low tide took over and it was like a subtle pheromone, engendering peace in her. Chincoteague.

A fresh burst of hot, moist air rushed across her as she coasted the main curve on Church Street and her bicycle, which she hadn’t bothered to unload, jiggled in its carrying rack on the back of her car. And suddenly there it was—her new home, left to her by Grandpapa Tom in his handwritten will.

Her gaze roamed across the property, so soothingly familiar and full of memories. She remembered the house well, had investigated every corner of the imposing structure during the first decade of her life. The old picnic table stood sentinel on the sparse, rocky side lawn. Nina saw herself there, eating warm watermelon, a triangle-shaped slice of melon in each hand, pulp and black seeds adorning both cheeks as she chased the gulls that were circling her awaiting a tidbit. To this day, she was grateful to her mother who, though grimacing with irritation, nevertheless accepted Nina’s grass- and melon-stained clothing with equanimity.

The large two-story house was Georgian in style, but certainly was a bastardized version, made of white-painted wood siding instead of the customary brick, and painted white. It also possessed a long veranda-type porch across the front, Virginia’s gift to the stodgy New England architecture.

It perched on a rocky, convex curve of the island, just off Church Street, like some ancient gray and white great heron, brimming with pride and age as it stared seaward. The backdrop of the much-loved house consisted only of the pale taffy blue of the ocean sky and the darker, congested blue of the choppy channel waters.