Beach Girls (20 page)

“Like Bay and Tara?”

“Yes,” Stevie said. “Just like that. Our mothers loved summer, and the beach, and when they had daughters at the same time, they couldn't wait to introduce us.”

Nell smiled, seeming happy with that thought. “And what did you do together?” she asked.

“When we were
really
little, like one or two, our mothers would dig holes in the sand, right here where we're walking. They'd build little seawalls of sand to protect us from the biggest waves, and let the holes fill with water, and make us our own private wading pools.”

“She did that with me,” Nell said wistfully. “I remember her holding me in the waves.”

“She must have loved you so much,” Stevie said.

“Yes, she did,” Nell said. As they walked along, Stevie felt the tug of the waves and tide, and her heart felt the endless connection of having strolled these sands with this child's mother.

When they got to the end of the beach, they dropped their towels and ran into the water. Stevie dove right in and swam underwater for a few yards. Looking over, she saw Nell swimming beside her, bubbles escaping from a wide grin.

They came up for air, laughing and gasping.

“How far can you swim?” Nell asked.

“To France!” Stevie said.

“Really—how far? To the raft? Or the big rock?”

“The big rock,” Stevie said.

“Let's go then!”

“It's over your head,” Stevie said. “I think we'd better wait for your father to take you.”

“He trusts you!” Nell said. “Come on! I've done it with Peggy and her mom. I'll race you.”

They set off, across the cove, diagonally from the end of the beach. Stevie took care to go slow, but she was amazed by Nell's strength as a swimmer. She had a steady, even stroke, a graceful scissor kick that barely broke the surface. The beach itself was still quiet but coming to life, with just a few people sitting on the boardwalk, gazing out. Stevie loved these early morning hours, when she had the place to herself. But it was even better to share it with Nell.

They swam fifty yards, to the big rock—rounded like a whale's back, a little higher in front, sloping down to the tail in back. Climbing out, they scrambled over seaweed and barnacles to rest on the sun-warmed surface. Colonies of blue-black mussels glistened in the sun.

Crouching, Stevie and Nell watched as a ribbon of minnows wove past, followed by a swift school of snapper blues. The birds came, seagulls and terns, circling and crying overhead, then dive-bombing the school.

Nell squealed with excitement. Stevie loved that she wasn't afraid, that her curiosity kept her from ducking from the birds, or being afraid of the blues. They watched the fish zigzag, flashing silver, then dive and disappear.

“That was so cool!” Nell said.

“The food chain in action.”

“What's the food chain?”

“Well, the minnows are eaten by the snapper blues, who are eaten by bigger blues . . .”

“Who are eaten by blues as big as this rock, with seagulls chasing them all!”

Stevie laughed, thinking of a book she could write about it. “You are something, Nell Kilvert,” she said. “I might have to keep you around, just to give me great ideas. I'd never run out of books if I had you nearby.”

“Really?” she asked, beaming.

“Really.”

They sat there for a few minutes, till their bathing suits dried in the sun. Stevie glanced at Nell's feet. They were the exact same shape as Emma's—slender, with a high arch. Raising her gaze to Nell's face, she saw Jack's eyes, his straight nose, his high cheekbones. The observation made her swoon slightly. How amazing it must be, to have a child who had your feet, and looked just like the man you loved.

Her thoughts turned to Madeleine's message, how she had asked Stevie to give “them” her love. She didn't want to upset Nell by stirring up emotions about her aunt. So, sitting there on the rock, she stared at Nell's feet as hard as she could, filling her gaze with Madeleine's love, hoping Nell could somehow feel it.

“Ready to go back in?” Nell asked.

“If you are.”

Nell shook her head. She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked directly into Stevie's. “I never want to leave,” she said.

“The sun feels so good, doesn't it?” Stevie said.

Nell shrugged and said, “Hmm.” She probably thought Stevie had missed the point, although she hadn't.

Stevie knew that Nell had been talking about Hubbard's Point, this summer in general. She never wanted to leave the beach . . . Stevie remembered that feeling so well.

They eased into the water, pushing off from a submerged shelf, and began to swim back to shore. The bay glittered ahead of them, as if it were covered with diamonds and silver. When they got to shore, Stevie looked along the beach where they had walked.

She saw their footprints, two by two, still in the sand. But the tide was coming in, and the first silky waves were starting to erase them.

The sand was firm and smooth, but as each wave licked over the surface, tiny holes appeared, bubbling with froth. Nell knelt down, staring at them.

“What are they?” she asked.

“Clams,” Stevie said.

“Can we dig them?”

“Not here,” Stevie said. “The sand's too hard, and people will be coming down to spread their blankets any time now. But I know a place . . .”

“Will you take us? Me and my dad?”

“I could do that,” Stevie said slowly. “If he wanted to.”

“He will,” Nell said.

“Okay, then,” Stevie said. “How about late this afternoon? I think the tide will be right. If your father is free . . . and if he's not, maybe you and I can go alone.”

“He'll be free,” Nell said confidently. “He'll want to come. He likes you.”

“He does?” Stevie asked, blushing.

Nell nodded and gave a devilish smile.

They gave each other a hug, and then Nell ran off to meet Peggy for recreation class. Stevie started back along the beach. As she walked the tide line, she kept her eyes on the last of hers and Nell's footprints. The waves covered them a little more each time. Every day came with a little loss, Stevie thought. But right now it didn't matter so much—because this afternoon they were all going clamming.

Chapter 18

THEY TROOPED DOWN THE ROAD, LOOKING
like adventurers on an expedition, carrying clam rakes and a bucket with holes punched in the bottom and sides; Stevie rolled an inflated black inner tube, and Nell danced ahead, thrilled by the whole thing. Stevie had told them to wear old sneakers, and they had, but Jack noted that hers really took the prize.

“When you said ‘old sneakers,' you weren't messing around,” he said, looking down at her feet. She wore an ancient pair of red Converse high-tops, with the tops cut down to a fraying edge. The rubber soles were separating from the canvas, and they squeaked as she walked.

“Be careful, don't insult my clam shoes,” she said. “I've spent years breaking these in.”

“You'd never know,” he said.

“So,” she said. “Tell me what you found at the castle.”

Jack had spent the morning going over every inch of the building—measuring, testing, surveying. “It's in a pretty bad state,” he said. “And I'm glad your aunt spoke to you when she did. Another couple of bad winters, and I think the ceilings and floors would be beyond repair. As it is . . .”

“Is it fixable?”

“With substantial work. It won't be cheap, Stevie. Your aunt was working when I first got there, and then Henry and Doreen showed up, so I never got the chance to really ask her about her plans. Does she have the money to do this?”

“Uncle Van loved to live,” Stevie said. “So much so, that I think he left her with more bills than funds. She's incredibly respected as an artist, though, and does very well.”

“It would take a few good sales to earn enough to fund the trust and start to repair the castle,” Jack said. “I'm doing what I can, to come up with some ideas, but the foundation she creates will really need to hire an architect and builder, someone who specializes in stonework, to do most of it.”

“Dad—
you
specialize in stonework. Bridges, bridges, bridges made of stone,” Nell said, skipping backward.

“I know, Nell, but—”

“He wants to do it,” Nell said. “He really does. He wouldn't be going over there on his vacation if he didn't. And you should see the stone bridges he built in Maine! And the one in South Carolina, on the island where the wild ponies live!”

“He's done so much for us already,” Stevie said. “I know my aunt is very thankful.”

Jack just smiled, glad she was so pleased. He knew what Nell was doing: angling for him to stay here to work on the castle project. It was tempting, too. He had felt excited by the massive challenge, the idea of restoring such a magical place. But he held back from saying any more; Nell was already in serious denial about them leaving. After he'd brought up Scotland the other night, she had blocked her ears to any further conversation. As far as she was concerned, they were never leaving Hubbard's Point. For this afternoon, Jack was happy to pretend right along with her.

They walked east, along the shady, winding roads that led to a nearly hidden beach near the train tracks. Jack vaguely remembered coming here when he was a teenager—it was far from the main beach, a good place to build a fire and drink beer and feel the trains roar by.

Stevie had timed the tide perfectly: it was all the way out. The tidal flats gleamed like varnished mahogany in the late daylight. Stevie began to walk out; Nell ran to catch up to her, and Jack followed. Their sneakers slapped on the wet sand.

Jack was just fine, walking behind. He couldn't take his eyes off Stevie. Her hair was cut straight across, revealing the nape of her neck. She wore cutoff jeans and a paint-smeared black T-shirt that said
TALKING HEADS
. The sleeves were cut very short, showing the tops of her shoulders, which looked strong and delicate at the same time.

The flats gave way to shallow water. They waded in, which made the going a little slower. Stevie now set the inner tube down, letting it float. She tied a rope to it, letting Nell pull it along.

Jack had spent the morning with Stevie's aunt. She had told him about Stevie's childhood, how she had lost her mother at such a young age.

“Were they close?” Jack had asked.

“Yes, very. Stevie was almost destroyed by the news. She . . . literally pulled her hair out. Johnny, my brother, went into her room and found great hanks of hair on the pillow, in her fists; he had to pry them out. That night she went color-blind. It was a bizarre, traumatic reaction. . . . She'd always been an artist, from a tiny child, and it was as if her psyche had just decided that life was over, and deprived itself of color.”

“How long did it last?” Jack asked with shock.

“Six months. Johnny took her to neurologists, who were completely stumped. They'd never seen it before. They recommended therapy, even hospitalization. Johnny found a good doctor for her, but he kept her home, of course. Susan was a miracle worker . . . she helped Stevie to recover. A mixture of art and talking therapy . . .”

Jack remembered what Stevie had said about her meetings with Susan; her words had helped him feel better about Dr. Galford.

“Through Susan's guidance, Johnny bought some paints and encouraged Stevie to finger paint. She did it . . . without being able to see the colors. All her pictures were of birds. She told him . . .” Aunt Aida's voice broke. “That she wanted to grow wings, so she could fly to heaven and see her mother.”

The sight of Stevie and Nell together filled Jack with a kind of momentary despair—the knowledge that life could change in an instant. But seeing them wading out, joking, also made him feel happy—to think that his daughter had found someone she liked so much, and to know that Stevie, of all people, knew exactly what Nell had been through. Jack had made up his mind, after Emma died, to do whatever he had to do for Nell. He wanted her to love her mother, as Stevie had loved hers. But protecting her memory came with such a high cost. He thought of his sister and trailed back.

“Why does your shirt say ‘Talking Heads'?” Nell asked, her voice carrying back across the water.

“It's a band that went to my school.”

“Did you know them?”

“No, they were ahead of me. But I like their music.”

“What school was it?”

“RISD. Rhode Island School of Design.”

“How come painters and musicians went to the same school?”

Stevie laughed. “Art isn't any one thing,” she said. “It's big, bigger than anything. It's how you express what's inside.”

“Who would want to know what's inside me?” Nell asked, giggling nervously.

“The whole world would,” Stevie said.

“I don't get that,” Nell said.

“I think you will someday,” Stevie said, touching Nell's head, and the sight of it made Jack's heart turn over. “I'm pretty sure there's an artist in there.”

Nell laughed again. The sandy bottom had suddenly turned mucky, and they stopped walking. Stevie hooked the bucket inside the inner tube, and she gave Jack and Nell the two clam rakes. They had long, curved iron “tines” and old wooden handles, splintery from getting wet with salt water and drying out again.

“Okay . . . you just drag the rakes through the mud till you feel something . . . then pull it up and flip it into the bucket.”

“What'll it feel like?” Nell asked.

“It's hard to explain,” Stevie said. “But when it happens, you'll know!”

“What'll you use?” Jack asked, because there wasn't a third rake.

Stevie beamed and lifted a sopping red sneaker out of the water. “My feet!” she said.

They went to it. Jack raked the mud, feeling a strange satisfaction and excitement. There was something about the uncertainty, never knowing which rakeful would yield treasure. He thought about how results-oriented and workmanlike he had become. When he drew lines and angles, plans and blueprints, bridges were inevitably built. He was into equations he could solve, formulas he could count on. He gravitated toward foregone conclusions.

That's what Scotland was to him. Quit Structural, pack up daughter, move as far from the truth as possible—happy, normal life. But it stuck in his mind—the pleasure of doing something for no reason at all, and the way his heart had flipped to hear Stevie talking to Nell about art.

“I got one!” Nell squealed.

Jack and Stevie leaned in, watched her bring up the rake. Gray muck dripped into the water as Nell dropped the whole thing into the bucket suspended in the inner tube. Water flowed through the holes, dispersing the mud, revealing a nice big cherrystone.

“Wow, good job!” Jack said.

“That is a great clam,” Stevie said, holding it up, admiring it in the light.

“What will we do with it?” Nell asked.

“Well, if we catch more, we can have dinner,” Jack said. “Maybe Stevie will join us.”

“Thank you,” Stevie said, her face glowing as much as Nell's.

They kept at it as the sun began to go down. They must have found a good spot, because suddenly they all began getting clams. Stevie seemed to feel them with her feet, then worked them to the surface, and picked them up. The light was clear and gray, tinged with purple and gold. It lay across the water, creating a flat pewter shine, and it hit the rock islands in the southeast, North and South Brother, turning their granite crags burnt orange.

The tide turned, and the water began flooding back in. Jack felt the surface rise from his knees to his thighs. Stevie was waist deep, and Nell was up to her chest. They both started to laugh, and at once ducked under. Coming up, their hair slick, shoulders dripping, the black shirt stuck to Stevie's body. She glanced at him, eyes sparkling with the fun she was having, and he forced a smile. She was beautiful and radiant, and Nell loved her, and she was about as far from a foregone conclusion as Jack could imagine, and he made himself look away.

THEY WENT
to Stevie's house. Since her dad was so tall, his clothes hadn't gotten wet. So he went into the kitchen to wash the clams while Nell and Stevie rinsed off in the outside shower. Nell loved it—standing outside in the cool air, smelling honeysuckle and sassafras while hot water poured over her head.

They wrapped up in towels and ran barefoot up the side hill, into the kitchen.

“Don't look, Dad,” Nell laughed, and her father pretended to hide his eyes. She and Stevie went upstairs; because Nell's clothes were soaking wet, Stevie rummaged through her drawers for something she could wear.

“How about these?” she asked, holding up a pair of pedal pushers and a sweatshirt.

“Sure,” Nell said. She pulled them on. She liked the way the shirt felt so soft and smelled like Stevie. Stevie found a big safety pin, and she pinned the waistband of the pants, to keep them from falling down. The sun was down now, and the bird was asleep in its cage. Nell went over and stared at it while Stevie got dressed. The crow looked so alone, its head tucked under its wing. The sight made Nell's heart hurt. She wondered where its family was.

Downstairs, they all worked together to get dinner ready. Stevie showed Nell where the table-setting things were. She used cloth napkins, which seemed very, very special, and Tilly sat on the table, watching that Nell put them in the right places. Out in the kitchen, her father chopped garlic and shallots. He made a joke about the onion making him cry, but Nell and Stevie could see he was really laughing. That made Nell feel so happy.

“We've got pasta boiling, we've got shallots and garlic cooking in olive oil,” her father said. “What else do we need for the sauce?”

“Fresh herbs!” Stevie said, grabbing both of their hands. She pulled them outside, to the small herb garden beside the house, with Tilly scooting into the trees. “Hubbard's Point herb gardens are magical,” she said. “Almost every house has one.”

“But not as magical as yours,” Nell's father laughed. “We all know what the kids say about you.”

“Dad!” Nell said, shocked that he would bring up the witch rumor.

“Oh, Nell . . . there's a little bit of truth in everything the kids say,” Stevie said, standing knee-high among the fragrant herbs. “I do believe in magic.”

“Really?” Nell asked, stepping in to stand beside her. The scents of rosemary, thyme, mint, and chervil swirled around them and made her feel almost dizzy.

“Yes. I believe that if you want something enough, and wish in the right way, then the right thing will happen.”

“The right way?” Nell's father asked.

“Yes,” Stevie said, pointing out which herbs to pick.

“But how?”

“Well, you do your best to bring it about. And then you give up control of the results.”

Nell reached down; it was dark, and she couldn't see what she was grabbing. There could be mice, or spiders, or snakes in there. But she trusted Stevie. And the herbs smelled so good, and the night felt enchanted. She picked handfuls of parsley and cilantro.

“Who do you give up the control to?” Jack asked.

Stevie didn't answer, and neither did Nell. She closed her eyes tight. She remembered being in Georgia, being so sad at every single thing, and how she had wished, wished with everything she had, that she and her father could be happy. And that very weekend, he'd told her that they were going to move to Boston to try something new. And that step had somehow led them to coming to Hubbard's Point for the summer, where she'd met Peggy . . . and Stevie. With her eyes still closed, she wished their time together would never end.