Authors: Susan Wilson
“Then why not let me help out? You’ll come back, now that there’s no reason for you to stay away anymore. Or am I wrong about that?” He had her back in his arms now.
“Grainger, it would be asking too much of you to take on this responsibility. To compromise your own financial well-being for a kid you’ve only known three weeks.”
“I’m not going to lose interest in Will, like some impulsive hobby. You really can’t expect that I’m going to back away, out of his life. Or yours.”
“No. I won’t let you. But I can’t let you…”
“Pretend for a little while that he’s mine? Act the role of surrogate father? Take some responsibility for an act nineteen years old?” Grainger’s voice was rising and his arms around her were almost too tight, as if he was afraid she was going to pull away from him. “I’m being selfish. I want you to stay in my life; I can’t bear the idea of—”
“Sssh. I won’t disappear. Never again. I ran once, and kept you out of a part of your own life you should have had access to. I made big mistakes.”
Grainger rested his cheek on the top of her head, rocking her slightly, as if they stood on the deck of a becalmed ship. “Do you think we can ever move ahead?”
Kiley reached up and pulled his mouth down on hers. “I think we’ve already begun very nicely.”
As the clock in the living room chimed again, Grainger checked his watch. “It’s one in the morning. Where is he?”
“Malingering at the girl’s house.”
“You’re awfully calm.”
“I’m relishing my uninterrupted time with you.”
“What will Will think if we spring it on him like this: me here, in the middle of the night, lipstick all over my collar?”
“I was careful about that.” Kiley pretended to examine his shirt. “I really don’t know what he’ll think. Or expect of us. Or if he’ll even know what he wants.”
Grainger took her hands in his. “What do you want, Kiley?”
Kiley smiled at Grainger. “To get to know you. As an adult, who you are now. To try and see if we have more than a shared childhood and a shared tragedy.” She bent to kiss the hands grasping hers. “And we’ll need to give Will the time to adjust to the idea.”
“In that case, I’ll go home now. It’s best I’m not here when Will comes in. But I’ll be back at eight.”
“I’d be horribly disappointed if you weren’t.”
“A mere seven hours.” He smiled around the words, but they seemed unduly heavy.
They rose and held one another as if afraid they would each vanish from sight once the screen door slammed. As if in the morning, they would wake to know the night had only been a dream.
Blithe Spirit
danced on her mooring with little up-and-down motions, like an excited dog. They climbed into the sailboat, taking care to tie the dinghy to the mooring. They were only going to be out here for a minute.
“Is she a lot of fun to sail?” Catherine ran a hand along the smooth coamings.
“I guess so. Grainger…” Will was going to say “hasn’t let me,” but the words seemed so weak. “…has me working nonstop on my grandfather’s boat.”
“But you’re leaving tomorrow. When are you ever going to get to sail her?”
Ah, the looming question. If Will didn’t take Catherine out now, when would he? What was the point of having the boat, if he was never going to sail her? It wasn’t even like they were ever coming back to Hawke’s Cove. The house was sold, and soon Pop’s boat would be too. There would never be a reason to come back.
“Take me for a moonlight sail?”
“Now?”
“Sure. Why not? Just ten minutes around the cove.”
Will shrugged, then smiled. “Great.” Why not? After everything Grainger and his mother had put him through this summer, didn’t he deserve ten minutes of pleasure? As he moved to the bow to release
Blithe Spirit
, he paused to kiss Catherine, happy to please her.
Maiden Cove, roughly U-shaped, funneled out between two low headlands through a narrow deepwater channel guarded by buoys. Grainger had told him that the outgoing tide was strong there, deceptive. Will wasn’t sure which way the tide was running, but it really didn’t matter—he had no intention of leaving the cove. Besides, he knew all the danger points of Maiden Cove already. Grainger always insisted that he cruise around the cove before heading out into open waters, and that’s what he’d do now. Nothing fancy, just tack a couple times to show off, then back to the mooring and on to dinner.
The western sky was purple dark; the cloud-veiled moon offered a thin light. Along the curve of the cove, pinpricks of house lights began to show. Enough to steer by.
Will handed Catherine a life jacket from under the forepeak and fastened his own. Then he removed the boom crutch, slipped in the centerboard, and hoisted the sail. He was pleased with himself as he made fast the throat and peak halyard lines, then stepped to the stern with the practiced balance of an old salt. Within seconds the breeze caught the sail, making the mainsheet in Will’s hand feel like a live thing.
“Why do they call her
Blithe Spirit
?”
“After some poem.” Will tucked the tiller beneath his arm and reached over for Catherine’s hand. The boat dipped unexpectedly, and spray lashed up to hit them in the face, much to their delight.
Under the cover of gentle darkness, Will thought he might tell Catherine what he’d done: how he’d impulsively visited the MacKenzies, only to find out life wasn’t a Disney movie. If he could speak out loud the confusion he was feeling in having so disturbed their comfort, he might begin to squeeze his guilty conscience back into its box. He might be able to convince her, and himself, that he was justified in springing his existence on them. She was so solid, so pragmatic that she might put it into perspective for him, reduce the size of his error and thus the weight of his remorse.
But he said nothing as the wind bullied the sail, making the sheet in his hand feel like a live thing trying to get away from him. Suddenly, the line jerked away from his grip, and the boom swung out until the sail was perpendicular with the boat. He yanked the mainsheet hard and fast, wishing that he wasn’t so wet. The line was slippery in his hand, making it more difficult to regain control of the wind-filled sail. A furtive whimsy touched Will. Was this unanticipated rise in the wind Mack’s ghost?
He shook off the notion. This was a stupid idea. He needed to take them back in. “I’m going to jibe, so be prepared to shift to the other side. And remember to duck.”
Mentally Will ticked off the elements of the procedure, Grainger’s voice echoing in his inner ear. He let go of the sheet, careful to maintain a grip on it. The sail sagged, the boom swung, Catherine ducked and came up safely on the other side of the boat. Will moved the tiller to change direction, then hauled on the sheet to draw the wind back into the sail. Instead, the sail continued loose in the breeze, ineffective.
Will yanked harder on the line, then understood what had happened. The old sail had split in half. The wind passed impotently through the tear. “Shit.”
“What happened?”
“The sail’s ripped.”
“I’m guessing there’s no motor.”
“You’d be guessing correctly.” Will made his way forward to release the lines and lower the sail to just above the tear, leaving a small triangle of fabric just above the boom. Immediately the wind gusted, ripping the worn canvas higher. The chop bounced the boat around.
Blithe Spirit
turned her nose back toward the outlet, and the outgoing tide pushed her closer to the mouth of Maiden Cove.
“We should have kept the dinghy.”
Will tried hard not to show his annoyance at her for stating the obvious. “We’ll be fine.”
“So what are we going to do?” Catherine didn’t seem frightened; she trusted him to get them out of this situation. “I don’t suppose you have a cell phone.”
“No, but I bet Mom will think again about not getting me one after this.” Will looked at the shoreline, wondering if they might get pushed into it. At the very least they could swim, if they got close enough; at the very worst, they could end up on the rocks. “If the tide was coming in, we could just let her drift home, guided by the tiller, but I think we’re headed out.”
“What we really need is a paddle.”
“We might as well wish for oars.” Will knew he sounded angry at her, but he was very angry with himself. He wished that he could tell Catherine this was an adventure, but the truth was, he was too scared. He’d only had a handful of lessons, and hadn’t been given permission to take
Blithe Spirit
out in the first place. He glanced at the lighted dial of his watch. It was only nine. His mother wouldn’t start worrying about him until one-thirty. First she’d be mad; then she’d be panicky. Then, who knew? Would anyone think to look for them out here?
The tide was stronger as they neared the mouth of the cove, and the nearer they were to being out of the lee of the cove, the stronger the wind was, and the waves were no longer loose chop, but outbound rollers. Will felt the friction of the wet, rough line burn through the heel of his hand, but he ignored it, intent on getting the small boat turned around with the bit of sail left.
Blithe Spirit
fell into a trough, pitching her on her side and dousing the pair in cold water. Catherine cried out, and Will knew that she realized what danger they were in.
“It’s going to be all right; just don’t panic.” Will worked the tiller back and forth, and managed to finish the turn into the waves and away from the outlet. “It’ll be all right.” Yet against his every effort, Will felt the inexorable pull of the tide taking them nearer the tight channel where they might crash on the rocks, or get pushed, sailless, out into an unseen sea.
All the time he struggled, his prayers childishly alternated between hoping that Catherine would forgive him for his stupidity, and that his mother would never find out what he had done. His third petition, as the moon’s weak light began to fade, was that they would simply survive. In broad daylight, this scene wouldn’t have been as terrifying. It was the inability to judge the waves, to see where they were going, that was so frightening. They weren’t even especially big waves, but frequent, erratic, and bullying.
Blithe Spirit
was seaworthy; she’d already proven that with one or two dips in the troughs. She wasn’t going to capsize. They could just sit tight and wait for rescue. Surely it must nearly be dawn. Will managed a look at his watch and was amazed to find that it was less than two hours since he and Catherine had climbed aboard. In that two hours the waves had built and the moon’s orb had shrunk, pulling the tide with it.
During his first sailing lesson, Grainger had told Will that things happened rapidly upon the sea and that no sailor left port without a weather report and a tide chart. He’d been so certain that he was capable of giving Catherine a pokey little sail around a safe cove he’d never given those things a moment’s thought.
“I’m sorry, Catherine.”
“I talked you into it.”
“If I hadn’t been so pissed off at Grainger.” The first heavy drops of rain began to pelt down, splatting against the canvas-covered bow. “He told me not to take her out alone. I thought he was just being pigheaded about me asking him for a DNA test.”
“He won’t do it?”
“I can’t go into it now, but no. Maybe in December, he says.”
The moon was gone, obscured by the thickened clouds; the comforting pinpricks of house lights gone too, as the rain began to sheet down in earnest. They huddled in the cockpit, all bearings lost; top and bottom, inland and seaward, lost.
“If we survive this, I swear I’ll never…”
“Will—we will survive this. Don’t start with the rash promises no one ever keeps.”
“You don’t know what else I did tonight.”
“You went to the MacKenzies’ house.”
“How did you guess?”
“It’s what I would have done.”
The boat seemed to be spinning, but without any reference point they couldn’t tell if it spun clockwise or counter, or if it was just an illusion of spinning, as the small vessel rocked side to side and up and down in no reliable order. Will felt the nausea rise up and he leaned over the tilting gunwale to vomit.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mrs. MacKenzie seemed really happy to see me.”
“That’s good then, isn’t it?”
“Dr. MacKenzie and the old guy weren’t. Dr. MacKenzie warned me about getting her upset.”
“That’s natural, don’t you think?”
“Mack died in this boat. Her son.”
“You’re not Mack.”
“No, but I’m doing exactly what he did.” Is this what Mack felt in his last moments? The despair of knowing you’ve caused your own death? That an impulsive action would end so badly? There was no doubt in Will’s mind: Mack had never intended to die.
Catherine pressed herself closer to him as they huddled on the floor of the cockpit against the biting rain and impenetrable darkness. “We’re going to survive.”
Will longed to believe her.
Half drowsy with physical and emotional satiety, Grainger was barely aware of the drive home. His headlights shining down the drive reflected against the taillights of a car, and for a confused moment, Grainger thought Kiley had somehow beaten him here. Pilot was barking and he could hear the dog’s nails against the heavy wooden door. He let him out and flipped on the yard lights. The rain glittered in the spotlights, sparkling like snow. Beyond them he could see nothing.
“Will?”
Grainger opened the door of the car, half hoping to find the boy inside, but there was nothing except a girl’s purse. Dread clamped down as Grainger grabbed his big lantern. He ran to the pier, calling Will’s name over and over while Pilot barked merrily, happy to be a part of the game.
Once or twice in his life, Grainger had felt fear—real, bowel-watering fear. The southwest wind blew damp against his skin, chilling him despite its warmth. The halyards clanked against the aluminum masts of the boats tied to his moorings, loud and frequent as the boats rocked energetically. Where
Blithe Spirit
should have been, the dinghy faced him. As boats tethered in bad weather do, its bow pointed into the wind.
The moon was long gone and Grainger could see nothing beyond the limits of his lantern light as he swept it left and right.
“Kiley? Is Will home?”
“What? I don’t know. I was asleep.” Kiley’s voice was on full maternal alert, her antenna up and active on the first ring of the phone.
“Go see.” Grainger knew, and knowing, had already called the authorities. If Will was asleep in bed, the car mysteriously left in the boatyard,
Blithe Spirit
simply having slipped her mooring, he’d call them off. But knowing, he also knew that every second counted when someone was lost on the water.
“He’s not here.” The thin sound of alarm. “How did you know?”
“I’m coming for you.”
Grainger sped to Kiley’s house, his mouth so dry he knew that he would never be able to offer hope to her that everything would be all right. He drove the five miles to Overlook Bluff Road like a madman, Pilot’s chin in his lap. When he got there, he could see her pacing in the front parlor in the light of the seaglass lamps, one hand pressed against her forehead, the other against her stomach. Feverish and sick, that’s what she looked like, like someone in anguish—and she still didn’t know what he knew.
Grainger ran up the front steps.
Kiley did not run into his embrace. “How did you know he wasn’t here?” Grainger reached out to take her in his arms, but she pushed herself away, waiting for him to explain.
“Kiley, I know where they are.”
“Where is he? They?”
“Will and Catherine have taken a boat.” He couldn’t say which boat.
“Jesus.”
She knew. Of course she would know.
As they drove back to the boat works, Grainger told her he’d already alerted the authorities—surely they’d arrive to find them brought home, scared and chastened. Even if Will was foolish enough to go out at night, he was a pretty good sailor for a beginner. Grainger didn’t speak of the gusting wind and strong moon tide, but Kiley well knew the dangers threatening even experienced sailors. The undeniable knowledge lay silent between them, and he pressed the accelerator harder.
As they pulled into the boatyard, they could hear the
whup whup
of a helicopter and see the beam of its searchlight as it circled the cove. But they couldn’t still be in the cove. The very lateness of the hour spoke disaster. Will wasn’t ready for this kind of sailing, at night and in a ten-to-fifteen-knot southwesterly wind. They couldn’t know how long he’d been out, but surely much too long to still be in the cove. Unless he was on the rocks, or victim of some fluke accident. Overboard. They needed to enlarge the search area. Grainger nearly bent over with the emotional pain.
Kiley walked away from him, moving to the water’s edge, then onto the pier. He followed. The sweeping circles of the helicopter’s beam held their attention, the sound of the rotors loud in the night air. Pilot barked as two police cars pulled into the yard, followed by the town’s Search & Rescue vehicle.
“I’ll talk to them,” Granger said.
Kiley made no response, but kept her eyes on the circling helicopter.
Grainger knew both of the cops in the first car. They’d been in high school together. They’d played football; he’d played baseball. Adults now, they met most often at Linda’s Coffee Shop.
“We’ll keep on the radio with the Coast Guard. That the mother?”
“Yes. The boy’s mother.”
“We’ll send someone to talk to the girl’s parents.” The one behind the wheel shifted, easing his heavy gun belt. He gestured with his chin toward Kiley. “Why don’t you try and get her inside? No sense her standing on the end of the pier all night.”
He left them sitting in the cruiser, Kiley illuminated in their headlights, her back to him, her hands flat on the white-painted top of a piling. Pilot stood behind her, his nose against the back of her bare knee. Grainger walked to the end of the pier, and was cast into sudden darkness as the cruiser turned around.
Instinctively, he reached to touch Kiley. Her back was hard, resistant to comfort. “Kiley, they’ll find them.”
“What were you thinking, giving him that boat?” There was a long pause, and she stood very still as if afraid any movement would break her in half. “How could you bring that boat into his life? How could you compromise his life?”
“I wasn’t compromising his life; I was trying to give him life skills.”
“How could you let him take that boat?” Her voice rose as she turned to face him. The light coming from the boathouse illuminated the anger in her eyes.
“I didn’t
let
him. I forbade him. I was with you.”
Kiley lowered her voice to a rage-hoarse whisper. “You should have stopped him. You should have gone after him.”
“How could I? I didn’t know he was—” Then Grainger realized she wasn’t talking about Will at all. It was Mack, and his failure to go after him, to stop him from sailing away. Meeting her whisper with his, he answered, “I know. And don’t think there hasn’t been a day of my life since that I haven’t regretted it.”
“Get away from me.”
“Kiley, no, don’t shut me out. We can go try to find them. We can take my Zodiac. Come on.”
“What makes you think you can save Will? You couldn’t save Mack.” Kiley’s voice was shrill and anguished. “You didn’t even try.” She struck both fists hard against his chest. Grainger let her hit him, over and over until she tired, and at last let out the bottled-up grief, laying her wet cheek against his bruised chest. He held her sobbing against him. Despite the sweetness of their reunion, she hadn’t truly forgiven him. Now, if anything happened to Will…Grainger held her close, scalded by the burn of worry.
Eventually he was able to move her from the pier into the boathouse, and he gently wrapped a blanket around Kiley’s shoulders, and left her nestled in his big easy chair. Grainger pulled on his rain gear, picked up his box of emergency equipment—flashlights, flares, and first aid kit—and went back out. He bailed the standing water out of the bottom of his inflatable boat, checked the gas tank, and loaded in his emergency kit.
“Hey!” One of the Search & Rescue volunteers waved a hand. “Where are you going?”
“Out.” Grainger clipped on his life jacket. “I’m going to go look for them.”
“Don’t. We don’t need to be looking for anyone else tonight.”
It would be torture to be ordered on land by the authorities, to remain a nonparticipant in this thing. By daylight, if they found nothing, then the search would be expanded. People with boats would join in, women would begin to bring food to the firehouse, where the command center would be established. The people of Hawke’s Cove knew how to go about these things. It would be enacted exactly as he imagined it had been for Mack. Except then the food was brought to the MacKenzies: the empty boat had been found, and they were funeral meats, not sustenance for the searchers still optimistic in the dawn.
“You won’t have to look for me.” Grainger turned his back on the man and shoved the Zodiac into the water. The outboard engine drowned out any further objections, and Grainger sped out toward the mouth of the cove, one hand on the tiller, the other sweeping the area in front of him with his wide-beam lantern; arcs of yellow light illuminating a narrow band of sea.
They were wasting time looking in the cove. If Will hadn’t deliberately done so in the first place, the wind and tide would have taken them out to sea. It was almost two o’clock. The tide was slack at half after midnight, incoming by one. If they were adrift, the rising tide was going to bring them southwest, but the wind, diminished but active, would drive them northeast. It was random chance, which side of Hawke’s Cove’s peninsula they would end up on, the north or the south—if they weren’t already out beyond sight of land. As Grainger motored through the mouth of the cove, he cut the engine and raised his face to feel the wind. If he chose wrong, his efforts would be useless. The rubber boat drifted to starboard and Grainger made his decision. He gunned the engine and began to explore the south side of the peninsula. Inlet by inlet, cove by cove, he would use up all of his battery power, all of his gas—but he would not go home until he had found them.