Swans Landing #1 - Surfacing (4 page)

“Everyone knows about you.” Josh studied me a moment, as if he was looking for something. “So you’re…?” He let his voice trail off, leaving the question unfinished.

“What?” I asked. “His daughter? Yeah, that’s kind what makes him my dad. Unfortunately.”

Josh’s hard gaze bored into me for a long time, but then he shook his head, sending a misty spray of water from his hair across my cheek. “Nevermind,” he said. “Maybe I’ll be willing to share my beach with you, if you ask nicely.”

I snorted. “Keep dreaming.”

Josh gave me a cool smile. “Then we’ll have to fight it out and see who wins.” He shoved his hands deep into the front pocket of his hoodie and brushed past me, back toward a trail leading into the forest bordering the beach. “See you around, Woodser.”

Chapter Four

Lake’s Jeep in the driveway let me know he was home when I finally rode the old bike back toward his house late that afternoon. The sun had just begun to sink behind the thick clouds and the wind grew colder. I buried my chin into the neck of my jacket for warmth.

Lake wasn’t alone. When I walked through the squeaking front door, I found him at the long table in front of the windows, sitting on an old wooden stool. Next to him, a teenaged boy perched on a second stool. They looked at me over their shoulders at the sound of the door opening.

“There you are,” Lake said, giving me a nervous smile. “Did you have fun exploring the island?”

I shrugged. “Not much to see.”

“More shops are open during the summer,” the boy told me.

Lake gestured toward him. “This is Dylan Waverly. He lives two houses down and helps me out with my work sometimes. Dylan, this is Mara.”

He didn’t say “my daughter Mara,” only “Mara,” as if that was all I was to him. A stranger living in his house for a couple of years.

Dylan stood to shake my hand, giving me a wide, warm smile. He was several inches taller than me, with a long, narrow body. His silky blonde hair fell to his shoulders and his bronzed skin didn’t show any evidence of tan lines from sunglasses or shirt collars. His accent sounded like Lake’s, a little Scottish or Irish or something I couldn’t quite place.

But his eyes captivated me. Almost hidden by the long bangs that fell over his forehead were two wide blue eyes, the color so light that they appeared almost silvery white, as if he didn’t have an eye color at all.

“So,” I said, to find something to distract me from staring at Dylan’s eyes any longer, “what’s with all the shells?”

Dylan retrieved a canvas sack from the floor and dumped out a pile of shells, dried starfish, and pieces of sand dollars mixed with a lot of sand.

“Sometimes we sell beach things to the tourists.” He picked up a big shell. “Like this conch shell. We scrub it a bit and then polish it up. And these are always big hits.” He pointed toward two dried starfish.

I made a face. “People really want to buy dead animals?”

“Woodsers do,” Dylan said.

“Why does everyone keep using that word?” I asked.

Lake gave me a funny look. “What do you mean?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

“It means you’re from the mainland,” Dylan explained. “It’s not always meant as an insult, but sometimes, from certain people, it is.”

Dylan’s gaze kept drifting back to me, his eyes studying me intently. The shadowy light in the room made his face appear soft and warm in the glow of the lamp on the edge of the table. He looked at me in a way that seemed familiar, as if he’d known me all my life and had waited for me to return. I shifted slightly from one foot to the other, trying to avoid his gaze, but finding my eyes moving back to him every time I looked away.

The ringing of Lake’s cell phone startled me. He pulled the phone from his pocket and checked the caller ID. “It’s one of my clients,” he said. “I’m making a water scene for her. Be right back, I have to take this.”

He slipped from the stool and disappeared through the door leading to his bedroom, the phone pressed to his ear.

Leaving me alone with Dylan and his hypnotic stare.

“Water scene?” I asked.

“Yeah, Lake makes these pictures from the shells and sea glass,” Dylan said. “He’s really very talented. Here, look at this.” He stooped to pick up a tattered and water-stained box. He sat it on the table, then reached in and pulled out a Christmas tree, created entirely from shells. Tiny shells made up the branches of the tree all the way from base to tip, with little pieces of sea glass as ornaments.

“Wow.” The word slipped from my lips in a gasp. It was beautifully made, obviously something that he had toiled over with the utmost care and skill. My fingers trailed over the edges, feeling the textures of the sand and sea turned into something entirely different.

“You should see all the things he’s made,” Dylan said, his voice soft in my ear.

“Do you know him well?” I asked, keeping my focus locked on the small seashell Christmas tree.

“I’ve known him all my life,” Dylan said. “He’s a good person.”

“Maybe.” I dropped my hand from the tree.

“You’ll see,” Dylan said confidently. “He’s taught me everything about working with shells, even though I’m nowhere near as good as he is. His best work was this picture of the beach, with foam on the water and a boat on the horizon. It’s made entirely out of shells and glass. It’s really cool.”

Mom had never told me that Lake was an artist. My fingers tightened around the camera that still hung from my neck, hugging it protectively against me. “Can I see it?” I asked, unable to resist the curiosity.

Dylan put the shell tree back into the box. “Oh, he gave it away long ago. I...I don’t even remember who got it.”

It was clear from the way he fidgeted and avoided my gaze that he wasn’t telling the truth. But why would he lie about some old picture made of beach junk?

Dylan cleared his throat, then reached into the box again. “These are what I make.”

He pulled out a handful of shell necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. They were nice, but they didn’t have the delicate craftsmanship that Lake’s tree did.

“Those are cute,” I said.

Dylan’s cheeks reddened a bit and he ducked his head, letting his hair fall over his face. “Thanks. What’s your favorite color?”

“Green,” I told him.

Dylan studied the jewelry in his hand, and then picked out a bracelet made of green and cream colored shells. He held it toward me, smiling. “Here. Free gift.”

“I can’t take that,” I said.

Dylan smiled at me, his almost clear eyes catching the lamplight and making them sparkle like diamonds. “I want you to,” he insisted. The bracelet dangled from the end of his finger.

He was kind of cute. In a scrawny way. Those eyes though. Those eyes could be my downfall if I didn’t keep my head on straight.

I held my arm out and Dylan slipped the bracelet over my wrist, his fingers brushing against my skin and sending electric currents up my arm. He was warm and his fingers rough and calloused from working with the shells. Every tiny hair along my arm stood on end as he regarded me with those pale eyes.

I snatched my hand away when Lake’s door opened and he strolled into the room, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “Mrs. Boileau has changed her mind again on what she wants,” he told us. “I’ll never get her picture done if she keeps changing it.”

“What does she want this time?” Dylan asked with an amused smile.

“A nighttime lighthouse scene,” Lake answered. “Which means I’ll have to paint all the shells I’ve already glued down to look like the night sky.” He sat back down on his barstool, his hands on his knees, and looked between the two of us. “So, have you two gotten to know each other?”

Dylan smiled at me. “I was showing Mara what we do.”

Lake’s eyes drifted toward the bracelet on my wrist. “And giving away our product, I see.”

I started to take the bracelet off, but Lake held up one hand. “I’m joking, Mara. Those are Dylan’s bracelets and he’s free to give them to anyone he wants.”

I’d had enough of Lake for one day. “I’m going to bed,” I said.

“Are you starting school tomorrow?” Dylan asked.

I shrugged. “Apparently.”

“I’ll walk you there, if you want,” he offered.

It was the first time all day I’d felt as if someone was doing something genuinely nice for me, simply because he wanted to and not because he had to. I managed a small smile back at him.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’d like that.”

Chapter Five

A thick haze and the odor of burned pancakes hung in the kitchen as I climbed down the ladder the next morning. Lake stood at the stove, smoke billowing from the frying pan that he scraped with a spatula while cursing under his breath.

I’d had a long, fitful night of sleep, never able to stay asleep for long thanks to the nightmares. Watching my father burn the house down wasn’t exactly at the top of my list for the day. “What are you doing?”

Lake jumped, dropping the spatula on his foot. The dark stubble along his unshaven cheeks and chin matched the circles under his eyes. He looked as though he’d had less sleep than I’d had.

“I’m making breakfast,” he said, retrieving the spatula from the floor. He rinsed it quickly, wiped it on his pants leg, and then went back to hacking away at the blackened blob in the pan.

“I prefer my pancakes golden brown, not blackened to a crisp,” I told him. “I can just eat—” Inside the refrigerator I found a jar of mayonnaise and a few foil-wrapped items that had crusted over suspiciously. My dinner the night before had been a sandwich from one of the few shops I found open along Heron Avenue. “Um, nothing, apparently.”

“I didn’t get a chance to pick up things before you got here,” Lake said. “I wasn’t sure what kinds of food you like and I didn’t want to get a bunch of stuff you wouldn’t eat, so…” He shrugged and gestured toward the pan. “Everyone likes pancakes, right?”

He gave me an awkward grin.

“Have you ever actually cooked pancakes before?” I asked, stepping closer to the stove to survey the damage he’d done.

“Once,” Lake told me. “I think I was around your age. My mom banned me from the kitchen after that.”

I took the spatula away when he started scratching the burned pancakes from the bottom of the pan again. “Stop. You’re not going to win this battle with the frying pan. Just soak it in water and soap and it’ll come out later. You do own soap, right?”

Lake shot me an exasperated look as he grabbed a bottle of lemony yellow dish detergent from the windowsill over the counter. I ran cold water over the pan to cool it off, then set it down inside the sink and filled it with water and a squirt of soap. At this point, it didn’t look likely that the burned remains of Lake’s attempt at breakfast would come out.

“Sorry.” Lake leaned against the counter, crossing one ankle over the other. “I don’t usually cook breakfast. Or anything, actually.”

“No, really?” I said, rolling my eyes.

“I thought a homemade breakfast might make this transition a little easier.” Lake’
s
gaze became vacant and his smile looked pained. “Your mom was always a great cook.”

Silence hung between us for a long time. A new wave of tears washed over me, but I was determined not to let them fall in front of Lake. He didn’t get to be a part of my mourning.

“Mom stopped cooking months ago,” I told him, swallowing the lump in my throat. “A box of cereal and some milk is fine.”

Lake shook his head. “That’s so Woodser. Go get a shower and get dressed. I’ll take you for a real Swanser breakfast.”

There wasn’t a clock anywhere in the room. Of course. Why would Lake Westray need to know what time it was? The world he lived in worked on his own time, not within the confines of anyone else’s established rules.

“I have school,” I reminded him. “Dylan will be waiting for me.”

Lake reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I’ll call him and he can come with us. We have time. Go.”

“But—”

But Lake was already holding the phone to his ear and saying, “Hey, Dylan, be over here in ten. We’re going for breakfast before school.”

Ten? As in, ten
minutes
? I was supposed to be showered, dressed, and ready to go in ten minutes? Sorry, Lake, but not all of us had mastered the crazy haired “I just got out of bed twenty hours ago but I still look like this” look you had going on.

It was more like seventeen minutes later when I finally came out of the bathroom. Dylan and Lake were bent side by side over the table, scrubbing shells and talking quietly. I knew it wasn’t just my own paranoia that made me believe they were talking about me because they stopped as I entered the room.

“You ready?” Lake asked, pushing the shell and scrub brush aside.

I shrugged. School hadn’t been high on my priority list for quite some time. I didn’t even want to imagine how far I’d fallen behind over the last few months.

When Lake said he was taking me for a real Swans Landing breakfast, I assumed he meant to a restaurant. Or even a drive thru window. But judging from the distinct lack of golden arches or any other neon lit signs, drive thrus probably were unheard of around here.