“Oh.” She turned away, attempted to pull her hand from his. “You came to ask me a few questions before you left.”
“No,” he said, would not release her hand. “I came to see you. When I got to the research center, there was a crowd out on the seawall, and I saw the coast guard boat coming in fast. I asked someone standing there what had happened, and they said you had gotten into some trouble diving, and that the coast guard had you on the boat. Then the ambulance came, and I couldn’t get anywhere near you, and no one would answer my questions—which I understand because I was a complete stranger. Then Bedford saw me—that wasn’t pretty.”
“What did he do?”
Jake shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I saw the boat captain.”
“John Morris,” she said.
“He was standing alone and looked scared as hell. I went over to him, and he told me that you were too upset to dive and he should have seen the signs. That you stayed down too long and got low on oxygen, and then you came up too fast and hit your head on the bottom of a shrimp trawler.”
“Miles and miles of empty water, and I come up under a boat and knock myself out. Nice.”
Jake smiled and Sofie saw his beauty. “Then he said that the shrimp boat captain said that the only reason they even saw you was because the dolphin pod made such a commotion—squealing, clicking, whistling, kicking up the water, swimming in circles around the boat. They had to lean over and see what was going on. One dolphin was nudging you toward the boat. . . .”
In a rush, tension left Sofie’s body and she felt at one with the dolphins again. She remembered the day now in serrated fragments. While she sat there and held Jake Murphy’s hand, she remembered: Michael Harley knocking on Bedford’s front door and knowing her mother wasn’t from Colorado; Michael Harley knowing her mother was on the plane with Knox; her panic; Bedford talking to him even though she’d asked him not to; John taking her out on the boat; and then finally her going too deep and not caring. Most important she heard Delphin calling her name again and again.
“Oh, Jake, I remember.” Sofie let go of him, stood and paced the room in her bare feet. “I shouldn’t have dived—that’s true. It was all my fault, but he called my name. I heard him.”
“Who called your name?”
“Delphin called me by the name he has for me. I can’t explain the name—I just know it is his name
for
me.”
Jake stood and went to her. “What made you so upset in the first place?”
She shook her head. Jake walked toward the window, stared outside. “Why can’t you tell me?”
“I just . . .”
He turned and she saw his gaze move toward the canvas; then he took two steps toward the easel. Sofie stepped in front of him. “That was my mother’s,” she said.
“Did she paint it?” Jake attempted to move around her.
“Yes,” Sofie said. “But she never finished it.” She leaned down, picked up the fallen muslin and placed it back over the translucent starfish.
“You won’t let me see it.” Jake’s voice took on a hard edge where soft concern had been moments ago.
“It’s not mine to show you.” Her voice shook.
“Yes, it is.”
“Are you here to find out about my mother?” A flood tide of anger rose in the empty places of Sofie’s broken heart. “I thought maybe you were here . . . for me.”
“I am.” He reached for her hand.
She backed away from him. “I’m so tired. Thanks for telling me what John said—I need you to go now.”
Jake stared at her, and his face shifted like the surface of the water when a strong breeze blows over it. He walked to the kitchen counter, wrote his phone number and e-mail address on a scrap of paper. “If you need anything, let me know. I’m sorry about what you’ve been through.” He went to the door and placed his hand on the doorknob before he faced her again. “I know you don’t trust me. But if you knew me, really knew me, you would. I have no idea what you’re so scared of, but it shouldn’t be me.”
She backed into the wall, lifted her hands to her face so she wouldn’t have to watch him leave. The door clicked shut, and she slid down the wall, sat on the hardwood floor and wept for all the things that were true: Delphin had called her name; Jake cared for her; her mother was dead; Knox Murphy was dead; and she held the key to Jake and Annabelle’s questions, yet she couldn’t let the answers go, couldn’t release them into their hands.
When she rose from the floor and moved to the kitchen, the need for knowledge overwhelmed her. Somewhere out in the open sea, her heart had changed beats, and the need to know finally overcame her need to hide. The power her secrets had held over her had never caused her heart to hurt like this new ache that spread through her body. Before, it had been enough that she had Bedford, her dolphins, her town and the water. But now a new world called to her and the only barrier was the never-ending, escalating fear of her father; her old life had to be disassembled so she could create a new one.
Sofie ran to the back bedroom, to the filing cabinet she hadn’t touched since her mother’s death, and pulled the top drawer wide. After Sofie had sold the art studio, she’d shoved the signed papers in here, ignoring the stacks she glimpsed in her mother’s handwriting. They’d lived a simple life, relied on cash for their basic needs. There had been no reason to go through records looking for insurance claims or bonds, for stock options or mutual funds because there were none. Now it was time to find
him
. There was nothing else to be scared of but him. If her mother and her grandmother and Knox were gone, what else remained?
Only one fear: that she would never know her name, that even the dolphins couldn’t tell her who she was.
Papers piled across the floor as Sofie went through file folders filled with old report cards, thick papers confirming ownership of the art studio, their condo, their car. Sofie worked her way to the back of the cabinet, finally pulled out the last folder and opened it. Inside was her birth certificate: Sofie Eloise Parker. Mother: Liddy Marie Parker. Father: Unnamed.
Sofie threw the birth certificate across the room.
She dug deeper. The last item was a brittle yellow envelope taped to the inside of the folder. The glue had long since given out. Sofie shook the envelope; a driver’s license fell out. The picture on the Ohio license was blurry and cracked, but it was her mother as a young and breathtaking beauty. Sofie leaned closer: her mother’s eyes were wide and almost haunted, staring past the camera as though she were looking at someone behind the photographer.
Sofie glanced at the name: Diane Margaret Collins. A shudder ran through Sofie.
She tried it on her tongue:
Sofie Eloise Collins
.
Collins might be her given name, but it was not her real name. Sofie Eloise Parker, then Milstead were the names given as gifts from her mother. A lifesaving name meant to protect and nurture.
Just as she’d told Jake, there was only one of almost everything in this town, and she called the only private investigator: Joseph Martin. She’d gone to high school with him, and he’d once told her that he’d imagined for himself a glamorous life of tracking down criminals and racketeers, maybe even pirates, but mostly he exposed wayward spouses and uncovered insurance fraud.
He answered the phone on the first ring. “Hey, Joseph, this is Sofie Milstead.”
“Hey, Sofie. What can I do for you?”
“I know this is a strange request—but I’m looking for a woman named Diane Margaret Collins who once lived in Ohio in the early eighties, and was married. I want to know what happened to her . . . and to her husband.”
Silence filled the line.
“Are you there?” Sofie asked.
“Yes,” he said, “just writing it down.”
“Joseph, of course I’ll pay you. I’m not asking for a personal favor.”
“Do you know this woman?”
“Yes,” Sofie said. “Do you need to know more than that?”
“No . . .”
“Thanks, old friend. Just call me if you find out anything.”
She hung up and stared at the canvas across the room. Half-finished, partially known things were cluttering her life: knowledge of her father; her relationship with Bedford; telling the Murphy family the truth; her mother’s art; her own research.
She needed and wanted something to be finished, whole and complete. She walked toward her mother’s canvas, ripped off the muslin. She stood and stared at the starfish as a fiery wind filled her middle, as her fingers picked up the paintbrushes waiting for her touch.
She opened the paint tubes one at a time, squirted colors onto the palette. When she first touched the brush to the paint, time and space collapsed. Her hands and arms moved of their own accord; the instructions her mother had imparted to her returned in a brilliant remembrance. Sofie recalled what her mother had once taught her about background and foreground, about the play of light and dark, the translucent nature of paint.
Sofie painted methodically, not moving to another part of the painting until one section was complete. Thoughts and memories ran through her head like a rapid-fire slide show. Although her focus was on the minutiae of the painting, her mind wandered to elusive memories in hidden corners of her mind, briefly glimpsed.
Her mother had stood behind her, holding the brush, reaching forward. The sun had come from behind them, falling through the windowpanes onto the canvas, onto their faces. Warmth had spread through Sofie while her mother held her hand and arm. “No, Sofie, stop forcing it. The paint is like truth or love—you cannot make it something it is not. Let it come naturally—let the picture rise from the brush while you surrender to the work.”
Then came a memory of Knox, dimly lit. He and her mother were in the kitchen. Sofie was in the bedroom, but could see them through a crack in the door. They thought she was asleep. The next morning, when Knox was gone, her mother would be withdrawn, painting furiously and silently, shutting out Sofie and everyone around them. The days before Knox came were buoyant with happiness, and the days after he left overflowed with misery.
When he prepared to leave, it was worse—her mother stood in the kitchen with her head in her hands, her face contorted with silent sobs. Knox held his hand over her head, touched her while she crumpled into him like a broken figurine. The only words Sofie remembered were her mother’s: “Please, please stay. This time please stay.” She always begged for that.
When grief from this memory prodded at Sofie’s heart, she did what her mother had taught her—she painted with more focus, more determination. Knox and her mother were both gone.
Gone.
Then Jake’s face came to her, and dizziness overwhelmed her. She sat down on the round stool in front of the painting, felt the weakness in her arms settle into her shoulders. Knox’s son. She’d almost forgotten that before anything else, he was Knox’s son.
There had once been bright and brilliant days when she pretended she was Knox’s child. He’d come for a visit and take them sailing or cook them dinner while Liddy talked faster and with more animation than usual. And under her breath, Sofie would whisper, “Dad,” although she knew he wasn’t her father.
Her own father must never know she existed. He did not deserve the title “dad,” or so her mother had told her numerous times. To Sofie, he was a man without a face, without a name.
Sofie had hated Jake, despised Keeley, for they had Knox. He was their dad, their steadfast rock, the ones he went home to. How had she forgotten that she hated Jake, hated the Murphy family? Oh, the agony of loving someone you can’t have, who cannot stay.
While she painted, she brought forth the hate, let it rise around and above her like an overflowing tide. She allowed her loathing for the Murphy family to become part of her again. Then she kept painting, and the emotion subsided as she recalled Jake’s sweet touch, his belief in her ideas about the dolphins.
Sofie allowed all these thoughts and emotions to sweep over her like clouds in time-lapse photography. She noticed them, but didn’t try to follow them.
When exhaustion spread over her body, she lay down. When hunger prodded her, she ate. When thirst brought a headache, she drank.
One afternoon a long time ago, it might have even been in Marsh Cove, she’d asked her mother how she knew when a painting was done. Her beautiful mother had stared off into space for such a long time that Sofie thought she hadn’t heard her question. When she finally turned to Sofie, she shrugged. “I wish I had a good answer for my little girl, but like love, you just know and you can’t fake it.”
Now Sofie knew what her mother meant. The painting was done and she knew it. She didn’t love Bedford, and she knew it. This was why her mother painted—it showed her the truth, it revealed the heart—and Sofie felt a thrill and fright at this knowledge, at this powerful connection to her mother’s psyche.
Two days had passed, and now the painting was complete.
Sofie walked into the kitchen, made a cup of tea and waited for Bedford. He was due back any minute now—she’d heard the message machine in the distance of her art-induced fog.
Bedford opened the door with his key; Sofie took a sip of tea and backed against the counter. He smiled. She stood still and quiet, cocked her head at him. “Hello, Bedford.”
“I’ve missed my sweet girl.” He came to her. “I’ve been so worried about you. Why haven’t you answered your phone for two days?”
“I didn’t want to talk to you.” Sofie found the truth easy and weightless, so freeing that she smiled when she said it.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I can understand you’ve been exhausted and haven’t wanted to talk on the phone. But I sure missed your voice.”
She moved his hands off her. “No. You’re not listening. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk on the phone—I didn’t want to talk to
you
.”
He stepped back. “What do you mean?”