The Mermaid Collector (30 page)

“Why should I pity you?” Tom demanded. “You live like a king! I’m the asshole who gets to follow you to the emergency room once a month while they pump out your stomach. I’m the asshole who brings your one-night stands home in the morning because you’re too hungover to give them a ride. Pity
me
, you thankless shit.”

Dean’s eyes were wild. He lunged at Tom, palms out, and shoved him hard. Stunned for only a second, Tom went at Dean and shoved him back, using enough force that his brother stumbled. When Dean recovered, he came at Tom like a linebacker; bent at the waist, he tackled Tom to the ground, sending them both into the driveway.

Out of the house came Petra with Mia pressed to her. She screamed for them to stop as they continued their wrestling, rolling over each other in the dirt, but they
didn’t slow their match. Dean got on top of Tom and pinned him down, socking him in the eye. Managing to free his left arm, Tom swung and landed a punch to Dean’s mouth, sending his brother backward. Tom struggled to his feet, stumbling a few steps until he found his balance. Sitting up, Dean touched his lip and saw blood on his fingers. He scowled at Tom, but Tom wasn’t looking. Drained, numb, Tom lurched forward, just wanting to escape, to be gone from everyone and everything. He didn’t dare drive, too afraid his eye would swell shut behind the wheel, so he headed for the only place he could think to go on foot.

THE COTTAGES WERE WHITE WHEN
B
UZZ
and his first wife took over the business. He’d fallen in love with the property at once, reminded of the seaside cabins his grandfather had tended in nearby Port Chester when Buzz was a boy. Beth’d had a decidedly different reaction. “They look like a row of rotted teeth,” she’d grumbled, swatting at a greenhead fly. Buzz should have known then and there that Beth wasn’t long for the cove, or him.

For Ruby, the buildings’ bleak decor had been a matter of great and urgent concern.

“You don’t mean to keep them that color, do you?” she asked within days of their arrival at the cove.

“They’ve always been white,” Buzz said.

Ruby blinked at him. “And people still stay in them?”

He chuckled at that, though he could see she was seriously worried over it, so much so that by the very next morning, Buzz was standing in the paint aisle at Harbor Hardware, shaking his head in delight while he listened to Ruby try to explain what shade pomegranate was to the store’s eighty-two-year-old owner, Harvey McKee.

“Now, let’s not get too crazy,” Buzz had said gently as he watched the elderly man mix up gallon after gallon. “Paint’s expensive. We’ll take it one cottage at a time, okay?”

But within the first three months Ruby and Tess lived there, all six cabins wore fresh coats of paint, in colors so blinding, Buzz was quite sure they could be seen from the moon.

Now in the pale light of morning, Buzz surveyed them, thinking of all the times he’d just wanted to say to hell with it and repaint them all the same shade of white, but he could never go through with it. He knew how Ruby had felt about white.

The grounds were quiet, but that would change in a few hours. Guests rarely slept in on opening day, too eager to start in on the festivities, those in town and those of
their own making, so Buzz set out the boxes of cider doughnuts on the porch, then started the coffeemaker.

He had never been much for sleeping in, either, not even when he was a kid. Even though his own dad hadn’t risen before noon on a Saturday, Buzz couldn’t keep his eyes shut against the early sun. His internal clock had been a source of great despair for Ruby who had loved nothing more than staying up until three and four in the morning, then sleeping well into the afternoon. Oftentimes she’d cajole Tess into keeping her company through the night (not that it took much cajoling), and Buzz would walk down to the cottage the next morning to find Tess and Ruby curled up asleep on the daybed like a pair of cats, Tess’s fingers and chin still streaked with melted chocolate, the half-eaten bag of baking chips she’d been devouring still beside her on the quilt. Buzz would carry Tess back and bundle her up on the sofa while he made breakfast, the smell of pancake batter always rousing her. Together they’d stand beside the stove and see who could pour his closer to the shape of Maine, the winner, who always ended up being Tess, getting to add a handful of M&Ms. She loved to watch the candy coating melt off into her batter, then try to swirl the puddles of color into a recognizable shape.
Look, Buzz—it’s a sailboat. Look—it’s a fish
. Everything had to mean something, and always something desperately important. Buzz had recognized that about his stepdaughter even then.

There was hardly any breeze this morning, barely
enough to jostle the chimes as he walked down the lawn and across the driveway. He saw Beverly’s white sedan pulled around, the trunk up. All night he’d thought about her abrupt departure from dinner, feeling lousy for making her cry, still not sure how he’d managed it. Had the mention of an anniversary made her miss her late husband? That had to be it, yet they’d spoken of him before, and she’d seemed to weather the subject just fine.

He assumed she was heading into town for the festivities, but as he came closer, Buzz saw her bags peeking out of the opened truck, and he frowned. Surely he hadn’t offended her so badly that she meant to leave before the festival even started?

He made his way to the cottage, but Beverly was already on her way out. They met at the bottom of the porch steps.

“You’re not leaving, are you?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’m afraid so. My original flight out was for tomorrow, but I moved it up a day. I spoke with my son. He’s been called out of town on business at the last minute. I offered to help out with the boys while he’s gone. I don’t see them nearly enough.”

Buzz studied Beverly a moment, trying to decide if she was telling him the truth, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. All along she’d been planning to leave early. He didn’t understand it; he thought she’d come for the festival.

Beverly motioned to Tess’s woodshop. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to see the artist at work,” she said cheerfully.

“There’s still time,” he said, looking wistfully at the shed; he knew Tess was likely inside.

“That’s all right,” said Beverly. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Buzz nodded. “She’s damn good. Better than she realizes.”

“She’ll find her way. We all do. Some of us take longer than others; that’s all.”

It was a curious statement, Buzz thought, certain she meant to implicate herself with it, but again her gaze drifted out of reach.

Remorse tugged at him. He rubbed the back of his neck and sniffed. “I hope this isn’t because of something I said the other night.…”

“No,” Beverly answered quickly, gently. “It’s nothing you said. It’s just time for me to go, that’s all.” She smiled at him, a warm smile that he hadn’t seen on her before now. “I do apologize for leaving the restaurant like that. It was rude of me. It was awful of me, really. I’m truly sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said.

“Yes, I do. You’ve no idea how sorry.” Beverly leaned over to kiss Buzz on the cheek, lingering a moment against the prickly hairs of his beard to whisper, “I miss him too.”

When she pulled back, Buzz saw her eyes had filled with tears. He stared at her, confused. “Who?” he asked.

Beverly stepped past him for the car. “I left the key on the table inside,” she said. “And you might want to have someone look at the bathroom sink. It made the most
awful noises when I turned on the cold water.” At the driver’s door, she hesitated, giving the view of the cottages and the sea beyond a last look before she tugged open the door and climbed in. Settled in her seat, she rolled down the window. “You know, I may just have to come back next year for this festival of yours, Buzz Patterson,” she said as she turned on the engine.

Buzz came close, peering into the passenger window. “I hope you do. I promise I won’t screw it all up if you give me another chance.”

Beverly slipped on her sunglasses. “Good,” she said, smiling up at him as she shifted into gear. “I promise I won’t, either.”

THE RICH, CLEAN SCENT OF
tung oil was thick in the woodshop, but Tess never tired of the smell, any more than she could tire of watching the smooth wood soak up the finish. It had taken her most of the night—with the exception of a two-hour nap between three and five—and now the sculpture shone an even golden blond.

There could be no more tweaking, no more second-guessing. The past two months had all led up to this moment, and now she was done.

Exhausted and giddy, Tess stood back and admired her work. The nose wasn’t quite right, but the almond-shaped eyes were, their edges turned down just a bit. She’d had plenty of pictures she might have used as
reference, but it had been important to her to recreate the face from memory.

“It looks just like her, kiddo.”

Tess turned to find Buzz in the doorway. She gave him a small smile before looking back at her mermaid, her eyes misting as she considered the sculpture. “I was so sure I could remember every inch of her face,” she said, “but I can’t.”

“Nine years is a long time, Tessie.”

“So why does it still feel more like nine days?”

Buzz came all the way inside and walked to where Tess stood. She looked up at him. He reached out; Tess gave him her hand, and he squeezed it.

Her voice was thin, soft. “I used to worry you’d come between her and me. Did you know that?”

“Did I?” Buzz snorted. “You put me through my paces. Man, you were worse than one of those detectives in the old murder movies. I swear you would have shone a flashlight in my eyes that first night if you’d had one handy.”

Tess smiled, recalling the night they’d met at the music festival. She remembered how she’d sneaked out of their tent after her mother had gone to sleep and found Buzz by the bonfire, how she’d peppered him with questions, how he’d kept telling her he was sure she must be tired and she’d told him no every time.

“I
was
kind of rough on you, wasn’t I?” she said.

“Rough? Hell, I dated girls in high school whose fathers were pussycats compared to the grilling you gave me.”

They both chuckled at that, but somehow it only made Tess cry. Her sobs needed no time to build their steam. They came out mournful and deep at the start, so hard that Buzz strained to make out her words when she finally could talk.

“She didn’t let me say good-bye.”

His eyes filled. “I know, kiddo.”

“And I’m so angry at her for that. But I don’t know how to be angry with her and not feel like I’m losing her. I don’t want her to think I don’t love her anymore.”

It was a child’s confession, but Tess didn’t care. Saying it felt like stepping out into daylight, like landing in something soft and safe after falling for so long. Buzz had only to tug gently, and she collapsed into his embrace, burying her sobs in the warmth of his flannel shirt.

He put his hand on her head, trying to smooth down what a restless night had done to her hair, trying to smooth away so much more. He thought about watching her when she was a little girl and how he’d looked forward to the days when she would be grown, bigger, as if after a certain size he might cease to worry for her, as if it were only a matter of weight that kept a parent’s heart so tied to his child. But of course it was just the opposite: The bigger Tess grew, the more Buzz had feared for her, because there was less he could do to keep her safe.

“You need to let it go, Tessie,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with tears. “All this stuff inside you, this grudge, trying to make people love her, trying to prove how wrong
they were about her. It doesn’t matter anymore. It never did. You and I loved your mother enough for the whole world, and she knew that. Being angry for her won’t bring her back, and it won’t keep her here—it’ll just keep you sad.”

The tears came harder, and Tess didn’t try to get ahead of them. He was right. Somewhere along the way, in spite of the chilly reception she and Ruby had first received, Tess had carved out—figuratively and literally—a life for herself in Cradle Harbor. It was a good life, with friends and people who cared about her.

Buzz rocked her a few moments in the quiet, studying her sculpture.

“She’d be so proud of you, Tessie,” he whispered against her temple. “Don’t throw it away.”

Tess looked up at him, sniffling.

“Grace,” Buzz said, though he could see she knew whom he meant. “Whatever it is that makes you think Hawthorne’s the only one there is, let all that go too.”

“It doesn’t go away overnight.”

“I never said it did. But you make it so hard. It doesn’t need to be. Do you like Tom Grace or not?”

She smiled. “I like him.”

“But…?”

“But he doesn’t know her, Buzz,” Tess said. “He doesn’t know anything about her.”

“So you tell him. So you build new memories. You’re allowed to do that, you know.”

Tess glanced up at him again, her eyes narrowed dubiously. “I don’t see
you
building any.”

“I know,” he consented. “And, you know, I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Good,” Tess said, rolling in his embrace, twisting enough so that she could see her mermaid too. She said it again, and this time she meant it.
“Good
.”

TESS WASN’T EVEN SURE TOM
would want to see her. She nearly turned around a dozen times on the ride over, vowing to pull over every time a driveway spilled into the road. After all, shouldn’t he be the one to apologize to her? Did it make her look desperate if she ran back to him? Maybe it did. And so what? She didn’t care. She
was
desperate. She was desperate to let him know she’d been wrong about so many things and she needed to see him. She
needed
him. And she didn’t want to wait anymore. She
knew better than anyone how life could steal your chances from you, how much danger there was in thinking you had a thousand hours to find your moment.

Her heart pounded as she pulled into the Point. A soft breeze feathered the air as she stepped out of the VW and crossed the driveway to the house. When she climbed the steps to the front door, she saw a dish towel that had been left on the top stair. The towel was stained red. Picking it up, she saw it looked like—oh God, it
was
—blood.