The Summer of No Regrets (11 page)

I opened my eyes. I was in Luke’s Jeep. How could I have falen asleep? We were at a gas station, and Luke was filing up.

He wore a blue Mariners cap and sunglasses against the glare.

Nothing looked the least bit familiar. “Where are we?” I asked when he climbed back in.

“Olympia,” he said. “See? There’s the capital building.” He made a left turn, and the dome came into view.

“Olympia!” I sat up straight. “Luke, that’s, like, eighty miles from home! What time is it?” I looked at the dashboard. We’d been driving an hour and a half. “The kittens!” For the first time, he looked concerned. “Aren’t they on twice a day feedings?”

I let out my breath. “You’re right. But I’ve never left them alone for more than a couple of hours.”

“Do you want to go back?” His shoulders sagged.

It was only noon.

“There’s a place I wanted to show you,” he said.

“In Olympia?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Do I have to?” He winked.

We were already so far away, and Mom would freak if I wasn’t home by 6:00. No! Mom and Dad were gone! They wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, just before the Indigo Children arrived at 7:00.

Luke watched me as he waited at a stoplight, his face shifting from disappointed to sexy to unreadable.

from disappointed to sexy to unreadable.

This was crazy. I’d known him less than two weeks. He disappeared regularly. If Natalie’s daydream were true it would make him a liar: even his name would be a lie because Trent Yves’ real name was Michael Boeglin. But Natalie was not exactly Sherlock Holmes.

I thought about how Luke had stayed up all night with the kittens, how he’d taken my turn at feeding them to let me sleep. I thought about his longing for Eden and how he had touched my hair. And I thought about how he’d held me right after we met Onawa—the stark honesty of his face that day. There was something irresistible about being in a car with him going who-knows-where. Natalie was right about one thing—I’d forgotten how to have fun.

My clothes were almost dry, and it was getting too warm. I peeled the blanket off. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll trust you.” Relief hit his face like a sunbeam. “Best news I’ve heard all day.” He turned onto Highway 101 and stepped on the accelerator.

He flipped on the radio and surprised me again. Classic King FM. A symphony of violins and horns boomed out. He listened for a moment. “Music for Royal Fireworks,” he said. “Handel.”

“You’re right,” I said. “What was I playing when you showed up this morning?”

“Bizet,” he said. “Something from
Carmen
. And before that it was either Vivaldi or Coreli.” He looked pleased with himself.

“Vivaldi,” I said. “A Minor Concerto. How do you know this stuff?”

“Oh, I used to sing,” he said. “And my grandmother had a doctorate in music. I’ve been dragged to symphonies all my life.” The music changed movements, and Luke, with a sily grin, began singing the French horn part,
“Da-tada-tada-tada-tada-tada-tada-tada.”

I picked up the trumpets’ answering phrase,
“Bada-bum-I picked up the trumpets’ answering phrase, “Bada-bum-bum-bum-bum-bada-ba.”

We sang the whole movement, lobbing clarinets and percussion and horns back and forth. He let me carry the meandering violin themes. I reveled in the feeling of being on fire with music. I hadn’t realized how much I missed being part of an orchestra. Outside the clouds moved away, revealing a cobalt sky. I felt like I was flying in it with Luke, swooping over the landscape like a couple of swalows. He reached across the seat and took my hand. I laced my fingers through his, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You sing pretty wel, too,” he said when the movement ended.

“I played that a couple of years ago when I was still in Youth Symphony.”

“Why aren’t you in Youth Symphony anymore?”

“Oh, Dad got busy building his dream retreat center,” I said offhandedly.

“But you’re good. You should be in Youth Symphony.” I shrugged. If Dad’s buried flute was any indication, it would be a long time before he lent his energies to my “Eurocentric music.”

Luke squeezed my hand. He didn’t let go.

We ate teriyaki in a town caled Elma. I had only three dolars and forty-five cents, but Luke wouldn’t let me pay. “I kidnapped you,” he laughed. “The trip’s on me.”

“Kidnap me anytime,” I shot back.

His smile was like the Fourth of July.

We were headed west most of the time. I could tell from the trip navigator on the dashboard—and the location of the sun.

“Are you even going to give me a hint where we’re going?” I teased.

“Learn to cultivate mystery, Brigitta.” He touched my cheek.

“Such as the mystery of where you’ve been since Sunday?” He gave me a sideways glance. “California. Mum was in one He gave me a sideways glance. “California. Mum was in one of her rare good moods, said she needed some sun.” California?! The word zipped around my head, crashing into my fantasies. “Not enough sun in Aruba?”

“You don’t know my mother.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

Luke rubbed his neck as if it was sore and didn’t elaborate.

“So,” I went on, “where in California?”

“LA. We went to a horse show.”

“LA?! Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

I couldn’t think what to say next, so I said, “Did girls throw themselves at you?”

“Not this time.” He winked. Was he toying with me?

“Do you go there a lot?” A truck roled by us with a sign that said Hazardous. Flammable.

“Some.” He sped up to get ahead of the “hazardous” truck.

“Do people mistake you for Trent?”

He didn’t answer at first. Was I irritating him with my Trent talk?

He started to chuckle. “Once,” he said, “I was in a mall in Encino with my dad and an entire Girl Scout troop mobbed me.

They were all shoving pens at me and squealing.”

“What did you do?”

“Wel, Papa said go ahead and sign. So I did. Made their day.

See? My looks perform a useful service.”

He wasn’t irritated. I relaxed. “That must be realy strange.”

“It was at first. It’s only happened for a couple of years.

Apparently Trent wasn’t such a big deal before that.”

“Wel, there was
Sparrowtree
when he was nine. And he’s been acting since he was five.”

“I know.”

“You do? You, who ‘doesn’t folow movies’?”

“Hey, I had to say something. Your friend looked like she wanted to swalow me whole.”

“Natalie does that. But she’s realy very sweet.”

“You’re cuter.” Luke grinned.

His hand found mine again.

“So, what do you think of his acting?” I forged ahead, not sure why it seemed reasonable that Luke knew anything about acting.

“Whose?”

“Come on.”

“He’s okay. What do you think of him?”

I hesitated and then yanked myself back to reality. Luke and Trent were not the same person, for heaven’s sake. I could say what I thought.

“He’s a jerk. But I’m beginning to think he can act.” Luke laughed. “What makes you think he’s a jerk?”

“Oh, you know—I-am-so-sexy-let-me-show-you-my-pecs-again. And I heard he got Randi Marchietti pregnant.”

“Where was that? The
Enquirer
?”

Flames shot up my neck.

Luke squeezed my hand. “I’m just giving you a hard time, Brigitta.”

I forced a laugh. “Anyway,” I fumbled, “his acting in
Rocket
showed surprising emotional range.” I quoted DapperDan from my blog. “I think we’ll be seeing more of him in serious roles.” Luke looked impressed. “Could be. He was weak in
Imlandria
. And
Le
Petit
Chose
was a disaster.”

“I think it’s pronounced ‘shoze.’ I took French for a year at the School from Hel. Why do you think it was a disaster?” Luke slowed down as we entered Aberdeen. “What’s the School from Hel?”

“Kwahnesum High School.”

He laughed. “I’m glad I homeschool. So what was it like?”

“Awful. It was like being a zoo creature. ‘This is a rare Brigitta Schopenhauer, of the family Schopenhauerensis.

Brigitta Schopenhauer, of the family Schopenhauerensis.

Members of this family live in unusual structures in the woods and

like

to

decorate

themselves

with

feathers.

Schopenhauerensis should be approached with caution, as they engage in evil ceremonies. The Brigitta Schopenhauer is particularly dangerous. One should avoid eating lunch with the Brigitta, but it is permitted to gossip about her loudly from the next table.’” I stopped. I was making myself sound pathetic.

Luke laughed again. Then he paused for a train crossing and turned toward me. “You are rare, Brigitta.”

A sily smile blossomed on my face. I couldn’t suppress it.

He crossed the tracks and made a left turn. “You can’t be raw in front of people like that,” he said. “They do that because they don’t get it. You can’t let them under your skin.”

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Homeschooler. You live in the protective bubble.”

“Maybe so,” he said pensively. “But those people don’t deserve your pain, Brigitta.”

It was a surprising thought. I felt…known when he said it.

Like he saw the me I don’t show to anybody.

The highway ended in Westport. Luke kept going, down a narrow road and then up a sandy rise. The Pacific Ocean opened out in front of us, glorious with whitecaps—the first time I’d ever seen it. “Oh!” I exclaimed.

Luke drove all the way onto the beach. He jumped out of the driver’s seat, ran around the Jeep, and threw my door open.

“We’re here!” He seized my hands and puled me to my feet. I tumbled after him, pelting across the sand. He ran directly into the waves without stopping to brace himself. “Woohoo!” he whooped.

I folowed him in. The water was heart-stoppingly cold, but all around us little kids and dogs were playing in it. My jeans stuck to my legs, and I went splendidly numb.

An older couple with a kite smiled at us.

A wave knocked me off my feet, and Luke grabbed my waist A wave knocked me off my feet, and Luke grabbed my waist to steady me.

We rode the waves in and chased them back out, holding hands and jumping. I felt wild and bold and dangerous. And Luke was sweeping me out to sea.

Being in love must be something like being drunk. But I couldn’t know because I’d never been either. All I knew was that I was giddy with Luke, wheeling around in my squishy sneakers like a five-year-old. “Your lips are blue!” he caled over the wind. He tugged me back to the Jeep and wrapped the blanket around me. He was shivering himself, water dripping off his lashes. He opened the back of the Jeep and found a big duffel bag. “Here!” He puled out a pair of green sweats and a blue shirt with a parrot that said “Joly Roger.” He handed them to me along with a pair of socks and a green hoodie. I tried to give back the blanket, but he waved it off, pointed at the restrooms, and said,

“Meet back here, okay?”

The bathroom was cold and had a loud auto-flush toilet. I roled up my wet jeans and shirt along with my socks. My bra and panties were uncomfortable, but I couldn’t take them off.

What would I do with them? Stick them in the pocket of Luke’s hoodie? It was strange to wear Luke’s clothes. They smeled good—like clean laundry and spices. The sleeves on the shirt and coat were too long for me. What on earth was I doing here?

Would Malory notice I was gone? My bely was filed with a strange excitement. Suddenly the world had no boundaries.

Luke was at the Jeep wearing jeans and a thick denim jacket.

The sun glinted off his sunglasses. He stashed my wet stuff and opened the door for me like a footman. He bounced into the driver’s seat, crowing as sand sprayed out from our tires.

“Can we do this?”

“It’s a Jeep. It can do anything!”

“I mean, is it legal?”

“It’s a state highway,” he said as a cop in a 4x4 puled onto the sand behind us.

Luke frowned and slowed down to twenty-five. The cop left us alone. Luke pointed to the right. “There,” he said. “Isn’t it great?” Ahead of us was a lighthouse—white, with a red top, poised like a rocket ready to be launched. “It’s the talest one in the state.”

We left the Jeep and walked. The sound of waves dropped suddenly as we descended the other side. The wind blew off Luke’s Mariners cap, and he ran after it.

At the base of the lighthouse, five kids in “Camp Octopus” Tshirts waited with a couple of counselors. A wiry man with a weathered face stepped out. “Are you the last bunch?” he asked. The girl counselor nodded.

It felt a little like going into an Egyptian pyramid. But then I’ve never been in an Egyptian pyramid. A stubby kid stepped on a little red-haired girl’s heels. “Ow!” she yeled. The sound bounced off the wals.

“Vincent!” The girl counselor, a bleached blond with a whistle, steered Vincent around the desk at the base of the stairs. Luke exchanged a glance with me.

“The Grays Harbor Light Station was commissioned in 1898,” began the guide. “It stands one hundred and seven feet tal, and we are about to climb one hundred and thirty-five steps. Are you ready?”

“Yes!” shouted Vincent.

“Yes!” shouted Vincent.

The guide eyed him. “Let’s start with safety rules. Hang onto the stair rails and no pictures. We don’t want cameras dropped off these stairs. A dropped object could attain the velocity of a bulet.”

“Cool!” said Vincent.

“It is not ‘cool.’” The guide stared at him levely.

Steel stairs spiraled up the wals. The knobs on the stair rail had various shapes pressed into them—a kind of braile for lighthouse keepers carrying whale oill up to the lantern.

The girl counselor stayed close behind Vincent. Once or twice she seemed to study Luke, who had taken off his sunglasses.

The antique lens filed the lantern room—a huge transparent flower. We all circled around it. Two long old-fashioned bulbs sat inside. Outside the window a thumb-sized electronic lamp warned ships away from the rocks.

Behind us a drapery cut off the sun’s glare, but it was hot.

Luke puled off his jacket and tied it around his waist.

Feet scuffled on the other side of the lamp. A small “wheee!” and a sharp pop echoed up the column.

“Vincent!” the guy counselor barked. I peeked around the edge of the lantern. Vincent leaned over the stair rail.

“It was just a penny,” he said.

“All right,” said the guide. “Tour’s over.”

“I’m so sorry,” the girl counselor began.

“Time to go,” he cut her off.

One by one everyone descended the stairs. Luke cast a glance behind us. We were the last to reach the bottom. A neat hole shot through the desk.

“Whoa!” said Vincent, clearly impressed with himself.

“Let’s see! Let’s see!” The other children pushed in for a look.

“You are in such big trouble, Vincent,” said the little red-haired girl.

The tour guide strode to the door and opened it. The boy The tour guide strode to the door and opened it. The boy counselor took Vincent outside, and pretty soon a man with a Camp Octopus hat hurried over. The girl counselor herded out the rest of the children. I was about to folow them, but Luke put a hand on my arm. He edged toward the desk and lingered over the lighthouse books. Outside, the tour guide walked toward the Camp Octopus bus with a phone to his ear. Luke put a finger to his lips and guided me back. “What are we doing?” I mouthed.

“Living dangerously,” he whispered in my ear. He crouched behind the desk and puled me down with him. I put one hand on the stone floor to steady myself. Luke’s arm rubbed against mine.

Between the desk legs I saw the tour guide’s feet returning.

My pulse pounded in my ears. There was a click and the lights went off. The slam of a door. A key in the lock. “Luke!” I hissed.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “It unlocks from the inside. I checked.”

Under the desk a penny-sized spot was the only light. Luke kept a hand on my back. He breathed. We waited until we there were no more footsteps. My hands were clammy. Sweat trickled down my sides. When all was silent, Luke helped me to my feet.

High above us was a circle of light like the mouth of a wel. The stairs wound out from it in a faint line, a giant apostrophe. Luke led my hand to the stair rail. “We can’t do this!” I panicked.

“He’s gone,” said Luke. “Trust me.”

“What if he comes back?”

“I’ve scoped out hiding places on the upper levels.” Part of me wanted to bolt—to run out that door and back down to the beach. But another, shivery part of me knew that if I didn’t climb those dark stairs with Luke, I would regret it for the rest of my life. He put a steadying hand on my waist. “Go slow,” he whispered. “And feel for the knobs.”

The column opened out below us like the inside of a conch The column opened out below us like the inside of a conch shell. It lightened as we climbed. We reached the “foyer” level, right below the lamp, and we didn’t have to feel our way anymore. We took the last set of steps and emerged into the lantern room.

Below us a forest of trees stretched out toward the water. The Camp Octopus bus was puling away. The tour guide climbed into his car. I let out my breath. Maybe we wouldn’t go directly to jail with Vincent.

“I came here with my dad when I was nine,” said Luke. “Only I didn’t drop pennies off the stairs.”

“Were you a good little boy?”

Luke smirked. “Oh, yeah. All the time.”

He touched my hair lightly as we looked out toward the beach. We could see a sailboat and a little farther out a fishing boat.

“Did you go fishing?” I asked him.

“My dad took me out in a crab boat.”

“Did you like it?”

He laughed. “I was terrified of the crabs.” The sun shone through the prisms of the lens and cast rainbows on his face.

“I didn’t think you were afraid of anything.” Luke looked away from me and out to sea. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I am.”

I moved the drapery behind us, so that we were between it and the outside glass encasing the lantern room. “What?” I asked him. “What are you afraid of?”

I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Maybe I’d pushed him too far.

“Myself,” he said.

I searched his face. “You’re not frightening,” I said.

He turned toward me and lifted a hand to my cheek. His lips were warm when he kissed me. The joy of it ran all the way down my spine. He put his fingers in my hair, and we kissed some more. I wrapped my arms around his waist, and we some more. I wrapped my arms around his waist, and we swayed there like dancers. I thought that living in the lighthouse and kissing Luke for the next three months could happily replace eating and sleeping. I was glad Devon had never kissed me. It couldn’t have been anything like this.

“I like you,” he said. “A lot, Brigitta. You’ve figured that out, haven’t you?”

“Wel, I hope so.” I felt rather breathless. “You’re not in a regular habit of doing this, are you?”

He laughed and tucked my head against his chest. “Hardly at al,” he said.