Tides (12 page)

He chuckled. The sound grated on Maebh’s ears. “Yes,” he said, setting the wine down on the table and stepping closer to Dolores. “I get around. And call me Roger, please. I hope I don’t seem all that much older than you are.”

Dolores blushed. “All right, Roger. Could you tell us about your traveling, please? I’ve hardly been off the Shoals since I was born, and I’ve never left New England.”

“Well, now,” said her mother, pressing her hand on Dolores’s shoulder, “that’s just because you haven’t gotten your chance yet.”

Dolores smiled shyly at Roger.

It was only then that Maebh pulled her mind away from its dwelling on Dolores’s mouth, and she began to wonder about Roger Delacourt.

Mrs. Mochrie invited Roger to dinner every night that week. On the last night of his stay at the Oceanic Hotel, he made an announcement.

He stood up from his chair at the head of the table, a seat Mrs. Mochrie had given up to him from the first, and he raised his glass. “I’ve fallen in love with these islands,” he said, his voice deep and dripping with seriousness. His dull, pale hair stuck out from his head like a false halo, and his green eyes glittered. “I’ve decided to stay here for the rest of the season, and Mrs. Mochrie has generously welcomed me into her home until another room in the Oceanic becomes available.” He nodded toward Dolores’s mother. “And so, a toast, to Mrs. Mochrie and her beautiful daughter, Dolores, and to”—he looked sideways at Maebh and gave her a very small smile—“Maebh, her dear friend. I hope we can become a little family this summer.”

We were a family before,
Maebh thought at him, her back tense and the muscles of her face hard. She stopped wondering about Roger then, and started to worry.

After dinner, Mrs. Mochrie asked Dolores to light the beacon with her. Maebh rose automatically to join them, but Dolores’s mother shook her head. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to leave Roger lonely,” she said, “and I have something to discuss with my daughter.” Her voice was bright and casual, but the fierceness of her expression told Maebh to obey.

Dolores and her mother stayed in the lighthouse for almost an hour. Maebh had ample time, between her awkward spurts of conversation with Roger, to wonder what Mrs. Mochrie might be saying to her daughter.

“Dolores really is a gorgeous girl,” Roger said, leaning back on the couch and crossing one ankle over his knee, as if he meant to take up as much space as possible. “I’ve shot fashion models less striking than your friend, there. She could really make a name for herself on the mainland.”

Maebh frowned. “Dolores already has a name.”

Roger’s laugh cracked across the small room, making her wince. “No, I know. That’s not—Jesus. I meant she could be famous, get her picture in magazines, stuff like that.”

Maebh had never read a magazine, but she knew she probably shouldn’t tell Roger that. Dolores read them, old issues hotel patrons left behind, and she loved to talk about the exotic places and glamorous lifestyles the articles described. But Maebh still refused to believe that Dolores might actually leave the Shoals for the things in books and magazines. She shook her head at Roger. “Dolores likes it here,” she said. “She’s happy on White. With me.”

Roger raised his eyebrows. “That was fine when she was a child, but Dolores is almost a grown woman now—as are you, Maebh. Surely you don’t think you’ll both stay on these little islands forever.”

Maebh’s stomach turned, hot and acidic, and she cast her eyes down at the floor. All she could make herself say was, “I don’t know.”

When Mrs. Mochrie and Dolores finally returned, no one seemed able to meet anyone else’s eyes. Mrs. Mochrie busied herself with the dishes, making far more noise and taking far longer than was really necessary.

Dolores stared at the empty seat on the couch next to Roger for a while. Then she sat down next to him, quickly and silently, and gave him a smile Maebh hoped she didn’t mean.

“You know,” Roger said, sliding his arm along the top of the couch so it rested behind Dolores’s shoulders, “I was in Bermuda this spring, shooting a line of resort wear. You’d like Bermuda, Dolores. It’s an island too, but much bigger and warmer than this one, and with lots more colors. The beaches there are pink—seashells ground into such fine sand, you’d never guess they once belonged to living things.”

Dolores smiled, picturing pink beaches. Maebh thought of all the creatures whose bodies made the sand, all the broken ghosts of shells.

When Roger asked Dolores to come to the mainland with him, Maebh assumed she’d be back soon. They were only going to New York for an audition, he’d said. She hated herself for it, but Maebh hoped Dolores wouldn’t get the job.

But she did get it, and the one after that. Maebh still visited White sometimes, over the months that led into another winter, so she could hear the news about Dolores and read her occasional postcard. Not very long after Dolores left, Mrs. Mochrie showed her a department store catalog with her daughter’s picture in it. She was in a sweater-set ad, smiling in lipstick the color of a cooked lobster, her eyes lowered. Maebh knew then that Dolores would be gone a long time.

But even as that knowledge sank into the hard pit of Maebh’s stomach, settled in the back of her mind, she refused to believe that “gone a long time” was the same as “never coming back
.
” Somewhere between her mind and her belly, those hot, hard places, there rested a drop of faith in Dolores that would not evaporate.

And one day in November, Mrs. Mochrie had news for Maebh. Dolores and Roger were getting married.

Because selkies chose mates but had no ceremony to unite them, Maebh understood marriage only in a vague, story-time sense. To her, marriage was the fate of selkies with stolen skins, something their human captors demanded of them. It was certainly nothing good.

“I’m so relieved.” Mrs. Mochrie sighed, leaning back against her kitchen counter. “I was starting to worry about Dolores, growing up on these islands with no prospects to speak of. Thank God for her looks, and thank God for Roger.”

Maebh looked away, choking back the immense pressure on her throat.

Mrs. Mochrie looked at her strangely. “Oh, don’t worry, dear. I’m sure you’ll find someone yourself, soon enough.”

Maebh stayed quiet, and Dolores’s mother looked down at her hands.

Maebh thought years might have passed in that silence, but she didn’t know what to say.

“Oh—I forgot.” Mrs. Mochrie strode across the room and began to dig through the small pile of mail on the kitchen table. “Dolores sent you a letter, too. For the life of me I don’t know why she sent it here.” She held out a small white envelope. “Write her back, maybe, and let her know your own address.” She frowned. “Whatever that might be.”

Maebh took the letter. “I think I’ll go read this now, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Mochrie. I’ve been impatient to hear from her. I’ll light the beacon for you, if you want.”

“Oh, thank you, dear.” Dolores’s mother waved her hand toward the door. She fished a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, lit one, and settled back onto her new pink couch.

Maebh walked outside, closing the door carefully behind her so as not to make too much noise. It was cold and blustery, but she thought she couldn’t bear to go through the walkway just now.

She stared at the address on the letter.
Maebh Terlinn, care of Sarah Mochrie, PO Box 7, Isles of Shoals, NH.
So many layers of place, though to Maebh they were only “home.” And Dolores had gotten her name backwards.

Maebh tripped over a dry clump of seaweed and fell, scraping her leg open on the rocks. She held back a pained shout, not wanting Mrs. Mochrie to come out and investigate. She stood, straightened her simple blue dress (which had once belonged to Dolores), and kept walking to the lighthouse. She looked at the ground now, and not at the letter.

It was hard to light the beacon alone. The great metal circle that reflected the lamps had to be set in motion, and that required Maebh to turn a huge, heavy crank—one she’d always moved in tandem with Dolores. It felt more than twice as heavy now, and Maebh wondered if Dolores had been pulling more than her share of the weight.

When it was finally done, she lay down on the floor to read her letter. Every ten seconds she felt heat on her skin from the passing lamp, but it didn’t last.

Dear Maebh,

I think Mother must have told you about Roger and me, and I’m not sure how to tell you myself if she hasn’t.

We’re getting married—oh, I know, you won’t like that very much. But he loves me, and he says he’s going to take me all over the world.

You know, I’ve only been away from the Shoals for a few months, but it already feels like years and years. The things I did there, the things we did, it’s as if I read them in one of Mother’s books. Well—not Mother’s, perhaps.

Roger calls me Little Mermaid, because of my hair and my being from the Shoals. That makes me think of you, of course. You said I looked like a siren, and honestly I like sirens better than the Little Mermaid story Roger reads to me.

Sometimes I hate myself for leaving you, but I suppose Mother is right. I have to grow up sometime. That’s what Roger’s given me: a chance at a real grown-up life. I hope you understand.

I still love you. I do. I just couldn’t stay.

Yours always,

Dolores

Maebh stuffed the letter crooked into its envelope.

She climbed down the spiraling steps to the lighthouse door and let herself out into the cold. Another storm was coming, and she’d have to put on her sealskin soon to guard herself from it.

She took a deep breath and felt her human ribs expand. She waited for them to crack and implode on the hollow space inside her chest. She thought she’d crumble, her bones becoming a little stretch of pink sand on the rocks. But her body stayed whole.

She scrambled down the cliffs and dug her sealskin from its crevice. She pulled off Dolores’s old dress and stared at it for a moment.

She buried her face in the fabric and screamed.

The dress muffled her voice, but she still feared Mrs. Mochrie might come looking for her. She tossed Dolores’s letter into the sea and hoped it would dissolve.

She shoved the dress into the rocks and swam away, the sealskin still pulling up over her shoulders.

nineteen

N
OAH’S
sweatshirt smelled clean and warm, like the wood on Appledore Island’s new pier. It smelled like the sun, she thought, knowing that she really had no idea what the sun smelled like.

Her hand in his—that was even stranger than his clothing, his own second skin, wrapped snugly around her shoulders. She felt his fingers move against hers. She wiggled them a little, trying to get used to the sensation.

Noah pulled away. “Sorry,” he said.
Sorry for what?

She pulled her hand up into his too-long sleeve, feeling the downy fleece brush against her wrist. She walked faster. She knew she’d ruined something, and now she just wanted to get inside.

Noah fell into step behind her. The cottage beckoned, and the lighthouse beam seemed cold and alien next to the flickering yellow light radiating from its windows.

Mara reached the door first, and she stepped inside. She saw the same wooden cabinets, green counters, and pink sofa she’d noticed before. A powdery, sweet, human scent drifted over her, one she’d smelled on Maebh many times. The old woman, the lighthouse keeper—Noah’s grandmother—stood with her back to the door, bending over a cup of something that smelled really lovely, like hot water and smoke. The girl with the sad face and long black hair reclined on the couch—next to Maebh.

Mara’s sudden confusion flashed out through her link before she could stop it.
Does everyone know now?

Maebh looked up, her face gentle, if unsmiling. Through her link she said all was well. Mara tried to relax.

“Hi, Lo,” said Noah as he came in behind Mara.

The girl looked up, startled. She stood slowly. Mara saw that Lo had about the same build that she did, soft and stocky, neither short nor tall. She couldn’t help but start plotting ways to become this girl’s friend, just so she could borrow some clothes. She was ready to shed her big floppy shirt-dress once and for all.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Lo,” she said. “My name is Mara.”

Lo shot a doubting look over Mara’s shoulder. Had Noah been talking about her? Or was it just because Lo had been in the cottage when Mara and Maebh found each other there?

“Is the tea ready, Dolores?” Maebh asked, standing as well. She walked over to Noah’s grandmother and placed a hand on the small of her back.

“Yours is on the counter.” The old woman smiled, bent her head down, and kissed Maebh on the mouth.

Mara was too distracted by the swell of joy in Maebh’s link to know what she felt herself. She looked at Lo, who had calmly averted her eyes—it appeared she knew about this relationship already. Noah, however, seemed more surprised. She heard him draw in his breath. He stepped away from the door, joining Lo by the couch.

“You knew about this?” he asked her.

She nodded, breaking into a wide grin. Noah smiled too.

Mara couldn’t help but see how different the two of them looked. Noah was tall and lean, with the unruly, bright hair that kept drawing her notice, a straight, large nose, and green eyes. Lo was shorter, not so lean, with hair nearly as black as her own and brown eyes that were a different shape than Noah’s. She thought perhaps Lo might have different parents, like the younglings in her pod.

Lo moved closer to the edge of the sofa when Noah sat down with her. Mara recalled the growing distance between herself and Ronan.

She wanted to slide into the space between them. But the sofa was clearly meant for two, and if she joined them, her hip would press against Noah’s. She told herself to stay standing.