Dark Water: A Siren Novel (4 page)

“Excuse me, Ms. Marchand?” I asked. “I was wondering if you were still hiring.”

C
HAPTER 3
 

A
FTER A TUMULTUOUS
, exhausting year, the summer before I started college was supposed to be dedicated to two things: spending time with my family and relaxing. Less than a week in, I saw my parents only at night and was having trouble finding the time to unwind. This was mostly because instead of not working at all over the next three months, I’d picked up two jobs. The first was hostessing at Betty’s Chowder House. Paige let me make my own hours, but since the more I was at the restaurant, the better chance I had of seeing Simon, I often showed up before breakfast and stayed until after dinner. My long hours hadn’t paid off yet; Caleb had probably mentioned seeing me there, because he was always alone when he came to pick up lunch. But I was going to make myself as available as possible, just in case.

The second job was helping Anne, our realtor, show the lake house. I’d inherited this position by default. If Mom had her
way, she’d have followed Anne’s every move—and intervened as necessary—until the house sold. But she was determined to get us settled into our new vacation home, so was too busy shopping and decorating and organizing to focus on the old one. And she didn’t trust Dad to fill in for her; he’d bought the lake house before they’d even met and it had always been his more than anyone else’s. He promised he was ready to say good-bye, but every now and then, regardless of whether we were by the beach, in town, or somewhere else in Winter Harbor, we’d catch him staring off in the direction of Lake Kantaka.

That left me. Mom assumed I was as anxious to move on as she was, and she was right. For the most part anyway.

“Good Lord, what died in here?”

The front door slammed shut. I turned away from the living room windows to find Anne standing in the small foyer. Her arms were filled with bakery bags and shiny blue folders. Her face was frozen in a scowl.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean, it smells like cute, little woodland creatures scurried into your walls and never made it out.”

“The house is old,” I said, a hot heat swelling in my chest. “No one’s lived in it for months. It always smells a little musty at the beginning of the summer.”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s must or a mouse. No one’s going to reach for their checkbook if they’re too scared to uncover their nose and mouth.” She came into the living room, dumped the folders on the coffee table, and started for the kitchen. “And
given the price your mother’s asking, this place had better smell like a florist’s.”

I stood there, unsure of what to do. A second later, Anne’s head appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Windows?” she said.

“Sorry?”

“People will be showing up any minute. The best we can do now is open all the windows and pray for strong winds.”

Her head disappeared again. Cabinet doors squeaked open and slammed shut. Guessing she was looking for dishes for whatever she’d bought from the bakery, I debated telling her that Mom had left all kitchen staging items in the pantry … and then decided against it. Instead, I hurried around the living room, parting curtains and shoving open windows.

And then I went upstairs.

The door at the end of the hall was closed, just like it had been the last time I’d ventured to the second floor. There had been other showings and open houses over the past several months, while we were in Boston, but the air was so still and quiet now, it was hard to imagine anyone up here since then. It was also hard to imagine the events that had led me upstairs that afternoon, when I’d told Mom I’d be applying to Dartmouth as she packed the rest of Justine’s belongings in boxes.

Hard, but not impossible. I was reminded of that every single day.

“Vanessa, how about candles? Do you know where …”

Anne’s voice faded as I opened the door and closed it behind
me. Inside the small room Justine and I had shared every summer for as long as I could remember, I lowered myself to the edge of one and let my eyes travel over the other twin bed. It looked different. The quilt was too white, the pillow too round. Mom didn’t want to take any of the old furniture, but she’d saved a few smaller items, like the bedding. I guessed she hadn’t wanted to risk strangers’ using—or even throwing out—the sheets and blankets her eldest daughter had curled up in during countless chilly summer nights.

The bed was so unfamiliar, I couldn’t picture Justine lying there. I couldn’t see her propped up on one elbow as we talked about what to do the next day, or lying on her back and braiding her hair as we discussed movies and music and boys. Always boys. Eventually, one boy in particular: Caleb.

The thought made me want to lie down and close my eyes. Every day it became harder to see her, but it usually helped to block out other distracting images. I was just about to slide back on the mattress when the doorbell rang downstairs. Car doors slammed outside. I turned onto my knees and leaned across the bed, toward the window—and was happy it was still closed. Leaping out—and falling to the ground below—would be too easy otherwise.

Because there he was. Simon. My Simon, walking up the stone path leading to his family’s house next door. His dark hair was longer, messier. His usual jeans and T-shirt were splattered with grease and paint. His tanned arms appeared bigger, stronger.

My legs trembled. My throat tightened. My knees gave. Suddenly, all my body wanted—all it
needed—
was to be in those arms.

“I’m here,” I whispered, bringing one hand to the glass. “Right here. Look up … please look up.”

He didn’t. He went inside without even glancing this way.

I sat back. Did seeing our house no longer remind him of me? Had it already come to that?

There was only one way to find out. Ignoring the small part of my brain warning the rest of me that he needed time and space, I jumped off the bed, lunged across the room, and threw open the door.

“Hi, there.”

A couple stood in the hallway. I resisted stepping back, closing the door again.

The man smiled. He had blond hair, brown eyes … and a pretty wife whose face hardened the second she saw me.

“Do you live here?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Sort of. This was—is—my family’s house.”

“It’s lovely,” he said.

“It’s
old
,” his wife corrected.

If he heard her tone, he ignored it. “When was it built?”

I paused. This was one of dozens of facts that, up until ten seconds ago, I’d had memorized and could recite automatically.

“Nineteen forty,” I finally guessed. It was definitely in that range.

“That makes it barely middle-aged.” He held out one hand. “Brian Corwin.”

His wife looked from his open palm to me. Her lips lifted in a small, stiff smile, but her steady gaze suggested I’d better think carefully before accepting his offer.

“Vanessa Sands.” I waved instead of shaking and nodded past him, toward the stairs. “And if you’ll excuse me, I really—”

“Why are you selling?”

My eyes locked on his. “Excuse me?”

“The house is in great condition. It’s quaint. Charming. A stone’s throw from the lake. It’s everything this town was before it wasn’t anymore.” He shrugged. “Your family must have a very good reason for leaving.”

Several, actually. Good memories. Bad memories. Its proximity to fresh—not salt—water. Our desperate need for a new start. But I couldn’t share any of this with a possible buyer—at least not without inviting more questions. Plus, I’d been through enough to know that Brian didn’t ask what he did because he truly wanted to know the answer; he asked because he truly wanted to know
me
. Or at least the person his body was telling him I was.

“Maybe it’s all the dark paneling,” his wife offered, when I didn’t respond right away. Her voice was pleasant but strained. “Or the peeling wallpaper. Or the faded carpet. Or the crumbling steps outside. Or
maybe—
”

“Did you or did you not say, all of three minutes ago, that it had amazing potential?” Brian’s smile was gone. “And that it could be the fixer-upper you’ve been dying to transform?”

My chest tightened. My fingers ached to scratch my skin as it dried across my face, neck, and arms, but settled for taking the water bottle from my sweatshirt pocket. I drank as Brian and his wife argued and waited for my body to cool, relax. Stressful
situations always accelerated my dehydration and zapped my energy and had been doing so even more lately. I’d increased my salt intake accordingly, but I wasn’t sure it was enough.

As much as I loved this house and as sad as I’d be when it wasn’t ours anymore, I had to admit the oceanfront house had definite benefits. The main downside was that it was expensive—even though Anne insisted that before last summer, we would have paid double for it. Mom had said we’d be fine financially for a little while, but we’d need the money from the sale of the lake house sooner rather than later.

Given all that, wouldn’t it be okay to make an exception to my very rigid rule of not using certain abilities for my own personal gain? At least this once? Especially since it could lead to not one but two positive outcomes—including the strength I’d need to walk up to Simon’s front door and say everything I’d longed to for months?

I didn’t know. But I drained the water bottle, swallowed, and took a deep breath anyway.

“Finished basement.”

Brian and his wife turned toward me. I continued before I lost my nerve.

“There’s a finished basement. My mom renovated it five years ago. She used it as an office but it’d probably make a great gym.”

I was guessing this might be a selling point. The wife was thin and wore a sleeveless top that showed off defined arms. She carried a canvas satchel large enough to hold a yoga mat.

“Also,” I added, “it’s a mile’s swim from one side of the lake to the other. That makes for a great morning workout.”

She gave me a slow once-over, clearly debating whether my motives were sincere. Fortunately, plenty of swimming over the past year had given my muscles definition, too. I didn’t know how visible they were through my jeans and baggy tunic, but she must’ve seen something that satisfied her, because the slight wrinkles in her forehead smoothed as her face relaxed.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to check out the basement.” She slid one hand around Brian’s arm and began leading him toward the stairs.

“Actually,” I said, “there are a few other rooms up here. They need a lot of work, but—”

“I’ll take a look.” Brian pulled his arm away. “One of them might make a great walk-in closet.”

He directed this at her—as some sort of reward, I assumed—but looked at me.

She hesitated, then sighed. “Whatever. Keep your phone on.”

“Sorry,” he said, when she was gone. “She has pretty particular taste.”

I forced a smile. “No apologies necessary.”

I started down the hallway, casting what I hoped appeared to be the occasional coy, mysterious glance over my shoulder. I certainly wasn’t coy, and if ever I was mysterious, the guy wasn’t the only one in the dark. But between Paige’s sister, Zara, her mother, Raina, and my own biological mother, whom I’d met for the very first time last fall, I had learned a few things about
what I could do—and how. I hadn’t so much as smiled at a boy since the last time I smiled at Simon eight months ago, so I wasn’t very good at any of it … but I also knew that didn’t necessarily matter.

Because Brian was following me. Watching me. Grinning like his wife wasn’t downstairs, like he wasn’t even married. The worst part was he didn’t even know what he was doing; he couldn’t control his response. Only I could.

It was wrong. Uncomfortable. If my skin weren’t so dry, it’d be crawling.

But it
was
dry—and getting worse. I brushed one arm with my hand and a flurry of translucent flakes fluttered to the floor. So I kept going. All the way to the guest bedroom at the other end of the hall.

“Wow.” For a split second, he focused on something besides me. “That’s some view.”

I joined him by the windows overlooking the lake. The big room was empty, except for an old sofa and desk, but we stood so close, our sleeves touched.

“You should see it at sunset.”

He turned to me. “I’d like that.”

A warm surge of energy simmered low in my belly. Encouraged, I pictured Justine beaming at Caleb and did my best to mimic the expression.

“So where are you from?” I asked.

“Providence. In Rhode Island.”

This time, my grin was sincere. “I’ve heard of it.”

He shook his head, laughed lightly. “Of course you have.” He looked up, tried again. “I’m an adjunct econ professor at Brown. Marley’s a yoga instructor.”

“And Marley, she’s your …?”

He inhaled sharply as I stepped toward him. The heat in my belly shot down my legs, up my torso, through my arms. In a matter of seconds, I went from wanting to collapse into a deep sleep to feeling like I could swim Lake Kantaka a dozen times. I pulled back to check my arms and saw that my skin was already smoother, softer.