Pictures of Emily (2 page)

When they reached the narrow cobblestone street that led to the quaint, very New England town square, Sonny paused beneath a creaking pub sign. Hair blowing across his forehead, he looked up at the woodcut of a frothy stein of beer. “Feel like a drink?”

Cold beer was the last thing Doreen wanted, and even though she knew the pub had Irish coffee, she declined. What she needed was a good hot soak in the tub. And it wasn’t as if Sonny hated to drink alone. Sometimes she suspected that he preferred it.

He handed the tripod and camera case to her. “Go take a hot bath. I’ll meet you later for dinner.”

“Stop treating me like an old woman,” she said, the fear of getting old welling within her.

“You’re not old.”

“I’ll be sixty in three years,” she challenged.

“Like I said, you’re not old.”

It was useless to argue about such a ridiculous thing. Instead, she nodded in order to placate him. Whatever he said, sixty was old. Nothing could change that.

She turned toward the inn, worrying that her age was beginning to slow her down. She was getting tired of struggling to remain near the top. There were so many bright, innovative kids out there, just waiting. Full of energy. The kind of energy she used to have. Maybe she should just step aside, let them have their chance. But photography wasn’t something she could just walk away from. It was as vital to her as oxygen.

And if she quit, what would happen to Sonny? Who would protect him from the vultures?

* * *

Sonny watched Doreen move away through the dampness. He realized with a sudden jolt that her hair was more gray than black. When had that happened? Why hadn’t he noticed before? It suddenly seemed that she’d aged ten years in the last one. And she seemed to have shrunk a little.

Was she taking care of herself? Eating right? It wasn’t like him to get personal, not even with Doreen, but he was worried about her. He’d make sure she got a physical when they returned to the mainland. That decision made, he felt a little better.

Sonny was ready to duck into the pub when he saw the kite. It was so high he couldn’t make out its shape, couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be. Yesterday’s kite had been some sort of fairy creature. He’d been on the island long enough to know that Emily Christian, the village kite maker, put out a kite with the sunrise and brought it in with the sunset. Throughout the day it flew unattended, tied to a piling at the dock’s end.

Sonny didn’t go into the pub.

Instead, hands jammed into the front pockets of his jeans, he headed toward the wharf, where the kite string led.

The wharf extended a good eighth of a mile into the ocean and was wide enough for a car to drive down.

It smelled of fish and salt water and wood that had been soaked in creosote. There were little shops scattered here and there, but they were all closed since the summer tourist season hadn’t yet started.

But it wasn’t the shops that drew Sonny.

He stopped in front of a closed bait shop and looked toward the end of the wharf, the length of a football field away.

She was there.

Flying her kite above the ocean. Dark sky above, dark water below. Suspended between two powerful elements…or maybe a part of them. Watching, Sonny felt something he hadn’t felt in years: curiosity.

Most of the people who knew him would probably be surprised to discover that Sonny Maxwell viewed the world through the eyes of an artist. He liked pictures that told stories, created a single mood. The woman with the kite did both.

Sonny never analyzed his feelings by putting them into words. If he had, he would have said that the picture before him was pure old-fashioned enchantment.

The kite. The ocean. The darkening sky with just a streak of red. The blustery wind. The woman. Or woman-child, with her billowing hair and long heavy skirt.

Like the village she lived in, she seemed untouched by time and modern ways.

Her hair was thick and blond and wavy, and would have reached past her waist if it hadn’t been pulled by the wind, rippling it behind her like a delicate banner.

Mermaid’s hair.

Even from this distance, he could tell that her clothes looked as if they could have been from another period. They were coarse, dark, heavy, most likely made of wool, most likely homespun. On her feet she wore leather boots that stopped at her ankles.

Yesterday he’d asked the innkeeper about her, and the man had instantly become suspicious. When he finally told Sonny who she was and what she did, his answer had come reluctantly.

Sonny was well aware of the villagers’ reactions to his and Doreen’s presence in their little isolated community. They were anxious for them to leave. They were afraid. Even though they made money off the summer tourists, they didn’t associate with them, didn’t want the outsiders’ morals rubbing off on their children.

So Sonny hung back.

Which wasn’t hard for him to do. He’d spent his life hanging back, quietly watching. On the outside, looking in. And that was the way he preferred it.

Now, watching the woman, he could fully understand the innkeeper’s protectiveness.

Doreen loved to photograph people. All sorts of people. Unusual people. But Sonny hoped Doreen wouldn’t see this woman.

Sonny had read somewhere that early American Indians wouldn’t allow photographers to take pictures of them because they believed their soul became trapped within the printed image. Superstitious nonsense to some, but Sonny knew it was true.

Doreen would do more than take pictures of Emily, she would send them—little pieces of Emily Christian’s soul—to New York where they would sit on the desks of magazine publishers. Where they would be touched. Examined in a most clinical manner. And he knew once they saw Emily Christian, they would want her. And if they got her…

An unfamiliar emotion twisted deep inside him. Pain, or maybe fear. Whatever it was, it made no sense so he pushed it aside and absorbed the scene before him.

Today’s kite was just as colorful as yesterday’s. But where yesterday’s had been red, this one was a shimmering emerald green. As the mermaid reeled it in, Sonny recognized it as a dragon with wings that had to span at least six feet. A bumpy tail fluttered beneath fierce talons.

How could such a thing possibly fly? It looked too bulky. And what was she using for string? High-test fishing line?

As the giant creature came lower, a recalcitrant wind caught it, whipped it, pulled it. The woman fought to keep the kite under control, fought to keep the beautiful masterpiece from diving into the ocean.

Sonny didn’t consciously think about helping, but suddenly his boots were pounding across the wooden wharf. As the distance between them closed, the kite dipped once more, then plunged below his line of vision, into the choppy, icy waters.

The woman herself lunged, grabbed at air, then toppled forward to disappear over the side of the dock.

Sonny heard a scream, then nothing but the roar of the ocean.

He shed his coat as he raced toward the end of the wharf. As he moved, his mind sped faster.

Could she swim? Her clothes were heavy, would hold water, pull her down. The water was cold, frigid. Fifty degrees, tops.

He reached the end of the wharf and jerked off his boots, taking in everything at once.

The woman was fighting, struggling to keep her head above water, but the weight of her saturated clothes was too much for her. Her long hair had also turned into an enemy, ensnaring her arms.

Sonny dove. The shock of the icy water stole the breath from his lungs. He surfaced, gasping, his fingers groping. He managed to latch onto a handful of wet clothing. He dragged her through the water toward him, trying to turn her face up as he pulled.

Sonny felt her convulse. She wheezed. Choked. Then in a floundering panic, she wrapped her arms around him, shoving his head under water.

The attempted rescue turned into a battle for both their lives. He fought her, finally tearing her clamped hands from his arms. He surfaced, filling his lungs with air. Treading water, he managed to force her around so she was unable to cling to him.

He cast a quick glance toward the pier. It was a good six feet from the surface of the water to the wooden walkway above them. About twenty feet away was a perpendicular ladder attached to the side of the dock. Keeping one hand under the struggling woman’s chin, Sonny side kicked toward the dock.

What seemed like hours later, but in reality had probably only been a minute or two, he reached the ladder and shoved the woman toward it. “Grab on!” She apparently understood because her hand flew out, clawing the air in front of her, missing the side rail by several inches, her movements stiff and clumsy with cold.

Sonny’s arms ached; his lungs felt like they might burst. “Grab the ladder!”

She tried again. This time her hand made contact with a rung, and her blue-knuckled fingers wrapped around it. Her other hand grabbed hold and she tried to pull herself up while water gushed from her clothes. Her movements were slow and lethargic. She finally quit trying and simply clung to the ladder. Hypothermia?

Sonny pulled himself up behind her, his legs on either side of hers, his chest pressed against her back. He grasped the ladder with his left hand. With his right, he pried her hand free of the rung and placed it up to the next one. He did the same with her left hand so that both her arms were above her.

“Come on,” he gasped against her icy cheek. “Pull.”

She pulled.

“Good girl,” he praised, his right hand on her waist, urging her higher. “Now your foot. There you go.”

Below the sound of the crashing water, he could hear her shallow, labored breathing, close to his ear. He could feel the frailness of her body beneath the layers of heavy, sodden clothes.

They finally gained the last rung and heaved themselves over the top to collapse on the walkway. Wind cut like tiny razors across Sonny’s wet skin. His chest burned as he sucked air into his warm lungs, exhaling in a blast of vapor. Salt water stung his eyes. Cold steam, created by the frigid water reacting with the warmer air, rose from both their clothes.

The woman curled to a sitting position, wet hair tangled around her, head bent, coughing, a lake of icy water forming around her. She finally stopped coughing, but her teeth were chattering. From where he sat, he could see the tremors running through her.

With one shaking hand she pushed the strands of hair back from a semi-transparent cheek, with the other she clutched her heavy sweater to her chest, as if it could give her warmth. Slowly, she turned, her face in his direction.

Sonny found himself staring into the bluest, clearest, most unearthly pair of eyes he’d ever seen. Water clung from thick-lash tips. Then, one by one, a few shimmering crystal droplets chose to let go and run down her pale cheeks.

He was used to being stared at, but she was looking at him so strangely, her beautiful eyes wide, her lips parted. He felt that she was not only memorizing his face, but also looking deep into his very soul.

The person before him seemed ethereal. She was a fog over the lochs, a dew-laden meadow kissed by moonlight. He had the strangest fear that if he touched her again she might turn to mist.

Another half-formed idea joined the bombardment of his already stunned senses. “Are you a mermaid?” he asked.

Amusement lit her wonderful eyes. She shook her head—an almost imperceptible movement. She let go of the sweater and extended a delicate, blue-veined hand toward him. “Tha-a-nk y-you.” The acknowledgment was forced through frozen lips.

In the back of his mind, he knew he had to get her to shelter. But he couldn’t seem to move. Beguiled, he could only grasp her icy hand and pray she wouldn’t vanish.

So cold…

Freezing!

Emily’s teeth chattered as shudder after violent shudder wracked her body.

But then, as she stared spellbound at the man beside her, she began to feel mentally removed from the agony of her physical self.

Sonny Maxwell.

The
Sonny Maxwell.

It didn’t seem possible, but he was even more beautiful in person. His complexion was lighter than the ruddy fishermen she was used to. His lips were a little full—most women would probably call them sexy, their perfect shape accentuated by a golden brown dusting of a two or three-day beard. She remembered feeling it rub her cheek when he’d helped her up the ladder.

Even with the water droplets clinging to eyelashes and chin, dripping down the wet strands of hair falling over his collar, he was handsome.

His eyes. She’d never seen eyes that color. They seemed to reflect the clouds, the stormy gray sea.

But it wasn’t just his looks that so mesmerized her: it was the soft glow of light she could sense shimmering around him like a force field.

White, with a hint of gray… The color confused her. A person like Sonny Maxwell couldn’t have such an aura.

His hand was still grasping hers. She looked down. Beneath his fingertips, where their skin touched, was a warm lavender glow.

How odd. Lavender. The color of humanity…

Dazed, confused, she looked up from their joined hands, back to his eyes. “Y-you… you’re white,” she said, forcing the words through frozen lips. A gust of wind cut through her, and she shivered even more violently.

His eyes, eyes that had been looking at her as if he were a little stunned himself, narrowed with concern. “You’re blue. And getting bluer.”

Words were forced out through tremors. “You c-can s-see auras t-too?” Greta had told her that not many men could see auras. They didn’t have the sensitivity.

“Auras?” A shiver shook his shoulders. He muttered something about hypothermia and signs of delirium, then shoved himself to his feet, once again extending a hand toward her. “Come on. We’ve got to get moving.”

Would she be able to stand? Her muscles were cramping. She raised her hand and he pulled her up beside him. As soon as he released her, she wrapped her arms around herself in a futile effort to conduct some heat.

He walked to the other side of the wharf and picked up his leather jacket. When he returned, he tried to put it around her.