Returning to Shore (6 page)

“What did you say?” she asked.

“I was just kidding, Mom.”

And Vera had given her a look which conveyed exactly what she thought of Clare's joke, then gone back to her reading.

***

Before they got into the kayaks, Richard gave her a paddling demonstration on land. She looked quickly in both directions, but even though there was no one else on the beach she felt embarrassed standing there paddling in the air. He stood behind her, put his arms
around her and placed his hands beside hers, on the paddle. This was the closest he'd been to her. She looked at her hands right next to his, the hands she had inherited, distinct as a face. Their hands dipped right, left; right, left.

Once they got out on the water, the kayak felt tipsy. Richard had her lean far to each side to show how far it would go without flipping, but even though the water was only waist deep, she felt nervous.

“You'll get the hang of it soon enough,” said Richard. “Compared to rowing, it's a pleasure. For one thing, you're looking in the direction you're headed, for another thing, your center of gravity is nice and low.”

It
was
nice to be low in the water, almost as if she were sitting right in the bay itself. Richard had her paddle around in circles and showed her how to turn and how to back up. It wasn't that hard. As she paddled with Richard across the inlet she grew more confident. The kayak did tip as she leaned to each side, but it easily righted itself. The water was calm and she was surprised by how quickly they made it to the beach on the opposite shore. Richard helped her out of the kayak and pulled it up on the sand beside his. She looked
back where they had come from. The boathouse on the shore was farther in the distance than she had imagined; it could have been a toy.

“Tired?” Richard asked.

“Not really,” she said.

“Clare, you're a natural,” said Richard, and she felt a flush of pride. No one had ever said this to her before. Certainly not the tennis instructor at Tertio's club. “Clare, I'm afraid you're not a natural,” he told her, “but with some practice there's no reason why you can't have a backhand, too.”

“Before we go out netting,” said Richard, “I'd like to do some work on emergency techniques. These boats don't easily capsize, but just in case, I want you to know how to handle it.”

Clare's heart started beating fiercely. All the sense of mastery she'd been feeling dropped entirely away. She got back into her kayak and followed Richard out to where the water was just over her head.

“You're a decent swimmer, aren't you?” asked Richard.

Clare nodded.

“And you have a life jacket on, so you'll bob right up to the surface, right?”

Clare nodded again.

“If you're a strong kayaker, and it flips upside down, you can right it yourself. Here, I'll show you,” said Richard. He paddled out a distance from her, flipped the boat so it was upside down, then somehow—she couldn't see how he managed—he got himself out of the kayak, swam up beside it, and then flipped it upright again. His hair and beard were soaking wet now and his face looked thinner.

“If you find yourself upside down in the water, you just swim out and under and come up on the side of the kayak. The kayak won't sink; no need to worry about that. You hang onto the side until you catch your breath, then you right the kayak and climb back in again. That's the tricky part.” He heaved himself up onto the kayak and he looked somewhat ridiculous as he worked to get his legs up and squeeze himself into the little boat. He was breathing hard, and he seemed vulnerable for a moment, a way Clare hadn't seen him before. Once he was seated, he looked like himself again.

“Ready to give it a try?” he asked her.

“OK,” said Clare.

“Come out here.”

She paddled out into the deeper water. The sunlight illuminated the top several inches of water, but didn't reach farther into the dark blue-green below. She tried tilting the boat far to one side, but each time, just before it got dangerously close to tipping over, she panicked and righted it quickly.

“You've got to try it just once,” said Richard.

“I can't,” she said.

“You can,” said Richard.

She paddled around again and tried leaning, but once again, her instinct made her pull herself upright. Except this time the boat didn't respond. In an instant she was upside down in the water, clambering to find the surface. She thought she was drowning. She banged against the side of the boat, clutched at something hard, and suddenly found she had broken through the surface of water to the sweet air. She grabbed onto the side of the boat and gasped for breath. Then she saw her father's face.

“You did that, didn't you?” she asked.

He nodded.

“You didn't have to do that,” she cried.

“I did,” he said.

***

Clare worked for half an hour to get herself back into her kayak. When Richard had demonstrated the technique, it had looked hard, but when she tried it, with him coaching her from his kayak, it seemed impossible. She had barely enough strength to hoist her body up onto the hull of the boat and every time she did, she slipped back into the water or pulled the kayak upside down on top of herself. It didn't make things easier that she'd started laughing. And once she started laughing, Richard had started laughing, too.

“I need to take a rest,” she said, and she leaned her head on the kayak and closed her eyes and felt the pleasant rhythm of the boat beneath her cheek moving up and down with the waves that she, herself, had made. When she opened her eyes she saw that Richard was leaning his head back in his kayak, eyes shut, with his feet up outside of the hull. He looked as if he was dozing. Quietly, she slid down into the water and swam up to his boat. Then she grabbed the side of it and pulled it over. The kayak tipped on its side and all in a second Richard was dumped out of the boat. He came up spluttering. He grabbed onto the overturned
kayak and shook his head, like a wet dog.

For an instant the look of astonishment on his face frightened her—she didn't know him well enough to tell if he might be angry or not. She wondered what had possessed her to do a thing like that. What had she been thinking? But then he smiled at her—it was a smile that was full of pleasure and surprise, a smile that was different than any he had given her before.

“I guess we're even now,” he said.

They'd decided that the turtle netting would wait until the next day. Richard had suggested they spend some time at the house, then go out for pizza for dinner. It was, Clare realized, what he considered something special, something he thought she'd like. With Vera, pizza was a meal of last resort. It wasn't something you ever planned on; it was what you had when meetings ran late and no one had the time to cook. The years when Vera was in law school, it was too often pizza for dinner. But Clare would not have wanted Richard to know this. He had obviously gone to the trouble to find out where to get pizza, since he said he never ate pizza himself.

Clare settled on the deck to read one of the paperbacks she had brought with her while Richard went to his study to work on his turtle website. It was not a book from Peter's list—those were all books that she read to impress Peter—no, this was a novel that Susannah had passed along to her, a book that Vera would say had no intellectual value, but still it was fun. And she felt she deserved something fun after braving the water of Cape Cod Bay.

The deck was on the back of the house, facing the view. Once it must have been a place you could sit and enjoy a broad view; now, she positioned her chair so she could see a slice of the water. The chairs were old-fashioned, wood, slung with canvas so faded the orange and green stripes were barely visible. When she'd first unfolded her chair, pine needles had coughed up on the deck.

Clare hadn't heard a car drive up—there was no driveway, just a sand road and a walk from the driveway to the house. But then she heard voices. A woman's voice said, “Oh, I'm sorry, Rich, I wouldn't have just dropped over if I knew you had a guest here.”

Rich?

And Richard said, “It's my daughter.”

Clare turned around. His daughter. It was the first time he'd said that word.

The woman was blonde and slender. “Oh, your daughter!” she said, with evident surprise. “I didn't know—”

“She's here visiting for a few weeks,” said Richard.

“Let me say hello,” said the woman, and she pushed open the screen slider and came out on the deck. Richard followed her. Clare instinctively put the book facedown on the deck beside her chair. If she was going to be meeting someone, she didn't want them to be thinking of her as the kind of girl who read junky YA novels—of course she
was
reading a junky YA novel, but still, it was just because it was summer. Clare pulled herself out of her chair. She felt small sitting in the low chair, like a kid.

It occurred to Clare that Richard might not have introduced them—either because he was the kind of man who didn't think to do such things, or because, for some reason, he wasn't eager for them to meet. But the woman had clearly wanted to meet Clare. She had a sheaf of papers in her hand, which she gave to Richard,
and stepped up to Clare now, hand extended. She was older up close than she had looked at a distance, a woman who had once been quite pretty and was, Clare thought, used to thinking of herself that way, though her teeth were too big.

“I'm Steffi,” she said.

“I'm Clare.”

Richard stood a bit behind them. Steffi turned to him. “You never told me you had a daughter,” she said. He shrugged. She leaned towards Clare confidentially. “Your father is a man of many secrets,” she said in a teasing way, but there was also a note of criticism.

It's true, thought Clare, a man of many secrets. There was an awkward moment, a moment when it was Richard's turn to say something. But he didn't. He just stood there, not extending himself to help the conversation. But if Steffi was disappointed by his lack of social grace, his inhospitality, she didn't let on.

“I work with Rich on the terrapin project,” she said, her voice cheerful and excited. “On
his
terrapin project, I should say. He's our guiding light.”

“Hardly,” said Richard dryly.

“You know how modest he is,” said Steffi to Clare.
Clare nodded as if she knew, but she didn't know at all. “The project was his idea; he got the grant money; he organized the volunteer network—I'm just a volunteer; I'm not a real naturalist.

“I'm not trained as a naturalist, either,” protested Richard.

Steffi ignored him. “And when journalists want to do a story about the project, he won't take any credit for what he's doing.”

There was another long pause. At this moment Clare would have expected Richard to offer Steffi something to drink—but he didn't. They all stood there, and Steffi smiled brightly at Clare. She was remarkably resilient. Perhaps she was so familiar with his awkwardness she didn't take it personally.

“So, you'll be helping out with the turtles while you're here, I bet.”

“I guess so,” said Clare.

“That's great,” said Steffi. “Nesting season, you know, is the busy time; we can use all the help we can get. Have you done this before?”

Clare shook her head.

“But you've been to the island before?”

“Oh, yes,” said Clare. “Of course.” She stole a look at Richard, and he caught her eye. His mouth moved slightly, not quite a smile, and he gave just the slightly hint of a nod.

Again there was a pause. Steffi took in her breath, pulled up her shoulders. “I've got to be going,” she said, “great meeting you, Clare. We'll be seeing each other, no doubt.” She turned towards Richard and touched his elbow. Her three fingers rested for a second on the fabric of his blue work shirt, then pressed cloth against skin. “I have some cages in the car I could use your help with,” she said. Her flip-flops slapped against the soles of her feet as she walked off. Clare felt a touch of —what was it? jealousy? and on whose behalf? Steffi was the kind of woman who would have irritated Vera, a woman who seemed as if she hadn't put a lot of work into looking attractive, but who was attractive anyway. But it wasn't Vera whom she was feeling for; it was herself, for the fact that this woman seemed to know her father better than she did. Clare sat down and opened her book. She didn't want them to think she was watching them to see how they dealt with each other when they weren't with her. She didn't know what was between
them. It seemed clear that Steffi was interested in her father—but was he interested in Steffi?

When he came back to the deck, he said, “Ready to go for pizza now?” Nothing about the visit from Steffi. So she didn't bring it up, either.

It felt strange to Clare to be going up and over the wooden bridge, leaving the island behind. Out on the main road Blackfish Island seemed as if it was a continent away. People speeding along to other parts of the Cape would never know that it existed, perhaps would not know that a place like it
could
exist.

The restaurant was noisy with big ceiling fans that swirled the air around but didn't do much to cool it. The teenagers who were working there looked sweaty and tired. Still, Clare envied them. It would be fun to have a real summer job, to be working with a bunch of friends and get to wear one of those red shirts that said
“Dave's Crew” across the back and had a name tag on the front. You probably had to be at least sixteen to get a job like that, though.

Richard studied the menu. “Should we get a whole pizza each or share one?” he asked.

“Aren't they kind of big?”

Richard caught the attention of the girl behind the counter. “How large are the pizzas?” he asked.