Safe Harbor (15 page)

Life was going his way. Who could think otherwise? He was a college professor—at Yale, no less. All those years of study and research had added up to a decent teaching post. To make matters even better, when Joe finished his latest treasure hunts off the coasts of Greece and Sicily, he was accepting a yearlong fellowship at Yale. The brothers would be colleagues, but more important, they would be in the same spot for more than just a few weeks.

What else? Sitting at his desk, feeling the sea rock him back and forth, Sam made a list of reasons he should be happy.

Women liked him. Strange but true. After years in the shadow of his bigger, handsomer brother, Sam had suddenly come into his own. Maybe it was the weights. Perhaps it was the miles he ran. Probably it was the fact that he had quit trying so hard. He'd just given in to being himself, forgotten about how he wasn't now and wouldn't ever be Joe.

He liked—no, loved—his work. Being a professor was only half of it. The rest was collecting and analyzing data, being ahead of the curve on knowledge regarding marine mammals. He was writing a book on the emotional lives of dolphins, the ways they connected and communicated with each other and—bizarrely enough—the humans who studied them.

While Joe used his oceanographic background on annual trips to distant seas in search of sunken ships and buried treasure, Sam had recently—the last two winters—begun visiting the sea off Bimini. There, in clear Bahamian waters, he had made the acquaintance of a family of spotted dolphins. Della, Minnie, and Sugar, they had welcomed him directly into their midst, leading him over the sand flats into the reef. He tracked them via transmitter and the observation of local scientists and fishermen, and the tapes of their songs and calls kept him company on long northern nights.

So why was this summer storm making him feel so lonely?

He felt like that little kid, abandoned by his brother and worried about his mother, who had wandered down to the Ida Lewis docks in search of new friends. Rain pelted the portholes, drowning out Della on the tape player. Lightning flashed, making him jump. Storms had scared him as a kid. His mother, working long hours, had never been there to comfort him. But from that first morning on the dock, the day she had asked him to join the sailing school, there had been Dana.

She had made a difference. She had plucked him off the dock, made him believe he mattered. Some days Sam had felt like a throwaway kid. His parents had gotten married without any apparent real love. His mother, a widow, had needed a father for Joe. His father, a truck driver for the lobster co-op, had thought maybe he was ready to settle down. As things turned out, he was wrong.

Sam had been the kid in the middle. By the time Dana came along, his father had died and his mother was a widow again. Dana made him feel wanted. She had acted as if he were special, as if her class wouldn't be the same without him.

He had never forgotten, after all this time. Though he couldn't, at eight, have called what he felt for her love, he knew that some kind of seed had been planted. Now, moving from his desk to his bunk, he lay still and listened to the rain. The boat rocked beneath him.

His boat—his home as well as his companion—had never felt so lonely. Reaching up to the shelf above his head, he pulled out an old notebook. This tome dated back—way back. Among other things, it held the drafts of four letters, never sent, written when he was seventeen and eighteen. More important, it contained two pictures—taken when he was nineteen, at the edge of the sea on an island—that told the story of why he'd never gotten around to mailing the letters that had seemed so important to write.

The wind and rain outside were nothing.

Seeing Dana again had started the real storm brewing. Sam read and reread the letters. He stared at the photos, wondering how it was possible that she had physically changed so little over the years. In other ways, deep-down ways, she had changed a great deal. Dana was living a life of sorrow now. Sam could feel it in his own bones, as if this gale carried that truth on the wind.

Closing his eyes, he thought back beyond the letters and pictures to the day she and Lily had pulled him from Newport Harbor. In his childish gratitude, he had promised she would never have to worry, that he'd protect her forever. She had laughed and called him her hero.

People were expected to forget things like that. Dana was young, and Sam was just a kid. But he had never forgotten. No matter what she might think, no matter whether she had never taken his promise to heart, Sam had been deadly serious.

And he knew the time had come to make good.

Dana Underhill needed him now.

He knew by the emptiness in her eyes, by the way she could no longer paint, by the desperation of her niece. Helping Quinn would be a start, but Sam knew he was really doing it for Dana.

He had a tank in his chest, mowing down everything in its path: sense, manners, the old Sam. He had connected with her long ago. Perhaps he hadn't realized until that moment on his bunk, in the cabin of his sailboat, just how much he needed to do this for her. Every girl, every relationship he had had, had been judged with her as the standard. She had been his older woman, as far out of his league as a goddess.

Those days were over. Goddesses didn't cry. Their worlds didn't fall apart when their sisters drowned. They could paint with sea and sky, and their palettes never dried up. Dana might not know it, but she was in his sights. She needed him as much as he had ever needed her, and as soon as this storm ended, he was going to save her.

CHAPTER
11

F
INALLY, HOT DOG DAY ARRIVED.
A
LLIE WAS SO
excited, you'd have thought it was Christmas morning. Quinn watched her change her clothes twice, trying to decide on the perfect thing. When she dragged their mother's “kiss the chef” apron out of the pantry, it took everything Quinn had to keep from reading her the riot act, telling her to pull herself together.

“It's just a hot dog stand,” Quinn said calmly. “And you're not even cooking.”

“I know, but it's my first job,” Allie said. “I want to look right.”

“You look great,” Aunt Dana said. “Just like a real entrepreneur.”

Quinn didn't know what that meant, but she didn't let on. Silently, she piled the hot dogs, buns, mustard, ketchup, and relish into the big wicker picnic basket. The night before, when the rain had stopped, Aunt Dana and she had ridden their bikes around the beach, putting up new signs.

HOT DOG ROAST TOMORROW!

FOLLOW YOUR HUNCH, TIME FOR LUNCH,

BRING A BUNCH, COME TO MUNCH!

99 Cresthill Road, noon till one (or until we run out)

Looking at the clear, starry sky, Quinn sent a silent message to Sam. Although she was pretty sure he'd figure it out on his own, she picked up the phone and called him—just in case. She got his voice mail, so she left a message: “Hey, Sam. It's Quinn. I'm getting the money to pay you, having the hot dog stand. Come have one, okay? I'll only charge you half price. Nah, since you're driving so far, I'll give it to you free. See you tomorrow.”

Now, as Aunt Dana set up the grill down by the road, Quinn settled the soda cans into the ice-filled cooler. Charcoal rattled into the kettle. The sound of a match, the smell of smoke: Quinn felt her chest tighten. Would everything always remind her of her parents? Her father had always been the one to start the grill for family cookouts. Trying to put that out of her mind, Quinn concentrated on her work.

“What if no one comes?” Allie asked, sounding anxious.

“They will,” Aunt Dana promised.

“How do you know?” Quinn asked. In spite of her older-sister status, she was just as nervous as Allie. She'd never done anything like this before. Her mind filled with images of sad lemonade stands on the sides of roads traveled by practically no one, lonely children desperately waving after stray cars that would never stop.

“Because I did this myself once, remember?” Aunt Dana said confidently. She wore shorts and a white shirt, and her hair was still damp from her morning swim.

Quinn stared at her without saying anything. If her mother were here, she'd be wearing a flowing sundress and straw hat. She'd have decorated the folding table with roses from her garden, and she'd have baked corn bread flavored with rosemary and thyme. Aunt Dana turned from the grill as if waiting for Quinn to speak, but Quinn just resumed burying cans of soda in the ice. There weren't really any words for what she was thinking.

Their first customer was Quinn and Allie's grandmother. She pulled up in her little Ford wagon and did one of her classic parking jobs: with the rear end sticking straight out in the street.

“Good thing we live on a dead end,” Quinn muttered.

“Quinn . . .” Aunt Dana said warningly.

“If we have any real customers, they won't be able to get by!” Quinn protested, but Aunt Dana was too busy popping the first frankfurter onto the grill to comment.

While Grandma took four—Quinn couldn't help timing her—entire minutes to doctor her hot dog with mustard and relish, the McCray clan came across the street. Marnie McCray Campbell and her daughters, Cameron and June, and her mother, Annabelle McCray, walked over and placed their orders.

“Well, Martha,” Old Annabelle called out, “doesn't this just bring back memories!”

“Mmmm . . . I . . . gwuas . . . tinking . . . ame . . . ting,” Grandma said with her mouth full.

“Girls, this is like one big old déjà vu,” Annabelle said. “How many years ago was it now? Twenty? My God, it has to be thirty! That's right, more like thirty! Well, anyway. There were Dana and Lily, proud as punch, selling hot dogs just like you girls are now.”

“Proud as punch?” Allie asked, playing right into her hands.

“Yep,” Annabelle said. “With nice homemade signs just like you girls hung up, all dressed up in Martha's aprons—Lily pretty as a picture—serving up frankfurters to anyone with fifty cents to spend. Lunch for fifty cents! I fed Marnie, Charlotte, and Lizzie for less than two dollars. Those were the days. . . .”

“Yeah, the
olden
days,” Quinn said.

Annabelle laughed. She was from the South, and she was polite and good-humored about everything. If she heard the tone in Quinn's voice, indicating that she didn't really feel like standing around talking about her mother, she didn't let on. Aunt Dana just stuck more hot dogs on the grill, and when they were done, Quinn slid them into the rolls.

“What are you saving up for, if I might ask?” Annabelle asked.

“It's a big secret,” Grandma announced. “She won't tell anyone.”

“I'll get Cameron to get it out of her,” Annabelle laughed. “Right, Cam?”

Quinn shot Cameron a look of daggers. She didn't want her getting any ideas. Quinn would go to the grave with her plan, and she didn't need any interference from the McCrays.

“Sure, Grammy,” Cameron said, rolling her eyes.

Allie straightened her apron. To keep it from dragging on the ground, Aunt Dana had rolled it up around her waist. It now said just “kiss the,” with “cook” bunched up in the folds. “My money's for white flowers,” she said.

“White flowers?” Annabelle asked, dimpling as if Allie had just said the most enchanting thing possible.

“Why white flowers?” Aunt Dana asked.

“For Mommy,” Allie said. “If we had a grave, I'd put white flowers on it. You know, Grandma, when we visit Granddad at the cemetery, how you always put geraniums there?”

No one was talking and no one was eating. Quinn felt her stomach start to churn. Grandma nodded yes to Allie's question, but she didn't say a word.

“Mommy loved white flowers,” Allie said. “Daddy wouldn't care. He didn't like the garden much. But Mommy did—”

“I've always said,” Annabelle began in that low-voiced southern way of hers, “that not having a grave is a mistake. The children need someplace to visit. Now, cremated or not, there's no reason why the remains can't be buried, a headstone set in place.”

“Quinn tried to take her parents' ashes on the plane,” Cameron volunteered.

“Well, naturally,” Annabelle said kindly. “She needs to know where they are!”

Something yowled like a cat. The sound was fierce and guttural, and it seemed to come from a cave beneath the earth. Suddenly, to her shock and horror, Quinn realized it had come from her.

“They're not going to be buried . . .” Quinn said through gritted teeth.

“Darling, I didn't mean to say anything hurtful,” Annabelle said.

People had started to arrive for the hot dog stand. One family parked its car behind Grandma's. Three children rode up on their bikes.

“They're not going to be underground,” Quinn moaned.

“Quinny,” Aunt Dana said, holding out her hand.

Quinn clenched her eyes shut. She tried to see her parents' faces. She wanted them so badly right now, her blood felt like ice water in her body. People were talking, and she tried to block it out. Her parents were safe, as safe as she could make them, on the mantel. She had to keep them there until she found out what had really happened, whether they had left her on purpose.

Suddenly, she heard a familiar vehicle: Sam's van came rumbling down the street. He had barely parked, stepped out of the driver's seat, when Quinn ran over to him. Tears were rolling down her face, and she couldn't stop them.

“Take me out there now,” she said in a hot whisper.

“Now?” he asked, his eyes wide behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “I don't have my boat here.”

“We have the
Mermaid,
” she said, pointing at the old sailboat—its paint newly dry—sitting on a trailer in front of the garage. Quinn, who hadn't wanted to sail since last summer, now couldn't wait to go aboard.

“I know we have her,” Sam said, touching the gunwale but staring at Quinn, “and I think it's time to launch her. But we have to do something else first.”

“What?” Quinn asked.

“Have lunch,” Sam said.

“How can you think of eating at a time like this?” Quinn asked, feeling a black hole where her heart used to be.

“You invited me, and I drove all the way from New Haven. Besides, you're going to owe me big-time. My services don't come cheap.”

Quinn peered at him through her tears. Slashing angrily at her eyes, she gave him a long, hard stare, letting him know that if he wanted it to be all business, that's what he'd get. She knew plenty about give-and-take, about getting what you paid for.

She had listened to her father on the phone more than once. He had been a businessman, a real estate developer, and Quinn knew about tough negotiations. She understood about people demanding to be paid—including her father.
Ideals are nice, sweetheart,
her father had once told her,
but money is how the world works.

“Quinn?” Sam asked, smiling as if he'd thought she would be laughing at his joke by then. Aunt Dana had walked over to stand silently beside her. Quinn felt them watching her, as if she were an egg about to break.

“I have to get back to work,” she said harshly. “People came to my hot dog stand, and I'd better earn my money.”

 

D
ANA HADN
'
T EXPECTED
to get the boat launched this way, on the same day as the girls' hot dog stand. As soon as the supplies had run out and the money was divided between Quinn and Allie, Quinn began dragging the trailer toward the hitch on the back of Sam's van.

“Whoa,” Sam said, going over to help her. He asked Dana; she said it would be okay to launch the boat. So they all took a ride down to the end of the beach, lifted the old Blue Jay over the seawall, stepped the mast, and prepared to sail.

Standing in the shallow water, hooking on the jib, Dana felt the small waves licking her ankles. Memory tugged her back to her own childhood, days of sailing with Lily, but she was brought straight into the present by the determination on Quinn's face.

“I didn't think you liked to sail anymore,” Dana said quietly while Sam and Allie worked on sliding the rudder into place. Her heart was still pounding from the ruckus on Cresthill Road, Quinn's outburst and subsequent stony silence.

“That's beside the point,” Quinn said.

“You don't have to snap at me, Quinn. Just because Annabelle had an opinion you didn't like, it's not my fault.”

“I know. I'm sorry. And thank you for cooking the hot dogs. We made a lot of money.”

“You're welcome.” Dana smiled, feeling happy to be thanked and apologized to at the same time.

When Sam had checked the rudder and centerboard and Dana was satisfied with the sails, the two girls slipped into orange life jackets and climbed into the bow. Dana went next, and Sam—with his pants rolled up above his knees—pushed the boat into deeper water before hopping over the stern. He looked strong and capable, and she felt quietly touched that he had come back.

The girls, once proficient sailors, huddled together in the bow while Sam held the tiller and Dana worked the jib. Two quick tacks were necessary to sail through the narrow channel between the swimming area and the rocks at Little Beach, and Allie cried out as the boat heeled.

“We're fine,” Dana said, holding one girl in each arm. “Don't worry.”

“I don't like tipping!” Allie said.

“The boat knows what it's doing,” Sam said. “She goes over just far enough, then rights herself.”

“Aaaah!” Allie cried, clutching Dana.

“Shut up,” Quinn called.

“This is Quinn's fault,” Allie choked out, terror in her eyes. “I didn't want to come, but she said I
had
to, that I owe it to Mommy and Daddy. Take me back, I don't like sailing, please take me back to the beach. . . .”

“Okay,” Dana said, holding the girls tighter. The sun was bright overhead, and the Sound was flat calm. Still early in the season, there wasn't much boat traffic. A light breeze blew offshore, and the hull sliced the water with a gentle whooshing sound. It was a perfect sailing day, and both girls were excellent sailors, but Dana knew they feared the same fate that had befallen their parents would take them down too. “Sam?”

“We could go back,” Sam said, holding the sailboat on a broad reach, the boom swung out wide and the hull nearly flat on the surface as Dana tried to imagine Jonathan in this same situation. “But . . .”

“No buts,” Allie gasped. “Please, oh, please!”

“Let him talk,” Quinn said through clenched teeth.

“You're good at this, Quinn.”

“I used to be.”

“Sailing's like riding a bicycle. You don't forget.”

“I don't want to . . .”

“He's right, Quinn,” Dana said, reaching out. “You can do it. Your mom said you're the best sailor she ever saw. Including her or me . . .”

“And that's saying a lot,” Sam agreed.

Dana laughed, and Quinn almost smiled. Dana could see her smelling the wind, feeling the tiller in her hand. “Go ahead, honey.”

Very slowly, with total ease, Sam loosened the main sheet and let go of the tiller. He stopped sailing. The boat drifted slowly, nose into the wind, and sat still one hundred yards off the beach. Both girls relaxed; Dana could feel the tension leave their bodies—and hers.