Safe Harbor (7 page)

Aunt Dana took a step forward, and Quinn sat on the hidden-diary spot, just like a hen hatching eggs. “You know this is hard for all of us,” Aunt Dana said. “I've never been a mother. I don't know what to do, I'm just trying to do my best.”

“You're still not.”

“Not what?”

“A mother.”

Aunt Dana looked stung. She blinked, as if she couldn't believe what Quinn had just said. Her blue eyes looked fairly wild, and her silver-brown hair blew across her face in the sea breeze. Brushing it away, she composed herself.

“Your parents made me your guardian, you know?”

Quinn didn't reply or blink.

“When I first found out, after I got over the shock and the nightmare—well, you know, I thought, oh, I'll move back to Hubbard's Point. I'll pack up my studio and live there.”

Quinn tilted her head, interested.

“It's my home, after all. I know every inch of this place. I learned how to paint here. My nieces won't have to get used to somewhere new. I'll be closer to my mother. It's the best thing for everyone.”

“So what happened?” Quinn asked, her voice quivering. The high tide was getting even higher. Just a few more inches, and the next wave would reach the spot where she'd buried her diary.

“Lily and I loved this spot,” Aunt Dana said, looking around. To Quinn's dismay, her aunt's eyes filled with tears. “We loved the beach so much. Everywhere I look, I see stories. God, I hope no one ever builds here. Over there”—Aunt Dana glanced up at the soft white sand leading into the woods—“the story of our family picnics—how some Sundays Mom would fill up a basket with sandwiches and lemonade, and we'd all come over here to eat and swim. And over there, where Lily and I used to go spearfishing for blackfish. And back there, in the woods, how we used to go looking for the slave grave. And how we used to catch blue shells in the creek. And how we'd sail past on our Blue Jay.”

“Those are good memories,” Quinn said.

“They were good when she was here,” Dana said, her eyes hard. “But with her gone, I can hardly stand them. I'm afraid I'll go crazy if everyplace I look reminds me of her.”

Quinn felt her veins and arteries tighten so much, there wasn't a bit of blood running through her body. She knew exactly what Aunt Dana meant. But for her, the fear was quite opposite: She was afraid if she left Hubbard's Point, those memories would slip away and she'd never get them back again.

“Quinn?”

“You sound like Mom.”

“How?”

“The way you're talking about change—hoping no one ever builds here. She hated when things she loved changed, disappeared. That's how she was about places. She was protector of the land—like here at Hubbard's Point, at the Vineyard.”

“Do you think that's bad?”

“Sometimes. You can't keep everything the way it used to be. You just can't.”

“I know, Quinn. But you can feel upset when it changes.”

Quinn clenched her fists, hoping Aunt Dana didn't notice. She thought of the big fights that erupted that last month, knowing they had had to do with change.

Not speaking, she watched her aunt climb on top of the big rock. Aunt Dana opened her arms to catch the wind blowing in off the Sound. She stood there with her arms out for such a long time, the waves did come up a few more inches. Digging down, Quinn retrieved her diary. Hastily shoving it into her waistband, she glanced up to see if Aunt Dana had noticed.

Her aunt was oblivious. Quinn might not even have been there. Aunt Dana was hugging the wind, almost dancing with it, moving around and around the top of the rock. She seemed to be gazing out to sea, down the beach, into the wooded path—seeing scenes and stories of her life with Quinn's mother, invisible to Quinn or anyone else.

The strange thing was, Quinn was seeing scenes of her own. This spot on earth belonged to her and her family. It was theirs, and there could never be another place like it. Quinn saw the rocks where she and her father had gathered mussels, the patch of poison ivy where Allie had gotten such a bad case, the reeds their mother painted every season, across the cove the Point where their house was located. And at her feet, on the rock nearest the water, was the secret gift she always brought and always left.

“I'm not going to France,” Quinn said, palms pressing against the diary.

“I'm not staying here,” Aunt Dana said, staring over the water like the figurehead on a ship.

CHAPTER
4

D
URING THE LAST DAYS,
S
AM
T
REVOR HAD
presided over study sessions and final exams and attended an end-of-term faculty party. He e-mailed Joe, and various colleagues in Nova Scotia and Woods Hole, finalizing plans for the summer. One night he went to the movies with Jenny Soames. But in the back of his mind, the whole time, was the uneasy feeling of something left undone. He could practically hear Augusta telling him what to do.

So on Thursday, the day Dana and the girls were scheduled to leave for France, Sam found himself driving out to Hubbard's Point. The sky was blue and clear. With the windows open, fresh air circulated through the van. July was days away, real summer right around the corner. School was out for another year, and Sam should have been feeling lighthearted.

Instead, his insides flipped, as if he were in the middle of final exams himself. Traffic on I-95 was heavy. He had Augusta's voice in his head, telling him to pass everyone on the right. He inched across the Saltonstall Bridge, wondering what time Dana's flight left. His heart was a mako banging into the shark cage, trying to get inside. What if he missed her?

Well, what if he did?

He had to ask himself the question. Here he was, a college professor, barging into someone else's life. He understood the student-teacher connection, how students came and went over the years. He was just another kid from her past. He'd never even met her nieces. But driving along, he pictured Lily's face at the theater that night, and he knew he had to see Dana again. She had told him he didn't understand what it was like for her, but he thought he did.

Sam really thought he did understand.

 

“E
VERYONE READY?
” D
ANA
asked, checking her watch for the third time in five minutes.

“Where's Kimba?” Allie asked in a panic. “I can't find him anywhere.”

“Stay calm,” Martha said. “We'll find him.”

“What a baby,” Quinn growled. “Still dragging that scrap of feline around.”

“He's not a scrap!” Allie trembled.

“Sure he is. His stuffing's been lost for years, and you've practically rubbed the fur right off him. Gray, Allie! He's all gray, not bright orange the way he's supposed to be.”

“Shut up!” Allie screamed, flying at Quinn. “Don't say that about Kimba! Mommy gave him to me. How dare you, how dare you?”

“Get her off me,” Quinn howled. “She's messing my hair. Get her the hell off my hair!”

“Girls,” Martha breathed, trying to push them apart as Dana got her arms around Quinn's waist and yanked from behind. The girl's brown hair, twisted into sixty-three kinks, each held in place by a covered elastic band and clenched in a death grip by Allie's fists, smelled like sweat and salt water. Dana wondered when her niece had last washed her hair, but she realized that now wasn't the time to ask.

“Ow,” Quinn screamed, tears flying from her eyes. “Get her off me!”

“Take it back about Kimba,” Allie wept, holding tighter. “Take it back, say he's not a feline scrap.”

“You want her to let go or not?” Dana whispered into Quinn's ear as she and her mother tried to pry them apart.

“He's not a goddamn feline scrap,” Quinn screeched, and Allie instantly let go, collapsing to the floor in a sobbing puddle of misery.

“I have to find him,” Allie cried. “I can't leave without him.”

“Of course you can't,” Martha said, drawing herself up and offering Allie her hand. “Come on. Let's search the house. You probably left him under the covers when you got up this morning.”

“I already looked there,” Allie said, letting her grandmother pull her up. Dana and Quinn watched them climb the stairs.

The living room was bright with sunlight. It beamed down the Point, striking the rocks, bouncing off the water. Many years before, when her parents had winterized the cottage, the old sash windows in front had been replaced by modern sliders. A broader view and fantastic light compensated for the loss in charm. Still holding Quinn from behind, Dana was moved by the scene.

“That's what you have to look forward to if you take us to France,” Quinn said, pulling away and brushing herself off. Several elastics had come off in the melee, and she set to fixing her braids.

“What's that?” Dana asked.

“Allie turning into a hysterical mental case ten times a day.”

“Hmm. I didn't think she was out of line.”

“Excuse me?”

“I seem to remember an Ariel doll,” Dana said, handing her an elastic that had shot onto the sofa. “She was your Kimba. You wouldn't put her down, couldn't go to sleep without her.”

Quinn slid her a slit-eyed gaze. She seemed about to speak, but instead she clamped her jaw tighter and kept working on her hair.

“That was your favorite movie.
The Little Mermaid
—you'd watch it all day if we let you. Then one day your mom and I went to the New London Mall, and what do you think we saw in the card shop window?”

“Cards,” Quinn replied in her best sarcastic tone.

“Ariel,” Dana said steadily.

Concentrating on repairing her braids, Quinn flinched. Dana saw it but made no move to embrace her or encourage a response. She knew her niece was on the edge: of leaving childhood, of leaving the country, of leaving home. Wishing Lily would inspire her with the right message, Dana held her breath and waited for it to come.

Whatever the wise words might have been, they were too late. Before Dana could say anything more, Quinn let out a fiery exhalation and ran two stairs at a time into her room. As Dana stared at the mantelpiece, her gaze traveled unfocused over photos, shells, the broken Atmos clock, one of her mother's old driftwood sculptures. Something was missing, but she couldn't make out what it was.

She was too busy thinking about the last moments with Quinn, wishing she had said something better, something wiser. Checking her watch, she walked into the kitchen to wait for the car and wonder why her decision to leave suddenly felt so wrong.

 

Q
UINN FLOPPED ON
her bed, on her stomach, pointing the remote at her TV. Would she have her own TV in France? Dubious. Seething from what had just happened downstairs, she clicked the button and started the movie.

So Aunt Dana thought
The Little Mermaid
was her favorite movie? Well, think again. Pressing rewind to the best part, she let the tape begin to play.

Silence. A long corridor. First a shot of a man's big feet. The sound of his breathing. Shadows moving in clear Sunday-morning light. A woman's whisper: “Get ready. Here she comes!”

Quinn's heart began to pound. The suspense was killing her, as it always did. The man reached for the woman's hand—there! You could see their fingers clasp right on the screen, which meant he was holding the video camera with one hand. “Come on, honey,” the woman said, out loud now, pleasure and excitement audible in her voice. “Quinny! In here!”

Six more seconds: six, five, four, three, two, one—and then, bursting on the scene, the star of the movie. Aquinnah Jane Grayson! Baby extraordinaire. No teeth, no hair, the meanest crawl you ever did see. Arms scrabbling and feet kicking out back, she makes her way down the corridor. Grinning at her parents, she's the baby who ate Hubbard's Point.

“Da, da, da, da,” the baby gurgled.

“She knows my name,” the man said proudly.

“Oh, she does,” the woman said, scooping the baby up into her arms. Now the camera was on both of them, Sunday-morning light pouring over the mother's yellow hair and the baby's hairless head, over the newspapers scattered across the bare wood floor, over Long Island Sound sparkling out the window.

“Da-da-da,” the baby laughed, reaching for her father's face, bumping the video camera and making it shake.

“Say ‘Mommy,' ” her father said, with so much love in his voice. “Come on, sweet baby. Say ‘Mommy' so your mother won't feel left out.”

“I don't feel left out.” Her mother smiled, her eyes filled with love. Quinn paused the video. She stared at the grainy screen, memorizing every feature on each face.

“Mommy,” she whispered now, just in case.

Down the hall, in real, nonmovie time, came the sound of her sister crying. Grandma was trying to comfort her, saying that when she found Kimba, she'd send him by overnight mail to France. “I can't leave without him,” Allie was screaming. “I can't, I can't.”

Quinn tried to breathe. She started up the movie again, but its magic, for the time being, was lost. This could be the last time for many months she would ever see her favorite movie again. Katy Horton, her best friend, had told her that American videos didn't work in France. She said that it was a matter of money, like most things in the world. The French wanted you to buy their videos, so their VCRs were incompatible.

With Allie wailing, Quinn felt as if her insides might melt. Her sister's cries went straight to her stomach. It was all she could do to hold herself back, from running down the hall to make everything better, but this was for Allie's own good. Rolling off her bed, she practically fell onto her suitcase. Unzipping one corner, she reached her hand inside and felt around.

She pulled them both out at the same time.

Her Ariel doll with her bikini shell-top and mermaid's tail, with her auburn hair twisted—not unlike Quinn's own—into as many braids as she could make, and Kimba—or what was left of him—Allie's beloved scrap of feline, of baby lion. Lying on her side, she buried her face in the two toys, letting the smell of her and Allie's childhood fill her nose.

As Aunt Dana came upstairs to join the search, Quinn smelled herbs and salt, fall leaves and apple cider, watercolors and wooden boats, her mother and her father. Aunt Dana sounded worried: The car wasn't there yet.

“Have you called to check on it?” Grandma asked.

“I'll do that now,” Aunt Dana said.

“I can't leave without him,” Allie cried.

See, Quinn knew that. Allie was nothing if not loyal. They each had their bottom lines, objects of love they couldn't leave behind. Allie's was Kimba, but Quinn's was a good deal more complicated than that. She wouldn't want to go away without Ariel, but if forced, she could survive. Other things, maybe not.

For the greater good, Quinn held on to Kimba. Aunt Dana couldn't be so heartless that she'd make Allie leave without him. Quinn was banking on her aunt's heart, but if that failed, she'd fall back on her sister's piercing screams. No sane person would attempt to fly to France with those sounds in her ears.

Just then the door flew open, and Allie ran in. As if she were a bloodhound and her nose had the scent, she threw herself onto Quinn's body. Snatching Kimba from her sister's grip, Allie held him up in triumph.

“I knew it!” she yelled. “I knew it was you!”

“Quinn, I'm very disappointed in you,” Grandma said from the doorway.

“You jerk,” Quinn whispered to Allie. “It was going to be perfect. Now we have to go!”

“Huh?” Allie asked, cuddling Kimba in pure rapture.

“Well, we have a problem,” Aunt Dana said, frowning as she joined Grandma in the doorway. “The car service messed up. They have my order, it's right on the books, and they confirmed it when I called last night, but somehow the dispatcher forgot to send the car out today.”

“Yes!” Quinn said, pumping her arm.

“Mom, can you drive us?” Aunt Dana asked.

“Honey, those New York airports make me crazy,” Grandma said. “All that traffic.”

Checking her watch, Aunt Dana frowned. Quinn didn't want to see her upset, but suddenly she felt a lifting from within, as if the sun were rising and rainbows were pouring down. It was going to be okay, they weren't going to leave after all, her parents had heard her prayers. Aunt Dana was saying something about local cabs, super-saver nonrefundable tickets, not enough time, and Quinn felt herself starting to smile.

When Allie, looking out the window, said the bad-magic words: “He's here.”

“Who?” everyone asked at once.

“The driver, I guess. Someone I don't recognize, coming up the hill. We must be going after all,” Allie said, as Quinn felt the happiness fizzle out of her.

 

T
HE MINUTE
D
ANA
came to the door, Sam saw the tension in her body and uncertainty in her eyes. The two children stood behind her, looking worried and angry, with an older woman a few steps behind them. The house was small and plain, its gardens overgrown. But the site had one of the best views Sam had ever seen, anywhere in the world.

“I had to come,” he said, staring through the screen door at Dana.

She stood in a cluttered kitchen. Sam had the impression of books and shells and paintings on the wall and copper pans hanging from an overhead rack—it was busy, real, filled with life. Dana didn't reply, and suddenly Sam thought: She doesn't want to leave.

“I wanted to say good-bye.”

“We're not
going
anywhere,” the elder of the two kids said.

“It's been a rough day,” Dana said, her eyes welling up. “No one wants to do what we're doing.”

“The taxi didn't come,” the same girl said. “That's not our fault.”

“No one wants to?” Sam asked, catching Dana's words.

She shook her head. “But it's not as easy as all that. I bought the tickets. They were expensive. And aside from the fact we might not want to go, there's the other fact that we can't stay here. At least I can't—”

“Are you driving us?” the younger girl asked, smiling in a pure, lighthearted way that made Sam think exactly of Lily.

“Shut up, idiot,” the angry, braided girl exclaimed.