Shining Sea (35 page)

BLUE HOUR

The blue hour comes and goes while Logan and I lie daydreaming on the deck.

It’s like the conversation has been keeping us warm, but now we’re finally talked out, and I’m starting to feel the cold.

“I’m hungry,” I say, rolling onto my side.

“And what, may I ask”—he rolls onto his side too now, facing me, his hand brushing my hand—“are you hungry for?”

“Delaine, where do you get your material?”

“My beautiful mind.” He props himself on an elbow and leans over me, grinning.

“Well, maybe you and your beautiful mind would like to stay for dinner? Dinner, as in, you know, something with actual calories. Don’t worry, my dad’s home. He’ll cook.”

Logan laughs and stands up, then reaches down and pulls me to my feet. But once I’m standing he doesn’t release me, and we both just stay, close together, grinning at each other.

One Saturday morning when I was a little kid, Dad asked if I wanted to go to the hardware store with him, something we’d done together on weekends for as long as I could remember. For the first time ever, I said, “No thanks.” For whatever reason, I wanted to stay home.

Dad smiled and turned to go, saying, “Okay, see you soon. Love you.”

“Love you more,” I sang out.

“Not possible,” he said. “Love runs downhill.”

At the time, I hadn’t known what he meant, and for years, I pictured love as this thing that goes running around, making people kiss, maybe giving out chocolate hearts on Valentine’s Day. I used to imagine it, running up and down the hills of our San Francisco neighborhood, the ones that, despite Mom’s warnings, I ran up and down too, full tilt.

When I was bigger, I started jogging on those same super steep streets. Whenever I ran up a hill, I went for it. But on the way down, afraid of hitting the bottom of one of those precipitous slopes running flat out—and maybe winding up in the middle of an intersection, or with a popped kneecap—I always held back.

Now, looking into Logan’s eyes, I remember that feeling, of running full tilt.

Logan. He’s a mere mortal, but he has his own extraordinary Song. And I want to hear it. Surely he wouldn’t blame me for keeping a handful of secrets—secrets that aren’t mine to tell?

Keeping a couple of secrets can hardly be considered holding back. And doesn’t he have some of his own?

Besides, what’s the point of telling him everything now?

I become aware that the thumb and index finger of my right hand have found the pearl on its sterling chain, that I’m rolling it between them. I let the black pearl go—

Just as Logan reaches for my hand.

His fingers are warm as they interlace with mine. Warm, not hot. Not scalding. Not—dangerous.
I could kiss him,
I think.
I could kiss him right now.
He’d kiss me back; I know he would.

We wouldn’t have to stop.

My stomach dips—

And I contemplate the possibility that, maybe, I’m ready to join him—Logan, and the thing called love—running downhill. But I need to be sure. Because Logan is definitely a no-stops kind of guy.

“Good thing I came over, huh?”

“I guess,” I say lightly.

He laughs. “Rush. You’re so full of it.” Then he turns away, leaning on the railing while I fold up the blanket. I took my guitar back inside quite a while ago, took it down to my room. Now I imagine taking Logan down there too. He’s never been in my bedroom. Again, I picture kissing him—

Suddenly his shoulders stiffen.

“What the—Someone’s up on Rock Hook Cliff.” He grabs the binoculars off the deck. “Oh man—they’re stepping over the fence!”

I hurry to his side. “Let me see.”

Logan hands me the binoculars and I spin the wheel in a futile effort to bring the shadowy figure at the edge of the cliff into focus.

My stomach twists—

The figure jumps.

“We have to do something!” Logan shouts.

Mesmerized, I watch helplessly as the jumper appears to wrestle with the air, struggling, until finally the falling figure’s head is pointing down, moving fast toward the sea.

A brilliant flash of white cuts the sky—

Enormous wings burst from the back of the falling body.

I scream, stumbling away from the railing, tripping over nothing—

Logan catches me, holds me close with one arm as he takes the binoculars and raises them to his eyes—

“You’ve got to see this!”

He shoves the binoculars back into my hands, and I look—

The wings appear to have extended to their full span, sweeping the figure high into the sky. I can just discern a pair of shadowy arms, reaching toward the heavens.

Then once more the figure changes direction, easily now, diving headfirst toward the water.

With the wings folded tightly back, the body becomes a blade, slicing through the dark waves—

Before disappearing into the deep.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank:

Danielle Burby, my incredible agent. Arion may not know who she writes for, but I do. Josh Getzler and everyone at HSG Agency. Miriam Juskowicz for making my dreams come true. Robin Benjamin for brilliant editing. Swear you have a photographic memory! Kim Cowser and Katie Kurtzman for always-available-no-question-is-too-small support. See you at the shrine of Saint Stevie! Courtney Miller, I’ll see you there too. Please bring the rest of the amazing Skyscape team: Britt Rogers, Ben Smith, Jeffrey Belle, Hai-Yen Mura, and Mikyla Bruder. Michelle Hope Anderson, Karen Upson, and Jessica Gardner—Oh, the details! TY. Writer Charlotte Agell—can you believe it? See you in Maine. Writers Heather Lennon, Natalie Zaman, Tara Kelly, Suzy Ismail, Annie Silvestro, Suzanne Heyd, Jennifer Haase, Christine Brower-Cohen, Jamie Sussell Turner, Barbara Blaisdell, and Robert Burke Warren, who were all early readers of at least a portion of this book if not the entire thing multiple times over. Patti Witten for Obvious. (Better late than never!) The agents and editors I’ve connected with online and through SCBWI. You know who you are, and I hope you know how much you helped me grow as a writer. Thank you for your open doors and expert eyes. Sarah Davies, remember that one package? Holly McGhee, I’m so glad I met you when I did. Emma Dryden, for the editing experience that prepared me for all others, and for your kindness, intuition, and friendship. Emily Winslow Stark for encouragement, Skype chats, and laughter. I’m so glad you were with me on the roller coaster! Mary McDonald for praising my writing efforts for so long. R. Star Aufderhar for nautical research. (And for making me understand that Logan had to drive a beat-up white pickup truck.) Stacy Dahling Smith, for being the best listener I know. Life coach Magdalena Sabatino for holding the light when I couldn’t. The crew at River Road Books, especially Karen Rumage, Laurie Potter, and Kim Robinson; you guys are bartenders sans alcohol. Thanks for letting me pretend I work there. Kim—thanks for the spiritual guidance. Kamil Vojnar, for allowing me to use the gorgeous piece, “Man With Angel Wings,” as the face of Sirenstories. Rosanne Cash and the Redroomers. What can I say? Reunion. Now. The YA community and the other writers I’ve connected with on Twitter, you were there when I needed you, TY. Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health, my home away from home. Steve Meltzer for the laughs, and for reminding me more than once that Arion is a smart girl. You’re a Jersey Boy now, and I’m glad. Kathy Connolly-Oliver, for the seahorse. Shasti O’Leary Soudant for the
beautiful
book covers.

Lastly and most importantly: Charles, for bringing Arion to my attention. You have magic in you, and kindness. You are the love of my life, and my continual inspiration. U R the Best. <3

When I write, I listen to music. Here is a partial list of bands that inspired me while I was working on
Shining Sea
: The xx, PJ Harvey, Jai Uttal, David Cook, Linkin Park, David Greenwood, Carter Burwell, Marcello Zarvos, Muse, PT Walkley, Ron Haney/The Churchills, the singer-songwriters and composers who contributed to
sirenstories.com
—especially Proofsound and Face The King—and Pete Yorn, whose music made my isolation that much more splendid.

For information on the
real
Clean Ocean Zone, please visit
www.cleanoceanzone.org
.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2015 Danny Sanchez

Mimi Cross is an author, singer, and songwriter. Grammy award–winning artist Rosanne Cash has described Cross’s writing and singing as “Fusing delicacy and power, heart and gut. Inspiring, evocative, and refreshing.” Cross received a bachelor of music from Ithaca College and an MA from New York University and is the creator of Body of Writing, a practice combining yoga and writing that boosts creativity. Her debut novel,
Before Goodbye
, was published by Skyscape. She resides with her young son in New Jersey.