Shining Sea (5 page)

Bobby laughs. Alyssa tosses her hair and says to Pete, “When was Bo here?”

So Alyssa knows him. Makes total sense. Alyssa’s a transplanted New Yorker, same as Mom; maybe that’s why, despite her attention addiction, I find her interesting. But her big blue eyes—which ignore the line between polite eye contact and rude staring—always have some guy in their sights. Of course she knows Bo.

I head for the Jeep, lifting one hand high after hearing a couple of goodbyes behind me. Stomach flip-flopping, I get in and drive all the way to the lighthouse—with no music.

On our trip cross-country Dad had a hard time with the fact that I couldn’t drive without the radio blasting. Today, I don’t listen to anything, and feel like I could drive around the world.

My mystery man has a name.

CENTRIPETAL

At the loud
pop
my head whips around—

But there’s nothing to see. Backfire, that’s what the noise was, the Jeep acting up again. Dad’s truck—which is big and blue and has the words
P
ARK
R
ANGER
stenciled on the sides—isn’t in the driveway, so I’ll have to tell him later. Fingers crossed he can take care of it.

The earthy smell of damp stone permeates the vaulted hallway of the vestibule house. Closing the heavy inner door behind me, I start the spiraling climb, realizing as I heft the load of books that no one in the group back at the library had been carrying any. That explains the attention I’ve been receiving from the guys at school. They just don’t have enough homework.

The kids at Blaine, Rock Hook’s private high school, probably get a ton of homework. Graduates of Blaine tend to go to Ivy League colleges. Although as excellent as Blaine supposedly is, its science program doesn’t hold a candle to the marine biology and oceanography classes at RHHH, thanks to the generosity of the Ocean Zone Institute—

Bo
Summers
. Bet that’s why he’s such a snob. Professor Julian Summers—his dad, I’m guessing—is the founder of OZI. The man’s practically a celebrity.

The sun’s breaking through the clouds as I drop the books on my desk. Would Bo Summers finally be out surfing again? I refuse to succumb. No deck, no binoculars. The guy’s stuck up. At least now I know why.

In the green-tiled bathroom that was fashioned out of an old storeroom during the lighthouse renovation, I wash my hands and braid my hair. Then I head back down the stairs. The sound of my boots ringing on the metal steps reminds me that I probably have better shoes for hiking than Dad’s souvenirs from Nashville, but I don’t turn back.

The trailhead is just past the sandy lot earmarked for visitor parking at the edge of the woods, and the path is already groomed in expectation of the tourists who’ll arrive next summer. Not a happy thought. They’ll ruin this place.

But as I start up the wooded trail, it isn’t the park that’s on my mind. It’s the library. On either side of the library steps, nestled among the purplish sea grasses and Rugosa roses, I’d seen a small boulder with a modest bronze plaque.

D
ONATED BY
P
ROFESSOR
J
ULIAN
S
UMMERS

T
HIS LIBRARY IS OPEN TO ALL TO ENJOY
.

Surprised that two years of Latin made any impression, I recall the other words etched on the plaque:
H
OMO SUM, HUMANI NIHIL A ME ALIENUM PUTO
.

Google will know what that means.

About to turn around, I stop short. It’s idiotic to spend another minute thinking about anything I saw at the library, including ridiculously handsome boys and obscure Latin phrases. I need exercise.

The path splits off—or has it divided twice now? No matter, my irritation evaporates as I press on, the smooth bottoms of my boots slipping occasionally on the carpet of fragrant pine needles. The sound of waves crashing in the distance floats through the forest along with the water’s salty scent, and rays of sunshine poke through the branches overhead.

The path grows steeper, the trail winding through the woods, the crashing of the waves far below me now. I gasp out snatches of a song I’ve been working on.

The path forks again. Becomes harder to follow. Breathing deeply, I push through an overgrown tunnel of green, trip on a tree root, get a face full of spiderwebs, and—

“Amazing.”
The sound of my voice is snatched away by the wind that blows across the vast expanse of the granite plateau. The view of Rock Hook Cliff from the lighthouse had been misleading. The park is bigger than I thought, but the cliff? It’s
much
bigger. This summit is only the beginning of the long spine of a ridge that stretches away into forever.

The huge, sunlit cliff top has woods on three sides. The fourth opens out into thin air. I start across what’s basically a flat field of stone dotted with sparse green plants and tiny purple flowers. As I walk toward the cliff edge, the wind cuts through my jeans, and I wrap my arms around myself. Looking up at the last of the clouds scudding across the blue sky, I wish Lilah were here. She’d love this.

Or maybe not. The rocky land juts into the ocean, isolated, like her. Lilah eats, she sleeps. She showers on her own—dresses herself. Or she doesn’t. Some days, she doesn’t do anything but lie in her bed. Sit by her window. She won’t answer questions, can’t seem to hold a conversation. Doesn’t respond to anything—except for that black book.

And now I’ve got it.
Guilt.

That scraped feeling, as if my nerve endings are uncovered, spreads through me. The surgery, will it work?

Looking down at the pale patches of lichen and dark-green smudges of moss spotting the granite, I skirt the end post of a low wooden fence—

And find myself at the threshold of another world.

The ocean booms below me like a reprimanding voice, its waters extending endlessly. My ears begin to ring; no, the sound is more like humming, more like
music
. Coiling melodies shiver my skin.

Something crosses the sky overhead, throwing a dark shadow onto the plateau.

I think of looking up, maybe even start to—then feel the lightest touch, like silk, against my cheek.

I pitch forward—

And then,

I’m flying.

SPEED

It’s not true what they say.

Your life doesn’t flash before your eyes.

My mind is blank. Still.

But my body moves fast, plummeting through space with desperate speed—

I squeeze my eyes shut.

The wind roars past my ears.

SKIN

In the next instant I’m shocked to find I’m not alone.

Two arms, strong as stone, encircle me and draw me close against a smooth, bare chest that’s definitely
not
stone. The scent of salty skin surrounds me, along with the smell of springtime, at night. Something slaps against my back, against my hips, and the backs of my legs. Viscous satin blankets me, slick and wet against the side of my face that isn’t pressed against skin.

Things might not be okay.

We smash into the waves.

SHATTER

The steel embrace that holds me so tightly shields me from the worst of the impact—

But the force of it knocks the breath from my lungs and pulls our bodies apart.

Hands reach for me, fingertips slipping over my skin—

And then the protective grasp is gone, and except for a shattering sadness, I’m alone.

Alone—

Underwater.

IMMERSION

I can’t breathe.

I must be dead. Definitely. Dead.

Sinking endlessly through the sea, I open my eyes. The world is water.

But I can still see the surface—

And beyond that—

The sky.

What am I looking at?

White wings—a giant bird. Spiraling high above me, close to the place I’d fallen from.

But—
did
I fall?
Yes. No.

Whose voice is singing?

The wings—I’ve never seen wings like that. So big and white . . . It must be a sea hawk, an osprey. An eagle. Not an albatross, they’re not from here . . .
I’m not from here . . .

The water darkens, turning a deeper shade of black.
I’m dead.

No.
Drowning.
But not drowned. Not yet. I kick. The weight of the water, the weight of my body—it’s too much. Clothes. Boots. Dragging me down.
Lilah, is this how it was for you?

Now I hear my mother’s voice competing with the rushing sound of the water.

An angel.

At the sound of her voice, I close my eyes. No longer propelled by the force of the impact, I sink slowly, the sadness crushing me in a way the water can’t—from the inside.

But Mom’s voice, it comes again.
Arion, look up—look up!

Even now, sure that I’m on the brink of death, I don’t believe that’s what I’m seeing, don’t believe that those are an angel’s wings, carving great circles in the sky so far above the water.

Haunting melodies swirl around me, as if the sea itself has a voice . . .

Then all at once a song so stunning
fills
me, I no longer care that I’m drowning.

The song soars inside me like a meteor, bathes me in a shower of shooting stars. A fluid counterpoint to my devastating sadness, the music escalates in beauty until it
replaces
the sadness.

My lungs are begging for air, but it doesn’t matter, not anymore, not while the song courses through my veins.

Then, I feel the presence.

With a huge effort against what feels like an intense desire for sleep, I open my eyes.

His hair washes around his face, late-afternoon sunlight mingling with dark seawater.

Bo Summers pulls me up, up, up—from the subaqueous depths, until we break through the surface of the sea. I claw at the air, gulp it.

I don’t know how he does it, how he holds me afloat in the rough water as I cough and struggle. I’m dizzy and disoriented—oh right, I’m dead. Trying to move my head, I can’t lift it. Further proof.

He brings his hand to the base of my skull, his spread fingers forming a support, turning me toward him. As I focus on his face, the breath I’ve just caught nearly leaves me. His pupils are ringed with flames, two suns, surrounded by green—no, blue—a shifting combination of the two. The colors move, like the ocean.

Even with me in his arms, he swims effortlessly, hauling me through the breakers. I assume he’s taking me to land, but his eyes—I’d let him take me anywhere.

My inner clock is broken, the concept of time nonexistent. The cliff, the fall, the sea; suddenly I’m lying on the sand, peering through wet lashes, studying him as he leans over me.

“Arion, are you all right?” His voice is a whisper of concern, his voice—is music. Only a handful of words, entwining with the wind and waves, but my ears catch them, toss them to my swaying senses. Music.
How is it possible?

Gazing into his eyes, oceans of color shot through with sunlight, it’s like I’m at the top of the cliff again, beginning to fall, and this time I want to, want to sink into the strange sea of him.

Still, after another moment of staring into those eyes, something—some instinct—takes over, and I try to look away. I can’t.

The droplets on his lashes catch the light. Water drips from his skin onto mine—

A strong
pulling
sensation washes over me—a spasm almost. I gasp in surprise.

At the sound of my sharp breath, Bo’s dark-gold brows draw down. His hands, on either side of my face, press against me urgently as the fire in his oceanic eyes flares.

“Why, you’re holding your breath,” he mutters. He gives a short laugh and stands. He looks down at me for a moment, then turns, taking several steps away from me.

My clothes heavy with salt water, I struggle to sit up, wanting so badly to follow him. But I have no strength.

I know, though, what will give it to me. His voice.

Will he say my name again? How does he even know it? How did he catch me in his arms?

Supported on my elbows, half lying on the sand, I begin to grow cold, unsure.
Had that been his voice?
The goosebumps that cover me now, are they from the sound of it? Or from the chill sinking into my bones? His voice is a song so familiar, I know it by heart. At the same time, it’s new, and so different from anything I’ve ever heard.
I have to hear it again.

As I noisily release the breath I have indeed been holding, he spins around and springs toward me—almost animal-like—then stops, still several feet away, in a low crouch.

“How do you know my name?” I manage to sputter, trying once more to sit up.

He watches me for a moment with his sea eyes. Then he says, “You’re the girl who lives in the lighthouse. And apparently”—his lips twitch—“you don’t have the best sense of direction.”

His voice.
Honeyed sound.

My own voice scrapes out through chattering teeth. “H-how? How did you—” But I’m shaking uncontrollably and the words break apart.

Bo stands, reaches for my hands—and the bizarre pulling sensation streams through me, growing stronger as he helps me to my feet. He must feel it too; abruptly he steps back, his arms dropping to his sides. Then he snatches something up from the sand.

“Here,” he says. “Put this on.”

He’s wearing the black surf trunks and must be cold too, but it seems weird that he has a
coat
here on the beach. Now I notice more clothing scattered on the sand.

He watches as I wrestle with the heavy cotton bomber jacket, seemingly unwilling to help as I struggle to stick wet arms into soft sleeves. Then, as if realizing I can’t accomplish this task without his assistance, he does help. I stop shivering as he moves closer. Carefully, he does up the zipper. An easy feeling comes over me. Without actually deciding to—

I lean against him.

He goes absolutely still, his fingers at the top of the zipper, his knuckles grazing my throat.

“Say something,” I whisper. “Please.”

For a moment he just stares down at me, stares especially, it seems, at my mouth. Then he backs away—one step, two.

“Wait—” My chattering teeth start up like a motor. “I—I want to know how you caught me. In your arms.”

“I didn’t ‘catch’ you. I dragged you. Out of a tide pool. Over there.” He’s speaking in clipped tones now, but still his hushed voice fascinates me, the way it resonates in his chest, the way it’s somehow like warm spring air moving through thigh-high grasses in some wild, deserted place . . . He gestures to the water’s edge. I take a quick look—then swing my gaze back to his face. His eyes hold mine, the swirling blue green, the glint of gold, hypnotic.

I’m about to tell him not to be ridiculous, that there aren’t any tide pools where he’s just pointed—

When my head nods forward.

“We have to get you home,” he says.

But I’ve never felt more at home than in the moment he was speaking. “Please—” I begin.

All at once I stagger, nearly falling, my eyes closing. I want to take a nap in the worst way.

He scoops me up in his arms. I start to protest—but my head drops against his shoulder.

The skin of his neck smells of the ocean, of sunbaked pine needles, of something delicious I can’t name. All at once I want more than sleep, I want—

But I don’t know what I want, because the music . . . the music . . .

Mysterious melodies delicately entwine with barely there harmonies to create a web of dreamy sound. The music slips inside of me. His murmured words make no sense yet speak to every cell in my body. Pleasure washes over me, the coldness of the beach seeping away.

A question filters down through the music. “Arion, can you bring your thumb and your little finger together? Can you touch your thumb to your pinkie?”

What?
“Sleep now,” I say thickly. Then, words slurring, I try to explain where I live.

“I know where you live,”
sings the beautiful voice.

A sensation of weightlessness . . . of strong arms enfolding me, legs somehow twined around mine . . . a dream of wind in my hair . . .

Behind closed eyes I sense shadows crossing my face then receding, again, and again. Darkness. Then light. Dark. Light.

His words come as if from a distance now, tumbling over me.
“Cold skin. Cotton clothes. Inadequate. This is Maine. You’re unprepared. Outdoor activity. Life. Save. Emergency. Why? The cliff. Why?”

He sings my name. My breath comes slower. We move faster. This boy who isn’t a boy, I want to see him—

I can’t open my eyes.