Siren's Storm (11 page)

“Will!” Her voice was a strangled scream as she flung the screen door wide, shoving the dog aside.

“I’m all right, Mom, I’m—”

Pain tore across his face as she slapped him, hard. Nobody moved.

“How could you do that to me?” she whispered. Tears gathered at the rims of her eyes, pooled, then spilled down onto the slack of her hollow cheeks. She was wearing her ugly flowered nightgown—the one with the collar that buttoned up to her neck—and, over that, a battered yellow terrycloth bathrobe. She looked ancient and tired.

Guernsey sat down, ears back, and stared up at
Mrs. Archer, watching her carefully. “Oh, God, Will.” She grabbed him and pulled him into a hug. “Don’t do that,” she whispered. “Don’t do that.”

The clock on the wall ticked on, and a shadow appeared in the kitchen doorway. It was Will’s father. He looked from Will to Gretchen, who was still clinging to Will’s arm like a frightened little girl. “Where you kids been?” he asked.

Mrs. Archer seemed to notice Gretchen for the first time. A blush bloomed across her face and she dried her eyes quickly.

Will was still too angry to say anything, but Gretchen spoke up. “I was sleepwalking again. Will saw me. He—” She looked up at Will, gave his hand another squeeze. “I was headed for the bluff. I got all the way to the edge.”

Mrs. Archer gasped and reached for Gretchen’s hand. “Good God, girl.”

“Will saw me from his window. He came after me,” Gretchen said. She shivered.

Mrs. Archer’s eyes lit on her son, and she seemed to take in the bloody scratch on his face.

Mr. Archer nodded. “I thought it might be something like that. Don’t just stand there, Evelyn, get the girl some tea.”

“No, that’s all right,” Gretchen said, but Mrs. Archer had already hurried over to the stove and was filling up the kettle.

Mr. Archer pulled out a chair, and Gretchen sank into it gratefully. Guernsey hobbled over and plopped at Gretchen’s feet. Will continued to stand. He folded
his arms across his chest, suddenly aware that he was half naked. His chest and arms were lightly muscled and tan from farm work. It was strange how he never felt awkward with his shirt off while he was outside in the summertime, but here, in the closeness of the kitchen with his parents and Gretchen, he felt exposed.

“Has this been happening a lot?” Will asked.

“More lately,” Gretchen admitted.

“You need to take some warm milk before bed,” Mrs. Archer said as she dropped a teabag into a white mug and filled it with steaming water. “Or chamomile. The best tea for calming the mind.” She placed the mug on the table in front of Gretchen.

“I’ve tried,” Gretchen told her. “I’ve tried everything—yoga, meditation, tea, whatever. Nothing works. Not even sleeping pills.” She shook her head, then blew lightly on the tea. But she didn’t pick it up.

“Maybe you should lock yourself in your room,” Will suggested.

Gretchen looked up at him, hurt registering on her face, and Will winced. His words had sounded sarcastic, although he hadn’t meant them to.

“I’m sorry,” Gretchen said weakly.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Will, you’re a godawful mess,” Mr. Archer put in. “Why don’t you go wash that crust off your face and put on something that isn’t covered in dirt?”

Will nodded, happy to have an excuse to disappear for a moment. “Yeah. I’ll do that.”

*   *   *

Mr. Archer retreated to the living room as Will’s footsteps shuffled up the stairs. For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was Guernsey’s gentle snoring. Then a creak and a sigh as Mrs. Archer slid into the chair across from Gretchen. She sipped her tea with a slurp, swallowing loudly.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” Mrs. Archer said into her tea.

“Thanks to Will,” Gretchen said.

Mrs. Archer looked up. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Well.” She frowned, shrugged. “I just don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you. I think of you like a daughter, you know.”

Gretchen felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
Where is that coming from?
Will’s mother wasn’t usually so open with her feelings.

Mrs. Archer placed her hand over Gretchen’s. Then she leaned so far forward that Gretchen could feel her breath. She smelled the mint of her toothpaste, the sweetness of the chamomile. “I know about Tim,” Mrs. Archer whispered fiercely. “I know how much he—”

Gretchen drew her hand away in shock, but at that moment Will came bounding down the stairs in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He had washed the blood off his face, revealing only a small scratch on his left cheek. Smaller than the scar on the other side, but symmetrical. Gretchen’s head swam with relief. She didn’t want to discuss Tim. Not now.

Mrs. Archer stood up and crossed to the sink, where she placed her mug carefully. “Will, you should
take Gretchen home,” she said, her back turned to her son.

“You ready?” Will asked Gretchen.

“Sure.” She handed the mug to Mrs. Archer, who accepted it like a token. “Thanks for the tea.”

Mrs. Archer nodded, her piercing gaze strangely unmatched to Gretchen’s light words.

Will didn’t notice, though. He just held open the door for Gretchen and let her walk through it.

All the way across the lawn to her dark house, Gretchen couldn’t help wondering what Mrs. Archer had been about to say. She knew about Tim. But what exactly had he told her? Not the whole story. That was impossible.

The day Tim died, he had made a confession to Gretchen. She had gone for a walk at the edge of the bay. He had seen her from his bedroom window, and had joined her. He’d looked serious and miserable. And then he told her that he loved her.

“Tim,” she’d started, but he put a finger to her lips.

“I know,” Tim said, staring down at her with his intense brown eyes. “It’s Will, isn’t it?”

She’d felt the tears spill over the rims of her eyes, but she couldn’t answer.

“Does he know?” Tim asked.

Gretchen shook her head.

Tim pulled her into a hug, and he didn’t seem to mind the tears on his shirt, or the fact that Gretchen’s nose was dripping. “You should tell him,” he whispered into her hair.

But she couldn’t tell him. She couldn’t risk it. Whether or not he felt the same way, the moment she said something, things between them would never be the same. Gretchen wasn’t ready for that. And then Tim had died, and Gretchen had started to doubt that she’d ever be able to tell Will the truth.

“Do you want me to go inside with you?” Will asked when they reached her door. It was unlocked, as usual. Nobody locked their doors around here.

“I’ll be fine,” Gretchen told him. She wanted to give him a hug but suddenly felt too fragile. “Good night.”

“Sleep well,” Will told her. “Hope the chamomile works.”

Gretchen smiled weakly, then turned and walked into the dark hall. Will started back toward his house. Gretchen looked back to her front door, thinking about her dream, about how Will had fallen over the edge yet landed down the beach … Her mind churned and buzzed with questions that had no answers.

Gretchen dipped a toe into the crystalline water. “It’s warm,” she said, surprised.

“Heated,” Jason said as he stripped off his navy T-shirt. Three quick steps and he leaped out over the water, pulling his legs into a cannonball.

Gretchen screeched as the splash sent drops spewing all over her. “You jerk!” she cried playfully as Jason broke the surface and shook his head, sending out a shower like a lawn sprinkler.

A gardener looked up from the hedge he was clipping, then quickly turned back to his work. He was Filipino, one of three workers busily weeding, mulching, and trimming the property. Jason’s mother had rented a different house this year, and the yard was pristine and very private. An ancient apple tree grew in the center of the yard, partially shading a collection of green and white hostas. Everything was surrounded by towering boxwoods and trimmed with periwinkle-blue hydrangeas. The brick-rimmed pool
was near the house, and there was a pretty little ironwork cafe table with a market umbrella and four chairs. Gretchen imagined taking a morning swim in the pool, then drinking an espresso by the water. She didn’t usually like pools, but the lush garden surrounding this one made it seem like a natural part of the landscape, almost like a lake.

“Coming in?” Jason asked.

Gretchen pulled off her blue sundress and laid it across one of the iron chairs. She felt Jason’s eyes linger on her body, hesitating only momentarily at the scratches on her knees, as she stepped cautiously into the pool. Once Gretchen reached the bottom stair, she dove forward and swam up to Jason. “Mmm,” she said as she surfaced. The just-cool water slicked back her hair and left her feeling refreshed, washing away the exhaustion she’d been carrying from the night before. Both the sleepwalking and dealing with her father’s overwrought reaction when he saw her walk in through the front door had drained her. “That feels good.”

Jason watched her lips hungrily. He stepped forward, pressing his body against hers. His skin was smooth, slippery in the water. He kissed her, his lips warm and sweet.

Her mind whirled back to last summer, to the moment when they met. Gretchen had gone to a gallery to check out a retrospective of one of her favorite artists. The paintings were Pollock-like drips and splashes, but in gentler tones that suggested ripples and waves. She had talked Johnny into taking her to the opening, which was crowded with the tanned and the thin.
Most of the sparkling crowd seemed to be more interested in talking to each other than in the art. Gretchen kept trying to look at the paintings, only to find herself being elbowed aside by someone reaching for an hors d’oeuvre or a glass of red wine. She finally found a far corner and managed to spend three uninterrupted minutes inspecting a miniature triptych.

“Thanks, Dad,” Gretchen said as Johnny wordlessly handed her a Coke.

He gave her a
do we have to stay much longer?
smile, and she kissed him on the cheek. “I just want to look at a few more paintings,” she told him.

“Take your time,” Johnny told her before disappearing into the social swirl.

“Isn’t he a little old for you?” A platinum-haired hunk had appeared at her elbow. There was a smirk in his voice, but Jason’s face was impassive, as if there wasn’t an answer that could possibly surprise him.

“That’s my dad,” Gretchen told him.

Jason nodded. He looked at the painting. “What do you think of this?”

“I think it’s beautiful.”

“I hate beautiful art,” Jason said.

“What’s wrong with beauty?” Gretchen shot back.

“It just doesn’t do anything for me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Jason smirked. “You’re right.” His eyes skimmed her body, and she felt her face burn.

Gretchen found herself wondering why she was talking to this person. He was forward and she wasn’t sure she liked it.

“I’m Jason,” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts. “Gretchen.”

“You’re an artist.” Not a question. “What makes you say that?”

“Because you’re the only one here who’s looking at the art. Everyone else is here to be seen. You’d think that they were the ones hanging on the walls.”

“Why are you here?”

“This is my mother’s gallery,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt her feelings by not coming to her opening.” His voice was gentle when he said it, without the slightest trace of a smirk.

“You and your mom are close?” Gretchen asked.

“I live with my dad most of the time, but yeah, I’m closer to my mom.”

And that was when Gretchen had found herself confiding to Jason that she was closer to her dad—that her mom lived far away and never contacted them. They’d connected. And he was handsome. There was no doubt about that.

Now, in the pool, she melted against him, and his hand traveled up her side. A fingertip slipped beneath her bikini top, and she pulled away. “Jason,” she warned.

“What?” He pulled her closer, but she struggled against him.

“The gardeners.”

Jason looked up as if he hadn’t even realized that there were other people in the yard. They were at the other end of the wide green lawn, one up on a tall ladder with electric shears. Jason twirled his fingers into
the ropes of her hair. “They don’t care.” His voice was a husky whisper.

“I care.” Gretchen felt herself blushing.

Jason narrowed his eyes. Then he gave her hair a yank. It was too hard to be playful, but he splashed away like a grinning otter. “Whatever.” Again his tone was nonchalant, but he sent a giant splash at her face, then headed for the side of the pool.

“Where are you going?” Gretchen asked as Jason hauled himself out of the pool.

“I need some iced tea,” he called without looking over his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”

Gretchen stood at the center of the pool, feeling idiotic.
Why did I have to ruin the mood?
she wondered. Then again, it was Jason who was being a jerk.
So why am I feeling so bad?
Every now and then, an elbow of the rage that Jason kept clamped down would poke out, knocking at those nearby. She had forgotten how much it had bothered her last summer, how often it had left her confused and sometimes frightened. And it was usually over something small. A glass of soda with too much ice. Obnoxious air-conditioning. People on cell phones.
Is it so wrong to feel weird about making out in front of strangers? Is that really something to get furious over?