Summer Harbor (5 page)

Mack stifled a nervous giggle and pushed Grainger from behind to crawl along to where the verandah turned against the side of the house. From there they were able to creep, on all fours, down the five wooden steps of the porch’s rear access and dart across the darkened yard to the relative safety of the bushes, where they paused to watch the wonder of their mischief. It was full dark now, and they knew they’d be in trouble with Mack’s mother if they didn’t beat it home soon. But it was too much not to watch the puzzlement on the arriving owner’s face, fleetingly illuminated by his lighter as he lit a cigarette. He put out a hand to stop the mysterious rocking of his porch chairs before unlocking the double front doors.

The slam of the car door pulled their attention away as a woman got out of the car and opened the back door of the white station wagon. Then a sleepy girl climbed out, one arm clutching a white stuffed bear, the other rubbing her eyes, for all the world like a child in a Disney movie. She stood alone for a few minutes as her parents busied themselves unpacking the massively loaded car; then she walked across the scraggly seacoast grass and right to where Mack and Grainger huddled, their hands over their mouths to keep the excited giggles suppressed.

“I’m Kiley. Are you playing hide-and-go-seek-in-the-dark? Can I play too?” At that moment her father called her in, and the little girl scampered off, letting the screen door slam behind her.

The morning that Toby Reynolds dropped the bomb of Kiley’s return, Grainger sat for a long time in his truck, opposite the still-shuttered house. He heard her child’s voice, still a little cloudy from sleep.
Can I play too?

They should have told her no.

Now he’d seen Kiley’s son. The young man whose future would be assured by the sale of his grandparents’ home. Grainger left the post office in a hurry, afraid that his confusion showed on his face. He had a fleeting vision of grabbing the kid and holding him close in some stagy reunion. “My boy!” But he might as easily
not
have been his son. The only reliable truth was that he was Kiley’s son. And she had kept him away from Hawke’s Cove.

Grainger’s mind raced with uncontrollable thoughts, even as he tried to recall his half-dozen Saturday morning errands. The drugstore. He forgot the aspirin he’d meant to buy and came out with a can of shaving cream he didn’t need and a bag of M&M’s. The hardware store. What was it he needed? Grainger wandered around, bumping into people he knew, remarking on the decent weather and the Red Sox. He stood in line with just a package of sandpaper and brushes, without remembering he needed to have a key copied or the piece of screening he needed to repair the screen door where Pilot had scratched a rip in it. All Grainger could think of was whether Kiley had been selfish in keeping this boy to herself, or selfless in not involving him. She could have contacted him anytime. The MacKenzies always knew his address, although they might only send a card at Christmas. Grainger had been a moving target for the ten years he’d piloted all manner of craft, from research vessels out of Woods Hole to ferries in Puget Sound, but he’d always dropped them a note to say where he was. Even in those first couple of years, when he was in the Army, deeply regretting his mistake in not joining the Navy, he was accessible. Of course, if she hadn’t wanted to contact him, perhaps she was also incapable of contacting the MacKenzies. With better reason.

Yet neither had
he
ever reached out to Kiley; he never could have. He’d once hated her for what she’d caused. Over time that had faded, but Grainger still blamed her for costing him everyone he had loved. Perhaps he’d evolved beyond hating her, but he knew he still hadn’t forgiven her, or himself. It was what defined him.

When Grainger was a boy and his mother left, he had experienced the bitter desolation of loss. He had prayed every night that someday she’d come back, prayed until he outgrew the hope. In the opposite way, he’d prayed that he’d never set eyes on Kiley Harris again—a prayer that had seemed answered, until today.

Still, he would have wanted to know about the boy. Surely Kiley had known whose child he was, and chosen to keep Grainger away. As punishment? Or out of kindness? He was deeply curious about the boy, but didn’t know how to satisfy that curiosity without encountering Kiley. Without starting a conversation that was nearly two decades too late.

Grainger stood in the checkout line of the hardware store, rubbing a thumb against the coarse sandpaper.
They say time is a great healer. That isn’t quite true, but time does dull the pain
. No doubt they both were scarred, their lives etched with the disfigurement of their mistakes. His scars were no longer fresh; he had distracted himself with travel and work and even a couple of long-term relationships. If things had turned out differently back then, if their separation had simply been that of growing apart, maybe they could meet cheerfully now and again, as old friends with nothing left in common do. But it hadn’t. They had acted on their desires, and self-destructed.

Yet, Grainger wondered, maybe they did have something left in common. The boy.

Whether he was Grainger’s or not, he was
of them
. The three of them.

Coming out of the hardware store, Grainger saw the boy again, sitting in a dented blue Mazda. His sunglasses didn’t disguise the fact that the kid was watching him. Something that almost felt like a suppressed laugh tickled his throat. At that moment, Emily Claridge Fitzgibbons called out Grainger’s name. While she chattered about whatever it was she was talking about, Grainger kept thinking about the boy and sneaking looks at him out of the corner of his eye. How dangerous it would be to encourage him. The boy’s look of startled curiosity in the post office convinced Grainger that, at the very least, he knew something. And if Kiley had told this boy about
him,
she must have told him about Mack.

With a sudden and absolute certainty, Grainger knew that he had to keep this kid at arm’s length. If he was so interested in Grainger that he was following him around town, then they were both in danger of misplaced expectations.

The black desk phone on the marble-topped table rang with old-fashioned shrillness. Kiley answered it, half expecting it to be Will explaining why he wasn’t back yet from the post office.

“Kiley, it’s Pop.”

“Is everything all right?” Kiley’s father never initiated phone calls.

“Fine. I want to talk to you about
Random
.”

It took a moment for Kiley to draw her thoughts in line with her father’s words.
Random,
his thirty-six-foot ketch. “Okay.”

“I should sell her, too.” It might have been his struggle for breath, or emotion, but his voice was faint.
Random
had always been his pride and joy, his ownership of the classic wooden boat defining him in the hierarchy of local sailors.

“Pop, you don’t have to do that. Don’t let go of everything all at once.”

“I’m not able to sail her. What’s the point of keeping her? She needs to be in the water, not stranded in a boatyard.”

“Where is she now?”

“At Egan’s Boat Works.”

A knot began to form in Kiley’s stomach. She knew what was next.

“Will you see to her?”

“I can’t do that.”

“Don’t be so goddamned stubborn.” Merriwell’s voice strengthened in the face of his daughter’s refusal.

“Can’t you do it over the phone?” Kiley rubbed the aching place in her belly.

“No. Someone has to go and see her, get a surveyor over to get her worth. Sign whatever agreements need to be signed. Just like the house. It’s no different.”

“Yes, it is.” Three words, distinct and sharp. Could her father really have no idea that Egan’s Boat Works was owned by Grainger Egan? The same Grainger Egan who had featured prominently in any number of family arguments? Had her father forgotten that Grainger was high on the list of suspects her mother had assembled at the news of her pregnancy?

“Why are you making this so difficult?” Merriwell paused, gathering enough breath to finish the conversation. “Just go down there and see to it.” There was another pause. “He won’t bite.”

Kiley settled the heavy handset into its cradle and sat down on the chair beside the phone stand. Her head dropped into her hands, and she tried to ignore the increasing ache in her stomach. Just like a little kid, with a stomachache on test day. Was her father testing her filial obedience, her maturity, her courage? No, this wasn’t a test. This was an outrageous request. She wouldn’t do it.

Kiley heard the screen door slam and the sound of the car keys dropped on the wooden kitchen table. She pushed herself to her feet and went to greet Will.

He leaned into the half-empty refrigerator. “There’s nothing to eat.”

“There’s ham and cheese. And, unless you drank it all at breakfast, there’s milk. We’ll go out tonight for dinner.”

“Can I pick?”

“Sure. There’s not much to choose from here in Hawke’s Cove, so we might want to head over to Great Harbor.”

“How about the Osprey’s Nest? The place near the boat landing.”

Kiley pulled a face. “That’s kind of a dive.”

“So?”

“I’ve never been there.”

“Local color. Let’s live dangerously.” Will tossed the packet of ham onto the table. “Let’s be anti-Harris tonight.”

Kiley laughed. The Osprey’s Nest really was about the last place her parents would frequent. Their dining experience in Hawke’s Cove was exclusively at the Yacht Club, which served a mediocre dinner every second Thursday. Otherwise, they’d trek to Great Harbor to one of the better restaurants. They’d be horrified to know she’d brought Will to the Osprey’s Nest.

Maybe it was a rebellion against her father’s ridiculous demand. Maybe it was an attempt to rekindle the compromised closeness with Will. Or maybe it was because the Osprey’s Nest was where the waterfront types went. People who made their living with boats and nets and lobster pots, like Grainger Egan.

“All right, we’ll go. Now, eat lunch; then let’s get to the beach.”

“Aren’t you eating?”

Kiley tested the knot in her stomach and shook her head. “No, I’m not hungry.”

•   •   •

Will had been restless at the beach. After swimming, he’d been unable to focus on reading, tossing his
Sports Illustrated
carelessly on the sand. He’d lain down on his beach towel, but not fallen asleep. Kiley offered to walk up the beach with him, but he shook his head. “Do you mind if I take the car and do a little exploring?”

“I guess.” Kiley hid her disappointment at being abandoned. She could stay here by herself and walk home, or have him drop her off at the house before he went rambling. She didn’t quite feel like either. She, too, felt a restlessness that had nothing to do with boredom. “I guess I could stay here and wait for you to pick me up.”

Will toed a line in the sand. “I might be gone awhile. Why don’t I take you home? I’ll meet you at the Osprey’s Nest at, like, five?”

A little trigger of anxiety added weight to her stomachache. Was he up to something? Deliberately, Kiley pressed that thought out of her mind. Will just needed some time to himself. “If you’ll put most of the stuff in the car, I’ll walk home. I want another swim.” Kiley stood up and folded her beach chair. “Don’t go too far, okay?”

“Just to Great Harbor.”

He gathered the umbrella and chairs, leaving Kiley with her book and a towel and her own restlessness.

Will stood in the doorway of Linda’s Coffee Shop for a moment before spotting Grainger seated at the counter. Leaving the beach, he’d seen Grainger’s truck pulling out of the gas station. Impulsively, Will followed, parking a few spaces down from where Grainger had left his truck. Will hadn’t been very discreet this morning, and was pretty sure Grainger had seen him. This time he was certain that Grainger hadn’t. He watched as the man got out of his truck, gave the gray dog in it a pat, and headed into the coffee shop.

There were two empty seats to Grainger’s left, and Will chose the farther one, keeping an empty place between them. He picked up the laminated menu to feign activity as he stared at Grainger’s reflection in the mirror behind the counter, his face framed between a cardboard ice cream cone and the chalked daily specials.

The face reflected there was a little bristly, with an unshaven Saturday look. His eyes were on his menu, never looking up. When Grainger removed his cap, setting it on the stool between them, Will saw that his hair was darker than the gray showing had suggested. Grainger kept his eyes down for so long that Will was startled to see him suddenly looking directly at Will’s own reflection, a similar curiosity on his face. Will ducked his eyes, but couldn’t keep a flush of guilty surprise from coloring his cheeks.

“Large coffee, Donna, and a piece of apple pie. To go.” Grainger handed the girl the menu.

“And you?” Donna moved down to where Will sat.

“Umm, a chocolate cone. I guess.” Will fished around in his pockets to see if he had enough money.

The waitress made Will’s cone first, so he went out the door and positioned himself on a bench across the street from the coffee shop. In a few minutes Grainger came out. Anticipating that Grainger would go to his truck, Will stood up, still licking the rapidly melting homemade ice cream into a controllable ball. Instead, Grainger crossed the quiet main street and walked up to him, then sat down on the bench, throwing one arm casually over the back of it. “Do you want to tell me what you’re doing?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Will felt childish, standing there, six feet tall and licking an ice cream cone like a kid.

“You’ve been following me.”

Will coughed, the ice cream suddenly too cold. “I’m not following you. Are you, like, paranoid or something?”

“A little. Sit down.” Grainger’s voice was firm but not frightening, something like his basketball coach’s voice. A little gravelly and deep, the voice of a man who spoke only to say something useful. “What’s your name?”

“Will. Will Harris.”

“Harris.” Grainger took a deep breath. “What do you want, Will Harris?”

Will stayed standing. The July sun, tempered only by the faithful southwesterly breeze, licked at Will’s bare neck, and he twisted his Cornell baseball cap around to shield his neck with the bill. “I was, like, wondering if you can give me sailing lessons.” Will stuffed the end of his cone into his mouth. He was pretty proud of himself, coming up with a plausible cover story so quickly, thanks to the “Egan’s Boat Works, Repairs, Hauling, and Lessons” painted on the side of Grainger’s truck.

Grainger said nothing, just stared out into some middle distance, which might have been the sliver of harbor visible between the facing buildings, or the street, or someplace behind his eyes. At the prolonged silence, Will finally sat beside Grainger on the green park bench.

“Why don’t you ask your mother to give you lessons?” Grainger’s voice cut through Will’s nervous embarrassment at having been caught out. His tone was half contemptuous, half curious.

Will had tossed out the idea of sailing lessons only to save himself, but now he was annoyed that Grainger hadn’t immediately said yes. In habitual contrariness, Will met the argument. “We don’t have a boat.”

“Yes, you do. It’s in my boatyard.”

“Oh. Well, Mom’s busy.” Will was nonplussed to have such easy confirmation this stranger knew his mother.

“I’m expensive.”

“I have a little money. Enough for a couple of lessons, I’m sure.”

“Why do you want to sail?”

“It’s sort of in my blood. My grandfather’s told me about how he sailed in races. I’ve just never had the opportunity to learn.” Although he’d grown up listening to Pop talk about his glory days, detailing every race buoy by buoy, he’d never given sailing lessons a thought until this minute. Suddenly he could believe that this was a lifelong ambition, now that he’d spoken it.

“I don’t know.” Grainger shook his head, lifted his cap off, and ran a hand through his hair, then resettled the hat back on his head. “I’m pretty booked.”

Will could have just said okay and gotten up to leave; but he found that he couldn’t. Here was this man who held a clue to his own past, even if it was only in having known his mom as a girl. Will couldn’t let go of the idea that Grainger would be able to tell him something important, something no one else would ever be able to, and he was determined that Grainger wouldn’t just shrug him off. “Mr. Egan, maybe just one lesson?”

Grainger had been leaning with his elbows on his knees, and now he sat back and looked Will in the eye. For an uncomfortable minute he seemed to be assessing Will, holding him up against some measure.

“All right. Meet me at the boat works on Tuesday morning. Seven-thirty.” He put out his hand for Will to shake. “One lesson. If you look like you can become a sailor, we’ll see about a second.”

“Okay. Great.” Will felt the grip of Grainger’s hand grow stronger, almost painful.

“One free lesson. To see what you’re made of.” Grainger let go of Will’s hand, gathered his lunch bag, and started to walk away, then turned back. “How is she? Your mother?” Did Will imagine a fiber in that voice pulling it tight?

He wasn’t sure how to answer that question. The truth was, she was still mad at him, and acting all weird about being here in Hawke’s Cove. “Good, I guess.”

Grainger nodded and turned to cross the street, moving with the broad, open step of a man who had spent a lifetime on the water.