The Mermaid's Secret (22 page)

“Can I help you?”

“No thanks.”

She presses her chin into her neck and her eyes are hard and I can feel her watching me as I walk around the racks of expensive, small-enough-to-slip-in-your-pocket merchandise. I have townie written all over me.

A group of girls walks in, all dressed in pretty summer colors. They're talking about the wedding banquet, the wedding night, the wedding dress, the wedding flowers, and it becomes clear that they're here to buy the wedding lingerie, which sends them into bursts of hysterics.

At least they get the salesclerk off my back.

The mother of the bride picks out a white silk bustier and holds it up, but the daughter has something less traditional in mind.

I think about the first time I went bra shopping with my mom. I was thirteen. Mom announced to the saleslady that I was a late bloomer and needed a bra with modest coverage. But the way she said it, dragging out the end, like “bra-a-ah,” made it so much more embarrassing than it already was to be shopping with your mom for your first bra at the ripe age of thirteen.

It was pale pink. A-cup. When I got home, I modeled in front of the full-length mirror. Kay walked in. “You got boobs. Congratulations.” Kay had already had boobs for quite some time and didn't quite understand the pride I took in producing a tiny patch of cleavage between the pale pink mounds.

I wish my mom was here now. She would know what to do. Choose human or mermaid. But she's on her spirit journey. Shedding her sorrow.

My phone pings with a text from Matthew:
Dinner tonight? I'm cooking.

I start composing my message:
I'd love to!!!

Three exclamation points
and
the L word. I delete it and try again:
Didn't know you could cook. Depends on what you're making.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Finally I settle on
OK
.

I walk over to the rack of panties on the hangers, with individual price tags—a different class of underwear than the three-for-fifteen-dollars bin at the Kmart. Flipping through the price tags, I choke on my saliva. A day's tips for a pair of panties.

I think about that kiss. Matthew's lips.

I buy the lace panties and head home.

*   *   *

I keep both hands on the wheel as I head out of the crammed downtown streets, past yacht club row, and out to Kotoki-Pun Point. What am I doing? I'm a fish. I'm leaving this world for the deep, dark, exquisite places of the sea. Where, I remind myself, I won't ever have human suffering, ever again. I'm going to where life is simple and beautiful and free.

Only a coldhearted bitch would lead on a guy as sweet (and hot) as Matthew and then disappear from his life.

So I won't lead him on. I will let him cook me dinner. Then I will tell him I just want to be friends. I'll tell him I'm heading out on a spirit journey to find myself, or some lame excuse like that.

Matthew opens the door, his hair still wet from the shower, his blue eyes brilliant against his sun-kissed tan, and I immediately start to rethink my plan. He's dressed in a button-down oxford shirt and jeans without holes in the knees. His smile peeks out beneath his beard, and I want to lean in and kiss him right there.

Instead, I jam my hands into my pockets and stand miserably at the door, wishing I had never found that barrel. Wishing I didn't have to choose.

I'm also feeling really underdressed. I could have put more effort into my old flannel shirt and running shorts, which together don't add up to the price of the underwear beneath them.

“Uh. I should have brought some wine, or a six-pack, or something.”

“I've got everything here, Creary. Come in.”

Alice and Roger's house used to be the lighthouse keeper's cottage at Kotoki-Pun Point, back when the lighthouse required a keeper to climb the stairs each evening and light the mantles by hand. But electricity came to the island, then computers, and the job became obsolete.

Inside, the walls are papered in faded floral print. Peonies. Alice's favorite, Matthew tells me.

“I bet you've got some needlepoint pillows shoved in a closet somewhere.”

“Only bring those out for special occasions.”

I pick up a glass candy bowl. “Do you by any chance have a grandma fetish?”

“You can read me like a book, Creary.” I follow him down a hall. “I'm just taking care of the house until Alice decides to sell it. It's a great place. And wait until you see this.”

The hallway opens up to the bedroom, which takes my breath away. The room is sparsely furnished. Only a bed, mirror, and bureau. It has a high ceiling and is flooded with light. An entire wall of windows faces east, revealing a panoramic view of the ocean. It feels like we're standing on the edge of the world.

I can feel my heart skip. His house is perfect. And he's perfect—this beautiful, sensitive man who braves the roughest seas and saves time to do good deeds for old ladies in nursing homes.

“So is this how you lure women into bed? Show them the kick-ass bedroom and tell them how beautiful the sunrise will be in the morning?”

“No. It's not … I'm not…” He looks deflated. “That's not really what you think I'm doing, is it?”

There's an agonizing silence, and I wish I could take the words back. But snarky and apathetic is my go-to defense mechanism, honed over years in principals' offices and in front of Sheriff.

“I'm going on a spirit journey,” I blurt out.

It's totally abrupt and it makes him laugh. “Okay. Would you like some cod before you go? Because I've got some in the fridge that needs to be grilled.”

*   *   *

Dinner is perfect and torturous. He's grilled the cod with lemon and fresh ginger. He's made a salad and picked wild daisies and black-eyed Susans from the fields that surround the house. He tells me about the long, hard trips out in the Gulf of Mexico, where the seas get so rough that sometimes you don't know if your boat will hold. He tells me how incredibly boring it is, until all of a sudden you've got a full catch and it's the opposite of boring. When the work is good, the adrenaline drives you through, from night all the way into the next day.

“I think you'd love it down south,” he says. “The work is hard, but there's a lot of opportunity for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“You know, a true waterman. Not many people can handle being out there. The waves get to them. The sun. Fishing all day.”

“Do you think you'll ever stay down there? Leave Ne'Hwas after season and not come back?” I ask.

He grimaces. “That depends.” I feel my heart pounding.

This is my opportunity to tell him. This is when I let him down easy. Tell him I just want to be friends. But when I look into his eyes, I feel like the cowardly lion.

“What about you? What's in your future?” he asks.

“In the future … I would like one of those warm chocolate chip cookies I saw on the stove.”

“Jess Creary, I've held eels less slippery than you,” he says.

He gets the cookies and I clear the plates. We meet in the middle of the floral kitchen. He puts a hand on the small of my back, where my tail meets skin, and kisses me.

My heart is beating so hard it's pounding in my ears. It might even be shaking the whole house.

We move from the kitchen to the living room and can't keep our hands off each other. He tastes like warm cookie. Once we're on the floral couch, I let my hands explore his chest, his arms, feeling the solid mass of muscle underneath. He caresses my shoulders. Then he pulls away. “I want to take it slow. Is that okay?”

I don't have time for slow, I want to say. But I tell him yes, it's okay.

We decide to watch a movie.

Matthew opens a closet stocked with VHS tapes. I find
Splash
, that movie from the early eighties with Tom Hanks and Daryl Hannah. He sticks the old relic into the VHS machine and the picture comes on.

The movie is hysterical, just like I remember when I watched it as a kid. A mermaid wanders naked into New York City, looking for her long-lost love. Hilarity ensues as she navigates the human world, and her commitment-phobic man friend finds the true meaning of love. It's a light-hearted romantic comedy with a mermaid twist. There's nothing about how mermaids are the apex predator of the sea, or the great act of courage required to cross into that world.

And then the last scene plays. With the help of the quirky scientist who exposed her, and the nutty brother, Tom Hanks breaks Daryl Hannah out of captivity to release her back into the wild. There's a car chase scene, which is pretty ridiculous. And then they get to the pier. Daryl Hannah kisses him good-bye and jumps into the Hudson River to return to her world. Tom Hanks is left standing alone and morose. Then he has one of those Hollywood moments when he realizes that love conquers all, and he throws himself into the water. Daryl Hannah comes back for him and they swim hand in hand to happily ever after.

As I burrow my head into the crook of Matthew's arm and he kisses my forehead, an idea forms in my head. Maybe he can surf that barrel, too. Maybe giving up his life for his girlfriend can be his act of courage that transports him to the mermaid world. Maybe he can come with me.

The question is, will he?

 

N
INETEEN

Aboard the
Dauntless,
Matthew and I try to keep our relationship hush-hush, but I'm drawn to him like hydrogen to oxygen. Sal notices first. “I'm feeling the vibe between you two,” he says, nodding his head, blond locks tumbling over his face. Stefan catches Matthew kissing my shoulder and wants to know if we're mutually exclusive or if he still has a chance with me. Finally, Tony catches us touching hands in the galley, and once Tony knows, it takes about three seconds for the rest of the Slack Tide crew to find out, including Harold, who gives us both a stern warning about the pitfalls of love and marriage, as well as about the sin of putting pleasure before business.

For the first time all summer, my mind isn't on waves. I don't worry about sharks. I don't see swirling schools of fish when I close my eyes. All I can focus on is the fisherman.

After work, Matthew asks if he can take me to Lobsterfest.

“It's so touristy,” I say.

“I love Lobsterfest. Those claw hats just kill me. Come with me,” Matthew says.

His enthusiasm is irresistible. Besides, we only have eight days left before I leave him for good, or convince him to come with me. I'll take all the time I can get.

Lobsterfest started out small and authentic. A vacant meadow near the airfield in mid-July, when the lobsters are molting and lobstermen have a glut of soft shell lobsters on their hands they can't ship any great distance. They'd throw a huge party with all-you-can-eat lobsters and unlimited butter.

Over time, it's grown up. The venue was moved. T-shirts were made. Someone hands out funny hats with lobster claws sticking out the sides. Musicians were brought in. A writer from
Travel
+
Leisure
stumbled on it. Now it's in every tourist brochure. “The hidden gem of Ne'Hwas,” they proclaim.

*   *   *

As soon as we step out of Matthew's pickup, my ears start ringing. Pressure is building in the atmosphere.

“There's a storm coming,” I say.

Matthew looks at me curiously. “A system's rolling in from the south, but it'll hold off until early morning.”

“Rain. Tonight,” I whisper. I know it the same way that horses predict hurricanes or service dogs warn their humans of epileptic seizures before they happen.

“Do you know something the radar doesn't?” Matthew asks. “Is divining the weather one of your many talents?”

Black birds circle low in the blue sky and then dart off to the tree line on the far end of the field.

“What other talents do I have?”

“Too many to count, Creary.”

Matthew grins and holds my hand as we walk through the crowd. Smells of fried dough and boiling lobster fill the air. The small festival I remember has morphed into a bona fide fair, with food trucks, vendors, beer gardens, and street performers. Even the mime from the pier at Galleon Marina is here. He sees us, points to me and Matthew, brings his fingers together, and makes a kissy face. This time, we oblige.

Little kids run around in lobster claw hats, and everywhere we go, fishermen stop to talk to Matthew. They want to know how the cod are running out in the basin, or if he has any leads on pollock runs. They slap him on the back and throw their arms around his shoulders, and make sure he's placed his bet on the live lobster race.

A boy of about ten or eleven runs up to us. “Hey, buddy. What's happening?” Matthew says, and fist-bumps the kid.

“Will you take me out on the boat this week?” the kid asks.

“You bet. I'll let you drive,” Matthew says.

The boy rubs his hands together and runs back to the other fishermen-family kids to share his good fortune.

“Roger and Alice's niece's kid. I've known him since he was a baby,” Matthew tells me.

“He worships you,” I say. “It's obvious.” Everyone worships Matthew. Kids, old men with raccoon eyes from sunglasses and hours spent at sea, women.

And, I realize, these are his people. His family.

“Everyone loves you,” I say, awed myself.

Matthew blushes. “These are good people. Hardworking. They looked out for me when my mom died, along with Roger and Alice. They're all the family I've got.”

Everyone here knows what he went through. They helped him out, showed him love, and like the golden son, he rose above his crappy circumstances to become the pride and joy of Nipon Beach.

Why would he ever give this up to spend his life in the sea with me? Would I do that for him?

Could we ever have a family of our own in the sea? Or is the way of Ne'Hwas a genetic dead end? I've never thought about having kids. I've never given much thought to the future. But suddenly these questions seem important.