The Summer of Chasing Mermaids (5 page)

“Time to make our exit,” she said, “before the tide comes in and sweeps us down to the underneath.”

She rose from the rocks and turned back toward the horizon,
offering a small bow of thanks to the sun just before it slipped fully behind the clouds.

I did the same, ignoring the tremble in my limbs, the warring thoughts that tugged me from one side—offering Christian my help with the Vega—to the other—steering clear of the treacherous sea, of Christian and his family. Beyond that, even if I could trust the ocean, even if Christian could take me seriously, how could I get involved in anything connected to Wes Katzenberg and Andy Kane? Men like that ruled the world, always getting their way, always knocking people down in the crossfire.

Against that, what power had a broken girl with no voice?

On our return march, I waved away Lemon's offered hand. Despite my careful steps, I sliced my foot on a jagged edge, and now I limped my way onto the path that led back to the parking area.

“Let me see.” Lemon cradled my heel, the skin warming at her touch. “You're bleeding, but you'll live. We'll clean it up when we get home.”

She smiled when she released my foot, but there was a look I'd come to know, one that meant she was about to unleash some mystical wisdom, feed me some foul herbal tonic, or cause a minor explosion in the kitchen.

Betting on the first, I lifted my eyebrows in question.

“Your blood has mingled with the ocean,” she whispered ominously. It was a little melodramatic, even for her, but I smiled anyway. “Whatever you were thinking about on our walk across those rocks? You've just made an oath with the sea.”

Chapter 6

Fog had crept up
the coast during our drive back from the Well, and whorls of mist still clung to the sand when I set out for the marina. It wasn't yet seven in the morning, and the beach was cloudy and deserted, save for the oystercatchers scrabbling around the tide pools. I zipped the hoodie up to my neck and picked up the pace, jogging toward the docks at a clip only slightly hampered by my earlier injury.

Christian was there when I arrived, his back to me as he stood at the stern, one foot propped up on the coaming. His hands were shoved into his sweatshirt pockets—light gray, just like mine—and the fabric pulled tight across his shoulders as he stared out at the sea.

I'd thought this might be a problem, him being here. The boat needed a major overhaul; of course he'd want an early start. But I couldn't just leave my stuff. Without a few coats of paint, my written
words would remain forever—I could at least apologize and collect my physical belongings.

Christian hadn't noticed my approach, and I took a second to gather my thoughts, to observe this boy whose grit and seaworthiness would determine Lemon and Kirby's future at the Cove.

He was taller than me by a head, with those strong-looking shoulders and narrow hips, dark jeans that hung loose on his legs. His hair was short and thick, soft and messy. It was darker than his father's, but sandy blond at the tips, like he'd spent much of his Stanford hours basking in California's famous sunshine.

I wondered if it was hard for him, being here. I wondered which place he thought of as home. Whether he'd ever felt untethered, like me.

The breeze kicked up, blowing the curls back from my face. I ­gathered them into a hair tie, took a deep breath, and marched down the dock. I stopped beside the
Queen of
.

Christian had left a tape gun and a couple of flattened cardboard boxes on the dock, awaiting assembly, and the boat's aqua-blue deck was already littered with stacks of stuff. Much of it had probably been in the saloon since they'd first docked the boat here, but some of those stacks were mine. It reminded me of packing for Oregon, boxing up my room in Tobago. Trying to decide what was worth bringing, what had to be left behind.

A fierce wave of protectiveness rose in me, but I let it pass. Christian wasn't dismantling my room. The Vega was his; he was simply removing a stranger's junk, getting her ready for the voyage ahead.

Uncertain of how to get his attention, I unfolded one of the flat boxes and attacked it with the tape gun. Christian turned around at the noise, the pensive angles of his face reshaping.

“Aha!” He pointed at me with mock accusation, a slow grin spreading. “My stowaway. I was hoping you'd turn up today.”

The seashell around my neck felt heavy. My fingers found their way to it, fidgeting as I tried not to break his gaze.

“Sorry to be the bearer of shitty news,” he said, “but you're being evicted.”

I scanned the sight of my belongings, a half dozen piles on the deck.

In a softer tone he said, “I was just boxing it up to bring to your aunt's.”

I gave him a quick nod of appreciation and got back to work ­assembling the box. When it was all put together, he held out his hands for me to toss it up. He caught it and set it down on the deck, then waved for me to climb aboard.

“Come on, now,” he said when I didn't budge. “You came all this way. At least help me pack it up.”

His smile hadn't faded, but it didn't reach his eyes. Not now, and not last night, either. It was the ghost smile, that look, there but not. His gaze was far away, adrift on another sea, and his real smile wasn't for me. Vanessa—she probably got to see it. But not the girl who'd stowed away on the boat that didn't belong to her. The girl who'd ­written volumes on the walls but never said a word.

Ignoring his outstretched hand, I stepped over the gap between the dock and the boat, heaving myself over the rails. When he tried to steady me with a gentle touch on my lower back, I shook loose. Even with a sore foot, I could make that climb in the dark—I'd done so on many nights before his arrival—but thought better of confessing.

“She's a beauty, yeah? In her own way.” Christian palmed the side of the companionway, caressing it lightly.

I offered a wary smile.

“She smiles,” he said, one hand on his heart, and I wondered if he knew that my smile wasn't the real one either. “I suppose there's no need for the grand tour. Just help me get the rest of this stuff out of the saloon.”

He took off his sweatshirt and tossed it onto the coaming, and when he leaned forward through the companionway, a black line peeked out from beneath his T-shirt sleeve. I followed the markings to the larger shadow beneath the fabric. He was tattooed across most of his right shoulder and upper arm, but I couldn't make out the design.

“First, there's this.” From inside the saloon he turned to face me, holding out a black Moleskine notebook, Sharpie clipped to the front. The notebook had a waterproof cover and sturdy paper, unlined, the kind that didn't bleed the ink. The pages themselves were rippled from some earlier spill, but intact. On the inside cover there was a silver music-note sticker.

Without Christian opening the notebook, I knew all of this.

It was mine.

Save for what I'd written on the boat and on my hands, all of my words were in that notebook. Songs I'd written with Natalie, poetry I thought one day we'd turn into music. Ideas for our future tours. All my hopes and dreams and, once I'd lost them, the fears that took their place. The secrets.

Now they were pinned in Christian's hand.

My heart sank.

“It was on the table,” he said. “With the candle. Figured it belonged to you, since I'm the only other person who uses the boat, seeing as how it's mine and all, and I'm not much of a writer. But you? Regular wordsmith.”

When I didn't respond, he leaned closer, waving the notebook between us. His voice was low and raspy, like a secret. “The thing I can't figure is, how did all the words escape this paper and end up on my walls?”

Inside, I felt like an eel, slithering and squirming under his glare. But outside, I was a rock.

And my God, that boy would
not
give me a break.

“Relax,” he finally said. The mask of seriousness dropped suddenly from his face, and I let out a breath. “Just giving you a hard time. I didn't read it. Flipped through enough to figure it was yours, probably private.”

I didn't have to scrutinize him long to know that Christian was telling the truth. I grabbed the offered notebook before he changed his mind.

He watched me a moment longer, then ducked back into the saloon, taking it all in. “She needs a lot of work. I don't even know where to start. Guess once I clear it out, I can assess—”

I held up a finger to interrupt. I knew he was mostly talking to himself, but I had a few suggestions. I plucked the Sharpie from the notebook cover and flipped to the first free page inside. I'd never started up the engine, but after my month-long visitations with the
Queen of
, I was intimately familiar with her other trouble spots—all the things both small and large that could sink this ship, sink his chances at winning the regatta.

He waited silently, patiently, as I let the words flow.

The Queen's Issues

Leaks around starboard window.

Condensation gathers on the sill beneath.

Mainsail & jib seem sketchy; unfold and hoist for full assessment.

Wiring issues are not my area of expertise, but a probable concern,

given her age and condition.

The nav instruments are cracked.

Condensation on their casing indicates damage.

Externally, gel coat needs another application.

Interior woodwork is original, mostly solid,

despite a bit of interior mildew, likely cleanable.

Underside? Now there's a question for the experts.

Final thoughts on the Queen of:

A seaworthy vessel in need of some love.

I tore out the page and handed it over, satisfied. After reading it, Christian got that ghost of a smile again. When I didn't flinch under his gaze, he raised an eyebrow, like,
Who
are
you?

“Does everything you write come out like a poem?”

I hadn't done it on purpose, but he was right. Every list or letter came out that way, like a verse, a story I could set to music. Natalie was the same way—Dad often teased us about it.
I thought you were making a grocery list, little songbirds. Now you
'
ll have me singing about coconut milk and Cheerios.”

“Speaking of poetry,” Christian said. “When you say here ‘interior mostly solid,' is that with or without your body of work?”

My cheeks flamed. On a fresh page I scribbled again. Christian stepped back through the companionway and onto the deck, closer, bringing with him the smell of the sea and whatever shampoo he used—something like mangoes, which reminded me of my sisters.

The boat bobbed beneath us.

He read my words upside down as I wrote.

Thought she was abandoned.

I'll scrub & paint everything.

I'm sorr

He grabbed my hand, cut off the rest. “Forget about it. Adds character. And, ah, thanks for the list.” He released me and folded up my note about the boat's issues, stuck it in his back pocket. “God, I love a woman who knows the difference between a mainsail and a jib.”

He held my gaze, eyes glittering.

Sometimes there's a fine line between sexy and crass, and Christian walked it with the best of them.

His looks helped, sure. The strong build, the confident stance, those mysterious green-gray-blue eyes. But more than that, it was his attentiveness. Just looking at him, a careful observer could see that he was there but not there, his thoughts in many places at once. Adrift, as I'd noticed earlier. But when he was with you, he was
with
you. In a shared moment, for however long it lasted—an instant, a minute, ten—he was the kind of guy who offered his undivided focus, no ­matter how many other girls might be in the room, no matter who he planned on taking home that night.

Clever? Yes. Cocky? Sure. But dismissive? Not part of his ­repertoire.

All of this I deduced standing too close to him on the deck of the
Queen of
, his sea-and-mangoes scent enveloping me.

“Gotta be honest,” he said after a beat too long. “I'm not sure what to make of you.”

My fingers reached instinctively for the shell necklace, gave it a twist.

Those eyes . . . He had me pinned. He knew it. I matched him, unflinching.

It was both thrilling and unnerving, the intensity that crested between us.

The boat bobbed. Tipped. Straightened.

And like a wave, the moment receded.

Kirby's words echoed, and I thought about the long line of “liberators” he'd soon face, once the rest of the summer renters arrived.

“Seriously,” he said. “You know your boats.” It wasn't a question, and I didn't deny it. “Good sailing in the Caribbean?”

I turned the page, wrote another message.

Yes. Family owns an eco-resort in Tobago w/ small fleet nearby.

I lead guest charters. Used to lead.

When I looked up, he nodded toward the open maw of the sea, the waves that endlessly tumbled and turned as they made their way toward the
Queen of
.

“Used to? When's the last time you were out?”

That was a question whose answer I couldn't provide without trawling through the past, wading through pains too close and tender. The scar on my throat tingled.

I shrugged and mouthed a quick response.
Three, four months.

“Formal?” he said.

I held up four fingers and tried again.
Months.

“Four months,” he said, nodding. “I couldn't go that long. I sail at school. Kayak, too, when I can. Sea's in my blood.”

Mine too,
I mouthed, but he was looking out across the Pacific again. He didn't know I'd said it, didn't know I'd felt my own blood stir at his words. My pulse quickened, warmth rising inside as old ­passions—for the first time in months—surged ahead of more recent fears. I didn't know the story with his old Vega, but Christian's love for the sea was plain, as deep as the Pacific herself, and the liveliness in his eyes tugged at something in my heart, too.

The doctors in Trinidad had warned me about possible nightmares. Post traumatic stress, they'd called it. Irrational fear, paranoia, depression, anger. All of those things they'd tried to prepare me for. But what they hadn't talked about was betrayal. How something you'd known and loved forever could turn on you, could break your heart even as it left you alive.

Now it felt as if the sea, that old treacherous lover, was giving me another chance.

Was I wrong to trust her? To
want
to trust her?

Did it matter?

Again I thought of Lemon, kneeling in her garden to trim the herbs she'd planted, blending them into tonics and lotions. Pacing the shore in contented silence, scanning for treasures. Reading tarot cards and
books about witchcraft in her reading nook at the end of the hallway. Cooking meals for me and Kirby and her guests in the big white-and-turquoise kitchen. Assembling her sculptures, piece by piece, humming her otherworldly music as she did.

Home.

All of these things buzzed through my blood anew, making my skin warm and tingly.

I opened my mouth to make the offer at the same time Christian said, “What would it take to make you my first mate?”

My first thought was,
Boy, keep looking at me like that and I'll be whatever you want. . . .

But that was just my skin speaking, all the soft parts that hadn't been touched by strong hands since Julien broke things off a month after the accident. I quickly dismissed the thought and looked up to the sky, as if to consider.