Two Weeks in August (7 page)

“I know. It was really noisy in there after the band started playing. No, I’m not a writer. I read new novels for Jennings-Ryder Books and then critique them. I’m between books now.”

“That must be fascinating,” Mander said and Nina took a few minutes to tell her how the process worked.

Later, back at Channel Haven, she contemplated her ambivalence about Mander.

All little girls harbored dreams of meeting their Prince Charming and living happily ever after. Nina had been kissed by more pseudo-princes than she cared to remember, and so, long ago, had squelched that fantasy. Turning finally to women was like coming home, a freedom natural to her. Her first woman lover had been a slightly older woman; Nina had been eighteen. Dotty had been a good, kind lover, sharing with Nina all the unique pleasures possible between women.

Her thoughts turned from the pleasure of Dotty to the shame of Rhonda. Rhonda’s betrayal had been like sawdust frosting on an ice cream cake.

Mander, now, seemed a perfectly acceptable romantic partner—attractive, charming, good to talk with. But something was lacking. The same things that had been lacking in most of the other girls she had dated after Dotty. There was just no electricity, no spark.

Even the relationship with Rhonda had obviously been lacking something. Sure, with Rhonda’s help, she had fooled herself into believing their love would last. But Nina realized now that she had always remained detached somehow, as if looking at the whole scene from someplace far away. Rhonda’s every act had been judged by her too-analytical mind, watched and weighed from some other place. Perhaps Rhonda had seen this. Maybe that was why she had bailed out. Her first love, Dotty, on the other hand, had offered kisses that easily sucked Nina up into them, gentle tornadoes that never let her feet touch ground. No other woman had taken her there yet and she had to admit she was becoming a bit discouraged. Maybe she was destined to be alone forever.

And now Mander. Could she be different than the others? Should she take a chance on her and hope for something to ignite?

She pondered this question long and hard as she sat on the edge of the dock next to the pilings where the rental boats were moored. The ocean lapping about her ankles was mesmerizing, and hours slipped away as she pondered her own life along with the busy crustacean life in the water beneath the planking.

Over to her left, a family—visitors to the island by their Illinois license plates—was gathering around the dock area pointing out the wonders of the sea to one another.

One son, an older teenager, had cast a crab pot into the water and hauled up an enormous horseshoe crab. Nina smiled at the mother’s and young daughter’s shrieks of horror as they ran to the safety of their cottage.

The two sons and the father laughed noisily.
 
Holding the occupied crab net high, the older son chased his younger sister all the way to the cottage door.

This was all she wanted, Nina thought, a real family. She wanted to have a relationship like the relationship her parents had—two highly individual people coming together on equal ground and deciding to make a life together. Was this too much to ask?

This was all she had asked of Rhonda. And she had really believed this was what Rhonda had wanted as well. They had planned an entire life together. A life perhaps not filled with great passion but with great fondness, certainly.

Feeling defeated and very much alone, Nina strode into her cottage.

The sun set without her as witness; she was sleeping in front of the mindlessly blaring television.

Chapter 9

Early the next day, Nina decided to retreat into her own cocoon until she felt better about her life. She curled up on the sofa with an old favorite paperback, enjoying the island sounds that surrounded her. Then she spied Hazy puttering about the boat rental dock and had a sudden inspiration.

After getting a drink of water to bolster herself and brushing her long hair into obedience, she mustered courage and walked outside.

Approaching the dock, she replayed in her mind what Mander had told her earlier as well as the tender scene she had witnessed between Hazy and her little girl. Could she really be as mean and irascible as she appeared?

Hazy was crouched down into a deep knee bend examining the lower side of one of the small white motorboats kept ready and waiting for customers.

Nina approached cautiously. “Ms. Duncan?”

Hazy turned and looked up at Nina, blue eyes squinting in the harsh mid-morning sun. “Aye?”

“I was wondering if you would mind telling me the rules and regulations of the wildlife preserve.”

Her words were spoken rapidly and without much thought. She only knew she felt compelled to talk to this curious woman. “I wanted to take some photographs but find I’m unaware of what I can and cannot do,” she finished lamely.

Hazy eyed her a moment, then stood impatiently. “And I look like a tour guide, do I?”

Nina felt her back stiffening. Damn the woman! She was only trying to be friendly.

“No, not really. I just figured that since you’re a local, you’d know.”

Hazy looked out across the channel, a brisk wind ruffling her white-gold hair.
 
“Let me tell you something, miss. The locals aren’t the ones who know the rules the gov’ment sets for the islands. We don’t give a fig about them. Our claim on the island is a whole lot more substantial than theirs.”

Nina was intrigued that Hazy felt this way. “How do you mean?”

“It’s in the blood.”

Hazy bent to retrieve a length of rope and, with the power of habit, began to wind it about her elbow and wrist. Impatiently. She shook the circle of rope off her arm when it ran out and then stowed it in the back of one of the boats.

She looked at Nina with indecision, her sun-chapped lips poised as if to speak. Something in Nina
’
s eyes, genuine interest perhaps, must have touched her for she continued. “My father wasn’t originally from the islands but came here before I was born. My mother, on the other hand, was the daughter of one of the original fishing families—had lived here the whole of her life.”

She paused and brushed windblown debris from the top of a nearby piling. “The pull of the island is so great that, growin’ up, the children in my family never learned much about my father’s home country, although he did teach us the language so we could understand him when he lost his temper and cursed at us.” She laughed lightly.

Nina smiled, enjoying her first glimpse of Hazy’s capacity for merriment. Hazy’s cold blue eyes had softened remarkably.

 
“But the point I’m tryin’ to make, probably not very well, is once the island’s in your blood, whether from birth or a long life lived here, nothing else much matters. It’s all about the comin’
and goin’ of the tide, about when the birds leave for the winterin’, and the weight of the ponies’ coats telling how harsh the winter weather will be…”

Her voice had gentled into a kind of lilt and Nina found herself mesmerized by the sound of it. Realizing Hazy had paused for a long moment, she responded softly.

“And the full moon on the water, glorious sunrises and sunsets, the rhythm of the light from the lighthouse and the slap of the waves as they come ashore.”

Hazy studied her, her gaze appreciative.
 
“You sound almost like a native, Miss Christie.”

Nina smiled. “I’ve visited the islands from time to time when I was growing up. Do you have a large family here?”

Hazy cooled noticeably and Nina could have kicked herself for bringing up what must be a painful subject.

Turning away, Hazy stepped onto one of the boats so she could pull the next one in the row into a straight line. Her voice carried to Nina with the light ocean breeze.

 
“Lots of brothers, a couple sisters, but there were always a lot of children in our house, even if they weren’t from Mother’s body. Seems every kid around knew where they could find a warm heart and a kind spirit.”

She glanced up at Nina, her eyes sad now, the line of her mouth grim.
 
“My mother was one of those people who actually believed children have something interesting to say. You don’t see that much anymore, now do you?”

 
“No, no you don’t,” Nina replied hollowly. “And it’s a shame too.”

She looked up and saw that Hazy had paused in the middle of stepping back onto the dock and was eyeing her with distrust. She wondered what she had said to offend her.

Walking past Nina toward the office Hazy muttered, “Come along and we’ll see if we can’t find those blasted regulations for you.”

Meekly Nina followed, shaking her head in puzzlement. With mysterious, private people like Hazy Duncan, she thought, you really needed to crawl inside their head to try and understand them. Anything else was a waste of time.

Inside the office, Hazy pulled open one of the desk drawers and lifted out a handful of brightly-colored brochures.

“There’s this one…” she muttered, leafing through them. “‘
Isle of sweet brooks of drinking water - healthy air and soil! Isle of the salty shore and breeze and brine!’
”

 
“Oh, who’s that? Walt Whitman?” Nina asked with interest.

Hazy smiled as she rifled through the brochures. “Yes, it’s quoted on one of these brochures. You know Whitman?”

Looking closely at the material Hazy held, Nina answered absently. “Um hmm. What’s this one about?”

“Summer programs, you’re too late for that one. How about this? It should give you inspiration for your photographs.”

She handed Nina a small soft-cover book filled with vibrant full-color photographs of island wildlife.

“Oh, this is lovely. Surely this costs something. Let me pay you for it.”

Hazy grinned shyly but with a touch of pride thrown in. “Go on and take it. I have lots of copies because the people who produced it finagled me into helping them. They didn’t pay much, so they threw in a box of contributor’s copies.”

Nina saw her with new eyes. What a complex person she was! “Did you take the photos?”

“What? Me?” She pulled back, as if surprised Nina would ask that. “I’m afraid I don’t know which end of the camera to point, if truth be told. I just wrote some of the information, a friend took the photographs.”

Nina loved the way she said “photographs.” She put a certain twist of language on it, a special inflection uniquely hers.