Beach Girls (17 page)

Should it be
Owl Night
or
Summer of the Swans
? Or, maybe,
Seahawk
? When they got to their cottage, her father unlocked the back door, and they went inside. Nell changed right into her pajamas. She knew she should wash her face and feet and brush her teeth, but she wanted to get right into bed and hear the story.

She had already decided on the book—
Summer of the Swans
—and was just hanging her toothbrush back in the rack, when she heard a knock at the door. Her stomach clenched up.

A knock at the door, especially after dark, was not good. She remembered the police officers who had come to her house that night, to tell them about her mother—she had gotten all confused and thought they were guards from the prison, warning them that that awful prisoner who had called her mom had somehow escaped. And she remembered the times she'd hear
tap-tap-tap
, after they thought she'd gone to sleep, when Francesca would come to their door with some papers her father just “had to see that night.” Or what? London Bridge would come falling down?

Hearing the light hand at the door, Nell knew it had to be Francesca.

“
Go away,
” she said into her pillow.

A few moments passed, and then she heard a second knock—her father tapping at her bedroom door. “Nell?” he asked.

“Dad,” she said, feeling tired and close to tears. “Please tell Francesca to go away, and tell her we're not going back to Boston! Then come in here, because I need my Stevie story!”

“Francesca's not here. And tonight you're the luckiest girl around. You're going to get a story straight from Stevie herself.”

And with that, Nell sat up straight and peered into the light flooding in from the hall lamp, and she saw Stevie smiling down at her, coming to sit on the edge of her bed, without even a book in her hands to read from.

Chapter 15

NELL SCOOTED OVER IN THE BED, TO
make room for Stevie to sit on the edge. Jack hovered in the doorway, as if he wasn't sure whether to stay or go. Stevie smiled at him, waiting. He was tall, and his broad shoulders completely blocked the hall light. Her heart was in her throat, wanting more than anything for him to sit beside her.

“Sit down, Dad . . . come listen to Stevie's story,” Nell said.

“Oh, I think she came to tell it to you,” he said. “I'll go out in the
other room. . . .”

“It's for both of you,” Stevie said.

He moved toward her, then stopped himself—as if maybe he thought better of sitting beside her on the bed. Instead, he pulled a straight-backed chair in from the other room. The bedside lamp had a ship's wheel on its parchment shade, and it threw warm orange light on Stevie's hands and sketchpad.

“This is a story about Lovecraft Hill,” she said. “A magical stone castle sits in the midst of fields and woodlands, overlooking the mouth of a majestic river, just where it empties into the sea. Ivy and vines grow up the castle walls. . . .” As she spoke, she drew, passing the pictures to Nell.

“Does a princess live there?” Nell asked.

“No,” Stevie said. “The castle and its grounds belong to nature. But it's watched over, tended, by a wise old aunt.”

“An aunt,” Nell whispered. Stevie sketched a woman who looked like a cross between Stevie's Aunt Aida and Madeleine. Stevie heard Nell draw a sharp breath; she glanced up for Jack's reaction. His eyes were sparkling, gazing at Stevie, not even looking at her drawing.

“The castle is old, and crumbling,” Stevie said, hardly able to look away from him. “High winds topple stones from the tower. The steps threaten to give way. Bats live in the rafters, and vines twist up the copper drainpipes.” Swiftly she drew the enchanted ruin.

“Acres of pine trees grow on the hillside, providing shade and cover for every kind of bird and animal. Finches, thrushes, warblers, robins nest in the pine barrens, building nests of twigs and needles. They lay their eggs, raise their broods. Deer, raccoons, and rabbits live there, too. The deep forest gives them shelter and food. They survive in their habitat so they won't have to stray into ours. . . .”

Stevie drew a quick series of pictures showing deer crossing the busy shore road, eating the flowers and shrubs around a house; raccoons toppling over a garbage can; and rabbits overtaking a lettuce patch. Nell giggled.

“Opposite the castle from the pine barrens are the Old Oaks. These are the oldest woods in Connecticut. They are thick and tall. There are trees in the deepest part called ‘dawn redwoods' that date back to a time when the land was new. Owls live in this part of the forest. They call through the night, and only the bravest people dare stray into their woods, answer their call.”

“What do they say?” Nell whispered, and Stevie answered with the call Aunt Aida had taught her when she was Nell's age.

“Who-hoo-who-hoo-hoo-hoo . . .”

Nell tried it, got it right the first time. Stevie drew a picture of three people standing in the thick forest: Stevie herself, the wise aunt, and Nell. Nell beamed.

Stevie kept talking, making it up as she went along, drawing quick sketches. She had never done this before—written a story for an actual, real child. If felt incredible—not least of all because Jack was leaning forward, seemingly as interested as Nell. Their knees touched, and Stevie felt voltage shoot all through her body.

Nell was getting sleepy, her eyes starting to close.

“Should I stop?” Stevie asked.

“No,” the Kilverts both said at once.

“The castle grounds belong to nature, but others want it, too,” Stevie said. “Men with bulldozers want to come and clear the trees. They want to own the beautiful view and sell it for gold. They want to turn the deers' nests into houses, and they want to turn the wild castle into a tame conference hall.”

“But the wise aunt . . .” Nell murmured, struggling to keep her eyes open.

“Yes, the wild aunt will protect the hillside,” Stevie said, drawing.

“I knew she would,” Nell whispered.

“How did you know that?” Jack asked.

“Because she's good. She's like Aunt Maddie,” Nell said. “And like Stevie's Aunt Aida. Right, Stevie?”

“Very much so.”

“When the sun rises, the owls go to sleep, and the other creatures come out of their nests and burrows. The warblers sing in the bushes, and the rabbits hop through the wet grass. The hummingbirds come to the red flowers that grow on vines attached to the castle. They feed on the nectar, their wings such a blur you can't even see them moving. Summer days pass by, turn into nights. The moon starts off as a thin crescent, and grows larger all through the month, till it is full and rises, like tonight, right out
of the sea. . . .”

When she drew the last picture, of the full moon shining down on the castle and hillside, Nell was asleep. Stevie left the sketchbook by the side of her bed, followed Jack out into the living room. Being so close to him made her shiver. She felt whispers of air across her skin; she couldn't quite look at him.

“She never does that,” he said, turning to face Stevie. “Falls right asleep. There usually have to be three or four books, and a back rub, and checking to make sure no one's hiding in the closet. How did you do it?”

“I didn't do anything,” Stevie said. “It's the full moon. It has magical powers, it really does. It entices even the most wound-up children to sleep.”

“No, it was your wonderful story,” Jack said. “It soothed her . . . that, and the sound of your voice.”

“I've been thinking about her—about both of you,” Stevie said. “So much. Ever since . . . did you wind up taking her to see Dr. Galford again?”

“I did. It was good to talk to you about that—it helped.”

“I'm so glad.”

“About your story—is there really a place like that? What did you call it—Lovecraft Hill?”

“Yes. There is,” Stevie said.

“Where is it?”

“Just a few miles from here. My aunt lives there.”

Jack's eyes widened. He pushed the dark hair back from his face, watching Stevie and waiting for her to say more. She was entranced by him. The shape of his face, the way his long hair fell into his eyes. When she didn't speak, he asked, “Is it a true story?”

Stevie nodded, shaken from her trance. The full moon had a hold over her—that's what it had to be. The girl in the moon was playing games with her heart. She stared into Jack's emerald green eyes and wondered whether she had ever felt anything quite like this. . . .

“She lives in a castle?”

“No, she moved out of it years ago,” Stevie said. Thinking of Aunt Aida, and the truth of her situation, chased the magic away. “The upkeep was too much. She lives in a cottage on the property. But she loves the castle, and goes inside often. She says it's where her husband's ghost lives. She's an artist too, and I swear she needs the place for her inspiration. She comes up from the Florida Keys in May or June and paints all through the summer. She knows every bird species, every owl call. . . . I can't bear to think of something happening to the hillside.”

“The bulldozers are real?”

“Realer than they've ever been before,” Stevie said, her heart sinking. “Developers have offered her a lot of money for the property, but she's always sent them packing. This summer . . . she's worried about the taxes, and that the castle is really falling apart. She's afraid someone will sneak in and get hurt. Another developer has come along. . . .”

“And she's considering the offer?”

“Seems so. It would break her heart, though. It really would.”

“Why doesn't she donate the land to a nonprofit? Or form her own land trust?”

Stevie had never thought of such a thing, and she bet Aunt Aida never had, either. They were artists through and through, without much care or concern for how the financial or real estate world worked.

“She could do that?”

“Absolutely. I worked on a project up on Mount Desert Island, in Maine, where the property owners donated their land to the national park. I had to go up and rebuild the stone bridges on all the carriage trails, and plan others consistent with the original architecture.”

“That sounds wonderful. I guess . . . we could get someone to do that with the castle.”

“I'd be happy to take a look.”

“Are you serious? Thank you!” Stevie had a sudden vision of Jack rebuilding the castle, of a nature center opening for all the people of Black Hall to enjoy.

“Aunt Aida and I could give art classes,” she said out loud.

“What?”

“Oh, my thoughts are racing,” she said. “I just had a wild picture of turning the castle into a nature center . . . with exhibits on birds, trees, the animals . . . and I imagined my aunt and I teaching a couple of classes . . . about feeling ‘what is,' and using nature as our inspiration. Giving back, you know?”

“That sounds wonderful. So, you really have a wise aunt?” Jack took a step closer.

“I do,” Stevie said. She felt her face flush as she gazed up at him. She couldn't hold the next part back; she had to say it—she cared too much not to. “And so does Nell.”

He blinked, looked away.

“I took your suggestion,” Stevie said. “And called Madeleine on my own.”

“I was wondering,” he said, his expression hardening, “if you'd done that.” He closed his eyes, and Stevie had the idea it wasn't so much to shut her out but to better face something deep inside himself.

“Jack, you came here because you have history here. Even though you left Atlanta because it's so painful and reminds you of Emma, you came
here,
to a place where you couldn't help spinning back into the past every time you turn around.”

“That's what it's like, you're right. . . .”

“Your family spent summers here. You and Maddie. That's why I think you came. Because you can't bear the distance between you and your sister.”

Jack didn't respond to that. He was so silent, Stevie heard only crickets chirping and wind blowing through the trees outside.

“How is she?” he asked after a long time.

“She's . . . sad,” Stevie said gently.

“Because of me?”

“Because of life. Losing Emma, losing you and Nell. It was hard for her to be here, knowing you were up the road. She got mad at me for tricking her, and she left.” Stevie looked into Jack's face. He looked so troubled and somehow locked in, with something that went excruciatingly far beyond this conversation. “You're probably mad at me now, too,” Stevie said.

“What do you want me to do, Stevie?”

“Forgive her.”

“You don't understand—you really don't. It's not just a matter of forgiveness.”

“Then what is it? Why can't you talk to her?” His words, and the look on his face, tore her heart. He was suffering terribly, and it brought tears to her eyes. “Can't you do it for Nell?” she said. “And Maddie . . . and mostly, Jack, for yourself?”

She thought she had gone too far. She was pushing him, and he was right—she didn't have the whole story. She reached up to touch the side of his face. She wanted to apologize, but mostly she wanted to soothe the agony away. He caught her hand—the motion was so sharp, she gasped.

Jack took her in his arms and kissed her. His body felt hard, and his mouth was so hot. She stood on her tiptoes to reach up, and she felt his arms holding her, pulling her closer and tighter. Her head was tipped back, her heart beating in her throat, her blood on fire.

He led her to the sofa. They sat down together, holding hands. Jack reached over, to brush the bangs away from her eyes. She felt the earth go out from under her. She hadn't been touched in so long.

She tried to get control of her breath. She had butterflies in her stomach, and she felt a wave of shyness wash over her. Looking into Jack's eyes, she held his gaze. It was so direct and filled with desire that she turned to liquid, hot and melting. Her thoughts were racing:
Don't do it, Stevie. Don't let this go any farther.

She could almost hear Henry teasing her, calling her Lulu, Luocious . . . the newest character in the
Odyssey
, the one whose song lured men to crash their boats on the rocks. He'd tell her to warn Jack to block his ears and sail on. Weren't three marriages enough? Her head was telling her one thing, her heart was pushing her toward another. She told herself,
It's not marriage, for heaven's sake—it's just sitting here holding hands; it's just a few kisses. . . .

But those few kisses . . . they were so sweet. Stevie tilted her head back, felt Jack kissing her lips, the side of her neck. She shivered and wanted him to keep going. She also wanted him to stop. Her thoughts got crazy again, all jumbled up: she always wanted so much, never knew how to hold back, was a bottomless pit for affection. She curved over slightly, protecting her heart.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I shouldn't have.”

“No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have,” she said.

The apologies brought them up short. Stevie bowed her head. What was she doing?

“What do you think is going on with us?” he asked, their arms still around each other.

“I think,” she began, but stopped herself, because suddenly all she could see was a picture of them at dawn, alone on the deserted beach, meeting to kiss by the water's edge. It was the culmination of all her dreams of this entire summer. . . .