Breakwater Bay
Authors: Shelley Noble
Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Romance, #Contemporary, #General
To my mom, who taught me to appreciate the moments that take your breath away
Acknowledgments
A
s always, many thanks to my agent, Kevan Lyon, and my editor, Tessa Woodward, for nurturing both book and author and for their insights and guidance, and to the talented William Morrow team.
Thanks to my home team, Irene Peterson, Pearl Wolf, Gail Freeman, Charity Scordato, Lois Winston, and to my friends and colleagues at Liberty States Fiction Writers, who offer a place for exchanging ideas and expertise as well as encouragement and vision.
To my online team, Women’s Fiction Writers Association, many of whom I have never met in person, but consider friends.
And a thousand thanks to the people of Newport, who love their town and are caretakers of their history and have always happily answered my questions or sent me to someone who knew the answer.
And to Newport itself. I fall in love again every time I visit.
A
lden wasn’t supposed to take the dinghy out today. That’s the last thing his dad said when he left for work that morning. “Don’t go on the water. There’s a bad storm brewing.”
He’d only meant to be out long enough to catch something for dinner, but the storm had come in too fast. Now the water boiled black around him. Already he could hardly tell the difference between the black clouds overhead and the black rocks of the breakwater. Knives of rain slashed at his eyes and slapped his windbreaker against his skin. The shore looked so far away. He knew where the tide would pull him before he got there.
He was scared. His dad would kill him if he wrecked the dinghy. A huge wave crashed over the boat, throwing him to the floor. One oar was snatched from his hand and he barely managed to grab it before it slipped from the lock. And he forgot all about what punishment he would get and prayed he could stay alive to receive it.
He pulled himself onto the bench and started rowing as hard as he could.
And then he saw her. A dark form. Standing on the rocks. At first he thought she must be a witch conjured from the storm. He tried to wipe his eyes on his sleeve, but he couldn’t let go of the oars.
She waved her hands and began to scramble down the rocks. And then she slipped and disappeared.
He stopped trying to save himself and let the breakwater draw the boat in. He knew just when to stick out the oar to keep from crashing. Held on with all his strength. The dinghy crunched as it hit, and he flung the rope over the spike his dad had hammered into the rock years before.
He couldn’t see her now. He clambered from the boat, slipped on the rocks. Called out, but the wind snatched his voice away.
And suddenly there she was, lying not three feet away. Motionless.
He crawled over the slimy rocks, grabbing whatever would keep him from sliding back into the sea, and knelt beside her; he shook her. “Lady? Lady, you gotta get up.”
She didn’t move.
“Lady. Please. You gotta get up.” He pulled on her arm, but she only turned over. She wasn’t a lady. She was just a girl. Wearing jeans. Not that much older than him.
He grabbed under her shoulders and tried to drag her toward the boat. She was heavy, heavier than she looked, and she wouldn’t help.
And he just kept thinking,
Please don’t be dead.
Then she moved. Her eyes opened, and they were wide and scared. She grabbed hold of him, nearly knocking him over, but together they crawled to where the dinghy bucked like a bronco in the waves.
He didn’t know how he got her into the boat, or how he rowed to shore, or pushed the dinghy to safety on the rocky beach. He was so cold he couldn’t feel his fingers or his feet. And she’d closed her eyes again. This time he didn’t try to wake her; he ran, not home, but across the dunes to Calder Farm, burst into the kitchen, and fell to his knees.
“The beach. Help her.” And everything went black.
W
hen he awoke, he was lying in a bed, covered in heavy quilts.
“Go back to sleep. Everything’s all right.”
Gran Calder.
“Is she dead?”
She patted the quilt by his shoulder. “No, no. You saved her life. You were very brave.”
His lip began to tremble. He couldn’t stop it.
Then somebody screamed, and she hurried out of the room. He pulled the covers over his head so he wouldn’t hear, but he couldn’t breathe. Another scream worse than before. What were they doing to her?
He slid out from the covers but he wasn’t wearing anything. Someone had taken his clothes. He pulled the quilt from the bed, wrapped it around himself, and dragged it out into the hallway.
Only one light was on, but a door was ajar at the end of the hall. He crept toward it, trailing the quilt behind him.
The girl screamed again. Then stopped.
He stopped too, frightened even more by that sudden silence.
Then a new, smaller cry filled the air.
M
eri Hollis dropped the paint chip into a manila envelope and rolled from her back to sit upright on the scaffolding.
She stretched her legs along the rough wood and cracked her neck. It had been a long day, first standing, then sitting, then lying on her back. Every muscle protested as she leaned forward to touch her toes, but she knew better than to start the descent before her circulation was going again.
While she waited she labeled the newest sample, added it to the file box, and placed it in a bucket that she lowered thirty feet to the floor. She flipped off her head lamp, pulled it from her head, and took a last look at her little corner of the world, which in the dim light looked just as sooty and faded as it had twenty hours, two hundred paint samples, and several gallons of vinegar and water ago.
It had been slow going. The meticulous cleaning of paint layers was never fast even on a flat ceiling, but when you added plaster ornamentation, extreme care was needed. But Meri had finally reached enough of the original ceiling that she was sure it had been painted in the mid-1800s.
It was exciting—especially if what she suspected turned out to be true.
She’d discovered the first fleck of gold that afternoon. Surely there would be more. But further study would have to wait until Monday. She was calling it a day.
Meri stored her tools and slowly lowered one foot to the first rung of the pipe ladder that would take her to the ground floor. Work had stopped in the grand foyer a half hour ago, but she’d been determined to finish that one test section today.
She reached the bottom on creaky ankles and knees, grabbed hold of the ladder and stretched her calves and thighs. When she felt steady she picked up her file box and tools and carried them to the workroom.
Carlyn Anderson looked up from where she was logging in data from the day’s work. “You’re the last one.”
Meri deposited her file on the table and arched her back. “Now I know how Michelangelo felt. Only he ended up with the Sistine Chapel and I got a sooty ceiling in a minor mansion with two hundred plus chips from twenty layers of ancient paint in various hues of ick.”
“Yeah, but just imagine what it will look like when it’s back in its original state.”
“Actually I got a glimpse of it today. If I’m not mistaken, there’s gold in them thar hills.”
“Gilt?”
“Maybe. It might be a composite. In the state the ceiling’s in, it’s impossible to tell without the microscope.” Meri pulled a stool over to the table and sat down. “Why the hell would anyone paint over a decorative ceiling from the nineteenth century?”
“The same reason they painted over the Owen Jones wallpaper with psychedelic orange.”
“Oh well, someone’s bad taste is our job security,” Meri said. “Is there someone left who can take this over to the lab tonight?” She handed Carlyn the manila envelope of samples.
“I will, but you owe me, since you’ve blown off karaoke tomorrow night. And it’s Sixties Night.” Carlyn went through several doo-wop moves they’d been practicing on their lunch hour.
“Sorry, but I promised Gran I’d come out for my birthday dinner tonight. I’m not looking forward to a forty-minute drive but I couldn’t say no. And tomorrow I’m having my birthday dinner with Peter.” She yawned.
“You don’t sound too excited.”
“Well, I did turn thirty today somewhere between layer four—baby poop brown—and layer three—seventies kitchen green.”
“You’re in your prime.”
“I’m slipping into middle age and instead of proposing, Peter decides to go back to law school.” Meri slid off the stool.
“Maybe he’ll propose before then. Maybe tomorrow night.”
“Maybe, but I’m not holding my breath. Don’t listen to me. I’m just tired. I’ve got a great job, great friends, a family who loves me, and . . .” Meri grinned at Carlyn. “Karaoke. Now, I’d better get going if I want to get a shower in before I hit the road.”
“Well, happy birthday.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, Doug wants to see you in his office before you go.”
Meri winced. “We can guess he’s not giving me a raise?”
“No, but he should kiss your butt for the extra hours you’re putting in gratis.”
Meri yawned. “I’d rather have a raise.”
“I’ll walk you down.”
Meri picked up her coat and bag from her locker, and the two of them headed back to the kitchen, also known as Doug’s office, to see what the project manager could possibly want on a Friday night.
The door swung inward, but the kitchen was dark.
“Are you sure he’s still here?” Meri asked, groping for the light switch.
The lights came on. “Surprise!”
Beside her, Carlyn guffawed. “I can’t believe you didn’t know what was going on.”
Meri laughed. “You guys.”
Carlyn pushed her into the center of the room where at least twelve architectural restoration workers stood around the kitchen table and a large sheet cake with a huge amount of candles.
Doug Paxton came over to give Meri a hug. He was a big, brawny guy who had been relegated to ground work after falling through the floor of an abandoned house and breaking both legs and a hip five years before. He’d grown a little soft around the middle, but he still exuded power and good taste. And he knew his way around a restoration better than anybody she knew.
“Happy birthday. Now come blow out your candles.”
Someone had lit the candles during the hug, and the cake was ablaze.
“I may need help,” Meri said. “And these better not be trick candles.” Though she didn’t really know what to wish for. She had everything she wanted—a good job, great friends, a loving family, everything else except a fiancé. She was in no hurry, even if she
was
thirty. So she wished that life would stay good and that things would eventually work out for Peter and her and that the project would find the funding it would need for a complete restoration.
“What are you waiting for? Hurry up. The candles are about to gut.”
Meri took a deep breath, motioned to everybody to help, and the candles were extinguished. Cake was cut, seltzer was brought out, since Doug didn’t allow any alcohol on a site, and a good time was had by all, for nearly a half hour until Meri made her apologies and headed for her apartment, a shower, and a long drive out to the farm.
T
raffic was heavy as Meri drove north out of Newport. Gran lived about a fifteen-minute stone’s throw across the bay. But to drive there she had to go up to Portsmouth, across the bridge, then south again. So she hunkered down to endure the cars, the dark, and the rain.
It must have been raining all day, not that she’d noticed, because the streets and sidewalks were slick and puddles had formed in the uneven asphalt. She never did notice things when she was deep into a project. She had great powers of concentration and could spend hours lost in the zone.
Even as a child, Meri would look up from reading, or weeding, or just lying in the sea grass thinking, to find her three brothers standing over her. “We’ve been calling you for hours,” they’d complain. “Dinner’s ready.” And they’d drag her to her feet and race her across the dunes to the house they shared with Gran. When Meri was fifteen, her father was granted a research position at Yale and the family moved to New Haven, only seeing Gran on long weekends and holidays.