Firefly Beach (11 page)

The firefly began to circle the painting rapidly and repetitively. Beth stepped away. The firefly flew so fast it almost blurred into a stream of light.

Beth’s shoulders dropped and her face conveyed disappointment. “You’re not my personal muse, are you?”

The firefly hovered, waiting.

Beth pondered. “You are here on behalf of Katherine? An angel, perhaps?” Beth pulled her hand through her hair and sighed. “You want me to find her,” Beth stated with some reluctance.

The firefly continued to hover patiently.

“That is not a very convincing answer,” Beth said, pointing at the firefly. “But I suppose an angel is much more socially acceptable than a muse.” She tried to sound cheerful. “Let’s see. Abigail seemed to believe that Katherine ran off with her boyfriend. What was his name? Mr. Cutie-Pie?” Her voice quivered nervously. Her feeble attempt at humor did not calm her anxiety. “Okay, John.”

The firefly backed away slowly.

“So I need to find John.”

The light creature reached the glass and passed through it silently.

“Thanks for all the useful advice,” Beth called sarcastically as the creature drifted away. She stood at the window and watched it go.

“Why me?” she whispered.

Exhaustion overcame Beth, so she retreated to her room. The diary was on her bed. She picked it up as if it were a soiled tissue and placed it on top of her dresser. Then she shuddered and climbed into bed.

* * * *

That night, dozens of dream images inundated Beth. They blended, overlapped, and dissolved when she awoke with a start on Monday morning. She remembered dreaming of high school, long linoleum lined halls that smelled of old mops, and cute boys. The passionate redheaded girl from Beth’s painting made an appearance here and there, laughing joyously.

Just before dawn, a haunting nightmare slithered around the frivolous dreams and suffocated them. Again Beth walked along the beach. Again she heard the screech of tires. As she turned toward the headlights, she found herself caught in the branches of a tree in the forest. This time her father emerged before her, silhouetted against the light. In a fit of rage, Beth began throwing things at him, things which appeared from nowhere – the infamous rubber duck, a stick, and a pinecone. She shrieked, “Why didn’t you come home, asshole?” She continued to throw things – another duck, a branch, and finally a rock. When the rock pierced her father’s shadow, he blurred and disappeared. Then the headlights raced toward her and she bolted up in bed.

It took her several minutes to shake the fear and anxiety which plagued her tired spirit. She looked over at the dresser and saw the diary. She retrieved it, propped herself up in bed and found the next entry.

Wednesday, July 16

I hate my life! Dad is impossible. I want to run away from home. Maybe I will. Maybe I will do just that. Dad is such a smothering butthead. I hate him. Okay, no. I love him, but he needs to just be cool sometimes. He’s all strung up like a fly in a spider’s web.

Obviously he found out. I must have been too happy. God forbid I be happy, Dad. Is that too much for you? Ooh, he’s such a pain in the ass.

Anyway, this morning I snuck into Dad’s car and pulled out his lunchbox. I hid it in the pantry. Brilliant. Then I’d have an excuse to walk to the garage. “Oh, Dad, you forgot your lunch.” Well, I thought it was brilliant, but Dad has a memory like a steel trap. He remembered putting the lunch in the backseat, because he had some tools lying there that he forgot to put away. So when I showed up with the lunch, he KNEW something was fishy.

We had a big fight in his office. I kept glancing over my shoulder, thoroughly embarrassed, hoping Mr. Cutie-Pie wasn’t listening. But he heard the whole thing, I’m sure. At least the yelling part. Heck, they could probably hear it a block away.

The looking over my shoulder only made Dad madder. “What are you up to, young lady? Are you bored this summer? Do I need to set you up with a part-time job doing filing for Mrs. Willoughby?”

I kept trying to bring him down to a whisper. “I just thought you’d like to have your lunch. Go ahead and be hungry then,” I growled.

But he was not convinced. He spelled out for me how he was certain he’d already put his lunch in the car, that I must have taken it out, and that I was probably looking for an excuse to come down and visit “that drifter.” He actually said “that drifter” with an ugly tone. It was very rude. Why would he hire John and then be all judgmental of him? I asked him about it, and he calmed down a little, finally speaking at a regular volume like a normal person for once. He said that John was a fine, hard-working young man, but that he was a LOT older than me, that I was still in high school, and that I’d better keep my mind on my studies and off of boys.

“It’s summer, Dad,” I reminded him. But then he got all red in the face, and I didn’t want to go through another bout of him yelling at me, so I slipped out of there as fast as I could and ran all the way home.

It’s not fair. It’s simply not fair. I hate him sometimes. He is such an overbearing monster. I am so embarrassed. I’m sure John is laughing at me. I wish I were dead. I wish I could live my OWN life. I’m tired of him being on my case all the time. He’s raised me like a canary in a cage. If Mom were still alive she would understand, I’m sure of it. She was a girl once too. Why are fathers so impossible?!

I’m going to go to my beach now. I want Dad to think I ran away from home. That will teach him a thing or two, won’t it?

Love,

Katherine

“Don’t run away, Katherine,” Beth said out loud. Then she promptly dressed, ate breakfast, and drove to the marina.

Chapter 11

Taking Charge

Rod Thompson was meticulously cleaning salt deposits off of the electric wenches on
The Bottomless Blue
when Beth pulled up in her car. He stood, quickly disembarked, and strode down the dock as if to prevent her from stepping on. He was decidedly irritated.

Beth held her head high and walked toward the intimidating man.

“Good morning, Mr. Thompson.”

“I thought I told you to leave me alone,” he barked.

Beth ignored his response. “I know who Katherine is.”

Rod’s face contorted in anger. “Don’t you
ever
say that name in my presence again. Do you understand?”

“It’s just that I feel that—”

“Are you deaf? Jesus Christ, woman, leave me the hell alone!” He crossed the distance between them and pushed Beth so hard she fell down. “Unless you want to find yourself looking for another place to live.” He turned to walk away.

Beth gasped in surprise. “What did you do to her? No wonder she ran away, you
monster.
”

Silence fell over the marina as Rod stopped in his tracks.

Beth could feel the air change. She scrambled to her feet, ran to her car, and did not stop to look back. She sped up Main Street and drove for miles until she found an obscure, dirt road. She followed it for about ten minutes and came to a rest in a clearing filled with smooth stones. A small lake covered with a thin layer of fog could be seen just beyond the clearing. Grass and brambles surrounded the edge of the lake, and they seemed to continue to grow beneath the surface of the water. Beth looked around. Behind her, beyond the smooth rocks, a forest of trees – both deciduous and evergreen – blocked her view of the road and any surrounding property. Numerous young trees were cracked in half or broken at the base, lying on the ground or entangled in other trees.

Beth grabbed a jacket from the backseat, emerged from the car, and sat on a large rock near the lake. She took deep breaths, drawing in the damp, foggy air. As she rested, the fog dissipated and she could see the far end of the lake, which was no more than two hundred yards away. A patch of reeds rustled ten feet from the shore.

Along with the fog, Beth’s head began to clear. Her mind traced the interesting and amazing events of the previous two weeks as her heart slowed down and her breathing returned to normal.

Then she thought of the red-haired girl, and an odd impulse urged her to move.

* * * *

On her way back home, she stopped at the jewelry shop. When she entered, Kenny was in the back, but he had a good view of the front door, and he glanced up when she walked in. She cleared her throat and announced, “I would like to commission a barrette from you.” She hoped to appear sophisticated, but she knew she sounded ridiculous.

Kenny approached the counter, looking at her with interest, yet saying nothing.

How can you run a business without saying hello to your customers?
Beth wondered. Then she spoke out loud, a little less pretentious. “Do you make those? Barrettes, I mean. Nothing real fancy, no jewels, maybe something silver attached to a comb. Yeah, that’s it. A hair comb, not a barrette. Could you do something for under one hundred dollars?” Beth chased away the reproachful voices in her head that reminded her to respect her mother’s money.
It’s a business expense,
she justified.

Kenny nodded, mumbled an “uh-huh,” and unlocked his customer journal drawer.

Beth saw what he was doing, and she clarified. “It is not for me, actually. It is for a teenage girl. So if you’re making notes there,” she said, gesturing to the little book Kenny had removed from the drawer, “then write down ‘passionate, capricious redhead.’”

Kenny’s face took on an expression that looked almost like a smile. No, it wasn’t a smile, it was more like a stifled air of amusement.

Is he laughing at me?
Beth asked herself incredulously.
Well, Mister-with-the-notebook, I could have a snicker or two at your expense, couldn’t I?
Beth remained quiet for a moment, eyeing Kenny suspiciously as he made a few notes in the journal.

“Thursday,” he said, his eyes averted.

Slightly perturbed, Beth asked, “What’s Thursday?”

“I’ll have it for you on Thursday,” he said dryly, glancing up at her.

She grinned mischievously. “See? I knew you could make a full sentence.”

Kenny’s eyes flashed that mysterious color Beth had seen the last time she was there. She still couldn’t tell if it was black or midnight blue, but for a moment he came to life. It unnerved her slightly, but she held his gaze. Then, in an instant, the life vanished and the well-guarded façade took its place once again.

Beth took a step back from the counter and turned to go. “I’ll see you Thursday,” she said slyly as she exited the store. Pausing for a moment, she waited for another reaction, but Kenny walked, unfazed, back to the smithery.

* * * *

When Beth returned home, she found her cell phone on the kitchen counter. A message from Bobby Downy politely asked when she would deliver another painting. He said he had several people look with interest at the lighthouse.

Beth sighed feeling flustered. She had the lighthouse to finish, the bed and breakfast to paint, and a website to set up. Yet, all she felt like doing was painting the girl. Such an endeavor wasn’t sensible. Deadlines and time management were essential tools for a successful artist. Beth put the diary away in her bottom dresser drawer and went to work.

After making good use of the day, she allowed herself to surf the Internet in search of art supplies. A flexible wooden hand, precisely what she needed, popped up on
misterart.com
. Smiling, she grabbed her purse and placed an order.

Later that evening Beth closed the curtains to avoid the firefly, averted her eyes from the dresser, and went to bed, vowing to make the most of Tuesday.

Chapter 12

Flashback

Late Monday night, after wrapping up several repair projects, Kenny McLeary began to design a hair comb for an unknown red-haired girl.

Out of wax, he fashioned a dogwood flower with three leaves. He delicately sketched veins on the leaves and ripples on the petals. Then he created a small, raised border around each leaf and petal. The border would remain silver. The leaves would eventually be painted a dark, olive green, and the petals white. A small yellow rhinestone was to be set in the middle to form the center of the flower. The thin, sterling silver ornament would be attached to a clear plastic comb, the type he normally used to create pearled wedding hairpieces for gushing brides.

Sometime on Wednesday, while Kenny multitasked between creating a new pendant, designing a ring, and casting the dogwood in silver, he knocked a toolbox off of one of the benches. It crashed loudly on the ground and tools clattered and rolled in several directions. Kenny jumped with a start. He crossed to a chair at the far side of the room and took several deep breaths to quiet his pounding heart.

Occasionally loud crashing sounds gave rise to unpleasant flashbacks. He tried to keep them at bay, but sometimes they caught up with him.

That afternoon the memory of a terrible evening intruded his creative endeavors. He was eight years old, sitting at his desk putting decals on a model airplane. It had taken him two months and considerable detailed attention to finish the model, and he was quite pleased with himself. He sat quietly in his room, admiring his accomplishment.

Kenny’s mother was drunk, talking loudly in the kitchen across the hall from his bedroom door. His door stood ajar and he heard her cracking jokes and laughing hysterically. His father was also drinking, but he was less jovial. Something his mother said perturbed his father, and the man went into a rage.

“Watch your mouth, you trashy slut,” he screamed.

“Settle down, Mack. I was only joking.”

“You want to talk back to me? I’ll give you something to complain about.”

Young Kenny froze and did not breathe for a moment. The tension in the air almost suffocated him. He could hear his father slamming kitchen cupboards.

“Clean up this mess, bitch!”

Dishes crashed and broke in the sink.