Seven Tears into the Sea (2 page)

“… heard about the incident at the cove …”

“Gwennie Cook was walking in her sleep, I heard and almost fell from Mirage Point …”

“That's what they're saying, of course …”

“… moving? After what, three generations at the Point?”

“She says a naked man just materialized from the waves and vanished back into them. She became absolutely hysterical when the police questioned her …”

“You dont think …?”

If I'd just agreed I was sleepwalking, everything would have been fine. No scandal, no ugly suspicions. But I remembered shouting and stamping, insisting I hadn't been alone.

Small towns never forget. Just read Stephen King or watch a Western where a gunslinger tries to go straight.
As soon as the people in town saw me, they'd be gossiping. If Nana hadn't maintained I was the one she needed, I wouldn't be here.

I slid my hand over the steering wheel, downshifted, and took the off-ramp with calm skill, even though the memories made me angry.

Ten-year-olds aren't stupid. I could remember being in the grocery store and hearing hushed voices filter past the canned goods on the next aisle. I'd peered through and saw women with their heads together, talking about me. When I marched around the end of the aisle and faced them, chin up, fisted hands shaking, they'd just smiled sympathetic smiles.

Maybe they really were sympathetic. It was the first time I had heard my name in the same sentence as the word “molested.”

I knew I hadn't been molested, but my memories of Mirage Point were a mixture of fantasy and reality.

I drew a breath so deep the seat belt tightened across my chest. If there was one thing I was determined to do this summer, it was find out what had really happened that night on the beach.

Distracted, I'd driven right past the gravel road to the cottage.

“We'll just check out the Inn and say ‘hi' to my grandmother,” I said, as if that had been my plan all along.

Almost at once, I spotted the lip of a freshly blacktopped
driveway. I turned, surprised how steep it was, swooping from the street to the Sea Horse Inn.

I did want to see Nana. My grandmother is my role model.

Nana is stubborn, strong-minded, and pretty frisky for a seventy-year-old. To tell the truth, I was surprised she'd admitted needing help. If she hadn't actually broken her leg in the accident, I'd think she was up to something.

After all, she had Thelma, who'd been at the Inn forever to clean and do laundry.

But three weeks ago, Nana had called Dad and claimed she needed another pair of hands to help serve breakfast and afternoon tea, and those hands had to be mine.

Once I got over being flattered, I told Mom and Dad no. I love Nana, but I didn't want to leave my friends and my summer job. Not that I'd gone out and found one yet, but they knew I needed money. I never have the right clothes for anything. I end up borrowing Mandi's—which they say are too tight.

But my parents didn't give me a choice. I was staying at Mirage Beach all summer.

My parents are so inconsistent, they make me crazy. When I turned twelve, they started talking back to the television. Those announcements would flash on, with
the audio saying, “It's 10
P.M.
, do you know where your children are?” and they'd answer.

I'm not allowed to go anywhere without first getting lectures on kidnapping, date rape, and drunk drivers. I'm not as naive as they think. I know those things happen, and I'm careful. But that's not good enough for them.

Even if I only want to go to a friend's house to watch videos, my parents call to make sure there'll be an adult around. It's humiliating.

It's especially bad, because Jill is totally free. After ten years in foster care, she petitioned the court to make her an emancipated minor.

Mandi's dad is more like my parents. Intermittently.

And yet, despite their paranoia, my parents had decreed I must go live in Cook's Cottage. All summer, all alone.

“We're here.” I yanked on the emergency brake.

Even though Mandi was pushing her shoulder, hurrying her, Jill tucked her black Cleopatra hair behind her ears before extracting herself from the backseat.

Mandi was right behind her. They began oohing at the stone maiden pouring water into the goldfish pond and aahing at the stained-glass oval hanging from the Inn's rafters. It spun in the breeze as sunlight struck
emerald, gold, and aqua beams from the mosaic sea horse in its center.

As we started up to the wide veranda, I skipped steps and breathed in the scent of Nana's violets and roses. Halfway up, I felt the strongest urge to jog straight through the house, over the back lawn, and down the path that led to the cove.

I remembered the cove as a neat scoop of turquoise water studded with black rocks and sea lions. There was a stone arch there too, and a mysterious grotto. Hidden from the Inn, it was a secret world. Jill and Mandi would go nuts for it. But the trail down was wet, narrow, and risky. You couldn't rush.

I almost ran into Mandi as she stopped on the top step and swiveled around, hands on hips.

Overhead, the stained-glass sea horse spun faster. It used to be Dad's job to unhook it from the rafters and bring it inside when the weather turned stormy.

Mandi tugged the hem of her backless magenta top and surveyed the wide green lawns.

“What a great party house!” Mandi said. “It'd be awesome if you had everybody up at the end of summer.”

The idea made me uneasy. Through the Inn's open front door came a faint bustle of conversation, clinking silverware, and a fluting melody. Everything about the Inn said good manners and quiet afternoons, not hip-hop with the bass turned to a deafening throb.

“Maybe,” I said, even though I wasn't a fan of huge parties, and I wanted to keep a low profile in Mirage Beach.

Over Mandi's head Jill gave me her standard sarcastic smile. She didn't think much of Mandi's idea, but she kept quiet because I had.

I am the glue keeping the two of them together. Jill works forty hours a week through a work-study program her counselor helped set up. Almost every dollar of Jill's earnings go to pay for rent and food. She earns a 4.0 every semester, and she's determined to become a professional singer, she'll do it, too. Maybe because she had a really scummy childhood, she's driven to be successful.

Mandi's definition of success is different. She's rich, ditzy, and all wound up with finding Prince Charming. It's probably because her dad is too busy for her. Jill and I have pointed this out to her, in a nice way, but she just feels sorry for us because we lack romantic souls.

Summer at Mirage Beach would have been a lot more fun if Jill and Mandi could have stayed with me. That had been our plan until Jill landed her dream job and Mandi got an offer she couldn't refuse.

I understood, but grudgingly.

And then, I didn't have time to mope.

“Come hug me!” Nana stood framed in the doorway.

She wasn't your everyday grandma. Her tea-colored hair curved in a million directions. She wore hippieish
clothes: gold hoop earrings and a peasant blouse over a long patchwork skirt. She only wobbled a little as she crossed the threshold to hug me.

Nana still smelled of baby powder and bread dough, but our heads nuzzled into the sides of each other's necks. We were the same height and that was really weird. Had I grown that much since I left here?

“A bigger hug,” Nana ordered. “My ribs are healed. It's only this leg giving me trouble.”

Even though I could feel Jill and Mandi watching, I put up with the public display because Nana felt frail. She'd always been a tall, striding woman. Now her shoulders felt fragile as bird bones. It was a good thing I'd come to Sea Horse Inn.

Before shutting the door, Nana glanced down the road for Dad, gave a little shrug, then we went inside.

I could tell Jill and Mandi were stunned by the inn's beauty.

So was I. As a little girl, I'd arranged my plastic farm animals under that polished mahogany piano. I'd bumped on my bottom down every step in that dramatic staircase. During my skateboard stage, I'd crashed into that antique sideboard, which held a crystal bowl of shells and fresh flowers.

The smell of beeswax candles and the ocean views out each window filled me up and made me sigh. This
was my grandmother's house. Mirage Beach was my second home, and I was too mature, now, to let one night ruin it for me.

Mandi tried not to act impressed. Her dad has brought home three new stepmothers since her mom left, and he's remodeled their house for each one, so Mandi is used to nice things.

Now she was tossing her honey-colored hair and frowning toward the ceiling as footsteps crossed overhead. It could be guests or Thelma making beds.

“I don't suppose the Inn is haunted,” Mandi joked.

Even though it wasn't funny, I laughed a little because the truth was, Thelma had haunted me a little bit. The prospect of seeing her again worried me. She was the one who'd reported the incident on the beach when I was ten. What she'd told the police, that night, was different from what I'd told them. Because I was a little kid, of course they had believed her.

Sourness gathered at the back of my throat when I thought about facing Thelma, but that would come later.

Nana liked Jill. I could see it in the way she shook Jill's hand and smiled at her.

Before Nana could greet Mandi, Dad came whooshing in. He moved around Nana's kitchen, shutting a drawer and pushing down the flipped-up edge of a throw rug, in a way that told you he'd grown up in this
house. It also underlined his belief that a kitchen was the most dangerous room in any house.

I mean, everyone's careful with knives and electrical cords, but Dad could tell you which evil particles linger in the air after frying a chicken and which bacteria cling to a freshly mopped floor just waiting to ambush crawling babies. Don't get him started on the pollution properties of air freshener.

Dad was a broad-shouldered geek. That's how Mom described the man she'd married when they both were in college. He'd always been cautious. Becoming a moderately successful mystery writer had only made him worse.

Now he was watching Nana and searching for hazards.

“Mother, should you be up?” He used a tone that I'd get grounded for, but Nana brushed it off.

“I'm not an invalid. They call this a walking cast”—Nana pulled her skirt aside to rap on her white plaster-encased leg—“for a reason.”

Dad shook his head. As if he wanted backup, he turned to Jill and Mandi. “Did Gwen tell you about my mom? She was taking drinks—”

“Apple cider,” Nana clarified.

“—up to guests watching migrating whales from the widow's walk.”

“That little balcony thing on top of the house,” I explained when Mandi frowned in confusion. Again.
“Sea captains' wives used to go up to keep watch for their husbands' ships.”

“Of course,” Jill said, nodding. Then with a perfectly straight face, she turned to Mandi and added, “I think there was one in
The Little Mermaid
.”

“Really?” Mandi asked, but her face lit up.

“Mom was wearing one of her oddball outfits,” Dad went on, gesturing at Nana's skirt, “and she tripped down the stairs. Broke two ribs and her right leg. It's a wonder she hasn't done it before now.”

“It's a wonder you don't turn into a clucking hen, the way you worry.” Nana shook her head and patted Dad's cheek.

Nana had nailed it. Dad was psychotic about safety. Mom blamed (when Dad was out of the room, of course) the books he wrote. Dad is Jeffery Cook, author of the Scratch Boiselle books, about this New Orleans detective who's always uncovering voodoo cults, getting mugged on Bourbon Street, and getting locked in crypts. Looking for danger in unexpected places is what Dad gets paid for.

That was okay in fiction, even kind of okay when he was watching over me. But he was talking to his mother. Nana had taken care of herself for a long time. Anyone could have an accident.

Dad jammed his hands into his pockets and jingled his car keys. “Let's get you settled, shall we? And introduce Gumbo to her new digs?” Dad gestured toward the
front of the Inn, where he'd parked. “The way she's been yowling inside her carrier, she may have deafened herself. I know she made a good start on me.”

“Poor kitty,” I said. My calico cat deserved better. She was the only roommate who'd stayed with the plan to spend the summer at the cottage. Then again, she
had
come in a cage.

“You have plenty of time to get settled and be back in time for tea,” Nana said.

When Nana said “tea,” she didn't mean what most people did. The Sea Horse Inn served a north-coast version of a proper English tea. It was given a four star rating in tourist guidebooks. Now that vacation season was in full swing, she'd need my help to do things like arrange scones on platters, swirl Devonshire cream around raspberries, and pour tea from heavy sterling pots.

It was one of the best things about the Inn, but when Mandi and Jill tensed up and looked at me, I knew they weren't tempted to stay.

“It'll just be me, Nana,” I said.

“Oh no!” Nana's eyes and mouth widened in disappointment. “I knew your friends had decided against staying the summer, but I'd hoped they'd be here for tea.”

Jill smoothed her hair, and her eyes shone with that high intensity concern they get when she thinks her reputation is on the line.

“I'm sorry,” Jill said before I could make an excuse. “I
have to work tonight. And most of the summer. I'm banking everything I can for college tuition. My first payment is only a year away.”

I noticed Jill didn't mention she was waiting tables at the Torch, a forties-style cabaret, so that she could have a chance at the stage during band breaks. That was the real reason she'd taken the job. So she could sing. But Jill was cautious, in case Nana thought it was an inappropriate job for a high school girl.