The Deep Blue Sea for Beginners (22 page)

“Is he …,” she began.

“He’s breathing,” Max said. “Please, help him.”

Lyra climbed down beside Max. They were balanced on the steps, looking into a sharp ravine that fell a hundred feet down to the cove. Rafe had gone over backward, must have struck his head on the step, landed on a foot-wide strip of hillside between the stairs and precipice. Fallen branches, shallow pine and cedar roots, and cascades of dead leaves and debris had woven together to form a cradle, a web between the stairs and plunging rock face.

Max held Rafe in his arms, one foot digging into the precarious weave of earth and roots, and Lyra realized that if Max’s weight broke through the fragile basket of knit-together ground, or if Rafe woke up and rolled the wrong way, the two men would go over.

“What should I do?” she asked.

“Can you brace me,” Max asked, “while I try to pull him onto the stairs?”

“Okay” she said.

“Stay on solid ground,” he said. “One foot on the stairs, that’s right—the other on the rock.”

“I’ve got it,” she said.

Stepping forward, Lyra grabbed for his arm. She felt Max’s weight straining toward the edge, reaching around Rafe’s inert body, easing him toward the steps. Hearing Max’s labored breathing, she prayed that he wouldn’t have a heart attack.

She stared down at Rafe’s pale face, the blood dripping from the cut in his head; he was clearly unaware of any of it. Two years ago she’d found Christina where she’d fallen, just a hundred yards away. This young man had already been responsible for one disaster, now there was another in the making.

Lyra glanced at Max’s face, saw the strain, and hope, and desperation. No matter what Rafe had done, Max loved him with everything he had. Lyra thought of Pell upstairs, shut in her room. All day Lyra had been worried; no matter that Pell had run off on her own, Lyra had wanted to blame Rafe for taking her away.

“He’s slipping,” Max said. His voice broke; she heard so much love. The rain was coming down harder, and Rafe’s weight plus the way Max was wedging his foot into the root system made the cradle of branches and earth start to give way with a terrible tearing sound.

“Hold on,” Lyra said, bending down, grabbing Rafe by the collar.

“Get back,” Max said. “Lyra, make sure you’re on the steps.”

Lyra couldn’t let go. She closed her eyes, hearing Max’s voice: “I have you, Rafe, I have you, my boy.” In that moment she knew he was prepared to go over the edge with his grandson. There was no way Max would let Rafe die alone.

And in that moment, Lyra felt flooded with love of her own. Pell; she had come to this island, she loved Lyra enough to forgive her for all that she had and hadn’t done; Lucy was on her way. And for Max, her dearest friend, who taught her with everything he had to believe in goodness, to open her heart a little more, a little more, each day. He was crouched in the pouring rain, holding on to the boy who’d thrown his own life away over and over, who’d caused Max’s beloved Christina to die, ready to give everything for him.

Christina was with them. Lyra heard her voice, right there on the craggy stairs, in rain driving so hard it seemed to want to wash the earth, the trees, Max and Rafe, every living thing off the rocks.

“Rafaele,” Lyra heard Christina say. “Rafaele …”

Max turned his head; he’d heard it too.

And Rafe woke up. His eyes flew open; he jolted, but Max held him steady. Lyra offered Rafe her hand, pulled him toward her as Max stepped carefully backward, onto the steps. Very slowly Rafe got to his knees, crawled to safety.

Lyra and Max supported him. He walked between them, one arm around each of their necks. They made their way gently, both not wanting to jar Rafe and perhaps not wanting to discuss what had just happened.

“You saved me,” Rafe said to Lyra and Max when they got to the car parked outside the villa, to take him to the hospital.

“Thank God you woke up when you did,” Max said, helping his grandson into the front seat.

“It was Christina,” Lyra said.

They both looked at her, confused. “You heard her, didn’t you?” Lyra asked.

“I heard you,” Rafe said, reaching for her hand. “You said my name, and I woke up.”

“That wasn’t me,” Lyra said.

“Really?” Max asked, and she saw him smile.

“Really,” Lyra said.

“My grandmother,” Rafe said, bowing his head.

Lyra crouched by the open door. He looked up again, and she gazed into his blue eyes, this young man Christina had loved so much. “You are so loved,” she said. “Do you know that?”

“I don’t deserve it,” he said, his voice low and hoarse.

“I don’t either,” she said. “But I seem to be surrounded by it. You helped Pell come back home today. Thank you.”

He nodded. “She wasn’t ready to leave,” he said.

“I’d better get him to the hospital,” Max said, and Lyra felt his hand on the back of her head. She stood up, face-to-face with him. Her heart was pounding—she’d been so afraid of losing him back there on the hillside. She reached up, touched his cheek.

“I’m coming with you,” she said. “I’ll call Pell from there, let her know what’s going on.”

“You don’t have to come,” he said.

“Yes,” Lyra said. “I do.” She looked into his blue eyes, felt something shift in her heart. She’d heard Christina’s voice back there, no matter what Rafe and Max thought. And she knew her old friend had been giving them all her blessing. Perhaps Lyra had actually spoken Rafaele’s name, inspired by Christina herself. But this was all Lyra, straight from her own heart.

“I’m with you,” Lyra said. “We’re going together.”

Nineteen

T
he flight took eight hours. Every minute felt tense, as if the plane would never land. Lucy’s grandmother had tried to make her fly first-class, but she’d traded in her ticket to sit with Travis in coach. They ate sandwiches Travis’s mother had made them, watched the movie, slept. Well, Lucy had. Travis was used to having a little sister lean against him on long trips. To him, Lucy was as much his little sister as Pell’s, and she slept most of the way with her head on his shoulder.

They arrived in Italy, Travis’s first time in Europe. He knew it sounded lame, but he barely noticed anything: not the architecture, the cars, the landscape, the cathedrals. He could only think about getting to Pell.

The storms that had buffeted their landing had passed, and the day sparkled bright and sunny. At the bustling dock in Sorrento, they were met by an old fisherman, Nicolas. Travis felt instantly at home—he was just like Joaquim, a Portuguese fishing captain he knew from Newport. Tan, lined face, great friendly smile with a gold front tooth.

“Lucy Davis?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s me.”

“And Travis Shaw?”

“Yes,” he said.

The grin became larger. “Come aboard, I am your
traghetto
. Your water taxi.”

“I got my mother’s message,” Lucy said. “Thank you for coming to get us. She said something happened, she’d see us later … but I thought my sister might have come.”

Nicolas’s smile dimmed. “There was an accident,” he said. “Max’s grandson was injured, went to
ospedale
. They are there with him.”

“Oh, no,” Lucy said. “Is he badly hurt?”

“Yes, but he will recover.”

They climbed aboard, set off across the deep blue water. Travis barely noticed the boat’s fishing rigs, barrels, nets. Approaching Capri, he hardly saw the green, mountainous beauty. His mind was racing.

He hadn’t spoken to Pell since before he’d decided to come. He’d checked his messages since landing, and she hadn’t returned any of his calls. At least they knew where she was. But was Travis going to walk into an Italian hospital and find out she was in love with someone else?

Nicolas drove them to the marina on Capri. The wharf area bustled; shops and restaurants backed up to a steep, soaring mountainside. Travis took it in, and in spite of the dramatic landscape, felt a connection to Newport: two worlds here, the fishing boats and the yachts. When Nicolas pulled up to the dock, Travis jumped out, caught and cleated the lines.

“You are a good boatman,” the old man said.

“Thank you,” Travis said.

“You work?” Nicolas asked.

“On a fishing boat,” Travis said.

“Excellent,” Nicolas said. “Work is good. Especially on the water.”

Travis nodded. They were alike, Travis and this old man, and looking around the glamorous port, Travis felt the same division he sometimes felt in Newport—between his family and the rich people, between the Shaws and the Nicholsons and Davises. What if Pell had changed, had decided she wanted to be with people more like her?

He lifted their bags, and Nicolas led them down the dock, across the wharf, and under a large arch to the funicular office. Nicolas got them tickets; Travis tried to pay him back with the euros he’d converted at the airport, but the old man refused. Standing in the crowd, Travis wanted to leave everyone behind, just sprint to wherever Pell was.

Five minutes later, the funicular arrived, and they climbed aboard a red car, between a train and cable car, attached to a track running up the steep mountain behind the marina. Out the window were wide views of the bay they’d just crossed. Travis didn’t care. He stared out but didn’t see, couldn’t smile. He sat beside Lucy; she couldn’t comfort him because she didn’t know what was going on either.

“Don’t think what you’re thinking,” Lucy said.

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” he asked.

“Because I’m jet-lagged out of my mind, and my thoughts are going crazy. I figure yours are too.”

“A little,” he said, forcing a small smile, so she wouldn’t worry.

They crossed the Piazza Umberto, saw the sign for
Ospedale
. Travis glanced at Lucy to make sure she was okay with Nicolas. She nodded, and he started to run. He tore through the crowd, still carrying his and Lucy’s bags. Weaving and dodging as if he were flying down the football field, he’d never run this fast before.

He found the hospital building, didn’t slow down. Through the front doors, straight to the front desk, where he was all ready to start butchering the name Rafaele Gardiner, to try to find the room. But he didn’t have to.

“Travis.”

Her voice. Pell. He turned, and she was there, waiting.

Eyes so blue, filled with pain. She was going to tell him right now, it was over, she’d come to her senses. He was just a scholarship kid, a teacher’s son; she could do so much better. He walked over to her, afraid to speak. She reached out, her hands shaking.

“Pell,” he said.

“I knew you were coming,” she said. “Nicolas said he’d bring you to the hospital.”

“I called,” he said. “But you didn’t answer.”

“I know,” she said. “I got your messages.”

“Why didn’t you call me back?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, stay strong.

“Because I couldn’t take hearing your voice until you were here, until you were really here. Oh, Travis,” she said, falling into his arms and starting to cry.

Lucy was in heaven.

Italy was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen, the buildings ancient and graceful, the accents pure music. She had enjoyed the funicular ride, had her guidebook open and was following along, even as Travis’s panic grew by the mile.

In spite of her momentary jet-lag-induced qualm, she’d wanted to tell him not to worry, he hadn’t known Pell as long as she had. Pell stayed true; she didn’t stray or wander, just remained steadily on the path. That had been so Lucy’s entire life, and she doubted one trip to Italy could change something so deep at the core.

Lucy had missed her sister so much, and once Nicolas’s boat pulled in to the dock on Capri, she smelled the wild herbs and saw the crowds of people passing along the waterfront, and knew she was about to be reunited with Pell. She wouldn’t even let herself think about the other amazing thing that was about to happen. It seemed too impossible and wonderful to believe.

She and Nicolas walked slowly across the cobblestones, watching Travis tear into the hospital, and through the window they saw him and Pell embracing. They were still in love, of course they were.

“Amore,”
Lucy said, trying out her Italian on Nicolas.

He beamed, then stopped still, right there in the square surrounded by charming ancient cafés, umbrellas, church tower, and stone arches. At first she thought maybe she’d botched the pronunciation so badly, or possibly it was considered laughable to say “love,” or … And then the wonderful, impossible thing she hadn’t let herself think about happened.

“Mom!” Lucy said.

The hospital door opened, and she came forward. Tall, with flowing dark hair with a white streak in front, looking exactly like Pell but a bit older, Lucy’s mother stood there. They stared at each other for the longest minute ever measured on earth.

The seconds ticked and took Lucy all the way back to her birth, to her mother’s arms in the hospital, to their very first meeting. And they swept her through her first four years, the happiness of their beloved time. The dreaded 2:01 a.m. had started losing its power during that phone call when her mother had talked her to sleep. Love wasn’t a time of day or night.

“Lucy,” her mother said, opening her arms.

And Lucy ran; no, she flew. All the way across the remaining space between them, Nicolas smiling and all the people watching, and Lucy didn’t care. It was a dream, a waking dream. She threw herself into her mother’s arms, and the two of them were back together, they were back together, it already felt as if they had never been apart.

Rafe’s condition had stabilized during the night. Max stepped away from his grandson’s bedside long enough to go downstairs to the hospital lobby, gaze through the window to witness the reunion: Pell and her young man, Lyra and Lucy. Seeing Lyra with both her daughters did something to his heart so powerful he had to lean against the door.

“Are you all right, sir?” a woman asked, entering the hospital with a bouquet of flowers.

“Yes, thank you. Quite,” he said, smiling at her. He resumed watching the gathering.

Max’s chest felt so full, as if it might burst open. His heart was healthy, but proving inadequate to contain so much emotion—joy and sorrow. Lyra had been by his side, with Rafe, ever since bringing him into the emergency room last night. She’d held Max’s hand, but not in their old, familiar, friendly-neighbors way. In a way that told him they were each other’s family. He wanted to tell her that she was even more: she had somehow, along the way, become his life.

Max stood just inside the hospital door, watching. He saw Pell and Lucy hug, then Pell introduce the young man to Lyra; Max hung back for the moment, not wanting to intrude. He knew what this meant to her—the moment she’d most needed and feared for ten years: reuniting with her daughters. What if they’d rejected her? Deep down, that had always been in Lyra’s mind. But watching the two girls circle their mother, Max knew she needn’t have worried.

Across the cobblestone square, Nicolas stood like a sentry. Arms folded, watching the same scene from a different angle. Max watched as John Harriman approached Nicolas, received the report from him. John, old gossip that he was, watched Lyra, her daughters, and the young man with avid interest. But even the sight of John touched Max; what good friends he had. Max had called Nicolas, told him about Rafe’s fall, asked him to pick up Lucy and Travis in Sorrento.

Nicolas had told John, and they had both come directly to the hospital. They’d stayed in the waiting room with Max and Lyra for a few hours last night. Rafe’s head wound was deep, he had a concussion, and had suffered a seizure. After midnight, concern arose about brain swelling. A surgeon had been consulted.

Although surgery had been avoided, Rafe was to stay another night under observation. Max had called David in New York, told him the situation. The dark end to the day, the deep sorrow, was his son’s reaction.

“He’s using drugs again,” David said.

“No,” Max said. “It was raining, he slipped on the stairs.”

“Dad, you can’t believe him.”

Once when Rafe had started using drugs again, David had confronted him and Rafe had denied it. David told Max the rehab counselor had said, “How can you tell an addict is lying? His lips are moving.”

“I was there, David,” Max said. “I saw what happened. It was dark, he was standing on that steep section of the hill by Lyra’s house. The truth is, he fell trying to protect me—to block me from going down.”

“Dad, you saw what he wanted you to. You’re believing what he says, not what he does. Ask yourself, what was he doing there? Who stands on those stairs in the rain, at night?”

“Rafe had just walked Lyra’s daughter home. I think he was concerned about her.”