Those Girls (40 page)
You weren’t supposed to spread ashes in a public place, so we’d come down to the beach early in the morning, the grass still damp with dew. There were so many birds we each had to carry a box to the shore, then carefully take the string out. We had to let most of the string drag behind as we took our sandals off and waded into the cold water, sand squelching between our toes. When we’d gone a few feet, we stood in a solid line, pulled our strings closer, so they were floating in front of us, then let go so that the waves could take hold.
With our hands over our eyes, blocking the sun shining off the water, we watched them crest, then disappear, then come back up. They floated together, some of the strings tangling, making one brightly colored line on top of the wave.
“They look pretty,” Jamie said.
I had the fleeting thought as they floated away that I wanted to run after them, wanted to dive into the water and swim hard. I wanted to bring them back.
“I should get the ashes,” I said.
I walked toward the picnic table on the shore, where’d we left the cedar box. I held my hand on top of the box for a minute, the wood smooth and warm in the sun. It seemed so small, too small to hold such a big spirit.
When I came back to stand beside Skylar and Jamie, I slowly opened the box with the little plastic bag. I realized, with surprise, that my hands were shaking slightly, and I fumbled for a second with the tie around the top.
I got the bag open, leaned over the water, and let it flow out. The ashes were delicate, a soft gray. Some sank down, but some of the particles floated on the surface. The waves pushed them closer, and they wrapped around our legs. None of us moved. Another wave came and pushed the ashes away.
Jamie and Skylar had their eyes closed, their faces lifted to the sun, their hands clasped tight. They looked at peace. The wind was moving Skylar’s hair, blowing a curl across her face. She brushed it away, reminding me for a minute of Crystal, how she’d toss her hair over her shoulder.
I’d watched Skylar the few times she’d come into the gym that summer, noticed how quiet she was, the dark circles under her eyes. I’d worried, remembering those early days with Crystal when we’d escaped from Cash Creek years ago, her depression, the drugs. But since Skylar had gone back to school, she was coming around. Jamie said she was getting into her music again.
I’d never really worried about Jamie, not the same way I had Crystal. Jamie was strong. The strongest of all of us.
The wind had calmed down, the water smoothing out. I watched our birds far in the distance. I felt someone looking at me and glanced at Skylar, who was staring at me, that serious look in her eyes again.
“You okay?” I said.
“Do you hate me?” she said.
I was startled. “Of course not.”
She took a quick breath, like she was bracing to say the next words. “I’m his daughter.”
“You’re ours,” I said fiercely. “You were
never
his.”
Her chin started to quiver, then her eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry I didn’t save her. I’m really sorry, Dallas.” Her shoulders were shaking now, her hands coming up to cover her face. Jamie started to reach for Skylar, but I stepped forward, wrapped my arms around her tight.
“She didn’t want to be saved, Skylar,” I said. It hurt me to say it, but it was true. Something shifted deep inside me, a strange sort of relief rising into my chest, pushing through the rigid muscle and bone. My eyes were burning. I fought, still trying to hang on, scared suddenly that I’d be swept away.
“I love you, Dallas,” Skylar said, her cheek pressed to mine.
It broke then, the tears. They swelled up, surged through my body, flooded down my cheeks, mixed with the salty air, blended with Skylar’s on my face. I couldn’t stop, my body shuddering, my breath coming out in strangled noises.
“It’s okay,” Skylar said.
Her voice was so sweet, so gentle. I sobbed, everything blurring together in my mind, how I’d held Jamie and Crystal and we’d buried our father, how I’d promised them it was going to be okay. That’s all I wanted, to take care of my sisters and keep them safe. We had to stay together. I’d tried to hang on to them tightly, but Crystal was always twisting and pulling, going her own way, and Jamie had been angry at me so many times. I couldn’t let them see that I was also scared. So scared that if I stopped being angry, there’d be nothing left of me.
I wiped at my eyes, blinked at the horizon. Over Skylar’s shoulder I saw the string of birds disappear. We’d come here to release Crystal, but she was the one who had finally freed us. We’d lived for so long in fear. But we could do things now. Jamie could become a photographer and go back to school. I could have a farm, could marry. I could have a baby. The thought almost stole the breath out of my lungs. I hadn’t known I’d still wanted that, felt a tug inside me pulling me toward something hopeful.
Skylar and I pulled apart. I wiped my face again, embarrassed. Jamie touched my arm, gave it a squeeze.
We walked back to the car, Skylar’s long legs gliding through the water. She jogged ahead, noticing an old man on the beach who’d dropped his hat, the wind sending it tumbling down the shore. She chased after it.
“I still can’t believe she’s my daughter sometimes,” Jamie said, beside me.
Skylar had caught the hat, brought it back to the man. She turned and smiled at us, her hair blowing wild.
“She’s the best part of all of us,” I said.
Jamie turned to me, her forehead creased like she was trying to place my words, then I saw the memory take hold, softening her eyes, her mouth. She also remembered what our mother used to say.
You three are the best part of me.
“Yeah, she is.”
Skylar met us at the shore, looped her arms through ours. We walked back to the car together. Three of us, once again.
I’m enormously grateful to the following people:
Jen Enderlin, my brilliant and fabulous editor at St. Martin’s Press, who, among other things, helped me figure out the second half of this book. You always find the missing piece of the puzzle. The incredibly talented team at St. Martin’s Press: Sally Richardson, Dori Weintraub, Lisa Senz, Nancy Trypuc, Kim Ludlam, Kelsey Lawrence, Angelique Giammarino, Elizabeth Catalano, Caitlin Dareff, Katie Bassel, Jeff Dodes, Laura Clark, and the entire Broadway and Fifth Avenue sales force. Thanks again to Dave Cole and Ervin Serrano. In Canada, many thanks to Jamie Broadhurst, Fleur Mathewson, and the wonderful group at Raincoast.
Mel Berger, my amazing agent, who also has excellent taste in sushi restaurants. I’ve enjoyed our walks on the busy streets of NYC. Kathleen Breaux, thanks for all your help and your cheerful e-mails. My gratitude also to Ashley Fox, Erin Conroy, Tracy Fisher, Laura Bonner, Raffaella DeAngelis, Michelle Feehan, James Munro, Cathryn Summerhayes, Annemarie Blumenhagen, Covey Crolius, Margaret Riley King, and the rest of the team at William Morris Endeavor Entertainment in New York and Los Angeles.
Carla Buckley, my critique partner and sister of my heart. Do you mind proofing this for me?
Constable J. Moffat, Virginia Reimer, Renni Browne, Shannon Roberts, BJ Brown, Matt Enderlin, Jonathan Hayes, Bruce McPhail, Murphy Unischewski, Steve Unischewski, Stephanie Paddle, and Kendra Hadley, for all their professional advice.
My husband, Connel, and my daughter, Piper. I love you both more than I can say.
CHEVY STEVENS
grew up on a ranch on Vancouver Island and still lives on the island with her husband and daughter. When she’s not working on her next book, she’s camping and canoeing with her family in the local mountains. Her debut novel,
Still Missing,
won the International Thriller Writers Award for Best First Novel. Please visit her at
www.chevystevens.com
or sign up for email updates
here
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A
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CONTENTS
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.