Beware the Mermaids

by Carrie Talick

  BEWARE THE MERMAIDS

  A Novel

  CARRIE TALICK

  For my mom, Nancy, who deserved a better ending.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No one tells you how hard it is to go after a dream. And that most of the journey is filled with doubt, anxiety and frustration. It’s easy to start. Hard to finish. But when you do get there, as with all labors of love, it ushers in a sheer, unfettered joy. My deepest thanks to the best agent ever, Ali Herring who saw the hidden gems in my manuscript, the merit of my older protagonist, and loved the story almost as much as I did. Thank you for being the Phoebe to my Rachel. Here’s to many more, Ali.

  To my wise and talented editor Tara Gavin who made my book instantly better and loved “that chapter about Roger.” A huge thanks to the entire team at Alcove Press and Crooked Lane Books for bringing my Mermaids into the world.

  A debt of gratitude to my wonderful book coach, Nicole Criona, who helped me get past a crippling roadblock with her wisdom, generosity, and gentle encouragement. Thank you to Philippa Donovan for her editorial skills in helping me whip my manuscript into shape. And to Diana Wilson for her excellent proofreading and kind, positive words along the way.

  A huge heartfelt thank you to the incredible Kathy Hepinstall for her treasured friendship, spectacular writing advice, unending support, and impromptu tequila shots.

  To the funniest novelist I know, Christopher Moore who actually wrote me back and said the right thing at the right time. Thank you. You are forever inspiring.

  I’m lucky and blessed to have such a colorful cadre of strong and funny friends who have helped me along the way with everything from reading early drafts and offering an encouraging word to simply drinking wine with me when I got stuck. Thank you Jenny Pado, Amy Largent, Karin Couch, Christy Anderson, Kristy Ford, Jonathan Hum and Ivy Denneny Hum, Aaron and Katie Westfall, Eric Hampton, Stacy Orlandi, Brook Boley, Simone Pond, Gail ‘Mama G’ Talick, Michael Everard, Rick and Cynthia Reilly, Bob Rice, Stani Benesovsky, Kelsie Petersen, Andie Bedbrook, Kristen Carr, Gretchen Hahn Ayotte, Camille Sze, Shefali Valdez, Jean Bakewell, and Tena Dauler Carr and the Dynamite Girls for the original inspiration. And to my daughter Charlotte who helped me understand how funny, insightful, and beautiful a teen girl can be. I love being your bonus mom.

  I could not have asked for a better ‘Ride or Die’ partner than my husband Mike ‘Stein’ Ayotte without whose short patience, strong pours, and unending love this novel would have never come to be. There’s no one I’d rather sit next to when I type the words “The End” for this story in particular, or for life in general.

  And finally, to my original mermaids, Judy Wikman, Lois Coffey, Maryann Makela, and of course, Nancy Niemi Talick.

  Love you, Mom. Sail on.

  Live now, baby, don’t wait. Waiting only makes you want more and experience less.

  —Nancy Niemi

  PROLOGUE

  For the first time in twenty-seven years, a warm and ancient Mayan wind blew up from the Southern Hemisphere in the wee morning hours. It whipped itself across the plains of Central America, kissed the beaches of western Mexico, until it finally whooshed into the quiet little town of Hermosa Beach in Southern California. Almost no one noticed except a couple who were skinny-dipping in the ocean—and every single dog in the neighborhood. The uneven chorus of barking came from the designer French bulldogs and Labradoodles who populated the upscale beach town and collectively succeeded in waking up most of the local citizenry. Shoes were hurled, curse words were hissed, and Ambien was taken, as the dogs, who were just doing their jobs, quieted down and whimpered their warnings instead.

  One Hermosa Beach resident woke when she heard the breeze rattle her bamboo wind chimes. She sat up, and although it was barely three AM, she felt more awake than she had in years. Awash in a calm energy, she wrapped herself in a light-gray sweater and stepped out onto the balcony, careful not to disturb her snoring husband. Under a full moon, the soothing chimes gently clunked together in the wind, which to her surprise was warm, almost balmy, with a hint of salt and spice in it, unlike any other wind she had felt off the coast—even those wildly fun and unpredictable breezes she enjoyed while sailing around the cliffs of Palos Verdes, her favorite pastime.

  She let this strange wind embrace her. But the wind did much more than that. It was a spirit wind with a mystical power that carried a trace of defiance, a rebellious insistency, a discordant stream that sought out certain unsuspecting souls whose lives perhaps needed a little stirring. That one such soul belonged to Nancy Hadley.

  CHAPTER ONE

  TROUBLE BREWING

  Nestled between the enormous San Pedro shipping harbor to the south and the upscale nouveau riche, yacht-infested Marina del Rey harbor to the north, tiny King Harbor Marina in Redondo Beach was awash in golden California sunshine as Nancy Hadley approached the yacht club from the long stretch of Ocean Drive.

  Only twenty fast-ticking minutes ago, Nancy had sat up in a panic, coffee in hand, when she realized she was supposed to meet the King Harbor Yacht Club Charitable Committee at the marina. She had been staring at her cat, Suzanne, who was curled up on an empty dry-cleaner bag on the floor, as she recalled that her husband, Roger, was golfing this morning with Cliff Dunhill. She could still hear him bellowing as he blamed the housekeeper for losing his golf pants, which he apparently eventually found in said bag. A small ding of a text came in and launched her into action.

  Good morning, Nancy. My ladies and I will meet you at the Bucephalus at 11am sharp for the inspection. Best, Faye Woodhall.

  Nancy quickly showered, pulled on a pair of white jeans and a navy tank top, strapped on her sandals, and raced to her Volvo with wet hair and a tube of half-open mascara. She proceeded down Harbor Boulevard toward the ocean, careful not to mow down skateboarders, beach cruisers, and pedestrians with dogs in baby strollers.

  Her window down, she started to relax and settle into her short drive as that same salty wind that had washed over her the night before breezed into her car window. It felt so good that she slowed for a moment and enjoyed the balmy gust as it mussed her hair. She spotted a pelican drafting on it over the marina and smiled.

  Nancy parked, pinched her cheeks to get a little color in them, then walked over to the entrance to G dock and looked over at her sailboat Bucephalus as it lazed in its slip. She pulled her hair back in a bun just as an ancient, stately, gleaming black Mercedes S-Class Pullman rolled up. The driver stopped the enormous car, got out, and opened the back-seat door.

  Faye Woodhall materialized from the car in one motion, like Nosferatu emerging from his coffin. She was impeccably dressed in a yellow silk jumpsuit, a wide-brimmed black hat, and a lavender Birkin bag. Faye was tall and thin with high cheekbones and a sharp jawline that gave her an overall air of stoicism reserved for high society. Behind her, two ladies followed, each possessing the same stiffness but with less authority.

  Only the day before as Nancy was washing her hands in the marina club bathroom, Faye Woodhall had emerged in the same way from the handicap stall and sneaked up next to her with the stealth of a silver-haired vampire to inquire about auctioning off a sunset cruise on their sailboat Bucephalus—of all things—to support the Institute for the Noetic Sciences, a society devoted to the “metaphysical study of higher consciousness.” Faye had said this with a note of condescension as if this were common knowledge.

  “Like meditation?” Nancy asked.

  “It’s been known to help those afflicted with ulcerative colitis,” Faye had coolly replied.

  “Colitis.” It was all Nancy could say in return.

  Every year the charities were more obscure. Faye had come from old money up in San Francisco. Either lumber or railr
oad, Nancy couldn’t remember which. But her family had been disgraced by her Ponzi-scheme-running father, who had been tried and convicted of fleecing some of the wealthiest families in the city. Faye was forced to abscond with the few shreds of dignity she still had, along with what remained of her trust fund, and had landed in Southern California to start anew. Nancy supposed Faye was allowed her peculiarities.

  One of the formerly disgraced heiress’s companions held out a white-gloved hand. Faye did the introductions in her low-pitched tone. “This is Madeleine Schnell, of the Modesto Schnells, and Lucinda Lassy; her family is in real estate. They own half of the Palos Verdes peninsula. Thank you for allowing us to see Bucephalus.”

  Nancy greeted them and nearly curtsied but then stopped herself. “My pleasure.” A tiny smile lit her lips. “Right this way, ladies.” Nancy led them to her beloved sailboat, which she and her husband Roger owned together.

  Faye began to impart her knowledge of Bucephalus with the same flair Robin Leach had used while hosting Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. She might as well have had a microphone and a glass of champagne in her hand. As they approached the slip, even Nancy was captivated.

  “Bucephalus is a thirty-eight-foot Beneteau, an impressive sailing yacht from a family-owned company in Northern California. It was named after Alexander the Great’s horse. As I understand it, the Hadleys have added extensive creature comforts, such as a Bose sound system and a flat-screen TV. The original interior wood was replaced with imported Norwegian teak,” Faye explained.

  The other two ladies murmured their approval of the boat’s heritage and improvements, especially anything remotely related to Scandinavia, an area considered desirable to rich people for reasons unknown.

  “It’s built and equipped for racing and considered one of the finest vessels on the sea, having won the Border Dash four times in the recent past. It has a spinnaker and a full set of Kevlar racing sails, but it’s also a wonderful option for an afternoon sail. I’m sure a sunset cruise experience will be an excellent auction item for our distinguished patrons.”

  As Faye spoke, Nancy led them down to the end of the dock where her boat was moored. “Here she is …”

  The women beheld the vessel as it gleamed in the morning sun. Nancy’s pride swelled, and she held out her arms to present Bucephalus. Her sailboat was impressive and in perfect condition, the teak well oiled, the cockpit clean, the cushions bright and perfectly positioned.

  Nancy’s beaming smile also came from the fact that she could sail it. She’d learned how to sail from her Finnish grandfather, Oskar, on a handful of summer trips up to the delta outside Stockton, where he would take her out on his modest boat. She’d learned about knots and mooring balls, when to tack the boat to turn it, and how to navigate. But mostly Nancy’s grandfather had taught her how to sail on instinct—how to read the wind like it was one of her favorite books. She’d learned to pay attention to its subtleties. She loved how her eyes grew brighter and more focused, how sailing cleared her mind and relaxed her at the same time.

  Her intuition also made her a better sailor than most, including her husband, Roger, who openly resented it. In fact, her last-minute tack after reading a shift in the wind in yesterday evening’s beer can races had garnered another win for Bucephalus and her crew, much to the dismay of “Captain” Roger, who considered an order contradictory to his direction an act of mutiny.

  “You know the British navy hanged people for less,” Roger chided as he gripped his navy grog post-race at their table overlooking King Harbor Marina. Outside, seals barked loudly and jockeyed for space on the dock below, while Nancy enjoyed a small smile.

  “Rog,” Nancy said, “victory cocktails are much better when there’s an actual victory.” She tipped her gin and tonic in his general direction, which, given his constipated expression, only served to infuriate him further.

  “Cheers to that,” one of their racing partners, Mac, said as he downed his beer.

  “She’s right, Rog. That outside line caught more wind right when we needed it,” Tony piped up.

  “Outside line, my keister. You are traitors all,” Roger grumbled as he sat back and looked around the room. Nancy was just starting to relax when Claire Sanford came up, leaned over Roger, placed a lacquered red fingernail on the dimple of his chin, and said in a sultry tone, “Winner, winner, chicken dinner!” And then Claire let out a loud Jersey cackle as Roger kissed her hand. The audacity of the move silenced Nancy.

  Nancy frowned at the recollection, resolving to take the issue up with Roger later tonight, just as Faye Woodhall said, “May we board?”

  “Of course!” Nancy said as she came off the memory. “Watch your step.” She was leading the ladies down to the steps to board the boat when the yacht club women froze at a strange noise. Nancy heard it too. She turned her head toward the boat. The noise seemed to be coming from inside the salon. A rumbling followed by a squeaking noise.

  “Perhaps your cleaning crew finishing up?” Madeleine Schnell suggested. Nancy had turned down Faye’s offer to have her cleaners come yesterday and instead had called her own.

  She half nodded, considering this possibility. But she was sure they had finished by now.

  Faye squinted in the direction of the boat, as if she recognized the sound, but she remained quiet.

  Nancy quickly hopped up the steps and onto the stern deck. The three women followed until all of them were stacked one upon another in the cockpit peering down into the salon.

  A long, tanned leg appeared, seeming to float in midair. Nancy stared at it, not comprehending what she was seeing. Then a giggle rose from the interior of the boat. But that was no giggle. It was a cackle. A cackle Nancy knew well. Nancy threw back the door to the salon and was met with a shocking view—the white, fuzzy ass of her husband, wrapped between the naked legs of a woman. The serenity of her Sunday morning was broken by the squeak of Roger’s boat shoes against the teak floor of the galley as he vigorously humped Claire Sanford on the salon table of her beloved Bucephalus.

  Roger turned fast, his face, red with desire, now turning ghostly white.

  Nancy stood there, frozen, processing.

  “Oh shit,” was all Roger could muster. He backed away from Claire, who crossed her legs in a fluid motion and began to do up her unbuttoned silk shirt, an ostentatious purple bra peeking out from underneath. Her movements were impossibly graceful. Roger, trapped by his green golf pants at his ankles, stumbled backward, sending two plastic wineglasses flying. The opposite of graceful.

  Nancy came to and took one long look at her husband, who began to bluster about how she shouldn’t be there as he fumbled with his god-awful golf pants. Then she looked over at Claire, who shrugged. The hot burn of embarrassment started in Nancy’s chest and ran all the way up to her cheeks. She turned to see the yacht club ladies standing right behind her, staring wide-eyed, stunned into silence. Except Faye Woodhall, who only looked at Nancy and then looked away.

  Nancy could have said a thousand things. She could have screamed. Cried. She could have knocked Roger out cold with a winch handle and no one would have blamed her. But she turned to Faye and said, “You said you had a good cleaning crew? Looks like you’ll need it.”

  Nancy turned on her heel, hopped off the boat, and walked away from the charity ladies, away from Roger, who was now yelling at her to come back, away from the vision of Claire’s tanned naked legs and heaving breasts, and away from her Bucephalus. She didn’t heed his calls. She didn’t stay to be polite to Faye Woodhall et al. She didn’t look back. She hurried to her car, turned the key, and drove, not knowing where she was going, but direction didn’t matter. She rolled the windows down and let the warm wind envelop her as the afternoon sun grew hot and the panic inside her grew cold.

  If Nancy had a nemesis in the world, it was Claire Sanford.

  Claire hailed from the East Coast. Not Manhattan, like she led so many to believe, but Hoboken. Across the river but worlds apart. Cunning and smart
, Claire had clawed her way out of Hoboken and all the way into the upper echelons of society. Beautiful in a sharp, angular sort of way, she wore her short, sleek, red hair parted on one side, which allowed her piercing blue eyes to notice details about people that she’d toss out like emotional hand grenades: “Didn’t I see that dress at our last Yacht Club dinner? Is that Valentino? Chanel?”

  Claire had chuckled after she made this last snide comment to Nancy’s best friend, Ruthie, a devoted TJ Maxx shopper who prided herself on stretching her budget. Ruthie smirked and blew Claire off as a snob, but Nancy was furious.

  After all, Claire had a proven reputation as a gold digger who had acquired her wealth through a string of advantageous yet short-lived marriages. Suspicions had swirled when more than one of her husbands had dropped dead within two years of matrimony. Then again, she did go for those types who teetered on the edge of the grave. She openly flirted with eligible bachelors and married men alike, testing boundaries for weak spots in marital unions. If she found them, she’d exploit them. As a result, she had no female friends at the club. She didn’t care. Women were of no interest to her. She had bigger fish to fry, richer men to marry, fortunes to fortify.

  The fact was, when Claire decided she wanted something, she found a way to get it.

  Nancy should have known.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ALL NAVIGATION LOST

  Nancy had once read that rapidly collapsing stars could emit an enormous amount of energy, resulting in an explosion that retracted and then turned into a black hole. This was how she felt after seeing Roger entangled in Claire’s naked legs with the charity league as a captive, horrified audience. She felt as if someone had hit her squarely in the chest with a sledgehammer. She was unable to take a deep breath. A series of tiny panic attacks kept overtaking her mind and body, making it hard to concentrate. But under the shock of infidelity and the anger of humiliation, there was dread, too. Old damage had crept in like an out-of-control virus. Upheaval was at her doorstep, and it was paralyzing.