Moondance Beach

by Susan Donovan

  “Stop.” Duncan pushed himself from the table. He wanted to jump from the chair and put some distance between himself and his mother, but that was too tall an order. It infuriated him that his brain flashed with intention and his body flowed like cold pea soup. It was as if the tether connecting his mind to his body had been cut—his thoughts raced and his legs stumbled.

  He would never accept that the honed and perfected body he’d once commanded was gone. He would fight to regain what was rightfully his until his last breath.

  At that moment, he fought just to push himself to a stand. He took a moment to stare out at the ocean and stretch his arms. The last thing he wanted to do was be ugly to his mother, but he just couldn’t talk about it anymore. She didn’t listen. How many times had he told her? He would regain his strength. He would return to active duty. He would once again do the only job he was meant to do.

  “I’m sorry, Duncan. I ask too many questions.”

  “No, Ma. It’s okay.” Duncan took a few measured steps her way. He placed a hand on her bony shoulder, startled by the feel of her, fragile and tiny under his big hand. He bent down and placed a soft kiss on her wispy hair. “I apologize for snapping at you. I have no right to take out my frustrations on you like that.” He patted her back. “Thank you for the feather.”

  “The what?”

  Since he was already up and walking, Duncan fetched the feather from the nightstand and laughed as he placed it on the shelf. This was their little game, and they’d been playing it since he was about ten, when the gifts had started appearing by his sickbed—little pieces of nature brought inside for the frail boy who often couldn’t go outside to experience the world for himself.

  “It’s nice,” Duncan said, turning away from the bookshelf and smiling at his mother. “Is it from Annie’s shop?”

  “I have no idea.” Mona crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. “I did not bring that feather to you. The gifts are not from me and they never have been.”

  Duncan rolled his head around on his neck, working out the kinks. “Let’s change the subject.”

  Mona rose from her chair and came to Duncan, reaching up to stroke the side of his face. “I have always told you the truth about that, my dear boy. You’re just not willing to hear it.”

  He sighed and pulled her to him, hugging her slight figure close. “Whatever you say, Ma.”

  Duncan felt a sharp jab in his ribs. “Ow!”

  His mother glared up into her son’s eyes, a good fourteen inches above her own, her brow lined with seriousness. “You’re not paying attention to what I’m telling you.”

  “Ma . . .”

  “Sit back down, Duncan.” She pointed to the dining chair by the window. Duncan went. Once Mona was satisfied with his compliance, she peered into his eyes. “Those little presents began when you were in fourth grade, I think, back when the fishery was still running. At first I thought it was your father.”

  “Da?” Duncan laughed. Frasier wasn’t at all the type.

  Mona shrugged. “You’re right. It wasn’t him. We were still talking to each other back then, so I asked. Besides, more than once the gifts showed up while your father was on the mainland for business.”

  Duncan leaned back into the chair, puzzled by the seriousness in his mother’s face. This made no sense. Of course she was the source of all these presents! Hundreds of anonymous offerings had been made over the years. Who the hell else but his mother could be devoted to him like that?

  Mona continued to shake her head. “Mellie denied it, too. Besides, I remember that some little trinket or other was delivered to your room when she was in Nantucket Hospital with the flu. We know it wasn’t Clancy, who couldn’t keep a secret even back then—every thought in his head was broadcast on his face. And Rowan wasn’t your biggest fan, as you might recall. She tended to keep her distance.”

  Duncan nodded. It was true. His little sister had been scared of him, and he didn’t blame her. He would snap at her and call her names. She didn’t deserve any of it, of course, but he hadn’t known what to do with all the rage he felt inside. For four long years—from age eight to twelve—Duncan was often confined to his room while the world went on without him. That made him intensely jealous of Clancy and Rowan, normal kids who got to run and play and sail and swim whenever they liked, while he was forced to watch the days crawl by from his sickbed. Duncan despised the hospital stays in Boston and all the doctors with their fake smiles. He hated the inhalers and the medicines. He was ashamed of his own weakness, ashamed that for whatever reason he wasn’t strong enough to fight off the asthma and repeated attacks of bronchitis. But more than anything, Duncan was terrified that he would be stuck in his bed, in his room, forever.

  He’d been a spiteful little bastard back then.

  Mona kissed his forehead, her face drawn tight with concern, maybe even pity. “You will be fine, son. You will recover from your injuries, and you will be happy again, no matter what career you choose.”

  He felt his shoulders stiffen.

  “Now, that said, I don’t want you hiding up here thinking you’re back to your boyhood. Because you’re not. You know that, right?”

  Duncan managed to smile at his mother, though he wasn’t pleased that she’d brought up the proverbial elephant in the sickroom. The similarities between then and now were obvious, but he’d really hoped to avoid talking about it. He wanted to focus his energy on getting the hell off the island and returning to duty, not dredging up ancient history that couldn’t be changed and didn’t matter anymore. “Of course I do,” he said. “And I’m glad to hear you do, too.”

  Mona began to gather the dishes and cups, but Duncan gently pushed her aside and took over the chore. As his hands kept busy, his mind latched on to the nagging loose end in their conversation.

  “So who is it, then? Seriously, Ma. Who could be leaving me all this crap, then and now?”

  Mona’s eyes sparkled. Her grin became so open and joyous that she looked like a little girl. “Do you remember what I always used to tell you?”

  Duncan squeezed his eyes shut. He shook his head, as if he could will the conversation in another direction—any other direction. He’d rather talk about fucking sea spray. “Please, Ma. Don’t start—”

  “Maybe it’s the Great Mermaid, leading you to your one true love!” Mona hooted with laughter, grabbed the tray, and headed toward the door. “You’re still a young man. There’s still time to open yourself to receive the mermaid’s gifts, you know.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Remember, your father’s dinner is at six,” she called out over her shoulder, still chuckling. “Wear long pants and maybe a nice blue shirt—it brings out your eyes. And don’t be late.”

  Duncan stared out the bedroom door long after his mother had vanished down the hallway. A blue shirt? Who the hell cared what color shirt he wore?

  Suddenly, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. He turned to look right into those haunting—and somehow familiar—mermaid eyes. They cut right though him. Did she know something he didn’t?

  Why? he wondered. Why is everything around here about goddamn mermaids?

  * * *

  Adelena Silva emerged from the surf, morning sunlight warming her skin. She squeezed water from her hair, then let it fall in a black ribbon over her bare shoulder. She continued up the beach, taking pleasure in the easy strength of her stride, the silken sand between her toes. The knowledge that she was equally at home in water and on land never failed to delight her.

  Lena felt a wave of gratitude wash over her, and she closed her eyes for an instant. She thanked the tides for delivering her to this place and time. She gave thanks for her mother’s love and tenacity. She acknowledged the blessing of her talent and reminded herself that it was art that had paid for her happiness. Art had allowed her to serve as caretaker of Moondance Beach, a place where land, sand, and sea converged, which was all she’d ever wanted.
r />   Lena opened her eyes, smiled to herself, and whispered into the wind, “Thank you for bringing Duncan home alive.”

  She grabbed the towel from a piece of driftwood and wrapped her naked body in warm cotton. Lena slipped into a pair of flip-flops and climbed the wooden access stairs, crossed the dune, and went into her backyard. What stretched before her wasn’t one of the carefully manicured lawns of the South Shore. Her acreage was windswept and wild, pathways of sandy soil snaking through saw grass, cinnamon fern, bayberry, heather thistle, and blue iris. Beech, pine, and oak trees hunkered low to the ground, stunted by the ocean winds. And at the top of the rise, facing the beach, was her home and studio.

  Lena’s mother had recently asked if she didn’t get lonely “rattling around” in such a big place. Lena couldn’t help but laugh, since she’d lost track of the number of times she’d tried to convince her to share her new home with her. Imelda Silva always dismissed the idea.

  “Stop worrying about me, menina. Maybe it’s time for you to start caring for a family of your own.”

  “Maybe it’s time for you to retire.”

  The last time they’d had this conversation, they’d been seated on the first-floor deck in the early evening, watching the sunset and enjoying a bit of her mother’s favorite sherry. They got together for dinner about once a week, and Lena enjoyed spending time in the kitchen with her mother and talking until dark—even if nothing was ever resolved.

  “You know I can’t leave Rowan and Ash now that the baby has come. Serena is attached to me, and Rowan needs me.”

  “Be reasonable, Mãe. You’ve hardly had a day off since you came to this island twenty-four years ago. You deserve to enjoy yourself.”

  “I do enjoy myself! I enjoy working. Keeping busy makes me happy. If I retire, I will dry up and blow away. What will be my purpose?”

  Lena had sighed as she’d placed a hand over her mother’s. “Your purpose would be to relax and share in my success. We could travel. We could even go back to the Azores if you’d like.”

  That got her mother’s attention. She shot Lena her trademark stink-eye, an expression reserved for things related to her mother’s place of birth, Lena’s Portuguese-American father, and his family in Rhode Island, where Lena had been born. In other words—anything having to do with the past she had left behind.

  Her mother shook her head and turned down the corners of her mouth. “You know there is nothing for us over there. We are Americans. We are Bayberry Islanders.”

  The evening ended with the usual kisses on the cheek and a stalemate. Lena watched her mother drive off toward Shoreline Road, glad she had kept her snarkier comments to herself. Her mother didn’t need to hear that Rowan and Ash could afford to replace her a hundred times over at the Safe Haven. She would have been hurt, since she considered herself a member of the family, not the bed-and-breakfast’s director of housekeeping and head cook. Lena knew the Flynns considered her family, too, and had since the night Imelda Silva and her seven-year-old child had shown up on the mansion’s doorstep just as hail had begun pounding down.

  “Would you by any chance need a housekeeper?” her mother had asked that night so long ago. And the rest was fate.

  Lena shook her head to clear away the memory. She stepped into the mudroom off the back of her sunny kitchen, happy to spend another day “rattling around” in her oceanfront retreat. She didn’t care what people said—the size was not excessive and it certainly wasn’t for show. Lena required high ceilings and elbow room for her canvases. She needed lots of natural light and huge windows to observe the sea and sky. And being alone did not mean she was lonely—she got more than enough socializing during the gallery receptions, art shows, and media appearances that took up a full week of every month. At the end of each trip, she was relieved to trade the noisy, wine-sipping crowds of Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, or Boston and return to her sanctuary by the sea.

  A long, hot shower washed the sand from her hair and skin. She threw on a sundress, grabbed her second cup of coffee, and headed to the upstairs studio to greet the work of the day. The space spanned about two thousand square feet, which was most of the second floor, and the studio’s entire south-facing wall and most of the ceiling was constructed of “smart glass,” window panels with built-in tinting. With just the tap of a button on a remote control, Lena could optimize or block the light, whichever was needed, no matter the season or time of day.

  She worked barefoot that morning, her preferred state for all but the most brutally cold North Atlantic winter days. She’d learned long ago that if she wanted to stay focused, her feet needed to be in contact with the wood floor as she painted. It centered her to be bound to an earth element while her mind and spirit drifted away to the sea.

  Lena clicked on the studio’s speaker system, and the delicate sounds of Debussy danced in the sunbeams. She stood before her most recent commission and stepped into the world she had created—a voluptuous creature sunning herself as waves crashed against a rocky shore, her blond curls and curvy flesh glowing with life, her eyes flirty and laughing. It didn’t take long for Lena to detect an error in the play of light and shadow, of air and water. She loaded a fantail brush with a dab of sienna and a hint of crimson, then set about darkening the value of water-slicked mermaid scales.

  Here’s how she saw it: if a Seattle dot-com genius shelled out a half million dollars so that she could portray herself as a sunbathing sea nymph—and if Lena’s distinctive signature would be at the bottom-left corner—then Rhonda on the Rocks would be technically perfect.

  Lena accepted two such “vanity” commissions each year without a twinge of shame. Why shouldn’t she strike while mermaid-themed works were hot? The art world was fickle, and the fine-art economy testy, and she knew she had been extremely fortunate that her passion had any kind of sustained commercial value. Almost all of her friends from art school were bartending or bill-collecting to fund their painting habit. Lena was an anomaly—a working, wealthy painter, and she did not take her good fortune lightly. With the help of her business manager, Sanders Garrett, she was secure in knowing that every penny of outrageous profit from these vanity commissions would go toward paying off the Moondance Beach mortgage. At this rate, it would take only another five years before she would be free to do whatever she pleased for the rest of her life, without regard to the vagaries of Wall Street or the temper tantrums of art critics. All that from taking on two commissions per year. The rest of her paintings could sell for a fraction of the price, and she would have no worries.

  When she had completed the finishing touches, Lena selected a delicate rigger brush and cradled it between her thumb and fingers. She had raised her left hand to sign the finished painting with her stylized “A.S.” when suddenly, the colorful glass beads of her bracelet caught the light. They sparkled against the elaborately knotted black and white twine encircling her wrist.

  The simple beauty of it made Lena smile.

  Chapter Three

  Twenty-four years ago . . .

  Lena Silva was seven years old the night she arrived at the Safe Haven, and her brain hurt just trying to piece together all the sudden changes that had taken place in her life. The most dramatic difference was in her own mother.

  Back home in Rhode Island, Mama had never said much and had mumbled when spoken to. She’d let Daddy’s mother and his sisters be in charge. Lena had heard her mother’s real voice and real laugh only when the two of them were alone. She would sing Lena to sleep with her Portuguese songs, or she’d try to read aloud from the storybooks Lena brought home from school. More often than not, Lena ended up reading to her mother, who would fall asleep next to her in the small bed.

  Sometimes, when it was just the two of them like that, her mother would talk about maps and little towns Lena had never heard of, and weather, and the ocean. Or she’d tell fairy tales. Some of Lena’s favorites were about how her family had always made a living from the sea, respected it, and understood its magic a
nd mystery.

  “Grandmother doesn’t believe in things like that,” Lena had pointed out.

  Her mother nodded. “If a person’s spirit is too small to believe in the magic of the ocean, they will never be comfortable with its power.”

  How suddenly things turned upside down! When Lena’s daddy left, her mother instantly seemed taller. Her voice was steadier than it used to be, even at home with Daddy’s family. Her mother now looked straight ahead instead of down, and she looked people in the eye. Her mother sang for no reason and whenever she felt like it. She smiled almost all the time.

  It made no sense to Lena. Her grandmother and aunties were so sad Daddy left that they yelled and cried. They even told her mother that she was the reason he left. They called her a witch.

  “He would never have abandoned us if you hadn’t put a spell on him. You drove him out, you evil harpy!” Grandmother then pointed at Lena with a shaking finger. “And you—you are nothing but the spawn of a witch!”

  Lena had been so frightened by the words that she’d cried. Her mother had later explained that people sometimes said cruel and untrue things when they were overwhelmed with sadness and anger. Her mother said to stay as far away from her grandmother as possible.

  A few weeks after all the crying and yelling and mean talk started, Lena’s grandmother pulled her aside and told her that her daddy went to a place called Brazil and was never coming back.

  “Is Brazil the same as heaven?” Lena had asked.

  Her grandmother assured her it was not. Then she told her to pay attention because she had something important to tell her. “Your mother is from a family of sorceresses in the Azores, and they shipped her to America to marry the kind of decent, upstanding man she could never get at home.”