by Karen White
I stripped off my jacket. “Okay, Trey. Show me what tools I should use, and I’ll start removing the teak in the cabin. If Gil wants, he can help me after he helps you with that tiller, and then you and Marnie can start the sanding.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Trey said as he moved toward the stacked metal shelves.
I was halfway up the ladder when Trey called out to me, “Hey, Dr. Bristow, my brother wanted me to ask you if you wanted to go parasailing again. He said you bought a series of three lessons but have only been up once. It’s too cold now, but he said he’s already booking up for spring, so he wanted to let you know.”
I avoided looking in Marnie’s direction. “I’ll let him know, thanks.”
“You want to come with me, Gil?” I stood at the top of the ladder and stretched my hand out. “Trust me—this is the easier part. Of course, if you really enjoy sanding, you can stay and help. Or you can come with me.”
He hesitated only a moment before following me. He put his hand in mine and I pulled him aboard. As we waited for Trey to bring us our tools, I had plenty of time to think about fear and how most people wore its mask one way or another.
Marnie
Every muscle in my back and arms ached from bending over strips of wood and methodically and painstakingly sanding the tops and edges of every single piece. Tomorrow I had the restaining and varnishing to do, and my muscles ached in anticipation.
Quinn and Gil had left earlier for his office appointments, and I looked at my watch after cleaning up and realized I still had about an hour before they would be ready to leave for home. I watched as Trey approached me, wiping his hands with an old rag and reminding me what it had been about him that had attracted me all those years ago.
“All done?”
“Yes, although even if I weren’t, I’d probably have to lie to you so that you wouldn’t make me do any more sanding.”
He glanced over at the strips of wood lying on the large worktables behind me. “Yep, that’s a tough job. Good for the soul, though.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“It’s the kind of job that keeps your hands busy so your mind can sort of work things out. Like knitting, but harder.”
I laughed. “Yeah, something like that.”
His smile faded softly as he regarded me. “Guess I couldn’t interest you in a drink or something to eat while you wait, huh?”
“No, probably not.”
“I didn’t think so, but thought I’d try anyway.”
I smiled up at him. “You’re a great guy, Trey, and when I was seventeen, you were everything I needed. But I’m not that girl anymore.”
“No, you’re not. And there’s that Diana thing, too.”
“Yeah, that, too. Hard to forget a heartbreak caused by your sister sleeping with your boyfriend.”
His dark face colored even darker. “I’m sorry about that. I don’t think you ever gave me the chance to apologize, but I am sorry. I’m not even sure how that happened, embarrassing as that sounds.” He grinned sheepishly at me. “It’s just that Diana, well, you know how she can be.”
“Yeah,” I said softly, “I know.” I stood on my tiptoes and leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek. “Apology accepted.”
He kicked his toe into the ground. “Too little too late, I guess, but thank you.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sure thing.”
I was almost out of the door when he said, “Dr. Bristow’s a great guy. You can’t go wrong by him.”
“He is a great guy,” I admitted. “But he’s my sister’s ex-husband.”
He smiled that old smile again, and I was once again reminded of how nice it had once been to be sixteen and Trey Bonner’s girlfriend. “Hey, it wouldn’t be like it hadn’t been done before.”
“Bye, Trey. See you tomorrow,” I said as I left, shaking my head.
I decided to visit the little library on Baker Street to see if they had the next Nelson DeMille novel. Quinn, Gil, my grandfather, and I spent most evenings sitting in the family room reading in front of the fireplace, where the smell of pine logs brought me home almost more than anything else had since I’d returned. But I’d long since finished the novel I’d brought to read on the plane from Arizona, and there were only so many issues of the Journal of the American Veterinary Medical Association that I could read more than once.
I loved the smell of libraries—the comforting mixture of old books and floor polish made all the stronger by the pervading hush. I strolled over to the popular fiction area and began perusing the shelves, picking up a couple of novels as backups in case I didn’t find the one I was looking for.
“Miss Maitland?”
I turned around quickly, startled enough to drop a book. The young girl with the dark hair pulled back in a French twist and an iPod hanging around her neck bent down easily to retrieve it and handed it to me. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” She smiled at me with bright brown eyes accented by black cat’s-eye glasses, something about her looking oddly familiar.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
“Sort of. I’m Tally Deushane, Trey’s half sister. I didn’t expect you to recognize me. I think the last time you saw me I was about eight years old.”
“Oh, my gosh—Tally! And you’re right. I wouldn’t recognize you. I think you were in jumpers and pigtails when I saw you last.” She was very petite, even shorter than my own five feet four inches, and curvy. I recognized her brother in her eyes, and smiled.
She smiled back, her pale skin telling me that she probably spent a lot more time in the library than at the beach. “You’re probably right. Didn’t have a lot of fashion sense back then. I sort of make my own fashion statement now.”
I eyed her eclectic look of striped leggings under a short skirt, Converse sneakers, and T-shirt that read “I Love Nerds,” and had to agree.
Continuing, she said, “I knew it was you because Trey’s mentioned that you’ve been working on a boat with him, so I knew you were in town. Plus your sister’s in here a lot and you look alike.”
“We look alike? I don’t think anybody’s ever said that before.”
She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Yeah, well, I notice things about people that most don’t. Looking like somebody doesn’t always have to be about hair color and eye color.”
“No,” I said, admiring her astute observations. “It really doesn’t, does it?” I looked at her carefully. “So what about you? I figure you have to be about seventeen now, right? Any plans for after graduation?”
“Well, I’ve got another year of high school, but my mom’s taking me college shopping over spring break to check out a few schools. I’m looking to major in English/creative writing and journalism.”
“College, huh?”
“Yeah. I’ll be the first in my family.”
“That’s great, Tally. To know what you want to do is really great.”
Her dark eyes bored steadily into mine, reminding me again of her brother. “Trey said that you used to want to win the America’s Cup. But you’re a teacher now. How long did it take you to figure that out?”
I thought for a moment. “Sometimes things figure themselves out for you. I guess you can say that’s what happened to me.”
“It’s not too late, you know. To win the America’s Cup.”
I looked into her young, innocent face, trying to remember when I used to be the same way but found that I couldn’t. Too much had happened to me since then, too much experience and living had obscured my vision of the old dreams. But, I was beginning to realize, what was left wasn’t all that bad or even regretful. I loved teaching; it made me humble and great all at the same time, as changing a child’s life can do to a person. And I had even begun to believe that had I lived my life at the helm of a sailboat, getting better and better at cheating the wind, I might never have truly discovered that.
“I know,” I said, “but I can’t say that’s what I really want anymore.”
She nodded, then held up her hand. “Before I forget, I want to give you your sister’s purse. She left it last time she was here. She hasn’t called for it yet, but I figure it’s only a matter of time before she realizes where she left it.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said, curious as to when Diana had been to town last without either Quinn or me knowing. I wondered why she hadn’t just asked me to stop by the library on our way back from the nursing home.
“Here it is,” said Tally, handing over Diana’s large canvas tote, which doubled as her handbag. “She checked out a book, too, so I just stuck it inside. I hope that’s all right.”
“Of course. And thank you—I know Diana will appreciate it.”
“No problem. Glad I could help.”
“And good luck with school. Try to take it easy—it can be a little overwhelming.”
“Too late,” she said, placing an iPod earbud in her left ear. “I’m president of the Latin club and have a few speech competitions coming up with the National Forensics League, as well as trying to complete my Girl Scout Gold Award before graduation.” She smiled brightly. “I’m too busy to be overwhelmed.”
I laughed and we said our goodbyes. After checking out a thick DeMille hardcover, I left. I still had another twenty minutes to spare, so I took my time walking down the tree-lined streets of McClellanville, admiring the beautiful old wood-framed houses and the long arms of the live oaks with their shawls of Spanish moss, which almost made me forget the arid desert of my adopted home. I must have been looking up to admire one of the trees, because I didn’t see the large exposed root that protruded from the cracks in the sidewalk. I stumbled and went sprawling, my book and Diana’s purse flying in opposite directions. I hoped against all odds that nobody had seen me.
My knee stung where I had scraped it against the ground, and my hands were covered in dirt and scratches where I’d tried to break my fall. But other than a bit of bruised pride, I seemed to be okay. After brushing the dirt off my hands as best as I could, I gathered my library book, then grabbed hold of one of Diana’s purse handles and lifted it up. Unfortunately, during its flight the contents had shifted and the book that Tally had so thoughtfully placed inside fell out, accompanied by several sheets of heavy white paper, which had been folded in half.
I picked up the book, and caught a glance at the title: Post-Traumatic Stress and Repressed Memories: Rediscovering Your Hidden Past. My hand froze on the book, and I had to resist the impulse to open it up to see if Diana had highlighted anything or folded down the corners of pages. Her purse had always been like her teenage diary, completely off limits, where not even a sister would dare venture. Although technically Diana hadn’t placed the book inside, I knew that if she’d wanted me to see it, she would have had me stop off at the library on our way home the previous day.
Before I could change my mind, I hastily shoved the book into her purse, then bent to retrieve the folded papers. In the fall from the purse and the slight November breeze, the pages had opened at the crease, so when I picked them up, the top page was staring up at me.
I could tell by the torn edge at the top of the pages that they had been taken from Gil’s sketch pad, but I would have known it was his work even without that clue. The penciled drawing was of a sailboat so completely lifelike and detailed that I wondered if he had sketched it from memory or had made a trip back to town to sit and sketch the Highfalutin. Even without the name written in dark lead on the page, I would have known it to be the boat we’d been working on for months, complete with full mast and functioning rudder.
Curious, I flipped to the next page. Again, this was a sketch of Quinn’s sailboat, but this was a closer view of the deck and of two people on board. It was definitely Gil and Diana; their likenesses were almost uncanny in the gray-and-white drawing. They were both smiling and leaning back against the starboard side of the boat as the depiction of the full sails and frothing water gave the impression of movement.
Without any compunction now, I flipped to the third drawing, my hand held suspended in midair. This drawing was almost identical to the one before it, except in this one the sky had darkened and the waves were higher, lashing up over the deck. The two people were in the same position, but Gil was looking skyward and Diana was looking at Gil. Neither was smiling.
Almost with dread, I flipped the last one to the top of the small pile, barely aware of my library book and Diana’s purse sliding to the ground at my feet. This drawing was of the same view as the one before except now the sky was completely dark and the wind had gone out of the sails. Tall waves surrounded the boat in a dangerous game of monkey-in-the-middle. But the most arresting thing about this final drawing was that there were now three figures on the deck: the first two identifiable again as Diana and Gil. The third person, however, was harder to discern: neither male nor female, the hair covered by a fisherman’s knit hat and the face turned toward Diana and away from the viewer. Diana’s expression was blank, but from the raised hand of the third figure, it was obvious that Diana was receiving some sort of instruction.
I stared at it for a long time, trying to make sense of it. Then I slowly returned it to the bottom of the stack. When I did so, a smaller piece of paper fluttered to the ground. I retrieved it and saw from the jagged top that it had been from another page of Gil’s sketch pad, but it had been ripped in half with only the top of the mainsail and its rigging visible. I flipped through the pages again to see if I had misplaced the fifth and final drawing, but there was nothing more.
Unsettled, I folded the pages again and stuck them in Diana’s purse. After retrieving my book, I continued walking toward Quinn’s veterinary practice, not even aware of the scenery anymore. My mind kept going back and forth from Diana’s library book to the drawings. Why would she want a book on repressed memories? It was obvious to me from the drawings that Gil had no such affliction. I was on the front walk in front of Quinn’s building before it occurred to me that maybe it wasn’t Gil’s memories that were concerning Diana; maybe it was somebody else’s entirely.
I walked thoughtfully up the steps to the front door, letting myself in and allowing the door to swing shut behind me.
CHAPTER 22
Once more
Upon the waters!
Yet once more!
And the waves
Bound beneath me
As a steed that
Knows his rider.
—LORD BYRON
Diana
It was barely past dawn when Marnie tapped on my studio door. I’d been awake all night again painting, but I’d made sure to pull on fresh clothes to hide this fact from my sister. I’m sure that Quinn had already schooled her in the signs and symptoms to look for in another “episode,” as he liked to call them, and I didn’t want to set off any alarm bells. That’s not to say that I didn’t sense something brewing inside of me; I’d become something of a barometer, sensing things in the atmosphere that others couldn’t. But this time it was different. I wasn’t sensing changes inside me; I was sensing changes in those around me, and I wasn’t sure if I should be so content to be left behind.
“Come in,” I called, and Marnie entered the studio. She had changed in her months here. Her movements were more fluid and less planned; her clothing choices came from my bag of discarded clothes that were now too big for me, instead of from her own closet. More skin and less teacher is how I described it to myself. I would never say that out loud to her, as it would send her right back into her baggy denim dresses. Secretly, I admired her adaptation to the landscape; she was a Lowcountry girl again, the girl from the paintings whose absence had deprived me of half my soul.
She held up a breakfast tray, and from one wrist dangled my straw purse. I looked at it with alarm.
She placed the tray on a table and then held the purse out to me. “Tally Deushane gave it to me to give to you. She said you left it at the library.”
I looked back at my easel, trying not to show either the relief or
the anxiety that was currently flooding my bloodstream. “Thanks,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “Just dump it on the chair over there. Then come here and sit down. I wanted you here early to catch this light, so hurry up before we lose it. I’m not hungry, so you wasted your time bringing a tray.”
Without saying anything, she did as I asked, then sat on the stool I had placed by the window, the buttery light of early morning bathing her hair and skin in its glow. I wished she could see herself now, see her the way I saw her. But she had never had the artist’s eye, and I’d never felt the need to share it with her. Our mother had seen Marnie this way, too, and I closed my eyes for a moment, not wanting to remember.
Marnie unbuttoned her blouse and took it off before sliding the band out of her ponytail so her hair could fall across her shoulders. I started to relax, thinking she wasn’t going to say anything, so when she did speak, it startled me.
“When did you go to the library, Diana? You had your purse with you when we went to visit your friend.”
I decided not to lie, although I didn’t think she needed to know the whole truth, either. “Last night. I realized after we got home that I forgot to stop at the library to pick up a book that had come in for me. I didn’t want to bother you, so I just went by myself.”
“You know you’re not supposed to do that.” She shook her head, then looked back at the chair where she’d dumped my straw bag. “I got the book for you. Tally said you’d checked it out already, so she stuck it in your purse.”
I didn’t say anything as I carefully studied her face, trying to read her. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t read every thought on her face. “Thank you,” I said hesitantly.