by Luanne Rice
“I ran to her,” Lyra said. “I wanted to pick her up, carry her back upstairs. She was in a lot of pain.”
“But you couldn’t?”
“They took her to the hospital.”
“How long had she been sick?” Pell asked. “Before she fell?”
“Three years,” Lyra said.
“Sometimes you can’t hold on to a person,” Pell said. “No matter how much you want to.”
“I wasn’t ready to lose her,” Lyra said.
“I wasn’t ready to lose you,” Pell said, and Lyra saw her trembling.
“Pell, I’m so sorry.”
“I hated when you left,” Pell said. “I know you were depressed, but we loved you. We could have helped you.”
“Oh, Pell,” Lyra said.
“I’ve never forgotten what Dad told us—that ‘the grownups decided.’ You, your doctors, Grandmother, who? Why did you let them decide your life—our lives—that way?”
Lyra felt Pell’s eyes on her, waiting for answers. She stiffened, looking away; she wanted Pell to stop. From the time she’d known Pell was coming, she’d dreaded this conversation.
“You won’t talk about it,” Pell said.
“It’s in the past. You’re here now,” Lyra said.
“I’d like to understand what happened,” Pell said. “Can you imagine what it was like for us—for Dad—to have you leave? He had to do everything.”
“Pell, your father was incredibly good. He put up with a lot, my illness. I know they’ve told you that I was depressed.”
“They didn’t have to. I saw,” Pell said. “I remember what it was like.”
Lyra took that in: so Pell did recall. “I’m sorry, Pell. I wish you didn’t.”
No answer to that. Pell just stared.
“You were six,” Lyra said. “I wasn’t sure what you saw and knew. But it took me over, wiped me out. I felt as if a tidal wave had hit me. Everything in me destroyed. I loved you and Lucy, and your father. I wanted to be strong again. So I had to go away and build myself back up.”
“That’s what the hospital was for,” Pell said. “You went to McLean, and came home, and you were fine.”
“I wasn’t fine,” she said. “You might have thought so, because I was so happy to see you. To spend time with you and Lucy again. I’d missed you more than you’ll ever know while I was away.”
“So your solution was to leave us? This time for good?” Pell asked, pacing the terrace.
Lyra watched her, thinking back to the week between returning from the hospital and leaving her husband and children. She saw herself in the car, having the conversation that would change all of their lives forever. One short car ride, the end of life as she’d known it, dreamed of it.
“You’ve lived here all this time,” Pell said. “Honestly, when I came, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I pictured you going to parties, wearing gowns, diamonds. But your life here isn’t so different from how it would have been at home. Only there you’d have been with us, instead of wonderful Christina.”
“She was never a stand-in for you,” Lyra said sharply. “Pell, I have one family. You and Lucy.”
“You don’t know what it’s like for her.”
“Lucy?” Lyra asked, but Pell ignored her.
“You never divorced him,” Pell said. “In all that time. So you must have been thinking of returning at some point. You stayed married.”
Lyra stared at her, shocked. Pell didn’t know; Taylor hadn’t told her?
“We didn’t stay married,” Lyra said carefully.
“What are you talking about? He’d have told me if you divorced him.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then what?” Pell asked. They stared at each other, across the stone terrace. Two tiny lizards skittered up the wall, out of the bright sun, into the bougainvillea. Lyra saw Pell watch them. The truth hit Pell hard, suddenly. She turned red, as if she’d been slapped. Without another word she started to walk away, and Lyra grabbed her arm.
“Pell,” she said.
“No,” Pell said.
“He divorced me,” Lyra said, and Pell stared for a long time before turning away, walking off the terrace, disappearing down the path.
In Newport, Rhode Island, worlds collided on the waterfront. The wharf was shaped like a U, with fishing boats tied up along one pier jutting into the harbor, yachts on the other. Fishermen wore oilskins and rubber boots and hosed the fish scales off their battered decks, while the yacht owners wore fashionable clothes and barely seemed to notice the industry just across the way from their bright white boats.
Travis Shaw had been fishing overnight, and by eight a.m. was heading home. They’d had a good haul of cod, and the captain had given him his pay for the week. Now, with his first day off, he was looking forward to calling Pell. He wasn’t the jealous type, but she’d been mentioning some mysterious kid over in Capri, and Travis wanted to know what that was about. Heading down the dock, he crossed the cobblestones of Bowen’s Wharf, and ran straight into Pell’s grandmother.
“Mrs. Nicholson,” he said, stopping short. His work clothes smelled of cod, salt coated his brown hair, and he needed a shower. She was imposing as ever, pageboy-style silver-blonde hair turned slightly under, dressed all in white except for a diamond and coral necklace; carrying a canvas bag, she was obviously on her way from her mansion to her yacht. She wrinkled her nose and took half a step back, and Travis wasn’t sure her distaste had anything to do with the smell of fish.
“Hello, Travis,” she said.
“How’s your summer so far?” he asked.
“Lovely. And yours?”
“Working hard,” he said. “I’m saving up for tuition.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said. “The endowment provides for scholarship students.”
“Thank you for the last two semesters, but as I told you, I’m paying my own way for senior year.”
They stared at each other. Travis knew she disapproved of Pell seeing him. Mrs. Nicholson was on the board of Newport Academy. When his mother had started teaching there last year, she’d been told that her children could attend for free. He and his younger sister, Beck, had jumped right into classes—he as a high school junior, Beck as a freshman; later, at a football game, Mrs. Nicholson had found a way to make them feel ashamed for accepting the school’s charity. Travis had decided to shut that right down, and took the job fishing.
“There’s no need for pride, young man,” she said now.
“I’m my father’s son,” he said.
“Well, as you wish.”
Travis nodded. His father had died two summers ago. He missed him every day, always asked himself what his father would do in given situations. That’s why he wanted to be responsible for himself. The work was hard, but it paid well. He wished he could go to Italy to support Pell, but he needed every penny for school.
Mrs. Nicholson shifted under the weight of her canvas bag. Travis hesitated, then reached for it.
“Could I help you carry that to the boat?”
“Well,” she said, seeming to give the offer due consideration. “Yes. That would be very helpful.”
They headed out to the dock, the opposite arm of the U from the fishing fleet. A couple of the guys spotted Travis, and gave him some whistles and catcalls. “Way to move up in the world!” Jake Keating called.
“They think you’ve gone to the dark side,” Mrs. Nicholson said, sounding amused.
He glanced at her, surprised. The blue-blood old lady had a sense of humor? Her yacht was Sirocco, sleek with a teak deck and mahogany brightwork. They stopped on the dock; one glance at Travis’s dirty boots let him know he wasn’t to step aboard. She stood still, facing him. As he handed her the canvas bag, he noticed that it was filled with books on art, painting, and drawing.
“Thank you,” she said. He nodded, about to leave, but she grabbed his wrist.
“Did you want me to carry the bag on board for you?” he asked, confused. �
��I figured with my boots, and your nice teak deck and all …”
“What do you hear from her?” she asked.
“Her?” he asked. “You mean Pell?”
She nodded. Her face was impassive, but some indefinable emotion clouded her eyes. “Yes. Has she contacted you?”
“Of course,” he said. “We email and call each other.”
“Does she say how she is?”
“Pell is fine. She says that Capri is beautiful, and—”
“How is her mother?”
Again, Travis felt shocked by the conversation. The fact that Mrs. Nicholson was talking to him, that she would come out and ask him anything, was surprising.
“Pell said they’re enjoying time together,” Travis said, careful not to divulge too much of what Pell had told him. It was up to her, if she wanted to confide in her grandmother.
“Her mother is not the person Pell wishes her to be,” Mrs. Nicholson said. As he watched, the old woman’s eyes turned sad and bitter.
“No, but she’s still her mother,” Travis said.
“Do you think that’s enough?” Mrs. Nicholson asked.
“For Pell it is,” Travis said.
“She insisted on taking this trip,” Mrs. Nicholson said. “Against my advice. She will be disappointed.”
Travis wanted to tell her that she didn’t know Pell, but he held back. He watched her step on board Sirocco. Then he turned and jogged up Memorial Boulevard to Newport Academy. Huge old trees shaded the grounds; like many other Newport mansions, the grand and imposing main building was set on Cliff Walk, overlooking the ocean.
Travis’s family had recently moved to a slightly bigger house, with a bedroom for Carrie and Gracie, in a wooded grove behind the academic buildings. Opening the screen door, he felt exhaustion overtaking him. His arms ached from pulling nets, and he couldn’t stop yawning. The smell of coffee came from the kitchen; he walked in, found his mother at the table, reading the paper.
“You’re home!” she said as he bent to give her a kiss.
“Where’s everyone?” he asked.
“Carrie had to be at the library by nine, and Beck and Lucy already took Gracie to the beach,” she said.
“Is Lucy okay?”
“I’m keeping an eye on her,” his mother said. “She misses Pell.”
Travis worked long, strange hours, and on nights Lucy slept over, he’d find her pacing the house, or sitting in the living room, staring at TV with the sound off. Sometimes even with the picture dark, just a black screen. Travis was used to traumatized young girls—his sister Beck had gone through a massive stealing phase after their father died.
“Pell’s kind of worried about her,” Travis said.
“Sounds as if you are too.”
“She’s not sleeping much.”
“I know, honey,” his mother said. “But I think it gave her a huge lift to talk to her mother. They’re trying to work it all out.”
Travis sat across from his mother, feeling lucky. His family had been through a tough year. Moving to Newport, coming to grips with his father’s death, his sister’s absence, watching his mother try to get her life together. That had included reuniting with Carrie’s father—J. D. Blackstone, his mother’s old boyfriend from a Newport summer long ago.
The Shaws were getting through it. Mainly because his mom, no matter what mistakes anyone made, including herself, reminded them that they were a family, that’s what counted. They talked, argued, took time for themselves, but always eventually worked it out. For most people, there were no guarantees in life or love.
“I have the feeling Lucy will be fine,” his mother said. “I hope she’s relaxing this morning, down at the beach. There’s nothing more soothing than sun and salt water.”
Travis hoped she was right. Pell and Lucy had held themselves together all this time. Everyone had secret ways of getting through.
Lucy and Beck took Gracie down the hill from Newport Academy to Easton’s Beach. It was really early, so they had the whole strand to themselves. The waves rolled to shore in long, silvery frills, trailing white foam behind. Beck dug a huge hole by the water’s edge, and Lucy held Gracie, dipping her little feet into the chilly, shallow wave wash, making her laugh each time.
“Almost ready,” Beck called as she dug deeper and deeper, throwing sand aside.
Gracie wriggled, wanting to be free, and toddled over to the big pile of wet sand. She buried her hands, and made Lucy find them. Lucy pretended to be surprised each time, gasping with shock, making them all laugh. It was strange, playing on this beach. Most of Lucy’s best young memories were of her dad; like when she’d ride her tricycle in their Grosse Pointe driveway, and he’d watch her going up and down as long as she wanted, until her legs got tired. Or when he brought home her first baseball glove and played catch with her in the backyard until after dark, when fireflies would appear in the bushes and tall grass.
But the beach belonged to her mother. When Lucy and Pell were very young, the year before their mother left, they had come to Newport to stay. All four of them, for their father’s vacation. He’d gone fishing with his old school friends—three men like uncles to Lucy and Pell: J. D. Blackstone, Stephen Campbell, and Ted Shannon. And Lucy and Pell and their mother had come to the beach.
Perhaps it had been this very stretch. Lucy remembered wearing a pink bathing suit; Pell’s had been light blue. Their mother had worn a navy one-piece, sleek and beautiful, and sunglasses and a big straw hat. They’d spread out their blanket, weighting down the corners with rocks.
Their mother had seemed happy, as if just being at the beach, by the sea, made her better.
“You’re smiling so much,” Pell had asked, a five-year-old trying to figure out the magic formula of why things seemed different. Lucy had tuned in too, wanting their mother’s happiness to last.
“I love salt water,” their mother had said. “And I love seeing my girls on the beach….”
They’d built sandcastles, and gone swimming, and picked up clamshells all along the tide line. Bubbles poured from tiny holes in the hard sand, and their mother told the girls if they dug fast, they’d find quahogs. They tried, but never were quick enough. Their mother had found bits of brown and green seaweed, and they’d draped the pieces on their arms and hair and pretended to be mermaids.
“Look, Gracie,” Lucy said now, finding a long cord of sargassum weed, brown and glistening, dotted with glossy round air pockets, remembering how she and Pell had loved to pop them. Gracie reached for the seaweed, smiling and feeling the smooth, wet surface. Lucy draped it around Beck’s neck.
“Gracie, want a mermaid bracelet?” Beck asked, getting into the spirit and smoothing a slippery band of pale green sea lettuce around Gracie’s tiny wrist, making her squeal with delight.
Lucy watched Beck and her niece. They dunked into the big hole Beck had dug, which was filling up as the incoming tide pushed the water higher up the beach. Everyone laughed, and Lucy felt hope sweeping over her. It came from seeing family together. Lucy had a weak spot for family. She thought of her sister in Capri, and she thought of the sound of her mother’s voice.
Lucy wasn’t sure how long she could wait. She had a feeling of wildness, deep in her center, that seemed to be getting bigger. It felt as if her heartbeat was pushing hope outward, into her ribs, her muscles, her skin.
Beck looked over; Lucy felt as if she was sprouting wings.
“What is it?” Beck asked.
“I want to fly there myself.”
“Like a bird?”
Lucy laughed. “Yes. A homing pigeon who knows her way to Italy.”
“Flying’s better than swimming.”
“Hey, I only tried to do that once!”
Beck held her hand. “You can stay right here with us,” she said. “Pell is going to bring her back.”
“Do you really think so?”
Beck nodded, ferociously. Lucy felt both buoyed up and held tight by her best friend. Her back itched,
right on her shoulder blades, as if wings really were trying to grow there.
“I love salt water,” Lucy said out loud, because her mother had said it once, and it had made her happy. “I love the beach.”
Beck gave her a huge smile, because she was her best friend, and because she got it, and because she understood Lucy wanted more than anything to fly away to her mother and Pell.
Eight
Max sat at Café Figaro in the Piazzetta, face tipped toward the sun, black notebook opened on the small marble table. Aurelia, the waitress, brought him a short macchiato, and he sipped it, savoring the milk foam.
Tables close together, multicolored umbrellas touching overhead. The clock tower, with its rounded Moorish cupola, shaded the square. Max thought about the play that had come to him last night.
Four characters: a boy and a girl, a woman and an older man. All had lost the most important people in their lives, come together on an island: Capri. An epic storm blows up. A modern-day Tempest. He made notes, imagining the characters.
How do people find their way back to life? How does love heal? How does forgiveness take place? Redemption was an overused word and theme, yet the only one that mattered to Max. He had just written the words where is love to be found? when he heard someone clear his throat.
John Harriman stood over him, newspaper tucked under his arm.
“The world comes to the Piazzetta!” he said. “Drawing room of Capri.”
“Hello, John.”
“So glad to see you here. Last night was ever so interesting. Thank you for a lovely evening. May I … ?”
Max nodded, gesturing for him to take a seat. He covered his page, closed his notebook, but not quite in time.
“Ah, I was right!” John said. “The muse is speaking to you.”
“She’s never far away,” Max said.
“Of course not,” John said. “She lives in your back garden.”
“Harriman,” Max said warningly.
“Oh, stop. You’re very taken with Lyra.”
Max began to disavow the statement, but he found he couldn’t speak. It was as if the truth had become as much a part of him as his eyes. He tapped his pen on the marble tabletop.