by Luanne Rice
“I told her about her father.”
Max nodded, took a deep breath. He pulled back a chair from the table, eased Lyra into it. He remembered talks, when Christina was still present, about the marriage Lyra had left.
“Pell is intelligent,” he said. “And she’s old enough to hear the truth.”
“She idolized him,” Lyra said. “She’s hung on to the fact that he’s wonderful and I’m bad. I’m the one who left.”
Max stared at her across the table. He reached over, tenderly brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Lyra, are you really so dense?” he asked.
She drew back, gazing at him.
“Pell came here to see you. She loves you.”
“I don’t deserve it,” Lyra said. “I’ve been out of her life since she was six.”
“Dear girl,” Max said. “Christina used to say you were punishing yourself. You felt you’d let your daughters down, and you wouldn’t let yourself feel their love. She said the reason you were such a brilliant gardener was because you poured so much love into the earth. She said you had so much to give, because you were holding it inside for your children.”
“Christina was too kind to me,” Lyra said. “And so are you.”
“Someone has to be,” Max said. “Because you certainly are not kind to yourself.”
Lyra stared at him, as if trying to decide whether to believe him or not. For the moment, the jury was out. She rose, pacing the terrace. “None of this matters now,” she said. “Until I find Pell. Max, I’m worried that she’s heading for Rome, to fly home. She’s done with me.”
“Have you tried to call her?” Max asked.
“Her cell phone is turned off,” Lyra said. “It went straight to voicemail.”
Max closed his notebook, pushed back his chair. He went to the house phone, dialed the boathouse. Rafe had been restless lately, and Max had been concerned. But he knew no one had a better heart than his grandson; there wasn’t a soul who knew the island more, and once Max told him that Pell was upset and had wandered off, Rafe would be happy to help find her.
But the telephone down below just rang and rang. Max heard the bell echoing up the hillside. The distant sound drew him to the edge of the terrace. He scanned the rock ledges, all along the shoreline. Perhaps Rafe was dutifully patrolling the tide line, saving starfish and other stranded creatures.
And then Max saw: the boat was gone. He replaced the receiver in the cradle, frowning as he stared at the dock. Would Pell have gone to Rafe, asked him to take her to the mainland? He wanted to reassure Lyra, tell her he knew she was wrong about Pell leaving without even saying goodbye to her mother. His heart told him the Pell he had already come to know and love would never do that.
But hurt children could do unexpected and damaging things. He thought of Rafe, all the anguish he’d caused himself and their family. He pictured Christina lying in the grass, where she’d fallen, after Rafe had left her alone. Unintended, horrible consequences of a young man’s pain and mistakes. When he turned to meet Lyra’s eyes, he wanted to tell her with certainty that all would be well. But she saw the doubt on his face, and she crumpled.
Max went to her. Lyra wept, and he rocked her with all the love he had, knowing he would do anything for her, set the world straight, help her begin again.
Fifteen
Rafe steered the boat around the mountainous island, Pell sitting in the bow. She wasn’t talking. Something about the way she held herself made her seem breakable, so he drove slowly, and it took a long time to reach the rock islands. They passed the fleet of small tourist boats heading for the grottoes. He saw Arturo, who saluted and grinned. Rafe didn’t even acknowledge him.
Salt spray blew into their faces; Pell didn’t duck or flinch, just stared straight ahead. Rafe wondered if she even felt the water. A pod of dolphins swam alongside, and she showed no sign of noticing. Rafe drove the boat past sheer cliffs and hidden coves. He would have liked to show her each one, all his favorite spots.
But she sat so still, leaning forward, as if her desire was to get away from the island, to leave Capri behind. Something must have happened with her mother. Or had she had a fight with her boyfriend, over the phone from the States? She’d been so nice to Rafe, he wanted to ask her what was wrong, give her the chance to open up. He wanted it to be the way it had been with Monica. Her posture didn’t invite that, though. She faced the water ahead, as if he wasn’t even there.
Pointing southeast, they finally approached the mysterious, wind- and sea-sculpted shapes of Il Faraglioni. Iconic images of Capri, these enormous rock islands just off the southern coast had always fired Rafe’s imagination. As he motored closer, Pell finally turned toward him.
“There are seahorses here?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
He drove the boat through a natural arch in one of the rocks, a bridge formed by thousands of years of erosion. Looking down into the shoals, he saw water dappled turquoise, jade, and azure. Sunlight penetrated the top layer, and tiny gold shapes danced just below the surface.
“Pell,” he said, cutting the engine, motioning her toward the stern. Small waves slapped the boat.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Right there,” he said, pointing into the water.
The boat rocked in the wake from a passing tour boat. Pell teetered, and Rafe grabbed her, held her steady. She leaned into his body. His feelings had been so tamped down, first by grief, then by drugs. But he’d been coming back to life this summer, and Pell was a huge part of it.
“I don’t see,” she said. The boat was even now, no longer rocking, but she didn’t pull away. She clung to him, smooth tan arms and lean waist, and he wanted to kiss her. She stared into the clear, shimmering blue pool, and he wanted to taste her lips, lick the salt spray from her, and he was about to. Their eyes met for a second. She wanted him to. Or no, she didn’t.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said.
“What’s the matter?”
“Everything,” she said, choking up. He smoothed her dark hair back, feeling so tender toward her. That day in the church she’d let him hold her hand, and now his arms were around her, their faces nearly touching.
“Rafe,” she said softly, backing away. She crossed her arms across her chest. He’d stepped over some invisible line. She’d been upset, but now she was agitated.
“I didn’t mean …,” he began.
“I know,” she said.
What had changed? Was this because she had a boyfriend? She never talked about him, and she seemed so upset; had they fought? Rafe had spent so much of the last years getting high and trying to get clean, then getting fucked up again, chasing oblivion, he didn’t know how to trust himself.
He’d been with lots of girls. In New York, in London, even here on Capri. Parties on yachts, at the marina, in the grottoes. But this was so different. It reminded him of Monica, a way he’d started to feel back in rehab, never had the chance to find out. Now his feelings for Pell were exploding.
He reached for her again, but not coming on strong. Just easy, hand on her shoulder. He touched her hair. It felt like silk, the smoothest sensation against his skin. The boat rocked, and she leaned into him again. He tried to say her name, but his voice wouldn’t work.
Sun beat down, baking their skin. What if they just went swimming? He would show her the underwater caves. They could climb up onto the rocks, and he would kiss her, they would make out, he would caress her, make her forget her boyfriend. Was this what falling in love felt like? Was this what would have happened if he and Monica had had a chance?
After another minute, Pell eased out of his arms, knelt in the boat, and leaned her head against the gunwale. At first he thought maybe she was seasick. But he saw her shoulders shaking, and realized she was crying.
Rafe knelt beside her. He didn’t touch her, just was with her. The moment was so quiet. Boat engines hummed far away, but they were
alone in this small cove, the tallest pine- and cedar-crowned spire of white rock rising beside them. Sunlight bounced off the cliff, splashing into the glinting turquoise sea.
Rafe reached his hand into the clear pool. Pell didn’t raise her head, so he bumped her lightly with his elbow. Even then she wouldn’t lift her eyes; she didn’t want him to see her crying, or she was too gripped by whatever thoughts had driven her to leave her mother’s house. So he touched her again.
“Pell,” he said. “Hey.”
No response.
“Look,” he said. “Seahorses.”
At that she raised her eyes. When he’d stuck his hand into the water, the seahorses—delicate, fragile—had swarmed around it to investigate. He extended his index finger, and the largest seahorse, three inches long, wrapped his tail around so Rafe could pull it from the water.
He handed the squirming seahorse to Pell. She held it cupped in one hand, and she began to smile.
“See them all?” he asked, gesturing toward the cerulean water. “They came to see you.”
“Oh, Rafe.”
“They’re for you,” he said. “All the seahorses.”
The old him would have gagged at what he was saying. Would have laughed at what a jerk he was being. How corny, how stupid. Where had his words come from? What about Pell made him this way? He felt the way he’d seen his grandfather act toward his grandmother. He wanted to shield Pell from all hurt and wrong. He gazed at her as the boat moved beneath them.
He reached over, wiped tears from her eyes. Leaning close, his lips brushed her cheek. Then he took her hand, guided it into the water. She resisted a little, not wanting to let the seahorse go. But she did, and even as it swam away, scores more bumped her hand, wrapped their fine tails around her slender fingers.
“How did you find these?” she asked.
“My parents brought me here when I was little,” he said.
“You must have loved it. Other kids see seahorses at aquariums, you had them in your backyard.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m pretty lucky.”
“You became the lanciatore della Stella. The star-thrower. The boy who saves starfish and other living creatures.”
“That’s me,” he said.
“Seahorses and starfish,” she said, almost to herself.
“Why do you love them so much?” he asked.
“They used to remind me of my father.”
“Used to?” he asked.
But she didn’t reply, and he saw her smile dissolve as she gazed into the sunlit sea at hundreds of tiny seahorses.
Lucy Davis knew something was totally, utterly, indisputably not right. Pell had called, then hung up without leaving a message. Very unlike her. Pell was the über-Older Sister, the one who always left the encouraging word, who inquired about Lucy’s welfare, well-being, and sleeping, who was always on Lucy’s case.
Sending Pell out of the country, away from Lucy’s side, had taken yeoman work. Seriously, Lucy and Beck had had to double-team her, convincing her that the trip would benefit Lucy in the long run, considering Pell was planning to bring their mother back, and not that Lucy was getting her hopes up or anything, but who didn’t want their mother to return after years away?
Lucy had found some peace. Just hearing her mother’s voice that day, talking her into sleep; it didn’t mean everything was going to be perfect. But it told Lucy that she was loved. That’s all she’d ever wanted.
Not only had Pell not left a message, when Lucy returned the call, Pell’s phone was off. Off. That never happened. What if Lucy stubbed her toe and couldn’t get through? What if Lucy had a nightmare and Pell wasn’t available? What if their grandmother tried to force Lucy to attend some horrible black-tie-for-the-younger-set thing at the Breakers and Pell wasn’t there to absorb Lucy’s venting? What if Lucy stopped sleeping again? Or sleepwalked into the ocean like that time before?
Sitting at Beck’s kitchen table, lost in the latest round of drawings in their attempt to design a mathematically perfect moon gate, Lucy stared at her best friend.
“Still not answering?” Beck asked, leaning over the paper, drawing yet another circle with her compass.
“Nope,” Lucy said.
“Are you ready to take the next step?”
“Call my mother?”
“Yeah.”
Lucy nodded. She had to admit, she loved this part. Any chance to talk with her mother. She had secret thoughts she kept from Pell. Both girls treasured their father, but Lucy believed their mother’s real problems had started with him. Taylor Davis had been such a wonderful man, such a perfect dad, their mother must have felt like dog poo in comparison. Literally. He was like the golden sun, and she must have felt like a big pile of poop. Look at me! I abandoned my children!
Even when she’d still lived at home—and although Lucy was only a toddler at the time, she remembered clearly—their mother had been kind of a downer.
Dressed in her nightgown, never really washing her hair that well, watching soaps and eating cup-o-soups while Miss Miller, starched and prissy as ever, marched Lucy and Pell off to the park, and to nursery school, and to playtime at their friends’; and while their father, in his beautiful suits, went to the law office where he was a partner, and made lots of money, and gained the respect of the community, and still managed to come home on time and have dinner with the kids because his wife was in bed sobbing—well, who wouldn’t have the slightest, wee bit of a hard time showing her face around the country club?
“Okay fine,” Lucy said, punching in the number for her mother’s house as Beck looked on. “Dialing now … ringing … more ringing … oops, no one home. They must be out together having mother-daughter fun, that’s it, they’re … oh!”
“Hello?” her mother said.
“Mom?” Lucy asked.
“Lucy!”
Lucy beamed. Her mother sounded so thrilled to hear her voice, she almost wanted to hang up and call right back just to feel the jolt again.
“How are you?” Lucy asked.
“I’m fine,” her mother said. “But I can’t find Pell. Have you heard from her?”
“It’s strange you’d ask,” Lucy said. “Because she did call a while ago, but she hung up before I answered. Is everything okay?”
“I’m afraid I upset her,” her mother said. “I didn’t mean to, but I said the wrong thing, and …”
“Pell isn’t like that,” Lucy said. “Whatever you said, she forgives. She taught me that when we were little.” Could Lucy say this, go out on such a limb? “Because of you. Because we loved you so much, no matter what you did or said, no matter what, she told me to forgive everything.”
“Oh, Lucy,” her mother said.
“If she didn’t love you more than anything,” Lucy went on, “she wouldn’t have kept the map all this time.”
“The map?” her mother asked.
“Of Dorset!” Lucy said. “Don’t you remember? The country you and Pell made up. You drew it with crayons, and I stuck stars in the sky. Tiny foil stars. They were there so long, the glue dried up and some of them fell off. Pell re-glued them.”
Her mother was silent so long, Lucy thought maybe the connection had been broken.
“Mom?” she asked.
“Pell kept that map?” her mother asked.
“Of course,” Lucy said. “She’d never throw it away.”
More silence, and suddenly Lucy felt more worried than before. Her heart raced, and she gave Beck a look of dread. Travis came in from fishing, kicked off his rubber boots. Lucy smelled fish guts, but that’s not what made her feel sick: it was the idea that something bad had happened to her sister.
“Is everything okay?” Lucy asked. “Are you all right? Is Pell?”
At the sound of Pell’s name, Travis stopped what he was doing and stared across the kitchen, straight into Lucy’s eyes.
“I’m not sure,” her mother said. “Honestly I don’t know.”
They spoke another m
inute, and then hung up. Lucy felt afraid, because she hadn’t heard from her sister, because it was so unlike Pell to let her worry, and because it was clear that for some reason Pell had let their mother think she’d destroyed the map of Dorset. Lucy had felt left out by Pell’s trip, as much as she’d wanted her to take it, and as badly as she’d hoped she’d bring their mother home.
“I’m going,” she said, looking from Beck to Travis.
“Where?” Beck asked.
“Capri,” Lucy said. “Pell needs me.”
“I’ll go with you,” Travis said.
“Yes!” Beck said.
“Oh, shit,” Travis said, starting to rummage through his drawers. “Do I know where my passport is?”
“Mom has it,” Beck said. “She kept it after you and the team got back from skiing.”
Lucy and Beck exchanged a look. They weren’t supposed to know that Pell had gone too. She and Travis had been new back then—last winter, start of second semester. As a reward for their outstanding football season, some alum paid for the team to take a trip to Toronto. Pell and two of her friends—Logan Moore and Cordelia St. Onge—had met them at their hotel.
“Only one problem,” Travis said. “How much are plane tickets to Rome?”
Lucy reached into her backpack, pulled out her wallet. Her hands were shaking as she dug the credit card out of its compartment. She stared at it, at her name in raised black print.
“For emergencies,” she said. “That’s what the trust officer said it was for. And this is an emergency.”
“You’d probably better check with him, be sure,” Travis said.
“It’s my sister,” Lucy said. “And I can be very persuasive. I just … I’ve never made flight reservations before. Our father always did it, or Pell. Travis, do you know how?”
“I can figure it out fast,” Travis said.
Sixteen
Do you know about family myths? Your family has one—we all do. They are shorthand versions of your story usually accenting noble angles. Here are a few examples: “My grandfather was a hero in World War II and never talked about it.” “My mother built her business from the ground up but never forgot her roots.” Our family myth, Lucy’s and mine, was, “Our dad was both father and mother to us; he picked up the pieces after our mother abandoned us.”