The Edge of Winter

by Luanne Rice

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Luanne Rice

  Copyright

  For Audrey and Robert Loggia, with love

  Acknowledgments

  With love and thanks to Commander L. Paul James, USN (Ret.), for his constant friendship, his generosity in helping with my research, and for telling me about being at sea in the North Atlantic, especially the amazing detail of dawn arriving on the bridge.

  Much love to William Twigg Crawford, for all the time we’ve spent on and near the sea.

  Thank you forever to Mim, my grandmother, and to her nieces and nephews: Barbara and Mary Lou Beaudry; Lucille Kennedy; Bob Kennedy and Mary Keenan; Mary Beth and Brian Holland; Howard and Mimi Logee; and Arthur and Gail McCormack; and in memory of Florence, Josie, George, Arthur, Ida, Eva, and Gladys, for all the love, stories, and wonderful times in Rhode Island.

  I’m so grateful to everyone at Bantam: Irwyn Applebaum, Nita Taublib, Tracy Devine, Betsy Hulsebosch, Carolyn Schwartz, Cynthia Lasky, Barb Burg, Susan Corcoran, Gina Wachtel, Melissa Lord, Kerri Buckley, Kenneth Wohlrob, Igor Aronov, Paolo Pepe, Virginia Norey, Kathleen Baldonado, Ruth Toda, and Deb Dywer.

  Thank you to my agent, Andrea Cirillo, and everyone at the Jane Rotrosen Agency: Jane Berkey, Don Cleary, Meg Ruley, Peggy Gordijn, Annelise Robey, Kelly Harms, Christina Hogrebe, Gillian Luongo, Trinity Boscardin, Lindsay Klemas, and Kathy Lee Hart.

  Much gratitude to Ron Bernstein.

  With love to Amelia Onorato and the BDG, and to Marianna Scandole, Monique Colarossi, and Ashley Elliott of Regis College.

  Thank you to Mark Lonergan, Dore Dedrick, Riley, and Mattie, for their countless kindnesses to me and the girls.

  Love to Colin McEnroe, who knows that all roads lead to a porch in Maine.

  My appreciation to Dan Walsh for his knowledge and insight regarding U-boats.

  My father, Thomas F. Rice Jr., flew during World War II as navigator-bombardier with the 492nd and 44th Bomb Groups. His bravery knew no bounds. Many thanks to my cousin, Thomas Brielmann; Norma and Bill Beasley, of the 492nd Bomb Group Association; and Paul Arnett, for Paul and Dave Arnett; Charles and Anna Arnett; Ed Alexander; Ernest Haar; Robert Dubowsky; Patrick Byrne; Allan Blue; Robin Janton; Brian Mahoney; and to the many other wonderful people I met in Dayton, for keeping the memories and stories alive.

  Prologue

  The day the world ended started out crystal clear, the sky so sharply, heart-stoppingly blue, it seemed it might crack. Although it was near the end of February, and freezing cold, Mickey and Jenna rode their bikes down the windswept road toward the barrier beach. They did this all spring, summer, and fall, but this was their first bike outing since the winter snows had receded.

  Jenna’s favorite bird was the black-throated blue warbler, although it was too early in the season to see one. Mickey’s favorite bird—unseen by either her or Jenna, but loved for its mystery and elusiveness—was the snowy owl, and the rare-bird group had sent out an e-mail that one had been spotted on Refuge Beach. Such e-mails came every day, but this was the first snowy sighting that Mickey could remember.

  “It’s freezing,” Jenna said as they pedaled south.

  “I know,” Mickey said. “But just think—we’re going to see a snowy owl.”

  “The e-mail didn’t even say where it was!”

  “That’s because birders always protect owls. They’re so shy and timid,” Mickey said. “But don’t worry. The poster gave it all away when he mentioned cranberry bogs and holly.”

  “There are bogs all along here!”

  “I know,” Mickey said. “But only one that has a thicket of holly, too. Come on, it’s only another half mile.” They passed the information center, where the Refuge Beach park ranger lived. Mickey had seen the lights on late at night, when she and her mother came down on summer nights to have starlight picnics. Mickey saw his green truck and wondered what he was doing on such a cold, quiet day at the park.

  “I can’t wait until we have our licenses,” Jenna said. “One more year. Do you think we’re being hopelessly immature, riding our bikes to Refuge Beach to see a stupid bird?”

  “You didn’t think it was stupid last summer,” Mickey murmured, but Jenna didn’t hear; the wind took Mickey’s voice and whirled it over the dunes, out to sea. Her face stung from the cold, and her gloved hands seemed frozen to the handlebars. Jenna didn’t know how much Mickey needed to do this today. Her chest burned—with exertion, but even more from an aching heart. Her parents were back in court this morning.

  “We’re getting too old to be birding,” Jenna said warningly. “I do want to see a snowy owl, but that’s it. Birds were one thing when we were younger, Mick. But frankly, I just don’t care about them the same way.”

  Mickey nodded. She didn’t reply. Did Jenna have any idea what she was saying? Did she really want to join the ranks of all the other teenagers in their class, who seemed to be losing their spirits drop by drop, suddenly obsessed with stuff like makeup and iPods, clunky boots, and the perfect, cool bike-messenger book bag? Blowing sand grains whipped her cheeks as she pedaled harder.

  Just before they got to the thicket, she noticed a construction truck parked on the sandy road. The truck bed contained a small bulldozer, lashed down by a thick chain. Wondering what it was doing there, she skidded and almost wiped out as she turned to look. But she righted her bike, signaled, and turned off the paved road into the small sandy parking lot.

  They leaned their bikes up against a split rail fence, went running down the winding trail into the thicket. Mickey’s heart had been pounding, but it relaxed in here. The path was just two-tenths of a mile long, but it seemed to bring her into an enchanted realm.

  The thicket was magic. Only the hardiest shore plants could survive in this harsh environment between the dunes and the road. The wind was so relentless, it kept all the bushes low and leaning away from the sea. Pitch pine, blueberry bushes, red maple, shadbush, bayberry, black cherry, red cedars, cranberry bogs, and—in this stretch alone, of the entire ten-mile-long barrier beach—many American holly bushes. The thicket was a haven for migratory and year-round birds, and Mickey had been coming here with her mother since she was a baby. She knew every inch of it by heart, and loved it nearly as much as her own home.

  When she and Jenna reached the far end of the path, just over the narrow boardwalk that crossed the marshiest part of the bog—frozen now, from the long winter—Mickey motioned for Jenna to start watching.

  They emerged from the shady thicket—all branches bare of leaves, but thick enough to have blocked the sky—into dazzling blue. The white dunes were topped with graceful windblown beach grass. The beach was endless, pristine. Not a house was to be seen for miles either up or down the strand—Refuge Beach had never been developed, due to its combination of wetlands and nesting habitat
s.

  Mickey felt ghosts here. A U-boat had sunk just offshore during World War II, and sometimes she imagined she heard the spirits of the sailors who had drowned. She thought she heard them now, and a sudden shudder went through her body.

  It might have been the cold. Taking a few more steps, she gazed over the beach. Her face froze in the sharp sea wind. Beach grasses bent flat sketched circles in the hard sand. A crooked old wooden jetty, battered by storms and covered with barnacles, meandered into the sea. Long waves flowed in. There was a legendary break off this beach, and surfers loved it here, even in winter. But today was too cold even for them.

  Mickey’s heart kicked. She looked around. She had a sixth sense about birds, and she could feel the owl even before she saw it. Her eyes were drawn instantly: round and white, the snowy owl resembled a soccer ball sitting in the middle of the beach, just this side of the jetty, several feet from a silver, wind-blasted driftwood log.

  “There,” she whispered, her hand on Jenna’s arm.

  “Oh my God,” Jenna whispered back.

  They stood perfectly still for several minutes. The snowy owl didn’t move. It was regal, elegant, pure white, the tips of some feathers flecked with grayish brown. Because it was midday, Mickey knew the owl was probably sleeping. The girls held their breath, not wanting to even breathe. Waves broke along the shore, the sea brilliant blue and fairly calm, despite the steady breeze.

  Presently Jenna nodded; she was ready to leave. The friends backed away from the owl. Mickey stared at it as long as she could. She would have liked to stay in the dunes, waiting for dusk and the bird’s fly-out. To see a snowy owl hunting low along this stretch of Mickey’s beloved beach, so far south of its normal habitat, would feel almost miraculous to Mickey—and she knew she needed a miracle today.

  “That was so cool,” Jenna said, once they were well into the thicket and unlikely to disturb the owl. “I can’t believe I finally saw one. Okay, check it off the list.”

  “It was amazing,” Mickey said, pricked by Jenna’s attitude.

  By the time she and Jenna got onto their bikes, she felt anger and frustration building in her chest. How could Jenna not want to wait a little longer? How could she be so cavalier about seeing a snowy owl—the bird she knew was Mickey’s favorite—for the first time in her whole life?

  Something made Mickey turn around; she felt a flutter inside, and she was sure the owl was about to fly over. She saw that the footprints they had made on their walk into the thicket and over the dunes were already gone—erased by the relentless wind. There was no sign of the owl, but again she spotted the bulldozer and flatbed truck.

  “I wonder what that’s for,” Mickey said to Jenna, gesturing at the equipment.

  “It belongs to Josh’s father,” Jenna said, mentioning her boyfriend Tripp’s close friend. Josh Landry’s family had recently moved to the state, and his father was a well-known businessman who was always involved in controversial projects. Mickey had been so preoccupied with her parents lately, she hadn’t been keeping up on local news.

  “What’s he going to do here?” she asked.

  “Oh, something to do with that sunken submarine. Didn’t you see it in the paper? I guess it’s been snagging fishing nets, so they’re going to try moving it, or removing the periscope and stuff like that. Mr. Landry wants to help by getting it out of here. He’s going to take it somewhere so it can be turned into a museum.” Jenna was glowing as she spoke, as if she thought he was a local hero.

  “Help our community?” Mickey asked. “By moving the U-boat? That’s not possible!” Incredulous, she spun her head around to look.

  This time she noticed a young man standing beside the truck. He held fire—tall flames shooting up from his fingertips. Mickey’s mind whirled; having just seen the snowy owl, she thought he must be a sorcerer, about to do wild magic. Her eyes met his, and in that instant she recognized him as one of the surfers from her high school. His expression was dark, his hand blazing as he tried to duck back, out of view.

  “We have to help him,” she gasped, realizing that he was burning.

  As Mickey charged toward him, her bike skidded on the sand. She felt herself lose control—not in a bad way, but as if she had suddenly grown wings. She was a snowy owl, lifting, rising above the road, almost high enough to see over the dunes and out to sea. She’d swoop down, put the fire out, save him.

  “Mickey, watch out!” Jenna screamed.

  “Whoa!” the fire boy yelled.

  Mickey let go of the handlebars. She felt her arms go up over her head, up into the air, trying to steady herself, grab on to something solid in the sky. She heard the bike tumble and crash on the pavement beneath her, and then she heard Jenna scream again, and then she felt herself come crashing down like a bird with broken wings onto the cold, sandy tar.

  1

  Shane West held the flamethrower, stunned when he realized he wasn’t alone. He’d come to the deserted beach to make his stand. His teachers were always saying he wasn’t working up to potential, but this was just a different kind of potential.

  Two girls rode by on their bikes just then—perfect but terrible timing. He recognized Mickey Halloran as she turned to stare at him, saw the fire. She looked panicked, and she must have thought he needed help, because suddenly she came charging at him on her bike. He tried to gesture “go away,” but she flew at him like a two-wheeled missile, and he had to admire her for it. He knew single-minded purpose when he saw it. But just then she went into a skid and took a header over her handlebars.

  Dousing the fire in a sand dune, he ran across the road, as the other girl—Jenna Carlson, he thought—jumped off her bike, ran back, and dropped to her knees next to Mickey. Shane pushed past her and crouched, leaning over to look into Mickey’s eyes. He had never talked to her, but he’d noticed her around school. Her face was pretty, pale, lightly freckled; her enormous eyes were light green. Two long brown braids hung from beneath her dark blue knit cap. He could tell in one glance that it wasn’t good. She had hit her head when she landed, and blood was pooling on the pavement. But her eyes were still open.

  “Mickey, why’d you turn like that? Oh God!” Jenna was crying, almost hysterical.

  “Don’t move,” Shane said to Mickey.

  “They’re going to move the U-boat,” she said. “And they’re acting like it’s a public service.” Her lips were blue; Shane knew she might be going into shock.

  “Not if I can help it,” he said.

  “You were on fire,” she said.

  “Shhh,” he said. “Pretend you didn’t see that.”

  Her eyes rolled back, and her eyelids flickered.

  “Whoa,” he said, panicking. His heart accelerated, full blast. He hadn’t been there for his father, but he was here now. Back then, things had gone so wrong. This time he’d make sure they went right. He stared down at the girl. They were in the same class, but different crowds. “No going to sleep. Talk to me. Your name’s Mickey, right?”

  “Yes, that’s her name,” the friend said. “And I’m Jenna, and she’s right, you were holding fire in your hand. What was that?”

  “Mickey, hey,” Shane said, ignoring her friend. “Stay with me here. Dismantling the U-boat, taking it away? Changing the surf, and the way the beach is formed? How badly would that suck? Mickey?”

  “Terrible,” she said, coming back from the brink, those green eyes bright again, full of life. “Can’t happen. The birds…snowy owl…need the beach the way it is…”

  “Yeah,” Shane said, thinking how sweet she looked, seeing how hard she was trying to stay alert. “And surfers need that U-boat. Birds and surfers. Fly by air, fly by sea. Come on, Mickey. Stay awake.” He looked up at her friend. “We have to get her an ambulance.”

  “Where? How?” Jenna asked, starting to cry again. She might not know exactly what was wrong with Mickey, but she could see the blood, and like Shane she knew it was bad. She was willowy and blond, and Shane took note of her pretty p
owder-puff looks and hoped she could be tough right now. “We’re five miles from the main road, and cell phones don’t work down here,” she said.

  Shane had come the back way, through the frozen bog. His car was broken down, and he had no money to fix it. His mother was out of town, so he couldn’t borrow hers. Besides, cars left tire marks, and any idiot with a TV had seen enough forensics shows to know that treads could be traced. So he’d fit everything he needed into his pockets, carried the rest, and come to do what needed to be done.

  “I’ll run for help,” he said, peeling off his parka. It was old, patched in places by silver duct tape. “You keep her awake and talking no matter what—you hear me?”

  “Yes,” Jenna said.

  “Don’t move her,” he said. “Not even an inch.”

  Mickey was trembling. As he tucked his coat around her, careful not to jostle her, Shane touched her face; it was ice cold. She gazed up at him as if he was some kind of savior. The look in her eyes caught him like a fishhook because he knew he held her life in his hands.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  Her mouth moved, but no sound came out.

  “Think of that snowy owl,” he said. “Just stay wide awake, and wish, and the owl will fly overhead. Just keep your eyes open so you don’t miss it.”

  “You saw it?” Mickey managed to whisper.

  “Of course,” Shane said, staring into Mickey’s green eyes. “Every time I surf. It’s been here all winter.” Then, to her friend, “Remember what I said—keep her awake.”

  “Okay. Hurry!” Jenna said.

  Shane jumped up. “Watch for the owl,” he said to Mickey, and then took off running. In another phase of his life, he’d been on the track team. His event had been the hundred-yard dash, but he wasn’t a bad distance runner. Right now, although he had five miles to cover before reaching the state road, he ran as if it were a sprint—flat out, as fast as he could go.

  He’d been young when his father had died, but if he could have run for help like now, he would have. Today, he knew failure was not an option. Surfing all winter, powering through the Atlantic cross-chop, kept him lean and mean, and he used the look in Mickey’s eyes to make him run faster than he ever had.