The Edge of Winter

by Luanne Rice

  “Well, that trip to Washington. I’ve felt so guilty, going back and forth to see my sister, meet my friend, and it gets expensive. Shane’s so good about not asking for extra money, but I know he’d love to go on the school trip. The thing is, I think there’s a way I could afford both.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought maybe I could drive Shane and Mickey down. Drop them off in Washington—it’s on my way to North Carolina. And pick them up on the way home. That way, I’d only have Shane’s hotel and food bills to worry about. You know?”

  “I know,” Neve said, smiling. “I’m sure that would make both Shane and Mickey very happy.”

  Joe and Tim secured the inflatable, setting the anchor right by the jetty. They all came up the beach, exhausted and exhilarated. Tim put his arms around Neve and kissed her. His lips were salty, and when his body pressed against hers, she felt the freshness of the sea.

  They stood there, in a circle on the sand, gathered together. Shane talked excitedly about what he’d seen down below, and Neve knew the extra sparkle in his eyes was because his mother had come down to see him. She listened to the stories. Tim’s arm was around her, and she couldn’t help thinking of the time they’d been here, right in this spot on the beach, when it had been so much colder.

  Winter’s ice and snow had covered the sand; her skin had felt numb, partly from the cold, partly from her frozen heart. The snowy owl had been on its sharp, swift flight out from the weather-silvered driftwood log. This beach bore the tracks and footprints of so many that Neve loved—some gone forever, others being made right now.

  “Are you okay?” she asked Tim in a low voice, so no one else could hear.

  “I am,” he said. “Better than I thought.”

  “How’s your father?”

  “He’s all right. I guess we’re getting accustomed to the idea of this really happening. I never thought I’d see the day, but the wreck will be gone soon.”

  Another car pulled up, stopped on the road beyond the dune. Neve looked up, saw the door open. Several people got out, and a very old lady was helped from the back seat. She had white hair, and she was dressed in black. Standing very straight and tall, she faced the water.

  As Neve and Tim watched, the wives of Damien’s crew drifted over to her and the people she’d come with. Perhaps she’s another wife, Neve thought. Another of Damien’s flight crew, attracted to Secret Harbor by the news of the Berkeley show. Voices carried over the sand, scraps of conversation. Neve saw Mickey and Shane look at each other.

  “They’re speaking German,” Mickey said, and she and Shane ran up the beach.

  Talia went behind them, followed by Joe, Tim, and Neve. Neve watched the way Tim supported his father as he made his way across the sand. It gave way beneath his legs, and the dune was steep, and as sure-footed as he seemed in the boat, on the water, right now there was no mistaking that he was an eighty-five-year-old man.

  Once they got up on the road, Mickey turned to them. She had been talking to the new arrivals—the very old white-haired woman, and the four people with her.

  “They got my letter,” Mickey said, her eyes gleaming.

  “Yes, my mother appreciated it very much,” one of the women said—she looked to be about sixty-five, but very trim and beautiful, with chic gray hair and a slim black suit. “My brother and I, and our spouses, wanted to come for ourselves. And she, of course, has wanted to make this trip for a very long time.”

  The old woman spoke in German, and her daughter translated.

  “Many years I have wanted to come here, yet also dreaded it. Because I knew that once I stood on this shore, I would be so close to him, that he would seem even farther away.”

  “Your husband?” Joe asked, stepping forward.

  Neve watched Tim hold on to his father’s elbow, steadying him, before Joe pulled away.

  The woman translated to her mother, then listened to the reply.

  “Yes,” she said. “He died here, just off this beach, aboard a U-boat.”

  “U-823,” Joe said.

  “Yes.”

  “April seventeenth, nineteen forty-four,” Joe said. He faced the old woman, not her daughter. “I am Joseph O’Casey; I was the commander of the USS James, the destroyer escort that sank your husband’s U-boat.”

  “My father was only twenty-four years old,” the daughter said.

  “So was my father,” Tim said.

  “They were enemies,” one of the men said, stepping forward. He was tall and dark, with blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. “The war took our father from us.”

  Neve watched Tim battling with himself; perhaps he wanted to say it had taken his from him, too. But his father stood there now, and she knew what a blessing it was, for people to have a whole lifetime together to work out their worst hurts.

  “I’m so sorry,” Joe said. “I would do anything to change it if I could.”

  “He would,” Tim said. “He’s lived with the responsibility of this battle every day. You have to understand, he was defending our country.”

  But Joe shook his head. The reasons didn’t matter right now. The battle seemed ancient history; there were just people, human beings, families scarred by war, facing each other now. Neve watched as he took a step closer to the old woman.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, the words so simple.

  Everyone was silent. The two oldest people stared into each other’s eyes. The daughter didn’t even translate; it was unnecessary. The old woman’s eyes clouded, filled with tears. She nodded as they streamed down her cheeks.

  “Es war Krieg,” she said. It was war….

  “Who was your husband?” Joe asked, and when he took her hand, Neve saw that his eyes were flooded, too.

  “Oberleutnant Kurt Lang,” she said.

  And Neve had to bury her face in Tim’s shoulder as she saw Joe reach for the old woman, saw their shoulders shaking in silent sobs.

  Epilogue

  It was just three weeks later, on the same beach.

  The trip to Washington had been a blast. Cherry blossoms seen, Lincoln Memorial visited at night, Smithsonian toured, postcards sent: Having a great time, Senator Sheridan was wonderful! Thanks, Dad!

  Mickey’s father hadn’t been kidding when he said he’d called.

  The Senate office building had been so austere, so grand, that Mickey and Shane had felt tiny and unimportant, unable to believe that their being there could ever make any kind of difference.

  Of course, their being there had rankled Josh Landry, which in itself was almost worth it. He’d had huge visions of taking the whole class up to see Senator Sheridan, but ha! They’d all been stopped at the security checkpoint—all except Mickey and Shane.

  The senator had been so gracious. Tall, handsome, Irish American, a photo op waiting to happen. He’d gone on a bit about how Mickey’s dad had sold him his house on Rumstick Point, and what a great golf swing he had, and how he sure could tell a great story, and a bunch of other stuff.

  But Mickey, knowing that the senator had probably allotted just so much time to be nice to the constituent’s daughter, had reached into her satchel, pulled out the letters, and plunked them down on the big mahogany desk, right beside the picture of John F. Kennedy.

  “We want the U-boat to stay in Rhode Island,” she’d said.

  “Ah, yes, the U-boat,” Senator Sheridan had said, a little shocked.

  “These are pictures we took underwater,” Shane had said. He’d pulled out the album he and Mr. O’Casey had put together—the one he’d almost left in his mother’s car as she’d dropped them off at the Capitol Hill Holiday Inn. Thank God he’d had Mickey with him to remind him.

  “And these are pictures we took of Joseph O’Casey with the widow of Oberleutnant Kurt Lang,” Mickey had said, turning to the right page.

  “You mean the commander of U-823?” Senator Sheridan had asked, clearly a student of his state’s history.

  “That’s the one,” Mickey
had said.

  Now, standing on the beach, she felt the very late-day sun on her face. Shane had spent the afternoon surfing—the waves as big and mighty as ever, because the topography down below hadn’t changed.

  The U-boat was staying.

  Oh, Senator Sheridan, Mickey wanted to say to the sky. Thank you. Thank you for reading the letters, looking at the pictures, having a heart, and even more—having a soul. Thank you for saying no to Cole Landry, thank you for saying yes to Richard Halloran.

  Mickey’s dad was the hero here—she’d never believe otherwise. If he hadn’t pulled strings, would Mickey and Shane have gotten their audience with Senator Sheridan? See? Case closed.

  Right now, while Shane dried off, Mickey let the sun warm her face. He came over, put his arm around her. Together they went over to the jetty, where Jenna and Tripp were standing. Mickey smiled at Jenna—it meant so much that she had come today.

  “When are they getting here?” Jenna asked.

  “Any second now,” Mickey said.

  “Man,” Tripp said to Shane, “you can really surf.”

  “Yeah,” Shane said modestly.

  “You been doing it awhile?”

  “Only my whole life.”

  “You must love it.”

  “Yeah,” Shane said.

  Mickey smiled, and she and Jenna exchanged a look. They’d been bird-watching their whole lives, and if this whole episode had taught them one thing, it was that you don’t outgrow the things you love.

  A few minutes later, they heard the truck, and together they all hurried up the beach, to meet Joe, Tim, and Mickey’s mom. Tim and Shane reached into the back of the truck bed, hauled the big cage forward. Mickey remembered back to the night Mr. O’Casey had dug it out of the ranger station shed—all filled with cobwebs and dead moths.

  They had used the cage to take the injured snowy owl over to the raptor barn, and tonight they were delivering him back to the beach—to the weathered driftwood log that they hoped would be his runway, his launching pad to return home, northward to the Arctic.

  “Oh my God,” Jenna said, when she looked in the cage. “There are two of them.”

  “He has a mate,” Mickey said.

  “She was badly wounded herself,” Joe explained to Jenna and Tripp. “I’ve been caring for her for a year now, and she never flew until this spring.”

  “Because she found love,” Mickey said. “With our snowy owl.”

  “That’s right,” Mickey’s mother said. “And it healed them both.”

  Mickey glanced over at her and Tim. They were holding hands, standing on the beach road like two kids. Sometimes it still hurt Mickey, pierced her heart to think of her mother being happy with someone else, not her father. And it made Mickey ache to know that her father had disappeared again.

  She looked up at Joe, saw him watching her. Why did she feel he could read her mind? It was as if he knew the best of her father, and the worst, and was encouraging her to love him for all of it—especially for the hero he was, in helping keep U-823 here in Rhode Island.

  We couldn’t have done it without your father, he’d said to her, as soon as the decision had been announced. He gazed at her now with such stern love, she could almost believe he’d magically become her grandfather. She felt him willing her to have faith, to stay strong, to see the best in her father. He had shown her a picture of his brother and his daughters when they were little, as well as a sepia-toned photograph of an old farmhouse, and a 1940s map of the mountains near Alsace-Lorraine, when it had been occupied France.

  “Damien’s daughter Aimée once asked me to tell her something about her father,” he had said to Mickey. “Something to explain the way he was.”

  “What did you tell her?” Mickey had asked, wishing he, or someone, could do the same for her.

  “I told her it’s a love story,” he’d said. “It’s difficult, and it doesn’t have a happy ending. But it’s about how brave her father was, and it’s about the courage of some women who believed in goodness even while the world around them seemed to be ending.”

  “What did she say after you told her?” Mickey had asked.

  “She never stayed to listen,” he’d said, staring at the cracked photo of the farmhouse. “She walked away that day, and she’s never come back since. Even though the story is waiting. And it’s as magical and true as any story I know.”

  “Maybe she will come back,” Mickey had whispered, her own heart broken again. “No matter how much time goes by, he’s still her father.”

  Joe had nodded, looking at her as if he thought her very wise. Mickey didn’t know about that, but she did know about love. She felt it, all the way through, for everyone here right now—and for her father, wherever he was. Love was like a silver cord with a bright red core, running through the center of her spine, the part of her that was most alive.

  Watching Tim and Shane carry the cage onto the beach, she noticed how much later it stayed light now. It was nearly seven, and the sun was setting behind the thicket. The day’s last light spread across the pine trees, turning their sharp green needles golden. It poured onto the dunes, making them gleam with pink and gold. Spreading into the sea, it slicked across the boldly breaking waves, exploding into sparks of foam. If Berkeley were here now, he’d paint something extraordinary.

  Because as the sun set, the moon rose. The moonlight chased the gold away, replaced it with silver. Mickey thought of the miraculous medal Shane had told her about, the silver disc showing Mary crushing the serpent, that Tim had laid on the broken hull of U-823. Mickey imagined the medal blessing the men who had died inside the wreck, and those who had died on the surface. Those who were still alive…

  Shane’s father, and her own father. Everyone’s families. Damien and his daughters, and the love story still untold. Mickey looked around the circle now, saying a silent prayer for her mother and Tim, Joe, Jenna and Tripp, Shane, his mother and the major, Beth, and Frank.

  And, of course, the snowy owls.

  This was Joe’s area of expertise. Everyone stood back, right against the dunes. Joe crouched alone beside the cage. The birds rustled inside, turning their heads, already testing their white wings. Mickey stared at the male, the one she’d found here on the beach, the very first snowy owl she’d ever seen. She held her breath as Joe opened the cage door.

  He stayed very still. It took a few minutes; the moon rose perceptibly higher, a white disc over the sea. While time ticked by, one owl emerged from the cage, followed by the other. When they were both on the sand, Joe inched back with the cage.

  But he didn’t go too far. It was as if he wanted to be sure it was safe—Mickey watched him kneel down on one knee, eyes sharply riveted on the owls. She heard the cry—joyous, hungry for the tundra, ready for ice. One owl lifted off, and instantly so did its mate.

  They flew in a straight line off the end of the jetty, over the water, toward the moon. Its bright path traced the waves, breaking over the sunken remains of U-823. Mickey watched the owls veer, just like aircraft, just like the Silver Shark. They tilted suddenly, as if too unstable to fly. Mickey’s heart jumped, and she wanted to catch the owls, bring them back, and she tore onto the beach, her arms out.

  Joe caught her, held her while she reached up, into the sky.

  “Let them go,” he said. “It’s time.”

  “What if they can’t make it? If they get hurt, or if they fall?” she cried, thinking of how far they had to go, of all the dangers they’d face on the way.

  “Just look at them,” he said as they grew more distant. “They’re not hurt or falling right now, are they?”

  She couldn’t speak. Standing there, she just stared after the owls, her heart pounding. She thought of all the awful things that could happen to two creatures, all the trials they would have to go through before they reached their home.

  “What if they don’t make it?” she asked. “What if they aren’t ready? Or if they’re too weak? Or they can’t find food? Or som
eone attacks them, like what happened to them here?”

  “There’s goodness in the world, Mickey.”

  “But not enough,” she whispered, hot tears in her eyes.

  “There’s you,” he said.

  “Me?”

  “You did your part, and things changed.”

  Mickey blinked, wiped her eyes. Her part; all she had done was try to help, just the smallest way she could. She wanted to believe that he was right, that the world was full of good. And when she glanced around, saw the people she loved standing there, smiling at her with encouragement, as if she were the one who had spread her wings, was trying to fly, she could almost believe that Joe was right.

  “Just trust, Mickey. Believe in peace, okay?”

  They stood together, the old man and the teenaged girl, and she tried to take his words in, tried to feel the possibility.

  Mickey breathed the salt air, watching the owls bank over the sea, adjust their course. Their wings gleamed in the moonlight, and Mickey knew that Joe was seeing his brother’s silver plane. But then one snowy owl let out a cry—a deep, hollow hoot—and the other answered, as if to let each other know that it was really time to go, that they were on their way; and the snowy owls beat their strong white wings, flying north over the beach and the thicket, finally heading home.

  Joe took Mickey’s hand, and together they grabbed the cage, and they walked up the beach. Spring was really here. The night was warm, and the waves broke over the old hull, eleven fathoms down, that had once brought war to this beloved shore. The moon shone on the waves and this beach, making its nightly transit all around the world. And Mickey held tight to the peace.

  About the Author

  LUANNE RICE is the author of twenty-two novels, including Sandcastles, Summer of Roses, Summer’s Child, Silver Bells, Beach Girls, and Dance With Me. She lives in New York City and Old Lyme, Connecticut.

  Also by Luanne Rice

  Sandcastles

  Summer of Roses

  Summer’s Child

  Silver Bells

  Beach Girls