The Summer of Chasing Mermaids

by Sarah Ockler

  I shook my head. Lemon was the one who’d invited me to the States, who’d convinced Dad and Granna it would do me good to get off the island, away from the constant reminders of everything that could no longer be. It was like she’d sensed my ache across the oceans, and I knew she could still sense it now. That she understood I needed time. Space. Distance.

  From the moment she’d sent the ticket, I promised myself that I’d earn my place here. Do what I could to help at the gallery, even when she’d tried to insist that I relax. As long as Lemon would have me—as long as she had a place for me and I could continue to help out—I had no plans to return to Tobago.

  Besides, there was a chance Christian could pull this off. Kirby had told me that when Christian and Noah raced together, they’d won every time, three years running.

  “That’s what I told her,” Lemon said. “Your dad, too. He knows as well as I do that you’re not going anywhere until—and unless—you’re good and ready. I don’t care what those cocky old fools do with our house.”

  Lemon looked out across the Pacific, the horizon endless and gray despite the rising sun.

  “I grew up with those boys,” she said. “Wes and Andy. Ever since they were kids, they’ve been pissing in each other’s shoes. Sometimes I think the only reason Andy left the Cove was to prove he was better than Wes. When Wes ran for mayor, Andy sent campaign contributions, even though there wasn’t an opposing candidate. He just wanted Wes to know how much throwaway money he had.” Lemon shook her head. “Either of them would save a baby from a burning building, but bet your ass they’d be sure the other one heard about it after.”

  I tugged on her jacket to get her attention. When she looked at me, I mouthed carefully, Why bet houses? Why not just sell?

  “Andy didn’t show up here wanting to sell,” she said. “Unfortunately, bets are his weakness, and Wes knows how to use it against him. He set the hook; Andy bit. Walking away would’ve made him look weak, especially after that jab Wes took at the boys.”

  I thought again of Sebastian, the excitement in his eyes when he’d started telling me about Atargatis, and Christian, his body strung tight in his father’s presence.

  I thought of the Vega, all the work it needed. How I knew that it needed all that work, not just because it looked like a wreck on the outside, but because I knew boats.

  I closed my eyes, drifted into a memory at the resort, Natalie and I taking Bella Garcia out on our own Vega. Bella was one of our ­regulars, sailed like a pro. She was also famous, one of the most popular soca artists in T&T. Earlier this year she’d taken the coveted Queen of the Bands title at Carnival.

  Natalie and I had been there.

  On the stage.

  Holding her hands when they’d announced her big win.

  It was our big win too. The moment that was supposed to launch our entire future together . . .

  “Those two,” Lemon said, pulling me back to the present. “That’s what happens when you see yourself through someone else’s mirror, Elyse. You build your dreams for them, ignoring your own heart. One day you wake up and wonder how the fire went out.” She squeezed my leg. “Promise me you’ll never do that.”

  Lemon looked out on the sea, gurgling and churning again, and I suddenly realized why she didn’t move to Tobago with Dad and Granna when she got pregnant with Kirby—unexpectedly—after a weekend of no-strings-attached Carnival revelry. My sisters told me that Granna had tried to insist, but Lemon was an artist, an old soul. She knew what it was to feel that fire burning inside her, that passion, and for her it was wholly connected to this place, the Pacific Northwest, Atargatis Cove. Staying in Tobago with my family might’ve made her life easier, more convenient.

  But it would’ve extinguished her fire.

  I wanted to ask her if that’s why she took me in this summer, if she thought it might help me find my own fire, light it up again. But a fresh wave rose and crashed against the rocks, spraying us with salt water, and in my momentary fear I let the moment pass.

  “I don’t know what to make of this regatta bet,” Lemon said. Her eyes held mine again, serious, and for a minute I thought she might ask me if I’d think about helping Christian. Even just getting the boat patched up. But when she cupped my chin with her palm, a smile softened her face. “But it’s not for you to worry. You’ll always have a place with me and Kirby, for as long as you want it. Even if we have to move and close the gallery. Even if we end up in a tent on the beach. You’re a joy, Elyse, and you’re always welcome. Never, ever doubt that this is your home too.”

  Home.

  Each of my older sisters left home after high school, one after the other. Juliette was first, gone to Barcelona, ancient city on the sea. By day she studied at Universitat Autònoma de Barcelona, and when the moon rose, she walked the shores, watched the city glimmering like a jewel. Martine followed the tea leaves through China and India, learning how to plant and harvest, dry and blend, make a “proper cuppa,” as she said. Gabrielle was eager to explore the islands, sticking her toes in all the sands of the Caribbean—Jamaica, Barbados, Honduras—but she missed our homeland, and eventually returned to open a dive shop near the cocoa estate. Hazel was the last to leave, following her dreams to Greenland, that vast white fist on the globe, where with her ­camera she perched on the tips of the tallest icebergs, photographing God’s most impossible creations.

  Natalie was still home, still waiting for me, but the rest were explorers. Adventurers. Dreamers.

  Maybe our island looked different from the shores of Spain, from behind the thick crowds of the Far East, from a ship sailing on the Caribbean Sea, from the edge of the Arctic. But for them, it would always be home, no matter how far they’d traveled, how many adventures they’d embarked upon.

  Port of Spain, Trinidad, was only fifty miles from our resort—much closer than the other continents across which my sisters had traversed. But looking out at the islands from that hospital window in the city, when my twin sister and a doctor who looked not much older than me said I’d never sing again? That was the day I lost my home.

  I didn’t want that for Lemon and Kirby. Even if what Mayor Katzenberg had said was true—that Lemon could keep on renting, just from a new landlord—I knew it would change. That the rent would double, at least. That the house wouldn’t be the same, wouldn’t feel like hers. That the face of the entire town would change. Lemon was taking it all in stride, but she faced the possibility of losing the home she loved, shutting down the gallery she’d worked so hard to build, relocating to a strange new place.

  And I had the skills and the time to do something to help her keep it.

  Despite my fears, how could I not try?

  As if to answer, the sea threw an icy wave our way, fully dousing us both. Lemon squealed, and inside, I shrank and shriveled.

  “Time to make our exit,” she said, “before the tide comes in and sweeps us down to the underneath.”

  She rose from the rocks and turned back toward the horizon, offering a small bow of thanks to the sun just before it slipped fully behind the clouds.

  I did the same, ignoring the tremble in my limbs, the warring thoughts that tugged me from one side—offering Christian my help with the Vega—to the other—steering clear of the treacherous sea, of Christian and his family. Beyond that, even if I could trust the ocean, even if Christian could take me seriously, how could I get involved in anything connected to Wes Katzenberg and Andy Kane? Men like that ruled the world, always getting their way, always knocking people down in the crossfire.

  Against that, what power had a broken girl with no voice?

  On our return march, I waved away Lemon’s offered hand. Despite my careful steps, I sliced my foot on a jagged edge, and now I limped my way onto the path that led back to the parking area.

  “Let me see.” Lemon cradled my heel, the skin warming at her touch. “You’re bleeding,
but you’ll live. We’ll clean it up when we get home.”

  She smiled when she released my foot, but there was a look I’d come to know, one that meant she was about to unleash some mystical wisdom, feed me some foul herbal tonic, or cause a minor explosion in the kitchen.

  Betting on the first, I lifted my eyebrows in question.

  “Your blood has mingled with the ocean,” she whispered ominously. It was a little melodramatic, even for her, but I smiled anyway. “Whatever you were thinking about on our walk across those rocks? You’ve just made an oath with the sea.”

  Chapter 6

  Fog had crept up the coast during our drive back from the Well, and whorls of mist still clung to the sand when I set out for the marina. It wasn’t yet seven in the morning, and the beach was cloudy and deserted, save for the oystercatchers scrabbling around the tide pools. I zipped the hoodie up to my neck and picked up the pace, jogging toward the docks at a clip only slightly hampered by my earlier injury.

  Christian was there when I arrived, his back to me as he stood at the stern, one foot propped up on the coaming. His hands were shoved into his sweatshirt pockets—light gray, just like mine—and the fabric pulled tight across his shoulders as he stared out at the sea.

  I’d thought this might be a problem, him being here. The boat needed a major overhaul; of course he’d want an early start. But I couldn’t just leave my stuff. Without a few coats of paint, my written words would remain forever—I could at least apologize and collect my physical belongings.

  Christian hadn’t noticed my approach, and I took a second to gather my thoughts, to observe this boy whose grit and seaworthiness would determine Lemon and Kirby’s future at the Cove.

  He was taller than me by a head, with those strong-looking shoulders and narrow hips, dark jeans that hung loose on his legs. His hair was short and thick, soft and messy. It was darker than his father’s, but sandy blond at the tips, like he’d spent much of his Stanford hours basking in California’s famous sunshine.

  I wondered if it was hard for him, being here. I wondered which place he thought of as home. Whether he’d ever felt untethered, like me.

  The breeze kicked up, blowing the curls back from my face. I ­gathered them into a hair tie, took a deep breath, and marched down the dock. I stopped beside the Queen of.

  Christian had left a tape gun and a couple of flattened cardboard boxes on the dock, awaiting assembly, and the boat’s aqua-blue deck was already littered with stacks of stuff. Much of it had probably been in the saloon since they’d first docked the boat here, but some of those stacks were mine. It reminded me of packing for Oregon, boxing up my room in Tobago. Trying to decide what was worth bringing, what had to be left behind.

  A fierce wave of protectiveness rose in me, but I let it pass. Christian wasn’t dismantling my room. The Vega was his; he was simply removing a stranger’s junk, getting her ready for the voyage ahead.

  Uncertain of how to get his attention, I unfolded one of the flat boxes and attacked it with the tape gun. Christian turned around at the noise, the pensive angles of his face reshaping.

  “Aha!” He pointed at me with mock accusation, a slow grin spreading. “My stowaway. I was hoping you’d turn up today.”

  The seashell around my neck felt heavy. My fingers found their way to it, fidgeting as I tried not to break his gaze.

  “Sorry to be the bearer of shitty news,” he said, “but you’re being evicted.”

  I scanned the sight of my belongings, a half dozen piles on the deck.

  In a softer tone he said, “I was just boxing it up to bring to your aunt’s.”

  I gave him a quick nod of appreciation and got back to work ­assembling the box. When it was all put together, he held out his hands for me to toss it up. He caught it and set it down on the deck, then waved for me to climb aboard.

  “Come on, now,” he said when I didn’t budge. “You came all this way. At least help me pack it up.”

  His smile hadn’t faded, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Not now, and not last night, either. It was the ghost smile, that look, there but not. His gaze was far away, adrift on another sea, and his real smile wasn’t for me. Vanessa—she probably got to see it. But not the girl who’d stowed away on the boat that didn’t belong to her. The girl who’d ­written volumes on the walls but never said a word.

  Ignoring his outstretched hand, I stepped over the gap between the dock and the boat, heaving myself over the rails. When he tried to steady me with a gentle touch on my lower back, I shook loose. Even with a sore foot, I could make that climb in the dark—I’d done so on many nights before his arrival—but thought better of confessing.

  “She’s a beauty, yeah? In her own way.” Christian palmed the side of the companionway, caressing it lightly.

  I offered a wary smile.

  “She smiles,” he said, one hand on his heart, and I wondered if he knew that my smile wasn’t the real one either. “I suppose there’s no need for the grand tour. Just help me get the rest of this stuff out of the saloon.”

  He took off his sweatshirt and tossed it onto the coaming, and when he leaned forward through the companionway, a black line peeked out from beneath his T-shirt sleeve. I followed the markings to the larger shadow beneath the fabric. He was tattooed across most of his right shoulder and upper arm, but I couldn’t make out the design.

  “First, there’s this.” From inside the saloon he turned to face me, holding out a black Moleskine notebook, Sharpie clipped to the front. The notebook had a waterproof cover and sturdy paper, unlined, the kind that didn’t bleed the ink. The pages themselves were rippled from some earlier spill, but intact. On the inside cover there was a silver music-note sticker.

  Without Christian opening the notebook, I knew all of this.

  It was mine.

  Save for what I’d written on the boat and on my hands, all of my words were in that notebook. Songs I’d written with Natalie, poetry I thought one day we’d turn into music. Ideas for our future tours. All my hopes and dreams and, once I’d lost them, the fears that took their place. The secrets.

  Now they were pinned in Christian’s hand.

  My heart sank.

  “It was on the table,” he said. “With the candle. Figured it belonged to you, since I’m the only other person who uses the boat, seeing as how it’s mine and all, and I’m not much of a writer. But you? Regular wordsmith.”

  When I didn’t respond, he leaned closer, waving the notebook between us. His voice was low and raspy, like a secret. “The thing I can’t figure is, how did all the words escape this paper and end up on my walls?”

  Inside, I felt like an eel, slithering and squirming under his glare. But outside, I was a rock.

  And my God, that boy would not give me a break.

  “Relax,” he finally said. The mask of seriousness dropped suddenly from his face, and I let out a breath. “Just giving you a hard time. I didn’t read it. Flipped through enough to figure it was yours, probably private.”

  I didn’t have to scrutinize him long to know that Christian was telling the truth. I grabbed the offered notebook before he changed his mind.

  He watched me a moment longer, then ducked back into the saloon, taking it all in. “She needs a lot of work. I don’t even know where to start. Guess once I clear it out, I can assess—”

  I held up a finger to interrupt. I knew he was mostly talking to himself, but I had a few suggestions. I plucked the Sharpie from the notebook cover and flipped to the first free page inside. I’d never started up the engine, but after my month-long visitations with the Queen of, I was intimately familiar with her other trouble spots—all the things both small and large that could sink this ship, sink his chances at winning the regatta.

  He waited silently, patiently, as I let the words flow.

  The Queen’s Issues

  Leaks around st
arboard window.

  Condensation gathers on the sill beneath.

  Mainsail & jib seem sketchy; unfold and hoist for full assessment.

  Wiring issues are not my area of expertise, but a probable concern,

  given her age and condition.

  The nav instruments are cracked.

  Condensation on their casing indicates damage.

  Externally, gel coat needs another application.

  Interior woodwork is original, mostly solid,

  despite a bit of interior mildew, likely cleanable.

  Underside? Now there’s a question for the experts.

  Final thoughts on the Queen of:

  A seaworthy vessel in need of some love.

  I tore out the page and handed it over, satisfied. After reading it, Christian got that ghost of a smile again. When I didn’t flinch under his gaze, he raised an eyebrow, like, Who are you?

  “Does everything you write come out like a poem?”

  I hadn’t done it on purpose, but he was right. Every list or letter came out that way, like a verse, a story I could set to music. Natalie was the same way—Dad often teased us about it. I thought you were making a grocery list, little songbirds. Now you’ll have me singing about coconut milk and Cheerios.”

  “Speaking of poetry,” Christian said. “When you say here ‘interior mostly solid,’ is that with or without your body of work?”

  My cheeks flamed. On a fresh page I scribbled again. Christian stepped back through the companionway and onto the deck, closer, bringing with him the smell of the sea and whatever shampoo he used—something like mangoes, which reminded me of my sisters.

  The boat bobbed beneath us.

  He read my words upside down as I wrote.

  Thought she was abandoned.

  I’ll scrub & paint everything.