The Summer of Chasing Mermaids

by Sarah Ockler

  “Anyway,” Kirby said, finally taking a breath. She looked around for her drink, not even realizing I’d finished it. “We could get ready together. Ooh, we could do a theme!”

  “Far as I’m concerned,” Vanessa said, “any day we get to wear glitter eye shadow and seashell bras is a good day. Am I right?”

  “It’s a good day for me,” Christian said. He’d come from behind the dune, carrying a plate of bun-wrapped hot dogs that smelled fresh off the fire. “Wiener delivery. I’ve come to tempt you gorgeous ladies back to the fire with my extra-long—”

  “Check yourself before you wreck yourself, hot stuff.” Vanessa grabbed three dogs, passing one to each of us. Mid-chew, we followed Christian back to the bonfire, where Noah and a few other people had gathered. I didn’t know the newcomers, but I’d seen most of them around, passing through the marina or getting shakes or coffee at the Black Pearl. As usual, they looked at me with a mix of curiosity and over-politeness, a strange blend I’d come to expect in Atargatis Cove.

  Christian’s friends from the docks last week were there too—Gracie and Brenda—and I was relieved when they offered a matched set of genuine smiles.

  There were blankets spread out around the fire, and I settled down next to Vanessa, kicking off my shoes and stretching my toes toward the fire.

  All around me the group chattered and gossiped, roasting hot dogs and marshmallows, their laughter set to the soundtrack of the sea. After a while Gracie and Brenda stood, sauntered closer to the shore to where a few kids were writing their names in the air with sparklers.

  The beach party reminded me of our reggae fests on the island, outdoor gatherings full of laughs and food and strong drinks. But ours would last all day and night, pulsing with music, and this one was way too mellow for a true fest. Roasting hot dogs and marshmallows on a stick was fun, but they were no substitutes for the grilled kingfish and mangoes from home.

  After the hot dog I’d been working on a marshmallow, but handed it to Kirby, needing suddenly to stretch my legs. I walked to the shore, away from the sparkler girls, and let the icy Pacific nibble my toes. The sun had set, but the sky was still fingered with purple and pink, the first of the night’s stars glittering in the Oregon mist.

  I kept a safe distance from the crashing surf. I had no intention of tempting Atargatis again.

  My toes went numb in the sand, and again I wondered if I’d ever get used to things here, if I could ever learn to call it home. In this ­little cove, the music was soft, the food mild, so many of the ­people cool and stiff. I didn’t mean it as an insult, only a comparison, a simple observation that left me wondering again and again where, exactly, I belonged.

  Heaviness tugged at my heart as I thought of Granna and Natalie. Would they even want me back? Did I want me back?

  “Don’t take this the wrong way.” Christian’s voice should’ve ­startled me, but the ocean was so loud, so constant, I’d barely heard him.

  I looked at him, raised my eyebrows in question.

  “You’re a tough one to crack,” he said, stepping closer. The breeze whipped against us, and we instinctively huddled for warmth, backing away from the tide.

  Even through his Stanford hoodie his body emanated heat, a slow and tender warmth that caressed my exposed neck. My throat. I tugged my thin sweater sleeves over my hands to keep them from reaching for him.

  “All this time we’ve been spending together, and this is the first you’ve hung out with us,” he said. “Not working, I mean. And Indian-food day doesn’t count.”

  No?

  “Work related,” he said. “You were practically obligated.”

  I shook my head, coughed out what passed for my laugh these days.

  Christian ran a hand over his face, then leaned in even closer. With one arm around my shoulders, he bent his head toward my ear, and my heart raged at his familiar scent, at his closer-than-closeness. It was getting to be a regular thing with us, this casual intimacy. But each time it electrified my nerves anew.

  In a raspy voice that sent a wave of desire through me, he said, “I think you have more than a few secrets, Elyse d’Abreau.”

  He pulled away, cocky smile back in place.

  A joke. A flirty taunt. But still I sensed that he’d tried to go there again, to dip a toe into the waters of my real story, and scared as I was, the comment had done nothing to douse that spark inside. The ember. The flame. All I could do was close my eyes, shake my head.

  Nearly two months ago I’d washed up on the shores of this little Pacific hamlet from the twin-island nation of Trinidad and Tobago, with little more than a pair of sunglasses I didn’t actually need and a suitcase full of memories I didn’t actually want. I had five sisters, a nosey but devoted grandmother, and a loving father, all of whom I’d walled out of my heart. Though they were all too polite to say it to my face, this entire town likely whispered and speculated about my story. I couldn’t utter a word, I had a scar behind my seashell necklace that hinted at some past tragedy, and despite Kirby’s and Vanessa’s and even Christian’s efforts to include me, outside of our time on the Vega and rare outings like tonight, I was secured in my self-imposed cocoon.

  Of course I had more than a few secrets, Christian Kane.

  I opened my eyes, flashed him a smile that I hoped couched my fear.

  Christian’s cocky grin didn’t slip, his mischievous gaze unwavering as he said, “Speaking of secrets. I could’ve sworn you told me you don’t dance.”

  My body buzzed, skin almost as hot on the outside as the things Christian had stirred up on the inside. I opened my mouth to deny it, but he cut me off with a laugh.

  “Don’t even try it. I saw you out here the other night, gettin’ your groove on.”

  I turned away, considered asking the sea to make good on its promise. But Christian was at my side, elbowing me with a playful nudge. “You’re really good, Elyse. Amazing, actually.”

  We stood in silence for a moment, the heat between us fading as the breeze picked up again. Without words we marched back to the bonfire, where Kirby had done a first-rate job torching my marshmallow on account of her drooling over Noah.

  “Sorry,” she said, handing me what looked like a tarred sock on a stick.

  I pitched the mess into the flames and grabbed a fresh stick, speared two new marshmallows. When they reached golden perfection, I pulled two graham crackers from the stash and mushed it all together.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Christian stole my s’more before I coud take a bite. “Emergency intervention for the tourist. You can’t make a s’more without chocolate.” With his free hand he dug through the bag between us for a Hershey bar, but I recoiled as if he’d offered me a snake.

  That’s not chocolate.

  He examined the wrapper. “Well it’s not vodka or whale blubber or a shoe.”

  “Forget it, Christian,” Kirby said from my other side. “Elyse’s ­family owns a cocoa farm. They’re totally organic. We’re talking legit old-school cocoa roasting. All the pods are harvested by hand and turned into chocolate the old-fashioned way.”

  Christian looked impressed. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” Kirby went on, “Elyse’s dad was featured on the Travel Channel and everything. You’ll never get her to eat commercial chocolate. Even what we consider the very best stuff here? Like, expensive stuff? She’ll totally turn her nose up.”

  “Dudes.” Noah opened the cooler he’d been sitting on. “All this talk of chocolate is making me thirsty. Who needs a brew?” He passed beers to a few takers, Christian among them. When the two clinked bottles, Noah said, “I know we’re supposed to be all Fight Club about this, but I’m buzzed and it needs to be said: This regatta blows.”

  Christian took a swig of beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Preach.”

  “I don’t want to lose Never Flounder. You
don’t want to lose the houses. What the serious hell, right?”

  “Serious hell,” Christian agreed, but he’d turned away from Noah, meeting my eyes instead. In the orange light of the flame his face was soft and warm, but those eyes held a dangerous fire all their own.

  Gracie and Brenda had just returned for more sparklers, but on hearing the conversation, they sat down again.

  Brenda said, “I don’t know about you guys, but my parents are totally fighting this Prop Twenty-Seven thing. There’s a reason they bought property at the Cove instead of some big tourist place. I mean, where else can you find whole sand dollars?” She procured a few from her pocket, stacked them in a pile at her feet.

  “Right?” Vanessa said. “I mean, sure, I have to drive an hour for a decent pedicure, but so what? That’s not what the Cove is all about.”

  “Guys, my dad cares about this place,” Noah said. “Maybe it doesn’t look like it, but he has a good heart. He’s just also got a big, hard, stupid head. Which is presently shoved up his ass.”

  Everyone laughed, but the lightheartedness died out fast.

  “Besides,” Noah said, “it’s not his decision. Everyone gets a vote. They don’t have to follow his lead.”

  “If they do,” Vanessa said, “this place will look a whole lot different come next Fourth of July.” She pronounced it like Joo-lie, and it made me smile. I wondered what they’d say about my accent if they could’ve heard it. I pictured them laughing, telling me to slow down, to say it again. They’d try to sound out the words, imitate the Trini rhythm, and I’d be laughing too. Loud and bold.

  A chill crept in among us, and for a moment no one spoke. In the distance someone lit a few firecrackers, whistling into the night.

  “I still can’t believe our dads made that bet,” Noah said to Christian. “Dude, we always race together.” Noah stood, chucked a bottle cap into the fire. “It’s bullshit, man. Bullshit.”

  I’d never seen him get worked up before, not so much as lose his cool over a burnt sandwich or cranky customer at the Black Pearl.

  I rose from my spot, put a hand on Noah’s shoulder. I didn’t know him well, but behind the counter at the Black Pearl, he’d become a constant for me, someone who knew how I liked my latte and had it ready the moment I set foot inside. In that way he’d given me a small sense of permanence, of belonging, and I’d always be grateful.

  Noah pulled me into a friendly hug. “Just so you know, when Dad told me to try to scare you into quitting, I drew the line. I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

  I smiled, squeezing tighter to tell him it was okay.

  As I reclaimed my seat in the sand, Christian shot Noah a mock-threatening glare. “I think you’re getting a little too friendly with the competition, lover.”

  “Don’t tell my old man,” Noah said. “I’ll have to deny it, say I’m interrogating her.”

  “You won’t get anything out of her,” Christian said, nodding in my direction. “My girl here’s a vault.”

  “Your girl?” Noah raised his eyebrows. “When did that—”

  “She’s a girl.” Christian swigged his beer, sighed. “She’s my first mate. Simple.”

  “But you said—”

  “Stow it, Katz.”

  Noah held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, dude. Just wish I knew where to find a first mate like that.”

  “Okay, seriously?” Christian said. “We’re sitting right here.”

  Noah only laughed. “Just rilin’ you up, bud. Wearing you down. My strategy’s already working.”

  “Think you can win with psychological warfare alone?” Christian asked.

  “In the absence of a hot first mate, it’s all I’ve got.”

  Christian tipped his beer toward Kirby. “Why don’t you ask Sleeping with the Enemy?”

  Kirby gasped. “Christian!”

  “Already did. She doesn’t sail.” Noah leveled Kirby with an adoring gaze, and without being asked, he rose from the cooler, unzipped and shook off his hoodie, and draped it over Kirby’s shoulders.

  She smiled at him, shy and sweet. The two of them had stars in their eyes. It was practically a marriage proposal.

  Vanessa pressed her hand to her heart. “What is it about young love and a bonfire on the beach?”

  “Hey!” Brenda waved from across the fire. “We’re cold over here, too, if anyone cares.”

  Gracie gave an exaggerated shiver. “Is there anyone in, say, a Stanford sweatshirt? Anyone who might offer to keep a girl warm for the night?”

  With his eyes still on mine, Christian said, “Yeah. I’ve got you ­covered, ladies.”

  Everyone whooped and whistled. Christian handed me his beer and rose, dug out a blanket that was folded beneath the s’mores stuff.

  “Heads up.” He tossed the blanket over the fire, straight into Brenda’s lap.

  The girls grumbled as they unfolded it and draped it over their legs.

  “Dude,” Noah whispered as Christian reached over to reclaim his beer. “That’s some cold shit, right there.”

  Christian only shrugged.

  Noah laughed, his eyes shifting from Christian to me, then back to Christian. “What I wanna know is, when are you two crazy kids getting matching sailor hats? Monogrammed, perhaps?”

  Christian punched him in the arm, but they were both laughing.

  “Shoot, I’m dry again,” Vanessa said. “Who needs a refill?” From the large jug she’d brought, she poured fresh Texas teas, passing cups to Brenda and Gracie, then to me and Kirby. “First, we get those matching mermaid costumes. Then hats.” She held up her cup in a cheer, clicking it to mine and Kirby’s, then to Brenda’s and Gracie’s. “Sisters before misters, right, girls? Don’t make me say it again.”

  “You guys are marching in the parade?” Brenda asked. “I was just trying to talk Gracie into it.”

  Vanessa smiled at Gracie. “Oh, you have to, girl. Cove tradition.”

  Christian narrowed his eyes at me as we drank, a smile tugging his lips. “You’re marching in the parade?”

  I couldn’t tell whether he thought this was a good thing or utterly frivolous. His eyes settled on my mouth, waiting for an answer, but I said nothing.

  Beyond the fire, the Pacific raged on.

  “Are you?” Christian was still watching me, still waiting. But soon Noah was talking about the regatta again, apologizing in advance for any future piracy he might have to engage in to save his boat, and the moment passed. The girls had lit new sparklers in the fire, attracting a few stragglers from a smaller bonfire nearby. One of the newcomers immediately set to hitting on Vanessa. He was on a mission, and she was loving every minute of it.

  Christian switched seats and put his arm around her protectively, and in the jokes and jibes that followed, I slipped away.

  Chapter 17

  “Figured I’d find you here, Stowaway.”

  I sat up as Christian stepped into the saloon, windblown and a little buzzed. I’d been camped out in my formerly favorite spot in the V-berth, and I wasn’t expecting him; it had only been half an hour since I’d left the bonfire.

  “Vanessa took off with that mouth-breather, and Noah’s out there trolling for a first mate. Even Brenda and Gracie turned him down. Kirby’s trying to help, but the whole thing was pretty pathetic.” He slumped onto the saloon bench, turned his gaze on me. His voice was soft. “I couldn’t watch.”

  I nodded. Christian rarely showed it, but I knew it hurt him, having to race against one of his best friends. Having to follow his father’s orders just because his father—Noah’s too—was the kind of man whose orders were simply followed, no room for discussion.

  “That yours?” Christian’s attention was captured by something on the table across from him. It was a white envelope, a ­typewritten label stuck on the front with a single directive: FOR REGATTA
EXPENSES ONLY.

  I shook my head as he tore it open. Until now I hadn’t even noticed it.

  “Holy shit,” he said. After a pause so heavy it threatened to sink the boat, he said, “Elyse. There’s fifteen hundred bucks in here.”

  My mouth dropped open. Nine thousand Trinidadian dollars, my brain calculated.

  “No note,” he said, double-checking the envelope. “Someone wants us to win. Bad. Ursula?”

  Again I shook my head. Lemon hadn’t had any big sculpture sales lately, and the store was more of a hobby than a real source of income. She seemed to do all right with the art and herbal cosmetics, and she’d been a saver all her life—something she tried to instill in me and Kirby any chance she got. But I was pretty sure she didn’t have that kind of cash just lying around.

  Besides, Lemon wasn’t one for keeping secrets. She would’ve told me if she’d planned to give money for the cause.

  “One of the girls, maybe? Brenda? Gracie?”

  I shrugged. I hadn’t seen them leave the fire tonight, so if it was one of them, they would’ve had to sneak onto the boat this afternoon, before the bonfire started. It was possible, but neither seemed like the kind of person who’d leave a gift like that without taking credit.

  “This is . . . I mean, we could really use this. The boat needs electrical and cosmetic work, and we haven’t even looked at the sails yet.” His words quickened with excitement, imagination already spending the cash. “It’s not yours? For sure?”

  I almost laughed.

  “Jesus. This regatta gets shadier every year. Not that I’m about to look that gift horse in the mouth.” He counted the money once more, slipped it back into the envelope. After a beat he set it back on the table. “What are you up to in here, anyway? More poetry?”

  I shifted over in the V-berth as he approached, making space to fit him.

  He slid in next to me, and we both leaned back, looking at the walls and ceiling that held so many of my secrets. The heat I’d felt with him on the shore seeped again into the small nook, and outside, the Pacific churned and hissed, rocking us gently. There were no stars now, but the moon had found its way through the clouds, and pale silver light shone in the small window behind us.