True Blue (Hubbard's Point)

by Luanne Rice

  “Cool.”

  “Firefly Beach—that stretch of white sand just below the house—is where they used to find gold coins. For years and years, the family would go walking along the beach, and they'd find these strange coins… everyone talked of the treasure, but no one knew for sure where it came from.”

  “From that ship… I know, my mother used to talk about it,” Michael said.

  “From the Cambria. It was an English barquentine loaded with the king's gold. No one knew for sure until Sam's brother, Joe, came up from Florida to excavate the site. He did, and he found a lot more than gold…”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, like history,” Quinn said, staring out to sea, to the spot where the Cambria had gone down. “You must know the story…you're related, right?”

  “Yeah, to Elisabeth Randall, way back,” he said.

  “Well, her husband was the lighthouse keeper, right out there,” Quinn said, pointing across the waves to the Wckland Rock Light. The pile of rocks sat in the middle of the Sound—so far from land, it might as well have been Alcatraz. Quinn never told this story without getting a lump in her throat, thinking of the original Elisabeth and Clarissa.

  “Wow, that's where she lived,” Michael said.

  “Yep. In 1769. I know, because kids at Black Hall High School have to read Clarissa's diary and learn all about the Cambria. It's our local legend, but Rumer says it's a lot more—it teaches us about how people lived at that time, and how—” Quinn closed her mouth, unable to say the rest.

  Michael sensed her emotion—she could tell by the way he gave her a worried glance. Probably he was one of those boys who couldn't stand a girl's tears, who wanted to jump overboard at the first sign of crying.

  “What's wrong?” he asked.

  “Clarissa's diary teaches us about ourselves,” Quinn said as her eyes flooded. “About how we might feel to live on an island. To be lonely and abandoned. And to have our mother drown.”

  “Your mother drowned…” Michael said, moving toward Quinn.

  “Yeah,” Quinn said, staring out at the Hunting Ground, where her parents’ boat had gone down. “She did. With my father.”

  “I'm sorry,” Michael said. Although he didn't touch her, he sat so close she could feel his energy. Almost as if he'd just put his arm around her, Quinn closed her eyes and leaned her head back.

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  “I don't know much about Clarissa and Elisabeth,” Michael said quietly. “About the Cambria… but I know about the lonely-and-abandoned part.”

  “But you're with your father now. You're together.”

  “We're staying in the same house for the summer,” Michael said. “But we're not ‘together.’ “

  “What do you mean?” Quinn asked, frowning. She knew that if she could have her parents back for five minutes, she'd never complain again. To be together with them, in their presence, hearing their voices…

  “Together is more than two people in the same room,” Michael said. “It's something that can get broken. And once that happens, I'm not sure it can ever be fixed. At least with us.”

  Although Quinn had cut the engine, the boat rocked on the small fair-weather waves. Sunlight glanced off the water, causing her to squint. At high tide, the lighthouse seemed almost to float. The tower loomed over them, casting a shadow on the Sound, and Quinn tried to imagine living there. Perhaps Michael was right; perhaps Elisabeth and the lighthouse keeper's “together” had been broken long before she sailed off with Captain Thorn.

  “Does your family talk about the legend?” Quinn asked.

  “Not for a long time,” Michael said. “My mother and aunt have pins made to look like the lighthouse, and when I was young, I used to like hearing about them. My mother—or maybe it was my aunt—told me her grandmother told her about sea caves, where the girl~”

  “Clarissa,” Quinn said.

  Michael nodded. “Where she used to hide.”

  “Sea caves?” Quinn said doubtfully. “I've never heard of those.”

  “It's probably just a story,” Michael said.

  Even so, when Quinn started up the motor again, instead of heading straight back to Hubbard's Point, she wheeled out into the Sound. They circled the island, staring at the lighthouse and the rock ledge on which it sat—at high tide, not much was visible. Seagulls and terns lived on the rocks; their cries filled the air like hungry ghosts.

  Quinn shivered. She felt spirits the way other people felt breezes. Clarissa and her mother were here, talking to her. She glanced up at Michael to see whether he felt it too, and she was surprised to see him watching her, as if he were making up his mind about her. Quinn held the tiller, keeping herself steady.

  She had the feeling someone had just thrown her a lifeline. Not the ghost of her mother or father, not even the ghost of Clarissa Randall. No, it was this too-handsome, too-rich, not-at-all-in-her-league boy sitting in the bow of her boat who couldn't—for reasons Quinn couldn't begin to fathom—seem to take his eyes off her.

  Michael Mayhew had thrown her a line, and for the life of her, Quinn couldn't understand why But it was too strange—feeling this kind of closeness. It had to be pseudo-closeness! No boy as cute as he was could be acting this way without some perverted motive.

  “What's going on here?” she asked suddenly, her eyes snapping open.

  “Going on?”

  “Yes. Tell me right now. Because I don't have time for crap.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I don't talk about my parents—to anyone!”

  “Hey, I wasn't forcing you—”

  “What do you know about it anyway? You have two perfectly healthy parents! Kids like you don't know what it's like. You say it's broken and can't be fixed, and I'm telling you you're lucky he's alive!” She pushed as far away from him as she could get without falling overboard.

  “Why do you have to turn psycho every time—”

  “Don't call me psycho,” she said, shaking, not understanding why she felt so terribly undone. Why had she let her guard down?

  “Okay, don't worry—I won't.”

  “Back off. I mean it!”

  “I hear you, Quinn. Let's just head back to shore, okay?”

  She nodded, firing the engine and wheeling the boat around, away from the lighthouse. Her palms were sweaty; never before had she brought someone besides Allie, Aunt Dana, or Sam this close to the place her parents’ boat had sunk.

  But as the fog of misery cleared and her heart slowed down, she caught sight of Michael's face. He looked befuddled, taken aback, as if he really didn't know what had hit him. Quinn had just laid a pretty heavy attack on someone who—maybe, just maybe—had only been trying to be her friend.

  It was too much to take in. She opened up the throttle and sped faster, back to Hubbard's Point.

  Late morning sun streamed through the wide window, and the air conditioner hummed quietly, cooling the office. Outside the window, heat shimmered in the wide field. Four acres ran from the road to the woods. Dragonflies hovered over tall grass. The timbers of the fallen barn stood in the shade; a red-tailed hawk perched on a slanted cross-beam.

  Rumer stood by the stainless steel exam table, sleeves rolled up, talking to an old cat.

  Her work had saved her these last few days; with Zeb staying at the Point and with what had happened between her and Edward, she felt charged, as if lightning were striking from all directions. Right now, examining an old gray and white cat with a runny nose, she concentrated on her patient and forced herself to center.

  “She's one of the reds,” Margaret Porter, the owner said. “Five wild kittens born under our garage during Hurricane Gloria…”

  “Wow, when was that?” Mathilda asked.

  “Seventeen years ago,” Rumer said, cleaning the corners of the cat's sharp yellow eyes. “I was in Alberta; I saw the news on TV.”

  “Brave old cat,” Mathilda said with respect and awe.

  “Sh
e's lived outside this whole time,” Margaret said, holding the cat, whom her children had named Grey Kitten, steady on the table. “She and one other are the last left… her brothers and sisters were all bright orange—‘the reds,’ we called them. They let us feed them on the porch, set out saucers of cream to keep their coats full. We used to try to bring them into the house for the winter, but it didn't work—they always escaped.”

  Rumer petted the cat lightly; she knew that ferals sometimes hated human touch, but Grey Kitten began to purr and push into her hand for greater pressure.

  “Oh, she's a love,” Margaret said. “She gets more affectionate all the time. It started after her second sister died….”

  “As she loses her littermates,” Rumer said softly, “she appreciates you even more, as her family—as her tribe.” She cleared her throat, thinking of her own childhood, of how she had adopted Zeb as one of her own tribe, how lost she had felt when he went away. Holding Grey Kitten in her hands, she felt her bones and sinews, as if most of her fur had worn away and her skin was barely holding her together.

  “She has a bad cold,” Rumer said, “that won't seem to clear up…”

  “It's just gotten worse the last few times I've brought her to you—even after the antibiotics.”

  “Is she eating?”

  “Not as much as usual, but yes.”

  Turning toward the medicine cabinet, Rumer pulled out pills and ointment. Margaret held Grey Kitten, petting and soothing her. To write out her instructions for care, Rumer reached for a black fountain pen—a gift from Edward on her last birthday. She felt off balance just touching it.

  She hadn't seen Edward since Dana's wedding and the aftermath. Visiting Blue, she had gone once at dawn and once late in the day, when she knew Edward would be at the Grange. She had told herself she was just very busy, that those were the times that worked best in her schedule.

  Everything seemed to have changed between them, and she wondered why she had ever crossed the line, trying to create love out of something that wasn't there.

  Mathilda placed the medication in a bag and left the exam room with Margaret. A bell rang down the hall, and a moment later Mathilda returned, smiling widely.

  “You have a surprise,” she said.

  It's Zeb, Rumer thought right away. He had said he wanted to talk to her, and he'd gotten tired of waiting for her to come over. Well, he might not like what she had to say, but since he was so eager, he'd have to hear it anyway. But when Rumer walked into the waiting room, she saw her father sitting in a maple armchair, reading National Geographic.

  Now that she'd made up her mind to let Zeb have it, she felt strangely deflated. “Hi, Dad,” she said. She walked over to kiss him. “What brings you here?”

  “I've come to take the doctor to lunch,” he said.

  “You lucky girl!” Mathilda said. “I wish my dad lived closer so he could take me to lunch.”

  “Why don't you come along, Mattie?” Sixtus asked. “I packed up a picnic, and I've got more than enough sandwiches for you to join us.”

  “Oh, Sixtus,” she said. “I appreciate that, I really do—and I know my father would thank you. But I'd better stay here and man the office.”

  “Well, next time,” Sixtus said.

  “Thanks, Mat,” Rumer said, grabbing her purse and following her father out the door.

  Sixtus drove a few miles along the Shore Road, then took a left. The lane led them past wildflower-filled fields, salt marshes, and estates encircled by stately walls of local gray stone, to a dirt parking lot overlooking the mouth of the river. Ospreys circled overhead. People launched their boats from a ramp slanting into the shallows, and Rumer and her father ate bluefish salad sandwiches and watched the action.

  “Stopped by school on my way to your office,” Sixtus said. “Heard that Edward addressed the seniors, gave his speech about how his mother went to Black Hall High, how proud she would be to know Dorothy Jackson.”

  “He's very involved with that scholarship.”

  “His talk sounded wonderfully stirring; only twenty kids fell asleep,” her father said.

  Rumer gave him a “watch it” look, eating her sandwich and watching an osprey dive; it came up with a wriggling silver fish in its talons.

  “Let's see, what else? Oh, yes. They had a faculty meeting about Quinn; she's not going to be happy.”

  “Summer school?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “She'll never go for it.”

  “She doesn't have a choice if she wants to graduate next year. Dana and Sam will talk her into it—they'll be back from Newport and the Vineyard in a few days. That'll be enough time—summer school doesn't start for two weeks.”

  Rumer laughed quietly, imagining the task Dana and Sam had before them. The comfort and familiarity felt so good, and she and her father ate in silence for a while. But he kept glancing over in a way that made her think there was more to this than a father-daughter lunch. He held his hands in gentle fists. She knew his arthritis had been bothering him lately; she wondered whether he was in pain.

  “What's wrong, Dad?” she asked.

  “Wrong? What makes you think something's wrong?”

  “You look worried—is something on your mind? Is your arthritis acting up?”

  “Nah,” he said, scowling. “No worse than ever. It's fine… I just wanted to brighten your day with my presence and a bluefish sandwich, and you think I've got ulterior motives? Jeesh,” he said, shaking his head.

  Rumer smiled, sipping her iced tea. The moments passed as they watched two men back their boat trailer down the ramp, their old Starcraft loaded with fishing rods, a tackle box, and a bucket. One of the men broke up a bag of ice, then wedged a six-pack of beer into the cooler.

  “Talked to Zeb this morning,” her father said.

  “Zeb?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “What's there…” she began. She was going to ask, “What's there left for you to talk about?” But she stopped herself; of course there was Michael. “How was that?” she asked instead.

  “Well, he's got that new project out in California,” her father said. “He seems quite industrious about it.”

  “I never thought Zeb would take a job that would keep him in an office,” Rumer said. “Or even an observatory. I wonder what happened.”

  “You could probably ask him.”

  “Hmm,” she said.

  “If nothing else, you both love Michael,” her father said. “And the boy clearly needs help. He's struggling. I'd like you to help Zeb with him.”

  “I'll try,” Rumer said. “But what about you? You're the teacher… and his grandfather.”

  “Michael is on my mind,” her father said, seeming to purposely evade the actual question. “He'll be here for so short a time—-just till summer's end. Then he and his father will head west again.”

  “Did Zeb talk about being here?” Rumer asked, the question hard to get out.

  “Yes. I think he's glad to be here. Happy to see you again.”

  Rumer scowled. Her father was peering at her as if he could see straight into her mind. “What a joke,” she said. “Let him tell himself that if he wants to. I don't believe it. He wanted to ‘talk’ to me, but I don't think there's a point to it. What else did he say?”

  “Well, he suggested something to me. Something I'd been neglecting.”

  “That must have gone over well with you—coming from Zeb.”

  “Yes, well, I did give him a hard time about it. But at the end of the day, he was right. Quite right.”

  “About what?” Rumer asked, and when she looked across the seat, she saw her father smiling at her. His weathered face was deeply lined, filled with the sort of kindness and caring that originates deep within. The smile wavered slightly, then widened.

  “About you,” he said.

  “You and Zeb talked about me?” Rumer asked.

  “Yes, Rumer. Among other things, about the fact that I've been less than
honest with you.”

  Something about her father's eyes—a new brightness in them, perhaps—or about the way he'd been working on the boat so hard—with a different intensity than other years—made Rumer's heart skip a beat. Her father was about to tell her something that she didn't want to hear.

  “What's wrong, Dad? Are you sick? I mean, aside from the arthritis?” Her throat hurt just to say the words.

  “No, Rumer. I'm well. Very well.”

  Relief flooded through her, and she relaxed. “Then, what?”

  “I'm going away.”

  “Away?” She frowned. What could he mean? How far could he go? To visit Elizabeth on the set in Canada? With a group of retired teachers to the Rockies or the Grand Canyon or New Orleans? She had seen the El-derhostel mailings he received, stacked neatly in the corner of his desk. “Where?”

  “To Halifax, where I spent my childhood. And then to Ireland, where I was born.”

  “Why wouldn't you want me to know that, Dad? Is it because you think I'd want to come and you want to go alone? It's okay, you know. I can understand why you'd want that… it sounds like a pilgrimage.”

  “In a way it is.”

  “To trace your roots? To visit the important places?”

  Her father nodded. She loved him so much. He had always been the wisest, kindest person she knew. Since her mother's death they had lived together, and she'd watched him slowly come back to life over the months and years. It pleased her a great deal to think of him doing this for himself.

  “Dad, why would you think I'd be upset? Why—” she began, then stopped herself. “Is it because of Zeb? Are you leaving because he's here and you don't want to see him?”

  “No. I've been planning this trip for a while. Since before we knew for sure Zeb was coming.”

  “Then why wouldn't you tell me? I'm happy for you, Dad.”

  “Because I'm sailing, Rumer.”

  She didn't understand. She heard the words coming from her father's mouth, but they didn't sink in. Did he mean on an ocean liner? Then suddenly she knew.

  He meant in his boat. Looking at the mouth of the river, the Sound beyond, she saw several sails on the horizon.

  In her mind, she now saw his boat behind the garage at the foot of the hill. The Clarissa sat there proudly, a stately sloop from another time, bright work glistening in the late afternoon sun. Her white hull gleamed, her deck shone. That morning, Rumer had seen a family of sparrows lined up on the wooden boom, singing loudly. The craft was graceful, classic, lovingly restored over the last years—in spite of the arthritis crippling him a little more every day—by her father.