The Breathless

by Tara Goedjen

  He doesn’t want to let his uncle down, so he goes back to work, double time now to make up for all the staring he just did. Like a fool, his mother would say. He spent the morning daydreaming about another girl and here he is again, his head floating on fantasies. Good way to mess up and lose his job like everyone thinks he will. The rope is rough in his hands and that salty smell of fish is strong enough to choke on. He focuses on the sun burning his neck, the sweat running down his back. He tells himself looking at the beach is off-limits, at least until he finishes. When he’s hauling in the last net, the shout comes and he glances up.

  She’s in the water, waving her arms, so he drops the net and stumbles for the life preserver. She’s alone in the waves, far from shore like she got caught in a current, and she’s fighting the water and losing. The preserver falls short when he throws it and he curses. He scans the beach but there’s no one in sight so he dives in, bracing at the burst of cold as he swims toward her, that red swimsuit like a warning.

  When he’s close enough to shout, he tells her it’s okay. That he won’t leave her. He’s thinking, Don’t pull us down, he’s saying that as he reaches for her, Don’t pull us under. She looks at him with eyes full of tears and coughs up water and then he’s got an arm around her ribs.

  “Just relax,” he tells her. The waves aren’t too strong and he thinks he could float her, drag her to the pier that way. He flips her onto her back, keeping hold of her as he treads water. “I won’t let you go.”

  She coughs again, doesn’t speak. He kicks hard toward the dock, his hand underneath her, guiding her. She’s got her eyes shut, probably scared or in shock, he’s not sure. Her skin is soft, like she belongs in the water, and he can’t believe he’s touching her.

  They make it to the pier and then she wraps her arms around him—she’s in his arms as she whispers her thanks and turns to grab the ledge.

  He pulls himself up after her. She’s on her knees now, dripping and coughing and laughing—he can’t believe that she’s laughing, and for a minute he’s angry.

  “What’s your name, sailor?” she asks, and coughs again, but now she’s smiling at him as though they might be sharing a joke.

  “Cage.” Before he can say more she puts a cold hand over his lips.

  “You saved my life,” she tells him. “That makes me bound to you forever.” She smiles again and then says, “Seven for a secret, swear you won’t tell.” Her eyes are green with bits of gold that match the locket she’s wearing. “Eight for a wish and nine for a kiss.” She snaps her fingers and he can’t stop looking at her. “Ten for a bird, you must not miss.”

  And he stares at her because he’s not sure what to say and because she’s not like any girl he’s ever met before, not if she talks like this. The tide is lapping against the dock and the sun is hot over them and he doesn’t want to leave her side.

  “Life is good, isn’t it?” she says, and she leans back on her elbows as if she’s not going anywhere either. She laughs again. “Isn’t that right, Cage? Caaaaa­aaaaa­aa…”

  MAE HAD WOKEN UP AT dawn with Hanna on her mind. The girl with the secret name made her curious. Still half asleep, she’d gone to the collection of old boxes in the pantry under the stairs and pulled them into the dining room. Somewhere among the decades of albums packed away, she knew she’d find Hanna and the Cole who’d loved her, who’d written about her in the book. But just as she’d started on the first box, Elle had hurried down the stairs in a bright yellow sundress.

  “You’re helping me clean for the bed and breakfast,” she said, grinning, and before Mae could answer, Elle shook her head. “You’re helping me,” she repeated, challenging her with the brown eyes they shared. There was a price for Elle’s silence about Cage, and working for her all morning was it. Mae had just slipped out to the porch to leave some food for the strays when something drew her attention.

  It was the rocking chair, moving slightly in the breeze. And draped over its seat was her canvas bag.

  Mae walked toward it slowly, dread pooling in her stomach. The bag was too flat and too light and her hands shook as she opened the flap, saw her pocketknife in one of the sleeves. Then she looked inside. The ribbon was at the bottom, curled up like a sleeping snake. The book was missing.

  “Mae!” Elle’s voice carried from inside the house. “Mae?”

  Mae went through the bag again, nursing a tendril of hope, and then glanced at the lawn, just in case it had fallen out. But there was only the sandy driveway full of puddles from the rain. No book. Feeling desperate, she searched the empty canvas once more.

  A small piece of paper was sticking out of the corner pocket. It was a little scroll of cigarette paper, its edges yellowed. Mae snatched it up and unrolled it—instead of tobacco inside there were words. The writing was messy, written in a hurry:

  Mae, you dropped this. I kept her book, might help me remember something. Meet me at her hideaway. Nightfall.

  Nightfall. It was midmorning now, a lazy warmth in the air. She didn’t like being apart from the green book, but at least she knew who had it. She let out a breath and leaned against the door, the heat warming her as she closed her eyes. Cage had seemed innocent at the cemetery last night. It was in his gaze: oculesics, she’d read about it. His blue eyes hadn’t wavered from hers when she’d asked him about Ro. His pupils hadn’t moved side to side either, which usually meant a lie. Cage Shaw was either very good at hiding things, or he hadn’t hurt Ro. Or perhaps he just believed he hadn’t?

  “Mae!” Elle shouted again from inside the house. “Where are you?”

  If she wanted the book back, she had to meet Cage later. Mae opened her eyes to the sun and then stepped inside the house, locking the door behind her. “Hope you didn’t throw out anything while I was gone,” she called into the dusty foyer. When she turned, she stopped in her tracks.

  Lance was in the dining room, sitting at the old table near the archway. He waved to her, and Mae forced her legs to move. She felt nervous, on edge, but she was always this way around other people; she never knew what to say, especially to guys who were suddenly friendly after years of acting reserved. Being around this new Lance was like trying to paint blindfolded—she didn’t know what colors to choose; she didn’t even know what sort of palette she was working with.

  “Look who snuck in through the kitchen door while you were outside.” Elle nodded at Lance, who rocked back in his chair looking pleased with himself.

  “Hi,” Mae offered, because both Elle and Lance seemed to be expecting something from her. Her granddad was sitting with his eyes half closed in the window seat, the Bible on his lap and a sprig of lantana poking up from his suit pocket. A real smile slipped out before she remembered the green book.

  “You promised to help me clean all day,” Elle said, giving her an extra-meaningful look, “and yet I sense some heel dragging.” She had changed into a pair of dark jeans and a black tank top. A red bandanna that matched her nail polish was tied around her neck. “Time to pay what’s due.”

  Mae turned out her pockets. “Hate to disappoint, but these are pretty empty,” she said, surprised to hear a burst of laughter from Lance.

  “Far from it.” He leaned back in his chair again, sending it on its hind legs. “What did Ro used to say?” The wood groaned under his weight, which was mostly muscle and tan skin. “ ‘Time is more valuable than money.’ Remember the rest, Mayday?”

  Lance’s chair tilted farther, and then the front legs thudded to the ground. His eyes were on hers under that curly brown hair. “ ‘You can always get more money…,’ ” he said, trailing off like he was waiting for them to finish.

  “I don’t remember,” Elle said, “how does it end?”

  “ ‘But you can’t get more time,’ ” Mae said. “ ‘Usually.’ ”

  “Ro always added the usually, didn’t she?” He smiled and Mae found herself smiling back. Besides Cage, it was the first time in a long time that someone had said her sister�
�s name in the house, and she was grateful.

  “Well, now it’s time to clean, boys and girls.” Elle pointed at the remaining pile of boxes by the table. “I’ll take those. You take the ones by the chair, Mae.”

  Mae tugged a box over and felt Lance’s hazel eyes on her, like he wanted to ask her something but was holding back. He used to look at Ro that way, only softer, less sure of himself. She’d caught him once or twice staring up at her sister’s window from the yard or peering through the garden hedge while Ro dug near the gift cherub, burying her silver box under the earth. Lance’s constant watching had started at thirteen, and at fourteen he’d gotten bolder, leaving Ro notes with messages like Every day I want to be near you and I’ve never met anyone like you. Mae hadn’t known anyone like her sister either, but she’d never left her notes about it. Ro had said Lance was sweet and harmless, and she’d treated him like a kid brother, even though he was only a couple of years younger than her.

  “Can I help with anything, Elle?” Lance asked. Elle raised her eyebrows, looking as surprised as Mae was. They’d never seen this side of him—he’d always been shy, except around Ro.

  “Sure,” Elle said, and then grinned. “Why don’t you start on the box next to mine?”

  Mae cut in; she couldn’t help herself. “Just don’t throw out any old photos.” She nodded toward her granddad, who’d fallen asleep. “He wouldn’t like it,” she said, though that was only partly the truth. If she couldn’t read the green book today, then she could at least find out about Hanna and Grady—where it had all started. “And I’m collecting the old albums,” she added quickly. “I don’t care about anything else.”

  “Got it,” Lance said. “Keep the Kodaks, trash the rest.” He turned as Elle lunged past with an armful of what looked to be old Sears catalogs and a random corset. “Hey, what’s the bandanna for?” he asked.

  “My lungs,” Elle said, her voice muffled through the fabric. “They’re pristine, minus that one time I tried my dad’s cigarette.” She pulled the bandanna down to talk some more. “I don’t want to be inhaling century-old filth. You know what dust is? It’s human flesh. It gets everywhere, in your mouth, your hair…”

  Mae almost laughed. Elle loved being dramatic. The dust was probably more like sand, mold spores, animal dander. She imagined a painting—dust floating in a shaft of sunlight, Ro standing in it, the light catching her hair and spinning it gold—and then Lance was rocking in his chair again, making it creak with his weight, and Elle whirled suddenly, flinging a rag Mae’s way. It sailed past her and landed next to the bookshelf in a heap.

  “Are you just daydreaming in your sweatshirt over there,” Elle asked, “or helping clean for the B and B?”

  “There is,” Sonny shouted from the foyer, “no bed and breakfast!”

  “There’s your answer,” Mae said, kicking the rag back toward her sister.

  “Oh, your dad’s home.” Lance popped up out of his seat, vaulted over the next one, and jogged out of the room, the keys in his pocket jingling. At the archway, he saluted their granddad, who’d woken from his nap, and then winked at the girls as he left.

  “Hey, Sonny,” Lance said. “My dad wanted to ask you about one of our horses. It…” He trailed off, and Mae tried to ignore a twinge of disappointment as she opened the box in front of her. Inside was a pile of antique picture frames. She made herself focus on them. Why should she care if Lance was still in the room or not?

  “Okay,” Elle said, “put everything into yes, no, and maybe piles.” She turned toward the foyer. “We need all of this cleared out for the bed and breakfast!” She yelled the last part and Mae winced, waiting for Sonny to tell her off.

  Except this time Elle only got silence. Her dad was on good behavior with a guest around. And then it occurred to Mae why she hadn’t wanted Lance to leave: he brought a lightness inside the house, the way he smiled at everyone, kept the conversation upbeat. Blue Gate hadn’t felt happy—it hadn’t even felt normal—for the past year. It was like Ro had sucked out all the light when she’d gone and left them with nothing in their dark hearts but a couple of matches between them. Lance was like having another light around.

  Mae glanced up and saw Elle’s progress and then hastily unloaded more frames. The pictures were miniaturized versions of the oil paintings hanging in the foyer. She dug through them quickly, trying to appear like she was categorizing them; she was actually looking for Hanna, but none of them were labeled.

  “Two to zero,” Elle said, stomping down on an empty box with fervor. “I’m winning.”

  Underneath all the picture frames was a tangle of crocheted wire hangers, and Mae put them in the “maybe” pile for Elle to sort through. When she went to crush the box, she noticed something wedged under the cardboard at the bottom.

  A photo album. It was old and falling apart, its spine bent, its pages a light saffron. Her fingers started tingling as she picked it up. She expected it to smell like dust or mold, but instead there was a tinge of sweetness: the scent of icing, powdered sugar. It was overpowering, so strong she had to ask, “Elle, are you baking?”

  Her sister turned, wielding a box cutter. Her auburn hair was in sweaty tendrils against her neck. “Am I baking? While it’d be nice to have some homemade muffins in the oven ready for paying guests, we don’t yet have a bed and breakfast.” She cut open another lid. “Am I baking,” she muttered. “I have to do everything around here.”

  Elle zeroed in on the window seat, a fired-up look in her eyes. “Granddad,” she shouted, “you can help too instead of just sitting there!”

  Their granddad nodded but didn’t move from his seat. He was staring at the album Mae was holding. When she looked down at it again, something hot and sweet seemed to brush against her face. Open it, Mae. Open it.

  She raised the cover and held her breath as dust billowed out. When it finally cleared, she saw a picture of Blue Gate, long ago, probably back when it was first built. The photo was in black-and-white, that faded-looking monochrome that made the house look distant and unreal, like it hadn’t really existed at all. A range of dark trees was in the background, shutters flanked the windows, and a small, pale path led to the grayish porch. Mae imagined the way it would have looked: blue would go into the sky, red ocher for the door. The colonnades a blinding white, the closest thing to snow this far south. The wood on the porch layered in golds and browns, the shade of the whiskey that her dad drank.

  She turned the page to another black-and-white image of Blue Gate, now with people clustered on the porch. In the center was a tall man in a vest with eyes that glared. A watch chain dangled from his pocket and an oil lantern was on a table beside him. He was standing next to a woman in a rocking chair. The woman held a black parasol over her head, and her shoulders were stiff, her too-thin waist cinched tight by her dress. Everything about her seemed pained, though her long dark hair was in a girlish braid, a ribbon tied at the end.

  Next to them, standing a few paces away, was someone Mae recognized. Young Grady Cole wore his shirt rolled up at the sleeves and a bent hat. His light hair was shaggy, his eyes angled from the lens. He looked about seventeen. Beside him was a much younger boy—probably his brother, though Mae hadn’t seen many pictures of him around the house. She frowned, remembering what she’d heard once. Long ago, one of the Cole children had run away. Could it have been him? The boy’s chin was jutting out and he had a big smile on his face, like he couldn’t contain it. His suit pants were muddy at the knees too, as if he’d been playing right up until being called in front of the camera.

  Half of the picture had come unglued from the page, and she lifted it. A date was inked onto the other side. 1859. Someone’s cursive. Grady Deacon, Grady II, Jacob, Rose Louisa.

  Mae glanced back at Rose Cole. She looked thin, even frail, but the hint of a smile was at her lips. Mae’s granddad had mentioned that she was from the North. She’d refused to own slaves, which was a point in her favor, even though Mae didn’t know much else abo
ut her. Apparently she’d never hired servants either, despite being sick for most of her life. Her husband was a doctor, so maybe she had all the help she needed. Or her boys might have looked after her. Blue Gate would have seemed even more isolated back then, surrounded by miles and miles of trees. Had the Coles ever left the house, or was their only company each other?

  Mae studied the younger boy again—Jacob. He and Grady were night and day. Jacob was grinning at the camera, while Grady hadn’t even bothered to turn his head in the right direction. He was gazing off to the side, like something had caught his eye. The high grass in the yard was empty, but at the edge of the yard—what was that?

  Mae brought the picture closer. There, just beyond a large oak, was a strange blur. She squinted down at the photo. The thing next to the tree was out of focus, almost hazy-looking. Probably whatever it was had been moving at the time the photograph was shot, since everything else in the frame was crisp.

  She peered closer, tilting the album. The blurry shape was a person, she was sure of it. The more she looked at it, the more she was certain: The Coles hadn’t been alone in the photograph. Someone had been watching the house, and Grady had noticed. And the expression on his face…he looked apprehensive.

  A shadow fell across the page and Mae jerked her head up. Elle was standing over her with a plastic garbage bag in her hand and the bandanna around her face. Mae waited for her to shout out the cleaning score, but Elle only leaned in.

  “See?” she said. “That’s why this place would be perfect for a B and B.” She tugged at her bandanna. “Blue Gate is charming and historic and what have you. All sorts of things happened here in the old days. Remember? Keep turning.”

  She collapsed down beside Mae, the chair groaning under her weight. Mae flipped the page and saw Grady’s father again. His watch chain was dangling from his pocket as he stood next to his wife. Rose Cole was propped in the center of a massive four-poster bed, her long dark hair spread out behind her like a fan. She looked even paler than before.