The Color of Light

by White, Karen

  Jillian nodded. “They’ve been fighting about me ever since we came. I don’t know what it’s all about—but I think my grandmother wants to tell me something that my parents don’t think I’m ready to hear. And now my mother is saying that my grandmother isn’t fit to take care of me, and she’s going to put me in summer camp in Atlanta for the rest of the summer.” She was silent for a moment, and then added, “I overheard my mother accusing him of having an affair with one of our neighbors in Atlanta. I think that’s why she wants me there—to help her keep an eye on him.”

  She heard Linc gritting his teeth, and turned to see his hard profile in the fading light. “I’m sorry.”

  He scooted away and lay back in the sand, and Jillian did the same, the top of her head pressed against his. He touched her hand when he spoke. “What were you looking at?”

  “The Big Dipper.”

  “You mean Ursa Major.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Not really. Haven’t I taught you anything? The Big Dipper is an asterism, not a constellation, and is actually part of Ursa Major.”

  Jillian raised her hand, holding up the wooden star, placing it along the flank of the great bear in the sky. “According to some Indian legends, the bowl of the Big Dipper is a giant bear, and the stars of the handle are three warriors chasing it. It lies low in the autumn evening sky, so it was said that the hunters had injured the bear and its blood caused the trees to color their leaves red.”

  He turned his head toward the sound of water over sand for a moment. “You have been paying attention.”

  Jillian blinked back more tears. “I want to be up there, with them. I want to die and fly up, and hang my star in the sky.”

  Linc reached up and placed his hand over hers, sealing the wooden star in their closed fists. “Don’t you ever say that, Jillian. Don’t. Here’s your star—right here on earth.” He squeezed their hands tighter, digging the wooden points into her skin, the pain making imprints on her memory. “You can make it shine, and don’t ever let anybody tell you different.”

  She lowered her arm and his fell away. Impulsively, she turned and kissed the top of his head. “We’re a lot alike, aren’t we? I guess some people are made to create their own light. God knows our parents aren’t going to do it for us.”

  Jillian heard a shout in the distance and sat up, staring over Linc toward two silhouettes approaching them across the dunes. “I think that’s Lauren. But who is that with her?”

  Linc stood, wiping sand off his shorts. He waited until the figures were closer, then said, “I think it’s your dad.” He reached down and helped her up, and she stood next to him, not touching. He stood slightly in front of her, as if to protect her, and it made her want to cry again.

  Lauren, who had been walking with Jillian’s father, ran ahead as they approached the two on the beach.

  Linc took a step toward her and bent to kiss her lips, but she turned her head and he kissed her cheek instead.

  “Happy birthday,” she said, throwing her arms around Jillian. She swayed slightly, and Jillian smelled the beer.

  Lauren leaned in a little closer and whispered, “Your dad caught me buying beer, so I gave him one and everything’s cool.” She kept her arm around Jillian, her skin still warm from the sun and the faint smell of suntan oil mixing with that of the beer. She wore only a halter top and shorts, her feet bare.

  “You’re drunk.” Linc took a step toward Lauren, then stopped.

  Lauren held a wavering finger in front of her lips. “Shhh. It’s a secret.” She winked at them and raised her eyebrows in a silent signal to let them know that she was as sober as they were. Then she giggled and stumbled over to where Jillian’s father stood in the sand, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes coolly appraising the three teenagers. His gaze stayed on Linc for a long moment, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He’d made it clear many times what he thought about his daughter’s association with a boy whose mother hung around the street corners in Myrtle Beach when money got tight. Jillian knew her punishment would be harsh.

  Lauren watched Mr. Parrish glaring at Linc, then seemed to throw herself against Jillian’s father. Mr. Parrish stuck his arms out to catch her, and she fell into him, his breath knocked out with a quiet swoosh. He didn’t let go.

  She looked over her shoulder at the other two teenagers and winked again. “I thought your dad and I could have a reasonable conversation over a little drink.” She hiccupped and held her hand over her mouth for a moment. “He’s agreed that you can stay another week—but he and your mama are gonna be staying, too. That was our bargain. I hope that’s okay with you.” She hiccupped again, then giggled, this time swaying toward Linc until he opened his arms and caught her. Lauren blinked up at him. “Hello, gorgeous.”

  When she reached up to kiss him, he turned his head. “You smell like beer.”

  She pulled back and narrowed her eyes for a moment before sinking into a sitting position in the sand, her back resting against Linc’s legs.

  Jillian looked at her father. “Is that true, Daddy? Are we really staying another week?”

  He lit up a cigarette as his dark-eyed gaze settled on her, but she felt as if he weren’t really seeing her. She was used to this, having considered herself the invisible child for quite some time. “Yeah, I figured we might as well. We’ve already driven all this way. Your mother and I have just decided that we don’t want to have to drive all the way here and back at the end of the summer to retrieve you, so we’ll just take you back with us when we leave.”

  She felt the tears lodge in her throat but swallowed them back, knowing that his decision had been made and her crying would only make him more disgusted with her.

  “Thanks,” she said weakly, and was surprised to feel Lauren’s hand slipping into her own and squeezing.

  “Let’s go.” Her father dropped the cigarette into the sand, then motioned with his head for her to follow.

  Jillian pulled Lauren up to a standing position. Quietly, she said, “Thanks, Lauren. I don’t know what you said to him, but thanks.”

  Linc stepped forward and put his arm around Lauren. “Happy birthday,” he said again to Jillian. Lauren dropped her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  Jillian’s father turned his gaze toward Lauren. “Be good,” he said, using the same words he always said to Jillian before leaving.

  He moved toward the dunes, and Jillian started to follow before stopping suddenly and turning around to face Lauren and Linc again. They stood together in the deepening twilight, their arms linked around each other, and Jillian smiled and waved, and wondered how she could ever survive without them.

  She turned around again and began to follow her father, avoiding his footsteps in the sand, and squeezing the small wooden star in her hand as if her pressure could somehow give it light.

  Jillian looked up from the wooden star in her hand and caught Gracie watching her closely.

  “What’s that?”

  Slipping it into her pocket, Jillian said, “It’s just something somebody gave me a long time ago.” She stood, slapping her legs to signal that she was through with the conversation. “Aren’t you supposed to be practicing your letters? School starts back tomorrow, and you don’t want your new teacher to think they don’t teach writing in Atlanta.”

  Grace stared back solemnly. “It’s from Linc, isn’t it?”

  Spot jumped up on the couch and cuddled up to Gracie’s side and gave Jillian an accusatory glare.

  Jillian couldn’t ignore both of them. “Yes, Gracie. Linc gave it to me a long time ago. Now, get back to your practicing. Do you need any help?”

  A light rapping sounded on the front door, and all three heads turned.

  Tucking her hair behind her ears, Jillian headed toward the door. “I wonder who that could be.”

  Gracie called out behind her, “He’s allergic to chocolate, so give him the shortbread instead.”

  Jillian paused fo
r a moment, trying to absorb what Gracie had said, then opened the front door. The sight of the uniform gave her a start before she recognized the face and smiled.

  “Mason. Good to see you.” She pulled the door open wider. “I’m hoping this is a social call.” She looked past him at the police Jeep in her driveway, relieved to note there were no flashing lights. She glanced up at the sky, noticing gathering clouds, and frowned. The weather forecast that morning hadn’t mentioned any rain.

  He slid his hat off his head, his fingers rolling the brim, and gave her a boyish grin. “Yes, ma’am, uh, Jillian. It’s strictly social. I thought I’d stop by and say hey, and see if you needed anything. I also heard that you’ve been creating miracles in your kitchen, and I figured it was my duty as an officer of the law to come investigate.”

  Jillian gave one more look at the clouds, then stepped back and allowed Mason to come inside. When he stood next to her, she had to crane her neck back to look into his eyes. His was a comfortable face: a familiar face that brought back pleasant memories—like that of a flan. A comfort food that didn’t stay long on the tongue but was pleasant going down. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled down at her.

  She smiled back at him. “What a coincidence. I just finished icing a chocolate torte, and I was hoping for a taster.”

  He frowned for a moment. “Well, darn. I’m allergic to chocolate. Maybe I could just bother you for a cup of coffee, then.”

  Her eyebrows knitted and she opened her mouth to call to Gracie, then stopped. Instead she said, “I have some freshly made shortbread, too. Come on back to the kitchen and we’ll talk.”

  After settling down at the kitchen table with two mugs of coffee and a plate of shortbread between them, Mason turned toward her with appraising eyes. “You’re still just as pretty as ever, Jillian. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  She raised her eyebrows, and he colored.

  “Well, except for that baby in there, I mean.” He took a sip of coffee, looking eager to change the subject. “How are your parents? I don’t think they’ve been back here since, well, since . . .” He colored again, as if belatedly realizing he was treading in dangerous territory for the second time in as many minutes.

  She played with the shortbread crumbs on her plate, swirling them in a circle. “I don’t know. I don’t see them anymore.”

  He nodded his head as if he understood. And she realized he probably did. Not as much as Lauren and Linc had, but Mason had been around enough to know how things were in her life.

  “There’s no denying that you had it tough growing up. But I always got the feeling it was more problems with your mother than your dad. I always thought it strange how you sort of thought of them in the same way.”

  Jillian stared at him. “He always deferred to her, regardless of what he really might have thought. And he never stuck up for me—he’d just sneak behind her back and apologize to me afterward. But I always saw it as them against me.”

  Mason reached over and stilled her hand where her finger was stirring crumbs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to upset you. Some men are just weak, and there’s no excuse for what he allowed in his house. But I thought you did a great job of growing up despite them.”

  Needing to change the conversation, Jillian slid the plate of shortbread closer to him, and he took another. “And you must have found the fountain of youth, because you look just like the kid who gave me my first kiss.”

  He colored again and ducked his head. “I can’t believe you remember that. I was so green. You must have thought you were kissing cardboard, for all my expertise.”

  She touched his arm, and his eyes met hers. “That’s not how I remember it at all. I treasure that memory, actually.”

  Sliding back in his chair, he stretched his legs in front of him and cradled his mug. “Then I’d say you really need to get out more.”

  Throwing back her head, she laughed. “No doubt about that, Mason. It’s just a little more difficult now than it once was.”

  Serious now, he nodded. “I’m sure I can only imagine.”

  She looked past his shoulder and out the large picture window, noticing how dark the clouds had become. “Have you heard anything in the forecast about a storm? Last time I checked, it was supposed to be blue sky and sun. But I don’t like the looks of those clouds.”

  Mason followed her gaze. “Oh, those will blow over. I was just listening to the weather report on the way here. They said gathering clouds would be expected to blow south by evening. It’s a shame, really. We could really use the rain.” He smiled reassuringly at her knitted eyebrows. “You know how unpredictable the weather is here, Jilly. But it’s not supposed to rain, so go ahead and hang out your laundry.”

  She smiled back, remembering old storms in this house, storms of electrifying intensity that had made her crawl under the covers in her grandmother’s bed. The power on the island was a fickle thing and needed no encouragement to flicker off. Definitely not a situation she wanted to encounter alone. “Yeah, you’re right. I just hate storms—I tend to worry when it starts to sprinkle.”

  “Hey, if it makes you feel any better.” He pulled out a card from his shirt pocket. “Here’s my card with all my numbers on it. Call me if you need anything, all right?” He looked directly in her eyes, serious again. “I mean it. Anything at all, any time of the day or night. Call me.”

  She nodded, reassured.

  He stood, came around to her side of the table, then helped her up from her chair. She kept her arm linked in his as she led him to the door. “Thanks so much for stopping by. I’ll make sure to always have a nonchocolate item on hand for you in the future, just to make sure you come by again. I could always use company—and tasters.”

  “You got it. And you make sure you call me if there’s anything you need, you hear?”

  She nodded and waved as he pulled away in his cruiser, dust from the sandy driveway billowing toward her. She noticed the darkening of the sky again and the fat, cumulus clouds that clung to the horizon like huge dust balls. Shutting the door, she went inside to make sure all the windows were closed and that she knew exactly where her flashlight and batteries were, just in case.

  The flash of light in the pitch-black sky startled Linc as he bent over his work. He looked up from his task of touching up the final coat of finish on the cradle, ignoring the questions as to what he was doing in the first place. He remembered his tour of Jillian’s house the previous week and how there hadn’t been a single thing set up for the baby. It had bothered him. Bothered him enough to make a cradle so that the baby would at least have a place to sleep when it arrived.

  The lights flickered briefly, and he looked down at his watch, silently cursing. It was after one o’clock in the morning. He had to be up by six a.m., but instead of getting sleep, he was here making a damned cradle.

  Thunder rattled the sky at the same time the rain and wind hit the house with a force Linc felt all the way down to his bones. He stood, facing the walls, knowing their strength. They would hold against whatever onslaught Mother Nature threw at them. Maybe that’s why he had chosen his profession. Maybe he had wanted to build things that couldn’t be destroyed easily by the whims of weather or man. He was living proof that it could be done.

  He set down his tools and decided he’d clean up tomorrow. It was late and he was tired and the sawdust wasn’t going anywhere. Pushing in his stool, he picked up his beer can and took a last warm swallow and grimaced. The lights flickered again, staying off this time for almost a minute before turning back on.

  As he made his way to the kitchen, he flicked off lights, not wanting to forget them if the power should go out completely. He didn’t want to be awakened any earlier than he had to with bright lights suddenly turning on throughout the house.

  Once in the kitchen, he threw away his beer can, then made his coffee for the next morning and set the timer for six a.m. He calculated his sleep time and groaned again. Before he left to head upstairs
, he grabbed a flashlight from a drawer and checked the light. Satisfied, he flipped off the kitchen light and headed up to bed.

  He hadn’t made it to his room when the electricity flickered again, this time staying off. The central air-conditioning went silent, the only sounds in the empty house that of the wind and rain pushing at its walls. Linc set the flashlight down on his bedside table and moved about the room, stripping off his clothes while his shadow crept along the wall like a trapped ghost.

  Before he unbuckled his pants, he moved to the window to pull a draped blanket over the glass and noticed that the house next door was shrouded in darkness. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the house against the scarred sky, and he thought for a brief moment that he’d seen a small face in the upstairs window, peering out at him.

  The window rattled as the thunder answered the lightning’s call, and he glanced out again at the darkened house. He remembered her, then, out on the beach, when she’d grown frantic because he’d turned off her flashlight. Most children outgrow their fear of the dark. I never did. Something slammed against the side of the house, scraping along new lumber. She was there now, in that house. He reached for the phone to call, but knew before he held it to his ear that it would be dead. He gripped it for a long moment and stared at the rivers of water weeping down the windowpanes. I never did.

  Rain pelted the roof as he stumbled around the room, looking for his clothes. He found his shirt and slid it back on, but left his socks and shoes. He grabbed the flashlight, then raced down the stairs, ignoring the splinters that stabbed into his bare feet, barely remembering to shut his front door before he ran across the dunes toward the house next door.

  He dropped the flashlight once and it went off, leaving him completely in the dark. The ocean seemed to roar in his ears as he waited for the next flash of lightning to show him where it was. He retrieved it, his feet sinking into the wet sand as he continued across the two properties, not even noticing how soaking wet he was until he reached the shelter of her porch.