by Luanne Rice
“You must be a witch,” Madeleine murmured, laughing. “Because I'll tell you right now: no way, no how. Not without some very powerful juju or black magic.” She shivered in the heat, uncomfortable in her body and in her soul. Being on the beach reminded her of her last time with Emma. Suddenly it seemed that this walk—this trip—was a big mistake.
Stevie, sopping wet, began walking along the shore, past all the people going in and getting out of the water, past the women in beach chairs, the children building sand castles. Madeleine grabbed her arm. “Would you mind if we went back up to your house? It's so lovely up there. . . .”
“Of course—let's go,” Stevie said, turning around. They picked up their sandals and took the shortcut—across the wooden footbridge over the creek, up the stairs into thick trees. They turned left onto a path that Madeleine had forgotten—a secret stone path through the brush that led straight to Stevie's cottage. She glanced up into the tree branches spreading overhead, greening the brilliant sky with bright leaves, and felt a severe lump in her throat.
On the way, Stevie rinsed herself off in the outside shower. Madeleine saw her bend down to pick some bugs off a hydrangea bush. She grinned at Madeleine and said, “For the bird.”
“Ah,” Madeleine said.
Madeleine rinsed the sand off her feet with a hose in the yard, and then Stevie went upstairs to change, and to feed her bird. Madeleine's head ached, and her stomach was churning. Being on the beach had taken a lot out of her. She took the opportunity of solitude to open the refrigerator and pull out her little friend: bottle number two.
Stevie came into the kitchen just as Madeleine was popping the cork.
“I hope you don't mind,” Madeleine said. “I just feel like celebrating. It's so incredible to be together again.”
“It is incredible,” Stevie said. Her face was bright, as if she had a secret she couldn't wait to tell. Madeleine had noticed her alertness, as they'd walked up and down the roads through the beach. Perhaps that had something to do with it. Stevie poured herself a glass of iced tea, and they raised their glasses.
“Let's see,” Madeleine said. “We drank to beach girls, and to being together . . . now what?”
“How about, here's to the newest beach girl . . .” Stevie said solemnly, staring straight into Madeleine's eyes. “I wanted to tell you about her when we were over at Little Beach. After you'd drawn the circle . . .”
“The newest . . . ?”
“Nell,” Stevie said.
Madeleine blinked, hardly believing she'd heard the name. Stevie just stared at her. “What are you talking about?” Madeleine asked, confused.
“I've met her, Maddie. She's here—at Hubbard's Point, right now. She and your brother came to the beach. They're renting a house near the tennis court.”
Chapter 12
STEVIE SHOULDN'T HAVE SPRUNG IT ON Madeleine—she saw the wounded look in her eyes the moment the words were out. Madeleine put down her glass, covered her eyes with her hands, and sobbed. She was shaking, so Stevie put her arm around her. After a few moments, they eased apart.
“I'm sorry to shock you,” Stevie said.
“I'm not sure it's you who shocked me—it's my brother and niece, coming to this place. What are they doing here, at Hubbard's Point, of all places?”
“Jack transferred to his company's Boston office—”
Madeleine shook her head. “God, it hurts to hear this from you. Instead of from him. He's here in New England, and he couldn't even call me in Providence? To tell me?”
“He seems as if . . .” Stevie hesitated. “As if he has his hands full.”
“Because of Nell?” Madeleine asked, drawing a sharp breath. “Tell me about her, Stevie. I haven't seen her in nearly a year.”
“She's extraordinary,” Stevie said. She led Maddie into the living room, to the loveseat where Jack and Nell had sat the night of their visit. They sat together, knees touching, and Stevie told Madeleine the whole story, beginning with Nell's expedition to find a blue house. Stevie described her short brown hair and bright green eyes, her quick mind, her easy smile.
She watched Madeleine react to each detail so eagerly, yet with obvious hurt. So much had happened since she had last seen the niece she loved so much; Stevie wished she could take the pain away, wished that she didn't have to tell her friend about the child she obviously knew and adored.
“She goes to school in Boston?”
“Yes,” Stevie said.
Madeleine squeezed her eyes shut. “She loved her Atlanta school and teacher very much. . . . I hate to think of her leaving it. Emma chose the house because the neighborhood kids went to such a great school. Nell loved to learn from the very beginning.”
“She seems so smart.”
“She is. She picks up everything, right off the bat. She's got Emma's curiosity and drive, her father's ability to figure anything out. She had a best friend down in Georgia. Tristan, I think . . . Nell must miss her terribly.”
Stevie had seen the depths of loss that Nell was capable of feeling, but instead she said, “She made a summer friend, Maddie. At least she's not lonely up here. I saw her and Peggy riding around the beach earlier.” She left out on a bicycle-built-for-two, in case Madeleine remembered seeing it. Her friend seemed so fragile right now, her hands shaking as she clasped them together.
“What else did she say, Stevie?” she asked. “Did she—” Madeleine bit her lip, seeming afraid to finish the question. “Did she mention me?”
Stevie nodded. “She did, Maddie.”
“Tell me,” Madeleine said. “What did she say?”
“She misses you.”
Madeleine drew a sharp breath.
“She had gone upstairs to visit the bird,” Stevie said. “And when I went up to check on her, she begged me . . . to find you.”
“Me?”
Stevie nodded. “She saw the painting my aunt did. And she knew all the stories about the beach girls, how close we were. And she cried for me to call you. Because she misses you so much.”
Madeleine took it in, wide-eyed, with tears streaming down her cheeks. She looked around the room, as if she was looking for Nell. Stevie wanted to show her all the places Nell had been—sitting in this seat, looking at that painting, examining this conch shell.
“There's a saying my father always used to use,” Madeleine said. “‘So near, and yet so far.' That's how I feel right now. As if the people I love most are right here, practically within sight, but I can't reach them.”
“You can reach them,” Stevie said.
Madeleine shook her head. “You don't know Jack. When he makes up his mind, that's it. He's written me off.”
“You're his sister, Maddie,” Stevie said, even while remembering Aunt Aida's words.
“I know. That makes it worse. It makes him feel more justified. He's really stubborn, Stevie. He gets an idea in his head, and nothing turns him away from it.”
“He can't keep Nell away from you. If only you could have heard her. She wants to see you so badly. . . . I think that's the real reason she came to see me.”
“I think she wanted to meet her mother's oldest friend,” Madeleine said.
“That's partly it,” Stevie said. “But you didn't hear the way she was sobbing for you. Jack had to carry her out of here.”
Madeleine looked pale. She stared at the glass of champagne she held in her hand, but didn't drink. The windows were open, and a cool breeze blew through the house, but her face and throat were coated with a sheen of sweat.
“Are you okay?” Stevie asked.
Madeleine nodded. Then she shook her head. “Not really,” she said. “This is just all a little too much for me to take. Stevie, I hate to do this, but I think I'd better go home.”
“You can't leave!”
“I have to. It's too painful to be here, knowing my brother and Nell are just down the road—and I'm not allowed to see them.”
“You can just go over there—I'll go with you!”
Madeleine shook her head. “That wouldn't be good for Nell. I don't know what Jack would say, or do, and I wouldn't want to put her through an upsetting scene.”
“But it wouldn't be! They'd see you, and know how much you love them.”
“Don't you think I've told Jack that already?”
“But for him to actually see you . . .”
Stevie held her breath, waiting for her friend to respond.
MADELEINE FELT anger building. “You don't know, Stevie. I can't believe you brought me here—we shared so much, you talked about such deep things, but you left out this little thing.”
“No, I—”
Madeleine shook her head. “I don't want to hear it. You had dinner with Jack and Nell one night, and you think you know what it's like for them, for us. But you really don't. You don't know the whole story. And you shouldn't have done this.”
“Nell wanted me to!”
Madeleine was so upset, she couldn't stand to hear Nell's name. She went upstairs and got her bag. Her hands were shaking, but she knew it wasn't from the champagne. That had worn off on their walk to the beach.
When she returned to the kitchen, Stevie was standing by the door. Her hair was almost dry, so dark and perfectly smooth. Her violet eyes looked worried, and she reached out her hands. Madeleine was still angry, but she took them anyway. The two old friends stood looking into each other's eyes.
“I hope you'll come back,” Stevie said.
“It's not the same without Emma,” Madeleine said.
“No, it's not the same, but it can still be good.”
Madeleine just shook her head. “If you see Nell, tell her I love her.”
“Maddie—please, go tell her yourself.”
Madeleine couldn't respond to that. She just hugged Stevie, murmured something about taking care, staying in touch, and walked out the door. When she got down to the road, she looked up at the house. Stevie and Tilly were in the window. Birds called from the trees. Madeleine waved goodbye. She felt a pain in her throat, sharp as the driftwood stick.
Leaving the beach. Saying goodbye to her old friend. It reminded her, so deeply, of how it had felt, when they were teenagers, leaving each other for another whole, long winter.
Five years have passed; five summers,
with the length
Of five long winters! And again I hear
These waters . . .
Wordsworth's “Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey”—adopted when she and her friends were teenagers—came back to Madeleine as she headed north, away from the beach, her old friend, her brother and niece. It was a beautiful, hot summer day, tonight the July full moon would be rising, but as she sped along, Madeleine felt the grip of winter.
NOT THE SAME WITHOUT EMMA, Madeleine had said.
Stevie was so churned up by Madeleine's departure, and those words, that she took another walk along the beach. What had happened over at Little Beach, when Stevie had handed Maddie the silvery driftwood stick? Maddie had looked as if she might faint. Stevie had so much energy inside, she had to get it out. Walking along, she wished she'd meet up with Jack. She wanted to shake him, tell him what a great sister he had. What didn't Stevie understand?
She wanted to see Nell, tell her that her aunt loved her.
Not the same without Emma.
From the beach, the cottages on the rocky point looked like dollhouses, each tidy and perfect and filled with happiness. Gardens and window boxes spilled over with petunias and English ivy. Stevie's own house looked like a stage set for contentment. Seagulls soared against the azure sky. Children played in the small waves while their mothers sat in beach chairs and shared the secrets of life.
Stevie and Emma had been two of those children. Their mothers spent the summer of 1959 pregnant together on the beach at Hubbard's Point, talking about how different the next summer would be—and how happy they were that their kids would grow up together. Stevie was born in October. Emma was born in December.
The following July, the girls met for the first time. Bathing-suited—nine-month-old Stevie in a little blue and white tank, seven-month-old Emma in a pink-checked sunsuit—they were gently placed together, balanced by their mother's hands, in a wave-washed sandy hollow freshly dug below the tide line.
Stevie swore she could remember the meeting: the soft brush, brush of the waves' forward edge, the cool curl of sea foam, the steadiness of her mother's hand between her shoulder blades, Emma's long lashes framing her huge green eyes as she stared back at her new—and first—best friend.
“It was like an arranged marriage, Emma,” she'd once said. “Our mothers had it all mapped out for us, that whole long winter after we were born. We were destined to love each other even before we met. Really, if you think about it, we had no choice.”
“But what if we hadn't loved—or even liked—each other? What if we'd taken one look at each other and started crying? What if one of us hated being in the water and started throwing sand? What if only one of us loved the beach?”
“That could never have happened,” Stevie said confidently.
“Why not?” Emma pressed.
“Because we're beach girls,” Stevie said. “And our mothers were before us. . . .” Was that the first time they'd used the name?
Regardless, Emma had had no option but to agree; life itself had convinced her—she and Stevie had spent every summer of their childhood together at Hubbard's Point, on the Connecticut shoreline. Running barefoot along the beach, crabbing in the marsh behind the big blue house, taking the path to Little Beach, riding their bikes to Foley's Store for penny candy, racing each other out to the raft—climbing onto the wooden slats warmed by the sun, catching their breath as they looked back at the gentle curve of beach between two rocky points, the slice of heaven here on earth that they called their home.
By night, Hubbard's Point was no less magical. The Milky Way blazed a white trail through the sky overhead. Oak leaves rustled in the sea breeze, and late in August owls would roost in the branches, their mysterious calls hooting through the night. Stevie used to draw them, the birds at the Point.
She did cartoons about them, with messages to Emma about the boys they liked. Emma tried to draw, but she always gave up. She'd throw the crumpled paper down and say she didn't care about art because she was going to be famous someday—as a model. Stevie believed it. Emma was beautiful and flirtatious, and all the boys liked her.
Madeleine's family came to the beach. Stevie and Emma met her in line at the Good Humor truck. Emma didn't have enough change to buy a chocolate chip crunch, and Madeleine made up the difference. That was Maddie: instantly friendly, generous, and crazy for ice cream. Stevie and Emma adopted her instantly.
On Sunday nights, the girls would trek down the stone steps from Stevie's house on the Point for movies on the beach. The films were mostly old—sometimes black and white. Sometimes they were light and funny, like The Love Bug or Pollyanna, and sometimes they were dark and hard to understand—more for the parents, Stevie thought—like The Postman Always Rings Twice.
But what was on the screen didn't actually matter to the girls. They would dig their pit in the sand, spread out their blanket and spray bug stuff on each other's feet, eat ice creams, and wait for dark so the show could begin.
Those movies were where summers became more complex, where beach girls grew up a little. Stevie still remembered the summer when they were fifteen, when boys seriously entered the picture.
The show that night was one of the dark parental ones, with grown-ups kissing hard. Stevie sat with Creighton Reid, Maddie with his brother Hunter, and Emma huddled with James Martell. Their blankets were side-by-side. Stevie remembered her and Maddie being at least as interested in what was happening on Emma's blanket as they were in their own experience. Stevie was very afraid that Creighton would want to kiss her the way John Garfield was kissing Lana Turner, when suddenly she saw James doing just that to Emma.
She caught Madeleine
's eye and threw a pebble at Emma. Stevie gestured sharply toward the boardwalk, and the three friends met there five minutes later.
“What are you doing?” Stevie asked.
“Hey—I saw you holding hands,” Emma said.
“Holding hands! That's nothing—you're making out!” Maddie said. “Just like my brother and his girlfriend—look at them going at it.” Jack and his girlfriend—were on a blanket so far from the screen it couldn't actually be said that they were at the movie at all.
Emma just smiled—a little slyly, as if she'd just gotten caught at something she'd been doing all summer.
“Is he forcing you? I'll come over and kick sand in his eyes so you can escape,” Stevie said.
“Don't you dare!”
“You're kidding—you want him to do it?”
“Um, we're missing the movie,” Maddie said matter-of-factly. “Think I'll go back to the blanket now.” She ran off.
“You like it?” Stevie asked Emma. She felt bereft, as if she were losing her two best friends to boys. She wanted to hold on to the beach girls forever—a trio of girls who loved life and each other.
“Don't be a baby,” Emma said.
Stevie's mouth dropped open, as if she'd been slapped.
Emma took Stevie by the shoulders, looked her straight on. Her green eyes looked hard in the shadowy light, and impatient—as if she were much older than Stevie. Soft brown curls framed her tan face, tossed by the night wind blowing off the water. The movie voices were low and urgent. James called out, “Emma!” Stevie wanted to grab her hand and pull her fast across the sand, into the water to wash this moment away.
“I'm sorry,” Emma said holding her gaze. “You're not a baby.”
“I know.”
“We might as well want to kiss them,” Emma said. “Because they're going to do it anyway. Just do what they want, and it's much more fun.”
“What about what we want?”