Beach Girls

by Luanne Rice

  They gazed east, in the direction the moon would rise. The sun had completely set now, and the forest was coming alive with night sounds: crickets, animals hunting through the underbrush, whippoorwills calling from the Lovecraft marshes.

  Aunt Aida had changed from her painting clothes into Mandarin black silk pajamas, but she still smelled of turpentine and oil paint. Stevie loved that smell, and felt comforted by it.

  “And you?” Aunt Aida asked after a few minutes. “Why are you here with me instead of with your friends?”

  “Friends?”

  Her aunt cast a patient smile that informed Stevie she knew she was being deliberately obtuse. “The man and his young daughter. What were their names?”

  “Jack and Nell.”

  “Ah, yes. And his sister?”

  “Madeleine. I saw her. After our last visit, I invited her down to the beach.”

  “That was the right thing to do.”

  “Well, I wish it was, but I have my doubts. She came, and we had a great visit. Until I told her that Jack and Nell were just down the road, and she got upset and left in a hurry.”

  “She was in a bit of shock, that's all. She'll give it some thought and be back. You'll see.”

  Stevie pictured Madeleine driving out of Hubbard's Point, not looking back, and thought her aunt was wrong on this one.

  “In less than three weeks, I've managed to alienate a whole family,” Stevie said. “I should stick to being a hermit.”

  “I doubt that Nell feels that way,” Aida said.

  “Nell?”

  Aida nodded. “She's the one who started this ball rolling.”

  “By coming to my house,” Stevie said.

  “And speaking her mind, letting you and her father know she needs her aunt.” The older woman smiled. “I put great stock in a niece's love for her aunt. And vice versa.”

  “So do I,” Stevie said, squeezing her hand, wondering what to do about Nell and her family.

  Now they leaned forward, elbows on the stone parapet, gazing east. A fresh breeze ruffled the leaves all around them, cooled their faces. The hill sloped steadily down to the Sound. The town was hidden in the trees. Stevie heard her aunt sigh, and glanced over.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Oh, another developer contacted me this week,” Aida said. “He wants to build a hotel and spa here, put condos on the hill, and turn the castle into a conference center.”

  “I hope you told him to go jump in the river.”

  Her aunt hesitated, and Stevie saw her bite her lip. “I haven't . . . yet.”

  “But you're going to?”

  “My taxes are so high now, and the assessor is sending someone around for a reassessment. I've heard that Augusta Renwick's taxes doubled in one year! I can't afford to keep the castle up as it is. . . . I worry that some kids will sneak up here and fall through my crumbling stonework.”

  Stevie was stunned. For the first time, her aunt seemed to be seriously considering a developer's offer. An owl called from deep in the trees. They heard its wing beats, saw it pass overhead.

  “If you let them put condos in,” Stevie said, “where will the owls go?”

  Her aunt tried to smile. “That sounds like a Stevie Moore Caldecott winner. Where Will the Owls Go?”

  “I mean it seriously,” Stevie said. “You can't develop the hillside. Aunt Aida?”

  “It's a conundrum,” her aunt replied after a moment. “Because I can't afford not to.”

  “There must be a way to raise money,” Stevie said. “Maybe open the castle to the public for one or two days a week.”

  Aunt Aida smiled sadly. “Why would they come? To see my darling husband's romantic but useless folly?”

  “Since when have you believed that anything romantic was useless?” Stevie hugged her. “You are the last of the great romantics, Aunt Aida. It's why you've held on to this land as long as you have. Henry and I both know that it would be easier for you to stay in Florida every year, but you can't let this place go . . . because it reminds you of Uncle Van.”

  “It does,” her aunt whispered, wiping away tears. “I feel him here with me right now. If his ghost is anywhere, it's here.”

  Stevie's heart hurt; she thought of getting to her aunt's age, having loved someone so much that she would sacrifice so much just to be near his spirit. “You must never feel alone,” she said.

  “I don't.”

  Stevie nodded, gazing over the trees.

  “You'll find someone,” her aunt said. “And you'll stop feeling so alone.”

  Stevie shook her head. “I had my chances,” she said.

  “Smiles of a Summer Night,” her aunt said.

  Stevie looked over, curious.

  “It was a film by Ingmar Bergman, and it inspired Sondheim's A Little Night Music.”

  “‘Send in the Clowns' was in that musical,” Stevie said. “The story of my love life.”

  Her aunt laughed. “It is about human foibles and missteps in love. All but the most fearful of us make them, dear Stevie. It's how we know we're alive! You are far from alone.”

  “I've made more and worse than most people.”

  Her aunt shook her head, laughing no longer. “You've reached for love body and soul,” she said. “You've believed in it, needed it, so very much, that you've taken three chances. . . . In the play, the grand duchess says that of a summer night, the moon smiles three times. . . . Well, tonight, I'd like for you to think of me as the grand duchess.”

  “I've had my three times,” Stevie said.

  “No, dear. I'm not referring to that. Think now, tonight, and think deep. Time and experience are measured differently during summer, and especially on full-moon nights.”

  At that moment, the moon came out of the sea, far to the east. It emerged slowly, a huge burnt-orange disc hovering over the horizon, upside down, as if spilling gold into the water. “The first smile . . . see?” Aunt Aida asked as the moon shone huge and bright, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

  The amazing thing was, Stevie could.

  As they watched in silence, the moon rose slowly, turning smaller and paler, until it was pure white, glowing, high in the sky. The face appeared in the craters, and Stevie laughed out loud.

  “What is it?”

  “I just remembered,” Stevie said. “When we were young, my friends Emma and Madeleine and I used to call her ‘the girl in the moon.' See her, laughing?”

  “The second smile,” her aunt said.

  Stevie herself was beaming. She remembered being fifteen with her friends, happy and sassy, claiming the moon as their own.

  “When will we see the third smile?” Stevie asked. “Since you're grand duchess for the night, you must know!”

  “You will see it when you are brave enough to knock on the right door,” her aunt said.

  Stevie glanced over, ready to tease her aunt, but she could see that Aunt Aida was purely serious. She regarded Stevie with grave eyes. Stevie's stomach fluttered. Her aunt was contemplating serious matters: the sale of her hillside, her woods, the birds' habitat. An owl called from deep in the forest, and another replied from very close by.

  Looking up, Stevie saw the silhouette of a great horned owl, perched on the top of the tower. Its face was ferocious in moonlight, its eyes and beak glinting yellow. A shiver went down Stevie's spine as it flew away, into the trees.

  Now, gazing back at the moon, she saw that it had spun a net across the water. Filaments of moonlight shimmered and danced on the waves. Stevie imagined it connecting everyone she had ever loved. She saw Aunt Aida staring, and knew she was thinking of Uncle Van.

  Stevie's heart pounded. Knock on the right door . . . She thought of Nell standing outside, on the top step, with her skinned knees. And she thought of herself, leaving the invitation in the screen door at Jack and Nell's house. And she remembered Madeleine coming up the hill with her two bottles of champagne. The moon brought the memories together, and Stevie suddenly knew.


  She knew what she had to do, where she had to go, to knock on the door.

  NELL WAS so tired, she could hardly keep her eyes open. The moon had come charging out of the water, rising into the sky, while everyone watched. She had liked snuggling into her dad's side, feeling his warmth as the night grew cooler. Then, later, Peggy had pulled her to her feet, to “dance by the light of the moon” with Annie and Eliza. The waves had provided music, and the girls had danced barefoot in the sand until their parents all said it was time to head home.

  The families walked together as far as the seawall. The wall was really thick, made of huge rocks, to keep the sea off the road. Peggy and her family said goodbye and headed through the marsh with flashlights.

  Nell and her father walked through the sandy parking lot, behind the boat basin. Nell heard the boat hardware groaning and creaking gently in the darkness as the water rose and fell. Walking along, she yawned and stumbled, and her father caught her and kept her going straight.

  “That was fun,” she said.

  “It was,” he said.

  Nell felt exhausted from the fresh air, running around, and general excitement of watching the great big moon come up out of the sea. She had loved being with so many people, all gathered together on the sand.

  “It was like having a big family,” she said, holding her father's hand.

  He didn't reply. She felt the tar beneath her feet, still warm from the day's sun.

  “I liked it. I like when it's just us, you and me,” she said. “But I also like it when it's other people, too.”

  “Well, it's mostly just us,” he said. “We'll be leaving the beach soon, in a couple of weeks. But then you can write to Peggy.”

  “From Boston?” she asked, unsure of whether they were going back to Massachusetts or home to Georgia.

  “Not Boston,” he said, sounding funny—hesitant, she thought. Which was a very unusual way for her father to sound.

  “We're going to Atlanta?”

  “Nell, do you know how to dance the Highland fling?”

  “The what?”

  “It's a Scottish dance.”

  “Scottish? Like, with bagpipes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ohhh,” Nell said, shivering. “Aunt Madeleine told me about going to Scotland when she was little, and hearing bagpipes everywhere she went. She liked it, but I wouldn't.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I hate bagpipes,” Nell said. “Because of that one that played at church for Mom's . . .” she refused to say funeral. She remembered that some man her mother had met at Dixon, the prison where she had volunteered, a guard or a police officer or something, knew how to play the bagpipes, and he'd stood by the altar playing “Amazing Grace.”

  “Well, Scotland has a lot more going on than bagpipes.”

  “True, but if I heard even one it would ruin my time. They're awful. I hate them. Don't talk about them anymore, okay? Because I'll have nightmares.”

  “But, Nell—”

  “Shh! Shhhh!” Nell said, covering her ears.

  Her father stopped talking. Nell reached for his hand, yawning again. She was very tired, but she wanted to make sure her mind didn't get all upset and filled with funeral music and the prison just before going to sleep. To push it away, she hummed “Lemon Tree” and tried to decide which book she wanted him to read her that night.

  Should it be Owl Night or Summer of the Swans? Or, maybe, Seahawk? When they got to their cottage, her father unlocked the back door, and they went inside. Nell changed right into her pajamas. She knew she should wash her face and feet and brush her teeth, but she wanted to get right into bed and hear the story.

  She had already decided on the book—Summer of the Swans—and was just hanging her toothbrush back in the rack, when she heard a knock at the door. Her stomach clenched up.

  A knock at the door, especially after dark, was not good. She remembered the police officers who had come to her house that night, to tell them about her mother—she had gotten all confused and thought they were guards from the prison, warning them that that awful prisoner who had called her mom had somehow escaped. And she remembered the times she'd hear tap-tap-tap, after they thought she'd gone to sleep, when Francesca would come to their door with some papers her father just “had to see that night.” Or what? London Bridge would come falling down?

  Hearing the light hand at the door, Nell knew it had to be Francesca.

  “Go away,” she said into her pillow.

  A few moments passed, and then she heard a second knock—her father tapping at her bedroom door. “Nell?” he asked.

  “Dad,” she said, feeling tired and close to tears. “Please tell Francesca to go away, and tell her we're not going back to Boston! Then come in here, because I need my Stevie story!”

  “Francesca's not here. And tonight you're the luckiest girl around. You're going to get a story straight from Stevie herself.”

  And with that, Nell sat up straight and peered into the light flooding in from the hall lamp, and she saw Stevie smiling down at her, coming to sit on the edge of her bed, without even a book in her hands to read from.

  Chapter 15

  NELL SCOOTED OVER IN THE BED, TO make room for Stevie to sit on the edge. Jack hovered in the doorway, as if he wasn't sure whether to stay or go. Stevie smiled at him, waiting. He was tall, and his broad shoulders completely blocked the hall light. Her heart was in her throat, wanting more than anything for him to sit beside her.

  “Sit down, Dad . . . come listen to Stevie's story,” Nell said.

  “Oh, I think she came to tell it to you,” he said. “I'll go out in the other room. . . .”

  “It's for both of you,” Stevie said.

  He moved toward her, then stopped himself—as if maybe he thought better of sitting beside her on the bed. Instead, he pulled a straight-backed chair in from the other room. The bedside lamp had a ship's wheel on its parchment shade, and it threw warm orange light on Stevie's hands and sketchpad.

  “This is a story about Lovecraft Hill,” she said. “A magical stone castle sits in the midst of fields and woodlands, overlooking the mouth of a majestic river, just where it empties into the sea. Ivy and vines grow up the castle walls. . . .” As she spoke, she drew, passing the pictures to Nell.

  “Does a princess live there?” Nell asked.

  “No,” Stevie said. “The castle and its grounds belong to nature. But it's watched over, tended, by a wise old aunt.”

  “An aunt,” Nell whispered. Stevie sketched a woman who looked like a cross between Stevie's Aunt Aida and Madeleine. Stevie heard Nell draw a sharp breath; she glanced up for Jack's reaction. His eyes were sparkling, gazing at Stevie, not even looking at her drawing.

  “The castle is old, and crumbling,” Stevie said, hardly able to look away from him. “High winds topple stones from the tower. The steps threaten to give way. Bats live in the rafters, and vines twist up the copper drainpipes.” Swiftly she drew the enchanted ruin.

  “Acres of pine trees grow on the hillside, providing shade and cover for every kind of bird and animal. Finches, thrushes, warblers, robins nest in the pine barrens, building nests of twigs and needles. They lay their eggs, raise their broods. Deer, raccoons, and rabbits live there, too. The deep forest gives them shelter and food. They survive in their habitat so they won't have to stray into ours. . . .”

  Stevie drew a quick series of pictures showing deer crossing the busy shore road, eating the flowers and shrubs around a house; raccoons toppling over a garbage can; and rabbits overtaking a lettuce patch. Nell giggled.

  “Opposite the castle from the pine barrens are the Old Oaks. These are the oldest woods in Connecticut. They are thick and tall. There are trees in the deepest part called ‘dawn redwoods' that date back to a time when the land was new. Owls live in this part of the forest. They call through the night, and only the bravest people dare stray into their woods, answer their call.”

  “What do they say?” Nell whisper
ed, and Stevie answered with the call Aunt Aida had taught her when she was Nell's age.

  “Who-hoo-who-hoo-hoo-hoo . . .”

  Nell tried it, got it right the first time. Stevie drew a picture of three people standing in the thick forest: Stevie herself, the wise aunt, and Nell. Nell beamed.

  Stevie kept talking, making it up as she went along, drawing quick sketches. She had never done this before—written a story for an actual, real child. If felt incredible—not least of all because Jack was leaning forward, seemingly as interested as Nell. Their knees touched, and Stevie felt voltage shoot all through her body.

  Nell was getting sleepy, her eyes starting to close.

  “Should I stop?” Stevie asked.

  “No,” the Kilverts both said at once.

  “The castle grounds belong to nature, but others want it, too,” Stevie said. “Men with bulldozers want to come and clear the trees. They want to own the beautiful view and sell it for gold. They want to turn the deers' nests into houses, and they want to turn the wild castle into a tame conference hall.”

  “But the wise aunt . . .” Nell murmured, struggling to keep her eyes open.

  “Yes, the wild aunt will protect the hillside,” Stevie said, drawing.

  “I knew she would,” Nell whispered.

  “How did you know that?” Jack asked.

  “Because she's good. She's like Aunt Maddie,” Nell said. “And like Stevie's Aunt Aida. Right, Stevie?”

  “Very much so.”

  “When the sun rises, the owls go to sleep, and the other creatures come out of their nests and burrows. The warblers sing in the bushes, and the rabbits hop through the wet grass. The hummingbirds come to the red flowers that grow on vines attached to the castle. They feed on the nectar, their wings such a blur you can't even see them moving. Summer days pass by, turn into nights. The moon starts off as a thin crescent, and grows larger all through the month, till it is full and rises, like tonight, right out of the sea. . . .”

  When she drew the last picture, of the full moon shining down on the castle and hillside, Nell was asleep. Stevie left the sketchbook by the side of her bed, followed Jack out into the living room. Being so close to him made her shiver. She felt whispers of air across her skin; she couldn't quite look at him.