by Luanne Rice
“Squire Toby?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
She nodded. He knew she got it. Squire Toby’s Will was the title of one of Le Fanu’s best-known works. He couldn’t name his boat after the woman he loved, because she didn’t love him. It wouldn’t have been right. But naming his boat after a ghost story written by her namesake—what was wrong with that?
“My grandmother loved that story.”
“Ah, Aphrodite.”
“I miss her,” Sheridan said.
“She and Clio were all right. I used to love going to your cottage when we were kids. Your grandmother once told me my father was standing right over my shoulder; that was the summer we were twelve.”
Sheridan nodded, glancing over at him. “She told me. Your father was never far away from you. Even through all your trouble…”
“I loved your grandmother,” Gavin said.
“Well, she loved you,” Sheridan said.
“I thought that might get me farther than it did,” Gavin said, trying to laugh. “With you.”
“You didn’t need any help,” Sheridan whispered.
A power boat puttered in from beyond the breakwater, fishermen back from Wickland Reef. The Squire Toby swayed slightly in the wake, and Gavin caught Sheridan’s wrist as her deck chair slid a few inches.
Her skin singed the tips of his fingers. He stared into her blue eyes, trying to read everything about her. The water rocked them, reminding him of when they were young and often on a boat. The way he felt about Sheridan was eternal, and he’d always known it.
“Sheridan,” he said, wanting to pull her into his arms. “Remember that song, the first song you ever played me?”
She shook her head, but he’d never believe she could forget it.
“Maybe it’s time to write another song. One that picks up where that one left off.”
She shook her head hard. “No,” she said. “No more songs, no more music…that’s over.”
Her suffering was in her eyes, in the air. Gavin wanted to reach for her and hold her, but he couldn’t. She was missing Charlie so much, he could feel it himself, as if he and she shared the same heart.
“I have to go,” she said, sliding her wrist away. “And I have to ask you a favor.”
“What?” he asked, ready to promise anything.
“Leave me alone,” she said.
They stood there staring at each other for a few more moments, then Sheridan climbed down the ladder, untied the painter, and climbed into the dinghy. Lifting her oars, she set them into the oarlocks; before starting to row, she leaned on the oars and looked up at Gavin. She opened her mouth for a second—Gavin swore she’d been about to say something else. But she didn’t, not even a word. She just nodded and rowed away.
He stood at the rail, watching her go. He hadn’t made any promises, and she’d asked him for the one favor he couldn’t grant.
Her boat made ripples in the calm surface; their edges caught mysterious light. He listened to her oars pull and dip, pull and dip. He closed his eyes, wishing he could tell her: there was a rhythm to what she was doing, and it sounded like music.
And he wasn’t going to leave her alone.
CHAPTER 7
SUMMER STORMS WERE THE BEST. THEY’D SWIRL INTO being over Southern waters, drawing strength from the warmth and moisture, charging up the coast. Lightning would streak through heavy air, and thunder would follow. The number of seconds between the lightning and thunder determined how far away the storm was.
Nell and Charlie had loved storms. One day—just before he’d left for college—while her father was at work and Stevie was painting in her studio, Nell had taken him up to the attic, to lie on an old mattress under the eaves. The rain pelted the roof and the wind shook the trees outside. She lay in his arms, staring up at the small window. Lightning flashed.
“One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi, four-Mississippi, five-Mississippi,” he said, and then they heard the thunder crack, felt it in their bones.
“One mile away,” she said, arching her back and kissing him.
His mouth was so hot, and he tasted so good. Every time they were together, every time they kissed, she felt both so happy and so…so something else. Not quite sad, not quite worried, but as if she were already missing him. As if she knew the kiss couldn’t last forever, and that time would pass and she would have to go to work, or he would have to go home to dinner, or her dad would come home, or Stevie would call.
“Let’s live up here in the attic,” she said, holding him tighter.
“Right here?”
“Yes. And never leave.”
“Okay,” he said, pushing the hair back from her forehead, staring into her eyes. He brought his face close to hers, kissed her softly, then hard. Their bodies were so close, every possible inch touching. The rain drummed on the roof over their heads, and she never wanted it to stop. It felt like a cocoon, like a wet, silk, rainy chrysalis, and they were safely inside.
When they stopped kissing, she felt that weird not-sadness thing again.
“Oh,” she said.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s going to sound strange.”
“Most things do,” Charlie said. “Do you ever think that? Almost everything anyone says is really crazy? Unexpected, cool, and you have to wonder, why are they saying it?”
“Yeah,” Nell said, smiling. She loved him so much, partly because he “got it.” He saw the world through the same kaleidoscope she did. Maybe it came from her mother dying when she was young, and his father staying out of his life, but Nell didn’t want to think about those things. Bad stuff happened to everyone—it wasn’t an excuse, just an explanation. That’s why Charlie would make such a good documentary.
He kissed her again, running his right hand down her bare arm. She was wearing a bikini top and clamdiggers and his fingers felt so light on her skin, she arched her back and thought she might dissolve. But then they stopped kissing, and she had that standing-on-a-cliff feeling again.
“So,” he said, “what’s going to sound strange?”
“Oh,” she said, “that I miss you.”
He nodded. He was such a cute boy, Nell thought. He had big blue eyes and long light hair. He looked like a boy who could do absolutely anything, and be happy, and grow up to be the kind of man who looked much younger than his years. But right now, hearing Nell’s words, he looked old. He had depth and wisdom and experience in his young eyes….
“I miss you, too,” he whispered.
“Why is that?” she asked, holding him tighter. “When we’re right here together? And you haven’t even left yet?”
“Because we know we can’t live in the attic. You’ll have to go downstairs eventually, and I’ll have to go home, and then I’ll have to…”
“Shh,” she said. “Don’t say…”
“Leave for New York.”
Those words brought tears into Nell’s eyes. She kissed his lips, touching her tongue to his, feeling how much she loved him. The truth seemed so cruel. Sometimes Nell felt she couldn’t live another minute, facing all the goodbyes and loss that came with life.
Someday, though. Right? Someday? she wanted to ask. She wanted him to promise her, and her to promise him that they’d always be together. Next year she’d join him at NYU; they’d get an apartment in the Village as soon as they could convince their parents. They’d stay together, be faithful, never be apart. But something kept her from saying the words out loud; Charlie could never make her feel stupid, but she held the words in anyway.
The next time it stormed, they went back to the attic. This time Charlie had brought his video camera. He’d be leaving in a few days; he was going to turn eighteen at the end of the year, in December, and he’d be getting some kind of trust fund that would fund the documentary he wanted to make. His mother had let him get a really good camera, so he could start his filmmaking career.
Nell loved that about him. He was like her: a co
mbination of wanting things to last forever, and a chafing to make things happen and get on with everything. That would happen at NYU. They’d learn everything there was to learn about writing a script, shooting a scene, editing the footage. Charlie was ahead of her, ready to start classes in just a couple of weeks. Even more, he had a great subject: lost fathers.
Having a father who was a total mystery was great for the film, but sad for Charlie. His mother never wanted to talk about it. Sheridan stopped short of really badmouthing Randy Quill—but she didn’t have to. Charlie’s aunts would do it for her. They tried to hold back, but once they got started, they couldn’t restrain their anger at Randy for not being there for Sheridan and Charlie.
Nell knew how strange Charlie felt, having a dad like that. He was so sweet himself, so full of love, such a generous spirit. He couldn’t fathom a man who would fail his family. And neither, really, could Nell.
He made a list of things he wanted to put in his film, shots he wanted to take, places he needed to visit. Nashville, of course; New York City; maybe Florida, Los Angeles, and Memphis, where Randy had girlfriends. He called his father. When he was younger, his father had been too busy to talk. Lately he’d been more voluble, told Charlie he had two other kids. Charlie had siblings.
But that stormy day, Charlie wasn’t thinking of the film about his dad. He had another idea. They went up to the attic, with the idea of interviewing each other—something different, just for them.
He’d held the camera, asked her questions. Nell had giggled and felt nervous for about ten seconds. Then she’d blocked out the hardware in his hand, just talked as if they were having one of their normal conversations. Later they’d switched places, with her interviewing him.
How often had she watched the tape? Nearly every time it rained, she took it out. Right now the air was humid, thick with moisture. She felt it on her skin, a fine sheen of dampness. The windows were open, and outside she heard the first drops starting to tap the leaves.
She logged into his Talk2Me page. Keeping it going made her feel as if a part of him was still alive. She saw his picture, read through all his “favorites”—bands, books, movies, separated by category, each including a paragraph or two he’d written with his usual combination of passion and cool. Every entry reminded her of him. They had loved the same things: To Kill a Mockingbird was each of their top books.
Arctic Monkeys and the Hold Steady were Nell’s current obsessions in the band department, but even though Charlie preferred Nashville music, he listed them as well—just as she’d listed some of his favorites on her page: Brad Paisley, George Strait, as well as Cumberland, the band he’d heard the night he died.
Nell copied the link to Charlie’s Talk2Me page, e-mailed it to Gavin with a note: You want to know who Charlie was, this will help….
Writing those words, she felt her throat close tight. The ache was terrible, as if she’d swallowed broken glass. How sad it was, beyond belief, that the only way Gavin could get to know Charlie was through such meager means, by reading through paragraphs he’d written at least a year ago.
Charlie had been so young—his taste would have changed. Nell was wise enough to know that people didn’t stay the same; the important, core matters would have remained, but other things might have shifted. In some ways, Charlie was trapped in amber, in the Talk2Me page he had created. Nell knew this, but still she couldn’t bring herself to delete the account.
So she sent it to Gavin. She considered going down to the beach, walking in the rain. She liked that, the feeling of warm raindrops on her body. She could sit on the boardwalk, under the pavilion, and stare out at the gray water. But then she’d see Gavin’s boat.
Nell had brought him here to investigate, but as far as she could tell, all he was doing was sitting out there. Every time she looked out there, he was on deck fishing or talking on his cell phone. She felt frustrated. Even though he hadn’t taken her money, she was dying for him to do the job, to learn what had happened to Charlie.
So never mind going to the beach. Maybe something else…Putting Gavin out of her mind, she left her room. She headed down the cooler upstairs hall—no direct light penetrated, and a breeze wafted through from windows open in the bedrooms—to the attic stairs. As soon as she opened the door, she felt the heat—the attic was super-warm. But she didn’t care…she wanted to feel close to Charlie, and this was where it was most likely.
She sat on the mattress where they used to lie together. Making sure the tape was in, she turned on the camera. Then she held it so she could see the monitor, and watched the interview she’d done with Charlie last summer, in this very spot. Sometimes she turned up the volume, to make it sound like his normal speaking voice.
Right now she watched without sound. The way he sat, so relaxed, his head resting back on the pillow against the sloping eaves. His sexy blue eyes, and the way his long blond hair fell across his face. Nell wished she didn’t know the tape by heart, couldn’t anticipate his every move. Like how he was going to brush the hair out of his eyes—now.
The rain started, and she turned up the sound. She heard her own question, off camera. “Why do you like storms so much?” And now Charlie answered, his voice filling the attic.
“Because of the energy,” he said. “Because they can’t stop themselves…. Summer storms especially. The named ones…hurricanes. They start down south…I started down south….”
“Where?” asked off-camera Nell.
“Nashville. Nashville, Tennessee. It’s different down there. The trees, the grass, the way music comes out of every window. Up here you look at houses at night and see blue light. TVs…Down there, you don’t look so much as listen. You just hear music coming from everywhere.”
“Tell me about you starting in Nashville. What do you mean?”
“I mean that’s where my parents got together….”
“Who are your parents?”
“My mom is Sheridan Rosslare. Speaking of music, you know?” He smiled, played a little air guitar. Then his smile went away. “My father, well, he doesn’t exist….”
“He must, if you’re here.”
“Really?” Charlie asked.
Nell froze the frame. She stared at Charlie’s face. He was asking a rhetorical question, but she knew he meant it—she could see the pain in his eyes. Since his father wasn’t in his life, did he really exist? What was he to Charlie?
The rain fell harder, and Nell played the rest of the tape. She loved the part at the end, where she’d set the camera on a stack of old books and gone to lie beside Charlie on the mattress. She sat still now, watching herself wriggle into his arms, lie against his tall, strong body. She watched his arms wrap her up, his hands tangle in her hair. She’d always loved the way he touched her hair….
“I love you forever,” he’d whispered.
“So do I,” she’d whispered back.
“I’d give you a ring if I could. But I don’t have one. So…” He’d reached down next to the mattress, grabbed the old beach towel he’d dropped there. He bit the edge, tearing a strip of striped terrycloth. Sitting up, he’d leaned over to tie the piece of towel around her ankle.
“That’s better than any ring,” she’d said, pulling him into her arms again, pressing her body against his.
“It means the same thing,” he’d said.
“What is that?”
“That I love you, Nell. Always…”
Then they’d kissed and kissed, and whispered and whispered, never letting each other go, until the tape ran out.
They hadn’t cared they were on tape. They’d been so carefree and careless, but they’d known, way better than most kids their age, that nothing lasted forever. They’d learned the hard way, the hardest way of all—by losing parents. Nell’s mother had died, and Charlie’s father had never even stepped up. But somehow, in those moments when the camera was running, they must have forgotten.
Because they looked so happy. Nell watched herself and Charlie kissing, an
d it hurt to see how happy they’d looked, and she still wore the cloth around her ankle.
Outside the small attic window, lightning flashed.
“One-Mississippi,” Nell whispered, staring at her and Charlie on the screen. “Two-Mississippi…”
GAVIN SAT DOWN BELOW, oblivious to the storm outside. The wind had picked up, and the Squire Toby was rocking, pulling against the anchor line. Gavin ignored it, sitting at the chart table, staring at his computer screen. The police report lay on the mahogany surface, and he had the pages spread out and annotated.
Nell had included a link to Charlie’s Talk2Me page, in case there were any clues about who he’d met that last night. The problem was, Gavin couldn’t access it because, as he was cheerfully informed, You’re not a member yet!
So he spent twenty long minutes he’d never get back registering at the site—giving them his e-mail address, thinking up a screen name—he picked the name Hubbard, because he was at Hubbard’s Point and he was nothing if not original—and typing in a password.
He felt sleazy doing all this. It was creepy, a guy his age on a site like this. You read about it all the time, middle-aged men adopting fake screen names, trolling Internet sites for young prey. Once he logged on, he could see why they came here. The welcome page was filled with pictures of beautiful young people, male and female, with little cartoon balloons coming out of their mouths: “Talk to me!” “Talk to ME!” If these were his kids, he’d lock up their computers.
Finally all signed in, he went to the page Nell had sent him.
It was Charlie’s. Gavin stared at the young man’s photo, saw Sheridan in his eyes, the shape of his face, the lightness of spirit. He thought about the effort the boy had gone to, uploading photos and music, writing paragraphs about what mattered to him, including pictures and descriptions of Nell.
It felt invasive, reading through all the material. Gavin reflected on how open kids were, how much they revealed to the entire world. Who besides him might be reading Charlie’s page right now, right this minute? And who had read it before last August 31? Who knew what danger lurked in the hearts of people trolling the Internet? It made Gavin shake his head, wishing kids would be more private.