The Sea Keeper's Daughters

by Lisa Wingate

  Maybe Joel had hallucinated or dreamed a breakin? Maybe he’d been talking about it with someone but hadn’t gone through with it? Now what? Call the police? Call Mark? If Joel were my employee—one I’d been trying to steer in the right direction—I’d want to know. But the only number I had for Mark was his shop phone. That wouldn’t do any good so early in the morning.

  I did know where Mark lived. If I could get Joel into the car, I could take him there. At least then, Mark could figure out what should happen next.

  Unfortunately, Joel wasn’t keen on being relocated. “Umm-man… . I feel-l-l like …”

  “Let’s go, buddy.” I dragged him to his feet and moved him out the door, staggering under his weight. This reminded me of some nights out with coworkers in foreign countries—times that I now regretted. I hadn’t been much smarter than Joel when I’d first left home. I’d let people talk me into things—including David Monroe, which was how I’d ended up in a beachfront wedding chapel with a guy who still had eyes for other women.

  The difference between Joel and me was that I’d had points of reference to fall back on when I’d eventually landed face-first in the dirt, brokenhearted and confronted with the inevitable truth. David didn’t love me. He didn’t even really understand what love was. But I knew. Examples had been set for me, growing up. My mother had shown me what love really was. At my best or at my worst, my mom was always ready to wrap her arms around me and love me, no matter how rebellious I was. From what Mark had said, Joel didn’t have that to rely on. He was trying to figure things out all on his own.

  Driving over to the Captain’s Castle, I listened to mumbled explanations as Joel tried to sort out the last twelve hours or so. He was worried about what his boss would say, and whether Mark was going to kill him, and whether he might finally lose his job this time.

  “Jus-just ta-take umm-me home, ’kay?” Moaning, he threw the bloody arm over his eyes. “I jus … I jus needa s-sleep awhi … while.”

  “No, Joel. I’m taking you to Mark’s house.” In the distance, the sun crept through the live oaks, spraying light over shadowed yards and dark windows as we wound through a neighborhood of gorgeous, graceful old homes. Any other time, it would’ve been beautiful scenery. I remembered riding one of the hotel’s loaner bicycles through neighborhoods like these when I could sneak away from my grandmother. “He’s not going to kill you. He cares about you. He cares what happens to you.”

  But as I pulled to the curb in front of a three-story white house with a rose-draped picket fence and blue Adirondack chairs on the porch, my confidence flagged a bit. This place was not only huge; it was immaculate. It didn’t look like the sort of house that had time for other people’s issues. Somehow, I had expected Mark’s home to be a … well … bachelor pad maybe—also a bit more modest in scope, despite the Captain’s Castle handle. This place wasn’t quite a mansion, but it wasn’t far from it, and everywhere I looked, stem to stern, the Captain’s Castle showed evidence of a woman’s touch.

  I exited the car and hurried up the porch steps, my nerves jangling as loud as the doorbell in the early silence. I prepared to explain myself to the lady of the house, if there was one.

  Behind the glass, a silhouetted form moved down the stairs, a shadow at first, finally coming into view on the last few steps. Pulling a turquoise T-shirt over his head, he pushed his arms into the sleeves, and rolled the shirt into place over a pair of sweatpants. I didn’t mean to stare, but I couldn’t help myself.

  A golden retriever cut him off in the entry hall. He and the dog tangled feet, the dog yelped, and Mark staggered forward several steps, catching himself just short of nosediving into the front door. By the time he finally looked through the window, we were almost face to face, the beveled glass like a fun-house mirror. He blinked, understandably confused. A slow, surprised smile followed, and I was temporarily mesmerized by it.

  “The party was last night,” he was saying as he opened the door, his hair still wet and slick, as if he were fresh out of the shower.

  I had the bizarre urge to giggle and tease, even flirt a little, but the real reason for my visit quickly stole the air from the balloon.

  Mark’s smile dropped. “What’s the matter?”

  I served up the short version of Joel and the stairwell. “I’m still not sure exactly what happened, or what kind of trouble he’s in, or if he’s in trouble at all, other than that he made some really stupid decisions and he’s pretty beaten up. I just thought you’d want to know first.”

  “Thanks.” He was already starting toward the car, his face grim, his jaw rigid.

  I trotted to keep up. “Listen, he’s really worried about what you’re going to think. He’s afraid you’ll kill him for screwing up.”

  “I might.”

  I understood that urge. I really did. “Take it a little easy on him, okay? Whatever was going on last night, he did decide to finally run out on it. He came to the building because he was looking for a place to hide. A safe place. He’s pretty lost and definitely confused … and he’s ashamed of himself.”

  Mark stopped at the gate, yelling at the overeager golden retriever as it tried to cram its body through the pickets. “Rip, cut it out. Stay!”

  I grabbed Rip and pulled him aside, which I had a feeling might save lives right now. There was fire in Mark’s eye, and I hadn’t even told him the part about Joel worrying that he’d damaged the store. What if this ended in Mark deciding Joel wasn’t worth the risk as an employee? What if he fired Joel? Where would Joel go from here?

  Probably nowhere good.

  Rip dragged me forward, standing on his hind feet and bracing his paws on the gate as it swung shut behind Mark. A worried, whiny yip warbled toward the car as Mark tore open the door. Inside, Joel lifted his arms, blocking his face and sheltering his head the way a kid does when he’s used to being smacked around. A torrent of slurred explanations flowed out. A dog barked somewhere nearby, and Rip issued a deafening answer. I couldn’t make out Joel’s words—only the rise and fall of his voice, broken by an occasional gut-wrenching sob.

  Mark grabbed Joel’s shirt in handfuls, lifted him from the car like a rag doll. Rip lunged again. I heard the metal gate latch click, felt the gate fall into my knee. For an instant, I considered letting Rip go, but in the street, Mark just stood there while Joel sobbed against his shoulder. Nudging the gate closed, I took Rip back to the house and sat with him on the polished wooden stairs in Mark’s entryway, waiting.

  When they came inside, Joel had pulled himself together a bit, but Mark was still holding him by the scruff of the neck. Rip and I tramped quietly after them from the entry hall, through a parlor, and into a cavernous living room with an enormous fireplace mantel. The house was decorated in antiques and, like the yard outside, flawlessly neat. The bookshelves and artwork rivaled Grandmother Ziltha’s collections back in the day. I caught myself listening for noises, again wondering if anyone else was upstairs.

  But there were no women’s jackets on the umbrella stand. Only one coffee cup and cereal bowl sat on the breakfast table when we finally ended up in the kitchen. Done in retro black-and-white octagon-shaped tile, the place was still littered with trays, glasses, and paper plates from last night’s party. A stack of flyers about the plans for the charity project sat on the counter. I caught myself twisting so as to read the headline.

  MANTEO COUNSELING AND ACTIVITY CENTER

  A DEDICATED FACILITY FOR YOUTH AT RISK

  Mark hung Joel over one side of the double sink, then rinsed the scraped-up arm in the other. Meanwhile, Joel babbled semicoherent apologies and dry-heaved into the drain. Snatching a dish towel from the countertop, Mark doused it with water, wrung it with one hand, and laid it over Joel’s neck and head.

  “Sober up, hotshot. You need a shower, and I’m not putting you in there. You’re going to have to handle that yourself.”

  “I screwed up. Ohhh, umm-my h-head,” Joel moaned.

  “Yeah, that’s what hap
pens when you’re at the wrong place with the wrong people. You can’t hang out like that and live a normal life. If your uncle’s got a party going on at home, don’t stay. You know you can always come here. You’re lucky you’re not dead or in jail. You get caught again for drugs, or somebody wrecks the car and you’re under the influence, if you don’t end up dead, it’s not juvie and parole this time, Joel. It’s prison. You’re over eighteen.”

  “I know, th-that’s why I r-ran. Ohhhh … mmmhhh … owww …”

  “You can’t be around it. Even a little.” Mark braced a hand on the counter, anguish forming deep lines around his eyes, giving evidence of a deeper sorrow. His head shook slowly back and forth.

  What? What was behind that expression?

  Letting out a long sigh, he turned to me as if he’d suddenly remembered I was there. “There’s Bactine spray or something like that in the bathroom cabinet, down the hall, by the door to the deck. Could you go grab it?”

  “Sure. Yes, of course.” I hurried from the kitchen, wandered through more of Mark’s house, found my way to the little half bath by the back door. The Bactine was right where he’d said it would be, in an antique, arch-shaped medicine cabinet with a gold-leafed frame. When I returned to the kitchen, Mark had moved Joel to a chair, the injured arm resting on the breakfast table. Damp pink stains slowly colored a clean white towel.

  Mark treated the scrapes, then wrapped the towel around Joel’s arm. “Doesn’t look like there’s any glass in it. You’ll have a pretty decent shiner on the eye by tomorrow.”

  “You should see the other guy.” Joel’s lips twitched upward, then he winced and his smile fell. “It hurts.”

  “I’m sure everything does.”

  Head slowly sagging to the table, Joel settled his cheek next to the injured arm. “Thanks, Mark,” he groaned, tears seeping from the swollen eye and falling to the cloth.

  Mark didn’t answer, just stood looking out the window, an index finger tapping out a Morse code of frustration as Joel’s breaths lengthened.

  Frowning apologetically, he finally turned my way. “I’m sorry he showed up at the Excelsior and got you involved in this.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s a long way from okay, but I’m glad you were there. I’m sure this wasn’t what you had in mind for your morning.”

  “No, but it’s not a big deal. I was just making an early-morning Walmart run. Guess I should get on with it.”

  “I’ll walk you out.” He waited for me to cross the kitchen, then followed. Our footsteps echoed off the high ceilings as we passed through the living room. Somewhere in the house, Rip barked. A moment later, he raced past with a squeaky ball, ready to play. Scampering around the room, he tossed the ball, then caught it, then grabbed a stuffed moose from a toy basket and abandoned the ball. Ducking and diving, he tried to tease us into a game, ignoring Mark’s command to knock off the racket.

  I had the strange thought that Rip reminded me of Joel on a good day—boundless enthusiasm, interest that quickly flitted from one thing to another, a cheerful, hapless personality you couldn’t help but love. Yipping and whining, the dog followed us onto the porch and bolted down the steps, stirring a sparrow from the dewy grass, then chasing it, then spotting a squirrel on the electric line and stopping to watch.

  “That squirrel looks familiar.” I tried to lighten the moment, then realized I probably shouldn’t have. Mark looked like he was carrying a hundred pounds on each shoulder—as if Joel’s weight were still resting there, plus some.

  I wondered again about the some. What else was going on here?

  The screen door fell closed behind us, and Mark stopped at the steps, so I stopped too. “Thanks for what you did for him, Whitney. He’s a good kid—better than what you saw today—but he’s lived off and on with three or four family members, and it’s never a stable situation. If teenagers around here want a party, they can find one. Tourists come in, they’ve got money, they like the idea of hanging with the locals, finding places everyone doesn’t know about. It’s an ugly side effect of the resort culture. When I moved here, that was the last thing I thought about. I was looking for the perfect place to leave everything behind, and thought I’d found it, but if you stay awhile, you realize that there is no perfect hideout. There’s a set of realities, anywhere you go.”

  “Joel’s lucky he has someone who cares this much about him. That’s not always the case when you’re dealing with kids and minimum-wage jobs. Most businesses are just interested in taking on labor, not people and certainly not issues.”

  He nodded, still looking grim as he combed damp-dry curls from his forehead. “When he sobers up a little, I’ll get the details out of him … as much as he can remember, anyway. If there’s anything we need to report to the police, we will. Don’t worry. But if he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people, at least he gets the chance to not make the same mistake next time.”

  “I think he might’ve learned a lesson.”

  “Let’s hope.” The stubble around Mark’s lips made his disappointed smile look wan and sad. He was afraid Joel hadn’t learned a lesson. “Listen, Whitney, I know you feel like I’ve been harassing you since you came here. And I know you’ve got enough on your plate with your stepdad’s health and the problems with the Excelsior … and you have a business of your own to run. I’ll understand if you do what you have to do with the building. I won’t be happy about it, but I’ll understand it. I’d still like you to meet the whole crew of the youth project and at least hear what they have to say, but I get it that you have your hands full.”

  And just like that, I was off the hook. Free to go about my day, my week, my life. My disposal of the family property. No more guilt trip? No more bargains made in squirrel-induced hysteria?

  I was free… .

  I descended two steps, then stopped, caught the railing with one hand and turned around, clutching a heavy finial that had seen years of salt air and seasons passing. “How did you get involved with the charity project?”

  I’d opened the door, and I knew it. It wasn’t a smart thing to do, and I knew that too. I should’ve been getting out while I could.

  Meeting Mark’s gaze wasn’t smart either. Something wildly electric sparked, then crackled through me.

  “Would it make a difference?” The cagey answer went a short distance toward convincing me I should mind my own business and head for the gate.

  “I don’t know.”

  Leaves parted overhead, sliding a patch of sunlight over his tanned skin. He closed one eye against it, studied me narrowly through the other, as if he were deciding whether to offer up the truth or something that would brush me off and get rid of me.

  Finally, he rested against the porch post, crossing his arms and his bare feet. He watched Rip climb the steps and lie down on the top one. “I lost my daughter to a drug overdose. She’d just turned fourteen.”

  He watched me intently, searching for my reaction. No doubt, he caught it. Shock and confusion hit me like a wave, smacking hard and then penetrating, pouring salt water through muscles and veins. I felt cold all over. A daughter? A fourteen-year-old daughter? Everything I’d thought about Mark Strahan suddenly didn’t fit.

  “I’m … I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have … ,” I stammered, lost.

  He nodded in a weary way that told me he’d been here before. “I know. There’s no easy way to tell someone.”

  I understood it then—the exact position he was in. It was always hard to gauge the timing when someone new came into my life. How long do you wait before you say, My father committed suicide when I was five? How long do you maintain an acquaintance before you show your scars? What do you do with the surprise and sympathy that come afterward?

  “I’m sorry,” I said again. “For your loss.” What was her name? What happened exactly?

  A house finch flitted through the yard, its crimson feathers catching the early light. Both of us watched it, grasping at its s
tartling lightness of being.

  Mark motioned to the golden retriever, who’d lifted his head to listen. “Rip was Hadley’s dog. A birthday present when she turned twelve. Straight As on her report card. You know, divorced dads go big on that kind of thing.”

  I nodded mutely. How long ago had Mark lost his daughter? Rip wasn’t young. He’d started graying around the muzzle. Seven or eight maybe?

  Mark seemed to know the usual questions. He went on with the story … without my asking. “Laurie and I were young when we had her. Laurie was the preacher’s daughter and I was the deacon’s son, and it was like we’d read the script from some bad made-for-TV movie. We messed up. She got pregnant. We tried to do the right thing, but we weren’t very good at it. We weren’t good enough to each other. I was busy with my undergrad degree, and then law school, and then getting a toehold in a firm.”

  A car drove by. He waited for the noise to wane before finishing his story. “Sometime in there, Laurie decided she wanted a different life … with somebody else. That was that. She and Hadley moved halfway across the country. Things were never good between Hadley and her stepdad. Hadley just started … looking for stuff to do, and she found some of the wrong options. The wrong guy to date. The wrong party with the wrong kind of powder to slip in a drink, and that was that. Sometimes one mistake is the only mistake you get.”

  He was matter-of-fact about the details, as if he’d steeled himself against the telling of this story—prepared for it. But the muscles in his neck tightened and he swallowed hard, an instinctive reaction he couldn’t control. “You never picture yourself at your little girl’s funeral. And it’s the strangest thing, because you’re standing there looking at the grave, and part of you still feels like you’re watching a movie, and you should be able to just … flip a switch and turn it off, but there is no switch.”

  “I can’t imagine… .” That was the truth. I couldn’t fathom the pain that was in his history. How was he still standing, still walking, still working, still thinking about the future, still taking risks on kids like Joel? Wasn’t he afraid of being hurt again, disappointed again, broken again?