by Terri Farley
Mandi tugged the hem of her backless magenta top and surveyed the wide green lawns.
“What a great party house!” Mandi said. “It’d be awesome if you had everybody up at the end of summer.”
The idea made me uneasy. Through the Inn’s open front door came a faint bustle of conversation, clinking silverware, and a fluting melody. Everything about the Inn said good manners and quiet afternoons, not hip-hop with the bass turned to a deafening throb.
“Maybe,” I said, even though I wasn’t a fan of huge parties, and I wanted to keep a low profile in Mirage Beach.
Over Mandi’s head Jill gave me her standard sarcastic smile. She didn’t think much of Mandi’s idea, but she kept quiet because I had.
I am the glue keeping the two of them together. Jill works forty hours a week through a work-study program her counselor helped set up. Almost every dollar of Jill’s earnings go to pay for rent and food. She earns a 4.0 every semester, and she’s determined to become a professional singer, she’ll do it, too. Maybe because she had a really scummy childhood, she’s driven to be successful.
Mandi’s definition of success is different. She’s rich, ditzy, and all wound up with finding Prince Charming. It’s probably because her dad is too busy for her. Jill and I have pointed this out to her, in a nice way, but she just feels sorry for us because we lack romantic souls.
Summer at Mirage Beach would have been a lot more fun if Jill and Mandi could have stayed with me. That had been our plan until Jill landed her dream job and Mandi got an offer she couldn’t refuse.
I understood, but grudgingly.
And then, I didn’t have time to mope.
“Come hug me!” Nana stood framed in the doorway.
She wasn’t your everyday grandma. Her tea-colored hair curved in a million directions. She wore hippieish clothes: gold hoop earrings and a peasant blouse over a long patchwork skirt. She only wobbled a little as she crossed the threshold to hug me.
Nana still smelled of baby powder and bread dough, but our heads nuzzled into the sides of each other’s necks. We were the same height and that was really weird. Had I grown that much since I left here?
“A bigger hug,” Nana ordered. “My ribs are healed. It’s only this leg giving me trouble.”
Even though I could feel Jill and Mandi watching, I put up with the public display because Nana felt frail. She’d always been a tall, striding woman. Now her shoulders felt fragile as bird bones. It was a good thing I’d come to Sea Horse Inn.
Before shutting the door, Nana glanced down the road for Dad, gave a little shrug, then we went inside.
I could tell Jill and Mandi were stunned by the inn’s beauty.
So was I. As a little girl, I’d arranged my plastic farm animals under that polished mahogany piano. I’d bumped on my bottom down every step in that dramatic staircase. During my skateboard stage, I’d crashed into that antique sideboard, which held a crystal bowl of shells and fresh flowers.
The smell of beeswax candles and the ocean views out each window filled me up and made me sigh. This was my grandmother’s house. Mirage Beach was my second home, and I was too mature, now, to let one night ruin it for me.
Mandi tried not to act impressed. Her dad has brought home three new stepmothers since her mom left, and he’s remodeled their house for each one, so Mandi is used to nice things.
Now she was tossing her honey-colored hair and frowning toward the ceiling as footsteps crossed overhead. It could be guests or Thelma making beds.
“I don’t suppose the Inn is haunted,” Mandi joked.
Even though it wasn’t funny, I laughed a little because the truth was, Thelma had haunted me a little bit. The prospect of seeing her again worried me. She was the one who’d reported the incident on the beach when I was ten. What she’d told the police, that night, was different from what I’d told them. Because I was a little kid, of course they had believed her.
Sourness gathered at the back of my throat when I thought about facing Thelma, but that would come later.
Nana liked Jill. I could see it in the way she shook Jill’s hand and smiled at her.
Before Nana could greet Mandi, Dad came whooshing in. He moved around Nana’s kitchen, shutting a drawer and pushing down the flipped-up edge of a throw rug, in a way that told you he’d grown up in this house. It also underlined his belief that a kitchen was the most dangerous room in any house.
I mean, everyone’s careful with knives and electrical cords, but Dad could tell you which evil particles linger in the air after frying a chicken and which bacteria cling to a freshly mopped floor just waiting to ambush crawling babies. Don’t get him started on the pollution properties of air freshener.
Dad was a broad-shouldered geek. That’s how Mom described the man she’d married when they both were in college. He’d always been cautious. Becoming a moderately successful mystery writer had only made him worse.
Now he was watching Nana and searching for hazards.
“Mother, should you be up?” He used a tone that I’d get grounded for, but Nana brushed it off.
“I’m not an invalid. They call this a walking cast”—Nana pulled her skirt aside to rap on her white plaster-encased leg—“for a reason.”
Dad shook his head. As if he wanted backup, he turned to Jill and Mandi. “Did Gwen tell you about my mom? She was taking drinks—”
“Apple cider,” Nana clarified.
“—up to guests watching migrating whales from the widow’s walk.”
“That little balcony thing on top of the house,” I explained when Mandi frowned in confusion. Again. “Sea captains’ wives used to go up to keep watch for their husbands’ ships.”
“Of course,” Jill said, nodding. Then with a perfectly straight face, she turned to Mandi and added, “I think there was one in The Little Mermaid.”
“Really?” Mandi asked, but her face lit up.
“Mom was wearing one of her oddball outfits,” Dad went on, gesturing at Nana’s skirt, “and she tripped down the stairs. Broke two ribs and her right leg. It’s a wonder she hasn’t done it before now.”
“It’s a wonder you don’t turn into a clucking hen, the way you worry.” Nana shook her head and patted Dad’s cheek.
Nana had nailed it. Dad was psychotic about safety. Mom blamed (when Dad was out of the room, of course) the books he wrote. Dad is Jeffery Cook, author of the Scratch Boiselle books, about this New Orleans detective who’s always uncovering voodoo cults, getting mugged on Bourbon Street, and getting locked in crypts. Looking for danger in unexpected places is what Dad gets paid for.
That was okay in fiction, even kind of okay when he was watching over me. But he was talking to his mother. Nana had taken care of herself for a long time. Anyone could have an accident.
Dad jammed his hands into his pockets and jingled his car keys. “Let’s get you settled, shall we? And introduce Gumbo to her new digs?” Dad gestured toward the front of the Inn, where he’d parked. “The way she’s been yowling inside her carrier, she may have deafened herself. I know she made a good start on me.”
“Poor kitty,” I said. My calico cat deserved better. She was the only roommate who’d stayed with the plan to spend the summer at the cottage. Then again, she had come in a cage.
“You have plenty of time to get settled and be back in time for tea,” Nana said.
When Nana said “tea,” she didn’t mean what most people did. The Sea Horse Inn served a north-coast version of a proper English tea. It was given a four star rating in tourist guidebooks. Now that vacation season was in full swing, she’d need my help to do things like arrange scones on platters, swirl Devonshire cream around raspberries, and pour tea from heavy sterling pots.
It was one of the best things about the Inn, but when Mandi and Jill tensed up and looked at me, I knew they weren’t tempted to stay.
“It’ll just be me, Nana,” I said.
“Oh no!” Nana’s eyes and mouth widened in disappointment. “I knew yo
ur friends had decided against staying the summer, but I’d hoped they’d be here for tea.”
Jill smoothed her hair, and her eyes shone with that high intensity concern they get when she thinks her reputation is on the line.
“I’m sorry,” Jill said before I could make an excuse. “I have to work tonight. And most of the summer. I’m banking everything I can for college tuition. My first payment is only a year away.”
I noticed Jill didn’t mention she was waiting tables at the Torch, a forties-style cabaret, so that she could have a chance at the stage during band breaks. That was the real reason she’d taken the job. So she could sing. But Jill was cautious, in case Nana thought it was an inappropriate job for a high school girl.
“We’ll miss Gwen. And Mirage Beach is incredible,” Jill added. “I could get addicted to this place.”
“It does have a way of stealing your heart,” Nana admitted.
Something in my chest trembled at that, but it felt more like fear than affection. What was that about?
“Mrs. Cook?”
Of course Mandi used Nana’s name. Memorizing names was her hobby. She believed knowing the names of every student at Valencia High would guarantee her election as Homecoming Queen next year. She hoped to have Prince Charming on her arm by then. If not, it was still a step in the right direction.
“I’m sorry, too. I have a new stepmother, and this one came with twins who need an in-house baby-sitter. So my dad’s keeping me on a short leash this summer.”
“My goodness, dear,” Nana said. “I certainly understand.”
I couldn’t help sliding Mandi a look out of the corner of my eye. She’d left out the part where she’d get a new BMW in September if she chauffeured the twins around to tennis and swimming lessons all summer.
The BMW was bound to be Prince bait, but Mandi’s face turned solemn as she added, “My father thinks the responsibility will be good for me.”
“I’ll be back soon, Mom, for a longer visit.” Dad kissed Nana’s cheek as we moved out of the kitchen. “I’ll just check things at the cottage, get Gwennie settled, then whisk these working girls back to the city.”
“Thelma’s washed the curtains, swept, put fresh linens on the bed, all that,” Nana told him at the door.
“It’ll be real nice,” Dad said, but he was already climbing into the Honda.
“You might make sure the extra key is where it’s supposed to be,” Nana called after him, and Dad flashed her an okay sign over the roof of his car.
Jill and Mandi were ahead of me, piling back into the VW when I felt that pull toward the ocean, again.
“Beckon the sea, I’ll come to thee …”
No. I actually shook my head to keep the words from taking root. I’d picked up that rhyme from some Celtic story Nana told. Not from a stranger on the beach.
“Shed seven tears, perchance seven years.”
It was coincidence that I hadn’t been back to Mirage Beach for seven years. Pure coincidence, and I was not about to go stand in the waves and squeeze out seven tears.
The image was embarrassing, not scary. So why, though it had to be eighty degrees, was I rubbing goose-flesh from my arms?
Nana’s sigh made me look back. She was gazing after Dad.
“As old as I am,” she said, when she caught me watching. “I still haven’t got used to the idea that he’s mostly your father now, instead of my son.”
It was an incredibly sad thing to say.
For a minute I didn’t know how to react. Then I decided it was a reminder of how quickly time passed. It had been years since I spent time with Nana, and all because I was afraid of gossip.
I darted back up the steps and gave Nana a quick kiss on the cheek.
“The minute I get rid of them, I’ll be back,” I promised. “Will you save me a couple scones?”
“All you want, Gwennie,” Nana promised. “And a private moment”—she raised one eyebrow—“after things settle down?”
Oh no. I knew what was coming.
I also knew I couldn’t get out of it.
I nodded, waved, and sprinted toward the VW. Mandi and Jill were settled in the car, and I was glad their impatience had kept them from hearing Nana’s invitation.
I started the car and revved the engine.
A sea gull cried and swooped so low that all three of us ducked, then laughed.
Driving like a pro, I pulled out of the driveway, speeding after Dad.
This is really why I didn’t want to come back. I could get past the gossip. I’d outgrown the sleepwalking. But what about Nana’s totally goofy predictions?
I’m a person who can’t take a weather forecast on faith, and Nana expected me to believe she could see my future reflected in an antique copper mirror.
It’s like carnival fortune-tellers reading crystal balls, and it’s called scrying. It turns up in lots of old stories. In Snow White, for instance, when the evil queen says “Mirror, mirror on the wall,” then gets answers from that mirror, she’s scrying.
Oh my gosh, Mandi had me doing it, too.
Snow White is a fairy tale, I reminded myself. I live in this century, in the real world. I don’t believe in scrying.
I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders, and watched the road.
Dad turned hard right, down the dirt road to Cook’s Cottage, and I followed.
“We are gonna have such awesome tans by September,” Mandi squealed. She thrust her arms toward the sky, and I knew how she felt.
Ahead, waves rumbled. Sea wind rushed into my face. I smelled salt, kelp, and sunbaked tar paper on the cottage roof. Summer was making lots of promises.
“I propose a party at my apartment, the night before school starts,” Jill said. “To tell our summer stories.”
“And compare tan lines!” Mandi said. She craned her neck and peeled down one side of her blouse to inspect her starting point.
“And don’t forget our promise,” I reminded them.
“Sure, it will be easy for you to try something new every day,” Mandi said, pretending to pout.
“I’m sure the twins will give you a few thrills and surprises,” I answered, but I was actually thinking it might be fun to let Nana read my future. She hadn’t done it since we left Mirage Beach.
That last day as Mom and I waited for Dad to return with the U-Haul trailer that would carry everything we owned to Valencia, Nana had plucked the copper mirror out of its pouch and insisted on doing a reading.
Mom had resisted. Before she became a health writer at the Valencia View newspaper, Mom was a nurse. She has a scientific brain, so Nana’s scrying made Mom crazy.
“Now, now,” Nana had soothed Mom as she fidgeted at Nana’s kitchen window, mumbling that Dad had better get back and break up this séance, “this will be a true reading. I can feel it in my bones.”
The gist of the reading was that I’d return to Mirage Beach. That was a pretty safe call, since we wouldn’t desert Nana, and she knew it. But one part of the reading really stuck with me.
I think it would have anyway, but Mom guaranteed it when she yelped, “Why on earth would you say something like that to a child?”
Nana had stared at the copper circle cupped in her palm, and though she was seated right next to me, her eyes saw things far beyond the kitchen table.
“The power which commands the waves, will pull you back,” she whispered. “Back to a reunion no mortal can imagine and no female can resist.”
To forget words like those, you’d have to be brain-dead.
CHAPTER TWO
A bird’s nest hung between the door hinge and the eaves of Cook’s Cottage. I noticed it just as Mandi started to jerk open the screen door.
“Wait!” I said, and though the little mud pellets, all stuck together to make a gourd-shaped nest, shuddered, they didn’t fall apart.
“It’s a wasp’s nest,” Jill said. “There must be something around here we can knock it down with.”
“It’s not a wasp’s
nest, is it, Dad?” I turned to my father as Jill crossed her arms.
Jill isn’t as softhearted over animals as I am. Even though her landlord allows small pets, she doesn’t have one. She says she has enough trouble feeding herself.
“Cliff swallows,” Dad said. He pushed his glasses up his nose and stood listening to the nest.
“Can you see inside?” I asked. “Are there any eggs?”
“I don’t want to look in with my giant face and scare them.” Dad shook his head and backed away, lowering his voice as if he’d wake the occupants. “I didn’t see anybody fly away, but we used to have them every year.”
“If they’re cliff swallows, wouldn’t it be for their own good to—” Mandi made a sweeping gesture over her head, then shifted her weight toward Jill. “I bet they’d be happier down by the cliffs.”
The nest did look like someone had just slung a clump of mud on the cottage wall. And it would be in danger each time my front door opened. And Gumbo’s hunting hum was already coming from her cage. I could picture her with head cocked at the door, alert for the sounds of nestlings taking wing for the first time. Still, I wanted to leave the nest right where it was.
“Haven’t you heard of the famous swallows of San Juan Capistrano?”
I hated it when Dad asked my friends questions like that. Of course they hadn’t. This time he recognized my frustration, because he went on as if they’d answered.
“They’ve been coming back to a mission for generations, since, oh, I don’t know, the 1800s, I think. It’s swallows’ nature to find a home and stick with it.”
Jill, Mandi, and Dad watched me for a decision.
“They stay,” I told them, and the zing of possessiveness felt good.
Then I held my screen door wide, while Dad reached through to unlock the wooden door and ease inside.
“I’ve never seen the Nature Girl side of you, Gwen,” Jill said.
“It’s going to look like crap until it dries up and falls off,” Mandi warned.
But she followed Jill, eager as I was to see inside Cook’s Cottage, and it occurred to me that they both might be just a little bit jealous.