Lucy

by Kathryn Lasky

  “Here?” May asked, slightly bewildered.

  “Yes, here, right here! In this cave! Look at your comb!”

  Hannah held out the scallop with the pale strand of hair laced between the tines. May gasped.

  “That’s certainly not my hair,” Hannah said with a smile that just bordered on being smug. Although both Hannah and May had red hair, Hannah’s was a much brighter red. May joked that her own was as rusty as a bag of old nails. But this strand of hair was the color of pale fire, more gold than red.

  “Well, this makes sense in a way,” May said as she glanced around the cave, looking for other evidence.

  “What do you mean?” Hannah asked.

  “She’s the preacher’s daughter.”

  “The summer preacher?” Hannah asked. “Chapel by the Sea?”

  “Yes, the old fellow, the bishop, fell ill. The new preacher and his family are staying in the rectory.”

  May tipped her head up and pointed toward the rock ceiling of the cave. “She must have gotten down the cliffs by the rectory cottage.”

  Hannah stared at May. “Do you think she … swam?”

  “No, I’m sure she hasn’t crossed over,” May replied confidently.

  Hannah rolled her eyes. “You’re always so sure about things. Nobody goes down that cliff path. It’s treacherous.”

  “Well, she did. You have the proof. Her hair is in the comb,” May said. “We have to get out of here. Look, the tide’s ebbing. She might come.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Don’t you want to meet her?” Hannah smiled. “Or are you ’fraid she’s too fine for us?”

  May stared at Hannah. It still gave her a thrill to see her own green eyes looking back at her. It was hard to believe that, just a year earlier, she had felt so alone. “No, Hannah, we can’t. Not yet.”

  Hannah crossed her arms and regarded her sister. “I don’t understand. She’s our sister, May.” She paused. “Our family!”

  “I knew you were one —” It sounded so cold the way May said it, but she could not help herself. Hannah had to understand. “I couldn’t just come up to you. I had to wait for you to cross.”

  The color rose in Hannah’s cheeks. She had dropped her legs over the edge into the water and the mysterious transformation began fusing them into a tail. She stroked the glittering scales. There was a truth in what May had just said that she did not want to admit. “I hate it when you call her ‘one.’ We’re sisters. I can’t see how you justify this.”

  “I don’t justify it.” May leaned forward and put her hand softly on Hannah’s. “It’s not me.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “The Laws of Salt.”

  Hannah winced at the four innocent-seeming words. She had never heard May say them before, but someone else had. Stannish Whitman Wheeler — America’s foremost portrait painter and Hannah Albury’s secret beau, who once upon a time had been a mer. No longer, however. For the Laws of Salt were harsh, and after a time, one could never turn back. One had to choose between two worlds. May might think she understood the Laws of Salt, but she did not know them in the painful way that Hannah knew them.

  HE DREAMS OF SHIPS. It was such a lovely notion. Lucy smiled to herself as she tried to imagine what Eldon Drexel dreamed of. Coffers? Despite her best efforts to forget him, Phineas Heanssler continued to hover around the edges of her mind all week. She almost cowered when she thought of what her mother would say about all this. Not that anything had happened. Nothing would happen. He was an islander, a “native,” as Isabel Schuyler had so kindly pointed out. And though Lucy was not an heiress, she was a reverend’s daughter, a reverend who someday soon might become the bishop of New York.

  Yet, she couldn’t help but wish Phineas hadn’t insisted on calling her Miss Snow. To him, she was probably just another rich summer person who spent the season flitting between parties and sailing trips. He most likely lumped her together with all the other summer people, just as Isabel Schuyler lumped all the natives together.

  Nevertheless, when she went into the village, she kept hoping for a glimpse of him, even though she knew he must spend all his time at the shipyard. She even had, on occasion, taken a roundabout route to the Quoddy Club, where she was diligently taking tennis lessons, in order to walk by the yard. She wasn’t sure if she dared to actually enter the yard itself. Summer people did not wander around there unless they were like the Bellamys, discussing plans for their yacht. Too bad she didn’t have the money to order one; then Phineas Heanssler could dream about her ship! And maybe even dream of her.

  However, it was not just Phineas and the lure of the boatyard that occupied her thoughts. It was the cave. She went when she could, hoping to find something, or perhaps someone — the writer of the mysterious note. She was careful to go at low or mid tide; the power of the sea frightened but at the same time drew her near. She could see the tidal currents just off the beach, swirling eddies and once a riptide that had torn loose a dinghy from the harbor around the corner.

  On calm nights, she would dip her feet in. Her bad foot had improved so much that she barely limped, so she’d agreed to take tennis lessons, which pleased her mother immensely but gave Lucy little joy.

  As she returned from her tennis lesson one morning, she began her circuitous route but when she rounded a corner, she nearly crashed into Phineas coming the other way.

  “Oh!” she said. A feeling of absolute glee flooded through her. It’s him!

  There he was, not two feet from her — the red hair, the sparkling blue eyes that put the sky to shame even on this bright day.

  “My apologies, Miss Snow,” he said, glancing around. “I didn’t mean to run you down.” He didn’t say this with a smile, or any trace of humor.

  “Oh … oh. No. N-n-o. It’s fine,” she stuttered. Why was he speaking to her like this? They were both quickly sinking into a swamp of incoherence. She had to do something to save the situation. She’d had no trouble speaking to him before. Why weren’t the words coming to her now? Had she imagined everything that had happened on the Lark?

  “I had a very nice time sailing that day.” She paused. “With the Bellamys.” She dared herself to say it: “And with you.”

  “With me?” he said slowly.

  “Yes. I enjoyed listening to you talk about your shipbuilding.” A woman she recognized from the Quoddy Club walked past them and shot Lucy a strange look. She saw Phin flinch and drop his gaze. Lucy felt her cheeks start to burn, but something compelled her to continue. “You’re the first person I’ve met up here that has anything interesting to say.”

  Phin raised his eyebrows. “Are you mocking me, Miss Snow?”

  Lucy’s stomach plummeted. “No, of course not.” Was she destined always to say the wrong thing?

  “Where are you going?” he asked quickly, as if he feared his voice might give out. Then he looked at the racket she was carrying and blushed. “Kind of a foolish question. I guess you’re playing tennis.”

  “Hardly,” Lucy said. She wanted to shout, I am not a summer person! The last thing she wanted to look like was a lifetime member of the Quoddy Club. “I think it’s an incredibly stupid game,” she said almost breathlessly.

  “I’m not sure I agree,” Phineas said.

  Oh God, did I offend him? Is he a great champion tennis player? Although she didn’t believe natives played tennis.

  “It’s not stupid?”

  “It is, but there’s a stupider game.” He smiled for the first time. “Golf.” He shook his head. “I’d rather watch paint dry. In fact, I do watch paint dry down in the yard.”

  “Where are you going?” she asked, feeling herself relax.

  “To the boatyard.” He hesitated.

  “It must be an interesting place to work.”

  “It is…. I mean, if you like sawdust and varnish, that is.” The way he pronounced varnish with his Maine accent almost sounded like vanish to Lucy’s ears.

  “Those are good smells, I would think,
” she replied.

  “Would you like to come with me?” He shrugged his shoulders. “You can see it and smell it for yourself.” He laughed self-consciously.

  Lucy hesitated. She could only imagine what would happen if they were spotted. The Bar Harbor summer residents might dress more casually than their New York counterparts, but they were decidedly old-fashioned when it came to rules of decorum. Walking with a boy unchaperoned was frowned upon. Walking with a local boy could cause a real scandal. But as she thought about the alternative, an afternoon at the Quoddy Club, the decision became clear. “Thank you. I would really like to see the boatyard.”

  “Well, follow me,” he replied.

  She pulled down her straw sun hat a bit farther to shade her face and fell into step beside him. He had long legs and he was walking quickly. She dipped her chin a bit and, keeping her eyes down, smiled to herself as she spotted his sea boots. There was something delicious about walking with someone who’d look so wonderfully out of place in the Ogmonts’ drawing room.

  Lucy loved the Heanssler yard the moment she set foot inside. Phineas took her on an extensive tour, beginning with the shed where the shipwrights worked. She loved the smell of the wood and the varnish, and the sounds of the caulking hammers pressing oakum between the planks to make a craft water-tight. The boatyard was an orderly little universe in which the tasks of building a fine, swift craft assumed the beauty and sanctity that was as holy as any church ritual.

  Phin led her up the stairs to the sail loft, where both men and women cut and sewed the long strips of canvas for the sails. Most fascinating of all, however, was the drafting room, where Phineas and his father worked, drawing the lines of the hulls and the sail plans. It seemed to Lucy that the business of boatbuilding, although mysterious, was one of the most honest endeavors in the world.

  Then he led her into a smaller room where, against the wall, were models of every boat they had ever designed, from coastal fishing boats to steamers to the brilliant New York Yacht Club “one-design” boats and the large sleek yachts like the Bellamys’. She walked up to one that was a deep reddish color. “What kind of wood is it?” she asked.

  Phin glanced at the model. “Pine, mostly. It’s soft and easy to work. That’s an old model. Pine turns red over time.” He turned to face Lucy. “Kind of like your hair color, isn’t it?”

  The sudden intensity of his gaze made her shiver. “I’m not that old,” Lucy said, trying to hide her nervousness. “This was carved in 1870!” She laughed. “So how does the model help you?” It was amazing to Lucy that they were both conversing so easily now. Something about the boatyard seemed to put them both at ease.

  Phin walked over toward her and picked up the model. “First, we make a preliminary sketch, on a small scale, and try to predict all the values, like weight, flotation, center of mass. Then I carve a study model.” He replaced the model on the shelf and patted the holster on his belt. “Though not this one; 1870 is a bit before my time as well.”

  “But where does the shape begin?” Lucy asked, running her hand along another nearby model.

  “Up here.” Phin tapped his head. “It’s like you said. I dream it.” A thrill ran through her. She couldn’t believe he had remembered her words from that day.

  “Just dream? Is that all it takes?” she asked.

  “No. There’s plenty of math. We have to do a lot of calculations after we draw the lines.”

  “It sounds a good deal more complicated than tennis.”

  “It’s just what I do. Born to do, I guess you could say.”

  “Born to do,” Lucy murmured. What exactly was she born to do? For some reason she thought of the cave. “I’d better be on my way. My mother will be worried.” The anxieties she had so willfully dispatched twenty minutes before suddenly rushed through her. What if her mother saw her leaving the boatyard? What excuse could she make up? She twirled the tennis racket in her hand.

  “Come back anytime, Miss Snow,” Phin said, returning to his formal demeanor. “I’ll show you out.”

  Say when. Don’t be so vague! she wanted to scream. She felt utterly stupid standing there, twirling the tennis racket. When it clattered to the floor, she blushed to her roots. “I told you I couldn’t play.”

  “I thought you were just standing there, not playing.”

  “You’re right.” She laughed.

  “Hey, listen. Don’t take up golf, all right?”

  “You can count on it,” Lucy replied as she began to walk away.

  “Uh … hey.” His voice seemed to break. She turned around and saw him looking down and scuffing the floor with the toes of his sea boots. “Can I count on seeing you again?” He didn’t look up.

  Lucy inhaled sharply. “You mean it?”

  “Ayuh. Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.” He was still looking down, dragging the toe of a boot in small circles.

  “I would be really happy to see you again.”

  He lifted his head now and a smile broke across his face. “You’re welcome anytime.”

  Lucy was nearly giddy by the time she came up the path to the cottage.

  But then she heard her mother’s voice. It was high pitched, as if she were in a nervous state about something. The words floating out of the open windows of the cottage were quite distinct.

  “Oh, Stephen — the Bellamys’ summer ball! You know I was so worried when we went on that sail, because Lucy and Gus barely exchanged a word. He was so absorbed with his photography. But then he came up to me at the club to deliver the invitation. It’s for all of us, of course. And it’s white tie! It’s in celebration of — oh, what do they call it — the longest day —”

  “The solstice.”

  “Yes, that’s the word. Oh, dear, sometimes I really wish you could put your clerics aside. You’d look so handsome in white tie, but Lucy will look stunning in that green faille that Mrs. Simpson made up for her. You know, with her eyes.”

  Lucy couldn’t stand to hear another word. Balls, gowns — it was the exact opposite of the boatyard she had just visited — that honest place. The thought of having to make forced conversation with those superficial people made her ill.

  She had until now confined her visits to the cave to nighttime. It was late afternoon, but it seemed even later, as if a premature twilight had thickened the air and cast a bluish light through the woods. Her parents would expect her home soon. But she simply could not stand talking about the Bellamy ball.

  The tide was coming in when she got to the small crescent of beach. She knew she could not stay long. She only needed to stay a bit, just long enough to collect her wits. The cave always seemed to soothe her.

  However, on this late afternoon, it would not calm her. At least not at first. There had seemed to be such a presence there, and yet at the same time a haunting emptiness.

  It was not always possible for Lucy to come at the same time, for the tides were constantly changing. It had now been two weeks since their arrival on the island, and low tide was pushed back to the late morning hours. To come in the secret of the night had been impossible because that was high tide. She had missed the place dearly, and now, as she walked the beach, she had to pull up the hem of her dress to step carefully from rock to rock.

  The green shadows of the cave stretched out to welcome her. She loved how the moss grew on the granite walls. Like delicate embroidery it fanned out across the pinkish stone, and she had tried to capture its fineness in her painting. On her last visit she had brought two bottles of colored ink, a small tablet of drawing paper, and two brushes, and had made a watercolor sketch of the cave. Then, after it dried, she had carefully rolled it into the oilskin with the note. She always checked the little cleft in the rock where she had found the note and was anxious to see if there was any sign that her painting had been discovered. A little glimmering crystal flake drifted to the ground as she unrolled the oilskin. But there was nothing new and the drawing was still in place, perhaps a little crumpled at its edge. She f
elt a deep twinge of disappointment. Outside she heard the shuddering hoot of an owl that seemed to echo her own chagrin.

  She tried to imagine Phineas’s face from earlier in the afternoon, but it kept slipping away from her, like a reflection on water suddenly splintered by a disturbance on the surface. The water was lapping over the edge of the rocks. If she stayed much longer, she would have to wade home.

  Lucy unlaced her shoes, peeled off her stockings, and dipped her feet in the shallow pool of water. It always felt lovely and indeed it seemed to have helped her foot. She could probably dance just fine. But she didn’t want to dance. She had no interest in being paraded in front of her mother’s “suitable young men” like a thoroughbred at auction. I want to swim, she thought.

  She looked down at the water, and her eyes widened. There was a luminescence in the pool, issuing from her feet. She wriggled her toes, and the water swirled with a shimmering iridescence. Lucy pulled one foot out of the water and ran her fingertips over the skin. Skin? It was now almost translucent, and just beneath the surface, tiny ovals were glinting softly. When she removed her hand, two or three crystals that seemed the shape of teardrops were glittering on her fingertips. “What in the world?” she whispered. She remembered the crystal that had drifted down from the oilskin, to which she had paid no heed, and scrambled back to search for it on the rock beneath the cleft. But it was impossible to find, for the rock itself was chinked with mica chips and streaked with quartz.

  The tide was rising faster. She knew she had to get back quickly. Picking up her shoes and stockings, she waded out of the cave, mesmerized by the radiant swirls that marked her passage through the now knee-deep water. She sensed the beginnings of a secret mutiny in her heart as the tide pulled on her ankles and the water gently licked her skin.

  She turned just before she climbed on to the higher ground. There was a fading wake behind her that was slowly dissolving. “I’ll be back,” she whispered. “I’ll be back.”