True Blue (Hubbard's Point) Page 13

  “You have mighty fine credentials,” Sixtus said, twisting his knotty hands. “But your son is a high school dropout.”

  “I'm goddamn aware of that.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “I'm hoping that this summer helps. That something between us can open enough for my words to make a difference. I tell him how important education is, but he doesn't hear. Or even listen… I want him to get his diploma and a college degree, too. I'm hoping his being around you will help. You and Rumer.”

  Sixtus tilted his head. He stared down on the rocks, at his grandson sitting so still, and Zeb wondered what the old man was thinking. Michael's long hair blew in the wind, the red bandanna a badge of rebellion. Zeb felt disoriented, as if he'd just come out of an altitude chamber. He thought of his father cutting his own hair while he slept, and felt a kick in his gut.

  “Degrees aren't what matter,” Sixtus said after a while.

  “You can say that,” Zeb said, “because you have several.”

  The old man waved his hand, shaking his head. “You're not a stupid man, but that's a goddamn lamebrained way to think. You have several too, and look where they've gotten you!”

  Zeb's anger kicked in so hard, it took all he had to contain it. Being at the Point was painful enough on several counts, without being insulted by Elizabeth's father. He jumped to his feet and began to pace.

  “You're miserable,” Sixtus continued, rising as well. “Anyone who feels like looking can see it. That frown line's as deep as a trench. You got the weight of the world on your shoulders, and not one of your goddamn degrees is taking it off.”

  “There's a new lab opening in September! Two hundred and fifty million dollars riding on it, and I'm in charge! Jesus Christ, Sixtus—you want me to leave the Point? I'll leave. I'll head west today—Michael can come or stay.” Zeb began jamming his books into the box they'd been unpacked from. “I don't need this lecture—or whatever it is—from a man who despises me. I got enough of that from my father.”

  “Zeb,” Sixtus said, his crippled hand on Zeb's arm.

  “Get off me,” Zeb said, shaking free and packing the books with even greater intensity.

  “I don't despise you.”

  “The hell you don't.”

  “What gives you that idea?” Sixtus said.

  “The way you sound when you talk to me. The fact that you blame me for marrying Elizabeth and hurting Rumer. For being a lousy father to your grandson, not making it so you could see him. That enough?” Zeb snapped.

  “Whew,” Sixtus said. He shook his head, looking up at Zeb with bright light in his watery blue eyes. “Sounds more like you despise yourself.”

  Zeb stopped dead. He dropped the book he was holding into the box, and it fell with a muffled thud. It was true. Sixtus was right, and as much as he loved everything here at Hubbard's Point, it all pointed Zeb straight to that one fact.

  “It's a big waste of time,” Sixtus said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Self-loathing. I've tried it.”

  “When?”

  “Ahh, when you were a little kid. The boy next door. Rumer was crazy for you and you for her, but Elizabeth looked to me. I was her daddy—and I wasn't there.”

  “Sure you were. My father was the one who wasn't there—being a pilot, flying wherever. You were always mowing the lawn, reading in the hammock… sailing.”

  “Sailing away from my wife and children,” Sixtus said. “Airline pilots might fly farther, but small-town sailors have their escape routes too. I'd look back as I cleared the breakwater, up on the hill—I'd see you and Rumer sitting on the roof of your house, talking a blue streak to each other. And there Elizabeth would be, standing on the rocks, staring after me, crying as I left.”

  “Hard to imagine the Elizabeth I know crying,” Zeb said, picturing the hard look in her beautiful eyes.

  “Well, I left her enough so she learned she didn't like it. I think she arranged the rest of her life so it would never happen again. She hadn't banked on you shooting for the stars…”

  “I never misled her. And I always came back.”

  “To what, Zeb?” Sixtus asked softly.

  “What are you trying to do?” Zeb exploded. “Get me to admit we were wrong for each other? Okay! I admit it. I made a mistake—I ruined our lives. Both of them.”

  “Not just both of yours,” Sixtus said, softer still.

  “What the hell? You want to blame all the hunger and suffering in the world on me, go ahead. Jesus—”

  “There was a third life,” Sixtus said. “Rumer's.”

  Zeb stopped.

  “She wants no part of me,” he said. “I've tried to talk to her.”

  “Yeah, you have?”

  “Yes. It's one of the reasons I came back.”

  Sixtus nodded, knowing.

  “You think you're gonna wipe the slate clean, get forgiveness from her in one fell swoop?” he asked.

  “No, I don't think that,” Zeb said, although deep down he knew he wished for it.

  “You've got to look at this realistically,” Sixtus said. “She was in love with you. You realize that?”

  Zeb shrugged. Of course he knew she'd been in love with him. Just as he had been in love with her, for more years than he could remember, for their whole lives. The problem was that because they had been so young and because love had come so easily to them, he had undervalued it. He hadn't known it was the real thing, something precious and irreplaceable he would never find again.

  “What's the difference?” Zeb asked. “She's with Edward. What's his problem anyway? He's got the stiffest goddamn upper lip—”

  “What he has,” Sixtus said, “is a poker up his ass.”

  “I thought you approved,” Zeb said. “At dinner the other night, it sounded as if you were giving them your blessing.”

  “The hell I am. I try, for her sake, to get along with him. Try with all—or most—of my might. The thing is, he lets her keep her horse at his farm. She's gone out with lots of men over the years—I guess Edward waited and saw his chance. It's obvious he's wanted her this whole time. But who wouldn't?”

  “Yeah, who wouldn't?” Zeb asked in a low voice.

  “Damn right. She's a beautiful, vibrant woman. All that giving she does—to her goddamned old father, to every goddamn animal that comes along… she deserves something better than Edward. Something real.”

  “What are you saying?” Zeb asked, looking up.

  “Ahh, never mind. What the hell business do I have venting my spleen to you of all people? You're where the whole problem started. She'd kill me if she knew I was over here,” Sixtus said.

  “I'm sure she would.”

  “Draw and quarter me,” he said morosely. “Hang me out to dry, you got it?”

  “Yes, I've got it.”

  “The point being, you're not gonna tell.”

  “No, I won't.”

  “I regret saying one goddamn word to you. My daughter doesn't need my help in getting men to love her—believe me, I've watched a parade of them come through over the years. The ones I mentioned before— a doctor, a lawyer, another vet, a professor, a sailor… now this farmer.”

  “Edward.”

  “Yeah, Edward. When none of ‘em, not a one, can make her happy. She's an extraordinary girl, and she needs an equal. Know what I mean? She needs a person who can keep up with her. That's what I'd tell her if she wanted advice on fixing her own life.”

  “Good advice,” Zeb said.

  “Yes. Just like I'm telling you to get over yourself. Take off the hair shirt and quit being a martyr. Make up for lost time, young man.”

  “What?”

  “You have the summer, Zeb.”

  “For what?”

  “You know—don't be thick. I don't want to have to spell it out. I'm old, and you're young. I spent lots of years making mistakes that I've learned how to avoid. I'm going to give you this advice for free.”

  �
��What is it?”

  “When God hands you a gift, take it.”

  “What gift?”

  “The truth. The truth of who you are and what you feel. You get one true love in this life, Zeb. Only one.”

  “Like you and Clarissa?”

  “Yes. I'm lucky because I found her and I knew right away. Others aren't so fortunate. They find the real thing and throw it back because it's not bright enough. Then they spend the rest of their lives regretting and searching. It's like being a lost soul here on earth.”

  “Or up in space,” Zeb said, remembering how the spacecraft would pass over Hubbard's Point and he would always watch, always wonder what she was doing. He thought of the black hole he had told her about, and his blood ran cold. He wanted to tell her what had really happened, how it had brought him back to earth. Talk to her about all the things he had seen—and felt—over the years. Would he have the chance?

  “Don't waste your summer, Zeb,” Sixtus said.

  “She won't talk to me,” Zeb said.

  “Then talk to her. I swear, I'll deny I said it, but wear her down.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  The silence between them crackled with tension. Zeb heard gulls crying from across the water. It sounded so much like his childhood, he had to brace himself against the table. He thought he knew what Sixtus was saying, but he wasn't sure: He couldn't believe the old man didn't hate him.

  “Because I'm an old man. I'm getting crippled with this goddamned arthritis, and this might be my last hurrah—throwing my weight around where I think it might do some good.”

  “That's the reason?”

  “I love them both so much,” Sixtus said, his voice dropping. “Elizabeth and Rumer. The thing is, Zeb, you fell in love with the girl next door—and married her sister.”

  “I know.”

  “Two wrongs won't make it all right.”

  “What's the second wrong?”

  Sixtus just stared at him.

  Zeb closed his eyes. He had been too young to understand. He and Rumer were such good friends, doing everything together, bonded to the core—and then he'd been totally blinded with lust by Elizabeth. She had turned up the heat that spring—flashed him with that megawatt sex appeal, and everything between him and Rumer had seemed pale in comparison.

  Was Sixtus giving him permission—no, a directive— to try to win Rumer back? That seemed unbelievable. Zeb wanted to ask, but the words caught in his throat. What could the point be anyway? By September, if not before, he would be settled in his new position at the research center, three thousand miles away in California. Even if Rumer could forgive him, could forget what had happened, he knew she would never leave Hubbard's Point.

  Perhaps to change the subject, take the pressure off himself, Zeb looked up at Sixtus.

  “When are you planning to tell her?” he asked.

  “What do you know about it?”

  Zeb laughed. “You just accused me of running off on my family—taking to the sky. I know it from the other side, Sixtus. When a guy's getting ready to leave, I know the signs.”

  “It shows?” Sixtus asked.

  “Yeah. It shows. Rumer doesn't know?”

  Sixtus shook his head, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He looked old and defeated, the pain showing in his face.

  “No, she doesn't.”

  “Then you'd better go home and talk to her tonight.”

  Sixtus narrowed his eyes, looking down to the shoreline. Quinn had looped the boat around, to get closer to Michael. He pushed up from the rocks, leaning forward to be heard above the engine. While his father and grandfather watched, he pulled off his shirt and dove into the water. He swam out to the boat, and Quinn helped haul him in. The two kids headed out toward Gull Island.

  The sun was bright, illuminating the bank of yellow day lilies in front of Winnie's house. Zeb squinted, then looked up at the sky. Stars were everywhere. White lights in the brilliant sky. Zeb, the man who could see stars in daylight, remembered when he had flown among them, before he'd had his courage shaken out of him, and he thought of all the years before, here at the Point. He had lost so much wisdom along the way

  “Where are you going?” Zeb asked.

  “That's the wrong question,” Sixtus said quietly.

  “It is? Then what's the right question?”

  “ ‘Why?’“ Sixtus said, staring at his hands. “That's the right one….”

  “Tell me, then.”

  “Because I'm old. Because I don't want her stuck with me forever… she's too good. She'd ruin her own life taking care of a dependent old father.”

  “You mean you're not coming back?”

  “I might; might not. All I know is, I need this trip to do what I have to do next. Can't live in a nursing home wishing I'd sailed where I wanted to sail, crossed the Atlantic Ocean while I still had the health and strength.”

  Zeb nodded. He knew better than most about the desperate need some people felt to take long voyages, to travel to the edge of the world and beyond.

  “You were like a son to me, Zeb,” Sixtus said. The words and tone were rough and passionate, as if Zeb had broken his heart too. The men stood looking at each other as the seconds ticked past.

  “Talk to Rumer,” Zeb said.

  “That I'll do,” Sixtus said. “If you'll promise to look after her while I'm gone.”

  “The least I can do,” Zeb said gruffly. “But you have to tell me: What's the second wrong?”

  “Not being with her now…” Sixtus said. “But you already knew that. It's why you're here.”

  Zeb nodded, shaking inside. He paused, but then Sixtus reached across the table to shake his hand. His hand felt rough, his grip strong. They held on for a few seconds longer than customary, then let go.

  Turning to leave, Sixtus looked stoop-shouldered and old, filled with pain both in his body and in his heart. Zeb watched his former father-in-law walk slowly up the incline to Cresthill Road, on his way home. He had felt earthbound by guilt, fear, and grief, but right now he felt the stirrings of something unexpected and long forgotten.

  Something like hope.

  “OKAY,” QUINN SHOUTED above the engine. “I'm going to go very slow. When I bring the boat around, you lean over and grab the buoy… now!”

  She watched as Michael arched over the gunwale, his tan body long and strong, to reach for the orange -and-white Styrofoam buoy. Saltwater glistened on his skin, and Quinn found her eyes glued to his shoulders.

  He hauled in the line but stopped when he got to the slick, seaweedy part just above the pot itself.

  “Gross,” he said, dropping it.

  Quinn clambered around the console, swearing as she hooked the buoy again. Michael stood back, watching her pull hand over hand, right through the gunk. “It's nothing to be scared of,” she said. “Just seaweedand algae. It grows on the line, on the bottom of boats…”

  “Sorry I dropped it,” Michael said, watching as Quinn sprang the pot's door, reaching in to grab the squirming and clicking lobsters inside.

  “Don't worry about it,” she said. “You should see, in August, when the red jellyfish are here. Then the lines are covered with tentacles—I have to wear gloves, or I get stung.”

  “You like lobstering?”

  “It's a living.” She shrugged, banding the lobster claws.

  He laughed as she steered the boat along the rocky shore. “As if you have to worry about making a living. You live with your aunt, don't you?”

  “Yes, but I don't plan on being a burden forever.”

  “A burden—you're what? Sixteen?”

  “Seventeen,” Quinn said. “You?”

  “Almost eighteen.”

  “Don't you work?”

  Michael hesitated, as if he thought he should say yes, but he was honest and shook his head no instead. Quinn pulled the next three pots, and then Michael tried the next. He managed not to flinch at the seaweed, and when he reached inside, he did a good
job of grabbing the lobsters by the carapace and not getting bitten.

  “How long have you been doing this?” he asked.

  “Three summers. I earned my first money when I was twelve—a hot dog stand. Then I had a paper route—a lot of Hubbard's Point kids start out that way. Then I worked at the parking lot in the green shack. And then Sam got me this boat, and I became a lobster-woman.”

  “Pretty cool,” Michael said.

  Quinn gunned the engine just to see his long hair move in the wind. Now that she'd finished pulling her pots, she had time to consider the fact that he had swum out to her boat from shore. Why had he done that? Boys like him didn't like girls like her. He was so chiseled and handsome—she could easily see him being an actor like his mother. And he had that easygoing way people with money always had…Quinn couldn't even imagine that.

  “Well, I'm done for the day,” she said, turning back toward the creek and boat basin.

  “Can you show me around?” he asked.

  “You mean a boat ride?” she asked.

  He nodded. Quinn's stomach fluttered. Was he joking with her? Usually she drove boys away within the first ten minutes. Not only had Michael swum out to be with her, he wasn't in a hurry to go back.

  “Okay,” she said. “Where?”

  He laughed, stretching out on the seat, his rib cage rippling under his tan skin. “You're the local,” he said. “It's up to you.”

  “Local yokel,” she said.

  “I didn't say that.”

  She nodded, perplexed by the situation. About a hundred snappy comebacks zinged through her brain, but she said not a one. Instead, she pointed the boat west and opened the throttle. They zoomed past Tomahawk Point, the nature sanctuary, and several family beach communities. Then Old Bluff, the honky-tonk part of town with beach bars, miniature golf, a carousel, and lemon ice. Finally, on a cliff rising straight up from the Sound, was the Renwicks’ mansion.

  “That's Firefly Hill, Sam's brother's mother-in-law's house,” Quinn said. “I guess that makes Augusta my stepgrandmother-in-law”

  “Big house,” Michael said.

  “Her husband was a famous artist—Hugh Renwick. He was one of the Black Hall Impressionists—our town's famous for art.”