Beach Girls Page 5

  “She never hangs out with anyone. She sleeps all day and does spells all night.”

  “Nah,” said Billy McCabe, whose mother had read Stevie's books to him and his sisters when he was little. He carried the doughnut box, with the young bird bumping around inside. “She's good.”

  “Bull crap! She's like that witch in the stupid jerky movie where the camera kids got chomped.”

  “Chomped? Witches don't chomp. Sharks chomp.”

  “The Jaws Witch Project.”

  “You're fucked up.”

  “Oh—big cool Jeremy, saying ‘fucked.'”

  “You say it.”

  “I'm twelve.”

  “Yeah, well, I'm eleven.”

  The boys tromped through the backyards, carrying the tools of their trade: a ladder, a camera, and a candle. They had named their summer club WHA: Witch Hunters Anonymous. Billy carried a box that was not part of the expedition: a baby crow they'd found under a bush. The mother must have been teaching it to fly, and it fell out of the nest. Billy had rescued it, which delayed the whole expedition. When they finished spying, he'd drop the bird off at the veterinarian's house—Rumer Larkin lived just two houses away from Stevie Moore.

  They cut through the property of the old hunting lodge, looked both ways, and ran over to the side of the white shingled house. The land sloped steeply down toward the beach—getting the ladder steady was tricky. Jeremy Spring propped one leg on the earth, Rafe Morgan evened it out with flat rocks under the other, and the ladder's top crashed against the house with a rude thump. The other boys scrambled into bushes. They all held their breaths, waiting for an angry face in the window—Billy crouched under a shaggy yew, holding the box. This had to be a mistake—their mothers would kill them if they got caught. And what did they even hope to see going on inside?

  “Let's forget it,” he said, watching the windows.

  “We've come too far,” Rafe said.

  “What are we even going to see?”

  “She does her magic in the nude,” Jeremy said.

  “Yeah.”

  “That's what I heard!”

  Two boys held the ladder's base, while Jeremy and Eugene Tyrone jostled for first up. Eugene won. He scrambled up. Because the house was built into the rock ledge, this side of the house had quite a drop-off. The boys had no idea what the windows looked into—her living room, bedroom, magic room, or torture chamber. They all stared up at Eugene for a clue to what he was seeing.

  “Hey! What's she doing?”

  “Report in!”

  Jeremy gave the ladder's base a slight shake. Eugene slashed his left hand through the air, telling them to be quiet. Everyone stood still, heads back. It wasn't fair that Eugene was taking so much time. A scrawny oak, stunted by storm winds, grew alongside the house, and Rafe and Jeremy began trying to climb up for a look at what Eugene was viewing.

  “Can you see her?” Rafe asked.

  Eugene nodded. He didn't speak. He was frowning. Now he shook his head, as if he was seeing something he didn't like, and started to climb down.

  “Is she el-nude-o?”

  “Is she chopping the tails off salamanders?”

  “Can you see her collection of shrunken heads? That's what she does to kids who look in her windows,” Billy said. Everyone else had been whispering, but he spoke in a normal voice. Rafe grabbed a handful of green acorns off a branch to pelt him with—his windup was fierce, and the nuts felt like gunfire. Billy dropped the doughnut box, the bird fell out, and as Billy lunged to catch him, he bumped into the ladder. It weaved slightly, and then fell with a crash to the ground.

  STEVIE DIDN'T KNOW what had gotten into her. She sat at her easel, staring at her paper, unable to paint. She was wearing what an old lover had called her “Welcome to the Black Hole of the Universe” garment: an old cream satin dressing gown imprinted with dark blue Chinese characters reputed to have been worn backstage by Joan Morgana, a rising young Metropolitan Opera star, suffering through a disastrous affair with a famous tenor, who had committed suicide shortly after a performance of Madame Butterfly. Moved by the dark love story, shortly after her split from Linus, Stevie had bought the gown at the Opera Thrift Store on East Twenty-third Street.

  Sitting at her easel, she was trying to concentrate on her painting when she heard a thump. She ignored it. Several days had passed since Nell's visit. She had spent two of them drawing wrens, and now she was back to hummingbirds. The trumpet vine on the house's north side was a magnet for them. She had been watching a pair for weeks—the female a subdued green, the male blazing emerald with a ruby throat.

  But all she could think about was Emma—and Nell. She sipped from her teacup—chipped, with blue roses, one of her grandmother's mismatched bone-china collection—and remembered how she and the beach girls would have “tea parties” with them. They would make lemonade and drink it from the cups. This one had been Emma's favorite. The thought made her eyes brim with tears.

  Suddenly she heard a scraping noise that sent Tilly flying off the back of the sofa, running for cover. A voice: “Whooooooaaaaa, stop!” And then metal clattering against rock. Stevie had heard that sound before. She sighed and hoped that no one was badly hurt. Drying her eyes, she tugged her robe around her and ran to the window.

  The ladder lay on its side. The boys had scattered—she saw them peering out of bushes and from behind rocks. One was still shinnying down the oak tree. Yet another was chasing a young crow on the ground.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man running through her yard. He jumped over the low boxwood hedge, displaying truly impressive college-football form. Alarmed by the chaos, she ran barefoot downstairs, out the kitchen door, and toward the group.

  “Are you okay?” the man asked, leaning over a boy who was holding his wrist.

  “I'm fine,” the boy said. “I kind of jammed it.”

  “You'd better get it checked out,” the man said.

  “You shouldn't put ladders against people's houses,” she said darkly. “You never know what might happen.” Her tone was dark, and two of the boys ran away. One stayed where he was, on all fours, trying to lure something out from under a thatch of honeysuckle vines.

  “What have you got there?” she asked.

  “Back up, Billy,” one of his friends called. “She's going to turn you into a snake!”

  Stevie tried not to react. Sometimes the kids' teasing made her laugh, but today it made her feel apart, different, and spurned, and it forced tears back into her eyes. The freckled boy didn't move; he just concentrated on trying to reach the bird.

  “A baby crow. He fell out of the nest or something. He was squawking like crazy before, but now he's just so quiet . . . I tried to feed him, but he wouldn't eat. So I decided to take him to the vet. . . .”

  “Come on, Billy—leave the bird,” his friends said.

  “I can't!”

  “Go, all of you,” Stevie said. “Go home now, and I won't turn you into reptiles. I'll take care of the bird.”

  The boy looked up at her, concern in his brown eyes. Then he nodded, taking off with his friends. Stevie got down on her knees, studying the small crow hidden in shadow. He cringed against the stone foundation, his neck feathers ruffed like a collar.

  “Do you need some help?” the man asked.

  “I don't think so,” Stevie said coolly. “Are you the father of one of those boys?”

  “No—I was just walking by, and I saw a ladder fall over, and I figured someone might be hurt.”

  Stevie peered at him. He looked somewhat familiar—like a beach kid from the past. Tall, dark, longish almost-black hair, wearing sunglasses, a white dress shirt, and khaki shorts with too many pockets. One of her complaints about Hubbard's Point was how people seemed concerned with everyone else's business. The community was small and insular. Nothing like the wide-open anonymity of New York City . . . Whoever he was, he'd be spreading the news about kids peeking into her windows, spying on “the witch.”

&n
bsp; Stevie lay down on her side, reaching into the vegetation, to try to get the bird. Her fingers brushed feathers.

  “Let me,” the man said. “My arms are longer.” Without waiting for a response, he knelt down, closed his hand around the bird, and held it out for Stevie.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You're welcome.”

  Stevie's hands enclosed the small crow; she wanted to get inside. She was already thinking of how she could nurse it back to health, keep it safe from Tilly. But the man didn't move. Maybe she was a witch: he stared down at her, and suddenly she knew that she knew him. The shape of his face, the curve of his mouth—he had to be Nell's father.

  “Jack?” she asked.

  “Yes—hi, Stevie.”

  “I hear you met my daughter.”

  “I did,” she said. “She's wonderful. Jack—I'm so sorry—”

  “Emma. I know. Thank you.”

  He seemed so uncomfortable, and Stevie felt so awkward. Wearing a robe, feeling disheveled, holding a lost bird, the very picture of a crazy artist. She tried to smile. “Listen, can you come inside? I'd like to talk to you—”

  He seemed to hesitate, as if trying to think of an excuse. He checked his watch—a huge chronometer—and then shook his head. “I have an appointment,” he said. “I'm sorry, but I've got to go.”

  Chapter 5

  JACK RETURNED HOME TO AN EMPTY house. He walked inside, closed the door behind him, looked around. There was almost nothing more depressing than a rented vacation place when you weren't really sure why you'd come there in the first place. Other people's strange taste in art, furniture, rugs. Was it possible that that orange macramé wall hanging had been seriously chosen? Jack scowled—he was well on his way to becoming a permanent, intractable curmudgeon.

  He pulled out his briefcase, portfolio, and cell phone. Checked the time: just before four in Inverness. The North Sea, his next frontier. Francesca had paved the way, unintentionally, during her Scotland trip in April. Romanov had liked her, been impressed by the firm's credentials. Bids were being taken, but Jack wanted this chance to talk one-on-one with the guy who would make the ultimate decision.

  Waiting for his phone to ring, he tried to settle down. What had him so keyed up? Was it the idea of Nell down at the beach with a bunch of people he didn't know? No—it wasn't that. Laurel seemed steady and responsible, the Hubbard's Point Recreation Program had been in full force since Jack was a kid, and Nell was fine going to school by herself—at home in Atlanta, in Boston. Once she adjusted, she'd be fine.

  The phone rang—five minutes early.

  “Jack Kilvert,” he said, exactly as if he was sitting in his office overlooking Boston Harbor.

  “Hi there,” came Francesca's throaty voice. “Are you on the beach?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, feeling a pang of guilt. No one at the firm—including Francesca—had any idea of what he was about to do.

  “At the tennis court, on a sailboat, getting ready to tee off? Just tell me you're out in the sun, and not sitting in that house.”

  “I'm getting ready to go out,” he said, forcing a laugh, wanting to defuse the call, get her off the line.

  “You'd better be. I'm making you my number one project,” she said. “I am going to get you to have fun by the end of the summer. As a matter of fact, I'm calling because I have some documents. Now, I could fax them to you—that is an option. But I was thinking, wouldn't it be much more fun if I drove them down? Say, tonight?”

  “Francesca, that's too far to come,” he began, looking at his watch again. Three minutes till the call . . .

  “Oh, you're hopeless! Is it your daughter? Come on, Jack—that beach must be loaded with babysitters. Find a nice kid who needs the money, and take the night off!”

  “Look, Francesca,” Jack said. “That won't work for tonight. Fax the papers, if you don't mind—okay? I have to run now.”

  She was silent. He knew he'd sounded rude. But the time was ticking by—and wasn't it better for her to get the message now rather than later? She said, “Yes, sure, have fun,” and hung up the phone. Jack's heart was in a vise. The pain was great—in his body, and in his soul. He thought of how Emma had told him to pray. The memory made him shudder. He was like a dead man these days—somehow the imminent phone call was a form of redemption. He sat there in a cold sweat, waiting for the ring.

  He bowed his head. He needed respite, a break from his universe. He closed his eyes—and what he saw surprised him.

  Stevie Moore. She had looked like he felt: a ghost stuck in this life. What had she been doing, just half-dressed on a bright morning? Those streaks on her cheeks were tears. He knew. He was an expert on tears.

  He'd been struck by her firm handshake and warm smile. Also by her size: she was small. About five-three, very slight. Her robe had been about four sizes too big for her, the sash tied tight. She had sleek, chin-length black hair and bangs that parted over wide, violet eyes. Her skin was pale and flawless. Except for those tear marks.

  He pictured her cupping that pathetic little lost bird in her hands. What chance did it have? No mother, no father. At least Nell had him. . . . He shook his head. What good was he, anyway? He held tight to the vision of Stevie holding that bird. Holding on, holding on . . .

  The phone rang. It jangled, making him jump. His pulse leapt, and he felt his heart crashing. This had to work. . . .

  “Hello,” he said. “Jack Kilvert . . .”

  NELL AND PEGGY won the relay race. They beat all the girls and all the boys. They looked like teammates in their navy blue bathing suits—as if they had planned it that morning, as if they were already best friends.

  Peggy had bright red hair and lots of freckles, and she wore a cool sunhat to keep the sun off her face except for when she went swimming. She kept hold of Nell's hand practically the whole time—they even did the floating contest, on their backs in the calm bay, holding hands.

  “It's like having a sister!” Nell said when the contests were over and the whole rec class took a rest break on their towels.

  “Better, I'm telling you,” Peggy said. “My sister Annie's a teenager, and she can't be bothered with me! All she wants to do is hang out with her boyfriend. My mother always says about her best friend, Tara, ‘You can't choose your family, but you can choose your friends.'”

  Nell felt her shoulders collapse a little. “I'd choose my family, just the way it was,” she said.

  “Well, me too,” Peggy said. “But best friends are second best. A close second best—you should see my mom and Tara. They do everything together.”

  “My mom had friends like that,” Nell said. “They grew up here, at Hubbard's Point. That's why my dad and I came here. Because there were so many happy times.”

  “You and your dad?” Peggy asked, blinking slowly; the unasked question: what about your mom?

  “Yes,” Nell said, her shoulders caving in a little more. She could never say the words: my mom died.

  “You miss your mom,” Peggy said.

  Nell glanced up. How could she possibly know?

  “I miss my dad,” Peggy explained. “I could tell about you . . . at least, I thought I could. And when you said it was just you and your dad here, I knew for sure. . . . It rots, doesn't it?”

  “Big time,” Nell said.

  The girls were sitting on the edge of their towels, their heads so close together that Nell's face was in the shade of Peggy's hat. The sand was so warm; they burrowed their feet down as far as possible, till they got to the cool, damp layer. Nell wished they could just sit there for the rest of the day. But just then a long shadow fell across their towels, and she looked up—into the freckled face of a boy who looked a lot like Peggy.

  “Hey, squirt,” he said.

  “Billy—where's the bird?” she asked.

  “I left it up there.” He gestured up at the cottages on the stone hill—at the House That Used to Be Blue. Nell felt a shiver, remembering Stevie.

  �
�Not with the witch!” Peggy said. “Are you crazy? She'll pluck its feathers to make a hat, or a cape, or something! Crows are black, hello!”

  Nell felt the first instant of doubt regarding her new best friend. She wanted to defend Stevie, but the boy—the way he looked and acted meant he had to be Peggy's brother—beat her to it.

  “I don't think so,” he said. “She's not the bird-plucking type. She seems, like, depressed or something. Eugene was spying on her, like, looking in her windows? And he saw her crying. All alone, in the middle of the morning. It was weird.”

  “Depressed?” Nell asked. She knew she had found a family of kindred spirits: that word was part of their language, too.

  “Yeah,” the boy said. “And who might you be?”

  “Nell Kilvert,” she said.

  “Nell, this is Billy, my brother,” Peggy said. “It sounds just like something a witch would do—crying on a summer day. Excuse me, but that's strange.”

  “Maybe someone she loved died,” Nell said.

  Peggy and her brother Billy just stared and stared as if she'd just said the most unspeakable thing in the world. Billy shrugged and walked down the beach.

  Peggy decided to laugh it off. “Hah! Like her black cat, or her pet newt. Or maybe she's getting divorced again, for the fifteenth time. Or maybe she lost another huge diamond ring . . .”

  “She's special,” Nell said.

  “She wants you to think that,” Peggy said. “To lure you in!”

  “I don't think she wants to lure anyone in,” Nell said. “She has that ‘Please Go Away' sign in her yard.”

  Peggy frowned—Nell had her there.

  “She and my mom and my aunt were really close. They even had a name for themselves,” Nell said. “I was thinking . . . we could call ourselves the same thing!”

  “What is it?” Peggy asked.

  “Beach girls,” Nell said.

  Peggy's nose wrinkled, and she squinted into the sun. Her gaze swept up the rocky point, toward the House That Used to Be Blue. Nell could almost read her mind: she'd been seeing dark magic and crystal balls and pointy black hats, but those images were being replaced by beach balls, bright towels, and blue bathing suits. Nell smiled.