The Edge of Winter Page 8

  Now her gaze returned to the pictures she’d taken of the snowy owl, sitting so peacefully beside the driftwood log. Miles of white sand stretched along the coast, punctuated by small coves and inlets, by the Refuge Breachway—that tidal torrent that rushed from the salt marshes straight into the ocean.

  Neve thought of all the times she and Mickey had walked that beach, collecting shells and sea glass, feeling their bare feet in the sand and shallow water, of how those walks had healed her from the sorrow of the divorce.

  It seemed like the farthest thing from a battlefield she could imagine. But she thought of Tim’s harsh words at the hospital, and the dark expression in his eyes; and she imagined an old man called the Gray Goose, living deep in the woods, estranged from his son.

  The man who had followed in his footsteps…

  “What are you going to tell your mother?” Jenna asked, leaning over the back of Mickey’s seat on the bus.

  “I don’t know,” Mickey murmured, not wanting to think about it yet.

  “You have to think of something good. She won’t let you go if you tell her it’s a party. She’s so strict.”

  “Yeah,” Tripp said. “What’s your curfew? Like, ten o’clock?”

  “I can stay out later than that,” Mickey said.

  Jenna giggled, sliding back into the crook of Tripp’s elbow. He latched on, and started to kiss her. Mickey could hear their lips brushing each other’s, and she wished she could disappear. When had Jenna become a make-out person? On the bus home from school, no less.

  The miles slipped by, but not fast enough. Every few miles the bus would stop, and some kid—or a group of kids—would have to gather up their things, zip up their coats, shuffle their way down the aisle.

  Outside, the sky stayed light. It was late February, and every day was longer than the one before. Still, the air was so cold. Snow seemed poised to fall. The clouds were heavy with silver, and Mickey was sure that if they opened up, it would be a blizzard. Bare trees raked the sky, a canopy of interlocking branches over the winding country road. In this late-day light the tips of the branches looked pink, and Mickey felt as if she were tipping on a fulcrum, a seesaw of winter and spring.

  Mickey sank lower in her seat, listening to the soft kissing sounds. She heard the sleeves of Jenna’s nylon jacket singing against Tripp’s. That party they had mentioned—why would Mickey even want to go? It was going to be all the cool kids, Jenna’s new friends. Not just sophomores—some of them were juniors and seniors, and they’d be drinking and making out, acting cool and crazy, right in the spot where the snowy owl was.

  Turning slightly, Mickey tried to catch Jenna’s eye. She wanted time to stop and, in fact, rewind. She wanted to go back, back, to when they were best friends without complications, when Jenna had made Mickey laugh during the divorce, and Mickey had consoled Jenna after the death of her grandmother. She wanted the months to unspool, all the way back to last winter, to these weeks when the days were getting longer, when the anticipation of spring migration grabbed hold of their hearts and made them know they could endure divorce and death.

  Tears warmed Mickey’s eyes, and even though she didn’t want Jenna and Tripp to see her crying, she wanted to will her old best friend to look at her, to feel how important it was to think of the snowy owl—and not just that, but also the black-throated blue warbler: their two favorite birds.

  Some things were bigger than fun. The party would be great, Mickey was sure—if you liked things like that. But couldn’t they have it somewhere else other than Refuge Beach, where—it seemed to Mickey—so much was at stake? Why did getting older have to mean getting stupider about things worth loving and caring for?

  “Hey, are you spying on us?” Tripp asked.

  Mickey shook her head. “I was just…”

  “She’s upset about the party,” Jenna said, making Mickey’s heart jump—even with everything that had come between them, she could still read Mickey’s mind. “Right?”

  Mickey blinked.

  “Upset about what?” Tripp asked.

  “Mick’s upset that we’re having it on the beach,” Jenna said, gazing straight into Mickey’s eyes—knowing her so well, reading her thoughts, translating feelings about the owl, almost as if white wings had spread over their heads. “Right?”

  Mickey nodded.

  “What about the beach?” Tripp asked. “What’s wrong with it? It’s perfect for everything we want to do there…a keg, music, a whole lot of darkness to hide what needs to be hidden.” He squeezed Jenna, gave her a suggestive look.

  Emotions flickered in Jenna’s eyes. Mickey concentrated, trying to read them—she was torn between her boyfriend and her best friend. But Jenna had to be true to herself, too, to her love of birds, to all the years when she and Mickey would dream of seeing their favorites—the snowy owl and the black-throated blue.

  And for a minute, Mickey thought it was going to be okay—Jenna would smooth it over, get Tripp to move the party to Senior Field, behind the gym; or even to the bridge, that hidden spot behind the library, out of sight of the road.

  “What’s wrong with the beach?” Tripp asked again.

  “I’m not allowed to say,” Jenna said.

  “Who’s stopping you?”

  Jenna shot Mickey a look.

  “What, her? Come on, we don’t have secrets here.” Then Tripp turned toward Mickey. He smirked, as if he didn’t believe she could withstand his will and charm. Touching the back of her head, he let his hand trail down her neck, onto her shoulders. Mickey caught Jenna’s eye and saw that her friend didn’t like Tripp doing that.

  “It’s that owl!” Jenna said. “Mickey doesn’t want it disturbed….”

  “Fuck, who cares about an owl?” Tripp asked, laughing. “Disturb it? We won’t even go near it. Owls are spooky.”

  “See?” Jenna asked, softening her gaze, giving Mickey one of her old best-friend looks, cajoling now, touching her head in the same spot Tripp had. “See? No one’s going to bother the owl…so come on, Mick. Think up a good story to tell your mother—otherwise we both know she’ll say no—and let’s plan for a great Saturday night!”

  And then, as if Tripp couldn’t wait to get started, he wrapped his arms around Jenna, and the squishy kisses started again, and Mickey looked out the window at the tree branches—black against the sky, the pinkness fading with the sunset. “A story” to tell her mother, Jenna had said, but she meant a lie. Mickey thought of her father, and how he lied—and felt the seesaw tilting away from spring, straight back to winter.

  7

  The night was wicked cold, the party loud and raucous. Someone had brought a CD player, and it blasted music straight into the face of the sea wind. Kids talked, laughing and fooling around, huddled around a crackling bonfire. It blazed and sparked—but some of the logs must have been damp, because the eerie low-pitched whistle of wet wood underscored the jubilant party noise.

  Driving through the refuge with Jenna and Tripp—in his Jeep, taking the unpaved fire road to avoid being seen—Mickey had seen the ranger’s lights on through the scrub pine trees and almost wished he’d see the kids and stop them. Everyone had blankets. Some couples were lying down, lost in closeness, not even paying attention to the party. Others were standing in small groups around the keg and fire, wrapped up against the wind. Partying at the refuge wasn’t allowed, but they weren’t likely to be discovered on such a cold night. Mickey leaned on the old jetty, just outside the fire’s circle of light.

  “Hey, are you having fun?” Jenna asked, coming over to stand with her, beer sloshing in a big plastic cup.

  “It’s okay,” Mickey said, trying to hide the fact, even from her best friend, that she felt like a different breed among the partyers.

  “It’s great,” Jenna corrected her. “C’mon, Mick. We have to grow up sometime, don’t we?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Your mom knows you’re sleeping over at my house—don’t worry, you won’t get in trou
ble. Here—have some beer. She won’t smell it on your breath, my parents don’t care, and you’ll feel more relaxed.”

  “That’s okay,” Mickey said, shaking her head.

  Jenna shrugged, took a long drink. Mickey watched her, wondered why she felt so strange—when Jenna was the one drinking. She was surrounded by friends and classmates, here on the beach she loved so much. They were at least fifty yards from where the owl had been roosting, so she didn’t really have to worry. But her stomach kept flipping, as if she were on a roller coaster.

  She had lied to her mother. Well, not a flat-out lie, but a definite lack of truth.

  What do you and Jenna have planned tonight? her mother had asked.

  Oh, I don’t know, Mickey had said. Finishing homework. After that, who knows? When all the time she had known about this party. Her heart pinched, thinking of some of the fights she used to overhear between her parents; her father would say he was going to be somewhere, and her mother would find out he’d been somewhere else. It had been so unfair, and had hurt her mother so much; and now here was Mickey, doing the same thing.

  “Come on, have some!” Jenna urged, pushing the beer toward her.

  Mickey hesitated, then took a big sip while Jenna held the cup, and just one sip made her body feel light and her head feel free, and she hated it because she thought of her dad and wondered if he was drunk.

  “You know you want to talk to him,” Jenna said, licking beer foam from her upper lip.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Shane. Duh!”

  Mickey felt her face turn red, and was glad it was too dark to see. Her gaze slid up the beach, to a shadowy figure sitting on top of the dunes. He was silhouetted by starlight, and Mickey saw his strong shoulders, his lean arms, the way he was completely comfortable on a beach—even on a cold February night.

  “Look, just because Tripp and Josh say he’s a freak, you and I know he’s not,” Jenna said, slipping her hand into Mickey’s. “He helped you when you had your bike accident. Go talk to him!”

  “I don’t know,” Mickey said, never taking her eyes off him. Even though Shane had been in her class for years, there was something about him that had always seemed so apart. He was older, for one thing; he should be a junior, but he’d stayed back in Woodland Elementary. Mickey had always figured that because he was a year older, and a surfer, he was way out of her league.

  “Here, give him this—” She tried to thrust the beer into Mickey’s hand, but Mickey backed away without taking it. “Goody-goody,” Jenna said, but she grinned and kissed Mickey’s forehead as she gave her a gentle shove toward Shane.

  Mickey began to walk up the beach, following the jetty to the top. The sand felt soft and deep under her green rubber boots. Her heart was racing, and her mind was filled with the words she would say; she felt tongue-tied before she’d even opened her mouth. She saw him lying back on the sand, propped up on one elbow. When he turned slowly, to look at her, his gaze felt like a laser beam, filling her body—all her bones—with scalding white light.

  “Hi,” she said, climbing the dune, standing over him, looking down into his eyes.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “I just…” she began, but lost track. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I found out about the party,” he said. “And I came to keep an eye on things.”

  “You do that a lot,” she said. Standing high on the dune, she felt colder than she had down below, by the sad little fire. A strong sea wind was blowing, and it tossed her hair all around. She tried to peel it out of her eyes and mouth, but the wind wouldn’t let her.

  “Sit down,” he said. “It’s warmer down here.” He reached up to give her his hand, to guide her down, and she took it. They sat still, pressed close together, directly on the sand, slightly in the jetty’s lee. She held her left arm up slightly so she wouldn’t get sand in her cast. The dune still held some of the sun’s heat, but what made Mickey feel warmest was the pressure of Shane’s arm and hip against hers. She felt liquid inside, as if she were made of mercury.

  “I haven’t seen you at school lately,” she said.

  “Well, I haven’t been there. I figured everyone knew the whole story—I’m suspended till Monday.”

  “You don’t deserve it,” Mickey murmured. “You helped me. And you were just trying to save the U-boat, and the beach, and the owl….”

  “People don’t care about those things,” Shane said. “Not when there’s money to be made.”

  “Money?”

  “Yeah,” Shane said. “That’s why Josh’s father is famous. For making money, being rich. He’ll open a U-boat museum and get richer.” He pointed down at the party.

  Mickey stared down from the top of the dune. People were clustered around the keg and the fire. Josh was telling everyone to fill their cups. The waves crashed in, and spray carried all the way up the beach, misting Mickey’s face. Music blasted, but Josh’s voice was louder. He raised his plastic cup high, facing the sea.

  “To the U.S. Navy!” he shouted. “Who blasted the shit out of U-823. And to my dad, for getting it the fuck out of here. Tomorrow there’ll be a film crew right here, when he makes his announcement. You’ll all get to be on TV.”

  Everyone raised their plastic glasses in a toast. Mickey stared past them, out at the waves. The sea looked so wide open, the white wave crests as bright as snowcapped mountains. The jetty pointed seaward; Mickey knew the sub lay submerged in seventy feet of water, partly covered with sand, a few hundred yards out. Even using the jetty as a marker, there was no way to tell by looking exactly where the U-boat lay. Its invisibility didn’t matter; it was part of the landscape, part of who they all were.

  “What are you doing with them?” Shane asked, gesturing at the kids.

  “They’re my friends,” she said defensively.

  “You know that’s not true,” he said.

  “Jenna is. She’s been my best friend since kindergarten.”

  “Well, she’s hanging around with jerks. Getting excited about being on TV—in what? A reality show about ruining the coastline? If they thought about it for ten seconds instead of just jumping on the nearest bandwagon, maybe they’d realize he’s making them into suckers.”

  “Not everyone loves the beach the way we do,” Mickey said. She glanced past Shane, at his upright board stuck into the sand. “Did you surf today?”

  “After I finished community service. Until dark,” he said proudly. “That’s how I figured out about the party. Josh and his friends showed up early to build the ‘bonfire.’ You should have seen them, dragging up driftwood from the tide line. Half of it is soaked through—he was putting the fire out before he got it started.”

  Mickey laughed in spite of herself. She watched some kids refilling their cups from the keg, then saw Jenna and Tripp holding hands, standing just outside the circle of firelight, starting to kiss. Somehow the sight of her friend’s passion combined with the touch of Shane’s arm against hers made Mickey feel hot. What was she even thinking? He was older and so much cooler, probably just thought of her as a little kid who’d fallen off her bike.

  She turned toward Shane, caught him looking at her. His face was just inches away from hers, so close she felt his warm breath on her forehead. The wind was still blowing hard; he reached over to push the hair out of her eyes. The feeling shocked her, made her heart pound. His fingers lingered longer than they had to, and she realized he wasn’t wearing gloves.

  “Aren’t your hands cold?” she asked, her voice sounding almost like a croak.

  “Not now,” he said, touching the side of her face with his palm.

  “You should be freezing,” she said. “Sitting out here—no blanket, no gloves…how do you do it?”

  “I’m used to surfing in the winter sea,” he said. “I just don’t think about it. Warm, cold, what’s the difference? We’re alive—we’re here for a short time, the shortest time you can imagine.” His words sounded harsh, but th
ey were also filled with grief. Something in them made Mickey think of everything her family had lost—their old closeness, the comfort of having all three of them under the same roof—and she leaned a little closer.

  “What do you mean, ‘the shortest time’?”

  “My father died when I was three,” Shane said. He stopped there, as if that was all that he needed to say. Then he cleared his throat, looked at Mickey. “He was only twenty-two. Just a few years older than I am now.”

  “How did he die?” Mickey asked.

  “He drowned,” Shane said. He stared out over the breaking waves, then glanced down at Mickey. “He was a surfer.”

  “He drowned surfing?”

  Shane nodded. “Right here,” he said. “On this beach.”

  “During the winter?” Mickey asked. She took in Shane’s bare head and hands, his open collar, with no scarf to block the wind—he didn’t even bother zipping his jacket up to the top.

  Shane shook his head. “The first day of spring,” he said.

  “Who was with him?” she asked, because somehow she already knew.

  “We were,” he said. “My mother and I.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Don’t be,” he said. “I’m just glad he didn’t die alone. We saw him catch the perfect wave, and then we saw him go under. And not come up. My mother swam out, looking for him.”

  “Did she…?”

  Shane stared out at the sea, his eyes hot. “No, she didn’t find him. We never did.”

  “Shane, that’s so sad.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “It is. When I was a little kid, the year I was old enough to ride my bike to school, I used to skip school. My mother would watch me head off, and she’d think I was going to Woodland. Instead, I’d double back around and come down here, looking for my father. That’s the year I stayed back.”

  “I remember,” she said. “The year you were suddenly in my class.”