She knew she had to return the shell, and there was not much time, for the tide was coming in faster. She looked away from the cave to the beach. There was only a thin crescent left exposed. If she didn’t leave soon, she’d have to swim back. But I don’t know how to swim. And then she laughed out loud. For it seemed so ridiculous — of course she knew how. She just had to dare herself to try. Soon, she thought. Very soon.
She walked back into the cave and carefully replaced the shell on the stick. It was then she spied the notch like a small cubbyhole in the rocks above the three branches. There was something stuffed inside. Reaching up, she took out a tightly rolled oilskin that was about the length of one of the Havana cigars her father sometimes smoked. She untied the string. A note fell out.
H. She has come! But not crossed. Not yet.
M
A BLADE OF SUNLIGHT lay across the narrow bed, and when Lucy turned over, it fell across her face. Her eyelids flinched and she rolled back. But the sun seemed to follow her.
“Lucy! Lucy!” She heard her mother’s footsteps on the stairs. “My goodness, what a sleepyhead. Do you know what time it is?”
Lucy opened one eye. “No idea.” Then she forced open the other eye. She did not want to be dragged into this day. The night, what had transpired or seemed to have transpired, still stirred somewhere within her like a lingering scent. She wanted to hold on to it. But there was her mother, looking remarkably cheerful compared to last night.
“Darling, it’s almost ten o’clock.” She plopped herself down on the bed, narrowly avoiding sitting on Lucy’s foot, the foot that now seemed as cramped as ever. Had it all been a dream? “We’ve had a very exciting invitation.”
Lucy yawned again. “Yeah?”
“For heaven’s sake don’t say ‘yeah.’ It is so vulgar. Next thing you know, you’ll be using that peculiar word the natives always say for yes.”
“Ayuh!” Lucy laughed.
“That’s it exactly.” Marjorie Snow’s eyebrows leaped high on her forehead like two small minnows. “Never mind. We didn’t bring you here to learn how to speak in that odd brogue of the natives. Don’t you want to know about the invitation?”
Lucy propped herself up on her elbows. “What is it?” She tried to muster some enthusiasm.
“A yachting invitation.”
Lucy sat straight up. “We’re going sailing? On the ocean?”
“I hardly know where else you would do it, dear. But not only that. It is with none other than the Augustus Bellamys.”
“Who are the Bellamys?”
“The Bellamys, upper Fifth Avenue. Very smart people. And they have commissioned a new yacht. The biggest one ever built around here, so Elva Perry says. She brought the message this morning with a dozen fresh eggs. She is quite a dear, Mrs. Perry. Anyhow they are doing what they call a shakedown sail — working out the kinks.”
“And they want us to come?”
“Yes, dear, and you especially, for I think their son will be on board.” Marjorie was beaming. Lucy almost recoiled. The very thought of having to make conversation with another one of these aristocratic young men unnerved her. Small talk presented a veritable minefield of potential disasters. Her capacity to say the wrong thing, the stupid thing, was infinite in such situations. And to have Marjorie present was even worse.
The last thing she wanted to do was to embarrass or fail her mother.
“Oh, darling, I never thought it would all begin so soon. Only the day after tomorrow! I thought we were here unfashionably early, but I guess some of the Bellamys are here early as well because of their boat — pardon me, yacht. Rumor has it, it cost almost one hundred thousand dollars. Can you imagine that?”
Lucy, however, was imagining not dollar bills but the sea — sailing on the wide-open sea.
The sail had to be postponed for two days due to poor weather. But on a bright sunny Saturday morning, the Snows boarded the Desperate Lark.
“Ah, here you are!” Augustus Bellamy greeted them heartily as they made their way down the pier at the Heanssler boatyard. “Mrs. Snow! And young Miss Snow. Lucy, I believe? My wife is already on board with her sister and my brother-in-law. And here comes my perpetually late son, Gus.”
Quick introductions were made. Gus Bellamy reached forward to shake hands with Marjorie Snow, whose voice seemed almost to trill as she took his hand in greeting.
“Gus will not actually be on the boat with us, as he is going in the steam launch with young Phineas Heanssler to photograph Lark. He’s got the photo bug, you know.” Augustus Bellamy winked.
Thank God for the photo bug, Lucy thought. She might even be able to think of a decent question to ask about photography. However, her mother’s disappointment was almost palpable.
The breeze was fresh, and within twenty minutes, the yacht, a yawl, was slicing down the eastern way between the Dog Islands. There was the pleasant creak of the mast and a shiver through the shrouds when the yacht caught the wind. As she bit the breeze, the sails puffed and the Lark darted ahead like the bird for which she was named. Lucy found it completely exhilarating, but her poor mother was looking quite liverish. Everything seemed to be going perfectly in this shakedown cruise. Indeed the only kink was the one in Marjorie’s plans. She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and looked longingly at the stolid little steam launch, uncharmingly named Bongo, that bore what she considered precious cargo — Augustus Bellamy III — with his camera set up to photograph this trial sail. The Bongo was being expertly piloted by Phineas Heanssler, son of Raymond Heanssler, the renowned Bar Harbor yacht builder.
The plan was to have lunch on one of the many islands that dotted the bay. For her mother’s sake, Lucy decided she would make a real effort with Gus Bellamy. She had thought up at least two or three questions she might ask about photography, for she had recently seen an exhibit of William Henry Jackson’s photographs of Yosemite.
“Bring her in close, Phin,” Raymond Heanssler shouted over the wind. “I’m going to fall off a bit, then run her down toward the first Dog.” As the steam launch swept close, Lucy caught a glimpse of Phineas Heanssler. He cut a memorable figure at the helm of the launch. His rugged profile was illuminated by a sudden blast of sunlight as he spun the wheel with authority and pulled in close to the yawl for the best shot.
“Your son will get some fine pictures, Mr. Bellamy,” said Raymond Heanssler.
“I’m sure he will. Ain’t she something! How she tucks into it. You’ve built me a fine craft, Raymond. And Phineas has a fine touch with that launch.”
“Can’t take too much credit. Phin did most of the design. That boy knows his way with boats and wind, and he surely knows Lark and how she fits to the waves.”
Fits to the waves … what a lovely phrase, Lucy thought. She looked back over her shoulder and caught another glimpse of the young man called Phin as the steam launch laid off to port and crossed their wake.
Mr. Bellamy turned to Marjorie. “And what a sport you are, madam.” He gave her a hearty slap on the back.
“Honestly, Augie, don’t knock the poor woman around. I can tell she’s not feeling all that well. Don’t worry, Mrs. Snow. It takes some getting used to.” Adelaide Bellamy was a calm, handsome woman. She had the grace and confidence that came with generations of privilege and wealth.
“Too bad the reverend couldn’t come,” Mr. Bellamy said. “But it looks like Lucy here was born to it. You like it, do you, Lucy?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I certainly do.”
“It becomes you, it does, my dear. The sea becomes you. Puts the pink in your cheeks and that fine red hair of yours — redder than a boiled lobster! Ha-ha!” he slapped his plump thigh. There was a solid thwack as loud as the crack of the jib when they tacked. Lucy saw her mother wince.
“Boiled lobster! Honestly, Augie!” Mrs. Bellamy laughed. “You have to forgive him, Lucy. He means well. He just lacks a certain je ne sais quoi — eloquence?”
“You want to put in at Dog One for luncheo
n, Mr. Bellamy?” the captain, Cyrus Sprague, asked.
“That would suit me fine. Nice spot for a picnic.”
Lucy saw her mother visibly brighten. She supposed it was not so much the prospect of lunch — for with her greenish pallor, she hardly appeared ready for food — but rather the anticipation of having Augustus Bellamy III within reach.
“Now let’s see,” Adelaide Bellamy said as she stepped from the dinghy onto the beach. “I think, Captain Sprague, that you can direct the crew to put our hampers over there by that boulder. Spread out the picnic rugs and bring along a few of our beach chairs as well. Over there, that looks like a fine place for you and the crew to eat.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Captain Sprague answered.
“No, Adelaide, I want Sprague here with us. We need to discuss what he thinks about that mizzen staysail,” Mr. Bellamy said.
“With us!” Adelaide answered, hardly disguising her shock. “You mean we’re going to discuss mizzen staysails all through lunch? I don’t think so, Augie.”
“Plenty of time to discuss mizzen staysails when we get back, Mr. Bellamy,” Captain Sprague offered diplomatically, and the matter was quickly settled as Lucy thought many matters in the Bellamy family often were. Adelaide Bellamy was a formidable woman.
But again, there were still some kinks, at least from Marjorie Snow’s point of view. For Gus had no interest in eating lunch and immediately scampered off to the wilder end of the island to photograph some sort of bird life. When he did return for a sandwich, he ignored his family and sat with the crew at their separate picnic grounds. Adelaide Bellamy did not seem to notice, or perhaps she did not care.
Lucy sat quietly munching a delicious crabmeat sandwich, and looked out at the seascape. Gulls hung in the sky. There was the chime of a bell buoy in the distance. It all seemed so perfect.
“Young Phineas over there” — Mr. Bellamy nodded in the direction of where the crew sat — “was really responsible for Desperate Lark’s design. First one he’s done all on his own, though he’s worked in his father’s yard since the time he was just a tyke. He’s an up-and-comer, that one.”
Mr. Bellamy’s sister-in-law, Isabel, smiled. “It’s so nice when the natives find a vocation. I imagine it keeps them out of trouble.”
“It’s our way of investing in the island, Isabel,” her sister Adelaide offered.
“A helluva investment!” August Bellamy exclaimed.
Adelaide winced. “Don’t bellow, Augie!” she scolded.
The conversation made Lucy cringe. She turned her head in the direction of the picnicking men and caught Phineas looking rather intently at her, but he quickly turned the other way.
When the picnicking was finished, it was decided that Raymond Heanssler would take the ladies back in the steam launch since the breeze was kicking up. They would have to beat back against a headwind, and it would be a quicker trip to Bar Harbor on the launch. Phineas would sail on Desperate Lark and check the tension of the starboard shroud in a headwind.
“Might I sail back on Desperate Lark rather than the steam launch?” Lucy asked, eager to feel the rock of the waves.
“Why, certainly, my dear,” Mr. Bellamy replied.
And, alas, once again Marjorie Snow’s designs were foiled as Gus decided to accompany the ladies on the steam launch so he could get some final shots of the yacht under sail.
Lucy watched Phineas Heanssler at the wheel from her seat in the cockpit. He tipped his head up frequently to read the wind indicators, small strips of fabric that streamed from the halyards, and occasionally told a crew member to winch in one of the sheets, the lines that controlled the sails. His touch was light on the wheel.
“Would you like to take her, Miss Snow?” he asked, turning to her suddenly.
“Me?” She was amazed to be asked such a question.
“Why not?” Captain Sprague said. “Nothing to it. She’s got a sweet helm on her.”
The vivid, poetic language these men used to speak of yachts and the sea enchanted Lucy, and watching them was even more magical. Phineas seemed to barely touch the wheel; it was as if he were guiding the craft by his thoughts alone. He was not at first glance what one would call handsome, but he was so different looking from any of the young men she had met in New York. He was not what her father called “well barbered.” His reddish blond hair curled down over the frayed collar of his tan shirt. On his belt was a slim holster with a knife. She supposed it must be some equipment for cutting lines on the yacht. His features were irregular and far from perfect. Yet his eyes were a blue the likes of which she had never seen, and his eyebrows were bleached almost white by the sea. But it was his hands that intrigued Lucy. They were long and elegant and might have been those of a pianist rather than a shipbuilder, and yet they were rough. She saw thick calluses on his right hand, and his nails were not only unpolished but showed a bit of grime. He stood steady in his sea boots, which bunched up the cuffs of his trousers to just below his knees.
Had he ever worn a tie? Lucy wondered. Did he own a frock coat? A straw boater hat, so fashionable these days in the summer? She watched his movements, which seemed at one with the yacht’s, so balanced and steady as he leaned into the gusts and braced himself against the swells beneath the keel — but had he ever danced a waltz?
He turned to her now. “Come on, give it a try. I know you got your sea legs. I saw how you were standing there by the rail not even touching it when we came through that chop a bit ago. And when we heeled — you just leaned into it natural as can be.” He smiled. “Most girls start screeching like banshees when a yacht heels a bit.”
“Well, I’ll try, but I don’t want to be the one to wreck the Bellamys’ brand-new yacht.”
“Doncha worry,” Captain Sprague said. “Give Lark a woman’s touch.”
“I’ll stand right behind you,” Phineas said. “If you get nervous, just tell me and I’ll take over.”
But Lucy did not get nervous. The moment she touched the wheel, she knew exactly what to do. And she barely held the lovely mahogany circle. She let the wheel glide through her hands like a silk ribbon. There was no need to grip it. She wasn’t aware of steering at all. It was as if she was in a complete and perfect communion with the yacht, the wind, and the sea. From the keel that sliced through the water to the vast expanses of snowy white sails held by slender spars and taut halyards, to the lisp of the seas as they parted to make way for this lovely craft, she sensed a beautiful conspiracy of sorts — a conspiracy of wind and water, stick and string, canvas and shroud. A calm stole through her. Here was something created by man that had achieved a perfect balance in this universe. Behind her stood the young man who had built this ship.
“What’s it like to build a yacht?” Lucy asked. “I mean, how do you imagine the beautiful lines? The breezes her sails must catch?”
Phineas was silent for a minute. “You know, no one ever asked me about shipbuilding and designing in quite that way. But, yes, I do dream about it — her lines, how she puts her shoulder to a wave, the water streaming by her keel. I dream about it all.”
Lucy leaned a bit as she turned the wheel just ever so slightly to come off the wind a degree.
“Look at that!” Captain Sprague said as he watched Lucy. “She was about to get headed by the shift and she came off just a fraction. You’d think she’s been doing this all her life.”
“Indeed.” Phineas paused. “All her life.” The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose, for she could actually feel Phineas Heanssler’s breath on her skin as he spoke.
H. She has come! But not crossed. Not yet.
M
Hannah whispered the words to herself. It seemed impossible, yet there were three carved mer infants on the sea chest that May had discovered hidden in the lighthouse. But more than that was the inexplicable, shadowy space they sometimes felt beside them as they swam. Neither Hannah nor May had spoken of the spaces until long after they met, but then they speculated endlessly on how nothingness
could have such a presence. “At first,” May said, “I thought it was our parents, but now that there is just one, I think it must be our sister, because one space certainly disappeared when we met.” Hannah nodded in agreement, for she had experienced the same sensation when she had finally met May.
Hannah was waiting for May when she returned to the cave. She’d taken down the scallop shell and was looking at it, when she heard May swimming through the entrance. She turned to greet her as her sister pulled herself up onto the slope of granite rock. “I told you I’ll show you where to get one of those scallops!” May Plum said as Hannah came to the edge where the tide lapped onto the rock. She saw the serious look on Hannah’s face. “What catastrophe has beset the Hawley household now?” May asked as she lifted herself onto the rock and let her tail rest in the water.
“No catastrophe,” Hannah replied. She was still studying the scallop shell. “Just the usual confusion.”
“Did you read my note?”
“Yes!” Hannah said with her eyes still on the scallop.
“She’s here. She came. It’s like we always thought.”
Hannah looked up now and flashed a broad smile. “It’s more than we thought.” Her voice had a conspiratorial tone.
“What are you talking about?”
“May, she’s been here,” Hannah exclaimed with unbridled excitement.