“What’s a douche?” Sebastian asked. He’d been lingering in the hallway at the bottom of the stairs, and now he joined us, climbed up on one of the counter stools. “And why are you guys all wet?”
“Out chasing mermaids, kiddo,” Christian said, ruffling Sebastian’s hair. “Slippery as ever.”
Christian clearly had more to say to his father—he’d held it in for years, and now that he’d cracked the seal, there was no going back. But he stowed it for now, turning his attention to his brother. The kid was hungry, asking about grilled-cheese-and-hot-dog sandwiches, and Christian got to work, glad to have a job, some concrete goal he could actually accomplish.
“Anyone else for the Christian Kane special?” Christian asked.
My growling stomach answered for me.
“Dad?” Christian said. “Lunch?”
“No, no, you guys go ahead.” Mr. Kane rinsed out his glass, set it in the dish drainer. He was slipping away, every muscle in his body telling me he’d soon have an excuse, some urgent work situation to extract him from the uncomfortableness of right now, right here.
But I caught his eye, held him in place.
He’d asked me what I’d wanted, and when I finally told him, he turned me down.
But the forces of Atargatis Cove worked in magical, mysterious ways, and in all the time I’d spent here running from my own mistakes, hiding from the wreckage of the dreams I’d lost in Tobago, I’d managed to figure out one thing.
When one dream burns to ash, you don’t crumble beneath it. You get on your hands and knees, and you sift through those ashes until you find the very last ember, the very last spark.
Then you breathe.
You breathe.
You fucking breathe.
And you make a new fire.
On my left hand I inked my last request, held it steady before Andy Kane’s eyes.
I want the e-mail for the P&D guys.
Chapter 40
It was a sunny day in Atargatis Cove, diamonds glinting off the Pacific as I stood watch on Lemon’s deck. Barely a mile from shore a school of dolphins dove through the waves, their gray fins whipping the water into meringue peaks.
It had been my vista all summer. The deck, the dunes below, the vast ocean beyond, all its beautiful creatures.
And now, two weeks after we’d lost the regatta and the chance to save it, I was looking to the sea for strength.
Lemon was right when she’d said that Mr. Kane hadn’t shown up at the Cove with an agenda to sell, but a seed was planted the night of the Solstice, blooming into a plan and a handshake during those long days Christian and I had worked on the Queen of Cups. The houses had been sold. If all went according to plan, Parrish and Dey would close in the fall, determine fair market value for Lemon’s rent until Prop 27 came to a vote in November.
Mr. Kane expressed regret at hurting his sons, at hurting Lemon. But once the opportunity presented itself, he’d wanted to sell. To break free of the place that in so many ways reminded him of his own failures, the way he’d lived his life for so long to impress Wes Katzenberg. The way he’d neglected his wife in that fruitless pursuit. The affair, the arguments, the pain.
Despite the added strain it was putting on their marriage, Mrs. Kane was doing what she could to contest the sale, to throw a wrench into the inspection, to hold it up just long enough for us to figure something else out. But she wasn’t the owner, and legally there wasn’t too much she could do.
Not everyone gets a happy ending, however deserved it may be. Life had been doing its damnedest to teach me that, starting with my first saltwater breath, the day my mother died at sea.
But that didn’t mean we were giving up.
“Almost time, Elyse.” Lemon found me on the deck, her auburn hair wild with the day’s potential energy. “The food’s all arranged, laptop and projector are good to go, goodie bags are out, the Be Amazing candles are lit, the coffee is on. . . . Are we missing anything?”
I took her hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“Your calm demeanor is an inspiration to us all,” she said.
Yours, I corrected her. I held up my wrist for a whiff of her Calm Down Balm, a blend of chamomile and lavender she’d cooked up last week. Thank you. For everything.
She shook her head, that wise smile rising on her lips. “Elyse, these people aren’t coming today for my candles and coffee. They’re coming because you’ve shown them that you’re a woman with something to say. They’re coming because they want to hear it.”
It hardly seemed real, but I knew she was right. I felt it inside, way down where new things grew from ashes and dark.
“So you’re all set with your slides?” she asked. “Your notes? Visual aids?”
I nodded.
Though they were surprised and a bit uncertain, three representatives from Parrish and Dey, along with Mayor Katzenberg and a couple of other town officials, had accepted my invitation. An informational luncheon, I’d suggested, at the very gallery they’d just purchased. Noah had convinced the Black Pearl to provide the lunch, and I’d be providing the information.
A proposal, actually.
Everyone kept saying that P&D, with the mayor’s blessing, wanted to turn the Cove into a tourist trap. But what all of these developers really wanted, multinational and local alike, was to bring in money.
In Tobago, our little organic cocoa farm became an exclusive hot spot, a place that still produced the same sustainable crop, but now attracted some of the world’s wealthiest celebrities and clientele. Our friends and neighbors had also helped grow the ecotourism industry through guided cultural and wildlife tours, dive and surf shops, and organic restaurants.
Here, as much as some of its residents wanted Atargatis Cove to stay off the map, the reality was that this town needed a boost—the mayor had been right about that. But there were ways a town could bring in tourist money without falling into the traps that so often rendered places homogenous and overrun. It wasn’t about attracting lots of small money with the same old splash, but attracting smaller bursts of big money by protecting and showcasing the unique details that made a place different, that made a place worth visiting over any other, worth cherishing.
With help from my Cove friends and inspiration from my family in Tobago, I’d spent these last two weeks researching and putting together my presentation. My pitch. The mermaid lore alone was a gold mine of marketable ideas, not to mention the rugged coastal beauty and wildlife viewing the Cove offered. If P&D was willing to keep the new development in check, while at the same time better capitalizing on the unique products and experiences the existing local businesses already offered, the eco-friendly possibilities in a place like the Cove were endless.
I had the data to back up my claims; Lemon had asked Dad and Granna to send over statistics from the resort as a case study, and Granna would be Skyping in for the meeting in case they wanted more details.
To balance out the money-making ideas, Kirby and Vanessa—with assistance from Brenda and Gracie—had gathered video interviews from the locals, from people who wanted the town to retain its charms, but who were open to creative ideas for bringing in more business. People like Noah, who was already making plans to buy the Black Pearl. People like Kat and Ava, who were more than happy to provide custom-decorated cookies for today’s meeting. People like Lemon, who not only offered her gallery space, but who made miniature sea glass trees for each guest from the jar I’d been filling, the hourglass by which I’d long ago stopped measuring my days.
Even Sebastian pitched in, crafting handmade mermaid cards for everyone.
It was the ember in our ashes, our hope for a new fire.
“I’ll be inside,” Lemon said, giving my hand a final, confident pat. “Let me know if you need anything.”
Lemon went in to recheck the food display, the coffee, the gleam on
the big sea glass tree. Everything had to be perfect.
They’d be here in fifteen minutes.
“Have I told you how amazing you are?” Christian crossed the deck, wrapped me in his arms from behind. I felt his lips, warm and comforting on my neck.
He’d stayed up with me the last two nights, running on fumes, helping me rehearse.
No matter the outcome of today’s meeting, I couldn’t have done this without him.
Without any of them.
Had I really only been at the Cove three months? A quarter of a year, and so much had changed. So many impossible things became possible. And so many other things, once bright stars in my imagination, winked out.
Growing up, I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to embark on my own adventures, just like my sisters had before me. For so many years I thought that my adventure meant singing, touring with Natalie, seeing the world from its stages and concert halls. I thought my life would bloom in the spotlight, and that’s what I worked for.
But my real adventure wasn’t even close.
And now another journey was about to begin.
Changing tides, as always.
“Because you are,” Christian said, his lips warm near my ear. “Amazing. Among other things. I’ll run through the list again later.” He rested his chin on my shoulder, strong arms around my waist, and together we looked out at the sea, at the dolphins that still frolicked in the distance, and I thought about all the people who’d brought me here. From afraid to amazing. From lost in the sea to wholly found in it.
I thought of Atargatis, the First, frightening and beautiful. The mermaid goddess who lived on in the soul of every woman who’d ever fallen in love with the ocean.
I thought of Sebastian, my little mermaid queen, how happy he was the day of the parade, just getting the chance to express himself, to be himself.
I thought of Vanessa, the story about how she and her girlfriends became feminist killjoys to get a women’s literature core in their school, the way she’d accepted me this summer without question, gently pushed me out of my self-imposed shell. Of her mother, Mrs. James, how she’d grabbed that bullhorn at the parade and paved the way for Sebastian’s joy.
I thought of Lemon, so wise, so comfortable in her own skin, full of enough love to raise a daughter as a single mom and still have room for me, for her friends, for everyone whose lives she touched with her art.
I thought of Kirby, her fierce loyalty, her patience and grace, her energy, what a good friend and sister she’d become, even when I’d tried to shut her out. I thought of all the new things I wanted to share with her now, all the things I hoped she’d share with me.
I thought of my mother, a woman I’d never known, but one whose ultimate sacrifice gave me life.
I thought of Granna, stepping in to raise her six granddaughters when my mom died, never once making us feel like a burden or a curse. She’d managed the cocoa estate with her son, personally saw to the comforts of every resort guest, and still had time to tell us bedtime stories, always reminding us how much she treasured us.
I thought of my sisters. Juliette, Martine, and Hazel, their adventures to faraway lands, new experiences. Gabrielle with her island-hopping, her ultimate choice to follow her heart home.
And Natalie, my twin. My mirror image, my dream sharer. I knew I hadn’t been fair to her this summer—she’d saved my life, done the best she could. And I wanted to thank her for that, because as long as it had taken me to realize it, I was thankful. Thankful for her. Thankful to be alive. To breathe.
It still hurt to picture her on tour with Bella Garcia, as much as I wanted the world for her. It was messy, it was complicated, my heart still torn in two. But I loved and missed her, there beneath the resentment and jealousy, the loss of my singing voice from which I was still reeling.
Last week Kirby had helped me put together a video message for Natalie. I wrote out everything I wanted to say, everything in my heart. Then, as I mouthed the words into the camera, Kirby read them aloud, offstage, lending me her voice so I could better express mine.
It wasn’t perfect. I’d started, stopped, started, and stopped a half dozen times before I could get through it. But it was a start.
I had no guarantee she’d listen, no promise that she’d hear me after all her unreturned efforts. But Natalie had always been the one to pick me up after a hard rehearsal, to lift my heart after a disappointing performance, just as I’d done for her. I called up that love again now, held on to the hope that maybe, someday, we’d find our way back to it.
The sea whispered beyond, and I smiled, grateful all over again.
All of the people who’d brought me here, past and present, ancient and young, legend and life and lore, I channeled. I welcomed them into my infinite heart, alongside the ghosts, the shadows, the ache I’d always carry. I made their strength mine, a part of me. My inspiration. My voice.
And still, amazing heart, limitless, there was room for more.
I turned around in Christian’s arms, pressed my lips to his until I knew he could feel the words in my heart. How happy I was to be with him. How proud I was. He’d finally told his father that he didn’t want to follow the well-beaten Kane family path—that he was eager to continue studying at school, but not in the way that Mr. Kane had planned. From here on out, he’d be remapping his own route, his own dreams. And always, he’d return to the Cove, again and again, even without a permanent home here.
After all, we had a boat to finish restoring. To care for. To sail.
And we had each other.
It was me, Christian confessed, who’d given him the courage. Who’d inspired him, through my own quiet strength, to find his.
My sisters used to tell me stories about falling in love, about girls finding their princes. In all the old tales, love saved the girl from her wretched life, from the depths of grief, from some undefined spiritual poverty.
I’d arrived at Atargatis Cove alone and afraid, feeling like the most unloved, unlovable woman on two legs.
Since then I’d fallen in love many times over. With the Cove itself, its magic. With the people I’d come to cherish as friends and family.
And I’d fallen in love with Christian Kane, official summer scoundrel and champion heart stealer of Atargatis Cove, standing but a breath away, his eyes on mine, amazed and dazed and full of fire.
I was in love, just like in the stories.
But unlike those fairy-tale girls, love didn’t save me; it changed me.
Changed me into someone who could save myself.
Christian pulled out of our embrace, grabbed my hand. On my palm, with the Sharpie we’d so often shared, he wrote a secret missive, folded my fingers gently around it.
“They’re here,” he whispered, nodding toward the gallery. “Ready?”
I took a deep, cool breath.
Ready. Such a big question for such a little word.
The answer idled on my lips, suspended suddenly with a million what-ifs. What if they hated it? What if I froze up? What if they whispered and scowled?
What if I let them make me completely invisible again?
Christian’s eyes didn’t leave mine. He read the doubts as though they’d scrolled across my face in a neon blaze.
He squeezed my hand, held it between us.
I took another deep breath.
Unfurled my fingers.
I believe in you.
When I looked at him again, Christian’s eyes were their brightest green-gray-blue, like the sea that glittered and danced behind him.
I smiled at them both, my life’s great loves, and I had my answer.
Yes. I’m ready.
Christian held open the door, kissed me once more for luck.
Hopeful, strong, unafraid, loved.
I crossed the threshold.
Passed
through the shadow of the sea glass tree.
Stepped into the light of the gallery.
And there,
in the place where possibility lived,
I shone.
Acknowledgments
When I set out to write from the perspective of a young woman born and raised in a culture I’d never experienced, from a place I’d never visited, I knew that my first responsibility was to ask questions. Lots of them.
Lynn Joseph and Andre Daly answered. Thank you doesn’t seem to cover it, but I’ll say it anyway: Thank you! Lynn, I couldn’t have done this without your encouragement, your help, your willingness to push me to challenge my assumptions, and of course, your friendship. I’m so grateful our paths crossed. Andre, I sincerely appreciate your insider’s perspective on life in Tobago, and the fact that you didn’t laugh too hard at my many Americanisms. Because of you I now smile when I buy “locally sourced” produce!
Readers, Lynn and Andre kindly shared their knowledge and experience, bringing me to Trinidad and Tobago in a way that none of my other research could. Any mistakes or misrepresentations are my own.
I would also like to acknowledge the following people who’ve supported and inspired me in countless ways:
My amazing agent, Ted Malawer, who keeps on believing in me, cheering me on, and helping me shape and share my voice with the world. Ted, having both meaningful work and such a passionate advocate for it is a privilege for which I’m eternally grateful. Thanks also to Michael Stearns and everyone at Upstart Crow Literary who helps my books cross oceans and continents.
My publishing team, including Patrick Price, who followed me and the crew of the Queen of Cups to the depths of the sea in search of the pearls; Sara Sargent, who sailed this book through the finish line, which was no small feat; Regina Flath, First Mate of Design, because OMG that cover; Kelsey Dickson, Publicist of Awesome; and everyone who brought all hands on deck to support this book, including Mara Anastas, Craig Adams, Brian Luster, Nicole Ellul, Michael Strother, Kayley Hoffman, Carolyn Swerdloff, Liesa Abrams, Teresa Ronquillo, Christina Solazzo, and the entire Simon Pulse crew.