The Summer of Chasing Mermaids (19 page)

Maybe there was room in my heart for forgiveness. For happiness.

I didn't have to decide right now.

The Pacific was a calm altar this morning, only a gentle stirring beneath the breeze. It looked so peaceful from here—this moment, the jeweled sky, the black water, the savory tea spicing the air and warming me from the inside. A cool, salty breeze kissed my cheeks, and for the first time since I arrived, Atargatis Cove started to feel like something other than a temporary stopover, an escape hatch I'd been trying to convince myself was the real thing.

It felt like
home
.

And suddenly I really believed it could be—a place that made
me feel I was running ahead toward something good rather than running away from something bad.

I'd left my phone in the car, but I knew it was almost time for Christian's text, sending me the day's plan for the Vega. I'd need a nap first, but I couldn't wait to get back there, to sand the barnacles and test the navigation instruments, to redo the gel coat.

To make Christian smile.

Home.

“Ah, there she is. Good morning, beautiful.” Lemon spread her arms out as the sun opened its great sleepy eye across the sea.

Next to her, Kirby and I grinned, stretching our fingers to catch the light.

Chapter 23

By the time I'd
awoken from my nap and made it to the marina, it was late afternoon, and the ocean was chilly and anxious.

Lemon was taking care of things at Mermaid Tears, and Kirby had gone to the library with Vanessa, so I was alone on the far edge of the docks when I heard a sound that made my heart soar.

The
Queen of
was running.

Not coughing and sputtering, but clean and clear and ready to work. I shot down to the last slip, eager to see Christian, the look of triumph on his face. But as I approached the Vega, another sound cut the air.

Mr. Kane's voice, severe and edged with frustration.

I froze.

“The only reason I'm letting this nonsense go on,” he said, “is that I can't stomach the idea of handing that smug son of a bitch what he wants. Not without a fight.”

“You should really get some therapy,” Christian said. I pictured the tightness in his jaw, the spark of rage likely glinting in his eyes.

“Whoever left you that money had no right to get involved. This is between the Kanes and the Katzenbergs.”

“You left this Kane high and dry,” Christian said. “And now you're telling me—what exactly? That I can't race, because Kanes don't take bailouts?” Christian's laugh was hollow. “Or is it that I must
race, but only because Kanes don't go down without a fight? Forgive me if I'm a little confused.”

“You do what you have to do, son. But I do not want you ­encouraging Sebastian's little mermaid fantasies. I think we've let that go on long enough.”

“Jesus, Dad,” Christian said. “He's just a kid.”

I didn't hear Mr. Kane's response, but the boat bobbed in the water, and he climbed through the companionway, out onto the deck. Christian followed, arms laden with coiled ropes.

I knew they'd spot me any minute. I shrunk, closing up like a sea anemone.

“Afternoon, Elyse.” As he hopped off the boat, Mr. Kane smiled his usual greeting, carefully neutral. A cold flash in his eyes was the only indication that he'd realized I'd heard the argument. “Looks like a storm's heading in. Be careful today.”

He nodded once and walked on.

On the deck, Christian's face crumpled, but the vulnerability was immediately replaced with anger.

I knew that face, that transition. Anger was easier to hold, to focus on, than grief. Anger was sharp edged and clear. Grief was messy, blurry.

But in the end both left you hollowed out inside.

Christian dropped the ropes. “I keep taking it, keep taking it. For what?” He looked at me for an answer, but all I could offer was an ear. He shook his head and said, “I can't figure out what he wants. To sell the house? To stick it to Wes? To keep the house, win the
Never Flounder
? Set me up to fail? Set me up to prove him wrong, some sick game to make him remember that he has a son he can be proud of? And Sebastian—God, it's like he hates the kid as much as he hates me.”

I wanted to tell him how wrong he was, that his father loved them. That maybe he just didn't know how to show it, or maybe he was trying to protect them from life's disappointments the way my father always had; overprotectiveness often stemmed from good intentions. But even as all those words floated through my mind, I knew they weren't true. Christian's father had a deep, mysterious resentment for his boys.

I'm sorry,
I mouthed. And I was. Not just for Christian and the way his father treated him. But for me, too. For all of us. Sorry for all the little ways that the people who were supposed to love us most could hurt us so deeply, despite their shared heritage and blood, as though their knowledge of our pasts gave them unlimited access to all the most tender places, the old wounds that could be so easily reopened with no more than a glance, a comment, a passing reminder
of all the ways in which we'd failed to live up to their expectations.

Sometimes love was a tonic. Sometimes it was a weapon. And so often it was nearly impossible to tell the difference.

All of this I thought, believed, but there was no way to put it into words. This pain, this understanding. How in Mr. Kane's eyes I saw my grandmother's disappointment, how Christian's rage reflected the tumult endlessly churning inside me.

Christian shook his head. “I wanted to help you guys. Ursula and Kirby. Sebastian and me, too. Hell, I don't want to lose the houses. It's a crap sandwich anywhere you bite. But I just can't. I can't do this anymore, Elyse.”

He seemed to be waiting for something, maybe for me to tell him it was okay. It wasn't okay, not by a long shot. But it also wasn't his fault.

Mayor Katzenberg wanted the houses to sell to P&D because he believed the new business plans would help the town. That much, behind all his rivalry with Mr. Kane and his sexist attitudes, was true—I'd seen it in his eyes that night, flickering behind the desperation. There was greed, yes; he was eager to impress the corporate developers, to take credit for whatever good fortune befell the Cove as a result. But somewhere in there was a man who'd wanted things to be better here. As wrongheaded as the approach was, I understood the root of it.

Mr. Kane's motives, on the other hand, mystified me. In sifting through all that Christian had told me, all I'd heard from Vanessa and Kirby and Lemon, all I'd witnessed and overheard, I couldn't find an
explanation. Like Christian, I wondered whether his father wanted him to win the bet or lose. Was he looking for more reasons to dismiss his son? More disappointments to hold over his head? Maybe he'd wanted to sell the house all along but didn't want the argument with his family, and this way, if Christian lost, the blame would rest on his shoulders instead of Mr. Kane's.

I didn't want Christian to give up—not just for Lemon and the house, but for him. I knew he could win, and I knew how much he loved the water, loved sailing. He belonged out there on the sea, lines in hand, steering his own course. But when I thought of his father, of all their arguments, of all the ghosts in their family, the hurt in Christian's eyes that no amount of sarcasm could cover, I couldn't blame him for wanting to walk away.

“Screw it. We're done here,” he finally said, as though he'd been arguing with himself and had finally reached the inevitable conclusion. He pointed at me. “You hungry?”

Even though I didn't have the right words to make it better for him, I wanted Christian to keep talking, to set loose the anger that was coiling inside him like a serpent. But whenever he got close to revealing anything, he shut down again.

The clouds shifted, fully dampening the sun, and all the joy I'd felt with Lemon and Kirby at Cape Perpetua this morning dimmed.

Still, I wasn't ready to call it a day. Being with Christian was its own elixir.

I nodded.

“Lucky day, Stowaway. I'm about to bust your fish-'n'-chips virginity.” And there it was, the smile that I'd come to know so well. Not the real one, not the rare one. But the version that broke through the clouds whenever they threatened to get too thick, too heavy.

Whenever he didn't want anyone to know he'd been hurt.

We drove south to the Chowder House in Bandon-by-the-Sea, a little blue restaurant adorned with painted wooden fish that Christian had assured me was the best place for the occasion. I saved us a picnic table outside while Christian ordered Pacific cod and loads of fries, and by the time he'd come out with our food, he was relaxed and happy again. I liked it down here; it felt small and quaint like the Cove, but without the developers and all the Prop 27 propaganda.

As we ate, I scribbled notes to him about our bake and shark back home, about how all the fishing villages had their own rules, their own secret codes, but still shared their catch with anyone who wasn't so lucky that day. Christian told me about the crab pots in the Cove, how he and Noah used to go crabbing for the Black Pearl, but the regatta had changed things between them this summer. Neither had had much time for anything other than race preparations.

“Guess I just freed up the rest of our summer,” Christian said. “Try not to miss our deep conversations about sea cocks and aft holes.” He winked at me over the fish. “Maybe I'll take you crabbing this week instead. Sound good?”

I swallowed my last French fry, chased it with a sip of Coke. I
thought about Mr. Kane, about all the things he'd said to Christian on the boat earlier, about the things I hadn't even heard but could only imagine. I thought about what Lemon had said about voice and speech, and Kirby's quote, too.

Don't quit.

“Sorry,” Christian said, leaning closer. “Did you just say ‘don't quit'?”

I nodded.

“I'm not quitting. Crabbing is fun. You'll see.” He looked away, out to the sea beyond the restaurant. I knew he'd understood me. He was playing games.

I pounded the table between us, captured his attention.

Don't quit.

He held my eyes for an eternity, and in them I saw again the raging sea. He shook his head, but still didn't answer.

Christian—

“We should head out,” he said, glancing at his phone. “I promised Sebastian I'd take him to register today.”

I narrowed my eyes, confused.
Your dad?

“The kid wants to be a mermaid, the kid gets to be a mermaid. That's one thing my father does
not
get the last word on.” Christian swept up our trash, dropped it in the nearby bin. When he came back to the table, he sat on the bench next to me, straddling it, his knees brushing my thigh. I shivered at the closeness, and without a word he tugged off his hoodie, handed it over. “You never told me if you're doing the parade.”

I wrapped myself in his sweatshirt, all Christian, all warmth, all mangoes-in-the-sea.

“Are you?” he said again.

I stuck my hand out from his too-big sleeve, scribbled the answer on my palm. He was eager to see it, but I folded my fingers around it, held my hand behind my back like some secret thing.

“You're in for it, Stowaway.” He grabbed me, pulled me toward him. I crashed against his chest, and our lips brushed, warm in the chilly air. I melted into his kiss, but then he was unfurling my fingers, peeking, sighing at my words.

We've got a boat to race that day, Captain.

Chapter 24

Atargatis Cove was a
small town, nestled between the sea and Oregon's rugged, forested coastline. I was shocked at the number of girls who'd turned up to register for the parade—it seemed every resident and summer renter brought a friend, a cousin, a mother. The line wrapped around the block, and that wasn't even counting the ­developers taking pictures, punching numbers into their devices as if every person on Main Street was stamped with a dollar sign.

“I think this is bigger than last year,” Kirby said. “I don't remember registration being this crowded.”

“It wasn't,” Vanessa said. “This is out of control.”

“And it's only getting bigger,” a booming voice said, and with a sinking feeling I recognized the self-important tone of Mayor Katzenberg. “This time next year, the parade'll be big enough to get national attention.” He noticed me then, offered his shark's grin.
“Miss d'Abreau! I see you've come to your senses. I think you'll be much more comfortable as a mermaid than you would've been as a pirate. Plus, you won't have to deal with all that nasty raw-fish ­business.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Impressed?” He winked. “One of my better ideas, not ashamed to say. Noah's an excellent sailor, but the boy just doesn't have the stomach for real piracy.”

Christian stepped between us, but I grabbed his hand, willing him to ignore the taunts. The mayor was already moving past us, and I was just grateful he hadn't noticed Sebastian. Sebastian was so excited; I couldn't handle it if the mayor made fun of him again.

“Guess we should've dumped the crickets at city hall,” Christian said. “Not the
Never Flounder
. Shit.” His voice was heavy with guilt. I offered a small smile. It was pirate season, after all. Part of the risk.

We finally reached the registration area, several long tables staffed by women and littered with pink forms. Kirby and Vanessa fanned out to the next available stations, and Christian and I accompanied Sebastian to his.

“Sebastian Kane. Age six,” he proudly told the woman. “Last year I was only five, so I couldn't sign up. I had to be in the kiddie parade, and I dressed up like a lobster. I did that for two years, actually. But now my lobster costume doesn't even fit and I'm old enough to be a mermaid. Did you write down my name?”

The woman gave him a placating smile. “Honey, the mermaid parade is for girls. You can be a pirate, though, and cheer everyone at
the boat races.” At the sight of his big eyes, she added, “Let's hear your pirate growl.
Arrrrrgh!
”

Sebastian shrugged. “Um. Argh?”

“You can do better than that! What kind of a pirate are you?”

“A mermaid,” he said plainly.

“Aww, no crocodile tears,” she said, and I wanted to scream. He wasn't crying. He wasn't whining or throwing a tantrum. He was just pointing out the obvious, and no one was listening.

Christian took a pink form from her, one hand on Sebastian's shoulder. “I'm his guardian. He has my permission.”

The woman frowned. “Sorry, guys. I don't make the rules.”

Christian leaned in close, squinted at the name tag pinned to her shirt. “Maureen, right? I'm Christian. I don't think we've met before. I would've remembered a smile like that.”

She beamed.

“Listen, Maureen,” Christian said, his voice low. “He's been looking forward to this all year. It would really mean a lot to me, personally, if you could find a way to make it happen.”

Charm radiated from his smile, his eyes, his voice, the seductive tilt of his head.

Who could possibly say no?

Maureen blushed under his gaze, but still wouldn't budge. Her eyes dropped to the stack of forms before her, fingers folding the corners back and forth. “I'm sorry. It's just not possible. He's a
boy
.”

I wanted to scribble all over the stupid form, tell her in a
hundred Sharpie words how wrong she was, but she was already looking behind us, waving to the next girl in line, and Sebastian was walking away.

The thing was, she wasn't even saying it with conviction. It was just something she'd been told, that Sebastian's request didn't fit into the check-box-here rules. In so many ways, that was worse.

While she was distracted with the next person, I grabbed one of her pink forms and quickly filled it out with Sebastian's information. It would likely be rejected—it required a parental signature, and they'd already told him no—but it felt important to sign it and drop it in the box, anyway.

She saw me do it, took it out of the box immediately.

“Rules are rules,” she said again, handing me back the form.

“Is there a problem here, Maureen?” Mayor Katzenberg was back, his smile plastered on as he looked us over. She explained the situation, and predictably, he laughed.

“Guys,” he said, “we've been over this.” He ruffled Sebastian's hair. “Forget the mermaids, little man. You'll thank me one day.”

I was boiling, but the mayor was already gone, and Maureen was not going to help us.

Vanessa and Kirby were waiting for us inside Sweet Pacific, the cookie bar that Lemon's friends Kat and Ava owned. Every cookie was decorated like something from the sea: glittery starfish, seahorses, coral cookie sticks, and of course, mermaids. Christian and I were trying desperately to cheer Sebastian up with sugar, but it wasn't working.

“What they're doing to him is so wrong, there's not even a word for it,” Kirby said after we'd explained what happened. “But Wes Katzenberg makes the rules around here. We can't just go against them.”

Why not?
I asked.

“Because . . . I don't know. That's how it is. He's in charge. Unless you want to run for mayor, you just have to deal with him.”

“Such bullshit,” Christian said.

“What's bullshit?” Brenda pulled up a chair and sat down, her friend Gracie in tow. I hadn't seen them come in, but each had a plate full of cookies and a cup of coffee. “What's going on?”

“Sebastian wants to march in the mermaid parade,” Kirby explained. “But they won't let him.”

“What? Why the hell not?” Brenda said. “I mean, heck. Sorry.”

Kirby shrugged. “He's a boy. They said no boys.”

“I'm sorry,” Gracie said. “But that's just bullshit.”

“I'm saying,” Christian said.

Gracie sighed. “Have these people ever been to a parade in New York City? The Coney Island Mermaid Parade is . . .” She shook her head, laughed. “Diverse.”

“Totally,” Brenda said. “Anyone should be able to march. As long as you have a mermaid costume.”

“I do,” Sebastian said meekly. His face fell. “Well, I'm working on one. I mean, I was.”

“Don't worry, sugar bean,” Vanessa said. “We'll figure something out.”

I couldn't take it anymore, the broken look on Sebastian's little face, the disappointment in his eyes. Christian and Gracie were right: “Bullshit” was the only word for it.

I still had the rejected form; I grabbed it and marched back out to the table, cut the line.

Christian was at my side in an instant, squeezing my arm.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

Maureen looked up, her smile turning to a frown. “I really am sorry, guys,” she said. “But it's against the rules to let a boy register for the mermaid parade. There's nothing I can do about—”

I cut her off with a hand. I flipped over Sebastian's form, and with my marker, I wrote furiously, Christian looking on over my shoulder.

Rules

If everyone followed rules

As they were written, as they were said

You wouldn't be allowed to vote.

The rule of thumb, as the saying goes, comes from the old rules

In which a man was allowed to beat his wife

So long as the implement was no wider than his thumb.

If everyone followed rules

My family would not own a cocoa farm

And I wouldn't be looking you in the eye, woman to woman.

Lucky for you, someone defied rules.

Lucky for me, someone spoke out against them.

Lucky for my friend, the little blond mermaid—

Wait, he wasn't lucky.

No one defied the rules for him.

No one stood up and said that boys marching in the mermaid parade

are perfectly acceptable

That HE is perfectly acceptable

And acceptably perfect.

Rules are rules, yet still

trumped always by kindness and human decency.

Let. Him. March.

I returned the form, word side up. Automatically she set it aside, but then she noticed the words, and her eyes couldn't resist. I watched them as she read, widening, then narrowing.

A sigh.

I smacked the table before her.
Let him march.

Regret.

Let him march.

A final apology.

Let him march.

She folded the poem, slipped it into the purse at her feet, just as the mayor stomped toward us again, brow furrowed.

Let him march.

A storm of words, all the sound and fury of my heart, raging on as the sea.

But alas, never strong enough to break the solid shore.