The Summer of Chasing Mermaids (2 page)

Chapter 2

For centuries poets and
fisherman alike have written about the loneliness of the sea. Yet on this particular Solstice, all the gods of witches, men, and merfolk conspired to thrust me into social ­interaction.

My right hand was smudged with the ink of my unfinished poem. I rubbed it against my thigh, but the blackness stuck.

I wondered if the boat was really Christian's, like he'd said, or if it belonged to his parents.

I rubbed harder—no luck. Behind me the Pacific stretched and yawned, deceptively placid.

My footsteps quickened.

I drank in the salty air and marched along the grassy dunes toward Starfish Point, the very end of Atargatis Cove, where Lemon's place stood sentry at the top of the hill with an equally impressive neighbor: the Kane house.

The Kanes lived at the Cove only in the summers, but they'd owned both properties for generations. Lemon had been leasing hers from the family for about twenty years—first from Christian's grandfather, and now from his father.

Ahead, a wooden staircase stretched up the dunes to the houses, and from the top you could look back along the shore, see the ocean and the whole town. I'd walked it every night after my writing ­sessions at the marina, but the sight still stole my breath.

Now I took the stairs slowly, my hand on the rough banister, and the twin homes rose before me like glimmering spires. Like most houses in the Cove, these had dark-gray shingle siding, shimmery windows trimmed in white, expansive second-floor decks with endless ocean views. This morning, just before sunrise, Kirby and I had stretched out in chairs on Lemon's deck, shivering under blankets as we listened for the mournful calls of the whales.

“Ahoy! Look what the tide dragged in.” Kirby was already halfway down the deck stairs when she called out to me. “I've been looking
everywhere
for you,” she said. In preparation for tonight's feast, she'd strung tiny white lights along the railings, and the house sparkled behind her. “You okay?”

I waved. It was both an acknowledgment and a nonanswer, one of my go-tos.

Her gazelle legs launched her off the stairs and into the grassy dune next to me. She was a little breathless, but not from exertion. Kirby was just perpetually excited.

“Status update,” she said. “Vanessa went off with Christian the instant they all got into town. Okay, he's totally hotter, like that's even possible, but still. I've been telling her about you for weeks!”

A gust of wind tossed Kirby's red-brown curls into chaos, and as she plucked them from her mouth, I looked back toward the marina, a half mile down shore.

Christian.

Totally hotter.

Vanessa.

Even possible.

Oh!

I thought about telling Kirby I'd already met them, but “met” wasn't the right word. My insides churned again, thinking about the poems I'd scribbled all over the boat. The stuff I'd left on board, set up as if it were mine.

The story required more words than my lips had energy for, and from the bounce in Kirby's step, I knew she was eager to get inside.

As I followed her toward the house, she ran through the attendee list, prepping me on the lives of our party guests. The Kane family. Vanessa, Kirby's best friend, whose parents were big on the Texas political scene and summered at the Cove like the Kanes. Mayor Katzenberg, whose son, Noah, had the power to turn Kirby's bronze cheeks a deep plum. Noah couldn't make the party tonight, but he worked at the Black Pearl Café near the marina, and
in my short time here, Kirby and I had made dozens of reconnaissance-style coffee runs.

Lemon had also invited her coven friends, a mix of locals and out-of-towners from Coos Bay and Bandon-by-the-Sea, and Kirby said they'd come bearing Solstice goodies.

“Give those women a theme and take cover,” Kirby said. “Kat and Ava—the ones who just opened that cookie bar on Main? You should've seen the cookies they made when I started my period. They threw me a moon party. It was basically horrifying. But don't worry, tonight they just made sun cookies. As far as I know. Witches are kind of unpredictable. Are you hungry?”

There's a parrot in Tobago, the orange-winged parrot it's called, and it chirps and chatters so often, for so long, you start to think it's conversing with you. Sometimes it sounds like it's laughing, sweet and high, and even though you don't understand a word, eventually you're just listening to it. Listening, and sometimes telling your secrets, and laughing right along.

Words, after all, aren't a requirement for friendship.

That's how it is with Kirby.

These birds, oh. They the death of me,
my father often said, pitching mauled cocoa pods into the mulch pile. The flying menaces had caused so much damage to our crop that he finally brought in hawks to scare them off, but now I missed them. I missed the hawks and I missed the orange-winged parrots, who'd never survive the chilly Oregon summers, and as Kirby chattered on, filling me in on
the people I'd soon meet, I felt bad about trying to ditch; she and Lemon had been talking up the party for weeks, and she was glowing with anticipation.

Kirby stretched her hand backward, seeking mine with wiggling fingers. Her palm was warm and kind, and for a moment it felt like home when she squeezed me. Like if I closed my eyes, I could ­imagine my sisters were inside, waiting with fresh sweet bread and stories about the crazy tourists back home. Maybe Natalie was there. My twin heart. Not crying and full of regret, as I'd last seen her. But smiling, sweet and happy, like before.

Ay-leese! I been working on this harmony; come see. You do the alto, and I'll . . .

Kirby led me around to the front of the house, through gardens lush with feathery herbs and the pinks and purples of Lemon's ­flowerbeds: angel's fishing rod, African lily, Japanese anemone. From here we entered through the gift shop and took the back-office stairs to the second floor, which housed Lemon's sculpture gallery and the expansive living space. This way we'd come up into the kitchen, sparing me a big embarrassing entrance.

I pushed my hood back, shook out my curls.

Kirby glanced at me over her shoulder as she gripped the kitchen doorknob. Laughter and music floated behind it, light and joyful, though no one was singing or dancing, not like they did at parties back home.

“If you're not up for it,” she said, “I can make an excuse. Sneak you to your room.”

It was sincere. Lemon loved hosting dinner parties, and her coven was famous for its late-night revelry; Kirby had bailed me out before. But the look on her face was so hopeful, so earnest. I knew it meant a lot to her that I was here, not just for the party but for the summer. Half-Trini herself, Kirby didn't have any other connections to that part of her life—she was a Carnival baby, and her father had lost touch with Lemon long before she even discovered she was pregnant. The first time I met her, on that visit five years ago, we'd all stayed up laughing, trading stories and jokes. Mine were absent a mother, Kirby's a father.

That connected us too.

Later she'd asked me and Natalie what a Carnival baby even was.

Here in Oregon, despite my nightly disappearing act and regularly scheduled mood swings, Kirby was trying.

Words weren't a requirement, no. But it wasn't exactly cake and ice cream, being friends with someone who didn't talk.

Being friends with
me
.

I rubbed my inked hand against the cutoffs again, silently mouthing my answer without meeting her eyes.
No worries. I'm okay.

She bounced on her toes, curls springing against her shoulders.

“Time to meet the summer people,” she said with a laugh. “At least you're not going in unprepared. I already told you everyone's story.”

I pressed the shell necklace against my throat, grateful I wouldn't have to tell mine.

But that's the thing about permanent

the accident . . . the damage was too great

irreversible

you're lucky you can still swallow, still breathe

vocal loss.

we're so sorry, Elyse, so very sorry

When you don't feel like talking, no one can force you, no matter how many stories and secrets might be locked inside.

Chapter 3

“It's no secret.” Mayor
Wesley Katzenberg swirled the scotch in his highball, his proclamations drowning all other conversations. “Without Parrish and Dey's expansion plan, Cove's a sinking ship.”

“We're fine, Wes,” Lemon said. With her shoulder-length auburn waves and a dress dotted with red and yellow suns, my aunt looked like living fire. Trailed by the mayor, she blazed through the gallery to check on the food. She was a strict vegan, but she'd gone all out for the guests; the long table at the center was a riot of sea death, dark red lobster tails and crab legs and bright white shrimp swimming in cocktail sauce.

I thought the shrimp tasted like erasers.

“It's a good plan, Ursula,” the man said. “More tourists mean more exposure for the gallery.” His hand flopped onto her shoulder like a beached fish as he followed her around the room. He was a big man,
well over six feet, with a barrel chest and broad shoulders that made me nervous as he marched past Lemon's delicate glass creations.

“Wesley.” Lemon picked up a tray of sun cookies that matched her dress and shoved it into his hands. “Be a dear and see if anyone wants one of Kat and Ava's goodies.”

It was hard to like him. I'd been in the house less than an hour, and twice he'd asked me if I was the caterer, handing me his empty glass even though it was obvious I was the family friend from T&T Lemon had been telling everyone about. Atargatis Cove was small-town, coastal Oregon, and far as I could tell, Kirby and I were the only different-looking people around. Who else
could
I be?

“Oh, it's not a race thing,” Kirby assured me when I brought it up. We were standing in the white-and-turquoise kitchen, a breezy space that flowed into the gallery beyond, divided by an island lined with barstools. She hefted the blender from its base, poured ­strawberry-banana ­daiquiris into three glasses. “When it comes to Wes Katzenberg, it's a—”

“Vagina thing,” Vanessa said. In her Texas country-music accent, it sounded like va-
john
-a. “Oh, don't give me that look, Kirby Jane. You know he's just like that. Women belong in the kitchen, rubbin' on his feet, breedin' his minions.”

Kirby sighed. “It's not
what
you say. It's how you say it.”

“Minions?” Vanessa laughed. “Or vagina?”

She'd arrived at the party alone soon after my exit from the marina, and if she'd been upset about finding a castaway on Christian's boat,
she'd kept it secret. If not for the covert wink she'd given me when Kirby introduced us, I would've thought she hadn't recognized me.

The birthday boy had yet to arrive; likely he was waiting at home, trying to put some distance between Vanessa's entrance and his, lest anyone figure out about their high-seas adventure on the boat.

The boat.

My stomach rolled every time I thought about it. Christian and Vanessa, catching me in the V-berth. Writing on the walls. Hiding.

A vandal
and
a stowaway. Perfect.

“I just feel bad for him,” Kirby said. She shook a can of whipped cream, topped each of our drinks. “He's only mayor because no one else ran, and now he's desperate to prove himself. On top of that, his wife bailed last year—Noah told me his dad gave Terra an ultimatum to quit her job or quit the marriage. Guess what she picked? Right after that she moved to Newport. And Terra's in Mom's coven, and the mayor doesn't even know she comes to town every month for the gatherings.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Josephine,” Vanessa said. “You tell your cousin everyone's business? What'd y'all say about me?”

“Nothing true,” Kirby teased, pressing a fresh strawberry onto each glass.

We sucked down half of our daiquiris without taking a breath, the girls eager to hide the evidence before the adults caught us with booze. The way they treated each sip like a stolen victory made me smile. Back in Tobago there was no need to sneak.

At least not with alcohol.

“Good?” Kirby asked me, and I nodded. The rum was strong; it tasted like home.

I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and gestured toward the hallway off the kitchen.
Can we go in my room?

She leaned in for a closer look at my lips. “Sorry. Maroon?”

I shifted toward the bedrooms, but she and Vanessa were looking out across the gallery again. I dropped it.

“Where
is
that boy?” Vanessa said. “He should've been here by now.”

“Probably off with some cheetah,” Kirby said. I looked from her to Vanessa, then back to Kirby, confused. The couple had looked pretty cozy on the Vega, but Vanessa didn't flinch at Kirby's comment.

“Christian's not a poster boy for monogamy,” Kirby explained. “Last year, there were these three sisters, the Lorettis? And they—”

“Good lord,” Vanessa said. “You really need a silencer, Kirbs.”

“What?” Kirby said. “Honestly, I don't know how you can be so cool about it.”

“I don't care who he hooks up with. I'm liberated.”

“Oh, that's one word for it.” Kirby snorted. “Wait until the rest of the summer renters roll in next week. The line to ‘liberate' with Christian will stretch from here to Astoria.”

I thought of his smile when he'd caught me on the boat, the glint in his eyes as he scanned the words I'd left on his walls.

Around here, liberating with Christian was probably like high tide. Regularly scheduled. Alluring, yet slippery. Dangerous.

Vanessa only laughed. “I'm tellin' him you said that. Anyway, worry
about your own liberations.” She tugged on one of Kirby's curls, eyes sparkling with new mischief. “Where
is
Noah tonight?”

Kirby bristled. As she leaned close to Vanessa with a string of ­denials, I backed up toward our bedrooms. My door was ajar at the very end of the hall, and the light from my desk lamp spilled into the hallway, an invitation to a better place.

Three steps in, my passage was denied.

Anderson Kane.

The father.

“I don't suppose
you've
seen our birthday boy?” Christian's dad pointed at me, his smile forced. Wearing jeans with a button-down and a tie, sleeves rolled deliberately to his elbows, Anderson Kane reminded me of a sandy-blond version of the “corporations are ­people” guy who ran for U.S. president a while back.

“You must be Elyse. I'm Andy, Andy Kane,” he said, not waiting for an answer about Christian. He smelled like mint and expensive cologne and just beneath that, the faint odor of cigarettes.

Behind me, Vanessa and Kirby continued their good-natured teasing, sipping their daiquiris. All around us, party guests drank and laughed, nibbling cheese and those eraser-shrimp from small plates, and this man's eyes were on my scar. I could feel them, behind their glassy politeness, burning through my shell necklace.

“What . . . um . . . what . . .”

What happened. Ask me what happened. Ask me why I can't speak.

“What can I get you to drink?” He pointed at me again. “Coke? Seltzer?”

I held up my glass, still half-full of strawberry-banana daiquiri.

“You're all set, then. Good.”

I nodded.

“So. I understand we're going to be neighbors,” he said.

I nodded.

“For the whole summer, that right?”

Nodded, nodded.

It was getting pretty awkward, me waiting for Andy Andy Kane to say what he wanted to say, him going on not saying it. I tried to extract myself, edging back toward Kirby and Vanessa. Somehow he kept finding more words.

“Have you met the rest of my family?” he asked, looking around. “I don't know when he'll grace us with his presence, but Christian's my oldest, the birthday boy. Just finished up his freshman stint at Stanford. Sebastian's the little guy, he's running around here somewhere. Meredith, my wife? I know she'd love to say hello.”

The way he talked about them felt like a sound bite, a clean arrangement of words he'd mastered but never really meant.

Silence was a fishhook, catching secrets and tugging them from beneath the surface. Since losing the ability to speak, I'd learned to observe, to watch and listen when others had all but forgotten my presence. In ways I'd never noticed before, I'd seen bodies defy words, how a person's eyes and hands revealed truths their mouths were trying so desperately to deny.

More than a stolen smoke break, Mr. Kane was hiding something. An old wound, perhaps. Some thinly concealed resentment.

“Shall we?” His arm was extended in front of him, and it took me a beat to realize he wanted me to lead the way into the gallery, to find and meet his family.

His wife, however, was on her way to meet us.

With one hand glued to her phone, Meredith Kane power-walked across the gallery. When she reached us, she smiled at me without showing her teeth, then looked at her husband.

“I can't get ahold of him,” she said. In a sleek brunette bun, crisp white blouse, and navy dress pants, she looked even more polished than her husband. Kirby had told me that both Kanes ran their own tech businesses from home—he had started some big-deal social networking platform, and she built websites for other tech companies. Wherever the Kanes went, it was clear that the work went with them. Even to their son's birthday party.

“Did you start with him again?” Mrs. Kane asked. “Because I thought we agreed this morning—”

“Meredith.” His eyes flicked to me, then back to his wife, pleading. “Can we not—”

“So check
this
out,” Vanessa said. She came around the front of the island and stepped between us. It was like she hadn't heard them bickering, just hopped up on a barstool, legs dangling. “At school this year, my friends and I caused some major capital-
D
drama. It was in the paper and all, and one of the reporters got
snarky and called us—ready?—feminist killjoys. Direct quote.”

Vanessa tossed her long, chestnut hair over her shoulders. She kept her eyes on me as she laughed at the story, but the look was as friendly and curious as ever, assessing but not judgmental.

“You're kidding,” Mrs. Kane said, a smile finding its way through the cold.

“Swear to God, ma'am,” Vanessa said.

Just like that the tension in the room evaporated.

It was easy to see why she and Kirby were friends. Kirby had a heart the size of Oregon, and Vanessa was a magnet, a sweet girl with a gorgeous smile and a fearless tongue, the girl everyone simultaneously loved and wanted to be.

Except for me.

I'd already been that girl, and it didn't work out.

“Anyway,” she said, “that only served to galvanize us in our mission.”

Soon she had the Kanes enraptured with a story about how she'd rallied the girls sports' teams at her school in Fort Worth, and, together with a few supportive parents, they'd gotten the school to start a new women's literature core. Her mother had even ordered T-shirts for all the girls' mothers that said
PROUD MOM OF A FEMINIST KILLJOY
.

The way Vanessa told it, I wanted to be a killjoy too.

Vanessa wasn't bragging, though. She'd done it as a diversion, I realized. The Kanes were newly focused on her, listening attentively. Mr. Kane was asking questions about how she'd organized so many girls, and Mrs. Kane was laughing about the T-shirts.

Vanessa knew how to work them. She'd likely been in the middle of it before. Maybe she'd tried to save Christian and his brother from the arguing.

Despite my ability to read people, I felt like an outsider, like someone watching a party from the other side of the glass. I could see these things unfold, but I couldn't quite understand the dynamics, the deep knowing that comes from growing up with people you care about.

I missed my sisters.

I'd met so many people tonight, Vanessa and the Kanes, the mayor, Lemon's friends. And though I was smiled at and asked to pass plates or glasses, no one really spoke to me. No one asked me about Tobago, or my family, or what I did before arriving in Oregon. No one asked how the party compared to celebrations back home, or why I called my aunt Lemon instead of Ursula, her real name. They hadn't heard me say it, after all. They didn't know that Natalie had invented it. We were four years old, failing miserably at sounding out Lemon's last name.

Langelinie.

I felt the loss of my voice like a fresh wound, a cold blade against my throat, and I closed my eyes to keep the sea from spilling down my cheeks. No one knew me like my family in Tobago, but they'd known me always as Elyse, beautiful songbird, weaver of music that could bring a man to his knees. Music was my life, a rare gift that Natalie and I had shared, had grown into, had grown
because
of.

And now, without the music, I was just . . . Elyse. Broken.

My family didn't know me anymore. Natalie didn't know me.
I
didn't know me.

Pictures of Granna and Dad flickered in my mind, my five sisters following with pleading eyes—Juliette, Martine, Gabrielle, Hazel, and Natalie, my twin, the one whose absence had carved the biggest trench in my heart.

I blinked them all away, my family and the cocoa pods and the chatty orange-winged parrots. Tobago.
This
was my home now—Atargatis Cove, Oregon. My own bedroom in a beautiful house by the sea with Aunt Lemon and Kirby, an informal job hunting sea glass and helping out at Lemon's gift shop. No pressure greater than this party, no expectations for a big bright future, no expiration on the offer to stay. As far as Lemon was concerned, as long as my visa was in order, I could linger here the rest of eternity.

If I were still the type of girl who made long-term plans, that would've been it.

Linger.

Eternally.

“So now I'm a feminist killjoy.” Vanessa dusted her hands together. “Done and done.”