Seven Tears into the Sea Read online

  The only thing missing was the sound of the ocean. When I was little, I could hear gulls calling and the shushing of the ocean.

  Then I remembered the skylight.

  I reached under the bed, found the hooked pole right where it was supposed to be, and wound the window open until the morning air brought the sea sounds inside.

  Waves broke, then sighed as if they were searching, not finding, then coming back, never giving up the search, returning again and again.

  Gumbo jumped to the floor, stretched, and inflicted a cursory clawing on my parents’ old Persian rug.

  “Mrow?” she asked, inquiring after breakfast.

  “Downstairs, remember?”

  Waving her tail, she waited for me to lead the way. When I did, her paws touched my heels at every other step. Once we reached the kitchen, she crunched and gorged as if she hadn’t acted like a possessed animal just last night.

  Morning’s great that way. You can cry yourself to sleep and wake up wondering what the fuss was over.

  Since my suitcases were still in my old room, I dressed there in a sleeveless white shirt and a navy blue pull-on skirt.

  I couldn’t wait to go outside. If Mom were here, she’d tell me to eat breakfast. But I was in charge of myself, so I grabbed an apple from the fruit basket and opened the door carefully.

  As I did, a swallow burst from the mud nest. A dart of blue-gray and ivory, she sailed over my head, then soared with pointed wings.

  Was she out to catch breakfast for herself or were there babies inside? I’d have to make sure Gumbo stayed locked up. A featherless, fallen hatchling would be just her style.

  That’s my kitty. It didn’t matter that she was sleek and well fed. Show her quick-moving prey and, assuming it’s smaller than she is and helpless, she was all over it.

  I shut the door firmly behind me, then surveyed my domain.

  Three paths led away from the cottage.

  One went left to the driveway. Standing a couple steps out from my deck, I could see my yellow Bug was still there. Whatever Gumbo had heard last night, it hadn’t been car thieves.

  From the driveway, I could turn left and go up to the highway or turn right and go over the dunes, through the sea grass to Little Beach. From there, I could turn south, and, if I were in good shape—I am, but not as good as when I was diving—I could jog to Siena Bay.

  I hadn’t been to Siena Bay in years. According to Nana, it had changed from a fishing village to a tourist town. While that was sort of a shame, I bet it meant I could get a whipped cream-topped mocha at an espresso bar. I weighed that against the possibility I’d be late for my first day of work, and considered the second path.

  That trail ran hard north, straight to the Inn. By Dad’s calculations, I’d reach the Inn in two minutes, and though I’ve never had a real job besides babysitting, it’s my opinion that anyone who’d show up an hour early for work is trying too hard.

  The middle path began as part of the Inn path, then veered left to Mirage Point.

  That’s the path I took. As I walked, tossing the apple like a juggler, I looked ahead and my steps slowed.

  Mirage Point was a finger of earth that pointed toward the Orient.

  A sturdy wooden fence marked the end of the path, to keep Inn guests from tumbling down to a watery death. There’s a rounded apron of dirt just beyond that fence, where you could watch the waves rock over the black boulders below.

  But it’s not all boulders and jagged rocks. If you stood there long enough, concentrating, you’d see a misty green circle of open water, surrounded by petals of white foam. It would take guts and a kind of faith I didn’t have to do it, but if you dove right there, you’d be safe.

  I dashed a hand over my forehead, surprised I’d remembered that spot so clearly. But I’d always wanted to dive from Mirage Point. Anyone could see it was the ultimate diving challenge. It would be exactly like flying.

  As a child, I’d talked all the time about trying it. Of course, my parents vetoed the idea. Repeatedly.

  Looking at it now, I could see why they had. The Point is as high as two two-story houses piled one on top of the other.

  When we moved to Valencia, my parents used my desire to leap as an incentive to give me diving lessons. They never actually said that if I got good enough, they’d let me plunge off Mirage Point, but I thought it was understood that’s what I was building up to.

  One night I found out they had other motives.

  I’d been upstairs doing homework and had come down to sharpen a pencil. I overheard them talking in the kitchen. Mom was making pastry, and Dad was stirring nutmeg into pumpkin pie filling, so it must have been November.

  “It’s perverse,” Mom was saying, “the way I keep asking myself what would have been worse—if she’d jumped off the Point, head first into the darkness, or been alone longer with that man. Neither of them happened,” she said, sounding as if her throat was raw and sore. “Why do I keep wondering?”

  “It’s human nature,” Dad comforted her. “Parents rehearse their nightmares so that if the worst happens, they can go on.”

  Mom gave a grim laugh. “Our paranoia keeps them alive, I guess.”

  There’d been an avalanche of cookie sheets from a cabinet then, so I didn’t hear every word, but it turned out Mom and Dad hoped diving would tire me out. They wanted me to sleep deeply and dreamlessly.

  They also hoped I’d grow into the kind of scholar-athlete who earned scholarships, and for a while it looked like that might work out.

  I had a knack for diving.

  After those first lessons, my teacher asked me to be on the rec-center diving team. Next I made the school team. By the time I was a sophomore, I was the second-ranked diver in my region. And that’s when I quit.

  I convinced my parents I’d just lost interest, so it didn’t occur to them to caution me not to dive off the Point this summer.

  Now that I was here, without them to yell “no,” did I want to try it?

  Suddenly it was as tempting as shedding those seven tears to see if that Gypsy boy would return. If I wanted to take that dive or squeeze out those tears, no one could stop me.

  I walked down to the Point. With each step, the sound of waves on rocks grew louder.

  Three-quarters of the way there, yards short of the fence, I changed my mind.

  A faint trail showed in the weeds. It was no wider than a rabbit’s body, and it led down to the cove. Once the trail started down, the sea grass vanished, leaving bare rocks slick with sea spray.

  That’s the path I took.

  Ever since I’d climbed out of the VW yesterday and started up Nana’s porch, I’d wanted to go to the cove. When I saw the wet footprint on my porch, I wanted to go to the cove. When I breathed the salt air this morning, I wanted to go. No big deal, except it wasn’t an ordinary “want.”

  It was as if I were falling. A rare gravity pulled me to the cove.

  I heard the gentle morning arfs of mother sea lions caring for their pups.

  The trail twisted like a spiral staircase. With each step the sounds became clearer, but a stone arch blocked my view. I saw the cove in my memory, though: a tiny beach studded with rocks next to a grotto full of swaying green light.

  Before, I hadn’t been allowed to go there for fear the tide would come in and trap me.

  The cove’s sand was pink with dawn, and it was hard to tell the difference between sea lions and rocks.

  Their “arfs” grew louder, but they weren’t really afraid. Glistening silver, black, and dark mink brown, the mothers edged their pups away from me.

  Trying to be inconspicuous, I sat on a boulder facing them, with my back to the grotto.

  I loved watching the sea lions move. They’re not like seals, which drag themselves along by front flippers. Sea lions really walk like lions. Actually more like dogs. They get up and use all four of their flippers.

  There were about a dozen mothers with babies. The cove was shallow and warm. Pups p
addled around, learning to swim. They were so cute you wanted to hug them, to nuzzle your face into their plush fur, but you’d be taking a real chance.

  Sea lions are a protected species, and they rarely hurt anything unequipped with gills. Walk too close, and they’ll launch into the cove and swim away. Usually.

  The bulls were exceptions.

  For as long as I can remember, Nana has called every big male sea lion who’s protected the cove “Bull.” This summer’s Bull must be out for a swim, but I stayed alert. Those big males weighed hundreds of pounds and flashed terrifying teeth.

  Nana has a gruesome picture of a guest who tried to pet one. She makes people who express an interest in visiting the cove look at it. After that, most stay away.

  Behind me I heard footsteps in the water.

  Slowly I turned my gaze from the sea lions, and I saw him. Sun glistening on water can make you see things that aren’t there. But he was only a few yards away.

  He sat on a flat rock just outside the grotto.

  My gaze swept the cove, trying to make sense of the fact that he hadn’t been there just a minute ago. Okay, so I’d been sort of hypnotized by the beach, but why hadn’t the sea lions reacted to his approach?

  Maybe he speaks their language, I teased myself. After all, in those old legends, selkies ruled as princes among the sea lions.

  He was handsome enough to be a selkie. That’s for sure.

  His cut-off jeans were drenched. He had the blackest hair I’d ever seen. His bare feet reminded me of sculpture, and the corners of his eyes tilted. He wasn’t Asian, I didn’t think, but he could be Italian or Greek. His nose might have been broken once.

  The details quit coming when he moved.

  He leaned back on arms braced behind him. He wore a lazy smile, and he was totally immersed in sunning himself. It was a good thing his eyes were closed, because I couldn’t stop staring.

  His sun tan was gold and so smooth, he might have been wearing fresh skin. I wanted to skim my fingers along that dip where his neck turned into shoulder.

  What? Why was I thinking about touching a stranger?

  I tucked my fingers into my palms and locked my fists with my thumbs.

  “You never called,” he said, and then he opened his eyes.

  I drew a deep breath. In my mind, bells clanged like they do when the merry-go-round stops and you have to dismount from a purple horse. Fantasy over.

  “That would be because we’ve never met,” I told him.

  He looked astonished. “You don’t remember?”

  “I’d remember, believe me,” I said.

  “It was here,” he said, trying to give my memory a nudge as he studied me with serious brown eyes.

  “Here?” I asked. Although he had that peculiar Celtic rhythm to his speech, like the old folks along this beach, I really didn’t think he was a local guy.

  His description of “here” came with a vague gesture that took in the entire California coast. When he moved that way, sinews flexed from his forearm to his index finger.

  I was doing it again, and I do not ogle strangers.

  “When?” I asked, I guess because I wanted it to be true.

  He looked down at the sand between his feet. This was not a hard question. He was either dumb or a really bad liar. I was beginning to work up some real irritation with myself and him when water dripped from his hair to his chest.

  I tried to draw a breath, but it got stuck.

  That dark gold tan flowed over his muscles and under the droplet. He must work out, because he had a really nice chest. In fact, he had really nice everything.

  He looked up as if he’d finally formulated an answer.

  I was so embarrassed he’d caught me staring, I got mad.

  “You had me going there for a minute,” I snapped.

  “Going where?” he asked, but the question didn’t sound sarcastic.

  All the sea lions had fallen silent, and I heard how sharply I’d spoken. He looked confused, so I softened what I’d said.

  “It’s not a very original pick-up line. That’s all,” I told him. What if he wasn’t a native speaker of English? He did have that accent.

  My brain was working up more excuses for him when I noticed the way his wet hair clung in little thorn shapes to his cheekbones. Something about that stopped me. I recognized him. Almost.

  His face lit with a puppyish joy. He flushed a little.

  As if he could read my mind, he said, “I knew you’d remember.”

  All this time he’d been sitting on that sun-warmed rock, but now he stood. He was taller than I’d expected. At least six feet tall. Muscular. And intimidating. When he moved toward me, I backed up a step.

  He noticed. His eyes darted past me, as if he’d block my escape.

  Not good, I thought, and a jolt of adrenaline made me hyperalert.

  “I’ve got to go to work,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t you rather stay here?” His head tilted back, and he seemed to take in the blue sky vaulting over the red-brown rock walls. He got that same look he’d worn with his eyes closed, when he was basking, taking joy in the sun’s warmth on his wet skin.

  “It’s my first day of work.”

  He gave a “so-what?” shrug. Maybe he was rich.

  When he reached toward my arm, the adrenaline rush returned. This was going too fast. It didn’t matter how cute he was.

  “They’re counting on me,” I said.

  He could have reached me, but his arm fell back to his side. He looked resigned and maybe a little disgusted.

  As I started back up the trail to Mirage Point, I waved, then I heard him take a breath.

  I knew he was going to say something. I kept moving, but I did look over my shoulder.

  “Gwennie,” he called. “Will you come back this time?”

  I took that steep path at a run.

  How did he know my name?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  All day, I wondered if he’d show up at the Sea Horse Inn.

  He could be a guest I’d met there when I was a child. Or someone who’d attended Siena Bay Elementary school. It was possible I’d met him at a Northern California swim meet.

  But the thing is, I would have remembered. I’m not the boy-crazy, crush-a-week type, but if he’d asked me to call him, I would have melted on the spot.

  He looked like a competitive swimmer. My thoughts kept circling back to that fact, but it didn’t feel right.

  Something embarrassing, which made me glad no one could read my mind, was that I’d never noticed a guy’s skin before. I actually thought about it as I set Nana’s table with fine silver.

  As I washed dishes after the guests had drifted away from breakfast, I replayed his brown eyes, which shifted expression from devoted, to playful, to predatory. Something about him wasn’t normal.

  I told Nana I’d work for her all day long to help her catch up on things she couldn’t do with her injured leg. The truth was, I was afraid to walk back to my cottage.

  Where was he? Who was he?

  Yes, it was broad daylight, but what if he was waiting for me? What if that had been his footprint on my porch?

  I wanted to ask Nana or Thelma if the leader of the Siena Bay pack was pathologically handsome. But I didn’t.

  Instead, I put my anxiety to good use. I washed windows for Nana and didn’t glance up when I did those on the seaward side of the Inn.

  My only break was when my parents called, having waited a record twenty-four hours to check on me. I told them Gumbo and I had made it through the night just fine.

  Of course I didn’t mention Gumbo’s hallucination at the window or the guy in the cove, so when I talked to Mom, she admitted they were going away for a week, camping in Colorado. They hung up happy as they could be without having me in sight.

  After that, I spent two hours on my knees in the sun, sanding weathered boards on the widow’s walk, because Nana swore that the rough footing had caused her to trip. I didn’t look t
oward the Point.

  By the time I finished, I was sweaty, dirty, and I’d worked the craziness out of my system. The guy I’d talked with wasn’t abnormal; he was foreign.

  Next time I saw him, I’d ask where he came from. And that would be that.

  It never occurred to me that I wouldn’t see him again.

  Cooled by lazy overhead fans, the inn was an oasis after my hours outside.

  “These jeans will never be the same,” I apologized, as I met Nana in the kitchen. I’d borrowed a pair of her old jeans to do chores, and the knees had gone from white to cobwebs.

  “Nor you either, by the look of you,” Thelma said.

  My eyes were still dazed by sun glare, but I noticed my arms were sunburned and my hands blistered. I’d pinned my hair into a knot, but most of it had fallen down.

  I was in no condition to serve tea, but it was nearly four o’clock.

  “Those jeans were destined for the rag bag anyway,” Nana said. “And you’ve just enough time for a quick bubble bath.”

  I’d opened my mouth to protest when she said, “I’ll draw it for you myself, and I promise you’ll find it quite restorative.”

  Since Nana believed in the power of herbs long before aromatherapy had been invented, I wasn’t surprised that the collarbone-deep bath smelled tropical and lush.

  Her room was on the sea side of the house, so even in the little tiled bathroom, I could hear the waves.

  Limp with relaxation, I still managed to climb out, towel off, and find the dress Nana had laid out for me.

  It was one of those dresses that’s infinitely adjustable. Kind of counterculture looking, but cool. Made of crinkled ivory cotton, it had random sparkly stuff like confetti on the skirt, and the top left my arms bare. For once the muscles left from my days as a diver didn’t make me look manly, just fit.

  It nipped in at the waist and swirled around my knees.

  My wet hair could have used some work, but there wasn’t time. Looking in Nana’s mirror, I fluffed it with my fingers. Mom called the color “red amber.”

  Before it could fall into high-humidity waviness, I pinned it up.

  Knowing Nana wouldn’t care, I poked around in her makeup. I smoothed on Hushabye Blue eye shadow, a little mascara, and transparent lip gloss, and decided I looked all of seventeen.