The Summer Sail Page 9

  “Nothing.” She shrugged. “You’re just cute. That’s all.”

  “Yeah, cute in a way like a little brother or cousin is cute, right?”

  She smiled. “Exactly.” But Ryan looked so crestfallen that she immediately regretted having said anything at all. When she thought back on the past two days, however, it made perfect sense. The way he’d helped her with her chair last night, the few times in the pool when she’d caught him checking out her boobs. It was both cute and creepy.

  “Hey, Ry—” She reached out to rumple his hair, but he pulled away.

  “It’s okay. I get it,” he said.

  “No, look. I’m sorry. I didn’t really catch on till just now, but I have a boyfriend. You know that, right?” A boyfriend and possibly much bigger problems than you can imagine, she might have added.

  “Yeah.” A puff escaped from his lips as if to say, Tell me something I don’t know.

  “What about you? You must have a girlfriend.”

  Ryan shook his head. “Nah, me and girls, we don’t really mix, you know?”

  Lacey wasn’t sure she did. “What do you mean? Like you’re gay?”

  His mouth fell open. “No, nothing like that, just . . .” He seemed to stop and think. “All the girls at my school are boring. They never have anything to talk about.”

  “That’s probably because they’re secretly hoping you’ll ask them out.”

  “Yeah, right, that’s probably it.” He stood up to throw out his tray, then remembered his book, which he grabbed off the table. “Well, see ya around.”

  “Hey, Ryan, don’t worry,” she called after him. “We girls get more interesting!”

  When Tiara twisted around in her seat to give Lacey a strange look, Lacey grinned, as if to say, Isn’t it the truth?

  But rather than offer a nod in sisterhood, Tattoo Girl spun back around and proceeded to run her tongue around the outer edge of Chris’s ear.

  Yuck. Lacey got up, in search of better scenery.

  Later, on the starboard side of the ship, the slip of Bermuda came into view, blurry and far away, the first visible landmass in the last forty-eight hours. Lacey had wandered off to be by herself. Everyone was rubbing her the wrong way and vice versa—she was better off alone. She watched while the island drew closer, its bends and curves calling to mind Nantucket’s boomerang silhouette. Nantucket was home to the handful of Lacey’s best summer memories—lazy days spent building sand castles, digging for clams, late-night runs to the Juice Bar for ice cream. Maybe Bermuda would be her next.

  As the ship rounded a rocky, craggy bend, she drew in a sharp breath. There, right before her, was the most stunning stretch of beach she’d ever laid eyes on. Bright turquoise water lapped up against wide, lambent stretches of pink sand. Dotting the lush green canopy of palm trees were dozens of white rooftops. They reminded Lacey of white butterflies flitting across a summer lawn. A breeze swept over her, a combination of salt and something sweet, like honeysuckle. A Bermuda breeze, she thought.

  Lacey smiled, her face to the wind. For once her mom was right. Bermuda was as pretty as a postcard.

  8

  On Monday, their first day on the island, the morning dawned with a glorious pink sky. By nine thirty, the temperature had already climbed to eighty degrees, and the air, stitched through with humidity, shimmered in little waves. Abby was eager to get to the beach, where she could calm down and cool off in the water, then plant herself under an umbrella. She imagined herself flipping her wet hair over her shoulder just like Ingrid Bergman must have done on the beaches of Morocco.

  Abby was fighting to maintain her composure as she wove in and out of the crush of passengers, all of whom appeared to be disembarking for the beach at the exact same moment as her family. Really, who could blame her? Only three days into the cruise and Chris had lost his room key twice. Twice! She’d just spent the better part of her morning in the ship’s customer service line. A line in which a person could easily lose a year of her life just waiting to speak to the person in charge.

  Sometimes Abby felt as if she was still raising toddlers. Sixteen-year-old toddlers, but toddlers nonetheless. Would the boys ever learn to keep track of their own things? Well, she thought as she spied Lee and Lacey off to one corner, they’d better. They had no choice. Soon enough, Abby might not be around to fix every little problem for them. She waved to Caroline and Javier, who were coming down the stairs.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Caroline, slightly out of breath. Her face was partially hidden by a white sun hat, the brim so wide it brushed Javier’s shoulder. Javier carried a bag of snorkeling gear.

  “That,” said Lee, “is a fabulous hat. Kentucky Derby–worthy, for sure.” Lee was referring to the Derby parties that their rooming group had hosted in college with Lee coaching them on southernisms like madder than a wet hen. It was Lee who’d taught Abby how to muddle her first mint julep, though to this day she still couldn’t abide the bitter taste of bourbon.

  In fact, Abby saw now that it wasn’t just Caroline’s hat that was fabulous. The rest of her was a stunning montage of whites as well—a white spandex top accompanied by a wraparound maillot skirt and wedge sandals. Even her toenails were painted white. Caroline appeared to be heading to the French Riviera, not to the beach with her best girlfriends and a couple of teenagers. Abby felt like asking if she had a Frisbee tucked somewhere in her Louis Vuitton bag (also white).

  Instead, she said chirpily, “Is everyone ready for the beach?”

  “Yes, please,” pleaded the boys, who were shifting from foot to foot. Chris knew better than to complain by this point, but even Ryan had acted out of sorts at breakfast this morning, glowering into his stack of pancakes. Abby wondered if Lacey were involved. Ryan had been following her around like a puppy dog, and Lacey had been nothing if not accommodating, throwing him a treat every now and then. But it was no secret that Lacey had a serious boyfriend in college. (Abby knew that Lee was concerned and hoped the distance of summer would slow the relationship down.) The fact that Lacey already had a boyfriend, however, seemed to be doing little to curb Ryan’s infatuation.

  Abby fell into line behind Sam to get her passport checked and stamped. When their party sailed through customs without a ding, she was pleasantly surprised. Maybe, after a rough start to the day, things would proceed calmly after all. On land, everyone regrouped and followed a winding sidewalk that led to a clutch of taxicabs painted in bright island colors. Sam went to talk to one of the drivers, and Abby fanned herself with her hat.

  “Feeling okay, Mom?” Chris asked while cabdrivers called out to them, promising the cheapest fares.

  She nodded. “It’s just the heat. I’ll be better once we get to the water.” It was a ridiculous thing to say, of course. Why else did people travel to Bermuda but to enjoy the warm weather and beautiful beaches? She just wished Sam would get on with it and pick a driver so they could be on their way. Abby didn’t have the patience to haggle with the cabbies. How ironic that they’d just spent thousands of dollars on a cruise and now her husband was insisting on shaving a few dollars off their cab fare.

  As if reading her mind, Sam waved them over to a minivan.

  “This guy is giving us a great deal,” he said, beaming. “He’ll take us to Horseshoe Bay and give us a history of the island on the way.” Abby didn’t know if the rest of their gang wanted a lecture on island lore, but Caroline spoke up immediately.

  “Great! Maybe I’ll get some material for my article.”

  “Nice work, man.” Javier socked Sam in the arm and climbed in, while the kids crawled around to the seats in the far back. Sam sat up front with the driver—probably all the better to grill him with questions—and Abby squeezed into the back with Lee and Caroline, who were busy digging in the cracks for seat belts. There didn’t appear to be any, however.

  Caroline shrugged. “Island time, island rules, I guess?”

  “Let’s hope the island gods are watching over us,” Abb
y muttered. A friend had warned her about Bermuda’s curvy roads, thin as a sliver, so she was happy to see the main road unfold smoothly enough above Somerset Harbor, where dozens of sailboats bobbed like candied apples in the sun. But gradually, as the twists began to grow sharper and the hills steeper, Abby had to grip the armrest to keep from crushing Lee. Middle Road was maybe as wide as her kitchen table back home. If she stretched her arm out the window, she was pretty sure she could touch the stone wall that acted as a guardrail. It seemed a miracle that one car—let alone two—could fit, and every time a truck or taxi approached in the opposite lane, she held her breath as they squeaked by.

  Thank heaven Sam hadn’t insisted on renting mopeds (a suggestion he’d tried to sell them on at dinner last night) or they’d all be roadkill by now. Not to mention the whole driving-on-the-left-side-of-the-road rule—and the rotaries! It was absolutely impossible to get her head around entering them in the reverse. Abby tried to pretend it was like driving in London, but without the benefit of racing around in those cute Mini Coopers.

  When they hit a particularly sharp turn, her bag dropped to the floor with a thud.

  “Honestly, Abby, what’s in there?” Lee demanded. “A small child?”

  Abby shrugged. “Stuff?” Lee and Caroline burst out laughing, and Sam glanced back, as if to say, What’s so funny? But Abby couldn’t have explained, even if she’d wanted to. Certain things were funny only to the three of them, references that added up only if you’d been a roommate in Wordsworth Hall, room 404. Like the time during freshman year when she, Caroline, and Lee had gone to a homecoming football game. The air was chilly in the way a crisp fall afternoon should be, and Lee had stuffed herself into a huge red down parka. Abby and Caroline had poked fun, calling her a soft southerner. When they’d asked what she had in her parka, Lee had grinned and replied, “Stuff?”

  Not until they settled into their stadium seats did Lee reveal why she was wearing such an enormous jacket. On the inside were generous pockets in which she’d smuggled six beers. They’d applauded Lee’s ingenuity that day. Ever since then, it had become a refrain for whenever one of them asked a question that the others didn’t feel like answering. “What were you doing out so late?” Abby might ask, and Caroline and Lee would both shrug and reply, “Stuff?”

  Abby was smiling at the memory, when Lee accidentally collided with her leg (another quick turn), and Abby exclaimed, “Ouch!” Without thinking, she pulled up her skirt to have a look.

  “I’m so sorry!” Lee squinted at the purple bruise, roughly the size and color of a plum, which now smudged Abby’s thigh. “Wow, did I just do that?”

  “No, of course not,” said Abby. “I’ve had it for a few days. Must have rammed into a table.” She tugged her skirt back down. To be honest, though, she couldn’t recall what her body had collided with.

  Lee shook her head. “You need to be more careful, missy.”

  Abby nodded. “Yes.” She stared out the window as juniper trees, frothy with green leaves, zipped by. Pink hibiscus flowers poked their heads out from the roadside. The entire island bloomed with a lushness that complemented its stucco homes, all painted in delightful pastels—pink, yellow, and blue. The houses reminded Abby of colorful macarons, and the white stucco churches, which seemingly popped up every mile, of wedding cakes. Abby chuckled to herself. Apparently, piety got you paradise.

  “Why are all the roofs white?” Sam was asking now as the car accelerated up another hill. Abby grabbed the seat in front of her. “To reflect the sun?”

  “Good guess,” their driver replied. His voice was threaded through with lovely Bermudian and British accents. “But it’s actually because of the material they’re made of—limestone that’s whitewashed. It helps to catch the rainwater from the roof. Our roofs are made of gutters, you see?”

  Abby leaned toward her window for a better view and saw that it was true: small gutters lined each roof in horizontal grooves. “That is how we collect our water in Bermuda. Almost half of our drinking water is from rainwater.”

  “Amazing.” Caroline scribbled in her notebook.

  They careened along for another fifteen minutes, up and around bluffs with magnificent water views, before the car finally pulled over to a dirt road leading off the main highway. “Here you are, my friends,” their driver announced. “Just follow the path down to the beach.”

  “Whoa, think I need to catch my breath after that roller-coaster ride,” Lee said as she climbed out, looking slightly pale, while Sam paid. “Next time remind me to pop a Dramamine for just the cab ride.”

  Abby agreed; the ride had been unexpectedly hair-raising. Her stomach felt queasy, too, but nothing that a little ocean air wouldn’t remedy. She fell into line behind the kids, who led the way down the long, winding path. When they reached the beach, Abby propped her sunglasses on top of her hat.

  “Oh, wow.” Her breath caught in her throat. “That’s what I call stunning.” Out on the horizon, a cobalt sea gave way to a pale blue sky. Closer to shore, the water turned a turquoise so clear that she could make out a submerged boulder with bright yellow fish darting around its edges. Abby walked over to where the waves eddied along the sand and pulled off her flip-flops, stuck in her toes. The water was indeed warm (the whiteboard that welcomed them said eighty degrees). Here, where the surf kicked up the sand, the water turned a rich café au lait color. It looked, frankly, good enough to ladle up and drink.

  “I’ll be darned,” said Sam. “The sand really is pink.” He reached down to cup a handful, and Abby did the same. She’d read that because of the strong waves in Bermuda, millions of seashells were pulverized into bits, and it was the pearlescent insides of the shells that lent the sand its color. She rubbed a few grains between her thumb and forefinger and couldn’t recall ever touching sand so soft. If her eyes were closed, she would have sworn she was cupping flour.

  “Hey, check it out! The sand isn’t even hot!” shouted Chris, who’d wandered further down the beach. It was true, Abby noted with surprise. A person could walk barefoot on the sand, which didn’t appear to absorb the sun’s heat. Abby meandered a few yards up from the water and shook out her towel over a smooth stretch of beach, making sure not to intrude on anyone else’s space. (It was a personal pet peeve whenever perfect strangers plopped their towels down right next to hers, as if there wasn’t an entire beach to enjoy!)

  She sat and waited while Sam and the others rented umbrellas and chairs from a nearby stand. Sam turned her way and waved. Paradise, she mouthed, her arms stretched out behind her. It was the first word that sprang to mind. He nodded and shot her a thumbs-up. Abby was surprised by how easily her mood had lifted. Here she’d been ready to strangle Chris a few short hours ago. And now, well, it was hard not to be grateful for every little thing.

  Caroline liked to think of herself as adventurous, except when it came to water pursuits. In sixth grade, she’d failed the gym swim test, and, ever since, she’d had a tenuous relationship with the water. She managed to get along, by either sidestroking or using some combination of the front crawl and breaststroke, but no one would ever mistake her for a strong swimmer. She’d only barely passed the swim test in college. Yet somehow Javier had managed to twist her arm to go snorkeling with him today. All in the name of research for her article.

  “Snorkeling isn’t swimming,” he’d assured her. “You just kick with your flippers. Besides, we’re not going out deep. Just breathe normally with your air tube.”

  So now, in a small cove off the beach, Caroline swam along next to her boyfriend, the only sound in her ears that of her own breathing. In her right hand, she clutched a small underwater camera. Yesterday Javier had been so excited about going snorkeling that she’d begun to wonder if he had something up his sleeve—maybe a diamond ring hiding in the coral reef? But now, gliding along the cove, she realized how ridiculous that was.

  The entire sensation of snorkeling, she thought as she swam along, was an odd one. After a few tries, s
he’d mastered the mouthpiece, but her breathing sounded like Darth Vader’s. And now she realized that her mask cut off her peripheral vision so completely that she had no idea who—or what—might be swimming beside her. When her elbow brushed up against something, her mind instantly darted to Shark! But when she turned, she saw that it was only Javier. She waved her arms, trying to explain to him about the imaginary predator, but realized too late that talking broke the seal around her mouthpiece. Water came rushing in, sending her sputtering and choking, till she lifted her head out of the water and spat out the mouthpiece, gasping for air.

  “Your feet!” Javier, whose head popped up, called out. When Caroline lowered her legs, she was surprised to find that it was shallow enough to stand. She shoved her mask up and spat a few more times, her mouth salty and tangy-tasting.

  “You scared me,” she said between breaths. “I thought you were a shark. Or a ray.”

  Javier grinned, his mouthpiece dangling beside his chin. “No worries! I told you, no sharks here. We’re entirely safe in the cove.” Caroline nodded, unconvinced. She struggled to catch her breath. “Ready for another run?” he asked.

  When she hesitated, he said, “Here, follow me this time.”

  She took a couple of deep breaths, stuck her mouthpiece back in, and dove under, this time reaching for Javier’s hand. They swam further out to the reef’s edge, where plumes of purple fan coral waved in the current. Bright yellow coral globes, like miniature suns, clung to the rocks. Javier was right—the underwater fauna was its own exquisite world, and Caroline soon forgot to be afraid. A long green fish, the size of a thick steak, gently glided past, and she snapped a picture.

  They drifted along, Javier pointing to a shimmery blue fish ahead and then a cluster of orange fish with vibrant spots. A few yards further up, a silvery school darted in and out of the coral in what Caroline imagined was an elaborate game of hide-and-seek. She snapped photo after photo. These would be great for the article; her boss would be pleased. But when a wisp of darkness shot in front of her mask, she startled, pulling back abruptly. Was it a jellyfish? She waited for the searing pain she’d read about to bubble across her forehead, but there was nothing. When another wisp darted before her, she realized her mistake: the jellyfish “tendrils” she’d seen were, in fact, strands of her own hair drifting in front of her. She would have laughed, if her heart weren’t pounding.