“It makes your hair smell,” he complained, unbraiding her red curls, “turns your fingers yellow, and how many times have you accidentally burned yourself?”
Claire bit her lip. “But you smoke.”
He leaned down and kissed her. “I only do it in fishing season, for my father. It’s one of his qualifications for official manhood. Promise me you’ll stop.”
She thought she would miss the sizzle of tobacco, but delayed gratification was even more delicious than indulgence, she was learning. She would run the pad of her thumb over her empty bottom lip and summon up the fullness of Ethan’s mouth on hers, and her urge to smoke would vanish, replaced by a far more carnal craving.
Ethan loved to read poetry—the Romantics, especially: Keats, Wordsworth, Coleridge. He had an amazing memory and could quote entire passages to her as easily as if he were reciting the names of his family. When Ethan was busy down at the docks, Claire would wander the shelves of the library in Prospect, reading those poems for herself, bundling the words on her tongue and stowing them safe in her heart. She learned that to look at an object—a daffodil, a Greek urn—to really look at it through beautiful words could make the rest of her life seem beautiful, too.
Because of Ethan, Claire learned to sit still in Mass. He’d quit singing, but he still paid such rapt attention throughout the service that Claire started wondering if she was missing something with all her fidgeting. She sat motionless on the pew, her hands folded on her knees, her eyes drawn forward, and she even started telling more of the whole truth to Father Flynn during confession. On the surface, she knew, she looked angelic—hair smoothed, lips gently curved—but in her soul she was still as choppy as the whitecaps breaking off Drake’s Beach on a windy day. She just no longer wanted everyone to know it.
“What’s with you these days anyway?” Jo ribbed her. “You’ve turned into a regular Pollyanna. To be honest, I think I liked the old Claire better. At least we all knew what we were getting.”
Claire shrugged. She couldn’t explain it either. It just made her happier to please Ethan than it did to please herself.
Only one thing terrified her, however, and it was something she kept to herself. Much as she scoffed about the bad luck the women in their family had with marriage, Claire secretly worried it might be true. After all, no Gilly woman that she knew of had ever managed to leave the salt, and no boys had ever managed to grow up in it. What if she and Ethan had a child together one day? Would her family’s blight find them, adding another stone to the graveyard of dead boys by the barn? The idea made her shudder.
“Please keep Ethan safe,” she prayed during Mass, trying not to catalog the accidents and disasters that could befall a man of the sea. “Keep watch over him. Keep him close. Keep him like your own.”
Little did she know how powerful prayers could be. Even littler did she suspect how very well hers would be answered.
By the end of high school, Claire was so in love with Ethan that it was old news in Prospect.
“Hey, it’s the mister and missus,” Mr. Hopper teased them one Saturday night when they came into the diner for burgers after a movie. They were seniors, and their futures were looming. “When are you kids going to get hitched?”
Ethan blushed. “I think we’re a little young.”
Mr. Hopper waved a hand. “Best time for it! Before you know any better.” And with a wink, he slid them free milk shakes.
Her own cheeks burning, Claire glanced at Ethan through lowered eyelashes. “Do you ever think about it?”
Ethan took a careful sip of his milk shake. “The future?”
“Our future.” Her nerves thrilled just saying it. She tickled his wrist with her fingertips. “If we were married, you know what we could finally do…” Ethan edged his hand away. They’d experimented fairly creatively over the past three years, but Ethan always drew the line when things started getting too serious physically. There were some things Claire couldn’t negotiate.
“Of course,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “But we are young. I can’t do something partway, Claire. You know that. I need to be sure first.” It was true. It was one of the things she loved best about him. When he was away fishing in the summers, for instance, he was gone heart, soul, and body. When he studied, he concentrated so hard he couldn’t hear anything around him, and when he prayed, angels could have trumpeted over his shoulder and he wouldn’t have heard them. This year in particular, he’d been spending a lot of time with Father Flynn, but Claire couldn’t fault him for that. If she had a father like Merrett, she thought, she’d look for a substitute, too, but maybe she’d choose someone closer to home, like Ethan’s uncle, Chet.
As their senior year went on, Claire wondered if Ethan would propose. When Christmas came, she unwrapped the book of poems he’d bought her and thumbed through the pages without seeing any of the words. On Valentine’s Day she buried her nose in the folds of the red rose he’d presented, hoping to feel the hard glint of a ring in the petals. By the time the prom arrived, she was floating in a fevered cloud of silk, perfume, and hair spray. But Ethan just swayed with his hands anchored on her hips like usual and whispered “I love you” in her ear, but he didn’t get down on one knee.
By graduation Claire had gnawed her fingernails to ragged crescents. Ethan accepted his diploma with a firm handshake and threw his mortarboard in the air with everyone else, but he didn’t pull her into the dusty shadows and reach into the pocket of his robe for a small velvet box. Claire entered salt season as bitter as a crabapple that year and straightaway reverted to squabbling with Jo.
“Do you ever think you’re just going to dry up in all this stuff?” she asked. They were in the barn, making up little burlap sacks. Claire flicked her braid over her shoulder and watched as Jo wrenched another bag’s neck closed with twine. It reminded her of the way Mama wrung chicken necks whenever they decided it was time to eat from the coop.
“Just be glad you don’t have to sell it, too,” Jo said. That was her job—sitting in the makeshift stall they’d decided to set up in town, shilling Cape salt to tourists. Claire hated the commerce as much as she loathed the marsh. It was another embarrassment. She didn’t bother to answer Jo now. Instead she lit a cigarette. Ethan had been gone for three weeks already on his father’s boat, and her nerves were ringing like firehouse bells.
She looked up to see Jo wildly flapping her arms. “Put that out! You know this place is a pile of timber sticks!” It was true. Smoking in the barn was about as dumb as puffing away next to a gasoline pump. The dust alone was so arid it was already halfway to fire, never mind the worm-infested siding, the warped flooring, and the splintery roof.
Claire didn’t care. She tilted her head and blew a stream of smoke straight up. “Don’t be such an old biddy,” she said. “You never have any fun.”
Jo ground her teeth. She looked about an inch away from killing Claire. Claire could tell how mad Jo was by how quiet her voice came out. “Of course I don’t have any fun! Take a good look around, Claire. Daddy never left a forwarding address, Mama and I work seven days a week, yet the sea doesn’t stop flowing, the salt doesn’t stop forming, and things around here don’t stop breaking.” She narrowed her eyes and stepped closer to Claire. “Gilly women weren’t put on the earth to have fun.”
Claire took a final drag off her cigarette and rolled her eyes before she stubbed it out. No one had to tell her that twice, which was exactly why she wasn’t planning on staying a Gilly for long.
“Suit yourself,” she said. “Die an old maid. See if I care.” And without another glance, she left Jo to finish all the work.
Chapter Seven
The first summer that Whit returned from boarding school, he and Jo agreed through their usual signals to meet on Drake’s Beach a full hour after Mass was over. It was later than their normal time, but Whit let Jo know with a waggle of his eyebrows that he had a surprise in store for her. She blushed in her pew, glancing over to make sure her mother hadn’t not
iced, and hid her face. On the one hand, the old thrill of Whit’s impish charm pulled at her, tempting her to match his acts of derring-do with some of her own, but things had changed between them. At least they had for her. Since that awkward kiss he’d given her in the barn and after his months away, Jo had had time to figure some things out, and she knew without a doubt that no matter what happened, she and Whit could never be a couple.
In the course of the past year, Whit had grown much taller, and his shoulders were filling out while his hair had gotten even darker, flopping over one eye in a manner that Jo was sure the girls in his set found irresistible. In fact, he seemed almost a different person, stretched to unfamiliar proportions, an impostor who somehow knew all the tics and signs of their secret language. Jo watched as he helped Ida out of her pew and then shook Father Flynn’s hand with both of his own, as if they were playing a game of fists that Whit was determined to win.
An hour later, against all her better judgment, Jo was on Drake’s Beach, the wind whipping through her dark hair, her toes curled like anxious snails in the sand. The beach was so weather-beaten and stony that going barefoot on it was a trial of faith, but Jo did it anyway, figuring if she could bear the pain, she could handle almost anything. Again and again she glanced up through the dunes, to where the lane ran, but no one arrived. Relieved, she turned to go back to the marsh, but just then she heard a whistle coming from the sea. Two beats, then a pause, then the same two beats again.
She turned to the water and saw that Whit had chosen to inaugurate their season of beachcombing by sailing a brand-new dinghy around the point. He navigated the surf easily, arriving in a flurry of sailcloth and breeze, and threw his legs over the side, jumping down to steady the little craft.
At the sight of the boat, Jo’s mouth filled with saliva and her hands started sweating. In spite of living among the puddles of the marsh, she was distrustful of the sea. It had to do with Henry’s death. She pictured the bloated corpse of her brother as her parents hauled him from the inundation pond, his arms spread wide like a person throwing out a warning, and she took a step back toward the dunes. She did not want to go sailing.
Whit was oblivious to her discomfort. He jumped into the surf and held the boat steady. “What do you think?” he crowed. “She’s brand new! I joined the sailing team at school. My mother just bought me this for getting decent grades, but she doesn’t know that it’s only because I pay my nerdy dormmate Peter Peckman to do my homework for me.”
The old Whit would have understood her hesitation, Jo thought, about sailing and about their meeting like this at all. The boy who’d cut his palm and held it to hers, the boy who’d rubbed salt on her lips—that person would have sensed her fear and pulled the craft up onto the sand right then and there. But Whit had changed, she realized, in more than just looks.
“Hop in!” he said. Now that he was out of his church clothes, Jo noticed even more how lean and taut his legs had stretched and how broadly his shoulders were starting to spread. He resembled his father—Brahmin jaw, thick hair, Roman nose—but his eyes were as smoky and heavy-lidded as Ida’s. They made it hard for Jo to tell what he was really thinking. Ida’s right, Jo thought. We don’t belong, even if we are the same inside. “Come on, chicken legs,” he taunted. “Don’t make me stand here all day. I won’t, you know.”
Jo moved through the surf.
“That’s better,” Whit said, throwing himself in after her, gathering up the lines in one hand and the tiller in the other. “Watch out for the boom!” he cried, swinging the sail in front of them, pulling on the line clutched in his hand and setting back out toward the open sea. Jo gripped the rail of the boat and tried not to let her teeth chatter.
“You’re a maniac,” she said, struggling to keep her voice light, and Whit cackled.
“And you’re still short and boring,” he answered, grinning at her.
Jo blushed. She’d quit growing, it was true, but she wasn’t really that short. It was just that Whit had gotten so tall so quickly. The boring part she hadn’t expected to hear out of his mouth, though. That comment stung. It was something Ida would have said. Jo shifted a hair away from Whit, and the dinghy suddenly dipped in a wave. Her stomach lurched. Whit shoved the tiller over, and the boat’s far rail rolled up toward them.
“Up and over,” Whit said, scrambling across to the other side, keeping his head tucked.
Jo followed him, banging her shin in the process, trying not to whimper. The sail rippled, and the boat settled back into a more reasonable angle.
“Are you okay?” Whit asked, peering at her.
She glanced back at the beach. They’d turned, but they were still headed out to the horizon. The swells under the boat were getting more regular, but bigger. Suddenly Jo wasn’t comfortable at all, bobbing like a lost cork out there with someone who looked and sounded a lot like Whit but who didn’t feel like him. She clenched her fists. “Go back.”
Whit swept his arm out at the point. “But we need to be out this far to clear the rocks at Drake’s Point.”
Jo resisted the urge to stamp her foot like Claire. “Just go back!” Sweat beaded along her temples. She didn’t want to tell Whit, but it was the first time she’d ever been in a boat, and she was worried that if they did manage to cross the bay, it just might decide to cross them back.
Whit scowled. “Fine, if you’re going to be that way about it.” He shoved the tiller over once again, making the boat tip and roll while they switched sides one more time. If Whit kept up with the tacking, Jo knew, she really would be at sea, unable to tell anymore if she was coming or going. “Here,” he said, “you steer. Best cure for seasickness.” He put her hand on the tiller and then covered it with his own.
They’d touched each other before, of course, too many times to count. On the hottest days, they’d wrestle each other in the waves, tangling their legs underwater, trying to knock each other off balance, and Whit had a habit of grabbing her hand when he wanted her attention, but this was different. His fingers insinuated themselves in between hers now, and his leg pressed firmly against hers. She could hear his breath coming hard and fast, and she knew she had to pull her hand out from under his, but he was holding on too tightly.
“Jo,” he murmured, and leaned close to her, his lips parting. The sail rippled above them, and she stiffened, her nerves electric with alarm. Whatever happened, she knew, she mustn’t allow him any nearer. Those times between them were over.
“Watch out,” she said, and pulled on the tiller, making the boat careen. Whit grabbed her hand then, squeezing too tight, his fist crushing her fingers. “Ow!” she squealed, trying to snatch her hand away from his, but he wouldn’t let go. His face had a mean cast to it that she’d never seen before.
“Don’t go thinking you’re too good for me,” he snarled, giving her wrist a painful wrench. Jo was tempted to smack him, but she was too afraid the boat would tip over, so she said nothing, and Whit inched away from her and turned his focus to the sail. They didn’t say anything else the rest of the way back.
“Oh, thank goodness!” Jo cried when Whit pulled the boat near the sand. She didn’t wait for him to steady it. She just slid her legs over the side and fell into the surf up to her hips, freeing her hand from his in the process.
Claire was waiting for them on the beach with a pair of fishing poles, squealing in all her eleven-year-old glory. Whit pulled up the centerboard and tugged the dinghy onto the sand while Claire unfolded a ratty blanket she’d brought with her. Jo watched Whit stretch himself out across the plaid and cross his ankles. It was clear he already knew he was someone who would succeed in life without very much effort, and for a moment she envied him that.
Claire started telling him something about her school gymnastics team. “It’s not fair that Cecilia West gets to be captain just because she can do a back handspring when she can’t even do the splits all the way,” she said with a pout. Jo threaded bait onto the first pole’s hook, cast the line out into
the surf, then anchored the pole in the sand and went to work on the second barb.
“Poor Claire.” Whit made a face at her.
She sniffed. “It’s harder than it looks. I bet you can’t do the splits.”
Whit dusted sand off his palm. “You’re right, but then I don’t want to.”
He had Claire there. She flopped back down next to him on the blanket—too close, Jo thought, her stomach still lurching from the boat ride.
“I don’t really want to do them either,” she said, waving her feet in the air, “but the girls on the gymnastics team are popular, and it’s easier to be popular.”
Just then Jo caught a fish. She let out a yell and began tugging on the line, reeling it in as fast as she could. Whit sprang off the blanket and rushed over to help, but she waved him away. She already had the fish off the hook, writhing in her palms. Whit stayed at the edge of the surf, his hands in his pockets, his eyes narrowed.
“Claire,” Jo called. “Come help me for a minute.” She dumped the fish into a bucket. Claire sighed and stretched off the blanket, and for a moment Jo could read on her little sister’s face how much she hated all the elements of her life: salt, fish, rust, and sand.
“Check the other line,” Jo told her. “I think there’s another bite on it.” Another fish would be good. Their mother would mull the flaky flesh with potatoes, bay leaves, and broth, and the three of them would bow their heads that evening and thank the Lord for his gift.
Jo saw Claire pull the rod out of the sand and rest it against her hip. A wave rushed in and almost knocked her off balance, but Whit was suddenly there, his sturdy arms looped around her waist, righting her. “Hang on, baby doll,” he said, and put his hands on top of Claire’s on the reel. “Take it steady and slow.” Together they reeled in a mackerel. “Want me to gut it for you?” Whit asked. The fish bucked, then stilled.