FROM AWAY ~ BOOK ONE Page 12

  Dawn smiles. Enters.

  ~

  A surprise inspection. Of course. It only figures.

  Aaron barrels down the metal staircase, skipping as many as three steps at a time. Hoping there’s still a chance to correct the bad first impression he’s made. The fact that Max is still absent is going to count as another mark against him as well.

  At ground level, he encounters no Surprise Inspector. The girl on the monitor is not awaiting his arrival. She is nowhere to be seen.

  The main floor of the lighthouse is a combination locker room and lounge area. A bank of lockers stand along one wall next to a kitchenette. A broken-down sofabed faces a small television. Not much in the way of places to hide.

  But... The door is open.

  Aaron peeks outside. Nope. Nobody around.

  “Deserting your post, huh? She’s probably going to have to dock you for that.” The voice comes from behind the door.

  Aaron steps back inside. Swings the door closed. Finds Max. Grinning like a loon. Next to him is the girl. Blushing. Clearly embarassed to be a party to one stranger pulling a prank on another.

  “This isn’t... There’s no inspection.” As much as he’d dreaded the possibility, he’s hoping Max is only pulling his leg and hasn’t just brought a stranger into the lighthouse, where he knows full well only the Circle is allowed.

  “Nope!” The girls smiles brightly. “Max just said I should--”

  “Max!” Aaron turns on his friend. “You can’t bring girls here!”

  “Calm your roll, A-Ron. I didn’t bring her. She was here when I showed up.”

  “She...” Does no one realize his precarious situation? “She can’t be in here!”

  “She can’t?” Max steps around Aaron. Taking off his jacket. Tossing it onto the sofa. “Why can’t she?”

  “It’s Authorized Personnel Only!”

  “All right, then.” Max turns to Dawn. Performs an elaborate bow. “I hereby authorize you.”

  “Why, thank you, kind sir.” She curtseys back.

  “No, no! You’re not authorized. He can’t authorize!”

  “Dude.” Max puts a hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “All is well. I promise.”

  “You promise?! Max, after last night, we can’t afford any screw-ups.”

  Dawn’s eyes light up. Intrigued. “What happened last night?”

  Max begins to open his mouth. Aaron cuts him off. “Nothing happened last night! And it can’t happen tonight, either. You still want me to stick around? Well, that’s my condition.”

  “Aaron. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  Aaron clenches his teeth. Waits for Max to lower the boom.

  “Here’s what’ll happen now: I’m gonna make proper introductions, then? I’ll go on up to the nest and take the watch. Just don’t you even worry about that at all.”

  Aaron blinks in disbelief.

  “That’s right. I got the wheel. And while I’m doing that, you’re gonna be taking this little lady here up the coast to meet her grandfather.”

  Dawn sparks. “My grandfather?”

  “That’s right. Aaron’ll walk you right up to the great man himself.”

  “Max.” Aaron shakes his head. “I don’t even know this girl. How am I--”

  “No, I know. I know.” Max waves him off. “And so... The proper introduction I was mentioning.”

  He takes Aaron by the shoulders. Turns him to face the strange girl. Brushes him off. Steps away. “Aaron Coates-Lesguettes? This is Dawn. Dawn Lesguettes? This is Aaron. He’s pleased to meetcha, and you absolutely feel the same. Because you guys are cousins.”

  Aaron blows a microchip.

  Dawn goggles. She looks from Max to Aaron and back again. “We’re...?”

  Max nods. Drops an imaginary microphone and backs up the stairs.

  Dawn leaps forward. Throws her arms around Aaron. Claps him into a sudden, solid embrace.

  Aaron struggles to catch up. It’ll take him at least a minute or two. Until then? The hug isn’t bad at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Oh no, not I! I will survive!”

  Netty’s phone sings at her. Surprisingly loud, the sound echoes across the empty construction site. Ren pauses while she checks.

  UNKNOWN CALLER is calling. Netty rolls her eyes. Waves Ren away.

  “You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

  With little-to-no technological know-how, she’s had to rely on her son’s good graces when it comes to programming her phone. Just one of the many little gifts he’s left her was to have himself identified as Unknown Caller.

  Not entirely helpful, but that’s Max.

  “Hey, Max.”

  “Don’t hang up.” A woman’s voice. Not Max. It’s Wanda.

  “You reprogrammed my phone?”

  “I knew I’d fuck things up sooner or later, and when I did, you probably wouldn’t want to answer my--”

  “You were right.” Netty hangs up. Sighs. More Wanda is not what her day needs.

  Ahead, Ren has his camera out. Snapping photos of supplies. Equipment. Holes in the ground. Documenting the state of things. What’s there. What’s vandalized. What’s missing.

  “Oh no, not I! I will survive!”

  Unknown Caller again. But which one? She can’t very well ignore calls that may be from her son. The chances of Max getting himself into trouble hover around sixty percent on any given weekday. He may well need her help.

  She has to hand it to Wanda. She’s crafty.

  “Hello?”

  “Just listen, Netty, I--”

  “Whatever you might think you’re accomplishing, Wanda, you’re not helping yourself out here. You are only making things worse. This cute little trick you’ve played is taking advantage of my need as a mother to ensure my son is safe. Do you get how that’s not okay?”

  There’s a gap before Wanda answers. “I get that.”

  “Praise the Lord!” Netty’s outburst is loud enough to draw Ren’s curiosity. She gives him the just-one-minute finger. He nods. Resumes photo-taking. “Here’s the deal: Against my better judgment, I won’t block your number. But to give me time to get Max to reprogram you back to ‘Useless Dipshit,’ you will not call again for at least forty-eight hours.”

  “Forty-eight hours.”

  “Minimum. And understand: I don’t want to hear from you then.”

  “Yeah, no. I get it.”

  “Good.” Netty hangs up. Pockets her phone.

  Whatever her relationship with Wanda might amount to, the last thing she’d ever expect from her is drama. Take-it-or-leave-it casual has always been their m.o. Apart from the occasional booty-call - a few of which she couldn’t deny initiating herself - rarely did one seek the other out. If they happened to end up together by default on a nearly-weekly basis... That could be blamed more on the Island’s limited selection than anything else. There was certainly nothing more for Wanda to get clingy about.

  Which is why Netty is so surprised when Wanda appears there on the construction site. Hooks her by the elbow. Pulls her towards her car.

  “Wanda?! What the holy hell?”

  “The thing with the phone? You’re totally right. Inappropriate. Overstepping. Apologies.” Wanda looks like shit. Wired and wide-eyed. Filthy, too. Shit, covered in shit. “But we need to talk.”

  “We really don’t. I need you gone. And you need to go.”

  Netty glances toward Ren. Thankfully, facing away. Focused on work. Wanda never talks about her brother, leaving Netty uncertain about the status of their relationship. But after the run-in with Sylvie, she has no interest in breaking up another Lesguette Family beat-down.

  Wanda sees the look. Misinterprets it. “Afraid I might make a scene?” Her volume increases. “Because if that’s what it takes, I can definitely do that.”

  At her loudest, it’s still just a warning. She doesn’t seem to want to draw the man’s attention either. Does she know it’s her brother or is this just that goo,
making her distracted and fidgety? The only thing Netty knows for sure is she doesn’t have the patience required to figure Wanda out.

  “Make it quick.” Netty shifts her stance. Forces Wanda to turn her back on Ren in order to face her.

  “All right, well...” Wanda looks over Netty’s shoulder. At the windshield of a nearby dumptruck. In the reflection she can still see the Fed. Meandering along between overturned and badly broken equipment. Taking pictures like an appreciative tourist. Despite the disarray, the damaged supplies almost seem to form an aisle. A funnel leading the man to a pre-ordained location. “First of all, about this morning, in the bathroom... I’m sorry.”

  “Sorries mean less-than-zero to me, Wanda. The word itself has negative value. Show me you’re sorry? Through action? That might amount to something. Probably not, at this point, if we’re being honest. But saying you’re sorry is worse than worthless. It just pisses me off.”

  “Of course. You’re right. Sorry is bullshit. And we both know I’m not sorry about the drugs. I’m an addict. I have no excuses, there. But what I am sor--” She stops. Resets herself. “What I do regret is that I wasn’t more careful about it. And that I let Max see me doing it.”

  A quick eye-dart at the reflection shows her the man is nearly there. A cow following its only available route through the slaughterhouse.

  “That it?” Netty remains cold. Hard.

  Wanda frowns. “I’m doing the best I can, here. It’s not easy.”

  “No? Huh. Because I wouldn’t think it would be hard at all to keep from burning yourself with toxic black goop. Somehow, the rest of us seem to manage.”

  “That’s not fair, Netty. It’s--“

  “This place is a complete disaster!” The man has reached the narrowest point in the path. He gestures as the piled detritus in frustration. “The least they could’ve done is hire security to--”

  Ren stops when he sees Netty is speaking to someone. “Oh. Sorry, I...”

  Wanda turns toward him. A confused and reflected recognition passes over the siblings’ faces. It takes a moment for each to be sure - given the years of separation - but their link is genetic and the realization inevitable.

  “Wanda?” She was a child when he left. Ten years younger. Seeing her now? Looking so much like his Aunt Belle? The unexpected encounter impacts Ren on a physical level. No less than Sylvie’s sudden attack had. He takes an involuntary step backwards. Onto a metal plate. Hidden beneath scattered red earth.

  Ren doesn’t fully register the click under his foot as the plate takes his full weight. Even so, he can’t miss the subsequent sound: A laser twang, as a heavy cable is released. Snapping taut. Setting into motion a short and controlled chain reaction which ultimately topples a massive cement pillar directly toward him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “So you knew Ren was here?” Sylvie is not happy.

  “No...” Martin shrugs. Shifts magnifying glasses from his forehead onto his nose. Focuses on his work. “I knew he was coming.”

  “Didn’t think I might want to know?”

  “Can’t say as I cared overmuch, Sylvia Jane.” He peers into the whiskey bottle. Moves a lamp closer. His workshop grows darker. Shadows deepen in the corners. “Not sure why ya’d concern yerself.”

  With an unusually long pair of tweezers, Martin lifts a painted toothpick. Dips its end into a glob of epoxy. Inserts it into the neck of the bottle. Holds it to the tiny model ship he is building: The Alfhild.

  “Of course not.” Sylvie keeps her distance. Arms crossed. Standing on the other side of his workbench. Well back from Martin’s delicate efforts. “Why would it bother me that my brother had returned after twenty-five years away?”

  Connection solid, Martin releases the toothpick - now attached as a ship’s mast. He withdraws his tweezers. Sets them to one side.

  “Ya’re Captain o’ the Watch, Sylvie. Ya’ve got far more important things to fuss yerself over.”

  “Like what? I know you never missed anything when you were Captain. What important things have I been neglecting now, Dad?”

  “I don’t mean to say it’s yer fault, love.” He unclamps the bottle from the table. Stands it on its end. “Ya weren’t there back in the day, so ya’ve no way of knowing. But... There’s something in the air.”

  She looks at him. Blank.

  “Talked to Mitch. Oliver. They’re both of ‘em in agreeance. They’ve smelled it, too.”

  They smelled it. Sylvie would like to laugh at the crazy old man. At his crazy old friends. But over the last few days, she’s noticed something too. A subtle sourness. Almost more of a feeling than anything she can identify as a smell. In any case, however dearly she might want to, she can’t simply dismiss her father out of hand.

  “You’ve... Smelled it before?”

  “We have.” He picks up a funnel with a thin tube attached. Feeds the tube into the mouth of the bottle. Down the neck. Past the fragile model ship. To the bottom.

  “And? What does it mean?”

  Martin looks up at his daughter. Surprised. Then, knowing. “Caught the scent, too, didn’t ya?” He grabs a jar of water. Drops in three teabags. Stirs in a handful of thin sand. “I might’ve guessed ya would.”

  He slowly pours the tinted water into the funnel. Into the bottle. It rises around his model. Dark. Silty.

  “What it means is we’re well-past needing to be ready. And we ain’t. Not a one of us.” Bottle filled, he sets the jar on the table. Carefully removes the tube. “We got ourselves right accustomed to Sunday living and nobody’s yet gawked that the weekend’s over.”

  Martin picks up a cork. Plugs the mouth. Sets the finished bottle on its side on an ornate wooden base. Leans back to admire his work. “Not a bad bit nice, innit?”

  Once a majestic tall ship, the Alfhild has now found its final resting place on a tiny recreation of the ocean floor. There, its badly-damaged hull is split into two pieces, surrounded by the detritus of its own foundering. All inside an old whiskey bottle.

  Sylvie nods. It’s far from the first of her father’s shipwrecks-in-bottles she’s seen.

  “So, now... What? We step up training?”

  Martin scoffs. “Training? Nothing but half-ass jumping jacks. Naw, no point to it. Not when nobody knows what they’re up against. Half of ‘em don’t even believe anymore... And I’d be surprised if it was that few. Lard willing, it’s not already too late to convince ‘em of the truth.” He picks up the Alfhild. Carries it out of his workshop. Into the hallway.

  Sylvie follows. Finally seeing where the conversation’s been headed. “That’s why you told Aaron about Mom’s books.”

  Martin pretends not to be caught off-guard. “Ya caught him?”

  “He came to me. Like you should’ve.”

  Martin pushes through a beaded curtain. Into the Lighthouse giftshop. “He’s right suited to the work, Sylvie. Can’t say the same about having him on the Watch. And what’s more, it’s a job that needs doing.”

  “It’s a job Mom meant for me to do.”

  “A-yuh. And if ya’d done it, we’d maybe be in a better place today.” He stops at a wall of shelves. Stocked with rows of shipwrecks-in-bottles. Full. No room for the Alfhild. “But ya didn’t. Ya took those books of hers and hid ‘em away like yer own private treasure.”

  Sylvie reaches out. Shifts two bottles away from one another on the third shelf. Martin sets the Alfhild into the space. A perfect fit.

  Sylvie looks her father in the eye. Uncertain. “You really think something’s coming? After all this time?”

  He sighs. “I do, love. And the only thing worse than knowing something’s on its way, and not being ready for it? Is if it turns out the thing is already here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “And we call him Grampy?”

  Aaron shrugs. “I do. So... I guess so. There’s never been another grandkid, but I don’t see why you wouldn’t. He answers to it, anyway.”

  Dawn and Aaron walk a
long the shoulder of a winding coastal road. A waist-high guard-rail their only protection from a steep drop to the dark ocean water below.

  “And he actually lives there? In the lighthouse? What is he, some kind of crazy old hermit?”

  “No, he’s...” Aaron protests automatically. Out of habit. It’s how people have always talked about his grandfather. Like it or not, the description is apt and Dawn is family. “Well, yeah. He is. I can’t really argue with that.”

  Dawn laughs.

  “But it’s not the same as our lighthouse. It’s older. The oldest on the island. Which means it was built for people to live there. They all used to be like that, so the lamps could be tended to day and night. Grampy was actually born there. His parents were lighthouse keepers at the time.”

  “Keepers!” Dawn smacks her forehead. “I knew there was a name for it.” She wakes up her tablet. Family Tree already open. “Don’t happen to know their names, do you?”

  “Our great-grandparents? Uh... Serge and... Martine, I think. I don’t know her maiden name or anything. Sorry.”

  “Sorry? That’s already more than my dad could ever tell me.” Dawn types. One-handed. “More than he would ever tell me, at least.”

  “So you don’t know anything about them? That’s so weird. I’ve heard their story more times than I can even count.”

  Dawn stops dead. “There’s a story?”

  Aaron laughs. “Of course there’s a story. There’s always a story.”

  “Oh my god, is it a love story?” Dawn may well swoon.

  “Well, obviously. It’s the story of a couple. Love kinda has to play a role.” He tries to order the tale in his mind. Realizing: As many times as he’s heard it, he’s never told it to anyone. If he’s going to be Circle historian, he must be able to recount a story at a moment’s notice.

  Dawn watches him closely. Sees his face change as he works it through.

  She gasps!

  Aaron flinches. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re getting sad just thinking about it. So there’s tragedy to it, too. There’s a tragic love story in my family and my dad’s never told me anything about it. I’m going to kill him. I’m absolutely going to kill him.”