Chapter Nine

I drive behind John and Alice, oblivious to the magnificent scenery. Don’t ask me if there are wild lupines at the roadside, or sails on the silver-green mirror of the ocean, dancing like white butterflies on the breeze. Lucas is dead; I know it. That stupid corrosive, corrodible, whatever, leg of an oil rig has collapsed and everyone has fallen into the thrashing sea. Or that rusty old shit-bucket of a helicopter has crashed, killing everyone on board. One or the other. Both. For God’s sake, what’s the difference? I mustn’t panic, but I do. It’s my fault for being such a pushover. Lucas is a hunk, a hottie—there, I’ve said it—and I wanted to portray myself as a cool-headed coper to same. If I had turned around, got back in Skeet’s taxi and gone back to New York, London, anywhere, Lucas would have had to cancel his trip. He said lives would be at risk if I left Lobster Cove. Seems like I’ve killed people by staying. He would be alive if it wasn’t for me. Nevertheless, I blame him. It’s entirely his fault I fell in love with his house, Lobster Cove and the whole of Maine apart from creepy old Agat and Pick, of course. Lucas was attractive and persuasive, and I fell for it.

Was. Oh God, I feel sick.

Force that aside for the horrible moment. There’s Alice to think of. She’ll have to be told. Also, I’m under contract, and I’ll have to stay until I’m not needed. How terrible for Alice to lose both parents at such a tender age. How utterly, utterly ghastly. There will be two wavering ghostly potato Queenie eggs on the next school drawing—the thought literally jars me, and I almost hit the Blue Rocks gatepost as I follow John up the drive. What does it matter if I fuck up his precious Jeep? Lucas is dead.

John parks his car, and I pull up next to him. Alice clambers out, chattering away, a smudge of blueberry ice cream on her sky-blue sundress. My heart turns inside out and ties itself in a knot. She’s adorable. Yes, I love her. Hot tears run down my face. I can’t stop what’s happening in my mind.

I don’t love Lucas. Of course I don’t. How could I possibly? I don’t even know the man. Except I do. I speak to him every day. I know stuff about him. He’s highly educated, talented and creative; he’s got a sense of humour, an amazing high-tech job, massive responsibility, not to mention deep love and commitment to his daughter. And that’s merely the start. I get out of the car, unlock the front door—that odd key rattling in my shaking hands—grip the sea horse handle and push.

Is it “love” or “loved” when a person’s dead? Which is it?

“Wait here.” John, hand on my arm, stops me from going inside, pointing at one of the benches on the porch. “I’ll put on the TV for Lis.”

Television to the rescue. Our eyes meet. “She’s halfway through Winnie the Pooh,” I tell him.

They go inside, and I sit on the bench. I wait ten minutes, in warm shade under the grey planking of deep eaves, mind blank, gazing up the hill at the back of the house. Is that the sound of the sea I can hear, or the hum of the wind in the pines, or my own fear pumping through my veins, or all three? Better not to think.

John returns and sits beside me. “So…”

I turn to face him. “What happened? Tell me.”

“An accident.”

I sink my face in my hands. Am I even breathing?

“Lucas is all right. He’s alive.”

“What do you mean, alive?” I lift my head and look at him. Alive does not necessarily mean good.

“He was on a rig in the North Sea, a decommissioning job.”

“I know that.

“He went down on an inspection dive and something went wrong. There was a collapse. Something gave way. Some divers are still missing.”

“Some?”

“Three, I think. Yes, three. Luke was lucky. The rescue crew managed to get him up fairly quickly and stabilize him through the decompression process. Real tricky with a head injury, but they did it.”

I look at him, aware he is Lucas’s brother and I am supposed to be the strong one. “Is it bad?” I ask, in a stranger’s voice.

He thinks a moment. “No. He’ll be okay. It’ll take a little time. He’s still under observation at the Royal Infirmary in Aberdeen.”

“What do you mean under observation?”

“He’s been out for a few days. It’s a precaution.”

“Out?”

“Concussed. Unconscious.”

“But—”

“He’s good. Everything is going to plan.”

“Is it?” My voice rises to a level I don’t recognize.

“As soon as he can fly,” John explains, like he’s talking to Alice, “he’ll be coming home. Soon. I’ll let you know, or he will.”

“So everything’s okay then?”

He stares at me, his eyes filled with uncertainty. “Yep.”

“Good.” I stand up. “Would you keep an eye on Alice for me, please? Just for ten minutes.”

“Sure. Take your time.”

I go inside, and through the hallway, glancing into the den, where Alice sits, mesmerized by a lamenting Eeyore. In the living room I open one of the sea-facing doors and go out onto the porch—the sea porch, Lucas calls it. I hear John’s footsteps behind me and, pretty sure he’s keeping an eye on me, I go down the stairs and walk straight across the grass, heading for the sea, eager to get away from the wide, watching windows of the house.

I’m a mess. And, yes, I overreacted, I know.

Look, it’s horrible when you hear there’s been an accident, before you’re sure that your loved ones are alive and safe, preferably unhurt. There’s that ghastly, heart-plunging moment when you know your future hangs in the balance, followed by the dizzying tide of relief like a powerful electrical charge, regenerating your faith in life.

The thing is I’m not in love. How can I possibly be in love? I haven’t spent more than a few hours with Lucas, so—

We talk about Alice mostly, but also, through that—and things like Jeep tires, vacuuming, Buster’s inoculations and so on—about me and him. Us. I enjoy the contact. If he’s on a really deep dive, I won’t hear for a few days, but that doesn’t stop me from looking at my phone for a message every ten minutes. Have I confused loving someone with feeling responsible, or sorry, for them? Am I crazy? Lonely? Delusional? Or just plain sad?

The grass gives way to a ruined border with overgrown stepping-stones leading to a gate. Lupines and daisies have seeded themselves and grow happily between the green runners of an old lawn run amok. I reach the gate and pull the bolt. It’s stiff and rusty and I swear when it releases, pinching my fingers. There are three shallow, crumbling steps onto the beach and I have to watch where I put my feet. Slipping and sliding, grabbing onto scrubby dune bushes, I stumble to the bottom, dust my hands on the back of my jeans and look around. I’m in a perfect cove—the one Lucas said was out of bounds.

It’s all got something to do with Agat’s vitriolic reaction to my relationship with Lucas. That tipped me. And then when I first saw John, I thought Lucas was back early, or paying a surprise visit. The happy shock, followed by grim news, knocked me sideways.

I don’t know why I came here. My shoes are off and my toes are cool on wet pebbles lapped by the crystal edge of a lazy, dark sea that could not look more beautiful than right now. I stare at the barely discernible distant divide between sea and sky, dragging in deep breaths of cool, salty air. Way down in my lungs, it dilutes the panic, slowing my hasty heartbeat.

What must I do?

I turn my back on the shimmer and walk up the small beach to the steps. What I must do is carry on—calmly—doing what I’m here to do, and see what happens. There’s nothing else.

“You okay?” It’s John, standing at the top of the steps, Blue Rocks like a great, grey shadow behind him.

“Thanks, I’m fine.” He thinks I’m mad. I can see it in his doubting eyes.

He leaves, asking me to stay in touch, asking me to let him know if there are any problems. Alice and I wave goodbye on the driveway, with Buster coiling around my calves and Alice’s waist. He has feathers in his “whispers” and has clearly been up to no good.

What does John mean by problems?

****

Two days pass, before John rings to say there is no news about Lucas, but there’s other news. Bad news. “They found the other divers,” John says.

“And?”

“No survivors.”

Halfway down the stairs, I sit with a thump. “That’s…that’s awful.”

“Lucas didn’t know them well. They weren’t, you know, friends.”

Oh. Strangely, perhaps, that doesn’t make anything better. John feels the same—I can hear it in his voice. Death is death.

“I’ll keep you informed,” he says.

“Should I say anything to Alice?” I ask.

“Not now. Not yet. Let’s see what happens. Don’t tell her anything.”

We ring off. Why must we see what happens? I thought everything was going to plan.

I carry on doing what I’m paid to do. I look after Alice, take her to school, cook, keep house and drink in the beauty of Maine when I remember it’s there. To be honest, I’m too tired to appreciate much. Worrying about Lucas juxtaposed with putting on a jolly face for Alice wipes me out.

Father’s Day arrives. There’s a big event planned in town, but Lucas isn’t here.

“Bring Alice along anyway,” Pick says. “You’re both very welcome.”

You know, I believe her. I’m so grateful for this crumb of acceptance from her, of all people, that we almost go. She, like Cherri, is sympathetic and concerned. The few other people in town who know what’s happened to Lucas are like: Oh, with downcast eyes. There’s a certain what can you expect? attitude. Is that because he has a risky job or risky reputation?

Anyway, the Friday before the event, I decide not to go, and bake a couple of trays of lemon sponge cupcakes for Alice to take to school as a peace offering. The thing is, I don’t want to leave the house more than is absolutely necessary. I want to be there, as close as possible, in case Lucas comes home. I’ve got the only key to the sea horse door. The other is lost, so how would he get in? That’s my ultra-feeble excuse to myself, anyway.

Alice doesn’t mind not going, because the day dawns beautiful and I suggest it’s one for the beach. Given that I’m not straying from Blue Rocks, I override Lucas’s command that the cove below the house is out of bounds. To what harm could we possibly come? Besides, it’s my birthday, and I’d like to spend it on the beach, that beach. Fully aware of my responsibility, I’ve checked the tide tables, packed a basket with swimming aids for Alice, sunblock, towels and anti-histamine ointment in case of stings. I’ve got sandwiches and drinking water, plus an umbrella. Alice has a bucket and spade and a small towel for Buster in case he joins us—he doesn’t.

We spend the best part of the day in the cove. It’s completely private, although when the trees up on the road are bare in the winter you could probably see right in here. There’s no sand, only pebbles, so Alice uses her bucket to “fish” and gather treasures from the shallow rock pools exposed by the low tide. Using a book I found in the house called Common Shore Life of Maine, we identify starfish, one crab, a few types of seaweed and a super-cooperative cormorant that sits on a nearby rock and spreads his wings to dry. We see plovers, and oyster catchers too, but we don’t need to identify those. Alice knows those already.

Last year, I had a landmark birthday. Thirty. There was a big party at Quicksilver in London, even a boyfriend, kind of, called Mark. No, Mike. Mike was his name. We petered out a week later, neither one of us particularly upset. This birthday couldn’t be more different. Funny though, I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying it more, I honestly am—if I don’t think about Lucas.

Gradually, the tide turns, filling the little pools with regular waves that grow with every surge. Alice wails, standing by helpless when her favourite flat rock goes under, and small, precious flotsam and jetsam treasures wash away.

“My jews,” she cries. “My shelves!” Jewels and shells, I’ve come to understand over the course of the day, though there are neither on this pebbly beach. The sun settles in the west, throwing the rocks of the cove into jagged shadows, stained blue-black. We pack up and go back to the house.

Later that night, once supper’s been eaten and Alice is asleep, I drink a birthday glass of wine on the sea porch swing seat, browse my birthday messages, watch the moon come up over the sea, shower and go to bed early, deliciously tired, stung to a warm tingle by the summer sun. Drowsy, utterly relaxed, my thoughts turn—as they do—to Lucas.

If he would please come home—come home and be all right—life would be perfect.