chapter two

Claire?” Mama says. Her voice is a gauzy whisper.

The lady’s whole face breaks out in a smile, and she speeds toward us, kicking up sand with her bare feet. “Oh my god, I knew it was you! I’d recognize that walk anywhere.”

Mama makes a funny noise—halfway between a sob and a laugh—and moves forward. She sets Peach down. I pull my sister to my side and back up as far as possible, my spine smacking against the porch railing. Then the lady draws Mama into a hug, arms all the way around Mama’s back. She even rests her pointy chin on Mama’s shoulder. At first, Mama sort of locks up—I can’t remember the last time she hugged anyone, really, other than Peach, who insists on regular snuggles and sleeps in Mama’s bed half the time—but then it’s like she’s a stick of butter in the microwave, and she melts right into this total stranger’s arms.

“Claire,” she says again, like she really can’t believe it’s true.

The lady pulls back and nods. “Goodness, it’s been—what? Twenty-five years?”

“Sounds about right,” Mama says.

“What in the world are you doing here?” Claire asks.

“We just moved in. We’re here for the summer.”

“Amazing,” Claire says, then juts her thumb toward the green house. I notice a dock near its back porch, a little boat bouncing in the waves. I shiver. “We live just down the beach—can you believe it?”

“I can’t,” Mama says, laughing and shaking her head. “I really can’t.”

“Lemon.” The lady—Claire, I guess she’s called—turns to the girl behind her, who is just lowering her light blue camera from her face. She pops her head up, brown eyes wide and guilty-looking and fixed right on me. I untuck my hair from behind my ear so it curtains around my scarred cheek.

“Put that thing away and meet my old friend,” Claire says.

“Sorry, sorry,” the girl says. She twists the light blue plastic lens and it clicks shut.

Her cheeks have gone bright red, and I’m almost positive she was just about to snap a picture of all of us without our permission. Or rather, of me, as she was staring right at me. I press my hair against my cheek and grit my teeth.

“Hi, oh my gosh, hi!” the girl says. The wind whips her hair around her face and she flails to get it out of her eyes. Her nails are painted a bright turquoise. “Sorry. Wow, it’s windy.”

“Isn’t it always windy on the beach?” I say, my voice as flat as a griddle cake.

Mama gives me a look over her shoulder.

“Yes, it is, actually!” the girl says. When she gets her hair under control, she stares at me again, her mouth hanging open a little. I feel my cheeks warm up, and I frown back at her.

“Lemon, this is Evelyn,” Claire says.

The girl keeps staring at me. It’s really weird. Claire nudges her elbow, and she seems to snap out of it. “Sorry, sorry, you just look…” She shakes her head while I glare down at my feet, my face a raging fire now. My scars feel like lightning bolts across my skin.

“Sorry, hi, it’s so nice to meet you,” the girl finally says, sticking out her arm and pumping Mama’s hand like a grown-up.

“You too… Lemon, is it?” Mama says.

“Clementine,” the girl says. “But when I was little, I couldn’t say it, and Lemon just sort of stuck.”

“Hey, I’m named for a fruit too!” Peach says, moving away from me and toward the fruit girl.

“You are?” Lemon says, leaning down with her hands on her knees so she’s eye to eye with Peach. “Let me guess… Strawberry?”

Peach giggles. “No way!”

“Hmm… Mango?”

Peach shakes her head.

“Apricot? Plum? Dragon fruit?”

“Dragon fruit?” Peach says, covering her mouth and laughing. “That’s so silly!”

Lemon straightens and taps her chin. “Well, I’m stumped.”

“Peach! My name is Peach!”

“Of course it is!” Lemon says, popping her hands onto her hips. The two grown-ups laugh. “Pretty as a peach.”

Peach practically glows. “My real name is Penelope Foster Bly, but Hazey named me Peach. Her middle name is Foster too, because—”

“And this is my older daughter, Hazel,” Mama says, placing an airlike hand on my back for a second before removing it. I glance at her, a lump in my throat. Foster was Mum’s last name—Nadine Elizabeth Foster. She grew up in England until she was eighteen and came to the United States for college, which is why I called her Mum. When she had me, she and Mama just wanted me to have a single last name, so they chose Foster as my middle name and Mama’s surname, Bly, as my last. And when Mama had Peach, they did the same thing. “She’s twelve.”

“Hey, me too,” Lemon says. I lift my mouth in an attempt to smile, but my stomach is in such knots, it might look more like a grimace. Lemon definitely manages a perfect-teeth smile, but I see her eyes roaming all over my face, then flicking down to my Safety Pack and away. When I glance back, she’s staring at my face again. I know I’m blushing, which just makes my scars stand out even more.

“So wonderful to meet you, Hazel,” Claire says. She starts to put out her hand, but when I keep mine clasped firmly behind my back, she drops it and keeps her smile. “You too, Peach. Goodness, Evie, she looks just like you.”

“Doesn’t she?” Mama says, smoothing Peach’s curling hair.

I look down at my feet, eyes blurring on the pebbly sand.

Goodness, Nadine, she looks just like you.

Doesn’t she?

“Girls,” Mama says, “Claire here was my best friend growing up. Until we were—what? Twelve, thirteen?”

“Twelve,” Claire says. “That’s when my whole world ended and my family moved from California to Maine, remember?”

“Your world ended?” Lemon asks. “I thought you loved Maine.”

Claire laughs. “I do, sweets, but losing your best friend and first love is the stuff of catastrophes when you’re twelve.”

Lemon’s eyes go wide. Mine do too, stinging from the salty air. Even Peach’s mouth drops open.

“What?” Lemon says, clicking the t sound so loudly I hear it even over the wind.

“Oh my god,” Mama says, putting a hand over her eyes. She’s smiling, though. “Claire.”

“Don’t tell me you forgot,” Claire says, fists popped playfully on her curvy waist.

Mama’s eyes go gooey-looking. “Of course I didn’t.”

Then they stare at each other for ten whole seconds. Really, really stare. And let me tell you, ten seconds doesn’t sound like a lot, but when your mother is gazing into the eyes of someone else who is most definitely not your mom, it feels like an eternity.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Lemon says really fast. She holds up her palms all dramatically. “First love? As in… first kiss?”

“Mama!” Peach says, giggling. Then she shakes her hips from side to side, singing, “K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

“Peach, cut it out,” I say, watching Mama try to suppress a smile.

“Well?” Lemon asks. She’s pretty much vibrating with excitement.

“Please excuse my daughter, Evie,” Claire says, smoothing her hand over Lemon’s hair. “She’s recently discovered romance.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve thought about all that,” Mama says.

“Me too,” Claire says.

“Tell us how it happened!” Lemon says, her hands literally clasped together and tucked under her chin. “Please. Please.”

This is getting out of hand. I’ve got to get Mama away from this family. My chest feels tight, my stomach swirls like the sea.

“Mama, Peach and I are hungry,” I say. I take Peach’s hand and start tugging her toward Sea Rose Cottage. She digs in her heels, but I don’t let go.

Mama nods, but before she can make her polite goodbyes, which I’m sure she was just about to do, Claire pipes up.

“Hey, Lemon and I were just about to head into town for some dinner,” she says, her brown eyes flitting between Mama and me. “How about we all go together? I’d love to catch up.”

“Yes,” Lemon says, stretching out the short e in the word, her voice all breathy. “Mom, we have to take them to your restaurant.”

“Oh, honey, we don’t need to go there tonight,” Claire says.

“Mom. Come on, it’s a special occasion.”

Claire shakes her head. “I don’t know, Lem.”

“Hang on,” Mama says. “You have a restaurant?”

Claire’s cheeks go pink. “Yes. It’s just a little place downtown, and I—”

“It’s not a little place,” Lemon says. “It’s a big, wondrous, amazing place that’s always packed, and we need to go there now.”

“Lemon—” Claire starts, but Mama interrupts her.

“Absolutely, we have to go there,” she says. “You own a restaurant? I mean, of course you do. You were always cooking up stuff when we were kids.” Then Mama smiles this little knowing smile I’ve only ever seen on her face when she and Mum were talking about something that happened before I was born. My stomach coils up.

“Do you remember when we almost burned down your kitchen?” Mama goes on.

“Oh my god,” Claire says, covering her face. “The butterscotch cookies.”

“Hey, we were kids. Who knew you’re supposed to turn off an oven when you’re done using it? But those cookies”—she reaches out and grabs Lemon’s arm—“Lemon, those cookies, I’m telling you, were delicious.”

Then Mama goes on to describe the cookies in intimate detail. I watch her talk, hands fluttering, smile on her face, words flowing and flowing and flowing from her mouth like a river. I haven’t heard her talk this much in two years. Not since before Mum died.

“And she was only seven years old,” Mama says, shaking her head. “She’s so talented.”

Claire shakes her head, but she’s smiling, her eyes locked on Mama’s.

“Butterscotch chocolate chip cookies,” Lemon says. “They’re my absolute favorite cookie in the whole wide world.”

“You still make them?” Mama asks.

“She sells them with homemade whipped cream at the Rose Maid Café. That’s the name of the restaurant.” Lemon pops her hands onto her hips. “So we have to go. And where else can you get rose ice cream?”

“Rose ice cream?” Mama asks.

“Rose ice cream,” Lemon says. “My mom’s own recipe.” Then she bends down so she’s eye level with my sister again. “Also, Peach, my fruit-named friend”—Peach giggles—“how do you feel about mermaids?”

Peach’s eyes go wide. “I love mermaids. You look like Ariel!”

Lemon laughs. “Well, I can tell you that I did not trade my voice to a sea witch for legs, but…”

“Lemon,” Claire says.

“What? They’ll hear about her eventually,” Lemon says. “Your restaurant is named after her.”

“Named after who?” Peach asks, her mouth open a little in wonder.

Claire shakes her head and gives Mama a look. It’s one of those looks grown-ups don’t think we notice—those looks that say, I’ll tell you later, my kid is a mess—but we do notice.

I notice everything.

Mama tosses the same look right back. Things are getting dire. My mind whirls for a way to get out of this. I try to catch Mama’s eye, pouring as much desperation as I can into my expression, but she doesn’t even glance at me. She’s too busy with the look.

“What if I told you,” Lemon continues, “that mermaids are real and Rose Harbor has one living in our waters. Right. Out. There.” She straightens her arm and moves it across the horizon, fingers slicing between sky and sea.

“Really?” Peach whispers, her mouth hanging open.

“Really,” Lemon says.

“Local myth,” Claire says to Mama. “There’s a mermaid in the harbor, didn’t you know?”

Mama laughs.

“The whole town’s a little obsessed,” Claire says, then heaves a huge sigh, eyes a bit sad. “Lemon… well, she’s a believer.”

“Because it’s a beautiful, magical story,” Lemon says.

“Honey, can we not?” Claire says, that warning back in her voice. Lemon looks away, her eyes on the ocean. The wind whips her hair into her face, blocking her expression from view.

“It’s a fun myth,” Claire says, laying a hand on Lemon’s shoulder. “But it is a myth. Though very good for business, I’ll admit.”

“Well, I’m intrigued,” Mama says.

“Me too!” Peach says.

I wait for Lemon to squeal with excitement or something, but she’s gazing out at the water, her camera pressed to her eye. She snaps the button, and out shoots a tiny rectangular photo. She waves it through the air for a second, then puts it in her pocket. For a moment, I wonder what the picture showed, if there really is a mermaid swirling under the gray ocean, but then Peach starts jumping up and down about rose ice cream and butterscotch cookies and before I can say another word to Mama, she’s walking with Claire up our porch steps, arm in arm, without another backward glance at me.