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When she got home from school, she checked the time, calculating when Morgan would be free. Although Morgan was still at school, every other spare moment she had, she helped Rowena to run Jump, a busy café that catered to the foodies of Bannimor year-round and an influx of visitors in the summer months. Opening the café had been their dream, and although she missed Morgan’s usually frequent calls and face-time, she didn’t begrudge them their happiness. And they were bound to catch up again soon. Like right now, she thought determinedly as she scrolled to Morgan’s number.
But the phone rang unanswered, and she hung up with a flash of anger. This was getting ridiculous. Morgan never stopped badgering her to come back to visit. Maybe Skye should just get on a bus, and ask her in person what was going on.
At the thought of returning to Bascath Bay, images of the glimmering water, cradled by those green hill arms, made her heart leap with pleasure. But the usual surge of fear that followed was stronger than ever, thanks to last night’s nightmare. Besides, what was the point? Apart from Morgan and Rowena, there was nothing there for her but old heartache.
Her phone pinged. Her frown melted into a smile as she saw Morgan’s name. But only briefly, as she read the uncharacteristic ‘too busy’ brush off. Emojis and “I miss you SOOOO much” were fine, but this was getting weird. Was Morgan hiding something? Very unlike her. Morgan was the most direct person she knew. The suspicion of a boy-related or other disaster occurred to her. Wouldn’t Morgan want her to know? Be a shoulder to cry on? Maybe not. Ever since Skye’s mum died, Morgan had done her best to shield her.
Perplexed, she typed a response, as brief as she could be without making Morgan feel worse on the off-chance something really was wrong. She’d try again on the weekend, would keep calling the Lauders’ home line until somebody picked up. Maybe Rowena could fill her in if Morgan was determined to avoid her.
She turned her attention to her homework: locating her mother’s sketchbook. Her father was in his study, working on his latest book, which was more of the same – sea lore, ocean myths and legends. The word ‘obsessed’ brushed her mind. She tried to ignore what was behind his focus.
Full bookshelves lined one entire wall and part of another. The sketchbook was here if it was anywhere.
“Hey, Dad,” she murmured, hoping she wasn’t interrupting a vital writerly thought. “Just need a book for school.” Not that much would penetrate his concentration when he was working. The amber-filled glass at his elbow looked almost untouched, the bottle capped.
His distracted “Hi, Honey, did you have a good day at...” faded off with another spate of clicking keys and she grinned. Yep, he was on a roll. Maybe when this book was finished, he could move on to new topics. Away from... Against her better judgement, she scanned the notes jotted on a pad beside him, and regretted her curiosity.
‘Bermuda Triangle of surfing: concentrated disappearances of surfers – more to it than meets the eye? One survivor’s first-hand experience suggests so.’
A heavy feeling settled in her chest. Why couldn’t he leave it all alone? People drowned. The sea was nobody’s friend. You could love it, but it would never love you back. The most it would do was tolerate your presence. It could take everything. It would take everything.
But in return, the sea gave itself. Longing for the ocean swept through her, so strong that her intake of breath was audible. Her father didn’t look up, and she swallowed the ocean-yearning down, along with the fear, pushing them down deep so she couldn’t feel either. Focus on the task at hand, she told herself: her mother’s book. It would probably be with the journal-type stuff.
She located the right shelf and began her search, hunting for a short, wide teal linen spine. About the size of a fat notebook, it would be obvious among the taller books. Ten minutes later, she had worked her way along the entire shelf, top to bottom, and began on the second smaller wall of shelves.
“What are you looking for?”
Skye started at the unexpected question. The room had been silent apart from focused key-tapping.
“Mum’s old sketchbook. The one with the stories she used to write for me.” She half-turned as she spoke, in time to see her father tense. It had felt wrong bringing the word ‘Mum’ into the room. They never talked about her. It had been hard enough bringing her up with strangers at school. It was worse seeing the pain flare in her dad’s eyes.
People lost family members all the time. Sure, the hurt never really went away. But it should have softened after ten years. Her dad wouldn’t let it go, so neither could she. His sorrow closed in around her, claustrophobic. She turned away to hide her expression, wishing she was anywhere but here right now.
“Uh...” he cleared his throat. “What do you want it for?”
“Assignment. Art.” She wished she’d chosen Charles Dickens. Or J K Rowling.
“Oh, I see.” Did he sound...relieved? “Sorry kid, I haven’t seen it in years.”
She swiftly turned to face him again, “What, it’s lost?” A feeling of loss jabbed her diaphragm.
Her father shrugged helplessly, his expression unreadable. She couldn’t push. Couldn’t vent her anger at him. She matched his shrug and left the room, taking the stairs at a sprint, fighting the sting in her eyes and breathing hard.
