Heidi McIntyre

Prologue

Madeline Hunter

Deep calls to deep.

— Psalm 42

May 1996

A crab scuttled around my foot and dove headfirst into the sand as the water receded, leaving tiny air bubbles in its wake. I took a deep breath, let the sea-salt air wash over me as I tilted my head like a flower towards the sun.

At thirteen years old, I was almost as tall as my mom, who stood by my side, her arm wrapped around my waist. I inhaled her comforting Burberry scent mingled with the ocean. We’d driven all night from our home in Winstead, a small town in the northwestern corner of the state, all our things piled into Dad’s rickety old van: boxes filled to the brim with household items, suitcases, an antique lamp (my mother’s favorite), an oriental carpet, a few plants, and, of course, lots of books.

The minute we drove away from the only home I had ever known, I imagined we were gypsies on a wild adventure. But after a few hours on the road, the romance left me, and I grew tired and irritable.

When we arrived in Penbrook, Mom drove me to the nearest beach to cheer me up. I flung myself out of the van and ran through the parking lot. At the entrance of the small boardwalk which led to the beach, I took off my sneakers and socks in one fell swoop and pulled off my sweatshirt, letting it land near the dunes. But as I stepped across the wooden planks, my pace slowed; I was overwhelmed by the sights, the sounds of waves tumbling into the shoreline. By the time my bare feet touched the warm sand, I was so elated I ran straight to the water’s edge.

I was enjoying the sensation of the water pooling at my feet while the tide rose, receded, and rose again until my hot temper drifted away, replaced by a peace and calm I had not known for many months. I imagined myself sailing beyond the limitless line on the horizon. And, in that moment, I understood the raw power of the sea, whose vastness could either swallow me whole or soothe my tired wounds, reminding me of my small place in the world. When Mom caught up to me, I humbly whispered, “We’re home.”

She smiled, tucked a wisp of blond hair behind her ear, put her arm around my shoulders and gave me a gentle squeeze. “Yes, we are, my darling. This is our new beginning.”

I closed my eyes and envisioned my dad standing with us, the glassy sheen in his eyes, fingernails blotchy with paint, the smell of smoke mixed with turpentine. I could see him raising his thumbs up as if to frame this scene as a picture in his mind’s eye. He would say the sky was azure, his favorite color. While I felt him float away, I pushed down the lump in my throat. Silent tears dotted my eyes. His death, just three months ago, left a deep cavern inside me.

I knew Mom felt the pain of his loss too, but in a different way, one that made her want to escape, leave our home, and put the past behind her for good. Even the slightest mention of Dad would cause her to frown and turn away.

So, we packed up and headed to the coast. Mom said it was time to be near her side of the family for a change, which was a funny way to phrase it because there wasn’t a whole side, just one person—her sister, my Aunt Phoebe, who lived in Penbrook.

It surprised me because my aunt is the exact opposite of my mom, who often complained about her sister’s “new age” lifestyle. After being married to my dad, who spent as much time drinking as painting, Mom had a disdain for creative, “hippie” types and, according to her, my aunt fit that category to a T. But Aunt Phoebe was the only family we had.

I moved farther out into the water, letting my feet sink deeper into the sand. Out of nowhere, a rogue wave hit me hard in the knees, almost knocking me off balance. I had the sudden urge to dive in headfirst but stopped short when I spotted something odd just a few feet away. It was the color that caught my eye — pinkish pearl mingled with turquoise green, a shiny dance of color and light at play under the water. Mom described it as “luminescent.”

A huge tail splashed, rocked the shore, causing us to jump back in surprise. When I grabbed Mom’s waist for support, I could have sworn a long mane of reddish, wavy hair rushed past me as it glided out to sea.

Chapter 1

Maria Hallett

August 1717

There was a perilous storm last night. Gusts of wind tore through Wellfleet like a scourge. The violence of the driving rain matched my rage, a pain so bone deep I wondered how I would survive it. That’s what grief had become for me, a boiling pot of emotions that kept me teetering on the edge.

My love was everything to me—my North Star, my protector and my deliverer. But now all that’s left of him is this interminable rain, which drives his coffin deeper into its watery grave.

I placed my shawl on the wet sand and sat down, glaring at the ocean as if I could resurrect him at will. My legs itched from the rough fabric of my homespun skirt bunched up above my ankles. I picked up a fistful of the ice-cold sand, let it sift through my fingers and smelled the musty, brackish air. When I undid the pins of my white cap, my hair billowed like a sail into the breeze.

The noonday sun had long been hidden behind dark, grey clouds — the last remnants of that bad, bad weather. A storm, much worse than this, had already laid its mark on this place just four months ago. The devil had a hand in that dreadful night, I’m sure of it. At low tide, I can still see the planked shell of his ship like the bones of a beached whale.

I was afraid my little cottage, just above those cliff dunes, would be torn apart, so I hid out in my uncle’s barn not but a quarter mile from here. The lashing rain and howling wind woke me in the middle of the night, gave me a jittery feeling. And I knew something had gone horribly wrong. I pulled by blanket up to my neck and burrowed deep in the hay, but sleep did not come back to me.

The townspeople say I’m a witch, but I swear on the Lord’s Holy Bible that’s a lie. I admit to having a knowing, just like I knew a storm was brewing long before the wind picked up and the sky turned pitch black. I must humbly confess, for as long as I can remember, I have had this feeling about certain things, like a seed that was planted deep inside me. But I don’t cast spells or cavort with the devil. And I cannot see the future.

My knowing is neither good nor evil, it just is.

Chapter 2

Madeline Hunter

“For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), it's always our self we find in the sea.”

— E.E. Cummings

August 2018

My hand twitched while I tried in vain to resist the urge to check my cell phone again. My friend, Chelsea, was sixteen plus minutes late, typical for her but a lesson in patience for me. I waited at a corner table in front of tall glass windows that overlooked the ocean at Fish Tales, my favorite restaurant.

I’ve known Chelsea since we were in high school and even after all these years, I’m still not sure what binds us together. She’s the exact opposite of me, a lively extrovert who lives to socialize. My head spins when she shows me her calendar because she has events or parties scheduled nearly every night.

As a true introvert, I’ve always hated the mindless chatter of cocktail parties, preferring to relax on the couch in my fluffy robe with a good book and my black cat, Poe, snuggled up beside me. But Chelsea and I balance each other out. I’m reserved, a perfectionist with a critical eye for detail while Chelsea is wild, flamboyant and easily distracted, hence always late.

While I scanned my emails on my cell, I glanced up and spotted an older man sitting at a small table a few feet away. His clothes caught my attention because he wore a burgundy sweater, which was odd for mid-August. With his ruddy, weather-beaten complexion, he looked like a sailor who had spent too many years at sea. He had a stocky build and a reddish beard peppered with grey. He must be at least seventy, maybe older. I noticed the end of a slim white pipe stood out from his breast pocket as he sipped his beer and I recalled from our local museum, those clay pipes were used over a century ago. How odd.

I felt drawn to speak to him, so I debated whether to walk over and introduce myself, but just then my stomach growled so loud I could have sworn the people sitting nearby could hear it. Oh dammit, I’m starving. Embarrassed, I flagged down Maggie, the waitress, and ordered a bottle of Chardonnay, Chelsea’s favorite. I used to babysit for Maggie when she was just a kid, now she’s taller than me. This is what I enjoy about living in a small town, seeing familiar faces like Maggie’s. Even though Penbrook has grown a lot since my mom and I moved here, it’s still a close-knit community.

I glanced at a picture of the crab bisque featured on the menu, one of Fish Tale’s signature dishes. The savory cream with a hint of sherry and meaty chunks of fresh crab meat gets me every time. I was conjuring up the taste when Chelsea walked up behind me. Her sing-song voice broke my thoughts.

“So sorry I’m late. The nutty client I told you about insists on having a call every Friday at 4:30 pm and tonight he kept rambling on and on. I couldn’t get him to quit.” Chelsea works as an Account Executive for Bradford & Clarke Public Relations, the largest PR firm in town.

“No problem,” my voice squeaks, trying to hide my lie. Holding a Kate Spade purse in one hand and her cell phone in another, Chelsea sat down across from me just as Maggie walked over with the bottle of Chardonnay.

Chelsea started speaking in that rapid-fire way of hers. I’m pretending to listen while I glance over to where the old man was sitting. But he was gone. The table was cleared and there was no sign of him. I could have sworn he’d had a full beer just a minute or two ago.

Chelsea paused mid-sentence and frowned. “What’s up with your hair?”

I put my hands in my messy bun and felt around for a pen, thinking I might have left it there when I was working at the front desk of my store. But my fingers come up empty. “What do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, it looks like a hornet’s nest.”

I pulled out a compact mirror from my purse, wishing I had taken the time to check my reflection before I left the shop. In a quick motion, I smoothed my fingers through my hair and redid the bun, which was still messy but no longer looked like medusa.

Chelsea continued to size me up. “And look at your hands?” My fingers were laced with speckles of paint. “Oh, it’s just some left-over residue. I finished renovating that cabinet I told you about, the one that’s part of my latest collection of beach-style furniture.”

I could see the look of horror on her face as she strummed the table with her perfectly manicured, pale pink nails. I couldn’t remember the last time I had gone to the nail salon or even the hairdresser. My business consumed most of my time and energy. When she shook her head in indignation, her red-tasseled earrings mesmerized me, swinging back and forth in unison with her movement.

I have always admired my friend’s artful style. With her long blond hair and pale blue eyes, heads turn everywhere she goes, not just because of her fashion sense, but her model-like beauty. I tended to gravitate towards the same palette — grey, black, and navy.

I braced myself, waiting for one of Chelsea’s fashion critiques but, to her credit; she changed the subject. “Did you get the text I sent you?”

“You mean the one with the link to another dating app? How many dating sites are out there?”

“You’d be surprised.” She smiled, took a sip of wine. “But this one is different. It’s for Mensa-types, bookworms just like you.”

“Really,” I huffed. “That’s even worse than the previous one you sent me with the cowboys.”

“They’re farmers. You know, men who make a good living off the land not riding horses in a rodeo. There are plenty of farmers in Connecticut.”

“Penbrook may not be a big city, but it’s not exactly farm country either,” I replied, feeling both defensive and self-righteous at the same time. “I don’t know why we’re having this conversation, since you know I have no desire to date.”

“I’m worried you’re becoming a hermit,” she declared, a bit too loud. “You need to get out more.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, come on, just because I don’t like to go out every night doesn’t make me a hermit.”

“Uh, huh.” She picked out a cheese biscuit from the basket Maggie brought over, took a bite, and gave me a dubious look, oblivious to the crumbs that scattered across her small plate and onto the table. I bit back the urge to gather them up with my napkin.

“When was the last time you went to a party or even just a dinner with friends?” She whispered, as if my lack of social life was some big, dark secret.

My spine stiffened. I paused for a moment, searching my memory. Had it really been that long? Dating had been off the table since my last relationship disaster. Other than Chelsea, I hadn’t gone out with friends in months. I had even lost touch with my college buddies at Hartford. After an endless minute, I blurted out. “Just last Friday, I went to an estate sale with Aunt Phoebe.” My cheeks reddened in embarrassment. I knew this was lame, but it was all I had.

Chelsea pointed her finger at me. “That was for work, and you know it.”

I struggled to find something to save face. I had gone to a few restaurants but that was to pick up my usual take out–last Tuesday it was Chinese, the previous Friday, spaghetti and meatballs from a small Italian restaurant around the corner. Maybe Chelsea was right. Maybe I have become more of a recluse these days. “I guess a trip to the library doesn’t count?”

Chelsea slapped her hands down on the table. “I rest my case.”

“Okay, I get your point.” I waived my hands in the air in mock surrender. “But I’m not like you, Ms. Extrovert. I don’t need to be the life of the party and I enjoy being alone. My store is making a profit, so I’m not stressed for a change. Trust me, I’m in a good place.”

Chelsea crossed her arms over her chest, leaning forward. “I still think you should start dating again. Oh no, don’t give me that look. It’s been over three years since you jilted Andrew.”

“He cheated on me!” I blurted out as the heat rose to my face.

Chelsea’s eyebrow quirked. “Oh yeah, hmm… he did. And if my memory serves me right, you were planning to break up with him. Even you must admit, his cheating was a convenient excuse. It gave you an easy out.”

 “I still felt betrayed. After all, he did not know what I was planning.”

“Oh please, we both know Andrew is not worth all this drama.” Chelsea slapped her napkin over her lap. “You and I are going out next Saturday night, and I won’t take no for an answer. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

I took a long sip of wine and turned to stare out the window. The full moon cast a pale bloom over the water, reflecting pinpricks of light like tiny stars against an inky cobalt sky. I wondered how many secrets lay beneath those deep blue waves.