CHAPTER FIVE

Summer 1996

The new, gleaming estate next door to Adrienne had grown in width and breadth throughout the year and was completed on the 1st of June. Finally, the mysterious Merritt family was due to move in at any moment.

The town was abuzz with gossip. At Hairspray Heaven, ladies prattled on about Mr. Merritt’s widower status, his wife having been claimed in an unfortunate car accident and leaving him to raise his two young sons. Harbor Point was their “fresh start.” Others in town believed Mr. Merritt was moving his family to town in search of a shipwreck off the coast.

The wreck of the Nuestra Señora del Carmén was a local legend often retold by old men playing card games on the bait shack stoop. Rumored to have been lost at sea carrying millions in gold bars and jewels on its way to the New World from Spain, the ship seemed to bring a new prospector to town every decade. But none of the previous treasure hunters had put down roots in Harbor Point, building the grandest home in town.

As June waned, the town’s intrigue simmered. No glimpse of Mr. Merritt yet. From her bedroom window, Adrienne Harris was the estate’s most frequent audience. She loved to sit, elbows on the windowsill, face in her palms, and stare for hours. Her eyes traced the clean square lines and large, dark windows, her mind shaping and reshaping the face of the enigmatic Mr. Merritt. Who was the man who built the brilliant white house? The ladies pestered Adrienne at the weekly Junior League luncheons, demanding news, but she had nothing to offer.

Dear old Gran was blatantly unimpressed. A steady stream of complaints had flowed from her lips during construction. The noise was too loud, the machines were dirty and dusty, and the burly workmen trampled her prized flowers. Adrienne recognized the envy in Gran’s eyes, a longing stirred by the phantom Mr. Merritt’s wealth and notoriety. The big house seemed to harbor everything Gran prized yet did not possess. Adrienne kept this observation to herself and grew uneasy as she imagined her new neighbors clashing with the formidable Elizabeth Harris.

Still, Adrienne found herself riding the same wave of mystery and anticipation that had captivated the others. Even General Boynton, the town founder, had never lived in such a dazzling estate. Her mind sketched out a treasure hunter’s life filled with international adventures. She compensated for her lack of experience by stitching together scenes from those glamorous old movies Gran loved to watch late at night. Mr. Merritt resembled Clark Gable. His sons were the spitting image of a young Frank Sinatra and Errol Flynn.

Adrienne found herself drawn to the beach on that side, yearning to witness the faintest stirrings of life. What would it be like to live in such a place? The scorching wind buzzed with energy. Dizzy, Adrienne would fall into the sand and, staring into the washed-out blue sky, imagine the depths of the sea and its hidden treasures.

Without fanfare, the Merritts finally moved in. The only warning was the subtle invasion of moving trucks threading through the empty streets. Expecting a spectacle, most locals missed it entirely. Even Gran, always the first to sense change, did not hear the trucks turn up the gravel drive and park in front of the house. Adrienne was in fact up and about, but she was oblivious to the convoy, too busy trying to keep her tackle from falling as she pedaled up A1A to the marina to meet her grandfather. Her fishing gear balanced precariously across the handlebars of her bike. She had a lot of poles, each one for a different fish.

The days she worked on the boat with her gramps glistened like jewels amid Adrienne’s routine. She would wake, drawn out of sleep as the sun peeked over the horizon, throw on the dirtiest, grimiest pair of jean shorts she could find, pairing it with some holey, threadbare T-shirt that perpetually stank of fish guts and turpentine, and head to the marina. Her sun-bleached deck shoes glittered with dried fish scales. Dried fish blood spotted her lures. Her worn-out beach cruiser’s continued survival stood testament to her grandfather’s handiwork.

She locked her bike up on the chain-link fence, took the gear off, put it in the old wagon next to the gate leading to the live wells, and headed toward the mangroves beyond the market parking lot. A little path through the green tangle led to the Back Bay and her secret spot, where the canopy preserved a refreshing coolness against the sun’s assault.

The smell of rotting things floated up from the muck as she slipped out of her shoes. She headed for the water, dragging the little wagon behind her.

Mangrove roots jabbed through the sand, blackened fingers reaching for the water’s edge. The little baitfish darted in the shallows, playing hide-and-seek in the roots. The water was clear, but a few feet out, where the sand dipped sharply, it turned coppery black, full of tannins from the dead mangrove leaves. Undeterred by the specter of gators, Adrienne stepped into the water without hesitation. Nothing could pass her keen senses without detection. Mudfish gulped for breath on the mucky banks, and ballyhoo skimmed the water’s surface. An egret tiptoed through the brambles.

She nestled a few folds of her net between her teeth, freeing her hands to tame the rest of its wild expanse with practiced ease. Standing sideways to the water, her left eye on the black pool, she sought the telltale shimmer of a school, a shudder on the surface. When she found her mark, she hurled the net over the dark water. It fanned out into a disk before settling on the surface with a thwap! She hurried to pull it in, bringing the metal weights together like puckered lips to keep the fish inside. When the net reached the shore, hundreds of silvery bodies frantically danced in its clutches. She tossed them into her bait bucket, her hands moving swiftly. She didn’t lose one fish.

When her bucket brimmed with bait, she traded its weight for the lightness of her bamboo pole and threaded the hook with a small ball of bread. Wading through the clear shallows, she found her spot, a small bowl of deeper water where the blue crabs congregated, searching for food. She let the dough ball sink into the pit, and the crabs scuttled over to inspect it. Adrienne held her breath and listened to the pulse of her heart. When one of the crabs latched on, she yanked the line, and the crab popped out of the water, still clutching the ball. Adrienne grabbed the crab by its backside with her free hand so it couldn’t pinch her and stuffed it into a burlap sack hanging from her shoulder. She refreshed the hook with a new dough ball and persisted in her casting, not ceasing until each crab from the bowl had been consigned to her bag.

With her quota of bait secured and blue crabs destined for lunch, she surrendered to the embrace of the wet sand, where the mudfish perched on her feet. She fed them bits of the bread they took from her hands. Piercing the leaves, the sun created a kaleidoscope of light and shadow. Adrienne let her eyelids fall, immersed in the quiet warmth of the late morning. It was here she was connected to everything. Here, she could lie back and be absorbed into the sand and the water. What bliss to evaporate into all things alive and green, she daydreamed.

An unexpected ripple to her left shattered her serenity. She sat up, her clothes wet, her arms sugared with the refined grains, and spied a red-ribbed fin cut out of the water for a moment. The hunt was on.

A snapper, too large for the shallows, had followed the baitfish and stranded itself in the mucky bay, the mangrove roots acting as a makeshift prison cell. Adrienne crept through the water, making little wake or sound. The fish was too disoriented to notice her approach. She stretched her arms into the tannin-soaked pool as if to hug it. Cool, smooth scales slipped across the tips of her fingers, and she gently encircled the fish with her hands, bringing the tired thing out of the water. There was calm acceptance in its eyes.

She brought the gasping face close, smelling the sweet, fishy scent. Its eyes bulged as it spied her, its beauty not lost. For a suspended heartbeat, she was entranced by the mosaic of red and white scales, their luster unmarred by the struggle. Then she laid the snapper on the sand and swiftly slit its belly, the entrails spilling out. She threw these to the baitfish in the bucket, who churned furiously to claim a morsel. The snapper went into the big ice chest by the live wells up by the market before Adrienne turned toward the marina.

The cars on A1A drifted by like giant, lazy fish, matching Adrienne’s sluggish pace. Occasional hands fluttered in greeting from car windows. She held on tightly to her shifting load, trying to keep from spilling all the fish onto the sidewalk. Twyla’s flower shop, Maddy’s Café, the Hurricane Bar, and the new pizza shop that didn’t have a name slipped by in her periphery on her shortcut through the former Frank’s Auto-Rama, now an abandoned lot where beach daisies were slowly breaking up the concrete, returning the patch of land to something wild. Fat yellow-and-green grasshoppers sprayed up as she barreled through with her wagon and sloshing buckets of bait. The Dolly, bobbing cheerfully in the bay by the gas pumps, came into sight.

Christopher Crane stood with hands on hips at the back of the boat where Adrienne expected her grandfather to be. A groan slipped from her lips, carried by the salty air directly to Christopher’s keen ears. He laughed as if they were playing a game where she didn’t find him the most annoying person in the world. He even threw in a little wave to make it worse.

Adrienne hiked up her soggy jean shorts and trundled closer. “Are you coming out with us?” She surveyed the boat, searching for clues. Happily, he had not brought his gear. He was too clean for boat work, wearing a crisp white polo shirt paired with tan khaki shorts, his dark hair just washed and brushed.

Casting a shadow with his hand against the sun’s glare, he measured up her silhouette on the dock. “I’m only here to lend a hand,” he replied. His British accent fought to disarm her, but she stood fast against it. He grasped the outrigger and leaned into it.

“I put a snapper in the ice chest. There’s a bucket of blue crabs up there too.” Adrienne launched onto the boat, landing with a satisfying thud.

“A good morning haul, I see.” Christopher eyed the wagon, pulled himself up to the dock, and handed her the live bait buckets. She decided not to grumble about how she could handle it, instead waiting for the right moment to pin him with the day’s complaint.

“I’ll pop them in the steamer when I return to the market. Want me to fix the fish, too? Maybe some lemon? Garlic?” He nodded to her as he handed the last bucket down.

It was hard to stay mad at him, especially when he was always helping her grandfather run the market, steaming her crabs, and offering to prep her fresh-caught fish. With her grandfather’s health waning, their reliance on Christopher was an unwelcome necessity. But all she had to do was remember the latest news article he had written for the Harbor Point Star, where his “real job” was as a beat reporter.

Adrienne chose to ignore his kind offer and get to the point. “I really enjoyed yesterday’s article about Gran.” Swinging around, she dumped the last squirming fish into the boat’s live well.

“Oh, Adrienne,” Christopher said in a singsong tone he reserved for her, no doubt knowing it made her feel like a kid, which no fifteen- year-old wanted. His feet hit the boat’s bow, causing her loose fishing poles to fall over. “It’s my job to report on the happenings around town, and we both know it’s a small town with not much going on.”

She glared, waiting for a better explanation.

“I can’t help if one Elizabeth Harris tends to be the main source of ‘happenings’ in this town.” He opened his arms as if asking for some consideration. She wouldn’t give it to him. “I must report on the disputes. My hands were tied.”

Yet again, a scandal had rocked the annual Harbor Point Historical Society chili cook-off fundraiser. The previous year, Gran had lost first place for the first time when Paola Suarez, Harbor Point’s butcher, had snatched the title away; the very next year, Paola’s prize-winning chili verde gave the panel of judges explosive diarrhea.

Smelling something beyond mere culinary intrigue, Paola dispatched a sample to a food lab. Lo and behold, the test showed traces of ex-lax in her pot of chili. Pete Spicer, a bashful figure known to hover over Ocean Boulevard Bridge, only found the courage to step forward when the lab results were illuminated. He claimed he saw Gran lurking around Paola’s hot plate the day of the event. The Harris family had been banned from the chili cook-off for life.

The relentless gossip was already a torment, but to witness her grandmother’s mortifying antics etched in ink was a burden Adrienne struggled to shoulder. Anyone could go into the Harbor Point Library and search archived issues of the Star and read about the terrible crimes Gran had committed. Adding insult to injury, Gran herself kept a scrapbook, a disconcerting tribute to her notoriety, bursting with clippings of every article where her name featured. The book would appear late in the evenings whenever Gran hosted some to-do at the house.

Slumped in defeat at Adrienne’s unrelenting stoniness, Christopher turned to the hatch leading to the boat’s cabin. “You think he’s okay to be on the water today?”

“He’s going to die. He might as well enjoy what he has left. I’m taking him out if he’s feeling up to it.” She cringed at her own frankness, but it was the truth. Gramps was going to die sooner than later. “He had chemo yesterday, but he slept through the night. So far, he’s holding up.”

“You’re too young to care for all these old people. You know you can call me if you need help.”

Her tense posture melted in resignation as she nodded. Christopher’s simple kindness threatened to undo her carefully constructed defenses. The dedication he showed by working at the fish market for paltry wages revealed his deep affection for Gramps. She had to be brave for her grandfather, but who would be brave for her? Gramps always had a kind word to say and a song to hum. His storytelling would fill the market with old men in the late afternoon. Before cancer, he proudly served as the unofficial grill captain at all community picnics. And his shy version of Santa at the Women’s Club holiday fundraisers was a town favorite. It made Adrienne beam with light to be near him, to call him her grandfather. “I’ll be up at the shop. Stay close to the shore, okay?”

“Sure. You know I can handle this.” Adrienne creased her brow as Christopher hopped onto the deck. She couldn’t give him too much leeway.

“That’s right. Your birthday is next week.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully.

“How’d you know that?”

“Come on. I’m a reporter. It’s a big one, sixteen, right? It’ll be strange seeing you driving around town rather than pedaling that rusty old bike.”

Adrienne rolled her eyes.

“I have another tidbit for you, something you’ll want to know from this ol’ reporter.”

“Sure.”

“I happen to know that the Merritt clan is moving into that grand house next door to you today.”

Adrienne straightened abruptly. She had been counting down the months. Now that the day was here, thoughts flurried within, leaving her in a state of ambiguous exhilaration.

“Ah, thought that might be of interest.” Christopher winked before heading up the dock. He turned to her one last time, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I’m off to meet with Mr. Merritt for an interview, but fill me in on anything interesting you might spy?”

“Sure,” she replied again, but she wasn’t present. Her mind had wandered over the Back Bay to South Road. What’s happening at the big white house? It was impossible to focus.

Gramps came out on the deck. He smiled at Adrienne. His face, a map of years lived out in the elements, brightened whenever he found himself on the water. His sparkling blue eyes rivaled a child’s on a joyous summer day. Adrienne cherished the sight of him: his shock of thick white hair slicked back with a dab of VO5, his chest still trim and browned through the gaps of his unbuttoned, faded Hawaiian shirt.

“A short trip today, Dolly.” Gramps put a hand on her shoulder and gave Christopher a salute. “Not a good idea to leave Gran alone with the new neighbors.”

They all chuckled at the idea.

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, they pulled up to their small wooden dock. The surrounding jungle cloaked the Back Bay in dappled shadows as Gramps started the familiar ritual of cleaning and readying the boat for the next day. His arms trembled slightly, the broom in his grip brushing feebly over the deck. Adrienne bit back words of concern. Instead, she quietly took over when he relented and slunk to his captain’s chair.

The bottom of the bay, a concoction of mud, sand, and who knew how many years’ worth of mangrove roots and leaves, squished between her toes as she scrubbed the hull. The tide drew toward its peak ebb, and the air seemed to ferment, viscous with the stench of rot and heat.

As they headed up the narrow dock and through the tunnel of mangroves, Gramps draped an arm over her shoulders and slid something into her palm. Her fingers closed around a crinkled bit of paper. When they emerged into the sunlit expanse of the grassy field adjoining the road, Adrienne looked at the fifty-dollar bill in her hand and kissed his cheek.

“For your birthday. Don’t tell your Gran. You know how she is. Put it toward that car you’re saving for.” He placed a kiss on the top of her head.

She smiled. “It will be our secret.”

Her eyes darted to the moving van outside the gate of the mansion. Her feet suddenly rooted in place, tethered by a bout of apprehension. Then she followed Gramps home. It wasn’t as if she could simply march up to the front door and ring the doorbell. The thought made her skin crawl. Unsaid words fluttered in her mind, but not one of them felt right.