Diary of a Radical Mermaid (13 page)

And then she was gone.

Dive into the depths, and breathe. I looked at Tula. “Can I breathe underwater?”

She nodded. “All it takes is practice. And faith.”

Whammo. All these years, I’d thought I was just good at holding my breath.

* * * *

“Onto the shore, girls. This is Sainte’s Point.”

“It is a magical place, Uncle Rhymer,” Stella said.

“Aye, it ‘tis.” Let them have their fancies. I was certain only that the island was far from Orion’s grasp. I hoped.

Stella, Isis, and Venus stepped off the dock and, holding hands, gazed up at the pretty ballast-stone walls and delicate turrets and general oddities of the Bonavendier mansion. The bleached shells of sea turtles decorated a wall beneath the massive beams of the veranda, like warrior shields. Anchors and ships’ cannons perched grandly on stone pads about the yard. Ships’ bells swayed gently from tall posts. From Spanish galleons to Yankee submarines, the Bonavendiers had collected quite a commission from the shallows off their island.

“Look, sisters, a lovely fountain,” Stella said, directing a slender finger at a statue of a sexy mermaid holding a large shell, from which water trickled into a basin. “Such a pretty Mer. A Greek Nereid.”

“Oh, Mother would have loved it here,” little Venus sighed. “It’s wrapped in a lovely shade of happiness.”

“Looks as though they like war a bit much, if you ask me,” Isis grumped. She prodded an 18th century cannon with her sandaled foot. “Perhaps, if our father shows up, we can shoot him with one of these things.”

Venus began to cry. “I don’t want to shoot him. I don’t even know him. Why does he want to kill me and eat me?”

Stella gasped. “Where did you get such an idea?”

“I felt Uncle Rhymer thinking it.”

I groaned. Shaking my head, I dropped to my heels before the threesome — stately Stella, jaunty Isis, sweetheart Venus. “You did no’ hear me thinking such a thing. Tis your imagination, Venus.”

“Mother always said he loves us dearly, in his own way, but that he wasn’t meant to be with us. But if he loves us, wouldn’t he at least talk inside our heads? But he never has.”

“That’s right,” Isis grunted. “He doesn’t call, he doesn’t write. Not so much as a holiday card.”

Stella hissed at her. “Whatever the truth, we’re here with Uncle Rhymer, so let’s make the best of it. Let’s go inside. Miss Lilith left us all manner of good things to eat. Shrimp and chowder and chocolate and deviled crab with butter sauce. She spoke to me just this morning, and she said if we walk to the far side of this island we can see the village of Bellemeade and, farther up the coast, a lovely little cottage where a Mer storyteller lives.”

“A Mer storyteller?” Venus whispered, wide-eyed.

All three girls caught my surge of thought. They pivoted toward me as neatly as a platoon on drill. “Who’s Molly, Uncle?” Stella asked.

“Someone you like immensely, we take it,” Isis echoed.

“And what’s this about her puss?” Venus chimed. “She has a lovely kitty, you say?”

I groaned inwardly and squelched my thoughts. “She’s a nice lady who’s taken up residence across the water, just as we have here.” I pointed a lecturing finger at the girls and put on my sternest face. “But we’ll have no visiting, you hear? It’s no’ safe to leave the island.”

Stella stared at me, picking up on details even I couldn’t hide. Healers are even more sensitive to intuitions than most Mers. Her eyes went wide.

“Molly is . . . she’s M.M. Revere. Molly is M.M. Revere. Uncle!”

“I don’t care if she’s the queen of Persia. There’ll be no visiting.”

“M.M. Revere?” Isis squealed. “M.M. Revere lives nearby?”

“Aye. Now you have the truth. But still, there’ll be no visiting—”

“We have all her books! We have the DVD of Hyacinth and the Mermaid’s Torch! We’ve watched that movie a thousand times!”

“Hyacinth?” little Venus shouted. “The Hyacinth lady lives near here? Oh, Uncle, I want to visit the Hyacinth lady!”

“No visiting.”

They moaned. Stella beseeched me. “But you said she’s one of us. She’s a Mer, and her books are so special—”

“She’s in seclusion, as we are. Do no’ be trying to see her. Enough. No visiting. That’s the last time I’ll say it.”

I was reduced to waving my hands and making a deadly face. In the service, I’d grunt a one-word command and armed men would jump to follow the order. But three little girls made me flap like a deranged seagull.

They looked absolutely crestfallen. I felt as if my own crest had taken a tumble, too. ’Twas no fun to be a father figure. “Into the house with you three,” I ordered. “And not another peep. Not so much as a hum.”

They dutifully trudged up the knoll to the house, their delicately webbed feet beating a soft rhythm in sandals, thin summer smocks floating around them like upside-down buttercups, their heads bowed.

I stood for a moment, looking up at the grand, empty house, then scanning the grand maritime forest behind it, before turning to look at the quiet harbor where my boat was now anchored. Sainte’s Point. A safe sanctuary, I prayed.

I thought of Moll. Another kind of sanctuary, quirky and sweet.

But I could not risk visiting her, anymore than the girls could.

* * * *

Moll, I could still hear Rhymer saying. Speaking my name in that deep, Scotch whiskey voice of his. Almost as if he’d just said it again. He made my knees weak. Not a good thing when one knee was already tricky.

Leaning on my cane, I stopped suddenly in the sandy yard outside the shingled walls of Randolph Cottage, my adopted summer home. Heathcliff snoozed heavily in his carrier, an old kitty-man who spent all but an hour a day in deep, tired rest. I set the wicker carrier down gently, then, trembling, hunched over my cane and peered at a sandy spot between two pink oleanders.

Rhymer’s footprints, from the other night. Big, strong, barefoot, manly imprints.

With the outline of webbing between the toes.

I maneuvered myself into a kneeling position on the sand, then slowly touched a fingertip to the prints. As I traced the outline just above the sand, not wanting to destroy them —to hell with the Zen of the moment, I thought grimly, I like things that last — a sexual warmth came over me, highlighting specific regions, and no respecter of dignity. I shut my eyes.

Dance, Moll, Rhymer whispered. You can do it.

Then he was gone.

I opened my eyes, sat down on the sand, and looked out over the bay at the low green mountain of Sainte’s Point. The island rode the blue-gray crest of the horizon, the rim of the world, the curving waters. I drew a shaky breath. This was all real. I was not immersed in some hallucination, some waking dream, some malfunction of fragile brain tissue. Rhymer McEvers was real. mer-people were real. I was real. A real Mer. Floater class, no webbed tootsies, but still.

You, too, I whispered back to him. Dance. And stay safe.

Trapped in the Land of Rum Cocktails
Chapter
12

Dear Diary:

I hate steel drums and blackened flounder. In my opinion, the entire Caribbean, along with every fruity rum drink, jerk chicken dinner, ‘Hallo, Mon,’ accent, and Rastafarian dreadlock should be swallowed by a massive tidal wave.

But then, maybe I’m just in a bad mood because I’m locked in the Jamaican equivalent of a Vegas high-roller’s suite.

“Juna Lee?” my guard called through the teak double doors in her coy Hispanic drawl. She was six feet tall, two feet wide, and built like a brick lighthouse. An Amazon. A freakin’ Amazon Mer was guarding my door, night and day. The Queen Latifah of Mer Mamas, guarding me. “Juna Lee, you prissy little puta, you better answer me.”

I stood and yelled, “Listen, you Araiza-employed knuckle-dragger, obviously I’m not going to throw myself off a fifth floor balcony when you’re not looking. I’m not a flying fish.”

“Jordan Brighton sent you a gift. Behave and I’ll open the doors and hand it to you. Si?”

I was off to the doors in a flash. My warden unlocked the door, opened it a few inches, then thrust a beautifully wrapped little box at me. I grabbed the box and made a poofing sound at her. “Scared of me? It’s not as if I’m going to arm-wrestle you and bolt.”

Snow white teeth gleamed in the polished chocolate stone of her face. A whiff of Chanel wafted off her pale silk suit. A plus-sized designer Amazon. Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, senorita, I wish you’d try to escape.” She pulled the doors to, and locked them again.

Muttering under my breath, I hurried to my bed — a lonely fantasy island, draped in white netting and plump with sea-peach silk finery — where I curled up and ripped the wrapping off Jordan’s apology.

I forgive you for being a pain in the fin, his note said.

“You forgive me?” I popped open the jeweler’s box and glowered at a tennis bracelet engorged with diamonds and pearls. “You know I don’t play tennis! You know I don’t ever sweat deliberately!” I stuffed Jordan’s note into the box, ran to the balcony, scoured the palm trees, beaches, pools, and cabanas below for a likely target, then drew back my arm ferociously.

I sent the jeweler’s box so far it probably hit a pirate in his Yo-ho-ho.

Then I latched the bracelet around one wrist and went back to my computer.

Never throw diamonds away. It’s bad luck.

Molly Embraces Her Inner Shopping Mer
Chapter
13

I stood on the sidewalk before a boutique in Bellemeade, clasping a small shopping bag containing a clingy, diaphanous silk dress the clerk had talked me into buying. I wasn’t sure I’d be wild enough to wear something so un-Molly-like, even in the privacy of my own home, but I loved the idea of putting it on a hanger and looking at it.

“Ms. Revere, your Jaguar is waiting,” a voice said.

I turned. “I beg your pardon?”

“Tula Bonavendier said you needed a car to drive during your visit to the coast.”

I looked from the well-dressed young manto the gleaming silver Jag he’d parked on the bayfront street. “A Jaguar? I told Tula I was thinking of renting a nice little sedan with a pine-scented air freshener. Something fragrant and inconspicuous.”

“No need to worry about your privacy here, Ms. Revere. Bellemeade belongs to our people. Our Landers are well-trained and polite. They won’t harass a celebrity.”

Ah hah. He was a Mer. I should have known. Second, he was a Mob Mer, or talked like one. Our people. Our Landers. It was almost medieval. The beautiful little village was awash in nice people — Landers, there, I said it! I made the distinction! — who hurried to help me, welcome me, and compliment me on my books. I buzzed with guilty pleasure. I was a princess here. I had peasants.

“The car, ma’am?” The well-dressed Jag-delivery Merman was looking at me.

“Sorry. Lost in thought. I . . . can’t drive a stick-shift, I can’t manage the clutch.”

“Oh, I know. So I brought you an automatic.”

I stared at the magnificent sports car. From the silver cat on the hood to the cat-eye tail-lights, it was one racy feline. I had millions in the bank, but up in Boston I drove an ancient Volvo with a Save The Oceans, Love A Whale bumper sticker. “You don’t have any Volvos to lease, do you? With bumper stickers?”

“Are you all right, Ms. Revere?”

“Yes, yes. I’m sorry.” I’m just not used to life as a mythological sea princess yet. “The car’s fine. Thank you.”

“Please. I’ll take your package.”

He whisked my shopping bag over to the car and put it in the back seat. Then the man strode back to me, bowed slightly, and placed the remote, and its attached key, in my hand.

“Thank you,” I said uncertainly.

“You’re most welcome. Would you mind autographing a set of your books for my son? His name’s Noah. He’s seven, and he’s a huge fan.”

“Of course I wouldn’t mind.”

He shifted a handsome leather tote off one shoulder, dug into it, and produced all four of my Water Hyacinth books, well-thumbed. Hyacinth and the Mermaid’s Torch, Hyacinth and the Temple of Neptune, Hyacinth and the Curse of Poseidon, and lastly, Hyacinth and the Surreal New Life. I mean, Hyacinth and the Siren’s Ghost. The surreal new life was mine.

He held each book open to the title page, and I signed To Noah, from Hyacinth, aka M.M. Revere. Dear Noah, never look a gift whale in the mouth.

“Oh, he’ll love that. Thank you, Ms. Revere.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you for the automotive boost to my pedestrian image.”

He laughed, then headed off down the sunny, oak-shaded street, which fronted a beautiful little marina where shrimp boats mingled with small yachts. I hung the Jag keychain on the tail of my mermaid cane handle, then made my way down the sidewalk. Moll Revere, Mer-babe, driving a Jaguar. The Minnie Mouse of children’s literature, driving a supermodel’s car.

Sunlight glistened on the bay. In the distance, Sainte’s Point was crowned with a blue mist of late-morning fog. I gazed hypnotically at the island, trying not to worry about a murderous mutant named Orion, who might show up on Rhymer’s doorstep one day soon. A dilemma. I’d finally met the man of my dreams, one worth fighting for. But no one had ever mentioned defending him against a web-footed monster. At least, that’s how I pictured Orion.

“Molly!”

Tula waved at me from the entrance to her jewelry shop. On either side, tall, moss-speckled flower pots of a vaguely Grecian nature brimmed with ivy and perfect burgundy roses. She’d invited me to come by, and then we’d do lunch.

“Sorry, I’m a little late,” I called, and limped up the cobblestoned sidewalk as fast as I could.

“No problem. I have a customer to take care of first.”

“I love your faux-Grecian urns. They look like something out of an archaeological exhibit.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “They are.”

“Are what?”

“Real. Coast of Crete. Around the time of the Minotaur, give or take a century.”

A thank-you for the Jaguar stuck to my tongue. I chewed it — my tongue, that is — as I studied Tula’s unvarnished smile. She wasn’t kidding about the vases. Apparently, Mers scattered priceless antiquities around them the way seagulls scatter shrimp shells. She laughed as she caught my thought. “We Mers know where all the good stuff is hidden.” I made my way through the door she held open for me. Speaking of hidden. I looked around furtively. I hadn’t seen Juna Lee since that night at Tula’s cottage. I hoped she’d been eaten by a shark.