When We Believed in Mermaids(54)

As we dock, I ask, “Are you singing tonight?”

“I could.”

I nod. “I’d like that.”

“All right.” For a moment, his eyes search my face, but instead of asking if I’m okay, he simply brushes a lock of my hair back from my temple. “She is a lovely child. It makes me wish I could have known you then.”

I think of myself on the beach, digging my feet deep into the sand while Dylan built a fire for all of us, and the lava in my belly gurgles. Urgently, I push the image away. I can’t bear even one more teaspoon of emotion. “Her experiments are wonderful.” I touch my heart. “I was just like that. A little odd. So passionate about the things I cared about. It makes me feel protective of her.”

I’m sick that my pursuit of the truth might lead to disaster for my sister. After so much time, so much effort, it seems wretchedly unfair. It’s still awful that she faked her own death, but—

I don’t know.

In my purse, my phone buzzes, and I yank it out urgently, worried about what transpired once we left. It’s from Mari. Be ready to go surfing at 6 am. We’ll be gone all day.

“Sorry,” I say to Javier. “It’s my sister.” I type, I don’t have the gear, so I need to rent.

I have access to everything. What’s your board these days?

Short board, doesn’t matter.

See you at six, in front of the Metropolitan.



Cool. I pause, then type, Are you ok?

No. But none of this is your fault. See you in the am.



I look at Javier. “We’re going surfing in the morning.”

“Good.” As the ferry comes to a stop, he takes my hand and pulls me to my feet. I take comfort in his grip, which feels like it will keep me from flying away into my thoughts or falling into the bubbling power of my tangled emotions, where I might be burned to cinders.

Cinders. I smile, thinking of my old dog. “I had a dog named Cinder when I was a child,” I say. “He was a black retriever, and he was with us every minute of every day. Did you have pets?”

“Yes. Many. Dogs, cats, reptiles. A snake once, for a little while, but he escaped, and I never saw him again.”

“What kind of snake?”

“Ordinary. He probably lived in the garden till the end of his days.”

We walk up the hill toward the Spanish restaurant where Miguel plays, and I realize I’ve mapped out some of the routes, from ferry to apartment, apartment to market. I’d like to expand my reach, see what lies beyond the park full of magic trees. Go to the other side of the bridge, see what the lights to the north are, but I suppose I’m out of time. “I guess I have to get back to my real life.”

“So soon?”

I twitch a shoulder. “My mother is staying in my house, taking care of things. I left my job without a lot of notice. And I’ve done what I came to do.”

He nods. His hand is still holding mine. Ordinarily it feels sweaty and claustrophobic to hold hands with someone, but his fits mine better than most. I almost pull away as I think that, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll be leaving.

Before we go into the restaurant, he stops and faces me. “If you stay a few more days, we could explore a bit together. You could have a true holiday, enjoy getting to know your family.”

Light from the doorway cascades down the center of his nose, catches on the curves of his mouth, illuminates the column of his throat. “Maybe.”

“Think about it.”

“Okay.”

When we go in, Miguel spies us and hurries over. He’s wearing a turquoise shirt this time, the color making the most of his dark hair and warm skin. “Hola, hermano!” They give their man hugs, slaps on the back and then away. “You must be Kit,” he says, offering me his hand.

I accept his handshake. “I’m happy to meet you.” In my mind are the eyes of a little girl, haunting me, making me ache. “Javier has told me a lot about you.”

He closes my hand between his own. “As he has told me about you, though he could never have fully expressed your beauty.”

I laugh at the extravagant compliment. Javier tsks good-naturedly.

“Are you going to sing?” Miguel asks. “We have missed you. But of course, we do not wish for your date to run away. Was it so terrible you couldn’t bear it?”

“Pay him no attention,” Javier says, his hand at my back. “He thinks he’s clever.”

“I had pressing business last time,” I say. “So rude. This time I look forward to hearing every word.”

Javier swings his arm around my shoulders, kisses my temple. “It will be my pleasure to serenade you.”

“Is that what it will be, a serenade?”

His eyes go sleepy. “Every word will be words of love,” he murmurs close to my neck. “And they will all be for you.”

Again it’s extravagant, but our little idyll is nearly over, so I let it slide past my barriers and settle in my blood, warming me. I lean into him and let him kiss my forehead, and only when I am settled at the small cocktail table near the stage do I see the eyes on us, envy and curiosity and eagerness. “Everyone is staring,” I murmur.

“Because they wish to know who that beautiful woman is with Señor Velez,” Miguel says, giving me a wink.

Then they’re taking the stage, and the crowd goes crazy, whistling and clapping as Javier picks up a guitar. He lifts a hand and settles in a chair before a microphone. The two men begin to play, the guitars weaving in and out of each other, rising and falling, and I think it must be flamenco.

A woman sits down next to me, slim and middle-aged, her perfume spicy in the beery room. She leans in, offering her hand. “You must be Kit. I’m Sylvia, Miguel’s wife.”

I give her a frown. “You know my name?”

She smiles. “We are his family. He talks.”

“Ah.” It makes me uncomfortable, but I take her hand, nod in acknowledgment. A waitress comes around, bringing beer and shots. “Right?” she asks, bending close. “Ale and tequila?”

I’m startled but lean close enough to say, “Yes, thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

She settles a glass of wine in front of Sylvia and a glass of water.

“It’s her job to care for the musicians and their parties,” Sylvia says. “And Javier is . . . well, himself.”

Himself. I glance at the stage. At the people leaning toward him so eagerly.

The music shifts, and they dive into another instrumental piece. This one sounds familiar. It’s exhilarating, full of thumping on the guitars and speedy transitions. I’ve never been a musician, but it’s thrilling to watch them.

Thrilling to see Javier in his natural habitat. He and the guitar are both woven of flesh and wood and strings and notes, all coming together to create enchantment. His fingers fly over the strings, up and down, strumming, slapping, strumming some more. His hair falls on his forehead, and his foot taps on the floor, and he looks up at Miguel to see where they are, and the two dive into the next section, and—

I feel something in my gut. Wild and deep, in tune with his strumming hands, aching and pulsing. It takes on color, a rich yellow, the color of sunlight, and it begins to spread through my body, every single part of me becoming points of light that pulse in time with his strings. It makes me dizzy and makes me feel alive.

“Wow,” I say aloud.

Sylvia laughs beside me. “Yes. Every time.”

The music rises to a crescendo, and then they fall silent. Javier tosses his hair from his forehead and begins rolling up his sleeves. He looks toward me and raises a brow. I touch my hands to my heart, and he smiles.

And then, as last time, he pulls a microphone close, adjusts his guitar, and leans in. His voice is rich and full of layers, caressing the words one by one, the notes weaving in and out. I don’t understand what he’s saying, but I love the way he sings, earnestly, intently. He never looks at me, but I feel his attention, plucking those points of connection through my body, first yellow, now orange.

Next to me, Sylvia leans over. “Do you speak Spanish?”

I shake my head.

She interprets,

“In the whisper of the waves, I hear your name

In the caress of the sunlight, I feel your lips

In the hands of the wind, I feel your touch

Everywhere, in everything, there you are

I will not forget you, sweet love.”



I close my eyes because it’s almost too much. His face, his hands on the guitar. But even as I shut the visuals out, his voice weaves through me, and I see him bending over me as we kissed the first time, and his hands gliding over my body, and the way he laughs at my jokes.

His song trails off, and he picks up a bottle of water to take a drink. The room erupts in clapping, cheering. Javier waves a hand, looks at me, gives me a nod.

And it’s like that for all the time he sings. Beautiful love songs, songs about loss, all the music plucking my heart, piercing my soul. I allow myself to fall into the flow of it, allow it to carry me away into a world that’s more bearable than the one where I’ve caused my sister’s life to come tumbling down around her, where I might well have deprived two children of a family that was, until my arrival, perfectly whole.

When he finishes, I lean into his neck and say, “We don’t have much time. Would you rather sit here or go back to my bedroom?”