When We Believed in Mermaids(51)

He speaks Spanish, obviously, but I haven’t heard him do it before. It brings home the fact that I’ve known him only a couple of days. He sounds as if he’s working out a problem, going back and forth rapidly with the caller, ending in questions and then an authoritative tone. “Sí, sí,” he says, and bobs his head back and forth as he looks at me, his hand making a chattering gesture. More Spanish. “Gracias, adiós.” He disconnects and comes toward me, arms outstretched. “So sorry. My manager. You look beautiful.”

“Thank you. It’s the dress.”

He grins, shakes down his sleeves, and buttons them. “I will never see you in that dress without seeing you strip it off, toss it at me, and dive into the water.” He animates the entire sentence with gestures, ending with a whistle and hands pointed down toward an imaginary bay. His hair is tousled, and without thinking, I lift a hand to smooth it back from his forehead. My fingers graze the heat of his skin, and I touch the tip of his ear on the way back down.

“How are you doing?” he asks me.

I think about it for a moment. “Okay.”

“You talked with your sister?”

I smooth the front of his shirt, press the crisply ironed pocket flatter. “Yes.”

He inclines his head. “No more anger?”

“Oh, I’m angry.” I take a breath. “But . . . there’s no point. It’s all water under the bridge.”

“Mm.”

“What? You don’t believe me?”

His hands fall on my shoulders. “Maybe not easy to make it go away so fast.”

I gesture behind us, toward the park. “I fell asleep in the arms of a fairy tree. She probably erased my anger.”

He smiles and kisses my nose. “Maybe. Let’s go meet your Lazarus sister.” He takes my hand.



On the way down the promenade in Devonport, in the soft New Zealand evening, he continues to hold my hand as we walk to her house. “Did you phone your mother?”

“Not yet. She was probably at work this afternoon.”

“Must be difficult to think what to say.”

I glance at him. “Maybe.” I stop. “This is it.”

The house is lit from within, making it look like a cake with its gingerbread finishes. It makes me dizzy to think how far she came to land here, in this pretty little place with her children. A dozen images of Josie rush across my imagination—her little-girl self draped in mermaid jewels; her as a fierce preadolescent standing up for me, for herself, against the fighting of our parents; her promiscuous teen years; her druggie surfer years.

She said to me, Don’t you see, Kit, that I had to kill her?

Maybe there really had been no other way. But I am too emotionally weary to think about that right now.

A dog pops up in the window and barks an alert. The little girl appears at the screen door. Sarah. “That’s my niece.” I tug Javier’s hand. In this, I am eager. I wave as we come up the steps, and she swings the door open. A golden retriever comes wagging out, half his body going with his tail. Another, a sober shepherd, hangs back. “Hi, Sarah. Remember me? I’m Kit.”

“I’m not to call you by your first name. Is it Miss?”

“Right. Sorry. I’m Dr. Bianci.”

Her eyes light up. “Dr. Bianci!” She offers her hand to shake, and it’s a good solid grip for a seven-year-old girl. “Are you Mr. Bianci?”

Javier steps up solemnly. “Señor Velez, at your service.”

She giggles. “Come in.”

We follow her into a room lined with windows on two sides, casement with internal shutters I imagine must be for storms. The walls are a sunny yellow, the fabrics sophisticated patterns in primary shades. The whole is light and welcoming and cheerful, so like the childhood Josie that it nearly slays me right there.

Sarah introduces the dogs: Ty, a golden retriever; a fluffy little dog named Toby; and Paris, the solemn black shepherd. Just as she finishes, Simon comes loping into the room, drying his hands. “So sorry. Hello again!” He reaches for my hand and then kisses my cheek. “Is it Kit for everyone, or is there some other name I should call you?”

“Dad, she’s a doctor. You should call her Dr. Bianci.”

Our eyes meet, and I highly approve of the sparkle in his. “Do you mind if I call you Kit?”

“Kit is great.”

The men introduce themselves, and then we’re swept into a conservatory overlooking a spectacular garden with a greenhouse, where a table is set for six. Candles flicker in the middle, and here the colors are softer, blues and greens in the placemats, the cushions on the chairs. “This is beautiful.”

My sister appears at last, wearing a simple blue summer dress with a thin white cardigan, her hair covered with a bandeau in the same blue as the tablecloth. It sets off her cheekbones and the line of her neck but also makes no attempt to hide the scar. Her cheekbones are flushed as she comes forward to greet me, and something about her tight hug annoys me all over again. “I am so happy you’re here,” she says, and lets go to greet Javier.

She pauses ever so slightly, and he takes her hand, kisses her cheek. “Javier Velez,” he says. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Oh my gosh!” She gets a little fluttery, holds his hand between both of hers. “We’re honored to have you.” She turns to Simon, smiling. “He’s quite a famous Spanish singer.”

“Is that right?”

I give Javier a quizzical glance. He shrugs a little, tips his head, as if this might be a breach of etiquette to admit to his real life. “Perhaps a little famous in some little places.”

Simon chuckles. “I see.”

Mari gives me a look, shaking her head slightly. “You should have told me your friend was a famous musician, Kit.”

“Uh.” I look up at him, feeling disadvantaged. “I forget.”

All three of them laugh, but Javier lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses it soundly. I should not like it, such a boyfriendly gesture, but it buoys me now. “Which is one thing I quite like about you, mi sirenita.”

The boy comes down then, Leo, and he’s the spitting image of his father and as relaxed in his skin. He has been playing video games but makes no fuss about stopping.

I wander back into the kitchen with Mari, and the smells envelop me like a blast of home. “Oh my God. What did you cook?”

She smiles at me proudly, and I’m pierced by the earnestness with which she displays the meal. “Vermicelli alla siracusana.”

“With preserved lemons.” I bend down to inhale the mingled scents, and they’re so heady, I’m practically dizzy. “Beautiful. Like . . . my father’s.”

She touches my arm, the one with the tattoo. “I covered mine tonight,” she says quietly, “but they will notice. Little sister.”

I touch it, green and blue mermaid scales with a scrolly script that looks as if it were written with a fountain pen that says, LITTLE SISTER. “Friends,” I say with a shrug.

She nods. “Of course. But you’re obviously the big sister.”

“Ha. That’s the joke, right?”

“Yes.” Again that accent, making her someone else. She touches my arm. “That was the first time I tried to get sober for real. After I saw you and we ate at the diner. When we got the tattoos.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. Why?”

She shakes her head, looks toward the purpling sky through the window. “You were so focused on your career. It was inspiring. You weren’t letting”—she takes a breath, blows it out—“everything that happened hold you back.”

I think of how sad I felt this afternoon that I’ve never told my mother how proud I am of her. “You did it, though,” I say. “I’m proud of you.”

She swallows and turns to the stove. “Thanks.”

Sarah comes into the kitchen. “Do you want to see my experiments?”

“Sure. Do we have time before dinner?”

“Only a couple of minutes, honey,” Mari says. “Don’t be long.”

“Sweet!” Sarah takes my hand and leads me to the back door. “Do you want to see?”

I’m so happy to have her little hand in mine. “I used to do experiments all the time.”

“I have some plant experiments going,” she says, pointing to the greenhouse. “My papa helps me set them up. We’re growing three different seeds to see which ones grow best, and we’re also growing avocado seeds in three different environments. And celery.”

I’m startled by the sophistication she displays, her articulate descriptions. “Have you learned anything yet?”

“We had to throw away the fourth avocado seed because it died. They don’t like salty water.”

I nod and let her lead me through her barometric center and her measurements, piercingly recorded in her childish handwriting. We visit the rock crystal center and the mini greenhouse for avocado seed number three. Overhead, rain begins to patter onto the glass roof, and I hear Mari call, “Come on, you two, before you get soaked.”

We both laugh and then dash for the house, our legs getting wet. At the door, she says, “You’ll have to take off your shoes. Otherwise my mum will get mad.”