Had this happened to the
Resolute
as well? The letter mentioned a lifeboat being found south of Martha’s Vineyard. It was as if the ships were caught in a cross fire of wind and currents and their parts were strewn all over the ocean floor.
But she soon spied the other half, the bow, not far from the aft part of the schooner. The bow was destroyed, but the aft section was amazingly intact. It sat up on the remnants of its keel and looked ready to resume life at sea. There were even portholes still intact. Slowly May approached the round windows. It was a miracle that the glass had not been smashed to smithereens. She was frightened to look in. What if there was a dead man? The captain had never been found. Suppose he was still sitting at his navigation desk? She swam closer, then pressed her nose to the glass. No dead man, but she almost swallowed a mouthful of water and choked. For what stared back at her was a pale face. Was it a specter? She raised her hand, and the specter did as well. She waved and then smiled. She knew that this was her reflection, and yet with the slight distortioncaused by the water, she could imagine another being almost identical to herself. Once again she felt the tingle in those empty spaces and the song she had sung to the seal pup filled her head once more. She pressed her mouth to the glass and whispered, “Someone sang us the song. Someone really did.”
The following morning, after she had finished her chores, May went down to the beach to gaze out to sea. She was thinking about the reflection in the porthole. Water, she knew, distorted light, bent it. This was not called
reflection,
but
refraction.
If she gave it time, she might better understand those mysterious shapes that seemed to swim beside her. She was thinking about all of this when she caught sight of a small day sailer approaching Egg Rock. The lines of the boat were unmistakable. It was a Phineas Heanssler craft. It must be Hugh—Hugh Fitzsimmons! He was actually coming for the book. She could not quite believe it. She had tried to banish any thought of himsince the dance. But she looked out now and saw that sail with a bellyful of wind pulling him toward Egg Rock. Then it dawned on her: She had to get the book before he walked up to the lighthouse. There was no way she would let him inside. Zeeba was especially cranky today. And what would she think of a college boy from away? It would be like mixing oil and water.
May took off and raced up to the path. She must get the book before he got to the dock. A few minutes later she was on the ramp of the dock, panting slightly, with the book in hand.
“Hello!” she called when he was a few yards from the dock’s float. He let the sails flap as the boat coasted in.
“Hello, May. Great day for a sail.” He was wearing a broad-brimmed hat—a summer-folk hat—that cast a slanting shadow across his face. “Can you catch my line?”
He tossed her the painter. She jumped up, still with the book in one hand, and caught the tail end midair. “Good aim,” she said.
“Good catch.” Even through the shadow she saw the flash of his smile.
“I’d invite you up to the house but my mother’s not very well today. But we can walk around the island. It’s not very big.”
“That would be lovely.”
“Here’s the book,” she said, extending her arm. She did not look at him directly. She was unsure what to say next—how to continue the conversation.
“You don’t need it anymore, May? You’re sure?”
“Well, I might need it again sometime. But no, really, you take it for now.”
He tucked it into a satchel and then climbed onto the float. “This island is beautiful. Not a tree on it, but a lovely place.”
“There was a tree once—once upon a time.”
“You make it sound like a fairy tale.”
“Sometimes I think it was. The tree came and went long before my time.” She inhaled sharply. “It’s a hard place to live and grow.” He looked at her and seemed
Resolute
as well? The letter mentioned a lifeboat being found south of Martha’s Vineyard. It was as if the ships were caught in a cross fire of wind and currents and their parts were strewn all over the ocean floor.
But she soon spied the other half, the bow, not far from the aft part of the schooner. The bow was destroyed, but the aft section was amazingly intact. It sat up on the remnants of its keel and looked ready to resume life at sea. There were even portholes still intact. Slowly May approached the round windows. It was a miracle that the glass had not been smashed to smithereens. She was frightened to look in. What if there was a dead man? The captain had never been found. Suppose he was still sitting at his navigation desk? She swam closer, then pressed her nose to the glass. No dead man, but she almost swallowed a mouthful of water and choked. For what stared back at her was a pale face. Was it a specter? She raised her hand, and the specter did as well. She waved and then smiled. She knew that this was her reflection, and yet with the slight distortioncaused by the water, she could imagine another being almost identical to herself. Once again she felt the tingle in those empty spaces and the song she had sung to the seal pup filled her head once more. She pressed her mouth to the glass and whispered, “Someone sang us the song. Someone really did.”
The following morning, after she had finished her chores, May went down to the beach to gaze out to sea. She was thinking about the reflection in the porthole. Water, she knew, distorted light, bent it. This was not called
reflection,
but
refraction.
If she gave it time, she might better understand those mysterious shapes that seemed to swim beside her. She was thinking about all of this when she caught sight of a small day sailer approaching Egg Rock. The lines of the boat were unmistakable. It was a Phineas Heanssler craft. It must be Hugh—Hugh Fitzsimmons! He was actually coming for the book. She could not quite believe it. She had tried to banish any thought of himsince the dance. But she looked out now and saw that sail with a bellyful of wind pulling him toward Egg Rock. Then it dawned on her: She had to get the book before he walked up to the lighthouse. There was no way she would let him inside. Zeeba was especially cranky today. And what would she think of a college boy from away? It would be like mixing oil and water.
May took off and raced up to the path. She must get the book before he got to the dock. A few minutes later she was on the ramp of the dock, panting slightly, with the book in hand.
“Hello!” she called when he was a few yards from the dock’s float. He let the sails flap as the boat coasted in.
“Hello, May. Great day for a sail.” He was wearing a broad-brimmed hat—a summer-folk hat—that cast a slanting shadow across his face. “Can you catch my line?”
He tossed her the painter. She jumped up, still with the book in one hand, and caught the tail end midair. “Good aim,” she said.
“Good catch.” Even through the shadow she saw the flash of his smile.
“I’d invite you up to the house but my mother’s not very well today. But we can walk around the island. It’s not very big.”
“That would be lovely.”
“Here’s the book,” she said, extending her arm. She did not look at him directly. She was unsure what to say next—how to continue the conversation.
“You don’t need it anymore, May? You’re sure?”
“Well, I might need it again sometime. But no, really, you take it for now.”
He tucked it into a satchel and then climbed onto the float. “This island is beautiful. Not a tree on it, but a lovely place.”
“There was a tree once—once upon a time.”
“You make it sound like a fairy tale.”
“Sometimes I think it was. The tree came and went long before my time.” She inhaled sharply. “It’s a hard place to live and grow.” He looked at her and seemed
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