Western Wind by Paula Fox Page A

later, her hair in a tangle, her arms and neck sunburned.
    â€œWhat a day!” cried Elizabeth. “Oh, those soggy sandwiches! That oily lemonade! Mrs. Herkimer talking about the glory of simple food. The tomatoes must have been sliced with a comb. When we got to this little island, it was rocks and a couple of runty pines and a tiny cove. Mr. Herkimer was mixed up about the tides, and he took this tremendous leap over the side and landed in about two inches of water.
    â€œI thought he was supposed to be the quiet one in that family. He turned into the monster captain … he never stopped shouting orders—‘Shift! Duck! Sit up!’ And if Aaron wiggled his finger, they all started screaming at him. Just before we anchored at Little Bear, Aaron yelled, ‘I’m getting off this horrible ship!’ and they threw themselves at him so we nearly keeled over. When we got back, Mrs. Herkimer said she hoped I’d enjoyed a day of family sailing. Then Deirdre said, ‘Don’t thank her. It will only encourage her.’”
    â€œI knew I had good reasons for staying home,” Gran said, laughing.
    â€œBut in a way, it was wonderful,” Elizabeth said. “I had a wonderful time.”
    â€œLife is strange.”
    â€œLike the Herkimers.”
    â€œI guess so. I’m going to make a cheese rarebit for supper, and while I’m doing that, I think you ought to write home. I noticed a pile of letters from your mother on the table.”
    Elizabeth glanced at them. They were filled with the astonishing news that Stephen Lindsay could hold his head up without wobbling, and that he really smiled.
    She made a little space for herself at Gran’s worktable among the brushes and pencils and tubes of paint.
    She wrote briefly that she had gone for a sail with Gran’s neighbors. Then, for the first time in a letter home, she mentioned Aaron. “He’s a thin, little boy with eyes like a panda’s. He says whatever he thinks.” Elizabeth realized she was smiling as she wrote these words.
    When she was finished, she looked up to see Gran watching her intently. Had she been looking at her all the time she was writing her letter? She turned her face away from Gran as though from too bright a light.
    But Gran said, in a matter-of-fact voice, “Come to supper.”
    When Elizabeth had sat down, Gran held up her hands. “The weather’s changing. I can feel it in my thumbs.”
    â€œI’m sorry I said that—in the morning—about being sent away,” Elizabeth said.
    â€œYou said what you thought,” Gran said.
    The next morning, Elizabeth awoke to the sound of a heavy rain pounding on the roof. Gran had made a fire in the little hearth. The cottage felt deliciously warm and safe. Gran produced slickers for them to put on when they wanted to go to the outhouse.
    After lunch, the rain stopped. By then, Elizabeth had made a start on To Kill a Mockingbird. It was a sleepy day. Gran worked on her drawing of El Sueño .
    Toward the end of the afternoon, Elizabeth glanced at the windows.
    â€œLook at the fog! You can’t see outside,” she said.
    A few minutes later, she heard muffled voices. There was loud knocking on the door.
    Gran went to open it. The Herkimers stood on the threshold, their faces glistening with moisture.
    â€œIs Aaron here?” cried Mrs. Herkimer, looking frantically into the room.
    â€œWe can’t find him,” Mr. Herkimer said grimly.
    Behind them, Elizabeth glimpsed Deirdre, her shoulders bent as though she’d been struck across them.

9
    The Herkimers huddled together in the middle of the room, and the posts that had suggested trees or columns to Elizabeth now looked like the stout wooden bars of a cage. Fog swirled through the open door. Grace, her tail down, shot up the staircase.
    â€œHas he been here?” Mrs. Herkimer’s voice trembled as she asked this question, and her breathing