Children of the Sea 02 - Sea Fever

Dylan’s head, sending a roll of amusement through them all.
     
    193
    He surfaced, sputtering.
     
    They did not question why or in what form Dylan was among them.
    Among the whayleyn, presence— being— was enough. Their vast acceptance surrounded him. Their collective concern enveloped him.
    They circled, letting their song absorb his story, weaving his message into the harmonies that knit together the Atlantic in the great deep blue, in the clear cold dark.
     
    Dylan had no idea how the words and images of his report would be relayed to Conn, how “homeless” or “crucifix” transposed to notes in the whales’ harmonies. But they understood the importance of the child-to-be. MOTHER LOVE FATHER CARE FAMILY JOY surged over him in waves. Their song filled his ears like the surf; flooded his heart with peace; floated with him to shore.
     
    He stood in the shallows, heart full, mind emptied, muscles loose and relaxed. Tossing back his wet hair, he scanned the beach.
     
    And saw his father sitting guard over his pile of clothes.
     
    Shit.
     
    Dylan’s joy drained away like the waves frothing around his ankles.
    They were locked in a lonely amphitheater of rock and sand, with no one to witness their meeting but the spruce standing sentinel on shore and a few wisps of cloud.
     
    Bart Hunter sat with his elbow on one raised knee, staring out to sea.
     
    Dylan waded from the surf. He could not avoid the old man. The best he could do was ignore him. He bent for his jeans.
     
    “She used to come here,” Bart said. “Your mother.”
     
    Dylan didn’t want to talk about his mother, didn’t want to share her memory. Particularly not with his father.
     
    He jammed his damp foot into his pant leg.
     
    “Not just with you kids,” Bart continued. “Before you were born.”
     
    194
    Okay, Dylan really didn’t want to hear this. He hitched his jeans over his other foot.
     
    “She’d come ashore there . . .”
     
    Against his will, Dylan glanced over his shoulder, following his father’s gaze to his own route from the water.
     
    Bart shook his head. “The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life, and she tells me she loves me.” He laughed in wonder and disbelief, a sound harsh as a sob. “Me, who knew nothing but lobster and the tides.
    I weren’t much older than our Lucy then. Left school in the seventh grade. Never left the island at all. But she . . .” His voice trailed, lost in memory. He did not use her name. He did not need to. There was only ever one “she” for him, then or now.
     
    “You stole her sealskin,” Dylan said, hard and cold. “You robbed her of her life.”
     
    “I gave her a new life and three children. It should have been enough.”
     
    “You robbed her of her self.”
     
    “And didn’t she do the same to me? I never had a moment’s peace after I saw her. She told me she loved me.” Bart’s voice cracked like ice in April. “But how could I believe her? She being what she was, and me being what I was.”
     
    Dylan opened his mouth to argue, outrage hot in his blood. His father was wrong. Had always been wrong.
     
    And yet . . .
     
    The words stopped his mouth, bitter and unspoken.
     
    Didn’t Dylan believe the same? A selkie could not love a human.
     
    Bart held his gaze, a sad recognition in his faded eyes. And then he stared back out to sea. “Your brother says you need a place to stay. You can have your old room if you want it.”
     
    195
    *
     
    Dylan came downstairs with his bag packed while Regina was sweeping the floor. The grill was shut down, the front door was locked, the day’s receipts were totaled . . . and another man was preparing to walk out the door.
     
    Regina looked from Dylan’s zippered duffel to his closed expression and felt her heart clutch.
     
    Get over it, she told herself. She should be used to men leaving her by now.
     
    Anyway, it was only for the night. This time. He’d be back in the morning. He said.
     
    Dylan looked around the empty restaurant. His brows snapped together. “Should you be doing this yourself?”
     
    His tone put her back up. Good. A fight would take her mind off her fear of closing alone, would distract her from the low, achy pain in her gut, would ease the loneliness that waited to swallow her when the door shut behind him.
     
    “You see anybody else to do it?” she asked.
     
    Now he looked annoyed. “Your mother . . .”
     
    “Was here half the night last night and all day