Page 8 of Trick of Light
“Mom!”
“Oh fine. You gotta park in the cul-de-sac at the end of the southwest gravel road. Look for a muddy trail that heads left, toward the ocean. It’s not too far, maybe a few hundred yards. You might see her greenhouse before the cabin. That’s where she grows her herbs.”
“So you have been there,” Heather teased her mother. “Anything you want to tell me about that?”
“Yes. I had a bad rash in two thousand eight. She fixed me right up with this salve she made from jewel weed. Now mind your business, kiddo.” Sally slung her arm over her daughter’s shoulders and the two of them headed for the café, where carpenters in tool belts were already hard at work.
With the engine still running, Gabby circled the truck to slide into the driver’s seat. She waved at a kid riding past on a bicycle, a striped towel draped over his neck. She was pretty sure it was Jesse Ochoa, the younger brother of Heidi Ochoa, who worked at the hotel.
Look at you, getting to know people out here, she thought. When she’d first stepped off the dock on Sea Smoke Island, she’d been struck by the lack of…well, other Black people. In her work and various other situations, she’d gotten used to being one of the few, but that didn’t mean she enjoyed it. It always put her on alert, as if she had to think a few extra times about everything she said.
But by now the locals knew her and she knew them, and she could wave to Jesse feeling fairly confident that she’d gotten his name right. The Sea Smoke Islanders weren’t unfriendly, per se. In general, they were hardworking folks who didn’t see many strangers from October to May, and maybe a little resistant to change, especially the older generation. Once they got used to you, most of them warmed up. Kind of like the Maine ocean water.
None of that applied to that other world on the eastern end of the island, where the Lightkeeper Inn ruled from its perch on the soaring cliffs. That was Barnaby Carmichael’s world, one of wealth and privilege that went back generations. She would never feel fully comfortable with that world.
Then again, she got the sense that he didn’t either.
Banishing thoughts of Barnaby from her mind, she focused on the road, which was taking her through moody pine forests interspersed with the occasional sunny meadow. Rain was forecast for the afternoon, and heavy clouds were already lumbering across the sky. Having grown up in Maine herself, she was used to the changeable forecasts, but South Portland wasn’t nearly as rural as this island. She wasn’t used to this much nature.
Generally speaking, she’d never been an outdoorsy type of person. She’d been miserable during Girl Scout camping trips, and had run away from Lake What’s-a-ma-bob camp and flat-out refused to ever go back.
But Sea Smoke Island was different…maybe, she thought wryly, because she’d been staying in the most expensive hotel she’d ever set foot in. It turned out that she liked nature just fine, so long as she was enjoying it from a haven of soft sheets and turn-down service.
All jokes aside, Gabby was starting to believe that Sea Smoke Island had worked some kind of magic on her. She’d first experienced it in a rowboat on the way to Shell Beach. She’d been gazing at the shoreline, admiring the way the tall pines clung so stubbornly to the rocks. Granite, she knew. All these islands were carved from sober gray granite. But then the sun had come out and suddenly a streak of sparkles had lit up the rocks.
A vein of quartz ran through the granite, she’d realized. When the light was just right, it dazzled and danced, like fairy lights buried in the stone. The sight was so whimsical that she’d laughed out loud. It felt as if the rocks were winking at her.
She’d shaded her eyes because that same beam of sunlight had reflected off the ocean’s surface in a symphony of brilliant points of light. The little dinghy bobbed on a sea of light, and the quartz-veined rocks and ocean waves sang together, using light instead of sound, and she knew she was infinitely blessed to witness that timeless moment.
The experience had been mystical, transporting, something she’d felt only a few times before. In church, once, while singing gospel, she’d felt her soul lift up and almost leave her body. Then—a very different situation—there was the time she’d faced off with a bully at school who’d been taunting her with racist nicknames. She’d kept her hands clenched by her side, well aware even at the age of eight that everything she did reflected on her mother. She’d verbally dismantled him in such a comprehensive and devastating way, that he’d slunk off and never bothered her again.
And the thing was, every word had been the truth. That was the key. The power of unleashing her truth—that was why it had been such an out-of-body experience. That was the moment she’d realized that for her, speaking her truth was the ultimate adrenaline rush. That had led her to journalism, which had led to the podcast, which had led her to Sea Smoke Island, and here, once again, she’d experienced that heady bliss of being transported out of her body to something more universal and infinite.
So yes, Sea Smoke Island had cast a sort of spell on her. That was why she was willing to stay a while longer here with Heather and work on the story of Sasha and the deep layers of untold history here on the island.
Such as Tamara Brown and the pirate’s mistress.
She reached the cul-de-sac Sally McPhee had told her about and parked in the weeds alongside it so she didn’t block anyone else. When she turned off the engine, silence settled around her. It was so quiet in this forgotten corner of the island, as if no one had driven down here in decades. When she stepped out of the truck, her foot sank into thick moss without making a sound.
Closing the truck door, she winced at the clash of metal on metal. It sounded foreign here, sort of inorganic, as if only wood and plants and air belonged here.
Sally had said to take the farthest left trail, toward the ocean, but she only saw two trails, one clearly heading to the right, and the other continuing in the same direction as the road. That one was the farthest left, she supposed, so she grabbed her shoulder bag and set off down the trail.
After a short walk, she reached a wooden signpost with “The Carters” painted on it. Underneath was another sign that read, “Island Lullaby Cottage.” Airbnb, she figured, or maybe Vrbo. She knew the island was full of weekly rentals.
That mundane sight punctured her sense of mystical discovery. She wasn’t heading into a witch’s lair, after all. Would a witch live near an Airbnb?
She kept going down the trail, but it quickly became blocked by shrubby plants growing over the path. Sumac, she thought, having seen it on other parts of the island. Not the poisonous kind, luckily.
She pushed through it and took a few more steps, until something scratched her arm and she cried out and stopped where she was. Blackberry brambles. Ouch. Carefully, she lifted the long thorny branch off her body, then saw that she’d somehow become entangled in the bush. Every way she turned, more prickly blackberry canes snagged her. They grabbed onto her sleeves, the back of her sweater, her hair. Ow, ow, ow.
There was only one thing for it—she’d have to ditch her favorite purple sweater. She carefully extricated herself from it and left it tangled in the branches.
“This is why me and nature don’t get along,” she muttered, as she retreated back down the path. “One minute it acts all pretty and peaceful, the next it’s stabbing you with tiny little needles. How’m I supposed to trust it?”
In the truck, she found the utility knife that Sally kept in the glove compartment. She’d have to cut her sweater free. No way was she going to leave it here to get rained on.
But when she reached the end of the trail, through the sumac bushes, she found no trace of her sweater. There wasn’t a single bit of purple yarn to be found, no matter how hard she searched.
