Surfacing - Book One in the Swans Landing Series

Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

“Like this.” Dylan demonstrated the twist in the wire, his hands moving with the delicate precision of years of practice. He formed a smooth, tiny loop that didn’t look anything at all like the mess I had made.

I tried again, but the wire didn’t catch right and the handful of shells landed in my lap, spilling between my legs to the sandy wooden floor below.

“That’s okay,” Dylan said, scooping up the fallen shells with one hand and giving them back to me. “I dropped a lot of shells when I first started.”

I wasn’t exactly sure why I was learning to make shell bracelets, except for a lack of anything else to do. Life on the island wasn’t exactly fast-paced and full of excitement.

Footsteps pounded up the staircase to the Waverlys’ screened-in porch and Sailor appeared on the other side of the door, glaring in at us.

“You were supposed to meet me at Moody’s half an hour ago!” she growled.

Dylan cringed. “Is it three already? Sorry, I lost track of time.”

Sailor’s eyes shot daggers in my direction. She swung open the door, letting it slam against the side of the wall as she stomped inside to join us. “What is so important that you’d forget you already had plans with me?”

“I’m teaching Mara how to make bracelets,” Dylan said. He offered her a handful of shells. “Want to help?”

Sailor plopped down against the wall of the porch across from us and crossed her arms. “No, I do not.”

“I’m not good at this anyway,” I said, trying to give the shells back to Dylan. “My hands are made for photography, not crafting.”

“Your hands are perfect,” Dylan said.

Sailor’s glare bored into the side of my head.

He ducked his head, letting his sandy blonde hair fall in front of his face to hide the blush creeping up his neck. “I mean,” Dylan said, “it’s just stringing shells along on a wire, nothing to it. It’s not like it takes any real skill, not like the things Lake can do.”

Dylan always found a way to mention my dad in every conversation, as if Lake were his personal hero. At least someone around here saw something good in Lake. Since my arrival he hadn’t been anymore a part of my life than he was when I lived in Tennessee. He spent most of his days gone from the house, running off to collect crabs or shells. He never wanted to be a father and he still didn’t, that much was clear.

Some nights when I laid awake in my loft, unable to sleep because of the nightmares, I would hear Lake moving around downstairs in the dark. He seemed to sleep as little as I did. Sometimes in the darkness of three A.M., I wanted to ask if nightmares haunted him too, but I never felt like we were at the point in our relationship where we could talk about things other than what to have for dinner. We rarely even talked about that, often preferring to do our own thing.

We lived in the same house, but we were still hundreds of miles apart.

The crunch of seashells in my hand let me know that my fist was clenched tight. I opened my palm to find a few crushed shells.

“You okay?” Dylan asked, looking from the broken shells to me.

“Sorry,” I said, ignoring his question. “I’ll find you some more to replace them.”

Dylan shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

I tipped my hand over the bucket, letting the broken pieces get mixed in with the rest of Dylan’s seashells. “I think I’m done trying to be crafty for one day.”