Surfacing - Book One in the Swans Landing Series

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The tiny village of Swans Landing sat on the northern end of the island, with the rest of the land covered in a maritime forest of short, thick live oak trees. As the ferry approached the island after a three hour ride, a stark white lighthouse with a solid black line around its middle loomed over the homes and shops. I found myself mesmerized by the light blinking steadily. The only lighthouses I’d ever seen before were in books or on TV, and they had always been narrow, towering structures. This lighthouse was shorter than I expected, but very wide, and the white paint contrasted sharply against the slate colored sky.

Lake had informed me, during one of his attempts at conversation throughout the excruciatingly long ferry ride, that there were no roads or bridges across the water to connect the eight mile long island to the mainland, only the ferry that ran a few times each day. Otherwise, the only way on or off the island was by private boat—or else maybe a really long and cold swim, depending on how desperate a girl might be for escape.

It took only a short drive from the ferry landing to Lake’s house on a small residential street off Heron Avenue. There were no other cars driving along the road, only people walking or riding bikes. They didn’t seem to mind the cold afternoon. A few waved as we passed, but most turned away, as if ignoring our presence. A group of elderly ladies scowled at us from an old wooden swing on the front porch of a house we passed.

Lake fiddled with the radio dial as he drove down the street lined with leafless skeletons of trees, but the only stations he could pick up on his decrepit radio were full of static. “There aren’t many of us here year round. It won’t take you long to learn everyone’s names.”

Staying invisible during my time in Swans Landing would probably be impossible. “So I guess a mall is out of the question around here,” I said.

Lake grinned. “Sorry. You’ll have to go back to the mainland for that. Just the Variety Store and a few local shops for all your shopping needs.”

We pulled to a stop in front of a tiny A-frame house, which sat several feet off the ground on wooden pilings like the rest of the houses around it. Dingy, peeling blue paint coated the wooden exterior, and the white stones lining the walkway had been knocked out of place so that a crooked path led to the front door. A wooden boat lay upside down in the front yard and various fishing poles, ropes, and things I didn’t even recognize were stacked against one side of the house.

“It’s not much,” Lake told me as he turned off the ignition.

It really wasn’t much. Inside, it would only take ten steps to walk from one end of the living room to the other end of the tiny kitchen. The furniture was old, worn, and in some cases, bleeding stuffing from various holes and tears. Dishes filled the sink and a long table littered with seashells and bits of colored glass stretched in front of the tall windows along one wall.

No TV. No computer.

“This is the living room and kitchen,” Lake said, nodding around the room. He pointed toward two doors. “The one on the left is the bathroom. The other one is my bedroom. Come on, I’ll show you your room.”

As I took in my sparse surroundings, I noticed a distinct lack of photographs of any kind around the room. What was I hoping for? Some kind of evidence that maybe Lake had once loved my mom? That maybe sometimes he even missed her?

But of course, there was nothing. Looking around Lake’s house, no one would ever guess that he had been married and had a child that he had let go.

We climbed a narrow ladder on the other side of the refrigerator into a loft area over the kitchen/living room. The point of the A-frame allowed us to stand straight only if we were in the center of the loft, otherwise we stood hunched over. A mattress on the floor served as the bed and a small dresser sat in front of the porthole window. And that was basically it, besides a lot of dust.