Rosie Thomas 3-Book Collection: Moon Island, Sunrise, Follies. Rosie Thomas

she had forgotten about Lucas and Ivy. But now she came to the lip of a little hollow. She must have missed the original path because she didn’t remember it from the way up.

      They were lying in the shelter of a clump of bushes. May saw the pale blur of Ivy’s discarded halter top, then Lucas’s pale profile burned itself against her eyes. He was leaning over her sister, his hands busy, and even in the thick darkness May could read his delighted absorption. Then he dipped his head and their faces greedily blurred into one. Ivy’s thin arm reached up, lazy and proprietorial, and wound around his neck like a noose.

      A small sound escaped from May’s mouth. She tasted something sour and burning in her throat, forgot the need for silence and began to run.

      The sudden crashing and flailing in the undergrowth flung Ivy and Lucas apart.

      ‘Shit,’ Ivy gasped. ‘What’s that?’

      Lucas rolled on to his back and relaxed. He was laughing, his white teeth split the pale oval of his face. ‘These woods are haunted, baby.’

      Tom and Leonie went to bed in the room that had been Tom’s since he was a boy. The windows overlooking the beach stood open and moist, salt-laden air washed in. Lying on her back, Leonie imagined that she could see mist wraiths sadly hanging in the corners.

      ‘Are you cold?’ Tom asked. He sat on the edge of the bed with his back to her, the mattress dipping under his weight.

      ‘Not really.’

      ‘Did you enjoy tonight?’

      ‘Yes,’ Leonie said truthfully.

      Tom eased himself under the covers with a sigh of satisfaction and clicked off the bedside lamp. He settled down for sleep. Experimentally, Leonie rubbed her cheek against his shoulder.

      ‘You reckon I should just confront him then?’ Tom asked. He had been having a battle with a temperamental chef and as they undressed they had been talking about ways of dealing with the situation.

      ‘I guess so,’ she answered. She moved her head so that her cheek was no longer touching him. They did not often make love nowadays. When she been trying to conceive it had become one of the hurdles to be scaled on the way to a baby. Now that they had given up, Tom seemed to prefer to roll on his side and fall asleep immediately. Leonie would have welcomed the warmth and affection of familiar sex, but she no longer commanded the language in which to ask for it.

      Elizabeth wound the clock in the evening room and replaced the key on the ledge where it always rested. On the way to make herself a cup of herbal tea she passed through the dining-room and stopped in front of the portrait of Maynard Freshett. He did look severe, but she remembered how patiently he had taught her to play canasta, sitting at this very table.

      Grandfather Freshett had always been very sure of everything. Of his own worth and that of his family. Of his place in the world. Of what he expected of himself and everyone around him. It was this sense of order and expectation that Elizabeth had wanted to convey to May Duhane. Instead, she had come out like an old-fashioned snob. What was their family business, the child had asked. She was a sharp little creature. Smart, that was the word. Her sadness didn’t obscure how smart she was. Fishermen. The Fennymores had been fishing out of Pittsharbor for generations.

      The look of Aaron had shocked her. It was her first sight of him since last fall and he had turned other-worldly, as dry and leaf-brittle as if only the most fragile stalk held him connected to life. He and Hannah had barely spoken to Elizabeth beyond expressions of politeness. Even now, it was difficult.

      On the mahogany sideboard under the senator’s portrait was a silver-framed photograph. It was Spencer, Elizabeth’s only child, on the day he graduated summa cum laude from Harvard. Bob would have been proud of his boy, but he had died the year before the photograph. Elizabeth picked it up and stared into Spencer’s eyes. She could almost hear the dust, gathering and layering itself in invisible soft motes all through her empty house.

      Tonight she was oppressed by the relentless passing of time, by the accumulated, stifling deposits of wasted and missed opportunity.

       Three

      The morning sun shone into the room again, driving a bright wedge through the salt-veiled window.

      May checked that the bedroom door was properly closed, then tried it again to make sure. In the absence of a lock or bolt, she came up with the idea of wedging the back of the armchair under the handle. But when she trundled it across she discovered that the chair back was too low.

      Nobody would come in, logically she knew that. John was playing tennis with the Beams and Ivy was on the beach with Lucas. When she leaned on the window-sill to look for them she saw her sister wearing Lucas’s wetsuit, perched on his sailboard in the shallow water. Waves no bigger than ripples fanned around the board and ran out into the glittering shingle. Lucas himself stood alongside to encourage her, but as Ivy braced her arms and pulled on the bar, she wobbled and toppled backwards into the water.

      May’s mouth curled with pleasure, but Lucas waded forward and hoisted Ivy in his arms. As he set her upright she turned her face up to his and they kissed. It was only the lightest brush of a kiss, but it filled May’s teeming imagination with images of other less public embraces. Her smile turned stiff and bitter. It felt like a Hallowe’en mask on her burning face.

      Lucas.

      As far as Lucas was concerned she was invisible. Since the night on the island he had hardly glanced at her. She didn’t really expect otherwise, but the glaring hopelessness of her attachment intensified the pain of it. May felt diminished and squat, trapped at the wrong end of some monstrous telescope. Sometimes it was hard to breathe when she covertly stared at him, her arms and legs seemed to waver and soften, and threaten to buckle underneath her. She didn’t know how to position herself, even how to sit or stand when he was around. The only solution seemed to be to hide in the room she shared with Doone and her secrets.

      Nobody would come in.

      Only there was nothing logical about her fears that someone might. May left the chair pushed hard up against the door and knelt down in front of the loose section of skirting.

      She had resisted the impulse of curiosity for two days. Part of her recoiled from the very idea of reading the diary. The act of invading the other girl’s thoughts, making this intimate connection with somebody dead, was as much fearful as fascinating. But now the desire to read what Doone had written overcame her misgivings. Without giving herself more time to think she pushed the board so it fell forward and revealed the space behind. She slid the diary out of its hiding place and sat down with it in the armchair. Holding the book in her lap she began to read one of the earliest entries.

      Six more weeks until 4 July. Six weeks, forty-two days. I can see the days lined up in front of me, like brown empty envelopes. Mom says we can go up to the beach house right at the beginning. Then at least I’ll be there, seeing the same places, the old places, even if I have to wait… but I’m used to waiting and watching. I know how to be patient. I can keep it all wrapped up inside me, my secret. Mine.

      Then a whole summer, a long chain of days, shiny beads in a necklace …

      Do I feel happy or scared?

      I don’t know, I don’t know.

      Sometimes I wish I could tell someone, just talk, but who? Imagine telling Amy, or Mel. Ha ha. That is so weird it is almost funny.

      May frowned. The next line was just numbers.

      66 7 10 146 12 2 67 10 9.

      And then the writing resumed.

      Went to Amy’s last night. We just hung out and painted our nails and watched TV. She talked about Scott T. all night. That is just so dumb.

      Forty-one more days.

      What did the numbers mean? They weren’t dates, nor did they suggest anything