A. Colucci - Seeders

Jules said nothing, but the expression in his eyes was comforting.

They stopped at a fork in the path. To the right was the woods and to the left, the cliffs.

Isabelle looked at the trees and shivered. “Doll Head Woods.”

“Ridiculous name,” Jules replied. They stood for a moment, staring.

“To High Peak,” she said.

Together with Sean they trudged uphill, where the grass became sparse, the soil turned to rock, and the smell of heather filled the air. It was a steep climb to the top of the bluff. The wind howled loudly, as if trying to drown out the roar of the ocean.

They walked to the edge of the cliff, where a piece of yellow police tape was still tied to a thorny bush, flapping in the breeze.

Isabelle stared at the marker and spoke above the wind. “I guess this must be it.”

Jules nodded.

“Sean, you can plant the holly right here. But be careful, it’s steep.”

The boy knelt at the cliff’s edge, took his spoon from his pocket, and began stabbing the earth. The wind gusted and Jules pulled up the collar of his jacket, which had been warm enough for New York City but not a Canadian island.

Isabelle shivered too and bundled the scarf around her neck, rubbed her woolen sleeves. “It’s much colder up here.”

He unzipped his jacket. “I should have offered you my coat.”

“No, thank you. My sweater is quite warm.”

They watched Sean pull the plant from its pot and lay it on the ground with tender care. The wind died down, awakening the sound of crashing waves.

“Is this hard for you?” Jules asked. “Coming to the island.”

“No, not at all. I loved it here.”

“But all these memories.”

She shrugged. “Mine are mostly good. I spent quite a bit of time with my father in the laboratory, watching him work and fussing over my terrarium. He filled it with motion plants, do you remember? Venus flytraps, bladderwort, telegraph. Every day I’d stroke my Mimosa pudica like a beloved pet and watch the leaves close up like fingers.” She looked out to sea. “Back then, I thought plants had feelings. George had a way of making you believe that.”

Jules smiled.

“Here I am going on about my childhood. I’m sure you miss him too.”

“Oh yes. We spent many years together.”

She looked at him, searching for the right words. “Why did you… leave him?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know, really.”

“Was it the age difference?”

He smiled, quizzically. “Age? What do you mean?”

“Well, my father was twice your age when you met. Not that it matters.”

“I don’t follow.” Suddenly his cheeks flushed and he stammered, “Oh, you mean… we were never… he was my mentor, for heaven sakes.”

Isabelle touched a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. My mother told me you two—”

“I’m not gay, ” he practically shouted.

“Well, all right. No need to get upset.”

“I’m not upset. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being homosexual. If you are . But I’m not .”

“All right,” she said, looking tense. “I don’t know why my mother—”

“Your mother detested me. She loathed anyone who took away your father’s attention.” He got very quiet. “Now I sound like an idiot.”

“Not at all.”

“It’s just that seeing you all grown up.” His stare was intense. “… And so very lovely.” He blushed and averted his eyes. “Do you remember the bonfires behind the house on cold nights?”

“My father would make us sing ‘Kumbaya.’”

“And you would curl up next to me. Only back then, you were just a funny little girl.”

When she looked at his face, she knew he felt something too. The pangs of infatuation came rushing back to her and more than anything, she wanted to kiss him. No, she thought. This was ridiculous. She was a married woman with children, and here she was swooning over a man she hadn’t seen for thirty years.

She looked out to sea and said, “I had a silly crush on you, but it was a long time ago.”

He managed a smile, but couldn’t hide his disappointment.

They stood together watching Sean pack soil around the roots of the holly. Then the boy reached out a finger and stroked a vine of English ivy creeping along the cliff. He plucked off a leaf, examining its underbelly.

“If you want to know,” Jules said, “it was his habit.”

She didn’t respond.

“You asked why I left George. He was—”

“Yes, I know what you meant.”

Sean stood, his pants covered in dirt. He walked to Jules with the ivy pinched in his fingers and showed him the underside of the leaf.

Jules took it in his hand. The leaf was coated with dark velvety bumps that left a stain of purple on his thumb. “That’s odd,” he said. “Such a strange texture. Not sure, but I’d say it’s a fungus of some kind.”

Sean was already walking down the path to the house.

Jules stuck the leaf in his pocket.

MONICA LAY ON THE BEACH in tight jeans and a leather jacket, waiting for the sun to get warm. The temperature had reached a springlike sixty-five, but the ocean breeze made it feel much cooler. The wind abruptly died and she sat up, looking at an almost invisible horizon where both sea and sky were the same hazy color of blue.

Luke was gathering rocks along the shore, dropping the flattest stones into a pile and skimming them across the water.

“Did you see that?” he shouted. “Seven jumps. Seven . That’s like, my record.”

Monica rolled her eyes and got to her feet, smacking black sand off her clothes. “Tar Beach,” she said. “Perfect.” With that, she declared the trip officially sucked and she was going back to the house. “I can use that radio to call the police and tell them I’d like to spend the rest of my vacation in jail.”

“Why do you hate everything?” he asked.

“I don’t, but this is boring. You’re boring.”

“Least I’m trying to make the best of it.”

“I need a cigarette,” she said quickly. “It’s so cold and dead around here.”

He scowled and said, “What would you be doing if your boyfriend was here?”

“That’s a dumb question. And you’ll never know.”

He looked at her sideways. “So what’s his name?”

She turned away for a moment, thinking, and then stared into his eyes. “Snake. He’s twenty and drives a Harley. He’s taking me to Paris.”

“So why didn’t you go live with him?”

Her brow furrowed. “You ask a lot of questions.”

Ginny was jogging down the sand, wrapped in a flowery bathrobe and waving a piece of paper over her head.

“Yoo-hoo. Come here, both of you.”

“Oh, look,” Monica said. “We’re being summoned by the queen.”

Ginny reached them, out of breath and clutching her chest. “You all disappeared without a word. We have to figure out the riddle, don’t you see? This is extremely important.”

Monica snorted. “I’m on vacation.”

Ginny scrutinized their faces one at a time. Her chest rose and fell heavily beneath the robe. “I’ll give you five thousand American dollars,” she said. “Each.”

It took a moment to register, and then Monica sputtered, “Are you shittin’ me?”

Ginny winced. “No, I am not shitting you.”

“Well, then, at your goddamn service, your majesty.”

Ginny held up the riddle. “I think this beach is west of the woods, so it must be here.” She turned to one side of the black sand and then the other, from the weathered dock to a scattering of driftwood along the foamy shore.

“You’re wrong,” Luke said. “This beach faces southeast. West is on the other side of the island, facing Canada.”