Shining Sea Read Free Page A

strides. The way he walks, the way he holds himself is so . . . different. He moves in a way that’s flowing, almost . . . liquid. His shoulder-length hair is an unusual shade of gold, the color of late-day sun striking the sand. The wind whips the strands around his face where they shimmer.
    He’s wearing nothing but a pair of black board shorts.
    What is he, crazy? The water must be freezing.
    The clouds change direction, swallowing the sun, turning the afternoon a deeper shade of gray. The ocean darkens in response, reflecting the steel sky, whitecaps standing out in sharp relief. Today’s low temperature has to be a record for the last day of August, even in Maine.
    Closing one eye, I focus on the boy’s face. His jaw is set. Determined. He must be insane and—even at this distance—easily the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.
    A weird ache settles in my chest as I stare through the binoculars, watching the surfer catch wave after wave, riding each one to its curling end, before turning and paddling back out to catch the next. He surfs with uncanny intuition, like he’s one of the waves.
    Finally, he rides the board into impossibly shallow water, and, perfectly poised, casually steps off. In one quick crouching movement he scoops the surfboard under his arm. Then he straightens and looks up. He looks up, at me .
    Goosebumps race along my arms and I drop the binoculars—they smack me in the stomach like a fist, the edge of the plastic cord slicing at the skin on the back of my neck. Grabbing them up again, I bring them to my eyes—
    He’s still staring up at me, head slightly tilted to one side now, as if he’s listening to something.
    Maybe he’s not a boy.
    Lilah’s voice in my head: her seventeen-going-on-twenty-five voice from before the accident. I shiver. Lilah. She’d always been right about everything.
    Oh God, Ari. You’re so easy . What else could he be? Trust me, once you know one . . .
    And then I hear something else, something like . . . music. Flutes, or pipes, or chanting voices—I can’t tell. The distant music tugs at me somehow . . .
    Still, I keep the binoculars trained on the boy. Maybe he isn’t looking at me—he can’t possibly see me from there. Maybe he’s staring at the sky, or a bird, anything besides me. Feeling like a complete idiot, I slowly raise my arm—and wave anyway.
    Continuing to look up, he gives a brief nod.
    I freeze at the railing.
    The wind begins to howl, and again, I hear the far-off music. Together the two create a primitive, atonal composition, music that the boy seems to move to as he pivots with aqueous grace—
    And glides out of my line of vision, disappearing behind the dunes.

MISSING
    Red cowboy boots clanging on the iron stairs of the tower, I descend around and down. At the bottom I pull open the heavy arched door that leads into the vestibule house, an upturned rectangle of granite blocks nearly four stories high that forms the base of Rock Hook Lighthouse and surrounds the cylindrical tower. The stone building juts out in front where it faces the sea. I trace my fingertips along the damp walls of the vaulted hallway, my footsteps echoing eerily. Who was that boy?
    Lifting and lowering my arms, I imagine my shadow play isn’t created by the dim light of bulbs caged in wire but from flickering Gothic torches . . .
    Opening the thick wooden door to the outside—I stare in surprise. The drizzle has turned to a deluge.
    Through the sheets of rain and the tops of the gnarled pines that surround it, I can just make out the roofline of the keeper’s cottage nestled partway down the bluff.
    When I’d first seen the tiny cottage I knew life there would be way too crowded. Mom heard the measurements of the rooms and groaned, and even to me, with my five-foot-four bird-boned build, the house felt claustrophobic.
    The first time I climbed the lighthouse and stepped out onto the deck, my feelings had been just the opposite. I’d