Rain fell in thin, silvery sheets as I dropped to my knees in the sand. I shifted as the tide swelled forward onto the beach; tepid water swamped my toes, silt scratching against my skin as I wriggled my toes into the damp shore. Foamy white breakers crashed onto the sand.
"Figures," I muttered as a fresh wave surged in. "High tide." My hair - plain, hazelnut brown, limp and dripping with rain and seawater - flopped forward into my eyes as I darted a hand into the surf, plucking a small, dark object from the water. I scrambled back onto dry sand.
Gently, I turned the shell over in my hands. The outer surface was crusted with salt and mud, the ridges layered in silt and clay. I scratched at it with one fingernail. Some of the coating peeled away, dirt caking under my fingernails. "Not bad," I admitted to myself, admiring the charcoal-gray of the patterned surface. Tumbled and shaped, it'd sell well. I tossed it into the bucket I'd set a few feet back from the stake designating high tide. It was half-full now - two hours of combing the beach, and only ten worthwhile shells to show for it. First off - that didn't meet my quota. Second, the storm was preparing to break. With sunset had come the rain and a sudden plunge in temperature, though humidity still made the air thick and sticky against my skin. I shivered. Another half hour, then I was done.
I plodded back out into the waves. Gritting my teeth as the rapidly-cooling water slapped my legs, I squinted into the water. Even my practiced eyes couldn't see through the churning, murky depths - I could only crouch and sift my fingers through the sand, trying to sort the broken shells from worthwhile ones by touch.
"Aha!" I cried triumphantly, extricating a small conch from the mud. Rinsed off, the outer surface was a delicate cream; the mouth was peachy pink, like the sunset, and the ever-swirling
tides had tumbled it to a glossy sheen. An easy sell - didn't even need to be polished. I dashed back to the bucket and set it gently alongside. Perfect.
A sudden clap of thunder overhead made me wince. Lightning streaked across the sky in a blinding flash of white; the sea reflected it, light thrown off the waves like flying sparks. The beach trembled as another crash of thunder echoed overhead.
Forget this. I wasn't staying out in the middle of a storm. Leaning against the wind, I lumbered back towards the bucket. The conch still sat beside it - glistening with moisture, elegant and colorful against the dull, ashy sand.
Squawk!
I leaped into the air as the shrill scream of a bird rattled my eardrums. Through the mist of rain I caught a flash of charcoal, black, and white feathers as a seagull careened toward the shore; its ochre beak parted again, letting loose with another unearthly shriek. I ducked as it swept just over my head and landed unsteadily on the beach. Its three-toed tracks pockmarked the sand as it scrambled over the dunes.
"Hey, little birdie," I said cautiously, shivering as freezing rain pelted my shoulders. "What are you..."
The bird screeched again, its drenched feathers fluffed out. It hopped over to where I'd laid the conch. "Hey," I said, raising my voice above the thunder. "What are you doing?" I advanced cautiously, hoping the bird wasn't aggressive enough to bite.
The gull lunged, snapping at my extended fingertips. Hopes unanswered.
"Nice bird," I mumbled, red splotches swimming in front of my eyes as lightning blazed through the clouds. "Just fly away..."
The seagull fluttered aside, landing on the rim of my bucket. It stared blankly inside - preening its rain-slicked feathers, head tipping from side to side as it examined the bucket's contents. "Hey!" I called, hurrying closer. "Those are mine, you hear me?"
North Beach seagulls were infamous hoarders; some liked shiny things, others preferred colorful ones. Finding a gull's nest was considered a lucky strike. The twig-and-mud hideaways were usually lined with glass, beads, shells, anything that the bird found interesting, and it wasn't uncommon to find things of value. But none of my things of value were going to end up in a gull's nest if I could help it.
"Get off!" I snapped, the wind and rain and crashing thunder draining away what little patience I had. I dashed at the bird with flailing arms.
With a earsplitting, raucous cry, the gull took off, wings flapping clumsily as it plunged earthward. Its small, beady eyes glittered like chips of dark obsidian; its downy white, black, and gray plumage was soaked and flecked with mud, sand clinging to its wings and tiny black claws. It squawked angrily as another tremendous roll of thunder rocked the beach. Then it dove, cleanly hooked its beak into the lip of my perfect conch, and hoisted itself airborne.
"Hey!" I cried, running for the bird as it ascended with its precious cargo. "That's mine! Hey!" My desperate shouts only seemed to fuel the bird as it surged higher, its aquiline silhouette starting to fade into just a shadow as the mist engulfed it. The bird's triumphant squawk seemed to echo in my ears.
My mood turned as gray as the sea and shore around me, I bitterly hauled the bucket onto my shoulder. The ocean was growing restless; the waves were growing in height and ferocity, the breakers hurtling toward the cliff side and slamming the rocks without mercy. The storm clouds
that had been a silvery gray earlier had darkened to an inky black, flickering with strands of lightning. The sand was wet and mushy from the pounding rain. "Well, then," I whispered sourly, knowing only the wind would hear me. "Time to go home."
~~
Half an hour later, I yanked the screen door open, not even pausing as it slammed shut behind me. The storm had intensified during the walk back; driftwood and palm fronds lay strewn across the beach, shredded by the wildcat that was the wind. The sea churned like a pot at a boil.
"I'm home," I called, trying to take the edge off my razor-sharp tone.
"Cassiopeia." A tall, strong figure rounded the corner. I heard the soft click of a light switch being flipped and squinted against the sudden brightness.
"Hey, Dad," I muttered. The man leaning against the stairwell was about six foot, broad- shouldered and muscular, skin tanned to a Florida bronze. His curly hair was the color of dark chocolate, same as mine; his eyes were a luminous blue-green, like the irises were filled with sunlit seawater. His gaze was unnervingly steady and as electric as the lightning outside.
"Did you find enough for tomorrow?" his voice was a calm, confident baritone, and it drew an answer from me even without my consent.
"No," I mumbled. I knew my father well enough to avert my eyes. I couldn't look at him, so I searched the room. I finally found what I'd subconsciously been looking for.
A picture rested on a small, round wooden table set off to the side. The frame was pale beige wood, like beach sand, and the material was intricately carved - arcing waves curled at the corners, dolphins peeking their delicate heads out of the surf. The bottom was etched into a rippling shore scattered with bits and pieces of abalone. The photograph portrayed a fairly similar scene - a beach, the sea placid and blue as sapphires, the sky wide and clear overhead. But the camera was focused on something different.
A redheaded woman smiled broadly into the lens. Her hair was long and scarlet, loose and wavy across her shoulders; her fair skin was smooth, unmarred by sunburn, and her dainty nose was splashed with freckles. Her eyes matched mine - green. Bright, emerald green, speckled with gold that shone like buried treasure in the depths. She was wearing shorts and a simple white t-shirt over a striped blue swimsuit. She held a shell-collecting bucket in one hand; a wakeboard was tucked under her arm. Around her neck, a teardrop-shaped piece of lapis lazuli hung on a leather cord, the iridescent blue stone shimmering in the sunlight.
Andromeda. That was her name - emphasis on was. She was gone - six feet under at the Seacrest Cemetery, stolen by cancer just like so many others. We had always said it was backwards - Cassiopeia was the mother of Andromeda, so my name didn't exactly make sense - but Mom always said I was the queen of the household, anyway, so it suited me well. How may I serve you, Queen Cassie? she'd jokingly ask, curtsying in front of me. I'd smile, laugh, and then take on a terrible attempt at a British accent. Come with me to the beach, I'd say, or allow me to accompany you to the shop, and she'd always dip into another a bow and intone very seriously, as you wish, your majesty. That's when life was perfect. When I didn't scrounge on the beach for shells every evening, or run the shop during the day. Mom had loved her little trinket shop - she sold shells, pebbles, driftwood sculptures, basically everything - and when she died, the homely little booth situated right on North Beach was left to me. It was our main source of income, except for Dad's meager pay from working the docks. I found shells; whittled driftwood; strung necklaces and bracelets. I did everything she did. Only with half the skill.
Her necklace caught my eye again. The lapis lazuli pendant was smooth and polished, blue, green, and violet swirled across it in a mesmerizing pattern. She'd given me the necklace shortly before her death. But then, just like her, it was gone - I'd lost it on the beach when I was eleven, three years before. I'd gone swimming that day; I'd collected shells, I'd chased seagulls and raced dolphins along the shoreline. It could've been anywhere around the wide expanse of open beach.
The very thought stung my eyes with hot, salty tears. My last keepsake of my mother, lost or swept out to sea. It was like I'd lost a piece of my heart.
Dad exhaled heavily. I'd almost forgotten he was standing there, with his arms crossed over his chest and a stony glint in his sea-colored eyes. "You'll have to take up the prices."
If I do that, no one will buy. "I guess."
"You guess?"
"I know," I automatically corrected myself, my stomach knotting. "I know. I'll change the tags."
"Good." He turned to leave.
I thought of the seagull that had cost me my conch shell. "Dad?"
He turned silently, watching me.
"I..." I swallowed, realizing how stupid my tale would sound. A bird swooping down in the middle of the storm, sorting through my shells, and taking the conch - it sounded like a rumor the fisherman would swap at the docks, and not at all like something Dad would even consider being possible. When confronted about the treasure troves, the gulls' nests, he passed it off as a myth. Just something for bored thrill seekers with too much time on their hands, he'd say.
I shook my head. "Nothing."
He nodded curtly, and I listened to his fading footsteps until they melted into silence. "Good night to you, too," I mumbled, turning to head into my room. I dragged the bucket to the sink in the corner and turned the faucet, running water over the shells and watching with satisfaction as sand swirled down the drain. I changed into well-worn pajamas, brushed my teeth, and switched off the water. "Good night," I whispered to the beta swimming idly in the bowl on the nightstand. I pulled the string to the lamp over my bed, the room disappearing into darkness. "Sleep tight."
~~
The next morning, sunlight washed the waves with gold as I wove between the booths that scattered North Beach. The previous night's storm had ravaged the shoreline; branches, trash, and leaves lay limp or broken on the sand, the tide licking at the shore and dragging the debris out into the ocean. Crabs scuttled across the dunes.
"Finally," I sighed, whisking the tarp off one of the smaller shops. Grunting with effort, I lifted the bucket onto the countertop; one by one, I laid the cleaned and freshly-tumbled shells in neat rows. Clams varying from pearl white to ebony black; spiraled nautili dappled with cream and white and copper, delicate and glossy. One lonely conch - a pathetic little thing, plain gray and spiky - sat among the oysters. I hung necklaces and bracelets from the driftwood racks.
"Rough night?"
I glanced up at the sound of a familiar voice, warm and friendly. "Hailey," I greeted the blond. The young woman had sunscreen smeared on her tan cheeks and a cheerful sparkle in her amber eyes. "Yeah, I didn't get much sleep. Nothing new."
She grimaced in sympathy, plucking an abalone necklace from one of the hooks. She held it experimentally at her throat and checked her reflection in the mirror. "Sorry." She gestured to the necklace. "How much?"
"Ten."
She handed me a crisp ten-dollar bill, watching intently as I tucked it into the cashier box. She gathered her sandy hair into a ponytail and fastened the necklace. "You're in a worse mood than usual," she observed, admiring her reflection.
"Mm," I mumbled, fussing with the displays.
"Something happen?"
I grumbled under my breath, setting down the polished olive shells that I'd been rearranging. "Yeah," I admitted. "I had a shell stolen."
Her pale blue eyes went wide. "By who?"
"By what," I ground through clenched teeth. "A stupid seagull. I lost a queen conch to a seagull."
She whistled. "Sorry, Cassie."
"I just have to find the nest," I grumbled. "I want my shell back." "I don't blame you."
"Yeah, well..."
"I'll leave you alone," she said hastily, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "Hope you find your gull's nest."
"Me too," I murmured. I plopped down in the folding chair I'd brought. "Me too."
I sighed, fiddling aimlessly with a broken necklace clasp as the steady trickle of tourists arrived. The lapis lazuli went first, like always; then the pearl-white oysters and the dappled olive shells. A little girl with braces bought a few of the nautili and the dinky conch went to an elderly woman in a floral sundress. The sky - brilliantly clear after the previous night's storm - was a dazzling ultramarine.
"Here you go," I said, handing a wrapped package of clam shells to a college student. She smiled graciously and skipped away, white sand thrown off her bare heels. Another customer - a pudgy man, sunburned and wearing a too-small Hawaiian print shirt - approached. He squinted at the displays.
"You got anythin' that's actually valuable, missy?" he asked haughtily, flicking an oyster with one finger. "Somethin' better than this junk?"
"Excuse me?" I felt my short fuse beginning to burn.
"I said..."
We were both rudely interrupted as the deafening screech of a seagull cut him off, splitting the air and making my ears ring with the utter volume of the sound. In a clumsy blur of white, gray, and black feathers, the bird executed a less-than-graceful landing and flitted across one of the shelves, assessing the displays with tiny, unintelligent eyes. "Hey!" I cried. "You stole my conch!"
"What?" the tourist demanded, ignoring the bird's spectacular entrance.
"Excuse me," I said quickly, focusing on the gull as it prodded an especially beautiful olive. It squawked again and seized the shell with a deft swipe of its beak.
"You're not getting away that easily!" I scrambled out of the booth and shoved past the tourist as the bird took off, sailing easily once the wind was beneath it. Its streamlined wings were snowy white and black-tipped, obviously rinsed off since last night, and its tail switched left and right like a rudder, the charcoal highlights flashing. His blunt, gray claws dangled loosely beneath him as he banked into a turn. His pace was steady, unhurried as he soared along the beach. My legs pumped desperately in an attempt to keep up with his effortless flight.
"Wait 'til I get my hands on you," I hissed under my breath, panting as the gull covered more and more distance. I dodged tourists snapping photographs and surfers with boards under their arms; I sidestepped booths and vendors; I skirted children clumping together sand castles and their sunbathing parents. I barely watched where I was going as I tracked the bird overhead.
Suddenly the seagull swerved, veering away from the path and into a tangle of palms and beach grass. I plowed into the undergrowth without a care as I gave chase.
"I've got... You... Now!" I yelled in triumph as I sprinted into a clearing. I skidded to a halt... And stared.
There, in the middle of the open space, was a stunted palm, the fronds fanned out in a vivid green halo. In the halo's center was a nest - a shallow dish woven from twigs, sand, and mud, closely packed and artfully crafted. The outer rim was adorned with various ribbons, string, wire, and twine; some blue cellophane was visible along the sides. The seagull balanced in a nearby bush, watching skittishly, but it wouldn't abandon the nest.
I moved closer. Inside, the lip was lined with shells - clam, olive, oyster, nautilus, abalone, all of them colorful and glittering. Some I even recognized from my shop, disappeared from the racks. I'd assumed they'd been taken by some delinquent with no manners or a toddler who didn't know better - but here they were. And there, tucked neatly against the far wall, was my queen conch - a delicate pink-and-cream masterpiece.
"A gull's nest," I whispered, leaning over the bird's hideaway in awe. The bottom was carpeted with all sorts of trinkets; there were beads, inexpensive bits of jewelry - and probably some more than inexpensive, too - and even keys, probably from the lockers available near the beach. I carefully extricated the pieces, one by one, and set them aside.
Then I came to what seemed the final layer, and my heart stopped.
A thin leather cord peeked from under a coiled sand dollar necklace. It was worn, obviously many years old, but intact. With trembling hands I tugged gently on the end, slowly pulling it free of its hiding place. "Impossible," I breathed as the pendant finally emerged. I rubbed off the thin film of dust and dirt that coated it and a lump came into my throat, tears blurring the corners of my vision.
The teardrop-shaped piece of lapis lazuli glowed softly in the sunlight, the flecks of gold and silver sparkling amongst the green, purple, and beautiful azure. Mom's necklace.
Nearby, the gull cried impatiently, and I smiled, stepping away. The bird watched curiously as I slipped the necklace over my head, the pendant falling squarely to the center of my chest - just beside my heart. "Thank you," I called to the seagull, feeling stupid for talking to a bird but continuing anyway. "For finding this for me."
I turned away from the gull's nest and headed toward where the forest opened onto the beach.
Squawk?
The bird's questioning call made me swivel around. "Don't worry, " I told it, grinning. "I'm not going to take any of your other treasures." Then my eyes fell to something else in the nest, and I approached briskly, grabbing it and winking. "Except for this."
Then, laughing at the seagull's indignant cry behind me, I turned and ran, the queen conch under my arm - and Mom's pendant at my heart.
"Figures," I muttered as a fresh wave surged in. "High tide." My hair - plain, hazelnut brown, limp and dripping with rain and seawater - flopped forward into my eyes as I darted a hand into the surf, plucking a small, dark object from the water. I scrambled back onto dry sand.
Gently, I turned the shell over in my hands. The outer surface was crusted with salt and mud, the ridges layered in silt and clay. I scratched at it with one fingernail. Some of the coating peeled away, dirt caking under my fingernails. "Not bad," I admitted to myself, admiring the charcoal-gray of the patterned surface. Tumbled and shaped, it'd sell well. I tossed it into the bucket I'd set a few feet back from the stake designating high tide. It was half-full now - two hours of combing the beach, and only ten worthwhile shells to show for it. First off - that didn't meet my quota. Second, the storm was preparing to break. With sunset had come the rain and a sudden plunge in temperature, though humidity still made the air thick and sticky against my skin. I shivered. Another half hour, then I was done.
I plodded back out into the waves. Gritting my teeth as the rapidly-cooling water slapped my legs, I squinted into the water. Even my practiced eyes couldn't see through the churning, murky depths - I could only crouch and sift my fingers through the sand, trying to sort the broken shells from worthwhile ones by touch.
"Aha!" I cried triumphantly, extricating a small conch from the mud. Rinsed off, the outer surface was a delicate cream; the mouth was peachy pink, like the sunset, and the ever-swirling
tides had tumbled it to a glossy sheen. An easy sell - didn't even need to be polished. I dashed back to the bucket and set it gently alongside. Perfect.
A sudden clap of thunder overhead made me wince. Lightning streaked across the sky in a blinding flash of white; the sea reflected it, light thrown off the waves like flying sparks. The beach trembled as another crash of thunder echoed overhead.
Forget this. I wasn't staying out in the middle of a storm. Leaning against the wind, I lumbered back towards the bucket. The conch still sat beside it - glistening with moisture, elegant and colorful against the dull, ashy sand.
Squawk!
I leaped into the air as the shrill scream of a bird rattled my eardrums. Through the mist of rain I caught a flash of charcoal, black, and white feathers as a seagull careened toward the shore; its ochre beak parted again, letting loose with another unearthly shriek. I ducked as it swept just over my head and landed unsteadily on the beach. Its three-toed tracks pockmarked the sand as it scrambled over the dunes.
"Hey, little birdie," I said cautiously, shivering as freezing rain pelted my shoulders. "What are you..."
The bird screeched again, its drenched feathers fluffed out. It hopped over to where I'd laid the conch. "Hey," I said, raising my voice above the thunder. "What are you doing?" I advanced cautiously, hoping the bird wasn't aggressive enough to bite.
The gull lunged, snapping at my extended fingertips. Hopes unanswered.
"Nice bird," I mumbled, red splotches swimming in front of my eyes as lightning blazed through the clouds. "Just fly away..."
The seagull fluttered aside, landing on the rim of my bucket. It stared blankly inside - preening its rain-slicked feathers, head tipping from side to side as it examined the bucket's contents. "Hey!" I called, hurrying closer. "Those are mine, you hear me?"
North Beach seagulls were infamous hoarders; some liked shiny things, others preferred colorful ones. Finding a gull's nest was considered a lucky strike. The twig-and-mud hideaways were usually lined with glass, beads, shells, anything that the bird found interesting, and it wasn't uncommon to find things of value. But none of my things of value were going to end up in a gull's nest if I could help it.
"Get off!" I snapped, the wind and rain and crashing thunder draining away what little patience I had. I dashed at the bird with flailing arms.
With a earsplitting, raucous cry, the gull took off, wings flapping clumsily as it plunged earthward. Its small, beady eyes glittered like chips of dark obsidian; its downy white, black, and gray plumage was soaked and flecked with mud, sand clinging to its wings and tiny black claws. It squawked angrily as another tremendous roll of thunder rocked the beach. Then it dove, cleanly hooked its beak into the lip of my perfect conch, and hoisted itself airborne.
"Hey!" I cried, running for the bird as it ascended with its precious cargo. "That's mine! Hey!" My desperate shouts only seemed to fuel the bird as it surged higher, its aquiline silhouette starting to fade into just a shadow as the mist engulfed it. The bird's triumphant squawk seemed to echo in my ears.
My mood turned as gray as the sea and shore around me, I bitterly hauled the bucket onto my shoulder. The ocean was growing restless; the waves were growing in height and ferocity, the breakers hurtling toward the cliff side and slamming the rocks without mercy. The storm clouds
that had been a silvery gray earlier had darkened to an inky black, flickering with strands of lightning. The sand was wet and mushy from the pounding rain. "Well, then," I whispered sourly, knowing only the wind would hear me. "Time to go home."
~~
Half an hour later, I yanked the screen door open, not even pausing as it slammed shut behind me. The storm had intensified during the walk back; driftwood and palm fronds lay strewn across the beach, shredded by the wildcat that was the wind. The sea churned like a pot at a boil.
"I'm home," I called, trying to take the edge off my razor-sharp tone.
"Cassiopeia." A tall, strong figure rounded the corner. I heard the soft click of a light switch being flipped and squinted against the sudden brightness.
"Hey, Dad," I muttered. The man leaning against the stairwell was about six foot, broad- shouldered and muscular, skin tanned to a Florida bronze. His curly hair was the color of dark chocolate, same as mine; his eyes were a luminous blue-green, like the irises were filled with sunlit seawater. His gaze was unnervingly steady and as electric as the lightning outside.
"Did you find enough for tomorrow?" his voice was a calm, confident baritone, and it drew an answer from me even without my consent.
"No," I mumbled. I knew my father well enough to avert my eyes. I couldn't look at him, so I searched the room. I finally found what I'd subconsciously been looking for.
A picture rested on a small, round wooden table set off to the side. The frame was pale beige wood, like beach sand, and the material was intricately carved - arcing waves curled at the corners, dolphins peeking their delicate heads out of the surf. The bottom was etched into a rippling shore scattered with bits and pieces of abalone. The photograph portrayed a fairly similar scene - a beach, the sea placid and blue as sapphires, the sky wide and clear overhead. But the camera was focused on something different.
A redheaded woman smiled broadly into the lens. Her hair was long and scarlet, loose and wavy across her shoulders; her fair skin was smooth, unmarred by sunburn, and her dainty nose was splashed with freckles. Her eyes matched mine - green. Bright, emerald green, speckled with gold that shone like buried treasure in the depths. She was wearing shorts and a simple white t-shirt over a striped blue swimsuit. She held a shell-collecting bucket in one hand; a wakeboard was tucked under her arm. Around her neck, a teardrop-shaped piece of lapis lazuli hung on a leather cord, the iridescent blue stone shimmering in the sunlight.
Andromeda. That was her name - emphasis on was. She was gone - six feet under at the Seacrest Cemetery, stolen by cancer just like so many others. We had always said it was backwards - Cassiopeia was the mother of Andromeda, so my name didn't exactly make sense - but Mom always said I was the queen of the household, anyway, so it suited me well. How may I serve you, Queen Cassie? she'd jokingly ask, curtsying in front of me. I'd smile, laugh, and then take on a terrible attempt at a British accent. Come with me to the beach, I'd say, or allow me to accompany you to the shop, and she'd always dip into another a bow and intone very seriously, as you wish, your majesty. That's when life was perfect. When I didn't scrounge on the beach for shells every evening, or run the shop during the day. Mom had loved her little trinket shop - she sold shells, pebbles, driftwood sculptures, basically everything - and when she died, the homely little booth situated right on North Beach was left to me. It was our main source of income, except for Dad's meager pay from working the docks. I found shells; whittled driftwood; strung necklaces and bracelets. I did everything she did. Only with half the skill.
Her necklace caught my eye again. The lapis lazuli pendant was smooth and polished, blue, green, and violet swirled across it in a mesmerizing pattern. She'd given me the necklace shortly before her death. But then, just like her, it was gone - I'd lost it on the beach when I was eleven, three years before. I'd gone swimming that day; I'd collected shells, I'd chased seagulls and raced dolphins along the shoreline. It could've been anywhere around the wide expanse of open beach.
The very thought stung my eyes with hot, salty tears. My last keepsake of my mother, lost or swept out to sea. It was like I'd lost a piece of my heart.
Dad exhaled heavily. I'd almost forgotten he was standing there, with his arms crossed over his chest and a stony glint in his sea-colored eyes. "You'll have to take up the prices."
If I do that, no one will buy. "I guess."
"You guess?"
"I know," I automatically corrected myself, my stomach knotting. "I know. I'll change the tags."
"Good." He turned to leave.
I thought of the seagull that had cost me my conch shell. "Dad?"
He turned silently, watching me.
"I..." I swallowed, realizing how stupid my tale would sound. A bird swooping down in the middle of the storm, sorting through my shells, and taking the conch - it sounded like a rumor the fisherman would swap at the docks, and not at all like something Dad would even consider being possible. When confronted about the treasure troves, the gulls' nests, he passed it off as a myth. Just something for bored thrill seekers with too much time on their hands, he'd say.
I shook my head. "Nothing."
He nodded curtly, and I listened to his fading footsteps until they melted into silence. "Good night to you, too," I mumbled, turning to head into my room. I dragged the bucket to the sink in the corner and turned the faucet, running water over the shells and watching with satisfaction as sand swirled down the drain. I changed into well-worn pajamas, brushed my teeth, and switched off the water. "Good night," I whispered to the beta swimming idly in the bowl on the nightstand. I pulled the string to the lamp over my bed, the room disappearing into darkness. "Sleep tight."
~~
The next morning, sunlight washed the waves with gold as I wove between the booths that scattered North Beach. The previous night's storm had ravaged the shoreline; branches, trash, and leaves lay limp or broken on the sand, the tide licking at the shore and dragging the debris out into the ocean. Crabs scuttled across the dunes.
"Finally," I sighed, whisking the tarp off one of the smaller shops. Grunting with effort, I lifted the bucket onto the countertop; one by one, I laid the cleaned and freshly-tumbled shells in neat rows. Clams varying from pearl white to ebony black; spiraled nautili dappled with cream and white and copper, delicate and glossy. One lonely conch - a pathetic little thing, plain gray and spiky - sat among the oysters. I hung necklaces and bracelets from the driftwood racks.
"Rough night?"
I glanced up at the sound of a familiar voice, warm and friendly. "Hailey," I greeted the blond. The young woman had sunscreen smeared on her tan cheeks and a cheerful sparkle in her amber eyes. "Yeah, I didn't get much sleep. Nothing new."
She grimaced in sympathy, plucking an abalone necklace from one of the hooks. She held it experimentally at her throat and checked her reflection in the mirror. "Sorry." She gestured to the necklace. "How much?"
"Ten."
She handed me a crisp ten-dollar bill, watching intently as I tucked it into the cashier box. She gathered her sandy hair into a ponytail and fastened the necklace. "You're in a worse mood than usual," she observed, admiring her reflection.
"Mm," I mumbled, fussing with the displays.
"Something happen?"
I grumbled under my breath, setting down the polished olive shells that I'd been rearranging. "Yeah," I admitted. "I had a shell stolen."
Her pale blue eyes went wide. "By who?"
"By what," I ground through clenched teeth. "A stupid seagull. I lost a queen conch to a seagull."
She whistled. "Sorry, Cassie."
"I just have to find the nest," I grumbled. "I want my shell back." "I don't blame you."
"Yeah, well..."
"I'll leave you alone," she said hastily, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "Hope you find your gull's nest."
"Me too," I murmured. I plopped down in the folding chair I'd brought. "Me too."
I sighed, fiddling aimlessly with a broken necklace clasp as the steady trickle of tourists arrived. The lapis lazuli went first, like always; then the pearl-white oysters and the dappled olive shells. A little girl with braces bought a few of the nautili and the dinky conch went to an elderly woman in a floral sundress. The sky - brilliantly clear after the previous night's storm - was a dazzling ultramarine.
"Here you go," I said, handing a wrapped package of clam shells to a college student. She smiled graciously and skipped away, white sand thrown off her bare heels. Another customer - a pudgy man, sunburned and wearing a too-small Hawaiian print shirt - approached. He squinted at the displays.
"You got anythin' that's actually valuable, missy?" he asked haughtily, flicking an oyster with one finger. "Somethin' better than this junk?"
"Excuse me?" I felt my short fuse beginning to burn.
"I said..."
We were both rudely interrupted as the deafening screech of a seagull cut him off, splitting the air and making my ears ring with the utter volume of the sound. In a clumsy blur of white, gray, and black feathers, the bird executed a less-than-graceful landing and flitted across one of the shelves, assessing the displays with tiny, unintelligent eyes. "Hey!" I cried. "You stole my conch!"
"What?" the tourist demanded, ignoring the bird's spectacular entrance.
"Excuse me," I said quickly, focusing on the gull as it prodded an especially beautiful olive. It squawked again and seized the shell with a deft swipe of its beak.
"You're not getting away that easily!" I scrambled out of the booth and shoved past the tourist as the bird took off, sailing easily once the wind was beneath it. Its streamlined wings were snowy white and black-tipped, obviously rinsed off since last night, and its tail switched left and right like a rudder, the charcoal highlights flashing. His blunt, gray claws dangled loosely beneath him as he banked into a turn. His pace was steady, unhurried as he soared along the beach. My legs pumped desperately in an attempt to keep up with his effortless flight.
"Wait 'til I get my hands on you," I hissed under my breath, panting as the gull covered more and more distance. I dodged tourists snapping photographs and surfers with boards under their arms; I sidestepped booths and vendors; I skirted children clumping together sand castles and their sunbathing parents. I barely watched where I was going as I tracked the bird overhead.
Suddenly the seagull swerved, veering away from the path and into a tangle of palms and beach grass. I plowed into the undergrowth without a care as I gave chase.
"I've got... You... Now!" I yelled in triumph as I sprinted into a clearing. I skidded to a halt... And stared.
There, in the middle of the open space, was a stunted palm, the fronds fanned out in a vivid green halo. In the halo's center was a nest - a shallow dish woven from twigs, sand, and mud, closely packed and artfully crafted. The outer rim was adorned with various ribbons, string, wire, and twine; some blue cellophane was visible along the sides. The seagull balanced in a nearby bush, watching skittishly, but it wouldn't abandon the nest.
I moved closer. Inside, the lip was lined with shells - clam, olive, oyster, nautilus, abalone, all of them colorful and glittering. Some I even recognized from my shop, disappeared from the racks. I'd assumed they'd been taken by some delinquent with no manners or a toddler who didn't know better - but here they were. And there, tucked neatly against the far wall, was my queen conch - a delicate pink-and-cream masterpiece.
"A gull's nest," I whispered, leaning over the bird's hideaway in awe. The bottom was carpeted with all sorts of trinkets; there were beads, inexpensive bits of jewelry - and probably some more than inexpensive, too - and even keys, probably from the lockers available near the beach. I carefully extricated the pieces, one by one, and set them aside.
Then I came to what seemed the final layer, and my heart stopped.
A thin leather cord peeked from under a coiled sand dollar necklace. It was worn, obviously many years old, but intact. With trembling hands I tugged gently on the end, slowly pulling it free of its hiding place. "Impossible," I breathed as the pendant finally emerged. I rubbed off the thin film of dust and dirt that coated it and a lump came into my throat, tears blurring the corners of my vision.
The teardrop-shaped piece of lapis lazuli glowed softly in the sunlight, the flecks of gold and silver sparkling amongst the green, purple, and beautiful azure. Mom's necklace.
Nearby, the gull cried impatiently, and I smiled, stepping away. The bird watched curiously as I slipped the necklace over my head, the pendant falling squarely to the center of my chest - just beside my heart. "Thank you," I called to the seagull, feeling stupid for talking to a bird but continuing anyway. "For finding this for me."
I turned away from the gull's nest and headed toward where the forest opened onto the beach.
Squawk?
The bird's questioning call made me swivel around. "Don't worry, " I told it, grinning. "I'm not going to take any of your other treasures." Then my eyes fell to something else in the nest, and I approached briskly, grabbing it and winking. "Except for this."
Then, laughing at the seagull's indignant cry behind me, I turned and ran, the queen conch under my arm - and Mom's pendant at my heart.