Siren's Call. Debbie Herbert
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Sam nodded. His serious, deeply lined face rearranged to an unexpected, wistful smile. “When you were born, I fasted three days and went on long walks, seeking guidance. The first time I held you in my arms I heard a wolf howl. I envisioned a pack of wolves celebrating your birth, tails wagging, the males wrestling one another in a show of affection.”
“So you named me Nashoba—Choctaw for wolf.” He’d heard this before, remembered Mom rolling her eyes at Dad’s insistence on naming their children with traditional names. “So how did you end up with a name like Sam?”
“My parents did it to honor a gentleman named Samuel who was good to them. He hired my father as a laborer and paid him a decent wage for the times. But my middle name is Chula.”
“Chula means fox,” Nash said, combing through his memory of their native language.
Sam fixed his gaze back to the water’s expanse with an absorbed look Nash remembered from childhood. He would stay in this same spot for hours in deep contemplation, the fishing pole loose in his hand like an afterthought.
“Do you think about grandmother out here?”
She’d died decades ago from a boating accident. The one memory of his grandmother was of her shucking corn in the kitchen. The room was cozy and warm, smelling of fried goodness, fresh vegetables and herbs. When he’d entered, her dark eyes sparkled in greeting. She’d dropped to a knee and held out her arms and he’d run into them. The safest, most loving, secure spot in the universe. And it was but a thirty-second memory.
“Yes. And all the others that have passed before and since.”
It was a shame he’d never remarried. Nash struggled for words to convey sympathy while not sounding like a condescending jerk. “I wish you would leave this place. At least for a few vacations. You should see new things, meet new people.”
“I can’t leave.”
More like don’t want to leave. Sam was old and stubborn as barnacles clinging to a ship hull. No changing him at this late date.
The silence stretched between them as the sun had completed its day’s journey and disappeared. All that remained was the water’s memory of it in coral-and-purple sheens that rippled in the Gulf breeze. Grandfather turned to him. “The spirits say it is time.”
“Time for what?” So that’s what he did alone out here—communed with spirits. He should have guessed.
“One last story.”
Alarm brushed the back of his neck like a nest of crawling spiders. He half rose. “Do you have chest pains? Should I call a doctor?”
“It’s not my time tonight. Although it draws near.”
“Don’t say that. There must be something the doctors can do.” A suspicion gurgled up. “Are you taking your medicine? You can’t depend only on the spirits and herbs for healing.”
“There’s more to tell you of the Okwa Nahollo,” Sam continued, ignoring Nash’s question. He fixed him with sharp, dark eyes. “You are a descendant.”
“Of the mermaids?” Nash scoffed. Really, Grandfather had gone too far this time.
Sam’s jaw clenched and his mouth set in a determined line. “It is in your blood.”
* * *
“I want purple or pink highlights. Something striking.” Opal fingered a lock of lavender in Lily’s hair. “Something deeper than this.”
No point mentioning the subtle pastels in her hair were entirely natural. Fortunately, Lily kept a rainbow of hair-dye colors stocked because so many requested some version of her unusual hair hues. The beauty shop, Mermaid’s Lair, was officially closed, but Lily did the odd job for customers who begged for her service. Plus, it was convenient for Jet and Shelly to come in for weekly hair-and-nail maintenance—important because both grew at three times the normal human rate.
Jet winked at Lily from behind the desk where she sat running the numbers for their various family businesses: a maritime and antiquities shop, aquatic therapy and the small income from the beauty shop that kept the rent and utilities paid.
“You made a grand total of fifty dollars in profit last quarter,” Jet said, frowning.
Lily laughed, expertly assembling mixing bowls and chemicals. “Ah, but it was double that amount if you included tips.”
“I’ll tip handsomely,” Opal promised, an earnest look on her face.
Probably thought she was broke. As if. Lily styled hair because she enjoyed it and was good at it. “This is on me.”
“Maybe you should reopen full-time,” Jet persisted. “It would give you something to do.”
Hell, no. She’d had enough of the town women’s snotty, superior behavior and the men ogling her breasts as she stood close by to trim their hair. Besides, shop hours would interfere with her painting.
“Don’t need to.” They were stinking rich.
“But you’re home alone. What do you do all day?”
Lily shrugged. “Paint.”
“She’s really good,” Opal cut in. “I saw her sketchbook.”
“Sure, I know that.” Jet waved a hand around the room. “She did this, after all.”
Opal surveyed the varying shades of coral, rose and ivory on the walls. Lily had painted pearly tones that gave the effect of being enveloped in the shelter of a giant conch shell.
“Remarkable,” Opal said in a hushed tone.
Lily felt a tiny glow of satisfaction at the praise. She’d spent lots of time with Opal the past couple of days, enjoying the novelty of shopping with a girlfriend and showing her around the bayou.
“But I don’t see art as a career path.”
Jet’s acerbic observation squashed the flicker of warmth. Her sis was in a lousy mood today. Must be some hormonal pregnancy thing.
Lily absentmindedly brushed Opal’s red hair. She’d been thinking of entering the prestigious Garrison Hendricks art contest. All finalists would be invited to showcase their work at a premiere gallery in New York City. The chances of placing were slim, but the rewards could launch her fledgling dreams.
The click of Jet’s fingers on the adding machine resumed.
“How’s Nash’s work going?” Lily asked Opal casually.
“It’s been a challenge, but he enjoys it. Doesn’t he talk to you about it?”
“I haven’t talked to him in a couple days. Maybe I’ll run out there tomorrow.”
Opal winked. “Bet he’d love to see you. You two can pick up with the passionate kiss I interrupted at the picnic.”
The clicking stopped. “Passionate kiss? I thought you were seeing Gary Ludlow,” Jet said.
“I cut him loose last week.” Lily sharpened her scissors, ignoring Jet’s exasperated sigh.
“One day you’re going to run out of men to date around here,” her sister warned.
Lily placed chunks of Opal’s hair between her left index finger and thumb and made the first cut. She didn’t defend herself against Jet’s remark. It wasn’t that she deliberately set out to hurt anyone. When she saw it couldn’t work, she ended it quickly, figuring that was the kindest thing in the end.
A ping sent Opal scurrying through her purse. “Gotta take this,” she apologized, scooting out of the chair. “Is there somewhere I can talk privately?”
Lily pointed to the break room in back.
“Be back in a minute.” Opal hurried away, the black vinyl