“Good? That’s a relief.”
“Much better than my sister, though that may not be a grand achievement.”
Bridget leans back, studying me. I take a small slice of bread from the bundle and try not to overthink every movement. The crust is hard but satisfying to munch on.
I can’t shake a feeling of connection. Even this moment of silence doesn’t feel forced. I never realized how exciting it is to talk to someone who matches my cadence for conversation.
“Once you’re done, we can head back,” I say as Bridget crunches the heel. “Elle doesn’t want me out after dark, and the sun’s already set.”
Bridget nods, a kind upturn to her brows. “And you like it there? I’m starting to think I’d prefer this cave.”
“I’ll like it better with you there.”
Bridget laughs, softer than before. Then her face turns so serious I’m beginning to understand it means she’s joking. “I’ve already befriended a small family of crabs. They’ll miss me terribly.”
“We can come back. Just not when we’ll freeze in our sleep.” An easy compromise. But first, I can’t stop my curiosity. “Show me them?”
They’re tiny, crimson, and curious as puppies to our tickling fingers. We feed them crumbs of bread and laugh when their claws pinch at us.
“Do you know what they are?” I ask. A brave crab snaps its claw at the hem of my dress. Bridget shakes her head. “Red crab.”
She rolls her eyes. “I could’ve guessed that.”
I lead the brave crustacean with my finger as bait toward Bridget. She doesn’t notice until the crab climbs up her dress. She stills when it reaches her knee, her eyes wide.
“It likes you,” I tease. “They’re also called Atlantic deep sea red crab.”
“Deep sea?” Bridget frowns. She gingerly moves her finger to hover over the cephalothorax of the crab.
“They don’t get much shallower than two hundred meters, but they can go much deeper. Strange to have them here. It’s only deep for a harbor.”
Bridget places a careful finger on the crab. It doesn’t stir. She pets its shell lightly. “How do you know that? Fisherman father?”
Heat rushes to my face. It was so natural to share with her.
“I threw a fit as a child once when the cook put crabs in boiling water before supper. Refused to eat it,” I admit. “Went to bed without supper. I searched through my father’s library for an encyclopedia and learned about Atlantic crustaceans. I thought if they understood more about them, they’d listen to me.”
Bridget brings an open palm down to the crab on her knee. It scuttles aboard. “Did they?”
No. Father added a lock to his study. He admonished me for stealing, though technically I never removed the book. My mother fired the cook—as though it were her fault that I was upset. I never made another fuss at supper after that. Yet they still allowed me to collect seaweed. A lady’s pastime was still permissible, but nothing so crude as marine biology was tolerated.
“Yes,” I say instead. I won’t ruin this with the truth. “We never ate crab again.”
We leave a blanket tucked behind a rock for our next cave excursion and head back. Bridget points out features of the island I never noticed: the bend in a branch that promised it had supported a nestbefore, the trickle of sap on a trunk from a beetle’s burrowing. I train my eyes on the horizon. Can I find the beauty in this place again, following her lead?
I didn’t notice on my way to the cave, but on return it’s obvious the lighthouse is rough. Tan, raw wood pokes out where white-painted shingles have fallen off.
“Is it crooked?” I ask Bridget. “The whole building.”
Bridget cocks her head to one side, then the other. When she nods, it’s with the solemnity of a monk. “Yes. Slightly northwest. Wind, I’d wager.”
It’s such a nothing exchange, yet so opposite to what I’ve become accustomed to. Elle listens to react, not to learn.
“I’ll announce us,” I tell her as we reach the red door. “You’re in no danger.”
Bridget nods, but her hands have balled into fists. I don’t blame her.
Please, Elle. Prove me right.
