Pearl had spent more years with his daughter than the girl’s own mother had. She probably knew more about that girl than Lin himself did. And she cared for his daughter, he was sure of it. Lin thought of Pearl standing by the beach road, wiping her eyes with the hem of her skirt, and a disturbing idea began to pick at the edges of his mind.
Bunny
Bunny felt a spray of seawater on her face. Not a good sign, so far in from the breakers. She stood on the beach road with Pearl and the others, scanning the choppy waters of the bay for a sign of Covey. Bunny knew that even a strong swimmer could miscalculate. But even in her haste, Covey must have understood what kind of wind was blowing, what kind of sky was taking shape. Covey would know that she couldn’t stay out there for very long.
And now Bunny tried to imagine her friend’s calculations. How far along the coast could Covey get before having to come ashore again? The police would have thought of this too, of course, but they had already come back in. They’d already given up on Covey. They didn’t understand Covey, or the currents, the way Bunny did.
It had been calmer the other day, during their last swim together. They had pulled easily through the warm water, then sat on the sand to dry in the sun, licking the salt off their lips, braiding each other’s hair, saying nothing. There was nothing left to say, after their tearful discussions, after their what-ifs. Bunny’s heart had cracked a little every time Covey had whispered to her of her plans to follow Gibbs to England, but Bunny would have taken anything over this, this forced marriage to another man, this smothering of Covey’s dreams.
Through the growing twilight, Bunny saw that the storm was coming in quickly. Covey would know this, but Bunny was no longer certain that Covey would have time to swim to safety without being cut up on the rocks, or forced out to sea. This was not about strength or speed. This was about being made of flesh and bone and blood. This was about having respect for the power of nature. And, just like that, Bunny understood what Covey might try to do.
Of course, Bunny thought. Of course. Bunny grabbed Pearl’s hand and pulled her all the way to Covey’s house.
Pearl
“She’s not dead,” Bunny told Pearl. “I don’t believe it.”
Pearl looked at Bunny. She felt a softness in her heart for this girl. She had known her almost as long as she’d known Covey.
“Bunny,” Pearl said.
“No,” Bunny said, and the stubbornness in her voice brought Pearl close to tears. Bunny, like Covey, had turned into a young woman overnight. Bunny was still a little thing when she first ran into this kitchen with Covey to show Pearl her first swimming medal, waving the bronze-colored disk at Pearl and sending potatoes rolling off the counter and onto the floor. She still tended to trip and knock things over, that child, but she had grown as big and strong and beautiful as a tree.
Bunny’s mother told Pearl that the clumsiness had begun with a fever. Sometimes, Bunny still got the aches and, when she was tired, she limped. The fever had left something in her, Bunny’s mother said, but nothing that couldn’t be managed if Bunny would only concentrate. The swimming had helped her to do that. Now at seventeen, Bunny towered over Pearl, her shoulders broad and square, a look of clarity in her eyes.
“Pearl, if anyone can survive out there, Covey can,” Bunny said. But more than four hours had passed since Covey’s disappearance and the last traces of peach had left the sky.
“That big race you were training for,” Pearl said, “were you girls ready for it?”
“Almost, yes.”
“And how many hours would it take to swim it? As long as she’s been out there now?”
“No, less.”
“So, how could she manage out there alone, and with a storm coming in?”
Bunny shook her head. “I don’t think she could, Pearl. But that’s my point, don’t you see?” Bunny said, banging her elbow into a pot behind her and sending the cover clattering onto the counter. “I don’t think she would even try.”
Pearl put her hands on her hips and shifted her head to look at Bunny with her good eye. “What are you saying, Bunny?”
“There’s a place we know,” Bunny said. “Close to the shore. If she’s there, she might be all right,” Bunny says, her voice cracking.
Without another word, Pearl handed Bunny a battery-operated torch, a modern luxury from Mr. Lin’s shop. She put a canvas ice bag on the kitchen table and stuffed it with a towel, dry clothes, and food. She left the room and came back with a small wooden box with bank notes inside. The box was the only item of value Covey’s mother had ever had, a beautiful thing with carvings around the border of its lid. After Mathilda left, Covey used to sit on the edge of her parents’ bed, holding the box and lifting the lid then letting it drop, lifting it then letting it drop, over and over again.