The Sea Sisters. Lucy Clarke

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      ‘Finn,’ she said, her lips close to his ear.

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Thank you – for coming to Maui.’

      ‘It would’ve been a different story if your dad lived in Kazakhstan,’ he quipped, forcing a smile.

      ‘I mean it.’ She was studying him closely. Too closely. ‘I really appreciate you being here.’ She leant into him, lifted her chin, and placed a kiss on his cheek.

      He was 16 again and standing in the crowded concert hall, sweat trickling down his lower back, the taste of Mia’s lips fresh on his.

      He saw the truth of it now as he had back then: he was in love with Mia.

      In the Hawaiian language, ‘Haleakalã’ meant ‘House of the Sun’. The first light broke on the horizon, sending pink slithers into the sky and painting the underbellies of clouds silver.

      ‘My God!’ Mia said, sitting forward.

      A brilliant red sun began to appear from behind the crater, a majestic god in all its awesome glory. As it rose, light flooded the lunar landscape, turning everything a deep earthy red. Now he could make out the towering cinder cones and crater basin, which emitted an ethereal quality that he could only compare to pictures of the moon. Within minutes, the full sun bloomed from behind the volcano like a smile, and they felt the first blush of warmth on their faces.

      It was an otherworldly sight; one of many incredible things they would experience together on this trip. He looked ahead to the weeks and months to come – spending hour after hour in Mia’s company – and glimpsed a type of exquisite torture unfolding. He would be able to lie beside Mia, listening to her breath slowing into sleep, but wouldn’t be able to hold her. He would eat dinner with her as the sun went down, but would never reach across to touch her hand. He would listen to all the things that busied her mind, but would not share the one thing on his.

      Travelling together for months in such intimate proximity would be impossible, deceitful even. He felt he was being driven towards making a decision with only one choice: Tell her.

      *

      Mia kicked off her hiking boots and then peeled away the damp socks, revealing pink and swollen feet. Dust caked her shins, stopping at the exact line at which her socks had begun. She’d caught the sun on her shoulders, nose and cheekbones, and stepped gratefully into a cool shower, feeling the water slide over her skin.

      They were staying in the Pineapple Hostel on Maui’s north shore. Mia liked the rainbow colours of the dorms and the vegetable patch in the garden and, on another evening, she might have taken advantage of the hammocks, or sat in the shade of a palm tree to read. Right now, however, her mind was elsewhere because on the hike she had decided that tonight she would visit Mick.

      She rolled deodorant along the hollows of her armpits and then combed her wet hair into a single smooth rope that glistened like liquorice. She pulled a fresh T-shirt from her backpack and slipped it on with a pair of shorts, then grabbed her bag.

      Finn was in the communal kitchen cooking pasta and chatting with a group of windsurfers who’d just arrived at the hostel.

      ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said, placing a hand lightly on his arm. ‘I’m going to see Mick.’

      ‘Now?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Excuse me a second,’ she heard Finn say. He followed her out of the kitchen. ‘Wait, Mia. Are you sure? I could go with you.’

      ‘I’d like to do this on my own.’

      He nodded. ‘You know where you’re going?’

      ‘The hostel owner said it’s a ten-minute walk.’

      ‘It’s getting dark.’

      ‘I’ll take a taxi back.’

      Finn rubbed a knuckle beneath his chin. ‘Well, I hope it goes all right.’

      She left at once, so she didn’t have time to change her mind. She walked through the small town of Paia, an offbeat place dotted with health-food stores, vegetarian cafés, surf shops and beachwear boutiques. Sugar-cane fields backed onto the town, lending a sweet smell to the air, and everywhere looked lush and green, as if she’d stepped outside after a burst of heavy rain.

      Two young boys emerged from the neck of a footpath with wet hair and bare feet, surfboards thrust underarm. Rather than turning right into the street that would deliver her to Mick’s house, Mia found herself taking the footpath, which led her through palm and papaya trees, to a wide stretch of beach.

      The air smelt fragrant, a crush of petals infused on the humid air. She slipped off her flip-flops and padded through the warm sand, which had taken on the pinkish hue of the evening sun. Her calf muscles and the backs of her thighs ached from hiking so she found a stretch of deep sand and sank down into it.

      Clean sets of waves rolled in from the ocean in neat lines, like a watery army. She watched as each wave rose gracefully to a fluid peak and then broke in a powerful cacophony of spray and froth, sending white-water roaring towards the shore.

      Beyond the breaking waves a lone surfer caught her attention. He paddled hard as a great mound of swell grew beneath him, and he was suddenly propelled onto it. He rose to his feet and dropped down the glassy face of the wave. He cut two smooth and fluid turns, carving white spray with a flick of the board’s tail, and then popped over the back of the wave moments before it closed out in a boom and a crush of foam. Mia realized she had been holding her breath watching him.

      From her bag she took out her journal and placed it on her knees. The four lines of her father’s address were written on a scrap of paper that she’d stuck in the centre of a double page, around which she’d begun to write brief notes and questions.

      Writing was Mia’s way of organizing her thoughts; when she could see words physically taking shape on a page she would then recognize threads of feelings or emotions that she’d allow to simmer, unidentified. Talking had never come as easily. She admired the way Katie would flop onto a chair, cup her hands lightly around her face, and air whatever grievance was troubling her. Regardless of the advice Mia or their mother gave, it was obvious that it was the act of talking that helped clear Katie’s mind, in the way a brisk walk on a frosty morning clears the sinuses, and she would always leave brighter for it.

      Looking at the double page now, Mia noticed that two questions stood out more prominently than the other notes, and she circled them both. The first was simply: ‘Who is Mick?’

      She knew the basic facts: Mick had been 28 when he met their mother, seven years her senior. They married four months later and bought a small house in North London where Katie and Mia were born. Mick worked in the music industry and set up three independent labels during his career; the first two went bust and the third he sold before retiring to Maui. Few of these facts had been elaborated on by their mother, always reluctant to talk about a man who had so little input into her daughters’ lives. When pushed, she had described him as charismatic with a shrewd head for business, but added that he was deeply selfish and never committed to the responsibilities of fatherhood.

      The second question Mia had СКАЧАТЬ