Chapter 15
Artemis
“Be like watercolor. Blend, but don’t lose yourself.”
—Eloisa Hobby
As she lay on the couch in the quilting room of A Stitch in Time at seven that same evening, legs up the wall, head upside down, her hair dragging on the floor, Artie stared at the quilters’ choice in footwear.
Gran in her Birkenstocks, Mom in sensible ballet flats, Isabelle in flip-flops, Nanette in sneakers. The only one with any fashion sense was Sharon, who wore gold sandals that showed off her tanned, French-manicured toenails.
Dot, Vivian, and Clare also sat at the table, along with a couple of other women Artie didn’t know, but she couldn’t see their shoes from her vantage point.
Sighing, Artie texted her brother, Beck, even though she knew the message wouldn’t send. Texting made her feel normal in this peculiar world. On my tombstone, write SHE DIED OF BOREDOM.
Okay, fine. The food on this island was bitchin’ awesome and the beds were the softest on earth. The sky was bluer here than at home and the night sky took her breath away. But still a snoozefest.
It was still early in the evening and if she heard one more word about the many varieties of stitches used in quilting, she was gonna throw back her head and howl at the moon. Why was Mom being so very mean, not letting her go beachcombing with Orion?
Artie texted: I mean c’mon, BUY a freaking quilt at Wally World already and be done with it.
Could be worse—she told herself what she knew her brother would say—could be Julep.
True enough. Sighing, Artie pocketed her phone, swung her legs to the floor, and sat up. Orion had chores and couldn’t hang out with her for now.
Dot put down her sewing and caught Artie’s eye. She patted the empty chair beside her. “You’re restless. Why don’t you join us?”
Artie crinkled her nose. “Not much of a quilter, thanks.”
“If you’d like to explore the other craft shops, I’d be happy to accompany you. There’s painting, jewelry making, stained glass, baking . . .” Dot checked off activities on her fingers. “And—”
“Yeah, Dot, see, here’s the thing, I haven’t been into arts and crafts since like third grade when we made pipe cleaner reindeer with googly eyes. I’m over it.”
“Bad experience with a glue gun?” Dot chuckled.
“Something like that.” Artie couldn’t help grinning. An incident involving a glue gun had happened. She shot glue at a girl who made fun of her art and it got stuck in the girl’s hair and the school nurse had to cut it out. Artie ended up in detention for a week. It wasn’t her first—or last—time in detention.
“Don’t forget,” Dot reminded her, “there’s a chance you could win money for your artwork if you enter it in one of the contests.”
Artie shook her head. “The money sounds enticing, but I don’t have any talent.”
“There’s a new art category this year,” Dot coaxed. “Recycled art.”
“Oh, yeah, Eloisa mentioned it in the orientation Gran dragged me to. Not my jam.”
“Are you in the habit of shooting down everything before giving it a chance?” Dot asked.
“Now you’re catching on.” Artie winked at the large woman.
“Artie,” Mom said, not even glancing up from her sketchbook. She was working on designing Gran’s quilt while Gran sewed practice swatches. “Stop being such a negative Nelly.”
Dot raised her eyebrows. “What is your jam if it’s not arts or crafts? Music? Animals? Gardening?”
“Animals are all right.” Artie ran a hand through her hair.
“Then you’d enjoy the turtle preserve. This time of year, the turtles come in after sunset to lay their eggs.” Dot’s fingers moved over the piece she was quilting. The woman hand-sewed almost as quickly as Gran.
A nocturnal activity? Now Artie was interested. “Directions to the turtle preserve?”
Dot pointed to a quilted map of Hobby Island hanging on the wall. The turtle preserve was on the western tip of the island, directly opposite Crafters’ Corner.
“How far is that?”
“Five point six miles.”
“You’re not going there alone in the dark,” Mom said, shooting her a “cool it” stare.
Artie rolled her eyes and blew out her breath. “Dark is the point. That’s when the turtles lay their eggs.”
“Turtle preserves at night can be dangerous,” Vivian warned and took off her reading glasses.
“Dangerous?” Artie asked. “In what way? Accidentally stepping on turtle eggs?”
“You’re not going.” Mom put down her pencil and intensified her glare.
“Should I tell them, or do you want the honors, Dot?” Vivian batted her eyelash extensions.
“Be my guest,” Dot said.
Vivian spread her arms and motioned everyone to come closer. The quilters leaned in. She lowered her voice as if she was telling a spooky campfire story. “An ancient turtle haunts the beach, and they call her Wicked Martha.”
“Ooh,” Artie said. “How wicked is she?”
“Martha isn’t wicked in a sinister sense, rather, she’s more of a mischievous scamp than anything else.” Vivian snipped off a piece of thread from the row of stitches she just completed. “Martha loves everything left, specifically left socks.”
“Huh?” Artie crinkled her nose. “Whaddya mean?”
“In her younger years, Martha was an ordinary sea turtle, basking in the sun and enjoying the tranquility of island life.” Vivian dropped her voice even lower, building the drama. “One fateful day, Martha found a shipwreck submerged beneath the waves. Her curiosity piqued, she ventured inside and found a chest overflowing with knitted socks of all colors, patterns, and sizes.”
“No way.” Artie snorted, not believing this story for a second. “Who keeps a chest of nothing but socks?”
Ignoring that, Vivian ran fresh thread through the eye of her needle. “Bewildered by the soft textures and vibrant hues, Martha made her choice. One left sock.”
“What color?” Artie asked.
“Ocean blue, of course, with a starfish design. Martha was so taken with her newfound treasure that she started collecting left socks from across the seven seas. Nobody knew why she had such an affinity for socks, but theories abound. Some say she’s furnishing her underwater abode, but quilters believe she’s creating a patchwork quilt for when the seas grow cold.”
“But that’s ridiculous. There’s no difference between left socks and right socks,” Artie said.
Vivian’s eyes widened as if she believed the kooky fable. “Please never let Wicked Martha hear you say that!”
“Why? Will she steal my left sock?” Artie chuckled.
“You laugh, but Martha’s cheeky capers are real,” Sharon piped up. “Last year when I first visited Hobby Island, I went home with only one sock from each pair I brought.”
Artie wasn’t buying that for a second, least of all because elegant Sharon was not the sock-wearing type.
“Whenever a single left sock disappears on this island, people know who to blame. Wicked Martha slips ashore under the veil of darkness, pilfering left socks from unsuspecting island guests. To prevent thievery, when you visit the turtle preserve, please take an extra left sock with you as a small offering to the island’s quirky guardian,” Vivian said, finishing the tall tale.
Artie shot a look at Dot. “Island myth, bullshit or verified?”
A Mona Lisa–style smile settled over Dot’s face. “Verified.”
“So, if you ever miss a left sock, remember to smile, and say, “Wicked Martha strikes again!” Clare giggled.
“Wicked Martha is the unruly spirit that keeps our hearts filled with joy and our left feet oh so slightly colder at night,” Dot added.
“What a charming story!” Gran applauded. “Thank you for sharing it with us.”
“Just remember,” Vivian said, “the more you embrace our legends, the more Hobby Island reveals her magic.”
Magic of what? Making old ladies look foolish? Artie snorted. “That’s easy enough to fix. I’ll stop wearing socks. Take that, Wicked Martha.”
“I have a better idea,” Mom said. “Stay away from the beach by yourself late at night.”
“Mom, Wicked Martha isn’t real,” Artie said.
“Maybe not.” Her mother’s expression told her in no uncertain terms not to go out at night. “But plenty of other dangers lurk in the dark for stubborn young ladies who defy their mothers.”
Yeah well, Mom scared easily, but Artie did not. She was almost sixteen. She was capable of making her own choices. She wasn’t one to hem and haw like Mom and Gran, weighing pros and cons and analyzing everything to death.
Artie acted. She did things.
She was like her father in that regard.
An image of her dad laughing and shooting hoops with her at their house in Dallas popped into her mind, and she felt a hard stab of sorrow. Dammit, she missed him. But she wasn’t a bawl baby. Artie hardened her jaw and fisted her hands.
That’s when she made her decision that come hell or high water, she was sneaking out of the B&B tonight to go beachcombing with Orion.
* * *
After everyone at the Nestled Inn had gone to bed, Artie grabbed her backpack, got out her water bottle, filled it from the sink, and tossed it into the pack. She grabbed the free pretzels and nuts from the welcome basket and put them in too. Spurred by a desperate need for adventure, Artie crept downstairs and sneaked out the front door.
The humid night air wrapped around her, and the thrill of the unknown coursed through her veins.
Hobby Island beckoned.
Her pulse thumped at the promise of what lay beyond the confines of the Nestled Inn and Crafters’ Corner. This world was her playground, and nothing was gonna hold her back. The darkness was her ally, concealing Artie as she slipped away from the B&B.
She headed toward the shoreline. So much to explore, experience, and enjoy as she hiked through Crafters’ Corner. The heartbeat of the island was quiet. Most everything was closed except the tiki bar, which remained open at the beach, with a few customers on the patio, chatting and laughing. A clock in the town square chimed as she walked toward the beach and counted off each bong until it stopped at eleven.
Burning tiki torches lighted her way from Crafters’ Corner to the water’s edge. The sand glowed with a silvery light as the moon peeked out again. Artie stopped to pull a map from her pocket. The meeting spot lay three miles up the beach. It was a trek, but Artie ran cross-country. No big whoop for her.
She ducked her head, the wind whipping wilder out here, slapping her hair into her face, but she could handle it. By the time she reached the rendezvous spot, which was near a cave marked Old Turtles Grotto, it was just after midnight.
But there was no sign of Orion. Had she left already? Artie was barely late. Just a couple of minutes. Disappointed, she looked up at the half-moon hanging in the sky. “Orion, where are you?”
The surf washed up to her ankles. Dammit, she should have worn flip-flops instead of her Docs. Artie slipped off her heavy backpack and tossed it up on the beach several feet away. It landed in a clump of sea oats. The waves crashed against the entrance to the cave, sending ocean spray splattering over Artie’s face. Sputtering, she wiped her cheeks with the heel of her palm and tasted brine.
Cupping her hands around her mouth, she called out, “Orion!”
The cave echoed back to her, “Orion! Orion! Orion!”
Artie waited. No answering call. Maybe her new friend couldn’t hear over the wind. Artie called again.
Nothing.
Was Orion screwing with her head? Had she lured Artie into the dark unknown as a prank? Or maybe she was playing a fun game of hide-and-seek.
Artie liked that thought much better. Perhaps Orion was hiding in the cave. Was she waiting for Artie to come find her? Artie sloshed through the water and winced. Ugh, her Docs! Oh well, too late to worry about that now, Artie thought and waded to the mouth of the cave.
It was pitch-black.
If Orion was inside, she was much braver than Artie. She took out her cell phone. On Hobby Island, cell phones were good for only one thing. A flashlight. She shone the narrow beam around the cave entrance.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
“Are, are, are.”
Well, hell. What now? She wouldn’t risk going deeper into the cave without confirming Orion was in there.
Feeling punked, Artie tried to pivot and back out of the cave. But her left shoe sank deep into the mud. She gave a grunt, grabbed her knee, and tried to jerk her foot free. But she was already ankle-deep in silt. “Frick!”
“Frick! Frick! Frick!”
It was eerie out here, and Artie started worrying . . . just a bit. She was pretty confident in her ability to rescue herself, but the sand pulled at her like wet cement.
That’s when she felt it.
A slimy cold thing touched her leg. Something big and heavy. Something moving . . .
She froze, her blood slamming against her eardrums. Then something firm and wet scraped across her ankle, and she felt that something clamp down on her left sock.
Artie shrieked.
A turtle as big around as Mom’s rebounder trampoline tried to pull off Artie’s sock with her shoe still on her foot.
Holy shit! Wicked Martha was attacking her!
Martha gave a good hard yank and pulled Artie underneath the water.
Ulp.
Dammit, Mom was right. She shouldn’t have been alone on the beach at night.