Free The Sea Sisters by Lucy Clarke Page B

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