Safe Harbor

Molly and Bridget found the painting when they were playing treasure hunt in the attic. Summer break was almost over and they had run out of things to do. They were bored with drawing, had gone off riding bikes, and they’d read all of their library books.

The attic was their last resort for some kind of excitement. They weren’t sure they were allowed to play up there but, as Bridget pointed out, they hadn’t expressly been told not to either. 

The attic was very hot. Within minutes Molly’s freckled face was flushed as red as her hair and Bridget’s dark curls were glued damply to her forehead, but neither girl was deterred by the heat. After all, treasure hunters had to brave the elements.

“I’ll start on this side” Bridget announced. “You start over there.” She pointed to the other side of the attic. “Whoever finds the coolest stuff wins.”

Bridget was taller and better able to step over and around obstacles, giving her a head start. Not wanting to be left behind, Molly scrambled over a broken desk chair and squeezed between two bookcases to get to a large box on her designated side of the attic. 

She stumbled over a pair of ancient men’s hockey skates and nearly fell, but saved herself by grasping onto a large rectangular object in the corner. Molly’s curiosity thrummed as she caught an intriguing flash of blue peeking through the grime.

“Bridget, come see!” Molly called, accidentally knocking over a lamp in her excitement. Bridget dropped the tangle of old beaded necklaces she’d been trying to unravel and wound her way through the maze of boxes and bins.

After a brief argument about who was going to clean up the broken lamp, they  dragged Molly’s find out into the sunlight under the window to get a better look at it.Clouds of dust billowed into the air as Molly brushed it off with her hands, making them both cough. 

Underneath was a watercolor seascape featuring a small harbor encircled by stone walls, with a sturdy lighthouse keeping watch at the edge of the sea. Molly brushed another swath of dust from the brass plaque centered on the frame. “Safe Harbor,” she read aloud.

As they examined the painting, debating whether or not it qualified as treasure, a soft salty breeze arose and caressed their sweaty faces. 

Molly looked at Bridget with raised eyebrows. Bridget shrugged, just as perplexed as her sister. “Did that boat just move?” Bridget leaned closer to peer at the tiny craft. 

The canvas came to life, bit by bit, before their very eyes. The Cobalt Blue sea tossed gentle curls of foam onto the Raw Umber strip of sand at the edge of the water. Minuscule watercraft appeared to rock gently with the swells, looking less and less like blobs of paint by the second. 

“Oh Molly, look!” Molly leaned around Bridget for a closer look at what she was pointing at. Her eyes widened as a tiny motor boat churned across the harbor. “Bout ye?” The harbormaster called a friendly greeting to the passing fisherman. “Aye, not bad.” came the reply. 

“They sound just like Great Granny,” Bridget stage whispered, just in case the tiny people in the painting might be able to hear her. Molly screwed her face up, trying to remember Great Granny’s Northern Irish accent. She was only four when their Great grandmother died, but she vaguely recalled the lilting rhythm of her speech as she told them stories about “The Other Side.”

The sisters sat criss-cross-apple-sauce on the rough boards of the attic floor in front of the old painting to watch the hustle and bustle of the boats and people coming in and out of the harbor. They were fascinated by the colors of the boats, the sky and the shifting tones of the painted sea. They watched it all, entranced, until their mother’s voice, calling for them, broke the spell. 

Instantly the painting was just a painting again. The ocean breeze and sounds of seabirds calling disappeared. The boats that cut through the water only moments ago were once again frozen in place. 

“Girls? What are you doing up here?” Their mother appeared at the top of the attic stairs. Bridget and Molly jumped to their feet. “We were playing treasure hunt.” Molly blurted. “We found actual treasure, Mom. Come see.”

Their mom frowned when she saw the painting. “Good grief, I forgot this old thing was up here. I used to be fascinated with it when I visited your Great Granny as a child. I used to make up stories about it, apparently. My mother said I even claimed the boats could move.” Her mouth creased into a nostalgic smile. 

“When Great Granny passed she told my mother to make sure we kept the painting. She said it needed to stay in the family and be passed down, so someday this will belong to one of you girls.” She reached over and brushed some lingering dust off the gilt frame, still wearing a bemused smile.

“Can we hang it up in the living room? Please? Molly wheedled. Her mother opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of seabirds calling over ocean waves. She frowned, perplexed, as a salty breeze ruffled their hair. 

Her confusion turned to wonder as she knelt down in front of the painting. “I always knew it wasn’t my imagination,” she gasped. The boats in the painting did move!” 

Bridget and Molly’s mother motioned for them to come closer. “Get ready, girls,” she said, her voice bright with excitement. “Those stories my mother thought I made up as a child? They weren’t make believe after all.” She pointed to a boxy white boat that appeared to be chugging towards them. “That ferry boat will be here to take us to The Other Side any minute now.”