There was nothing.
“Annabelle...” Her voice grew smaller. She could hear the distant sound of the others calling the baby’s name. She could hear the waves, a sound that suddenly had no soothing peace to it.
Think. Think! Use your head.
She covered her mouth with her hands and paced, then moved to the spot where Annabelle had last been seen. There were no signs of her. Margaret’s hands fell to her sides, and she took another deep breath. Annabelle had been looking up at the sky, pointing up at the birds and giggling as she watched them fly.
Slowly, Margaret searched the ground, looking for a trail. There was little sand here, just thick short clumps of monkey grass. She began to walk in concentric circles, moving outward, examining every inch of grass until she finally reached the sand. Still nothing.
She stopped and glanced back to the area already searched, just in case. The front of the clearing led to the beach and the other three sides were framed with thick bushes and tropical flowers. To her right, rocks were scattered between three coconut palms that made spotty shade on the nearby sand. The landscape was empty. There was no Annabelle.
She moved out farther, expanding her search. A few more circles and she spotted round and deep hoof marks from the goat and a scattering of small w-shaped gull tracks, but nothing human except her own footprints.
For eternal minutes she kept looking, moving farther outward. She swiped the hair from her face repeatedly as the warm breath of the trade wind continually ruffled it into her eyes.
She looked toward the stream. Lydia and Theodore were searching the bushes and climbing between the rocks. Without thought she glanced back at the shoreline, not realizing until she saw Hank wading in the water that she was terrified of what she might see.
She looked back at the sand, driven to find something. And when she did find some little marks in the sand, she was so desperate that she thought she’d imagined them. But there they were... barely. Footprints with little baby toe marks
Ready to call out to Hank, she looked up. Her words froze in her throat like winter air. Out of the corner of her eye she saw their blankets hanging from a rope tied from a thick guava tree to a spiky pandanus palm. Hank had rigged the line the night before.
She stood in the spot where they had slept last night. She looked closer. All around her were footprints from each of them, Hank, Lydia, Theodore. Everyone’s prints were scattered between the trunks and tarps and ship’s salvage. Last night’s footprints. Not today’s.
“Annabelle!”
A warm, thick breeze drifted by and made the damp blankets snap.
“Annabelle! Annabelle...” Margaret’s shoulders fell slightly and her hands hung uselessly at her sides. The breeze died as suddenly as it had begun. The air felt stiller here, heavier. With one hand she shielded her eyes from the glare of the new sun and looked down the beach.
A dull tapping sound broke the stillness. “Annabelle?” Margaret spun around, looking this way, then that way. “Annabelle!”
One of the large wooden trunks behind her wobbled.
She ran over to it and threw open the humped lid. A little head with bright red curls popped up. “Hi!”
Margaret slumped to the ground. Her relief was fierce. It sped through her in a bloodrush that made her face feel hot. She sat there trying to take in a deep breath, but she was shaking so badly she couldn’t.
Annabelle was grinning. She gripped the edge of the trunk in two chubby fists and pulled herself up until she was peeking over the edge of the trunk. “Peeeekaboo.” She ducked her impish head down and giggled.
Margaret had the completely insane urge to cry. To blubber like Lydia. She reached over and lifted the baby from the trunk. Annabelle kicked her feet and laughed. “More! More!”
Margaret clasped her to her chest and rocked her for a minute, until Annabelle stopped squirming, popped two fingers in her mouth, and nuzzled comfortably against her while she played with the fingers on one of Margaret’s limp hands.
She placed her cheek on Annabelle’s soft baby hair and closed her eyes. Margaret held little Annabelle tighter than she had ever hung on to any single living thing.
And that was how Hank found her.
“Are you crying?” Hank scowled down at Smitty. She looked up at him from eyes that were damp. “No.”
He gave a snort of disgust and strode past her, then stopped and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey, kids!” He waved at them. “Come on back.” He watched them jump down from the rocks, and he muttered, “The sun is barely up and already she’s lost and found the kid. Instead of telling anyone, she sits there blubbering.”
He turned toward her just as she put the baby inside an open trunk. She bent over and dusted the sand off her backside. Hank stood watching as Annabelle crawled over the rim of the trunk and toddled off toward the coconut palms where that damn goat was grazing. He kept an eye on the kid and waited.
Smitty straightened, turned around, and looked in the trunk. “Oh, my God!” She whipped around. Hank didn’t move. He just pointed.
“Annabelle!” Smitty raced over and plucked up the giggling baby. With the kid balanced on her hip, she marched back and pinned him with a hot glare. “You let her run off again? After what just happened? Why didn’t you say anything?”
He shrugged. “I knew where she was. Besides, the kids are your problem.”
