B000FC1MHI EBOK (16 page)

She was spared replying to Molly by the presentation of the sales slip for signing, followed by the transfer of two large bags filled with her purchases. After depositing them in the car, they hit a little bookstore, where Julia replaced the books and magazines that had been lost to the sea. Famished by then, they went to a quaint restaurant overlooking the harbor. An assortment of trees, some flowering pink, some white, all with a lush canopy of green leaves, shaded the wrought-iron tables and chairs. They ordered lobster rolls, which were served on croissants with barbecue chips on the side. After consuming everything before them, they ordered a single serving of strawberry shortcake. It was a huge thing, delivered with two long spoons.

“Totally decadent,” Molly remarked.

“It’s strawberry season,” Julia countered. “The waiter said these were grown nearby. How can we say no to local fruit?”

“Said Adam to Eve. But this is
real
shortcake. Real shortcake, real strawberries, real whipped cream.” She put a large spoonful in her mouth and talked around it. “So what’s left?”

“Left?”

“Clotheswise,” she said more clearly, speaking after a swallow. “You need sweaters. It was cool here last night.”

“Not sweaters. Zoe would never forgive me if I wore anything but something she knitted herself. I could use a sweatshirt, though.”

“A hoodie,” Molly decided. “Something touristy.”

“Excuse me? You
hate
touristy things. Tacky, is what you usually say.”

“Okay, but I’m not talking
tacky
tacky. I’m talking classy tacky.”

Classy tacky proved to be hooded sweatshirts with
CAMDEN
written in large block letters across the chest. Molly got a navy one with red lettering to match Julia’s gray one with navy lettering.

“And these,” the girl said, adding to the pile a yellow rain jacket and another sweatshirt, this one solid green. She grinned, said, “When in doubt, think of Dad’s ties,” and went off to the register to pay.

Julia acquiesced, in part because the prices were so reasonable and in part because the shopping was such fun. She opted for practicality at a luggage store, purchasing a large canvas bag to hold her new things, but she balked at the camera store, when Molly dragged her inside, straight to display cases holding the same equipment Julia had lost to the sea.

“I don’t think so, Molly.”

“Didn’t Dad tell you to replace what you lost?”

“I’m not sure I want to.”

“Why not? He owes it to you.”

Julia felt a twinge. “Why do you keep saying that, Molly? Your father doesn’t
owe
me anything.”

“Yes, he does. You make his life possible. He thinks about work, while you think about everything else. You’ve given your life to him.”

“And it’s not been a bad life,” Julia pointed out. “I have a beautiful daughter and a beautiful home. I eat at the best restaurants and shop at the best stores. I’ve been to Europe, to Australia, to the Near East. I’ve been
multiple
times to the Caribbean, during that time of year when New York is dirty and cold. And I’ve had all of this without financial worry. Most women would give anything to live the way I do. Most women would give anything to have a husband who treats her like your father treats me.”

Molly made a dismissive sound.

“
Molly,
” Julia whispered, uneasy now, “what
is
this about?”

Molly held up a slender hand. “I’m just annoyed with Dad. Okay?” She looked away. “Maybe I’m just down on men.”

Julia wanted to think it was that, rather than something Monte had done—and it did follow, she supposed, after Molly’s fiasco in Paris. “They aren’t all bad,” she mused. “I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for one last week. He didn’t have to go tugging a seat cushion through the ocean to help me, but he did.”

“Ah,” Molly said and seemed to revive. “The alpha male.” She dismissed Noah in the next breath. “I still think you should get a camera.

You used your point-and-shoot to death. Aren’t there things you want to photograph on the island?”

There were, though whether Julia could capture the tranquillity of the barn at dawn or the hush of the meadow at dusk, she didn’t know, and those were the things she would want to remember once she was back in New York.

But the temptation was great. Having done her homework when she had first asked for a digital camera, she moved down the display case. “I’d like to see this, please,” she said to the salesman.

Molly laced her fingers in delight. “Oh,
good
. But wait, wait. Show her
this
one.”

Julia put a hand on her daughter’s arm. “That’s not the one I want.”

“But it’s a better model.”

“It has features I don’t want, and it’s much more expensive. I don’t care who’s paying for it. I don’t want a camera that will overwhelm me with buttons and dials for advanced features that I’ll never use in a million years.”

“You may,” Molly said meekly.

Julia smiled. “Well, then, if and when that happens, I’ll just hit your father up for the newer model. Right now, this is the camera I want.” When Molly opened her mouth to argue, she held up a hand. “Are we buying this for you or for me?”

“You,” Molly conceded. “But at least get a tripod. And a case. And whatever other little extras you’ll need.”

“I will,” Julia assured her. She knew about all those little extras, had kept lists of what she wanted when she had done that original research. She didn’t have the list with her now, but what items she forgot, the salesman eagerly supplied.

An hour later, they walked out of the store with everything she would need to take, print, and email pictures. The camera itself hung from her shoulder, its battery charged and its first pictures already recorded, thanks to the salesman’s able instructions and a charming deck behind the store. Those first pictures were of Molly in every degree of close-up, every angle of light, every type of flash—and Julia was delighted. She loved snapping away, knowing she could later decide what was worth printing and what to delete. She loved seeing the picture in the monitor, and being able to zoom in on any part of it she wanted. She loved
holding
this camera, which was so much smaller and more comfortable in her hand than the one she had lost. She felt an immediate intimacy with it.

“This is exactly what I wanted,” she announced as they returned to the car.

Molly beamed. “I’m proud of you, Mom.”

Julia smiled back. “I’m proud of me, too.”

Julia clung to that thought when she drove onto the ferry an hour later. Her first instinct was to stay in the car for the short ride to the island. The car was familiar. It was safe. She could sit inside and pretend she was on dry land.

But Molly wanted to go to the upper deck, where the air was sunny and warm. And with no fog in sight, a part of Julia wanted this to be the crossing she had been robbed of, herself, the week before.

So she left the car and went up on top, and she felt perfectly safe. Yes, she kept an eye on the water and monitored the boats that were nearby. Yes, she was mildly uneasy when the ferry’s motor made the same intermittent noise it had that morning. But this time there was lots to see. Weekend boaters were taking advantage of the weather; all, though, respected the ferry’s space and kept their distance. Rockland’s pier, its landings and cottages faded gradually, while before them, the islands took shape and grew. To the north were the granite bluffs of West Rock and Hull, to the east, the meadows of Little Sawyer. Beyond that were the forested crests of Big Sawyer, gaining prominence the closer they came. If the island hadn’t stood out from the others for its lushness, it would have by dint of sheer size.

Julia was biased, of course. Big Sawyer was the only island of which she had childhood memories. As the ferry docked, she felt a sense of homecoming. Moments later, though, driving the car onto Big Sawyer soil, she felt something else. She was trying to identify the emotion when Molly said, “Stop here,” and directed her to a parking space. “I have to run into the Grill for a minute.”

Julia didn’t blame her. The bathrooms in the restaurant were far preferable to the ones on the ferry. Nor did she mind waiting. Lord knew, she was practiced at it. Hadn’t she spent a good part of Molly’s first eighteen years waiting, if not at school, then at a dentist’s office, a dance lesson, or some such activity? Usually, she had a book with her. Or a pad of paper to make a grocery list. Even stationery to write thankyou notes to friends who had hosted them for a weekend in the country.

She had none of those things now. So she rolled down the driver’s window and settled back in her seat to enjoy the first quiet moments she’d had in hours, and the emotion came to her then. Actually, more than one. She felt blessed. She felt strong. She felt… liberated. Yes. Liberated. She had tussled with fate and survived. That opened doors.

And as quickly as that, it was back—the restlessness, the little niggling in the pit of her stomach, the sense of something pending. She might have blamed it on the confines of the island, if she hadn’t known better. This was big-picture-of-life stuff.

Opening the door, she swung her legs out. Seconds later, she put one back in and reached for her phone. Whom to call, though?

She had talked with Monte just last night. There was no reason to call him again. He wouldn’t know what to make of her restlessness, would only feel threatened and grow defensive, and she would end up feeling worse.

Both legs out of the car again, she put her elbows on her knees and thought about calling her parents. But her mother wouldn’t speak, and her father would be cryptic with her mother nearby, and, anyway, what would she say to
him,
knowing now what she did?

She straightened. She put her hands on her knees. She glanced at the Grill, her watch, the pier.

Then, snatching up her new camera, she climbed out of the car.

A
trio of men talked beside a pickup. One had his arms folded over his chest; another had a booted foot on the running board; the third stood free, his stance wide. All were local. All glanced at Julia as she passed. They didn’t stare. Just glanced. They didn’t acknowledge her, though they knew who she was. She could see it in their eyes as she walked on.

A young woman sat on the top of a piling at the start of the pier, talking with what looked, from the intimate slant of their bodies, to be her boyfriend. They, too, glanced at Julia as she turned onto the dock. They didn’t stare. Just glanced. They didn’t smile, didn’t speak, though they knew who she was. She could see it in their eyes as she walked on.

A pair of lobstermen anchored each end of a large locker as they carried it ashore from a boat. The locker was heavy; they struggled with it as they walked. One of them did nod at Julia as they passed, but the other just looked. Neither of them spoke.

She felt totally conspicuous. She was wearing the same tank top and denim capris she’d had on that morning, but she might as well have been wearing neon pink, had a green streak in her hair or two noses for the visibility she felt—which was truly ironic. She had spent a lifetime being the least visible person in the world. First her mother was the attention-getter, with Jerry and Mark duking it out for second place, then when Julia married, Monte became the main attraction. She was perfectly content to be in the background. It suited her quietness.

Nothing in her experience had trained her for being watched. She didn’t want it. It made her very uncomfortable.

So, maybe it was in her mind.

Of
course
it was in her mind. Being glanced at was not the same as being watched. But that didn’t change how she felt—which was precisely why she wanted to see Noah Prine. He wasn’t family, wasn’t even a friend. But he understood.

She had spotted the
Leila Sue
pulling into its slip when the ferry had first entered the harbor. Turning down that arm of the dock now, she singled it out. Noah was hosing down the boat, cleaning up after a day’s work. What she could see of his T-shirt was gray under spatters of blue and orange paint, but from midchest down he was covered by yellow oilskins. Wide bands cinched them at the shin. At the ankle, big rubber boots took over, and from what Julia could see, it was a good thing. Both oilskins and boots were dripping wet.

His hair was mussed and fell damply on his brow, over the curve of his ears, down the nape of his neck. He had regained color during a day of sun on open seas and was lightly bronzed. His eyes followed the spray from the hose. His bare arms gleamed, muscles flexing as he moved things aside with a gloved hand.

He didn’t see Julia, who stopped just shy of the boat. She was aching to take a picture or two. That felt like an intrusion, so she took the opportunity of his preoccupation to study the boat. It was long, with the same up-curved bow and low stern as other boats nearby, the same flat rail running all around, the same rubber-skidded platform on the back. The wheelhouse was enclosed on three sides, front windows angled open. On one side were steps that led to the cabin, with hooks along the way holding hats, jackets, and other gear. On the other side, a console housed the throttle, three separate screens, and numerous gauges. The steering wheel protruded from its front.

There was no seat at the wheel. Noah would be in and out, back and forth all the time. In keeping with that, immediately to the right, where the wheelhouse ended, were long hooks, winches, and pulleys. In the center of the boat, bolted to the floor, was a worktable; Noah was washing that down now. A pair of large crates and a trio of tanks were overturned in the stern. The water from the wash ran away through small holes at the sides of the deck.

She didn’t see any lobsters, though from the way Noah was scrubbing the boat and the soapy smell of whatever he was using to clean, she assumed they had been there not long before.

When he turned to hose down the crates in the stern, he happened to look up, and for a split second, his face was intent, blue eyes as dark as the North Atlantic. Then, incredibly, he smiled. It wasn’t a large smile, but it was spontaneous.

“Hi,” he said and continued with his work, but in a more relaxed way.

More relaxed now herself, she smiled and stepped forward. She stopped at the side of the boat and watched him work. He was quite handsome—every bit in control of his work—yes, alpha male here, which made watching him a delight. After a minute, he hosed down his overalls and boots. Turning off the water, he coiled the hose and tossed it aside.

“Where’d the lobsters go?” she asked.

He hitched his head toward the far side of the harbor. “The boxy building out there. Foss Fish and Lobster. Foss is the local trader. I catch, he sells.”

“Was the catch good today?”

“Not bad.” He tossed his gloves back toward the wheelhouse. “Pretty good, actually. I’ve missed a lot lately, so most of my traps were full.”

“Not all?” she teased.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

Still smiling that small smile, though crookedly now, he said with a one-shouldered shrug, “Bad place? Bad bait? Vandalism? You choose.”

“Vandalism?”

“Seals. Or men.”

“Oh, don’t say that.”

He pushed an arm up to mop his brow, leaving his hair all the more mussed. “Men? I don’t want to say it, but a couple of my traps were bone empty. Two in a string. Like someone pulled the line and helped himself.”

“Can’t a seal take lobsters from both?”

“Oh, it can. Definitely. Seals can steal from as many as they want.”

“But you don’t think this was seals.” She could see it in his face.

“Seals make a mess of the trap. Men are pretty neat. These were neat.”

“I thought there was honor among fishermen.”

“There is,” he said, unhooking the straps of his overalls. He bent to dispense with the boot bands, then in deft movements kicked off the boots and slipped out of the overalls. His bare feet were well formed. His jeans were faded and fit him well. “Once in a while, you get bad guys. We’re working on it.” In a movement eased by long arms, he hung the overalls from a hook just inside the wheelhouse, and caught up a towel.

“What does ‘working on it’ mean?” she asked.

He stepped into clogs as each foot was dried. “Trying to get a message to the offending party.”

“Then you do know who it is?”

“Oh, yeah.”

She did, too, she realized. “The fruit guys?” When he gave her a quizzical look, she said, “Matthew Crane told me.” She had another thought. “Is this a gear war?”

“Not yet, but it could become one if they ignore the message.”

“What would happen then?”

“Not good stuff. It can get ugly. Part of me’s itching for it. I’d like to have a good go-round with someone.” He angled his chin toward her camera. “Been playing tourist on the mainland?”

“Uh-huh. Clothes shopping, mostly.”

“How’d it feel?” he asked. Those dark blue eyes were suddenly sober. He wasn’t talking about the mainland or the shopping. This was why she had come to see him.

“The ride out was hard,” she admitted. “Coming back was better. Did you feel anything like that?”

“No. But it’d be pretty bad if I did. I’ve spent most of my life on the water. I’m avoiding the place where the boats went down, though. That’s tough. How’re you sleeping?”

“Badly. Dreams wake me.”

“Itching wakes me.”

“Itching?”

He moved closer to the gunnel. His eyes were troubled, his voice low. “I wake up restless. Like I need to move or I’m going to die. Like there’s something I’m supposed to do.”

“Oh, boy,” she said, because it sounded familiar.

“Like something’s unfinished,” he added, though he sounded unsure of the word.

“Incomplete?” she put in.

He sputtered out a breath in agreement.

“That is
so
what I feel,” she said in relief.

His voice was cautious, his blue eyes baffled. “Have you figured out what you’re supposed to do?”

“Not yet.”

“How do you get past the restlessness?”

“I cook. Or I tend the rabbits. That’s calming. Does your work calm you?”

“Yes. There’s more to do, working alone. It keeps my mind busy.”

“Is it safe to work alone? What if something were to happen?”

“I have the radio. Friends are never far off.”

Julia wondered if he would hire another sternman once things settled down. The question seemed callous, though, with Hutch only buried a day. So she asked, “Where’s your dog?”

“Lucas?” He scanned the dock, looking down the row of boats. “He’s around.”

“Doesn’t he go out with you?”

“Sure does, only he runs off when it’s time to clean up. There he is.” He was looking at a boat two slips down. Lucas sat on its stern platform, looking straight at Noah. “He’s not much help with cleaning up, or with catching lobster, for that matter.”

“Can I help?” she asked.

His eyes returned to hers. “Nah. It’s grunge work.”

“I could do it,” she offered.

“If you had trouble on the ferry, this’d be worse. The ferry was big. The
Leila Sue
is even smaller than the
Amelia Celeste
.”

“I’d be okay,” Julia insisted, feeling strong still. She had survived the ferry today. The sea wasn’t taking her now. Besides, Noah had saved her life once. He wouldn’t let her drown.

“Ever handled a live lobster?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“With banded claws?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Know why those bands go on?”

She certainly did. She had asked the question at her local fish market, where lobsters filled a huge tank. “To keep them from cannibalizing each other.”

“And from taking a finger from the person picking him out of the tank. Those bands go on here in the boat. It isn’t easy.”

“Neither is diapering a squirming two-year-old who has diarrhea.”

He was momentarily startled.

She grinned.

He grinned back and put a hand on his hip. “Think about rotting seaweed and gull droppings. And fish in the trap that are half-eaten by the lobsters.”

Julia was defiant. “Kids throw up. It’s all over everything. Someone has to clean it up.”

“What about herring body parts?” Noah countered. “That’s my bait. Each trap that comes up has a bait bag that has to be refilled. Doesn’t smell like any perfume you ever bought.”

Julia wasn’t being beaten. “Did you ever open a fuse box and find a mouse nest filled with mouse stuff? Or open a cabinet and disturb a cockroach feast?”

“You haven’t.”

“I have. I live in Manhattan. Pests go with the territory.”

Apparently ceding the gross-out contest and opting for a new approach, he gave her a quick once-over. “You’re… slight. Lobstering takes strength.”

Julia stood straighter. “Doesn’t the winch do the hauling?”

“Sure does, but that’s only a small part of it.” He opened and closed his hand. “It takes strength to use the bander.”

“Same with using a manual can opener when the electricity goes out. Or lugging twenty-four-bottle packs of spring water in from the car. Or turning a king-size mattress.”

“You don’t do that yourself,” he said skeptically.

“Well, with someone else, but the point is, I’m not a weakling. And I really would like to see how you catch lobsters. Think of it as my island education. Besides, it’ll occupy my mind.”

“Until you figure out what it is you’re supposed to be doing?”

She smiled sadly. “Yes. Until then. Have you seen Kim Colella?”

“No. You?”

She shook her head. “I’m not sure I’d recognize her if I passed her on the street. I’ve only seen her dripping wet when they brought her in after the accident.”

“You didn’t see her in the boat?”

“No. Do you think she’s feeling the same things we are?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. She still isn’t talking.”

“Maybe she’d talk with me, my being a woman and all. Is she getting professional help?”

“Counseling? I doubt it. The Colellas wouldn’t go for something like that.” Noah looked at her arm. “How’s it healing?”

Julia turned her wrist to show the red zigzag mark. “I forget about it most of the time.”

Noah’s gaze shifted. She followed it in time to see Molly start down his arm of the dock. The girl’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes excited.

“I did it,” she said with a smug smile as she reached Julia.

“Did what?” Julia asked.

“Convinced Rick Greene to hire me. It took a little talking—he likes his lean operation—but he knew my restaurant in Paris, and I told him a couple of things he could do with lobster, things I learned there, and then I said I’d work for free. I mean, it was a total no-brainer.” She grinned. “So I’m here for as long as you are, chaperoning.”