The Silver Boat (16 page)

Dar took it in. She thought of her father's call, of how the
Irish Darling
had carried him across the Atlantic, made landfall safely. But had he sailed safely around the peninsulas to Cork?

“You don't believe in such things? Ghosts or fairies?” he asked. “They can be tricky. Just because you don't believe doesn't mean they're not there.”

“I trust what you're saying,” she said. She knew Dulse would.

“Does the boat you saw mean something to you?” he asked.

“It reminds me of the one my father built,” she said. “He sailed solo across the Atlantic and made it safely to Kerry. I know he loved Kinsale, though, and believe he would have tried to make it here afterwards.”

“Solo,” the dock master said. “On a wooden twenty-eight-footer? A boat that size would be just right for inshore sailing, but small for fighting those ocean waves. Your father must have been dauntless. You don't hear stories like that very often.”

“Have you ever heard one?” she asked, her neck prickling.

He nodded. “A long time ago. I was twenty-two at the time, and everyone in Cork and West Cork was talking about it.”

“Do you remember the name of the sailor, or of the boat?”

“McCarthy, I believe,” he said. “That's why all Cork was so entranced and proud. He was one of our own.”

“That was my father,” she said, her heart racing. “The boat was the
Irish Darling
.”

“Named for someone he loved,” the dockmaster said.

Dar nodded. “So you see,” she said, “my father's boat couldn't be a ghost ship. He made it here safely. Do you know where he is now?”

“I never heard anything beyond the story of his crossing. I seem to remember he sailed into Cobh and took a job at the seaport there. People talked for a while, but in Ireland, so many true tales fall into legend. It was many years ago. My mind could be playing tricks on me, and I could be wrong. How long ago would it have been?”

“Twenty-eight years ago,” Dar said.

“Ah,” the dockmaster said. “Plenty of time for the account to become local lore.”

A glistening fifty-foot white fiberglass fishing boat pulled up to the gas dock, and the dockmaster gave Dar a look of regret. “I'm sorry we can't continue this conversation. I'm honored to meet you—McCarthy's daughter, imagine that. I'll be telling everyone, you can be sure.”

“Thank you for talking with me,” she said.

“It's my pleasure, and I wish you luck,” he said as he walked toward the pumps. “Perhaps the spirit sloop appeared just for you, to inspire you. Keep your eyes open—you might see it again.”

“I will,” she said as he took the fishing boat captain's credit card and began pumping gas.

She began to walk, and then to run, down the dock. She had to get Rory up, and they needed to go to Cobh right away.

R
ory held on to her seat as her sister drove like a madwoman. They'd barely had time for tea and a scone before Dar insisted they check out and hit the road. Rory's protestations that Delia would be crushed if she didn't get to experience the culinary wonders of Kinsale were met by a promise they would return once they found their father in Cobh.

That's when Rory knew she and Dar were on separate pages. Deep down, Rory believed this trip fell into the category of tilting at windmills as well as a chance to forget about losing the Vineyard. The letters were one thing, but finding their father was another. Too much time had passed. He could have moved or died. And besides, what would they really want with a father who had so clearly abandoned them?

But Dar seemed wild, a little out of control, like the teenager she'd been during the years after their father had left. She focused on the road with ferocious concentration, punching the shift into high gear when they reached the highway heading east.

Rory hadn't slept well, but she'd stayed in bed until Dar had come to get her up. She wondered if Dar felt as moved as she, to be sharing a room again after all these years. And oddly, this crazed side of Dar felt familiar, took Rory back to their childhoods, when they'd all gone a bit mad, losing their father.

“Do you think you can trust the dockmaster?” Rory asked.

“What?” Dar said, already far ahead in her mind, strategizing their next moves.

“I mean, he didn't actually know, or even see, Dad. It could be one of those legends he told you about.”

“He seemed sure of his own memory,” Dar said.

“Okay. But I mean, how did he know Dad was working at the seaport? We're leaving that lovely town to go to Cobh, which makes me nervous, and I don't know why. It doesn't even sound the way it's spelled. I just liked it where we were. It felt like a good home base.”

“We can always go back.”

“I guess,” Rory said, staring out the window at more lovely green scenery. She found herself wondering about Jonathan. She'd called before school to check on the kids, had a good talk with each of them. They missed her, but sounded so happy to be with their dad. They'd put him on the line.

Speaking to him had unleashed the demon. Even as they drove through the stunning and quiet countryside, she found herself dissecting their conversation. He'd said that although Alys wasn't staying with them, he wanted to spend a day with her that weekend.

Dar had spotted the turnoff for Cobh, and had her turn signal on a good minute too soon. The city came into view, a crescent of impeccably restored Georgian houses, then, a level below, colorful row houses in the shadow of a sprawling steel-gray cathedral with a skyscraping steeple.

“Too bad Delia wasn't here to see that,” Rory said. “You know how much she loves cathedrals.”

“She'll be here tomorrow. That must be St. Colman's, where Dad was baptized. She'll want to visit.”

“That might even make up for missing out on Kinsale.”

Holding the wheel, leaning forward, working the left-hand shift, Dar drove down the hill to the docks. Rory saw a boat launch ramp, fishnets drying on a steel fence, a shabby—compared to Kinsale—fleet of sailboats, fishing boats, work boats. She opened her guidebook and read.

“Hmm,” she said. “‘During the past two centuries, the port city of Cobh was the staging spot for people on their way to North America. Famous transatlantic liners called in at this harbor, transporting the masses to the United States and Canada. The
Lusitania
memorial may be found on the quayside. Victims of the tragedy are buried at Cobh's Old Church cemetery.'” She paused, glancing at Dar. “The famine tragedy cemetery, the
Lusitania
-sinking tragedy cemetery . . .”

As they drove along the dockside, Dar seemed to stare into every face, examine every boat—and there were hundreds of each. Rory's talk with Jonathan had left her feeling upset and insecure; she spied an Internet café and knew she had to log on.

“Hey,” she said, trying to sound normal. “Why don't I jump out here, get us a couple of coffees. I need a break from tea. You can park the car, and we'll start asking around.”

“Good plan,” Dar said.

“I'll find you,” Rory said.

So they parted, and Dar drove away. Rory watched her round the corner, then hurried inside and paid the attendant for twenty minutes on the Internet. She breathed more deeply just to be sitting at a computer.

She logged on, used
keithfarm
to open his Gmail account, and read. She steeled herself for e-mails to Alys. They missed each other; he reassured her that he loved her, thanked her for understanding about the kids. Alys had written a bitchy reply about Rory being unreasonable, and Jonathan hadn't disagreed. But there were other, sweet e-mails—to friends on the Vineyard, lamenting the sale of Rory's family's house. She read them over and over.

There was one to Andy Mayhew. Rory would never have expected Andy to have a computer. She thought he was firmly rooted in the pre–e-mail world.

And Andy's reply:

Jonathan:

Andy:

Jonathan's final reply:

Rory felt immensely gratified by Andy's skepticism and experienced true respect for him. She had assumed that all men had their heads turned by beautiful younger women. Both loving and hating her husband was exhausting. She felt confused by that, and by whatever Jonathan had agreed to help Andy with.

She was just about to get the coffees when Dar walked in and found her at the computer station.

“Busted,” Rory said.

“Don't worry about it.”

“You might like to know our guys were e-mailing about us.”

“Our guys?”

“Jonathan and Andy. Andy spoke up for me about Alys, and he made a really sweet comment about you and me.”

Dar nodded in a way that let Rory know she didn't want to talk about it.

“Don't you want to know what he said?”

“No,” Dar said. “Come on, let's get going here. I've got the coffees.”

“Why don't you want to know?”

“Because if Andy wanted me to, he'd tell me himself.”

“Fine,” Rory said, letting the fringe of her short dark hair fall across her eyes so Dar wouldn't see how hurt she was.

“It's not good for you,” Dar said. “That's what I care about. Let this thing with Jonathan and the girl play itself out. Then see how
you
feel—not how he does. Come on now, let's go.”

Rory could have argued with her but chose not to. She was struck by how similar Dar's view was to Andy's. Rory gazed at her sister, wondering if she realized how rare that was.

 

 

Dar walked the docks without knowing what she was looking for. Rory was with her but seemed distracted by shops and flowers and people-watching. Dar had to admit it was frustrating to not be on the same wavelength regarding their search; it felt to her Rory might be afraid of what they might find—especially if they actually found their father.

As they strolled along, they drifted apart. Rory had her digital camera out and was snapping shots of typical Irish storefronts—doors framed and painted with glossy, deep, rich colors. Above the doorway the proprietor's or shop's name was stenciled in gold. She turned to the pots of flowers and small garden plots that seemed ubiquitous throughout the parts of Cork they'd seen.

Dar spent her time speaking to boat captains, showing them her father's picture, asking if they knew or remembered Michael McCarthy, if they'd heard the story of his solo crossing aboard the
Irish Darling
. But most of the captains she encountered were young. Some thought they'd heard a tale about some Irish guy sailing the Atlantic in a tiny dory; he'd supposedly made it here to Cobh only to disappear. It was like a fairy tale, some of them said.

“I heard he worked in the seaport,” Dar said.

“Well, you're looking at the seaport,” one captain said, waving his hand around.

“What was his trade?”

“Carpentry. Boatbuilding.”

“You might try the sheds and loft up and down that wharf over there.” He pointed. “He'd make a good living doing the carpentry. Everyone needs things fixed and repaired. He'd be an old guy by now?”

“Yes,” Dar said.

“Well, good luck in your search.”

Dar thanked him and headed toward the wharf. Rory hung back, taking pictures, while Dar turned toward the boatbuilding sheds and barns. Once again she showed her father's picture, went through the story. After the first few blank stares, and another few shakes of the head, it seemed to her that everyone in the Cobh marine industry was too young and uninterested in anything beyond their day's work to help her.

And then she came upon a large wharf building with a curved arched sign over the double-wide doors leading straight to iron tracks down to the water, a heavy-duty boat launch. The sign, in gold, said
McCarthy Manufacturing
. Dar stared at it for a long time. The listing Delia had found on Google. They'd dismissed it then, but what they manufactured was obvious—through the open doors, Dar spotted several boats in various stages of production. She walked inside.

Again, she saw nothing but young men and some women—fiberglassing one cabin top, sanding a long, wide wooden hull, transporting a lead keel by forklift to the back of the loft. Dar followed it. The forklift reached a dead end, lowering the keel carefully to the floor.