The Silver Boat (24 page)

Rory turned her head away so he wouldn't see her eyes. She had hoped this moment here on the steps would lead them back together. That's not how it sounded. He would go back to the Vineyard before long, showing Alys all the magical places.

“Are you saying you don't want to keep the property?” he asked.

“I don't know. It would have been different if we hadn't had to sell in the first place, if the taxes hadn't murdered us. I steeled myself back then. Packing made it real, and the trip to Ireland was something like a dream . . . it felt vivid while we were there, but it will fade away.”

“What will your sisters say?” Jonathan asked.

“I don't want to tell them,” Rory admitted. “They're both excited, and have hope that they can pull this off and hold on.”

“Mom!” Jenny called from inside. “Come in and talk to me.”

“She missed you,” Jonathan said.

“Sylvie was okay?”

“Yes. She's wonderful.”

“That shouldn't come as such a big discovery,” Rory said. “For so long, you raised her as your own.”

“I know it was just a few days, but she called her father while you were gone. He offered to come get her. Thought I should give you a heads-up.”

Rory nodded. She stood, stepped toward the door. Her body ached for Jonathan to hold her again, to want to be a family again. He'd only moved a few miles up the Connecticut River. But to Rory it felt as absolute as her father sailing to Ireland. Leaving broke up the family; the distance didn't so much matter.

T
hey had begun to unpack boxes containing the items Dar and Delia needed most: kitchen goods, bedding, family pictures. They found several of their father; they had been tucked away in the back of their mother's bottom drawer. They had gone through them last night, but now Delia was alone while Dar did some yard work, and she took her time.

One photo showed him in work clothes, when he first got to the Vineyard, a cocky expression and big friendly grin on his face. Another, their wedding picture, showed him in a morning coat and their mother in the beautiful lace wedding dress and veil her mother, then Rory, then Delia, had worn. She paged through an album of snapshots from a time when they were a young family.

The photos were arranged by year, and Delia saw the happy young father in the first few albums give way to a man emotionally weighed down in later ones. When Dar came in, all dusty and muddy from digging in the hedge, Delia got her a tall glass of water.

“Did you find the posts?”

“Not yet.”

“What if they're not there?”

“They have to be,” Dar said. “You're looking through the pictures again?”

“Yes,” Delia said. “I love seeing the ones where Mom and Dad look happy. I know they were separated when he left, but do you think they'd have gotten back together?”

“I do,” Dar said. “I really want to believe it.”

“So do I,” Delia said, thinking of how complicated marriage was, how transformed it could be by events and feelings you never saw coming.

“Has Rory called back?” Dar asked. “I've left her two messages.”

“No,” Delia said. “What do you think is going on?”

Dar didn't reply. She just walked over to the porch rail, tested it with her right hand, to make sure it hadn't loosened in winter storms. Then she turned around, streaked her thumb across a first-floor window, coated with dust and salt. Delia heard a truck pull into the driveway. Probably Andy.

“It's almost lunchtime,” Delia said. “I'll make some sandwiches.”

“Wait here a minute,” Dar said. “Andy said he's bringing a surprise.”

“I'm not sure I can handle one more surprise,” Delia said, only half kidding. “Do you know what this is?”

Dar shook her head. “He wouldn't tell me. He wanted you to find out at the same time.”

The two men came around the corner of the house. They were about the same height, over six feet; Andy was rugged and muscular, and the other man was skinny, hunched over, head averted. From the side, Delia could see he had scabs on his cheeks. She heard herself gasp, recognizing him just as Dar said his name.

“Pete,” Delia said, running straight to her son, standing on tiptoes to hug him tight.

“Mom,” he said.

“Oh my God,” Delia said. “Pete. Honey, it is so wonderful to see you. I can't believe it! You're here!”

“Wow, Pete,” Dar said.

“Hi, Aunt Dar,” he said as she came over to hug him, too.

“Pete and I brought lunch. Ham and cheese, roast beef, eggplant Parmesan, take your pick. All kinds of sodas.”

“Sprite for me,” Pete said.

“Worked up a thirst this morning,” Andy said. “All that sawdust flying around.”

“You're working with Andy?” Delia asked.

“It's a long story. I'll tell you all about it later, Mom.”

“Have you called your father?” she asked.

“No,” Pete said. “Not since I asked for money to fix my truck.”

Delia felt tears burning her eyes. The more she loved Pete, the closer she felt to the edge of losing it completely. Her body ached, holding herself back from grabbing and shaking him. She wanted to explain everything so he would see it. Surely if she could get him to understand, he'd behave differently. She felt like screaming, but instead she bit her lip and turned away, keeping her tears to herself.

“Come on,” Andy said, spreading the lunch on the porch table. Delia watched him put a fatherly hand on Pete's shoulder. “Let's eat.”

 

 

After lunch, Dar and Andy walked into the yard, Scup bounding along beside them. The sun was warm, beating down on their shoulders. He put his arm around her.

“When did he arrive?” Dar asked.

“While you and your sisters were in Ireland.”

“Why isn't he staying here?”

“He's in Al's sober house,” Andy said.

“Really?” Dar asked. “Is that your doing?”

“I made the introduction. But he's staying on his own.”

“That's great,” Dar said.

They walked to the edge of the yard, and Dar showed him where she'd been looking for the markers.

“How could four granite posts be so hard to miss?” she asked.

“Well, you have to think like the guy who put them in,” Andy said, peering along the property line. “I'd sink one by the pond, another by the road, and two in between. Easiest place to look might be the pond. The hedge isn't so thick there.”

The sun shimmered on the sea, the pond, rocks hidden in the hedge. The light reflected blindingly bright-white, glinting on bits of crystal and mica in the rocks. Andy scanned the area while Dar crouched down, into the shade of the thornbushes.

She'd looked here before, but the sun's angle had been different. She'd hurried along, trying to cover too much ground, and Andy hadn't been with her. Midday sunlight penetrated the low, thick brush, and a flat stone caught her attention: four inches square, about an inch high.

“Andy . . .”

“You got it?” he asked.

She dug around the stone's edges; Scup nosed his way in, curious about what she'd found. He lunged at the strange square rock, scrabbling at one straight side with his claws, uncovering an inch or so of smooth granite beneath the ground's surface.

“It's granite,” she said. “Some kind of a marker, but it doesn't look anything like a post.”

“Sure it does,” Andy said, sitting on his heels beside her, reaching in to scoop away more dirt. “Buried with almost four centuries of sand and soil. It probably goes down two feet.”

“Let's dig and see!

“We'll excavate all four,” Andy said. “That's a promise, Darrah. But first you've got to take a ride with me.”

“But . . .”

“No. Come on. I've been waiting for weeks; I can't take it anymore.”

Dar hesitated, but he pulled her to her feet. She followed him to his truck, and they climbed in.

He drove onto Middle Road, down the narrow valley where a month ago he'd shown her the millpond and old millstone. They parked in the same place, and she followed him down one side of a shady glade to the pond and brook. He held her hand to help her across, and she raced him up the sunny slope opposite, touching the millstone as she passed. When she got to the top, her heart sank.

A foundation had been dug and poured, and the first part of a house had been framed.

“I thought you said the owner wasn't going to build,” she said.

“The old owner wasn't, but the new owner is,” he said.

“Another part of the island being eaten up,” she said, sitting down on the foundation. She looked around; they were above the tree line, and from here had a long view toward the sea.

“Don't hate me for this,” Andy said. “But I'm the builder on this project. Got Pete helping me out.”

“How could I hate you?” Dar asked. “Building's your job. I just have problems with new owners who have to take up every bit of land, when there are so many beautiful old houses for sale.”

“I hear you on that one, darlin,' ” Andy said. “Bunch of land-grabbing sons of bitches out here these days. But I'm refusing to work on any project that cuts down trees, or fills in millponds, or tears down existing structures.”

“Well, you've got a point,” Dar said. “No existing structures here. Will the house be huge and sprawling?”

“Nope. A pretty little cape with a nice front porch. And a room with tall north-facing windows.”

“Really?”

“They like art,” he said. “Jonathan consulted on that part.”

“Pete's helping you out?” Dar asked.

“Yep. He's a good worker, in spite of everything.”

“I can already tell,” Dar said. “That he's been on drugs. He looks so yellow; was he sharing needles?”

“It didn't get that bad,” Andy said. “He's been clean nearly three weeks, and he's been hitting meetings.”

“That's great,” Dar said.

“It is,” Andy said.

“I wish I could turn my mind off,” Dar said, lying back on the concrete foundation. “So much to think about—about my father, and Morgan and the buyers deciding what to do…”

“Doesn't the land grant take care of that?”

“Well, at least it held up the closing. But I'm not sure about what my sisters have in mind.”

“You can stop thinking,” Andy said, lying beside her. “Everything's going to work out.”

“It will? How do you know?” Dar asked.

Andy didn't reply, just stroked her bare arms, turning her mind off as he kissed her in the sunlight.

 

 

Three weeks passed, and by the third Friday in May the cottage began to take shape. The woods smelled of new growth; there were leaves on the branches, patches of white dogwood showing through the oaks and cedars. Andy had been worried the leafing out would block the house's view, but it only framed it more beautifully.

“Hey now,” Andy said, just as Pete was ready to pound nails into a wide-plank tiger maple floorboard. “Make sure that's level. These are old boards, and some of them are warped. You want to nail them in sets of three. Three nails making a triangle, see?”

Pete watched Andy show him how it was done.

“Where'd you get them?” Pete asked.

“From a beautiful old house someone tore down.”

“Seems to be a thing out here,” Pete said.

“Seems to be a thing anywhere there's nouveau riche,” Harrison said, lying on his side in the mossy glade outdoors, smoking a cigarette. “You realize you're in the presence of a master, don't you?”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “My aunt says there's no better carpenter on the island. Not since her father.”

“That's high praise,” Harrison said. “Captain McCarthy was a helluva boatbuilder. Right, Andy?”

“That's right,” Andy said, using his miter box to angle another group of boards.

“But not a real sea captain, right?” Pete asked.

“Man, your grandfather sails transatlantic, I think he deserves to be called ‘Captain,'” Harrison said. “Don't you, Andy?”

“I'm not so big on titles,” Andy said. “But sure. The man made it to Ireland.” He glanced up, looked at Pete. “I'm sorry he didn't make it back. That you never knew him.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“He was a tough guy,” Harrison said. “He'd have kicked some sense into you. You're supposedly into meth, on the lam with your parents' money, right?”

“Hey, Harrison,” Andy said harshly.

“No, it's true, I was,” Pete said.

“ ‘ Was' being the operative word,” Harrison said. “I can't seem to kick my little habits, but then, I don't want to. I've constructed a life where they don't matter to or bother anyone.”

“You live in a fucking storage unit,” Andy said. “Anyone driving within miles can smell the weed.”

“I like to give pleasure to my neighbors,” Harrison said. “This island's getting too prissy. Got to remind them of the days of smugglers, pirates, and ruffians. Right, Pete?”

“Sure, Harrison,” Pete said, laughing. He checked his watch, and Andy saw and handed him the truck keys.

“What, you're letting him take the truck?”

“Yep,” Andy said.

Harrison shook his head. “You're a brave man.” Then, “Have a nice ride, kid.”