Tom Morgan’s house was a saltbox like most on the island, consisting of a keeping room with two linters and a loft, scarcely enough room to hold the many who came to offer condolences. Rye stood in the yard with an overflow of men who drank beer, smoked pipes, and discussed news of the day. A Harvard graduate named Henry Thoreau had perfected a new gimmick called a lead pencil ... some were saying there was danger of depleting the ocean of whales while others said such an idea was crazy ... talk moved on to a discussion of the profits to be had by converting whaleships to haul ice from New England to the tropics.
But Rye’s interest in the conversation died when he saw Laura step from the back linter, carrying a bucket. She crossed the yard to the sweep well and leaned over the rock coping to hook the rope handle in place. Rye quickly scanned the yard, looking for Dan, but finding him nowhere in sight, he excused himself and crossed to the sweep. It consisted of a long post, offset on a forked support that was anchored in the ground. It was weighted on its short end by a stone cradle, while the longer end of the pole hovered above the mouth of the well, making it easy to bring a full bucket up, but a struggle to get the empty bucket down. As Rye approached, Laura was leaning over the coping, straining on the rope.
“Let me help y’ with that.”
“Oh, Rye!” At the sound of his voice, Laura straightened with a snap. The rope slipped from her palms and the sweep pole flew into the air. She pressed a hand to her heart and quickly scanned the yard. Her coal scuttle hat was gone, the veil no longer shielding her face.
“Y' look tired, darlin’. Has it been bad?” One of Rye’s hands closed on the rope, but he made no further move to lower it, looking instead into Laura’s distressed eyes.
“I think you must not call me darling anymore.”
“Laura—” He seemed about to drop the rope and take a step toward her.
“Rye, lower the bucket. People are watching us.”
A quick glance confirmed it, so Rye tended to the task, forcing the pail down, hand over hand, until they heard it splash below.
“Laura, this doesn’t change anything.”
“How can you say that?”
“I still love y’. I’m still Josh’s father.”
“Rye, someone will hear.”
The pail was back up. He rested a hand on its rope handle while it hung, dripping, above the mouth of the well, the sound echoing up to them in faraway musical blips while he filled his eyes with her. “Let them hear. There isn’t a soul in this yard who doesn’t know how I feel about y’ and that y’ were mine first.”
The shadows beneath her eyes seemed to darken as she cast a furtive glance at the curious people who studied them. “Please, Rye,” she whispered. “Give me the pail.”
He reached above the well coping, and her eyes followed the strong muscles beneath the black suit jacket while his shoulders turned away and he hefted the pail. When he swung around he disregarded the hand that reached for the pail, turning toward the back linter, giving Laura no recourse but to follow at his side. He paused to let her move ahead of him, then followed into the cramped space containing ranks of wood and an assortment of wooden pails and tubs hanging on the wall. Inside, they were momentarily out of sight of either yard or house.
Laura glanced nervously toward the door leading into the keeping room from the rear, but it remained closed. “Rye, I can’t—”
“Shh.” His fingers touched her lips.
Their eyes met—troubled blue eyes fixed on worried brown ones.
The touch of his fingers on her flesh was like balm, but she forced herself to pull back. “Rye, don’t touch me. It only makes it harder.”
“Laura, I love y’.”
“And don’t say that ... not now. Everything is changed, don’t you see?”
His gaze roved over her face, studying the depths of her eyes, where he read things he did not want to read. “Why did this have t’ happen now?” he asked miserably.
“Maybe it was a message to us.”
His expression grew stern, and his voice was a hiss. “Don’t say that—don’t even think it! Zachary’s death had nothin’ to do with us, nothing!”
“Didn’t it?” She studied him levelly.
“No!”
“Then why do I feel like I personally sent that boat bow over stern?”
“Laura, I knew that’s what y’ were thinkin’ while we sat on the wharf beside Dan that night, but I won’t have y’ believin’ such a thing.” He still held the bucket in one hand while with his other he squeezed her upper arm, making the bombazine sleeve crackle in the confines of the linter.
“Don’t you?”
Her eyes remained steadfastly on him, forcing him to admit the awful possibility. He wanted to answer no, but could not. The evening light bounced off the white shells outside the doorway, reflecting inside and lighting her face from below, giving her an ethereal glow, like an angel of judgment. She reached for the handle of the pail, but he refused to relinquish it. He studied her face, wanting her back worse than ever, now that he’d again had a taste of her body. Yet it was not her body alone he craved. He craved a return to things as they used to be, contentment, peace, sharing their home. And now their son. Yet Rye Dalton, even in the depths of his want, could not deny her words or force her to come back to him any sooner than she was ready. Their hands slipped close together on the rope, and he raised his free hand to touch her jaw.
“Is it so wrong for us t’ want t’ be together when we love each other?”
“What we did was wrong, Rye, yes.”
His eyes took on a new pain. “How can y’ call it wrong, Laura, knowing what it was like—what it always was like between us? How can y’ walk away and st—”
The kitchen door suddenly opened.
“Oh, excuse me.” Ruth Morgan confronted them with reproof in every unsmiling muscle of her face. “We were beginning to wonder if Laura dropped down the well, but I can see what’s taken so long.”
Rye flashed Dan’s sister a look of sheer loathing, thinking that if she’d ever gone out and gotten herself frenzied with a man, she wouldn’t have such a burr under her corsets when somebody else did. Ruth Morgan was nothing but a dried-up old maid who wouldn’t know what to do with a man if she had one, Rye thought as he strode angrily into the keeping room and clapped the pail down.
The remainder of the day found Laura growing increasingly uncomfortable as Ruth Morgan’s censure became more evident. At times she ostentatiously held her skirts from brushing Laura’s hem as they moved about in the keeping room, clearing away dishes and foods. Rye did not leave, as Laura hoped he would. Instead, he was one of those who remained as night drew on and the men moved inside to continue drinking the everlasting beer. But Dan had already overindulged and had reached that maudlin stage of drunkenness accompanied by depression and self-pitying gibberish.
He sat at the trestle table in the keeping room, elbow to elbow with a group of others, his head slung low while his arms sometimes slipped clumsily off the table edge.
“The old man was always after me to be a fisherman.” He swayed toward the companion at his left and looked blearily into the man’s eyes. “Never liked the stink of fish, did I, Laura? Not like you and Rye.” He twisted to pick her out where she sat with the women while Rye stood near the fireplace, looking on silently from behind Dan’s back.
Laura rose. “Come, Dan, let’s go home.”
“Whatsa matter? Did Rye have t’ leave?” Dan turned a loose, inebriated smile to the circle of men at the table, and brandished a floppy hand. “Party’s over for my wife once Rye Dalton’s not around anymore. Did I ever tell you—”
“You’re drunk, Dan.” Rye interrupted as he moved behind the slouched form. “Time to put your glass down and go home with Laura.” He took the mug from Dan’s hand and set it on the table with a decisive thud.
Dan twisted at the waist, turning watery eyes up at the man looming behind him. “Well, if it isn’t my friend Rye Dalton, the one I s
hare a wife with.” He smiled crookedly.
Horrified, Laura saw everyone in the room look away uncomfortably. Feet shifted, sounding like thunder, then an awful silence hovered in the tense air.
“That’s enough, Dan!” Rye spoke sharply, skewering the drunk man with a look of warning, ever aware of Laura waiting uncertainly behind them with Josh at her side, and of Ruth, standing in the dark corner of the room, her eyes snapping.
“I just wanted to tell the story of the three musketeers who grew up sharing everything. But I guess they all know it anyway.” Dan’s eyes went from man to man around the table, finally coming back to rest on Rye. “Yup! Guess they all know about it. No sense tellin’ ’em what they already know. Where’s that wife of ours, eh, Rye?”
Laura’s face was poppy-red while Rye’s looked thunderous. He stood stern and unmoving, scarcely holding himself back from plucking Dan to his feet and slamming a fist into him to shut him up.
“She’s your wife, and she’s waitin’ for y’ to gather yer wits and go home with ’er. Now put down the mug and stop makin’ an ass o’ yerself.”
Murky eyes appealed to the circle of faces. “Am I making an ass of myself?”
Finally, one of the men suggested, “Why don’t you do what Rye says? Go on home with Laura now.”
Dan smiled stupidly at the tabletop, then nodded at it. “Yup, I guess you’re right. ’Cause if I don’t, my friend here will.”
“Dan! Have y’ forgotten y’r son is in the room?” Rye snapped, the anger growing more evident in each word.
“My son ... now there’s a subject I’d like to take up, too.” Rye waited no longer. With power spawned by rage, he clutched the shoulders of Dan’s jacket and jerked him to his feet, sending the table screeching back as Dan’s body jarred against it. Rye spun the limp form around and clutched Dan’s lapels roughly, then ground out his next words through nearly clenched teeth. “Y’r wife is waiting for y’t’ straighten up and take her and Josh home. Now are y’ going t’ do it, or do I have t’ crack y’ one to bring y’ to your senses!”
Sobered somewhat, Dan yanked himself free of Rye’s grip, shrugging his jacket back into place, then wavering a moment while trying to gather dignity that could not be restored in one so far gone.
“You always did have your way with her, Rye, starting when the two of you were—”
That was the last word Dan uttered. Rye’s fist whistled out of nowhere and settled into Dan’s stomach with a thud. A single grunt swooshed from Dan before he folded in half and slumped into Rye’s arms.
Laura’s hands flew to her mouth as Josh came to life, racing across the room, crying, “You hit my papa! You hit my papa! Put him down! Papa ... Papa!” The pitiful little creature rushed to Dan’s defense, but Rye bent down, put a shoulder to the inert stomach, and lifted the man onto his broad shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Before Laura could stop Josh, he’d fallen against Rye’s stomach, punching him and yelling, “I hate you! I hate you! You hit my papa!”
It had happened so fast, Laura was stunned. But she finally moved, lurching forward to pull Josh away from Rye and calm him, then finally turn him toward the door.
Rye bounced Dan more comfortably onto his shoulder and spoke to a shocked Tom and Dorothy Morgan. “I apologize for the scene, but it’s been a rough day for Dan. My condolences on the death of y’r brother.” Then, turning to Laura, he ignored the curious onlookers, and ordered, “Come on, let’s get him and the boy home.”
They left the house without looking back, realizing that behind them speculation billowed. Rye’s long legs strode along the cobblestones while Laura hurried to keep up. Josh was still crying, but she tugged him along by the hand.
“Why did he hit Papa?” Josh whimpered.
Rye stalked along without slowing or glancing at either Laura or Josh.
“Papa had too much beer,” was all Laura could think of as explanation.
“But he hit him!”
“Hush, Joshua.”
The heavy clump of Rye’s heels led the way while Laura followed with her heart breaking and her son too young to comprehend any of it.
“And he put Grampa in that hole so they could bury him in the dirt.”
“Joshua, I said hush!”
She yanked at Josh’s hand and his head snapped. But when his accusations subsided into sniffling, tears brimmed in Laura’s eyes and guilt tore at her insides. She leaned to scoop Josh into her arms and carry him the rest of the way home while he buried his wet face against her neck, clinging and confused.
When they reached the Y in the path, Rye stalked on ahead and she followed the sound of his footsteps up the scallop shells in the dark. At the door of the saltbox, Rye paused, letting her enter first. He stood with Dan’s dead weight now creating an unbearable ache on his shoulder, listening as Laura found the tinderbox and lit the candles. As the light blossomed around them, her dark eyes sought Rye, then immediately she ordered Josh, “Get your nightshirt on, and I’ll tuck you in in a minute.”
She left him standing in the middle of the keeping room, watching as she led the way into the bedroom linter with a candle. Standing back, she watched Rye dump Dan’s inert body on the bed. When he straightened, his eyes moved around the room from the bed to the partially opened door of the chifforobe where Laura’s and Dan’s clothing hung, to the small commode where her whalebone comb rested beside a pitcher and bowl. When his eyes at last came back to her, standing in the doorway with her hands clasped tightly against her bosom, Rye’s expression was closed and stiff.
“You’d better take his clothes off.”
Laura swallowed the lump in her throat and moved farther into the room. But there was little space, and as she neared the bed Rye was forced to step around her. He moved to the door as she bent over Dan and began removing his shoes.
From the doorway, Rye watched her lift one foot, then the other, and set Dan’s shoes quietly on the floor beside the bed. She loosened his tie, then slipped it free and laid it on the commode. She freed the button at Dan’s throat while Rye remembered those hands removing his own clothing such a short time ago in the meadow. He scowled as Laura sat on the edge of the bed and struggled to remove Dan’s jacket, but his limp body refused to comply, and at last Rye ordered, “Leave him to me and go see to the boy.”
She stood to face him again, and he saw tear-filled eyes and quivering lips. Then she brushed around him, holding her skirts well aside as she hurried out.
Rye removed Dan’s coat, trousers, and shirt and managed to roll him beneath the covers into an unconscious, snoring heap. He studied Dan for a long minute, then—more slowly this time—he looked across the room. He stepped to the commode, picked up Laura’s comb, and ran his thumbnail along its teeth. He brushed the back of his fingers along a towel hanging on a mirrored rack on the wall behind the pitcher. Swiveling slowly around, Rye confronted the chifforobe. With a single finger he slowly opened the carved mahogany door. It widened silently, and he removed his finger and slipped it inside his waistcoat pocket while his gaze glided over the contents of the chifforobe where her dresses hung beside Dan’s shirts and suits. He reached out to finger the sleeve of the yellow dress she’d worn that first day he’d seen her in the market. He worked the fabric lightly between his fingertips, then wearily dropped his hand and sighed, deep and long. Glancing over his shoulder at the man sleeping behind him, Rye silently closed the chifforobe door before blowing out the candle and returning to the keeping room.
Laura was sitting on the edge of the alcove bed, tucking Josh in for the night. Rye told his feet to remain where they were, but the temptation was too great. With slow steps, he crossed to stand beside the bed and look down at Josh over Laura’s shoulder. She leaned to kiss the child’s face, which was still puffy and red from crying.
“Good night, darling.”
But Josh’s lip trembled, and he had eyes only for the man who hovered behind his mother. The accusing stare scored Rye’s heart, but he submerged the hurt
and moved a step nearer. As he did, his hips and stomach came lightly against Laura’s back. He reached a hand over her shoulder and touched the boy’s fine, soft bangs with a calloused finger while Josh’s eyes remained wary and defensive.
“I’m sorry I hit your papa.”
“You said you was his friend,” the quavery little voice accused.
“Aye, and I am.”
Laura watched the long, tanned finger slide away from the blond hair and retreat somewhere behind her, but she felt the warmth of Rye’s body still pressing comfortingly against her back.
“I don’t believe you.” The little chin trembled. “And ... and you put that box in the ground with my grampa in it.”
“He’s the one taught me t’ fish when I wasn’t much older than you. I loved him, too, but he’s dead now. That’s why we had t’ put him in the ground.”
“And I’ll never see him again?”
Sadly, silently, Rye shook his head, assuming the role of father now, but with a pain he’d never imagined it might bring.
Josh dropped his gaze to the blanket over his chest, picking at it with an index finger. “I didn’t think so, but nobody’d tell me for sure.”
Rye felt a tremor run through Laura and lightly rested his palm on her shoulder. “That’s because they didn’t want t’ hurt y’ or make y’ cry. They didn’t think y’d understand, bein’ y’re only four.”
“I’m almost five.”
“Aye, I know. And that’s old enough t’ understand that y’r ... y’r papa is going t’ be very lonesome for his papa for a while. He’s goin’ t’ need lots 0’ cheerin’ up.” Rye looked down at the top of Laura’s head. “And y’r mama, too,” he added with great tenderness.
Unable to stay there between the two of them and contain her tears a moment longer, Laura again leaned to kiss Josh.
“Go to sleep now, darling. I’ll be right here.”
He turned over on his side, facing the wall, curling up into a little ball. But when he felt Laura’s weight shift off his bed, he looked back over his shoulder. “Don’t shut my doors, Mama.”