“You don’t get to do that,” she said. “Not out here.”
Dee bit her thumbnail and eyed Jo balefully. “Do what?”
“Look away. Pretend you’re bored and not answer my questions. I saw you staring at the table. I know something snagged your attention. I saw you lick your lips.” Dee glanced at the crystal bowl in the middle of the table again. The etched glass looked like ice and the salt like the last of the season’s snow—but the pure storybook kind. Flakes that never touched the ground, just hung around in the air, thumbing their noses at gravity. This wasn’t the same salt Jo delivered for the tables at the Lighthouse. It was wealthy salt, Dee thought. It was the kind of salt Claire would eat if she so chose.
“That one.” Dee turned her cheek and pointed at the crappy plastic bowl of ordinary salt. Everyone knew about that kind of salt. It was loose. It poured in all kinds of weather. You could get it anywhere, and, of course, it was dirt cheap.
Jo raised her eyebrow. “Really? That one?”
Dee just shrugged. She was legitimately starving now. Like, Africa starving. What was up with the twenty questions? She put her hands on her hips. If Jo was going to dish it out, Dee could go her one better. “What’s the deal anyway?” she demanded. “I don’t get it. What makes your salt so special?”
Jo appeared taken aback for a moment, and then a canny look crept into her eye. “I don’t really know,” she said. “It’s been here long before any of us, and it will be here long after we’re gone. It feels the weather, and it knows both the land and sea, and that’s good enough for me.”
“And the future,” Dee piped up. And maybe the past, too, she mused, thinking of Claire’s unborn babies. She really wanted to ask Jo about them, but she didn’t dare.
Jo shook her head. “No, child. That’s just what people like to think.” She bent down close to Dee. “Listen, this is important. The salt just heightens what’s already in people’s lives, the same way it does with food. It brings out the sweet and the sour, and when they ignore what it tells them, when they ignore the truth of their own selves, that’s when trouble starts.” Jo straightened herself and slammed the cupboard door, then leaned against the counter. “To really know the salt, you have to wait until summer.”
Summer, Dee thought. Where would she be by then? The baby and her, that was. She looked at the salt on the table. Jo followed her gaze.
“This.” Jo drew a tight circle in the air over the white flakes. “This is the real magic, wouldn’t you agree?”
Dee’s mouth watered again, and she yearned to take just a single morsel onto her tongue. That’s it, she thought. That’s exactly what I want. She opened her lips to ask for a taste, but old habits died hard, and she found herself insulting Jo instead. “Magic is for little kids and old women,” she said, tossing her hair. “Now, can I please get something real to eat?”
Jo regarded her for a moment, then stuck a dented spoon in the plastic bowl of cheap salt and handed it to her. “You said you liked this one. You can have all you want. When something nicer comes out of your mouth, you can have something tastier to put in it. Until then, enjoy.” She turned on her heel, leaving Dee holding the bowl in her confused hands, doomed to hunger by her own stupid words, another test failed. It was going to be a long morning.
If Dee was wondering how and when Whit would come to find her, it turned out she didn’t have long to wait. She had just finished a plate of scrambled eggs when he squealed his car up to the front of the house, whirling mad and hell-bent on causing the maximum amount of damage. She and Claire might have tumbled onto Salt Creek Farm like a bursting squall, she thought, but Whit blew into the place with the fury of a tornado.
Jo and Dee stared at each other, and then Jo clamped her lips tight and began clearing the table while Dee backed up to the far counter, holding its edge for balance. She remembered the way Whit had pinched his hands around her throat in the barn and how Claire’s fingers had wound tightly around the shovel handle. She remembered clinging to Claire’s narrow waist for dear life as they galloped down Plover Hill in the half-light of dawn. If it had been any lighter, Dee wondered, would Claire have scooped her up like that and saved her? Or would she have taken a better look at the situation and then aimed the shovel a little differently?
Dee scanned the room again, searching for angles of escape. The window above the sink? No. The door behind her? The broom closet? No way. She shivered. No escape, then. Just the full morning light, her enraged lover, his wife, and too much salt for anybody’s taste.
Whit began his onslaught with the rushes at the edge of the porch. He kicked those to kingdom come, then stomped his way up the porch’s warped steps. Hearing the wood crack under his heavy steps, Jo just shook her head. He burst through the front door in the hall without asking, marched past the broken piano, banging the few keys that worked just to set the mood, and arrived in the kitchen doorway out of breath, the side of his face bruised from where Claire had whacked him with the shovel, in absolutely no mood to wait. “Where is my murderous wife?” he said.
Dee cowered at the counter and began rattling the spoons in the silverware drawer until Jo reached out and gave her a little pinch to make her stop. Dee began stirring a cup of tea instead, dragging her spoon along the bottom of the mug, and that was even worse. Jo cleared her throat, and Dee set the tea down. She’d accidentally scooped salt into the cup instead of sugar anyway.
If a bear on the attack ever came for her, Dee’s father had always told her in Vermont, one of the actions she was supposed to take was to make herself look bigger, and she thought that maybe Jo had heard that same thing, because that’s what she did now, planting her feet on the speckled linoleum, jamming her fists on her hips, and taking the deepest breath she could. She kicked a chair away from the table and motioned to it.
Whit stood stock-still for a moment, letting his gaze rove Jo’s face like someone searching for the X on a treasure map. He must not have found what he was looking for, though, because he gave up, sneered, and took a seat. That’s how Dee knew they were ready to get down to business.
He glared at Dee next, but it was the way a person would eye a ghost he didn’t believe in. Dee angled her shoulders away from him, even though she was used to his stares. Still, she thought. It would have been kind of thrilling if Whit had made the trip out here for her. She snuck another glimpse at him, but he didn’t register her. What were they to each other, she wondered? Was there even a word for it? Not true lovers. Not companions. Something between intimates and strangers. Dee knew she didn’t have Whit’s same appetites running wild in her blood, but she had sure liked satisfying his. Maybe that counted for something.
The three of them started when the hall door crashed open, letting in a howl of wind, and then Claire appeared, as hasty as Whit and twice as mad. Without meaning to, Dee started up her infernal stirring again, the teaspoon chattering against the side of the mug like a set of windup teeth.
“You son of a bitch asshole bastard!” Claire came roaring into the kitchen, and Dee gaped. Claire had the hair of a scarlet woman, but until now Dee hadn’t thought she possessed the mouth to match. She had to admit that the transformation seemed to suit Claire. Her cheeks were blazing, giving her face a liveliness it probably hadn’t possessed for the past twelve years, and her eyes snapped and bit like those nasty turtles that had swum at the bottom of the pond back in Vermont. Claire grabbed two plates and sent them winging straight toward Whit’s naked throat, missing by a fraction.
“Amen, the Gilly fury has risen!” Jo crowed, smacking her hands together, and just like that, as if she’d somehow summoned him, Father Stone stepped into the fray, moving up behind Claire so quickly she didn’t even know he was there. He wrapped his arms around her, took out of her hand the extra plate she’d reloaded, and held her a moment, tighter than Dee thought he needed to.
“Not like this,” he said, moving her across the kitchen and then releasing her. “I think,” Ethan said, eyeing Whit’s br
uised head and the marks ringing Dee’s throat, “that some explanations are in order here.”
Whit smashed his fist into his palm and took a step toward Claire. “Really? It seems to me that you’re the intruder, Father. This business doesn’t concern you.”
Ethan paled, and Dee felt a twinge of pity for him. Here he probably thought he’d be the hero and rescue Claire, only to realize too late that he’d stepped into a viper’s nest. His voice shook a little as he faced Whit. “I’m not leaving unless the Gilly sisters ask me to. What is it you want?”
Looking at Claire, Dee could have answered that question in a flash, but Whit beat her to it. He glowered at Claire. “I don’t want my wife running off into the night, for starters. I don’t want an illegitimate child from a tramp, and most of all I would like Jo to come to her senses and work with me a little.” He turned his attention to her. “You haven’t got much time left, Jo. I know people at Harbor Bank. Wouldn’t you rather strike a deal with me? I might even let you stay awhile.”
Ethan looked blank, his eyes bouncing between Whit and Dee, Whit and Claire, Whit and Jo, trying to add them all up. “Illegitimate child?” he said.
Jo shoved Dee’s shoulder. “Dee here is pregnant.”
Ethan raised his eyebrows and looked to Claire, then to Whit, who was hunkering as cold as an iced-over stone. Then he said the least helpful thing Dee thought possible, given the situation. “You realize that it would be a mortal sin for Dee not to have the baby, don’t you?”
That gave Whit pause. In spite of all his sinning, he was still a churchgoing man, dogmatic to the core. He stood up and paced toward the kitchen door, throwing down his last words like a punch, but getting to have the last word wasn’t the same as winning a case. Even Dee knew that much.
He looked hard at Father Stone, then turned his fury on Dee. “Know this,” he said, his voice low. “The first thing I’m going to do is go tell your father where he can find his whore of a daughter.” She paled and bit her lips. “I don’t know if he’ll try to kill me or you,” Whit said, “but I’m willing to take my chances. And the second thing I’m going to do, Jo”—he turned toward her—“is tell my friends at Harbor Bank that you just refused to accept an offer that would save you and the farm. We’ll see what they think about that.” And then, without another word, he let himself out the same way he’d come in, alone and snarling.
“How I ever thought I loved that son of a bitch is beyond me.” Claire sighed, her lips white, at which point Dee burst into tears, one of her arms cradling her belly. Dee couldn’t really imagine a whole baby sprouting in such an unfortunate environment, but if a weed could flourish in a sidewalk crack, she guessed a kid could survive this abuse.
“Dee’s pregnant?” Father Stone said as if he’d missed the whole scene they’d all just been through, and he sank into Whit’s empty chair.
Jo looked over at Claire, who was still a little pale around the chops, but Claire avoided her eyes and took up banging a spoon around a cup of her own. “You know this isn’t the end of it,” Jo said to Claire’s back. “You know he won’t stop with empty threats. And you’re not cut out for the salt. We both know that. You could still go back if you wanted. It’s not too late.” Dee was surprised to find herself hoping Claire wouldn’t. “You could be Claire Turner again, lady on the hill, and everything would go back to normal,” Jo said. “She could go away”—she jerked her chin at Dee—“and no one would be the wiser.”
Claire turned around, and though her skin was white, her eyes were full of flash. “That’s the whole problem. I haven’t been very wise, have I?”
If Dee had wanted to, she could have done the wrong thing yet again and taken advantage of Claire at that moment. She’d never seen her look so bad. Claire had circles smudged under her eyes, her hair was a mess, and her shirt hung off her shoulders. Dee could have asked her if the farmhouse seemed smaller after years of rattling under the Turners’ vast roof. Dee could have remarked how odd it must be to have to put rags back on after getting used to cashmere and silk. Or, she thought, she could just pick up a shovel the next time Claire did and find out for herself what salt did to a woman. She stepped over to Claire and stood before her with her head down. “I’m sorry for the trouble,” she said. “Please don’t make me leave.”
To her surprise, Claire reached out and gave the girl’s arm a quick squeeze, and a little thread of tension between them snapped. Claire pulled away and swiped the skin underneath her eyes. “How pregnant are you anyway?” she asked, putting a hand on Dee’s belly. Before Dee could answer, Claire tucked back the stray pieces of her hair and cast a glance to the chair where Ethan was still sitting.
“Oh, goodness!” she cried. “Get a load of us. Weeping and trembling like Whit is the big bad wolf or something. Forgive us, Ethan.” He looked up at Claire so keenly that right then Dee knew he was hooked tight as a trout, man of God or no. Well, she thought. She guessed the world saw fit to deliver love when people needed it most, just maybe not in the manner they were expecting.
Right then the baby jabbed her in the bladder with some sharp part of its anatomy, as if to prod her back to the moment, and it dawned on her that all Jo had been trying to do with the dishes and the salt that morning was get her to pay attention to what was happening under her nose. Hearts were going to break or turn upside down out here—Dee wasn’t sure which, and she wasn’t sure whose—but she had a feeling that when everything was said and done, none of them would be sure anymore which piece belonged to whom.
Chapter Eighteen
With the arrival of Dee and Claire, Jo’s life had jumped from being a peaceful and plain stretch of road to being so full of cracks and dips that she barely knew anymore how to navigate it. On the one hand, she couldn’t say she was unhappy about having extra bodies around the place—maybe the help would be just the thing to get the farm back in shape—but she never knew what to do in the mornings when she stepped across the hall and spied Claire sitting sideways on her bed, crying. Claire would look up when she heard Jo’s footsteps, wipe the tears off her cheeks, and scowl something terrible, and that at least made Jo feel a little better. At least some kernel of Claire had stayed the same.
Jo gave her sister a week to sulk, and in the space of that time they received three different letters from Whit threatening everything from divorce (Claire just shrugged and shoved the document in the top drawer of her bureau) to Salt Creek Farm’s imminent bankruptcy (Jo threw that note in the trash, then dumped coffee grounds on it) to an outrageous lawsuit stemming from the pain Claire had inflicted on him with the shovel (Claire and Jo buried that one together in the wilds of the kitchen’s junk drawer).
It occurred to Jo that now might be the time to swallow her pride and ask Claire for some help. Surely, in spite of what Claire said were Whit’s money problems, she’d have a little something socked away. She owed Jo at least that much. Every morning Jo poured herself a stiff cup of coffee, steeled her spine and tried to find a way to mouth the words.
But before she could utter a single syllable, Claire got another letter from Whit, and this time the man went and crossed the line. Jo knew that it was bad, because Claire opened the envelope and didn’t say a word. Jo waited, expecting Claire’s usual flurry of huffs and spiked comments, but she just smoothed a hand down the length of her braid and pressed her lips together the way she did when she was really mad.
“What’s it say?” Jo asked. They were in the kitchen, and Dee was sitting at the table with them. Claire glanced at her, shook her head the tiniest fraction, and handed Jo the letter. Jo scanned it. Whit had jotted this particular note in his own hand, and he’d gone and brought up the marsh’s string of cursed sons. “Get your sister to sell the land, and you can end this now,” he’d written to Claire, “unless you’re prepared for another dead child on your hands.”
“No fucking way,” said Claire, and Dee looked up from her bowl of cereal. Jo shook her head at Claire to tell her to keep quiet. She didn’t wa
nt the expectant Dee infected by such nonsense, even if Gilly history did bear it out as truth.
On the other hand, if Whit was going to bring up the past, Jo thought, then she had more than enough ammunition to fight him. She wadded up the letter and added it to the other correspondence in the trash, bank letters among them. “Don’t worry,” she reassured Claire. “When it comes down to this, I’ve got Whit Turner right where I want him.”
Claire eyed her steadily. “And he’s got us in the same spot.”
Jo wondered if the rumors she’d heard about Claire’s being barren were really true, but even she had the delicacy not to ask. Not now at least. She put her hands on her hips. “Well, okay, then,” she said. “At least we know none of us are going anywhere. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
After they disposed of the letter from Whit, Jo marched Claire straight out to a row of evaporating pools, deposited an assemblage of rusted tools next to her, and then thought better of it and climbed in the ditch, too, indicating with her chin which half of the territory was Claire’s.
Jo could see that Claire’s body had forgotten how to do hard labor in spite of all her riding. Every time Claire bit into the ground with the edge of her hoe, she winced. The pain seemed to loosen her tongue. With every strike at the soil, she unearthed a few more unsavory details about her marriage.
“I should have known it,” she said, slapping her hoe into the earth. “I should have known when he was out all those times.” She switched to a shovel and began scooping out mud.
“Do you know that one time he compared me to a Roman courtesan at a dinner party?” she added. “I was so dumb I thought it was a compliment. Or the time”—she stabbed the dirt—“he stripped the room I had set up as a nursery. He had Timothy Weatherly come in, take all the furniture, and put it in storage because he said I was barren.” Jo didn’t say anything to that. The idea of Claire grieving the loss of a child was still startling to her.