Читать книгу The Husband She Never Knew - Cynthia Thomason, Cynthia Thomason - Страница 11

VICKI JERKED and nearly fell out of her chair. Fear tingling in her every nerve, she looked at the ceiling. “What was that?”

Jamie glanced up, then took a swallow of milk. “A loblolly branch, I imagine.”

“You mean the trees are flying?”

He gazed at her with a half grin curving his lips. “I said ‘branch’ Vicki. And I’m only guessing. If it had been a whole tree, I’d know for sure what kind it is because it would be sticking through a wall of the houseboat. I’m assuming it was a loblolly because the sound started here—” he pointed to the ceiling at the bow and slowly moved his finger to the stern “—and ended there. There’s a thicket of loblolly trees by the front of the boat. My suspicion is that one of them is now missing a fairly good-size limb.”

“It’s so frustrating not being able to see,” Vicki said. “We don’t know what’s going on out there.”

Jamie cupped a hand around his ear, drawing attention to the eerie sounds beyond the houseboat walls. “Oh, I think we have a pretty good idea. Besides, there’s still the door. You can have a look whenever you want.”

“No, thanks. I tried that, remember?”

He smiled. “Look, Vicki, if you’re going to jump at every little sound for the next few hours, you better tie yourself down. It’s only going to get worse.”

He was right. She took a deep breath, then dug into the tasty stew again. After a moment she heard another strange noise, a thumping coming from under the table. Forcing herself to remain composed, she looked to Jamie for an explanation.

He gestured down to a nearly hairless tail curling around a table leg. “It’s Beasley. He’s scratching his ear. I hear that even when there isn’t a storm.”

“Oh.” Vicki leaned over and patted the dog’s head. She expected his gray fur to be soft, but instead, each individual hair felt like a brush bristle. He lolled his head to one side and gazed up at her, his marble-size golden eyes holding something almost like adoration. “I wish I could accept this hurricane as calmly as you do,” she said to the animal.

A gust of wind rattled a metal panel on the window nearest her. Vicki forced herself not to react by concentrating on Beasley. “What kind of dog is he?”

Jamie swiped at a pool of gravy with a thick corner of bread. “Nobody knows. He wandered up the causeway three years ago. I don’t know where he came from or why he decided to stay. But he did. In all that time I’ve never spoken about his questionable parentage. I can’t see making a creature feel bad over something that was none of his doing.”

An image of her parents flashed through Vicki’s mind. Her drab, defeated mother, whose grease-stained apron symbolized the lack of attention she gave all the details of her existence. Her indolent father, who complained of aches and pains in every part of his body while he sat in a patched recliner watching an ancient television. Nils Sorenson blamed government taxes for his inability to buy a new TV. He never once considered that he might be able to save enough money to buy a nice set if he worked as hard on the farm as he did making excuses.

Jamie was right. People couldn’t change their origins. Remembering the way he’d looked thirteen years ago, she figured he’d experienced that frustrating fact of life almost as much as she had. But maybe Jamie had been lucky enough to have parents who’d encouraged him emotionally if not financially.

Jamie stood and picked up his plate. “Yep, Beasley’s story is pretty much the way life is here on Pintail Point,” he said.

“Why is that?”

He stacked her empty plate on top of his. “On any given day, I never know what or who is going to wander down the causeway. Or how long they’re going to stay.”

Vicki knew exactly how long she was staying on Pintail. Well, maybe not the precise hour she would leave, but she knew that the minute the wind stopped howling and the water receded from the causeway, she would get into her rented car, the divorce papers signed and tucked safely into her briefcase, and head back to Norfolk, where she’d catch the next plane to Fort Lauderdale. With a little luck that would happen before Graham became more impatient with her absence.

Still, if she had to endure a hurricane, she could do far worse than to be with Jamie Malone. He certainly had a calming effect in the midst of a meteorological nightmare.

They finished the dishes quickly, using hot water sparingly so there would be enough left for a couple of showers. When the supper utensils were put away, Jamie went to the living room and picked up the telephone. He gave Vicki an I-told-you-so look. “Future husband number two won’t be able to reach you tonight.”

What should have been good news was suddenly alarming. If Graham couldn’t reach her here, he would probably call information for the number of the Ramada Hotel. The phones might not be out in Norfolk, and he’d discover that she wasn’t at the hotel and in fact, hadn’t even registered. She’d have to come up with a logical explanation for her supposed change in plans… Well, she thought, she could avoid the problem by contacting Graham before he tried to contact her. A good offense was always the best defense.

“Do you have a cell phone?” she asked Jamie.

“Nope. I have a car phone in the truck, but again, that involves going outside.”

“You must have a computer. I could send an e-mail.”

“I have a laptop that I hook up to—” he pointed to the telephone “—that line.”

Vicki frowned. “Great.”

“Sorry, Vicki, but until Imogene’s done with us, we’re not much better off than pioneers.”

Okay, there wouldn’t be a phone call to Graham tonight, and Vicki resigned herself to inventing a good alibi for her absence at the hotel. While she struggled to formulate a plan, Jamie worked the dials of a battery-operated radio he’d brought to the coffee table, along with a half-dozen of the scented candles. Vicki sat on the opposite end of the sofa from Jamie and said, “I’m impressed. You’ve reached the outside world.”

He nodded. “Yep. It’s an Elizabeth City station, about twenty miles from here.”

As they listened to the broadcast, Jamie’s expression grew serious. “You’re interpreting all this as bad news, too,” she said.

“Predictable, anyway. It could get rough now. The storm’s just two hours from landfall.”

The wind howled outside. Not a steady groaning, but a crescendo of wails and moans that made Vicki think of prowling wolves. “I think it already has gotten rough.”

He managed a tight smile before scanning the four corners of the room with alert eyes. “Like I said, we’ll be all right. I wish I’d done more to protect the shed, though.”

It was the second time he’d mentioned the building a few yards from the houseboat. “What’s in there that you’re so worried about?”

He shrugged off the question with an ambiguous answer. “Just personal items, supplies, tools, things I use in my work.”

Remembering the detective saying that Jamie was an artist, Vicki asked what he did for a living.

“I make things,” he said.

“What things?”

“Wooden objects, mostly. When you were in the Bayberry Cove Kettle, did you see any of those little triangles with all the holes and pegs in them?”

“Do you mean the leapfrog puzzles on the counter?”

“Yeah. I make those,” Jamie said. “You can find them all over town. The local businesses put their names on the triangles. I guess they use it for promotions. There are some in the Kettle, the supermarket, even in pew boxes next to hymnals at the Methodist Church—so I’m told.”

Vicki smiled to herself. Jamie made wooden puzzles. It seemed a logical calling for a man who was once a carpenter. But an artist? She hardly saw how cutting triangles and drilling holes qualified as art. But there was an appealing honesty about the pride he expressed in his contribution to Bayberry Cove society.

Vicki studied his face in the forgiving glow of the half-dozen candles. This Jamie was a more polished, confident version of the man he’d been thirteen years ago. Maybe he was no more successful than when his fingernails were stained, but the desperation in his eyes was gone. This Jamie was a man content with his life.

And though still a stranger, he was easy to be with. Comfortable. Of course Vicki could never make a life with a man like Jamie. His apparent lack of ambition was hard for her to understand. She’d come too far and worked too hard to escape her humble beginnings to settle for anything less than financial security.

When she met Graham Townsend, part of her attraction to him was his lifestyle, just the sort she longed for—stable, privileged. He, unlike her, had never known anything else. But in a way she envied Jamie Malone. She’d spent her life setting ever more challenging goals. She didn’t know for sure, but she bet Jamie spent his life just living, taking each day as it came.

“I can practically see the spokes turning from over here,” he said.

Vicki blinked, scattering her thoughts to the corners of her mind. “What do you mean?”

He pointed to her head and made a circle with his finger. “I can see the wheels going round in your brain. What are you thinking about?”

You. I decided your face is easy to look at.

“I was just watching the candle flames,” she lied. “I’m wondering what that scent is.”

He crossed one leg over the other. “You like the smell?”

She nodded.

“It’s bayberry. The bushes grow wild all over the coast. In fact, it’s almost time to harvest the berries.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Are you telling me that you made these candles yourself?”

He laughed. “Me? No. But thirty per cent of the working population of Bayberry Cove made them, and thousands more like them. Nearly one third of the labor force in town works at the Bayberry Cove Candle Company. Bayberry candles are made from bayberries—pretty much like they were in Colonial days, with the help of a little modern technology.”

She admired the forest-green color of the candles and the soft flicker of the flames. “And I’ll bet you know exactly how it’s done, don’t you.”

For the next ten minutes Vicki learned how bayberries used to be gathered in bushel baskets and how it took one full bushel to boil the berries down to produce enough wax to make one taper. When Jamie explained the candle-making process in his lilting brogue, Vicki had the impression that it was as much magic as Colonial know-how that went into each one. Maybe thirty percent of the population of Bayberry Cove made candles, but Vicki could picture a half-dozen leprechauns having a hand in the process, as well.

And she knew for sure that as the wind blustered outside the Bucket o’ Luck, sending debris crashing into the walls, she was grateful for the woodsy-smelling candlelight on Jamie’s table, no matter how it was produced. And grateful to Jamie when he opened a bottle of wine and poured her a glass. “Go ahead, Vicki. It’ll do you good.”

She took a comforting swallow and leaned her head back against the sofa. For a few minutes she listened to the static-edged voice of a radio weatherman answering questions from callers about the hurricane. Everything he advised, she and Jamie had already done. Perhaps that knowledge, or perhaps the effect of the wine, gave her more confidence. Or maybe it was a sudden intense curiosity that made her ask the questions to which she’d never had definitive answers.

“So tell me, Jamie,” she said, “what were you running from that day in Orlando? Why were you desperate enough to marry a stranger? And where did you get…?” She stopped, knowing she was crossing a line that protected Jamie’s privacy.

He smiled, rubbed his finger and thumb down his jaw. “And where did a fella like me get five thousand dollars?” he finished for her.

“I didn’t mean…”

“Of course you did, Vicki, and it’s a fair question, considering the man I was when you married me. That’s why I’m going to answer it.”

JAMIE REFILLED Vicki’s glass. He was certain the walls of the houseboat would withstand the winds raging outside, but he’d run out of ways to convince Vicki of that. The wine was accomplishing what his logic and encouragement had not.

A kind of guarded peace had settled over her features. Her lips were soft and full, no longer defined at the corners by the crescent-shaped lines of worry. Framed by loose waves of shoulder-length hair, her cheeks had taken on a rosy blush. Her eyes, which minutes before had sparked with the icy blue of a winter sky, were now the delicate hue of Wedgwood. One blunt slam of a sea-pine branch against a shutter could fragment that calm, but right now—when Vicki wasn’t afraid for her life or trying to decide if her Irish husband could be trusted—she was incredibly lovely.

And perhaps even ready to accept his reasons for marrying her. “You have to understand what Belfast was like in 1988,” he began. “And then you have to know what it meant to be a Malone.”

“I have a friend in Fort Lauderdale who believes you were a criminal when you came to this country,” she said. “A wanted man.” She stared at the contents of her glass before looking directly at him. “But I believed Kenny Corcoran when he said it wasn’t so.”

“I’m sorry to tell you, Vicki, but Kenny half lied back then. I wasn’t a criminal. But I was a wanted man. It was hard to be a Malone and not be wanted by one official or another.”

He glanced briefly at a photograph on the desk across the room. Three cocky young men looked back at him. Their eyes were full of hope. Their smiles were full of the devil. And their arms were wrapped around each other as if the bombs that would later tear the family apart had no chance of separating them that day. The Malone brothers. Frank Junior, Jamie and Cormac. Invincible. Proud. And two of them brimming with all the spit and fire of the furnaces of the Belfast foundry where they worked.

He returned his attention to Vicki. “Northern Ireland was a quagmire of dissent and despair in those days. Protestants hated the Catholics. Loyalists hated the followers of the Republic. It’s better now since the peace accord, but back when the Malone brothers were finding their way, the young men of Belfast carried their pride and their anger in their fists.”

“I remember—the pictures on TV were very graphic,” Vicki said. “There were demonstrations and blockades. Children couldn’t go to school.”

He nodded. “A sad time for Ireland. And there were bombings and deaths and more heartache than a mother could measure. And through the middle of it all wound the crooked pathway chosen by Frank Junior and Cormac, my brothers. Of all the skills my poor mother imagined her boys acquiring, bomb-making wasn’t even on the list.”

“What happened to your brothers?” Vicki asked.

“They applied their talents to the destruction of Catholic churches and schools. And any number of cars and store windows, which they blew up as a sort of Malone calling card. Luckily only property was damaged, but it was enough for the Outlaw Malones to make a name for themselves.”

Vicki shook her head. “And you, as well, I imagine. You shared their name.”

Jamie pinched the bridge of his nose. After all this time, the memory was still as painful. “There were some problems along that line. I was questioned often by the authorities, who were trying to make an example of the Malones. But they couldn’t pin anything on me, and Frank and Cormac could never be found. Most times I couldn’t find them myself, the underground network was that good. Two men could bomb a market, slip down an alley and not be seen for weeks.”

Vicki shook her head, evidence that she bore some of his sadness. “So what eventually happened? Why did you leave Ireland?”

“Because Frank and Cormac came out of their dens at precisely the wrong time. They were caught in a street brawl, of all things, for once their pockets empty of explosives, though fire was in their hearts. My mother heard about the fight and knew the police were going to arrest everyone involved. She sent me to warn my brothers. The rest is a miserable piece of history. We were three Malone men with blood on our clothes and fight in our eyes. And though I hadn’t thrown a punch, to the police, we were each one as guilty as the other.

“Frank hollered at me to run even as they put the cuffs around his wrists. I did. Hard and fast. The last I remember about that night was Cormac on the street, his face in the concrete, and the black boot of a policeman in the small of his back. That same night I got to know the secret network myself. Men proclaiming themselves friends of my brothers came to the door, talked to my mother and took me from the house. The next morning I was on a fishing boat to the Isle of Man where I caught a plane to the French coast. Within hours I was in the United States. And Frank and Cormac were awaiting trial.”