Carousel Seas (8 page)

CHAPTER NINE

WEDNESDAY, JULY 5

HIGH TIDE 7:10
P.M.
EDT

SUNSET 8:26
P.M.

Borgan shook his head with a sigh.

“Sorry ’bout that, Kate.”

“You couldn’t have known,” I told him, then gave up a sigh of my own. “I just wish I’d gotten a fix on who they were, or where they call home.”

“Land don’t know?”

I shook my head.

“And you’re sure they were
trenvay
?”

“Well, no, not that either. The land’s . . . ambiguous; it kinda, sorta half-recognized he/she/it. I figured
trenvay
because of the timidity—even a new Ozali is going to have some ’tude. Well.” I reached up to put my arm through Borgan’s. “They’ll be back, after they’ve gathered their courage again. What say we go up to Jay’s, get a beer, listen to some music?”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Then let’s do it.”

* * *

Neptune’s, on the Pier, is the big tourist bar, and you bet there’d be standing room only at ten-thirty on the night after the Fourth. Jay’s is a smaller place, a restaurant with a bar; tables for maybe forty, and another dozen at the bar. The music was on the verandah, so said the bartender, and I almost opted out in order to stay in the lovely air conditioning.

“Music?” Borgan said in my ear.

“Music sounds good; hot, not so much.”

“Who’s playin’?” Borgan asked the ’tender.

“Andy LaPierre,” she said with a smile. “He’s local. You folks’ll really like what he does. Goes the whole range from folk, blues, rock, classical.”

“Wanna try it, Kate? I’m betting it won’t be so hot on the porch.”

“Bound to be cooling off by now,” the bartender put in.

I doubted it, myself. On the other hand, live music is one of my more benign vices, and Andy’s mix sounded interesting. Plus, I wanted another look at the man, in what you’d call
ordinary circumstances
. Curiosity, that was all. What I’d told my mother was true—if he made her happy, I was a fan.

“Sure; let’s give it a try,” I said, and nodded at the ’tender. “Can we get something to drink?”

“Whatcha like?”

“I’d like a Shipyard Brown Ale, and my friend would like . . . ?” I lifted an eyebrow at Borgan, who shook his head ruefully.

“Make it two.”

* * *

The verandah was comfortably full, most of the floor space taken up by insecure little wrought-iron tables; the wall on the restaurant side was lined with booths; the outside with somewhat less insecure-looking tables; the whole area roofed in blue canvas. Strings of patio lights in the shape of dragonflies outlined the canvas and hung from the black iron fence that marked the verandah’s outside boundary.

Borgan and I claimed one of the outside tables for our own, sitting side by side so we could see the tiny stage area, which was vacant at the moment, save for a stool, a microphone and a couple guitars on stands.

No sooner had we gotten our chairs situated, than a waitress materialized—blonde hair in a ponytail, white polo shirt with
Jay’s Eatery
embroidered over the pocket, black shorts, white crew socks and white tennis shoes showing off a tan so deep I suspected she’d started it in January, at one of the tanning salons up on Route 1.

She was
not
a greenie, but a genuine Maine girl, as we heard when she asked what she could get for us.

I lifted my bottle to show her we were taken care of, drinkwise. Borgan threw her a grin.

“Order o’onion rings for my lady and me to share?”

Her face lit like he’d given her a present.

“Comin’ right up!”

“I hope I like onion rings,” I said, settling my back more closely against the chair.

“I’m thinking you will. ’Specially if you put ketchup on ’em.”

“
Ketchup
on onion rings? You’re a barbarian.”

“Could be. What d’you put on?”

“Nothing,” I said loftily. “The breading and the hot grease need no further enhancement.”

“Well, now, if I’d known you was a connoisseur . . .”

I laughed, and raised my bottle. Borgan did the same, and we tapped them, carefully.

It was, I thought, definitely cooler now; a breeze had come up, smelling of salt and ozone, cavorting under the canvas like a puppy dog. Just the sort of breeze you might expect to come in on the rising tide, I thought, raising my bottle for another sip of ale.

I lowered the bottle and looked at Borgan. He looked back, face innocent.

“Nice breeze,” I said.

“Is,” he agreed.

“Tide’s going out.”

He pursed his lips and looked up toward the blue ceiling, like he was trying to remember the tide chart, damn him.

“Now, I believe you’re right there, Kate,” he said, after taking longish counsel. “Tide
is
goin’ out. Should see dead low right about one-thirty.”

Before I could kick him, our onion rings arrived—and the lights over the little stage area cycled from white to gold.

I leaned forward as Andy stepped into the light—a thin guy with a bony face, the intense, strange eyes I recalled hidden behind a pair of lightly smoked glasses. He wore a pair of jeans so broke in they must’ve had nap like velvet, biker boots, and a plain white dress shirt, sleeves rolled above his wrists.

The conversation level dropped noticeably, as people turned toward the stage.

Andy plucked one of the guitars up from its stand, settled the shoulder strap, and propped a lean hip against the stool.

“Evenin’,” he said, while his fingers fondled the strings, seemingly at random. “My name’s Andy LaPierre, an’ I’d like to play some music for you.” He glanced up, multicolored dragonfly light sliding across the smoked lenses.

“Now, you might know some of these songs. If you do, and you feel like it, you sing right on along. You can only add to the music; you can’t hurt it, and you can’t break it. So, now—what d’ya think of this one?”

His fingers moved, quick and clean, the notes achingly pure. “Simple Gifts” was the offering—not a song I would have expected from a guy playing guitar at one of Archers Beach’s restaurants. The audience sat quiet, as if the music had pierced them, every one—that included the two guys in motorcycle leathers in the booth across from us, and the family group ’round one of the most rickety tables up front.

He played it through, once, then he looked up, and smiled, and began to sing.

“’Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free.

“’Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be . . .”

One of the leathered guys in the booth across from us stirred, and sang out the next doublet, in a rasping tenor.

“And when we find ourselves in the place just right,

“’Twill be in the valley of love and delight.”

The set was forty-five minutes of the sweetest magic I’ve ever had the privilege to observe or experience. The songs ranged from the very old—like “Simple Gifts”—to newer folk songs, to classic rock, to old folk songs played like classic rock. Some, the audience sang; some Andy sang alone; some were just the guitar and the shape of the music being woven about us.

I don’t remember eating the onion rings, or ordering another round of ale; but those things must have happened—though Borgan could’ve taken care of both without any help from me.

Andy’s fingers were just fooling around on the strings again, letting us down nice and slow.

“I’m gonna take a little break for some supper now,” he told us, and smiled a little, adding, “maybe have a beer. Be gone about half an hour, then I’ll come back and play for you some more. If you gotta leave before I come back, I want to thank you for sharing the music. Remember that you’re not alone, ever; that there’s always the music, connecting all of us, and the whole world, too.”

His fingers had stopped moving at some point, and the notes had faded away. He stood, racked his guitar and walked off the stage; through the door, into the main restaurant.

I took a deep, deep breath.

“Boy’s good,” Borgan said, as conversations picked up again around us. The motorcycle guys got up, leaving a fifty-dollar bill on the table across the check. The little family up front began to gather their things together, and the servers were moving among the tables, taking reorders and delivering checks.

I looked at him. “You never heard him play before?”

“Midsummer Eve, mostly. Don’t get out much.”

“Well, we’re going to have to change that.”

He brought a mournful sigh up from the heels of his boots, and cast me a soulful look from bright black eyes.

“Oh, you’re gonna make all kinda changes to me; I can see that.”

“It’s only fair,” I pointed out, reaching for my bottle. “After all, you’ve made all kinds of changes to me.”

The glance this time was speculative.

“Have I now? What would those be, exactly?”

Well, Kate, you’ve put your foot in it
, I told myself kindly.
What’re you going to tell the man that’s fit to be said in a public restaurant?

But that was easy, wasn’t it?
The
change, that my mother had seen, so clearly.

“I’m . . . I rely on you,” I said slowly. “Used to be, I didn’t depend on anybody but myself—and not so much, there. I—”

A shadow moved, a chair clattered into position across the table, and Andy dropped into it, putting his beer bottle, his glasses, and his elbows on the table. His eyes were orange—bright, jack-o’-lantern orange, the pupils slit like cat eyes.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, with a quick glance to Borgan. “I got a notion Kate come to talk to me. If that’s so, we’d best get it over and done.”

Borgan looked at me, eyebrows up.
Have I been set up
? That might’ve been the question. I shook my head and turned back to Andy.

“Mother did tell me you were playing here this evening. When Borgan asked what I’d like to do, I suggested coming here, because I thought air conditioning, beer, and good music would make a cool end to a really hot day.”

“Scorcher, wasn’t it? And they’re sayin’ more of the same, tomorrow.” Andy turned his head to look at Borgan. “Thanks for the breeze, Cap’n.”

“No trouble. I promised Kate it’d be cooler on the porch.”

Andy grinned briefly, before getting back to me.

“Kate, did Nessa tell you . . .” Words seemed to fail him.

“Did she tell me that the two of you were walking out, as she had it? Sure she did.”

“And you’re . . . okay with that?”

Why I was supposed to
not
be okay with it was, apparently, a puzzle for my old age. I swallowed my sigh and met Andy’s strange, brilliant eyes.

“I’m happy that she’s happy. You hurt her, then I’ll have a complaint.”

It came out sounding more like a threat than I’d intended, but Andy actually looked relieved.

“Hell I’d hurt her! She’s been hurt enough. How she carried that—well, I know the answer, there, don’t I? Strong and stubborn—always was, always will be. But she’s got less to carry now I picked up half.” He blinked, looked aside, grabbed his bottle and had a nice, long swig of beer.

“Listen, then, Kate—we’re thinking . . . Nessa an’ me’re thinking we’ll be doing gigs together. Soon’s we work up some harmonies. She’s got a great voice, and we’d usta sometimes, back before . . . Well, that’s under the bridge, except to know we can do it. Back then, she played hammer dulcimer; she’s talking about seeing how rusty she is . . .”

I frowned, doing a quick mental inventory of the house at the top of Dube Street.

“I’m not sure I can lay hands on that dulcimer—”

Andy waved the bottle, cutting me off.

“No fears. I got it. She gave it to me—when she—before she married your dad. To remember her by.” He glanced over his shoulder.

“Almost time for the next set. You’ll talk to your gran and Nessa’s father? Kinda smooth the way?”

“I imagine my mother will do that,” I said drily. “Strong and stubborn, remember?”

He laughed, his face reflecting a sort of wry pride.

“You’re right, there; that’s exactly Nessa.” He grabbed his glasses, slid them onto his face, and stood, bringing the beer bottle with him.

“Thanks for talking to me, Kate. Cap’n Borgan, I apologize for monopolizing your lady’s conversation. Let me make it up to you—name a song and I’ll play it, first off.”

Borgan considered him.

“How ’bout ‘The Mary Ellen Carter’?”

Andy might have blinked—impossible to tell behind the glasses. He did throw back his head and laugh out loud.

“Oh, yeah; that’ll play fine! Shoulda thought of it myself!”

* * *

I leaned on the rail of the summer parlor and looked out over the dunes, and the long stretch of dark beach.

Far away, the waves were nothing but smooth rolls, showing a faint greenish glow just beneath the surface. The air had finally and truly cooled, and a little landside breeze patted my face shyly. As far as I could see, my vision enhanced by the land, the beach was empty. It was, I supposed, late. Borgan and I had stayed through Andy’s last set before paying the tab and walking the long way back to Dube Street.

The town was quiet—as quiet as it had been since the motorcycles had opened the Fourth. If I listened hard, I could hear the band cranking down at the Neptune, and the occasional high scream of laughter.