From Ashes to Honor (6 page)

For the past year or so, the driver's door of his pickup squealed something fierce every time he pulled it open. Until tonight, it had never bothered him enough to drag out the oil can. But when its racket drowned out the last words Mercy uttered before she closed her front door, he decided to take care of the problem. Tomorrow. The minute he got home from work.

And when he finished with that, he'd scrub the tug from stem to stern, so that every square inch would sparkle when she visited. Then he'd ask Flora to suggest a recipe that would wow Mercy without exposing his complete lack of culinary skills. And make a quick trip to the discount store for placemats and matching napkins for the deck table, so that if nature cooperated on the night of her visit, he could serve the meal topside, and share his incredible 360° view of Chesapeake Bay.

So much for worrying about whether or not it was a good idea to move the relationship forward, he thought, pulling into his parking space in the marina lot. He had a feeling it would take days to get the picture out of his mind: Mercy, mimicking Princess Di's parade wave as she mouthed, "See you soon!"

S
ometimes, all it took to bring on ugly, unsettling dreams was a short clip on the evening news, describing the respiratory illnesses that were ravaging so many of the 9/11 first responders, or maybe an item about a new monument being erected in memory of the innocents slaughtered at Ground Zero, the Pentagon, or the grassy field at Shanksville. This time, Austin blamed the hours he'd spent with Mercy—the one person who had witnessed his weakness, seen him at his lowest after the tragedy—for uprooting the painful thoughts.

More than likely, though, it had been Cora's number in the caller i.d. block of his phone, and the blinking light that told him she'd left another long and rambling message. Dismissing Avery's message that day taught him a lesson—and left him paranoid about ignoring calls, especially from people he cared about.

And he cared a whole lot about Cora and her boys.

Kneeling in the hot ashes after the cave-in, he'd bloodied all ten fingertips trying to pry Eddy free of his steel and concrete prison. Somehow, he found the strength to beg Austin to check on his wife and sons from time to time. "Don't be an idiot," he'd teased. "Just hang on, and you can look after them yourself, just like you always have."

But they'd both passed the department's mandatory CPR classes, and knew full well that Eddy wouldn't last until help arrived. Austin cracked a molar that day, gritting his teeth to keep from bawling like a baby as he made that promise."Couldn't have asked for a better partner," Eddy whispered, and then his eyes went blank and cold. Austin had been seeing that in his dreams ever since, and didn't doubt for a minute that he'd keep right on seeing it until he joined Eddy in heaven.

Hard experience had taught him that tossing and turning wouldn't get him anywhere. So he had put his sleepless hours to good use, sanding the decks, polishing brass, painting and staining the cupboards and cabinets. If not for nights like this, it would have taken twice as long to turn the neglected old tug into a home he could treasure.

Austin padded into the galley to start a pot of coffee, and while waiting for it to brew, showered and dressed. After making up his bunk, he filled his favorite mug and carried it to the pilot house.

Yawning, he stood at the rail, watching as shimmering ripples danced across the surface of the night-black water. The familiar
quark-quark
of a night heron slid from the shadows, making him wonder what had disturbed its nest.

"Yo, Finley."

Austin instantly recognized the raspy whisper. "Yo, yourself, Bud." He glanced at his wristwatch: Three fifty-two a.m."What're you doing up at this hour?"

"I could ask the same question," the older man said, and quickly added, "I'm trying to escape Flora's snoring." He stood at attention. "Say, is that fresh coffee I smell?"

The wind was blowing due north, not south toward the Callahans' schooner, so it wasn't likely the scent had snagged a breeze and drifted across the water. Smiling, Austin said, "Sure is."

"Hot dog! I'll be right over."

"Meet me up here. I'll have a mug poured and waiting for you when you get here."

For the past month or so, he'd seen the old gent prowling around on the deck of his schooner at all sorts of odd hours.While emptying the coffee maker's carafe into a Thermos, he recalled the frantic night when Bud suffered a near-fatal heart attack. Fortunately, Austin had been on hand to administer emergency CPR and monitor the situation until the ambulance crew arrived. And he'd been available to take Flora to Johns Hopkins, because the way she'd blubbered all the way there, only the good Lord knew what might have happened if she'd driven the distance alone.

The quadruple bypass saved Bud and greatly improved his quality of life, but that had been nearly three years ago. What if his restlessness had nothing to do with Flora's snoring? What if, instead, it was a sign that his ticker had developed a new problem?

Austin carried the Thermos and an extra mug to the pilot house, praying as he went that the Almighty would continue watching over his friend and neighbor. Because if Bud's hospitalization and recuperation had turned the normally resilient Flora into a woman who trembled and wept every time Bud got out of earshot, what would losing him do to her?

He'd barely settled into his favorite sling-backed chair when the older man's white-haired head poked through the doorway.

"Did you add a couple of rungs to that ladder?"

"You ask the same question every time you come up here," Austin said, laughing.

"Well, it sure seems like a longer walk between visits." He grabbed the Thermos. "Say . . . did you hear that night heron earlier?"

Austin watched the steam rise as Bud filled his mug. "Yeah, weird, isn't it, hearing one way over here?"

Bud grunted slightly as he lowered his bulk into a chair that matched Austin's. "Well, the mouth of the bay ain't all that far away, I s'pose." He pursed his lips. "And it is about time for the fledglings to leave Fisherman's Island."

During the years their boats had been docked side by side, Austin and Bud must have shared hundreds of mugs of coffee while discussing the Orioles' lousy coaching staff and the Ravens' latest draft pick. Taxes, the threat of a rent hike at the marina, and of course, the weather dominated their conversations, but they'd never talked in the middle of the night before.

Bud blew across the surface of his coffee, then took a loud slurp. On the heels of a long, satisfied sigh, he said, "Now, that's what I call good java." Then he frowned. "Hard day, son?"

At first, the term of endearment had rattled Austin. Lately, he'd come to like being part of Bud and Flora's family, even if only in a surrogate way. "No harder than most."

"Bad dreams keepin' you up again, huh?"

He saw no point in saddling the old guy with the gory details. He'd done that once, years ago, after coming home from a bachelor party with a few too many beers in his belly. Even half-toasted, he'd seen how upset he'd made the Callahans, and it bugged him just enough to vow never again to utter a syllable about the terror attacks.

"Well," Bud said in the ensuing silence, "no surprise, there.We're comin' up on another anniversary here soon. All that stuff on the TV news and in the papers? Shoo-eee. No wonder it's front and center in your brain."

Austin only nodded. Hard to believe it had been nearly nine years since—

"Talked to Eddy's widow lately?"

"She left a message while I was out tonight." Later, he'd listen to it. It always took a day or two to screw up the courage to call her back.

The non-answer hung between them like a new-spun spider web. "So," he said, "has Flora developed allergies or something? It's too early for her hay fever to kick in. And from what you've said, it does seem that her snoring has gotten a whole lot worse these past few months."

"Dragged the old girl to the doctor day before yesterday. He said more than likely, it isn't pollen or any of the usual suspects.That quack. Fat lot he knows." Bud waved a hand in the air. "At least the fool helped me make an appointment with a specialist for day after tomorrow. Not a minute too soon, if you ask me, 'cause I can't imagine she's getting much more sleep than I am."

Austin sipped his coffee, waiting for the qualifier that would follow Bud's remark.

"If it reminds
me
of a locomotive, pulling into the station, imagine what it sounds like inside
her
head!"

Austin laughed under his breath. But his smile faded when he remembered how his mom had snored deeper and louder as her final days drew nearer. About the only peace the poor woman got came from listening to CDs of a favorite old radio show,
The Bickersons.
He'd heard some of the episodes so many times he'd memorized a lot of the dialog. Bud and Flora often reminded him of the battling comic duo, but despite the Callahans' salty relationship, he knew each would be a living, breathing mess without the other.

"Doc said if the allergist doesn't find anything, they'll arrange a scan of her head." Snickering, he added, "Now let me be the first to say that those will be some interesting pict—"

"Good Lord A'mighty," came a raggedy voice from across the way, "how's a girl supposed to get her beauty sleep with the two of you over there, chattering like a couple of magpies into the wee hours?"

The men exchanged an amused glance, then Bud put a hand to the side of his mouth. "Watch and learn a thing or three about women, young'un. I'll have her eating out of my hand in no time flat." He ended the sentence with a noisy finger snap, and, raising his chin, looked over at Flora. "And exactly how long have you been up and about, my sweet little Flor-de-lee?"

An audible "Ha!" floated to them before she said, "Long enough to want to hurl my black iron skillet in your direction.Maybe that'll quiet the pair of you down!"

Bud leaned closer to Austin and heaved a sigh of resignation."Just my luck," he said under his breath, "she woke up with a big ol' grump on."

"I heard that, Liam Kyle Callahan!"

Bud clapped a hand over his eyes. "I do declare, a man can't slip anything past that woman!"

"If you'd get yourself some hearing aids—like I've been after you to—maybe you could slip one by me every now and again."

"Women. Can't live with 'em, and can't live
with
'em."

While Bud chuckled at his little joke, Flora's voice took on a maternal tone. "All right now, Bud, you've kept that boy from his bed long enough. Why don't you drag your hard-ofhearing bones back over here, and I'll scramble you some eggs so he can get some much-needed sleep." Hands on her hips, she tacked on, "Why, I'll bet he's on the early shift tomorrow, or should I say later this morning!"

Austin knew better than to intervene. He'd tried acting as the peacemaker between these two often enough to know that the gesture would only put him in the line of fire. And wasn't it funny, he thought, that despite all that, he sincerely hoped that if God ever saw fit to bless him with a wife, the woman would have Flora's "love your man and gently keep him in check" skills.

Bud drained the last of his coffee and put his mug on the table between the deck chairs. "If I know what's good for me, I'd better hot-foot it over there before she has to repeat herself.My luck, she'll rouse the rest of the marina, and old Betsy will call the cops to report a disturbance." He started down the ladder, stopping long enough to say, "Catch you later, son. You take care out there, y'hear?"

"Thanks, Bud. I will." He pointed toward the schooner and snickered. "And you take care over
there."

Minutes later, as the Callahans' quiet laughter drifted to him on a sticky puff of air, Austin leaned back, and, eyes closed, grinned. During his first year out here on the water, he must have told himself a hundred times that the next time he bought property, he'd put plenty of space between him and his neighbors. But as the months rolled by, he knew that if he left this place, he'd miss their well-meaning, good-natured involvement in his life. Like it or not—and the longer he knew them, the better he liked it—the quarrelsome duo were all the family he had in the world.

Admitting that made him think of Mercy, who lived alone in the spacious contemporary townhouse that she shared with an overweight cat named Woodrow. She'd gone out of her way to comfort that kid—Winston?—out there on the football field, and went right on consoling and reassuring him, even after the ER staff had worked their medical magic on him. She had the whole nurturing thing down pat, as evidenced by the way she'd calmed the boy's hovering parents. Prettiest little thing he'd ever seen. So why hadn't she married, popped out a few dark-eyed little kids of her own?

The image of her glimmered in his mind so clearly that he could almost touch her. In fact, he found himself wishing he
could
touch her.

The notion unsettled him, and made him realize that at some point before he saw her again, he'd better give the whole Mercy matter a lot of careful thought, because—

Growling under his breath, he got to his feet. "Get a grip, Finley."

Fingers wrapped tightly around the polished brass rail surrounding the deck, he faced east and stared out over the peaceful Chesapeake, where the first signs of sunrise were winking in the cloudless black sky. A perfect morning to see the green flash.

The first time he spotted it, he'd still been knee-deep in reconstruction materials. A nightmare had driven him topside, where he kicked aside sawed-off two-by-fours and spent sandpaper in an attempt to escape the haunting memories. He remembered thinking that one of two things explained what he saw out there on the horizon: Either he'd added sleepwalking to his list of mental maladies, or it had been an optical illusion. By the time he finished knuckling his eyes, it had disappeared, confirming that it had been a figment of his overworked imagination, and he never mentioned a word about it to anyone, not even Bud and Flora.

Its second appearance drove him to the Internet, where he typed countless words and phrases into his search engine until, at last, he learned about the phenomenon that was a result of scattered air molecules. The emerald flare, he read, appeared only under the right circumstances, and lasted little more than a second.

Blink, and you'll miss it,
he reminded himself.

He'd no sooner finished the warning than a burst of bottlegreen light sizzled across the horizon and vanished in less than a heartbeat. Hoping to catch sight of a second spark—a far, far rarer occurrence, his research had taught him—Austin held his breath and waited.

A moment passed, then another, with no repeat performance.Meaning he'd blinked despite his best efforts not to, or God had decided one flash was enough on this sticky morning.Contentment quickly replaced disappointment as Mercy's face drifted into his head. If she'd been there to share the miracle with him, would her perfect brows have risen in sync with the corners of her mouth?

"Yep, you're losin' your mind," he muttered, facing the pilot house. Besides, hadn't she said that during her childhood, her folks had owned a sailboat? For all he knew, she'd seen the mini-light show dozens of times, and it wouldn't seem like a big deal to her at all.