Three Fates (25 page)

He supposed it was very Irish, and he found it very apt.

A block over was a monument to the doomed
Titanic,
and her Irish dead. Around them were shops, and the shops were decked with barrels and baskets of flourishing flowers that turned the sad into the picturesque. That, he thought, was probably Irish as well.

Along the streets, in and out of shops, people strolled or moved briskly about their business.

The side streets climbed up very impressive hills and were lined with painted houses whose doors opened straight onto the narrow sidewalks or into tiny, tidy front gardens.

Overhead the sky was a deep and pure blue with the waters of Cork Harbor mirroring it.

Boats were being serviced at the quay, the same quay, his pamphlet told him, as had been in service during the era that White Star and Cunard ran their grand ships.

He walked down to the dock and took his first study of Sullivan’s tour boat.

It looked to seat about twenty, and resembled a party boat, with its bold red canopy stretched over the deck to protect passengers from the sun. Or around here, he assumed, the rain. The seats were red as well, and a cheerful contrast to the shiny white of the hull. The red script on the side identified it as
The Maid of Cobh.

There was a woman already on board, and Jack watched as she checked the number of life jackets, seat cushions, ticking items off on a clipboard as she worked.

She wore jeans faded to nearly white at the stress points, and a bright blue sweater with the sleeves shoved up to her elbows. In them she appeared slim and slight. There was a shoulder-length tumble of curls spilling out of her blue cap. The hair color his mother would have called strawberry blond.

A pair of dark glasses and the cap’s brim shielded most of her face, but what he could see—a full, unpainted mouth, a strong curve of jawline—was a nice addition to the view.

She moved forward, her steps quick and confident as the boat swayed in its slip, and continued her checklist on the bridge.

She sure as hell wasn’t Malachi Sullivan, Jack surmised, but she had to be a link to him.

“Ahoy,
The Maid
,” he called out and waited on the dock while she turned, head cocked, and spotted him.

“Ahoy, the dock. Can I help you with something?”

“I’m going out.” He took the voucher out of his pocket, held it up where the frisky wind whipped at it. “Is it okay to come aboard now?”

“You can, sure if you like. We won’t be leaving for about twenty minutes.”

She tucked the clipboard under her arm and walked over, prepared to offer him a hand on the long step from dock to deck. She realized he wouldn’t need it. He moved well, and was fit enough, she concluded. Quite fit enough, she thought as she admired the strong build.

She admired the leather bomber jacket he wore as well, the fact that it was soft and battered. She had a weakness for good texture.

“Do I give this to you?” he asked.

“You do indeed.” She accepted the voucher, then turned over her clipboard, flipping a page to the passenger list. “Mr. Burdett, is it?”

“It is. And you’re . . .”

She glanced up, then shifted the clipboard again to take the hand he offered. “I’m Rebecca. I’ll be your captain and tour guide today. I’ve yet to start the tea, but I’ll have it going shortly. Just make yourself comfortable. It’s a fine day for a sail, and I’ll see you have a good ride.”

I’ll bet you will, he thought. Rebecca, Becca for short, Sullivan. She’d had a tough little hand and a good firm grip. And a voice like a siren.

After she tucked the clipboard in a bracket, she headed back to stern, turned into a tiny galley. When he followed, she sent him a friendly smile over her shoulder.

“Would this be your first visit to Cobh, then?”

“Yes. It’s beautiful.”

“It is, yes.” She set a kettle on the single burner, then got out the makings for tea. “One of the jewels of Ireland, we like to think. You’ll get some of the history during the tour. There’s but twelve passengers on this trip, so I’ll have plenty of time to answer any questions you might have. You’re from America, then?”

“Yes. New York.”

Her mouth turned down in a sulk. “Seems everybody’s going or coming from New York these days.”

“Sorry?”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She gave a little shrug. “My brother just left for New York this morning.”

Well, hell, Jack thought but kept his expression neutral. “He’s having a holiday?”

“It’s business. But he’ll see it all, won’t he? Again. And I’ve never.” She pulled off her sunglasses, hooked them on her sweater while she measured the tea.

Now he got a good, close look at her face. It was better, he decided, even better than he’d anticipated. Her eyes were a cool and misty green against skin as white and pure as marble. And she smelled, since he was close enough to catch her scent, like peaches and honey.

“It’s very exciting, isn’t it, New York City? All the people and the buildings. Shops and restaurants and theaters, and just everything and more all jammed into one place. I’d like a look at it myself. Excuse me, the others are starting to queue up on the dock. I need to check them in.”

He stayed back at the stern, but he turned, slowly, to watch her.

She felt him watching her as she checked in the passengers, made them welcome. When they were settled, she introduced herself, made the standard safety announcements. Just as the cathedral bells began to ring the noon hour, she cast off.

“Thanks, Jimmy!” She waved to the dockhand who secured her line, then eased the boat out of the slip and into Cork Harbor. Piloting one-handed, she took up a microphone.

“It’s my mother, Eileen, who’s going to be entertaining you for the next little while. She was born here in Cobh, though we’re forbidden to discuss the year of that happy event. Her parents were born here as well, as theirs before them. So she’s in the way of knowing the area and the history. It happens I know a bit about it all myself, so if you’ve any questions when she’s finished talking to you, just shout them out. We’ve a good, clear day, so your trip should be smooth and pleasant. I hope you enjoy it.”

She reached up, flipped on the lecture her mother had recorded, then settled in to enjoy the trip herself. With her mother’s voice speaking of Cobh’s fine natural harbor, or its long vitality as a port that had once been the assembly point for ships during the Napoleonic Wars, as well as a major departure point in the country for its emigrants, she piloted the boat so its passengers could have the pleasure of seeing the town from the water, and appreciate the charm of it, the way it was held in its cup of land, its streets rising sharply to the great neo-Gothic cathedral that cast its shadow over all.

It was a clever, even a slick operation, Jack decided. All the while with the charm of simplicity. The daughter knew how to handle the boat, and the mother knew how to deliver a lecture and make it seem like storytelling.

He wasn’t learning anything he didn’t already know. He’d studied the area carefully. But the friendly voice over the mike made it all seem more intimate. That was a gift.

The ride was smooth, as promised, and there was no faulting the scenery. As Eileen Sullivan began to speak of May seventh, he could almost see it. A shimmering spring day, the great liner plowing majestically through the sea with many of its passengers standing at the rail, looking—as he was—at the Irish coast.

Then that thin stream of white foam from the torpedo streaking toward the starboard bow. The first explosion under the bridge. The shock, the confusion. The terror. And fast on its heels, the second explosion in the forward.

The wreckage that had rained down on the innocent; the tumble of the helpless as the ship listed. And, in the twenty horrible minutes that followed, the cowardice and heroism, the miracles and the tragedies.

Some of his fellow passengers snapped cameras or ran video recorders. He noted that a few of the women blinked at tears. Jack studied the smooth plate of the sea.

Out of death and tragedy,
Eileen continued,
came life and hope. My own great-grandfather was on the
Lusitania
and by grace of God survived. He was taken to Cobh and nursed back to health by a pretty young girl who became his wife. He never returned to America, or went on to England, as he had planned. Instead he settled in Cobh, which was then Queenstown. Because of that terrible day I’m here to tell you of it. While we grieve for the dead, we learn to celebrate the living, and to respect the hand of fate.

Interesting, Jack thought, and gave his attention to Rebecca for the rest of the tour.

She answered questions, joked with the passengers, invited the children to come up and help steer the boat. It had to be routine for her, Jack reflected. Even monotonous. But she made it all seem fresh and fun.

Another gift, he decided. It seemed the Sullivans were full of them.

He asked a question or two himself because he wanted to keep her aware of him. When she maneuvered the boat into its slip again, he calculated he’d gotten his money’s worth.

He waited while she talked to disembarking passengers, posed for pictures with them.

He made sure he was the last off.

“That was a great tour,” he told her.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Your mother has a way of bringing it all into focus.”

“She does.” Pleased, Rebecca tipped back the brim of her cap. “Ma writes the copy for the brochures, and the ads and such. She’s a gift with words.”

“Are you going out again today?”

“No, I’m done with it till tomorrow.”

“I was planning to head up to the cemetery. It seems the way to round out the tour. I could use a guide.”

Her brows went up. “You don’t need a guide for that, Mr. Burdett. It’s signposted, and there are markers giving the history as well.”

“You’d know more than the markers. I’d like the company.”

She pursed her lips as she studied him. “Tell me, do you want a guide or do you want a girl?”

“If I get you, I get both.”

She laughed and went with impulse. “All right, then, I’ll go with you. But I’ll need to make a stop first.”

She bought flowers, enough that he felt obliged to offer to carry at least some of them. As they walked, she’d call out a greeting, or answer one.

She might have looked slight in the oversized sweater, but she strode up the steep hills effortlessly and, during the two-mile hike, kept up a running conversation without any hitches in breath.

“Since you’re flirting with me, Mr. Burdett—”

“Jack.”

“Since you’re flirting with me, Jack, I’m going to assume you’re not a married man.”

“I’m not married. Since you ask, I’m going to assume that matters to you.”

“It does, of course. I don’t have flirtations with married men.” She cocked her head as she studied his face. “I don’t generally have them with strange men, either, but I’m making an exception because I liked the look of you.”

“I liked the look of you, too.”

“I thought you must, as you stared at me more than the scenery during the tour. I can’t say I minded. How’d you happen by the scar here?” she asked and tapped a finger to the side of her own mouth.

“A disagreement.”

“And do you have many?”

“Scars or disagreements?”

She laughed up at him. “Disagreements that lead to scars.”

“Not so far.”

“What is it you do back in America?”

“I run my own security company.”

“Do you? Like, bodyguards?”

“That’s an aspect. We’re primarily electronic security.”

“I love electronics.” She narrowed her eyes when he glanced down at her. “Don’t give me that indulgent look. Being a woman doesn’t mean I don’t understand gadgetry. Do you do private homes or places like banks and museums?”

“Both. All. We’re worldwide.” He didn’t brag about his company as a rule. But he wanted to tell her. The way, he realized with some chagrin, a high-school quarterback wanted to impress the head cheerleader. “And we’re the best. In twelve years, we’ve expanded from one branch in New York to twenty internationally. Give me another five and when people think security, they’ll think Burdett, the way they think Kleenex for tissues.”

She didn’t consider it bragging, she considered it pride. And she was one to appreciate and respect a person’s pride for his own accomplishments. “It’s a good feeling, to make your own. We’ve done that as well, on a smaller scale, of course. But it suits us.”

“Your family?” he asked, reminding himself to stick to the point.

“Yes. We’ve always made our living from the water, but it was fishing only. Then we tinkered our way into a tour boat. One, to start. We lost my da a few years back, and that was hard. But as my mother’s fond of saying, you have to find the right in the wrong. So I started thinking. We had the insurance money. We had strong backs and good brains. Tourism helped turn Ireland around, economically speaking. So what could we do to cash in on that.”

“Harbor tours.”

“Exactly. The one boat we ran was doing a reasonable business. But if we used the money and bought two more, well then. I ran the figures and calculated the potential outlay and income and such. So now Sullivan Tours runs the three for touring, and the fishing boat as well. And I’m thinking it’s time to add another package that would include just what we’re doing now. A guided walk along the funeral route and to the cemetery where the
Lusitania
dead are buried.”

“You run the business end of it?”

“Well, Mal, he does the people part—the promotion and glad-handing, as he’s best at it. Gideon keeps the books because we make him, but he prefers overseeing the maintenance and repairs, as he’s the organized sort and can’t stand anything not perfectly shipshape, so to speak. My mother handles the copy and correspondence and keeps us all from killing each other. As for me, I have the ideas.”