Twice Loved (copy2) (16 page)

On foggy days there was always a fragrant blaze in the fireplace, with never an end of wood scraps to supply it. Josiah, when he finished a cedar pail, would set the tailings aside and dole them into the fire prudently, just often enough to provide a steady fragrance that wafted through the air like incense, to mingle with his pipe smoke.

On sunny days the wide double doors were thrown open to the street and the scent of lilacs drifted in to accent the aromas of wood, both wet and dry. There was a steady passing of townspeople, many of whom stepped inside for a brief greeting and to welcome Rye back. Everyone knew of the curious situation to which he had returned, yet not a soul mentioned it; they only watched and waited to see what would come of it.

The old man asked no questions either, but Josiah was shrewd enough to note the growing restlessness that made Rye jumpy and distracted. Tolerance was not Rye’s long suit, and his father wondered how long it would take before things came to a head.

It was early June, a sparkling day of flawless blue sky and warm sun, when the old man took a midmorning break, shuffling to the open doorway to puff at his pipe and flex his back. “Takin’ that boy long enough to get back with them hoops,” Josiah commented in his rich New England drawl. He spoke of his brother’s boy, Chad Dalton, his newest apprentice, who was off to the smithy to fetch a pair of hoops. But now that Rye was back, the lad slacked off at times, taking advantage of his Uncle Josiah’s good mood.

Rye didn’t even look up, which scarcely surprised Josiah. His son was standing at the fixed blade of a five-foot-long jointer plane, drawing the edge of a stave across it. It took keen judgment, a steady hand, and your eyes on your work to shape every edge identical. No, it didn’t bother Josiah that Rye didn’t look up; what bothered him was that he didn’t even seem to hear.

"Said it’s takin’ that boy long enough to get back with them hoops!” Josiah repeated louder.

At last Rye’s hands stilled and he glanced up, frowning. "I heard you, old man, or is it y’r ears goin’ bad?”

“Not a thing wrong with m’ ears. Just don’t like talkin’ to m’self.”

“Boy’s probably rollin’ those hoops the opposite direction from Gordon’s smithy—you know a boy and a hoop.” Again Rye set to planing.

“Had in mind t’ send him after some fresh oranges from the square—just come in from Sicily. Time he gets here, oranges’ll be rottin’ in the noon sun.” Even from here Josiah could hear the calls of the vendors on Main Street Square, where the daily market was in full swing.

“Go get ’em yourself. Do y’ good t’ take a walk and get out of here for a few minutes.”

Josiah, his back still to the cooperage, puffed his pipe and watched ladies pass with baskets over their arms. “Knees’re a little stiff today—can’t imagine why m’ rheumatism’s actin’ up on a clear day like this.” He scanned the flawless blue skies. “Must be foul weather blowin’ in.”

Behind him, Rye measured the shaped length of wood with a stave gauge. Ignoring the old man’s hint, he studied it critically, found it to his liking, and took up a finished stave to compare the two. Finding them perfectly matched, he tossed them onto a completed stack and chose another rough-hewn piece to begin edging.

In the doorway, Josiah slipped his fingers between waistband and shirt back, rocked back on his heels, and complained to the azure sky, “Ayup! Sure could go for a fresh orange about now.” A loud clatter sounded behind him as Rye flung the board down. Josiah smiled to himself.

“All right, if y’ want me t’ run to the damn market for your oranges, why don’t y’ just say so?”

Now Josiah turned his squint-eye back to his son. “Gittin’ a little twitchy lately, ain’t cha?”

Rye ignored him as he clumped across the cooperage and brushed around the older man with irritation in every step.

“Looks t’ me like it’s you needs gettin’ outa here for a while, not me.”

“I’m going! I’m going!” Rye barked.

When he stomped off up the street, Josiah smiled again, puffed his pipe, and muttered, “Ayup, y’ sure are, boy—to-hell-in-a-rowboat crazy, and drivin’ me right with y’.”

Rye Dalton made an impressive sight storming along the cobbled street in close-fitting tan breeches and a drop-shouldered shirt of white cotton with wide sleeves gathered full at the wrist. The open collar left a deep vee of exposed skin behind the buttonless garment, and coarse gold hairs sparkled there against his dark flesh. Around his neck a red bandana was tied sailor fashion, the habit adopted from his shipmates and continued now, for the bandana was convenient for swabbing his temples when he sweated in the cooperage.

It was a warm morning, filled with the sounds of exuberant gulls and the grinding of wheels along the streets as Rye jumped around the tail of a passing wagon and leaped to the new, cobbled sidewalk. The wind ruffled his sunstreaked hair, whipped his full sleeves as he strode, long-legged and angry, toward Market Square.

Farmers were selling fresh flowers and butter from bigwheeled wooden carts. Fishermen peddled fresh cod, herring, and oysters while butchers kept fresh meat covered with heavy wet cloths in the backs of drays. At one end of the square, an auctioneer called out his gibberish as furniture and household items went up for sale.

Rye scanned the vendors until he spotted the bright splashes of citrus fruits—limes, lemons, and oranges piled in pyramids on the wagons, creating a tempting array of colors. The scent was heavenly, the fruit always coveted, for it was available only seasonally.

Rye took a long-legged step off the curb and took up a shiny-skinned orange, his mouth watering as he grudgingly admitted the old man was right—the fruit was tempting, and it was good to get out into the fresh air and activity of the market. There was a steady mingling of voices, the sharp staccato of the auctioneer, the indolent calls of wagon owners, and the musical hum of shoppers exchanging pleasantries, while over it all the gulls interjected their demands for scraps of fish, crumbs of bread, or anything else they might scavenge.

Rye squeezed the orange, selected another, and put it to his nose to sniff its pungent fruitiness, telling himself he’d be mellower to the old man; it wasn’t Josiah’s fault that Rye was in this damnable predicament. The old man had been more than patient with him during the past couple of weeks when Rye’s temper flared or he became brooding and silent. He smiled now, in resolution, making his selections from the pyramid of fruit. He had chosen three flawless oranges when a voice at his elbow purred, “Why, Mr. Dalton, you out doing the daily marketing?”

“Miss Hussey ... good morning,” he greeted, turning at the sound of her voice. She peered up at him from beneath the crescent of a lavender bonnet brim, a becoming smile on her face.

“Aye, the old man had a cravin’ and thinks I’m still an apprentice in kneepants.” He laughed indulgently.

She laughed, too, and turned to the selection of oranges for herself. “My mother sent me out for the same reason.”

“I have t’ admit they’re temptin’. I can’t wait t’ peel one m’self.” He grinned mischievously and angled her a glance. “’Course, don’t tell the old man that or he’ll have me runnin’ down here every mornin’ like a housemaid.”

“If you had a wife, Mr. Dalton, you wouldn’t have to worry about running to the market for oranges.”

“I have a wife, Miss Hussey, but it doesn’t seem t’ do me much good.”

It was out before he could stop it, but immediately he was sorry, for he’d brought a most unbecoming blush to DeLaine Hussey’s cheeks, and he could see she was at a loss for something to say. She quickly became intense about her selection of oranges and refused to meet his eyes. He touched her hand briefly. “I apologize, Miss Hussey. Five years at sea, and I forget m’ manners. I’ve made y’ uncomfortable. That was a most indulgent thing for me t’ say.”

“It’s true nevertheless. The whole town’s wondering what she means to do about it, though, living up there in your house with your best friend ...” But she stammered to a halt, her eyes widening in surprise as she stared at the woman and boy who’d quietly appeared on the other side of the wagon.

Rye noticed Laura a second too late, but immediately withdrew his hand from DeLaine Hussey’s. Next to her overblown dressiness, Laura was a vision of feminine simplicity, standing in the sun with the brim of a becoming yellow bonnet angling over her face, a large satin bow caught just below one ear. Her dress was narrow-waisted, but she wore no billowing hoops today, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she was pinched up in stays—she was thin enough that he could not tell by looking.

She held the hand of the boy tightly, and while Rye stared at Laura, he forgot everything but the welcome sight of her. Suddenly seeming to remember the presence of the other woman, he stepped back as if to acknowledge her, but before he could, Laura smiled and said, “Hello, Miss Hussey. It’s nice to see you again.”

In a pig’s eyes, Laura thought all the while she beamed at the woman. She was very conscious that Rye’s hand had been on DeLaine’s.

“Hello,” DeLaine replied shortly, a sour expression on her face.

“Hello, Rye,” Laura said then, turning her bonnet brim up to him, hoping DeLaine Hussey could not tell the way her heart suddenly flew to her throat at the sight of him, tall and handsome and looking good enough to eat right along with those three oranges he held in his wide-spread palm. The sun tinted his blue eyes bluer and glanced off the narrow slit of exposed chest, turning it to rich gold behind the white shirt.

“Hello, Laura,” he managed, oranges and DeLaine Hussey completely forgotten as he took in the face that had haunted him night and day.

Laura’s expression instantly gave away her feelings, for her pink lips suddenly lost their smile and fell open slightly. Her eyes, refusing to obey her edict of caution, stared widely into his before fluttering to his bronze chest, then back up. And she’d squeezed Josh’s hand so hard, he now squirmed and howled, then yanked free.

Reminded of the boy’s presence, Rye smiled down at him. “Hello, Josh.”

“You’re the man with the funny name.”

“Aye, and do y’ remember it?”

“It’s Rye.”

“Aye, it is. So next time I’ll expect a proper hello when I meet y’.”

But again he turned his eyes to Laura, and she could not resist asking sweetly, “Are the two of you shopping for oranges?”

Rye colored deeply, the flush barely discernible on his face, which was already tanned to the shade of an old copper penny, darker than Laura ever remembered seeing it before the voyage of the 
Omega.

“Ah, no ... well, I mean, yes, I was out buyin’ oranges for Josiah.”

“And I was out buying oranges for my mother,” Miss Hussey put in, a pinched expression about her mouth.

“And we was out buyin’ oranges for Papa,” Josh piped innocently.

At the word, Rye’s mouth sobered, and he studied Laura’s face.

DeLaine Hussey noted the exchange of glances, but remained stubbornly at Rye’s side.

“Well, how about if we all have one now—my treat,” Rye offered, unable to think of any other way to ease the tension.

“Mmm ... I 
like
 oranges!” Josh exclaimed, bright-eyed and eager.

“Then which one will it be?”

It was plain to Laura that Rye was suddenly as eager as Josh. He looked at the chubby hands that touched every orange as if it mattered a great deal which was chosen. And this first innocent encounter beneath the bright June sun in the bustling market square suddenly seemed representative of all the experiences of fatherhood Rye had missed. Laura hadn’t the heart to deny him such a small joy. His eyes shone with delight when Josh finally picked an orange and plopped it into Rye’s big hand with a “There!” as if he’d solved a great and important riddle.

Rye laughed, jubilant and handsome and capturing Laura’s heart as she watched his dark, lean fingers tear into the orange skin for his son.

DeLaine Hussey, feeling a complete outsider in this little scene 
en famille,
 decided it was time to withdraw and aimed a flashing good-bye to Rye, and to Laura a nod so brisk it was undeniably rude.

No sooner was she out of earshot than Rye caught Laura’s eye. “I’ve been wondering when I’d see you again,” he said, extremely aware of the understatement, and quelling the urge to touch her.

“I come to the market every morning,” she said.

“Every mornin’?” he repeated, cursing himself for wasting all these opportunities.

“Hey, hurry up, Rye!” Josh demanded, seeing that the peeling process had suddenly slowed while Rye and Laura indulged themselves with the sight of each other’s faces.

“Aye-aye!” Rye snapped nautically, tearing his attention away from Laura long enough to finish the job. He handed half an orange to Josh, then began sectioning the rest, his eyes again on her.

She watched each dexterous movement of his fingers, the square nails separating the delicate filaments so expertly that not a drop of juice escaped. Hands, hands, she thought, there is no forgetting hands.

Just then one of his came toward her, offering a bright crescent of fruit. Her eyes flew to his. It was nothing, she thought, just a piece of an orange, so why was there a little drum tattooing the message through her veins that she was answering some unspoken innuendo as she reached breathlessly for Rye’s offering?

Without taking his eyes from hers, he lifted a section of orange to his lips. They opened in slow motion to receive the ripe, plump fruit, and as he bit down, a succulent spurt of orange juice flew into the warm, summer air.

As if mesmerized, she answered by lifting her own delicacy, tasting old memories as she bit into its sweetness, her every sense heightened by awareness of the man before her.

In his turn he ate a second piece, and this time a sweet rivulet of juice drizzled down his chin, and her eyes followed it, unable to do otherwise.

Suddenly he laughed and broke the spell, Laura following suit, while he untied the red bandana from about his throat and wiped his chin, then offered it to her.

It smelled of salt and cedar and of him as she brushed her lips with it. He peeled another orange for Josh, whose eyes were too busy to note the looks being exchanged between his mother and the tall cooper.