Twice Loved (copy2) (21 page)

“But I was married to Rye for less than one year and to Dan for four. I 
owe
 Dan something!”

“And yourself—what do you owe yourself? The truth, at least? That if the false rumor of Rye Dalton’s death had never reached Nantucket, you would no more have married Dan Morgan than you would’ve at the age of nineteen, when you chose Rye over him.”

“But what about Josh?”

“What about him?”

“He loves Dan so much.”

“He’s young, resilient. He’d bounce back if he learned the truth.”

“Oh, Jane, if only I could be as ... as sure as you.”

“You’re sure. You’re just scared, that’s all.”

“I’m legally married to Dan. It would require a divorce.”

“An ugly word. Enough to scare anyone raised in these Puritan parts, and enough to make the most benevolent of do-gooders scorn you on the street. Is that what you’re thinking?”

Laura shook her head tiredly and leaned her forehead on the heel of a hand. “I don’t know what to think anymore. I had no idea everybody on the island has been watching Rye and me so closely.”

Jane pondered for a long, silent moment, then squared herself in her chair, drummed on the tabletop with a palm in much the manner of a judge lowering a gavel, and mused, “They say Rye has become a familiar sight wandering the moors. If you were to run into him out there, who’s to say it was no accident? And who’d be there to watch?”

“Why, Jane—”

But before Laura could say more the door opened and John Durning swept in, robust and big-voiced, booming a hello to his children and plopping a forthright kiss on his wife even before he slipped out of his yellow oilskins. With a smile and cheery hello for Laura, he stood behind Jane’s chair and put his wide hands on the sides of her neck, kneading it with his thumbs while teasing, “And what’s waiting at home to warm a man’s body in weather like this?”

Jane craned around to grin up at him. “There’s tea, among other things.”

The affection between the two of them was so obvious, and the way they enjoyed each other and teased made Laura remember how it used to be with Rye when he’d come sweeping into the house. It had been like this—the smile, the bold caress, the words with second meanings. The simple events of every day had been enhanced to something sublime simply because they were shared.

If you were to run into him out there someplace, who’s to say it was no accident?

And though it was undeniably tempting, Laura astutely avoided the moors after that day.

***

The sight of the listless, wandering Rye Dalton and his dog had indeed become familiar to the islanders. The pair could be seen at day’s beginning and day’s end, trekking along the myriad paths of the inner island or along any of its white, sandy shores, the man in the lead, the dog tramping faithfully at his heels.

In the dew-spattered dawns, their silhouettes were often etched against the colorful eastern sky as they sat atop Folger Hill or Altar Rock, the highest points of the island, with the panoramic view of the white-rimmed spit of land and the restless Atlantic beyond. Or if the dawn was murky, it was not uncommon for the old fishermen who lived in the tiny weatherbeaten cottages along ’Sconset’s shores to see the pair emerge from the shrouds of mist at the ocean’s edge, ambling listlessly, heads down, the man’s hands buried deep in his trouser front, the dog giving the impression that were it possible, she’d have imitated her master’s posture.

At other times the inseparable pair ran along the hard-packed shingle, Rye’s heels digging deep into the flat-washed sand, his footprints disappearing as waves lapped behind him while Ship, with her tongue trailing from the side of her mouth, galloped just within the surf, keeping up with the man who seemed to run with a vengeance, his breath beating ragged while he pushed his body to its physical limits. Exhausted, they’d fall, panting, onto the sand flats, Rye lying supine, studying the deep sky, the dog searching the undulating horizons as if for sails.

Evenings, they could sometimes be seen standing on the high bluffs overlooking deserted Codfish Park, where in spring and fall, when the cod ran, fishermen hauled up their dories and lay their catch out to dry on the wooden “flakes” below.

Mornings, just after high tide had strewn the Atlantic’s offerings on the island’s southern shores, Rye and Ship often encountered kelp seekers, rummaging through the tide wrack for oarweed and tangle, though Rye would scarcely be aware that others occupied the same stretch of beach he haunted.

Other times, he and Ship picked their way around the boulders on Saul’s Hill, scattering flocks of blackbirds which in days of old had been such a nuisance that each male islander was issued a quota he must kill before he was allowed to marry. “Ah, Ship,” the man sighed, reaching blindly for the dog’s head. “If only I could simply kill five hundred blackbirds and be free t’ marry her.”

A day came when not a breath of wind stirred, while the two stared at a nearly calm sea. Ship’s ears suddenly perked up, and the hair along her spine bristled. She turned, alert, on guard, checking behind her for the source of the sudden, violent hissing sound that came out of nowhere. But there was naught to be seen, only an eerie sibilance as of something letting off a giant eruption of steam. The rare, unexplained sound emitted by the ocean was called a rut by the old-timers. Yet none knew its origin, only that it was sure to be followed by shrewish winds that would work their way east and bring rain.

And true to its prediction, before the day was out, the sky had lowered to a menacing greenish-gray. It found Rye and Ship watching the wild, broken waters of Miacomet Rip, where hidden currents tugged and sucked at the island’s feet while the winds tore at the man’s hair and whipped it about his head like spindrift.

There followed three days of punishing rain that lashed the island from the south and kept Rye and Ship indoors. On the fourth morning, though, the rain had disappeared, leaving in its wake a fogbank so dense it obscured even the scalloped curves of Coatue Peninsula’s shores.

The three days’ forced confinement had left Rye jumpy and irritable. Therefore, when in late morning of the fourth day the sun broke through and blue sky spread slowly from west to east, Josiah suggested Rye go up to Mill Hill and negotiate the exchange of barrels for flour that was periodically made between the cooper and the miller, Asa Pond.

Shortly after noon, Rye set out on the errand with Ship in tow, grateful to be free of the cooperage once again. The island looked crisp and fresh-washed after the rain. The cobblestones along Main Street shone brightly in the high sun, and along the narrower lanes gay splashes of red and coral geraniums spilled from windowboxes. Rye thought of the geraniums beside Laura’s door and wondered if they bloomed, too, but with an effort he put her from his mind.

With Ship at his heels he walked past Sunset Hill, where the home of Jethro Coffin, one of the island’s first settlers, had been standing for almost 150 years now. He passed along Nantucket Cliffs, beyond which the pale green waters marked the bar and the darker blue told of deeper waters in the sound beyond. Above, a pair of white mackerel gulls pursued a single black one, the ragged shred of their voices tossed aloft in the August afternoon.

He moved on toward the four “post” windmills of Dutch design that rode the breasts of four hills to the south and west of town. Asa Pond’s mill had been built in 1746 of timbers taken from shipwrecks, but as it came into view over the hill, it appeared ageless, its four lattice-veined arms backed by new linen sails, now facing southwest, from which a gentle breeze blew. Like its sister mills, it was at once graceful and ungainly; graceful for its gently turning arms whose sails, like those of a windjammer, could be reefed in high winds; ungainly for its long tail pole extending from the rear, tike the rump of an awkward beast squatting on the ground. This thick wooden spar projected from the structure and rested on a wheel by which the entire building could be turned to face windward. The wheel had worn a deep circular rut into the earth, and Rye now leaped over it, crossed the circle of grass, and climbed the ladder to the grinding floor high overhead.

Inside, the mill was adrift in bran- and corn-dust, ever present in the air as grain was poured down the hopper to the grinding wheel and meal was sifted by apprentices into varying grades of fineness. The elevated floorboards vibrated constantly from the thumping of wooden gears as giant pins meshed with oak pinions on the windlass drive. To Rye’s nose the grain scent was pleasant, but he peered across the dust motes to find Asa with a handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth while he worked. The miller raised a hand in greeting and pointed to the doorway; the noise of the grating millstones and the thud of gears precluded speech. Following Rye back outside, Asa pulled the hanky from his face while they stood at the base of the building, conducting their business in the pleasant summer sun while the vanes creaked a quiet accompaniment.

***

Josh, too, had been restless and bored during the three days of inclement weather. As soon as the sky began clearing, he begged Laura to take him out bayberrying, one of his favorite things to do. When she patiently explained that the bayberries weren’t quite ripe yet, Josh pleaded for another walk to Aunt Jane’s. When that suggestion failed, he thought of his other favorite diversion, a trip to the mill, where he was sometimes allowed to ride aboard the spar while the oxen turned the building into the wind. But to this Laura answered almost gruffly, “No, I don’t have time. The garden needs weeding, and right after the rain is the best time.”

“But, Mama, Mr. Pond might—”

“Joshua!” She rarely called him Joshua.

Josh’s mouth turned down and he hung around the garden while she worked, obviously bored, asking questions about June bugs and cabbage moths and baby cucumbers. He squatted between the rows, pointing an inquisitive finger at each weed that Laura touched, asking, “What’s that one?” and “How can you tell it ain’t a bedjtable?”

“I can just tell, that’s all. I’ve been doing it a long time.”

He watched her pull up a few more. “I could do that.”

She scarcely looked up. “Why don’t you just go play, Josh?”

“Papa would let me.”

“Well, I’m not Papa, and I have a lot to do!” Laura went on weeding while Josh hung there beside her, his cheek now resting on a knee as he hummed tunelessly, poking in the dirt with one finger.

Laura moved farther down the row, and Josh continued to study her. A few moments later he came to squat beside her and proudly presented an uprooted plant. “Here, Mama, I can help ... see?”

“Ohhh, Josh,” she moaned, “you’ve pulled up a baby turnip.

“Oh.” He stared at it disconsolately, then flashed a bright smile. “I’ll put it back in!”

Impatiently, she retorted, “No, it won’t work, Josh! Once it’s pulled out, it’ll wilt and die.”

“It will?” Josh asked, mystified, and disappointed because he’d only intended to help.

“Yes, it will,” she answered disgustedly before returning to her weeding.

Josh stood beside her a moment longer, studying the turnip green, which was already growing limp. “What’s die?” he asked innocently.

Unbidden came the thought: die is what we thought your father did and why I married somebody else. Upset with herself, impatient with him, she snapped, “Josh, just throw it away and go find something else to do! I’ll never get done here if you keep pestering me with your everlasting questions!”

Josh’s little mouth trembled and he pulled at his cheek with a dirty finger. Immediately, Laura hated herself for being so short with him when he’d only meant to help. This had happened more and more lately, and each time it did, she vowed not to let it happen again. She wanted to be like Jane, whose patience with her mob of children was close to saintly. But Jane was incredibly happy, and happiness made a difference! When you were happy you could handle things more easily. But Laura’s growing tension sought a vent at some very unexpected times, and unfortunately her son often got the brunt of it. To make matters worse now, Laura realized Josh was right—Dan would have patiently shown him how to tell the weeds from the vegetables, regardless of how much efficiency he forfeited.

Josh was trying valiantly not to cry, but tears winked on his golden lashes as he studied the sad little turnip plant, wondering why his mama was so upset.

Laura sighed and sank back on her heels. “Josh darling, come here.”

He dug his chin deeper into his chest as a tear went rolling, followed by another.

“Josh, Mama is sorry. You were just trying to help, weren’t you, darling?”

He nodded his head forlornly, still looking at the earth.

“Come here before Mama cries, too, Josh.” He lifted his teary eyes to her, dropped the turnip, and rushed into Laura’s arms, hugging her fiercely, his sunny head buried in her neck. She knelt in the garden row holding Rye’s son tightly against her apron front, just short of crying herself.

I am changing, she thought, in spite of my fight to preserve equanimity in my marriage. I’m becoming short-tempered with Josh and unhappy with Dan, and I’m not treating either one of them fairly. Oh, Josh, Josh, I’m sorry. If only you were old enough to understand how much I love your father but that I honestly love Dan, too. She closed her eyes, her cheek against her son’s hair, his cheek pressed against her breast, where the busk was hidden even now. She rocked him gently, swallowing tears as she pushed him back to look down into his lovable face.

“You know, I really don’t feel like weeding the garden at all. Suppose we take that walk up to the mill. I do need to order some flour from Asa.”

“Really, Mama?” Josh brightened, tears forgotten just that quickly.

“Really.” She tweaked his nose. “But you’ll have to wash your hands and face first and comb your hair.”

But he was already four rows away, jumping turnips, beans, peas, and carrots on his way to soap and water. “I bet I can beat you!” he hollered as he ran.

“I bet you can’t!” And Laura, too, was up, skirts lifted, racing him through the backyard.