Peach Pies and Alibis (39 page)

As they spoke, other fishermen drifted over and inserted themselves into the conversation.
Olivia bought clams, oysters, mussels, scallops, and a dozen different fish from many
of them. Before long, she called for shots of whiskey for the entire motley crew.
In between swallows, Olivia praised everyone she recognized for the quality of their
seafood while the men and their wives shared predictions about the summer harvest.
This naturally led to a discussion about the weather, and Olivia realized that to
a bar filled with fishermen, construction workers, farmers, and yardmen, each day’s
forecast had a direct effect on their livelihood.

“You’d best get ready for a hot, dry summer,” one of the women told Olivia.

Another woman, clad in a lace-trimmed tank top that was several sizes too small for
her generous chest, pointed a cherry-red acrylic nail at a man chalking the end of
his pool cue. “Boyd said his pigs have been lying in the mud for weeks.” She cocked
her head at Olivia. “Do you know about pigs?”

“Only that I like bacon.” Olivia smiled. “But I didn’t think it was unusual for them
to roll around in the mud. I thought that’s how they kept cool.”

“Sure is,” a second woman agreed. “But it ain’t normal
for them to do it all the time. See, when they carry somethin’ around in their mouths—a
stick or a bone or somethin’—then you know it’s gonna rain. When they just lie there
in the dirt for days on end, a dry season’s comin’.”

A man wearing a black NASCAR shirt elbowed his way into the group. “The ants are all
scattered too.” He looked at Olivia. “When they walk in a nice, neat line like little
soldiers, then we’re gonna have a storm. I got a big nest right outside my front door
and they haven’t lined up in ages. It’s no good.”

“Woodpeckers aren’t hammerin’ neither,” another man added, and someone else mentioned
how the robins had left his yard weeks ago and that he was certain they’d gone west
into the mountains. “The animals know things we don’t.”

Everyone nodded in agreement and then one of the women turned to Captain Fergusson.
“What’s the sea been tellin’ you?”

“She keeps her secrets close, but the moon says plenty.” He put his whiskey down.
Cupping his left hand, he raised it into the air, palm up. “We got a crescent moon
right now, and she’s lyin’ on her back like she’s waitin’ for her man to come to bed.
We won’t see a drop of rain until she gets up again. Mark my words.”

The women tut-tutted and murmured about summers gone by. Summers of unrelenting heat.
Long days of dry wind and parched ground. They talked of how the land had gone thirsty
even though the ocean was close enough to touch. The salt had clung to people’s skin,
making them sticky, short-tempered, and lethargic.

Olivia spotted a local farmer, Lou Huckabee, on the fringes of the group. He’d been
listening to the exchange closely. “I’ll still get you all your produce, Miss Olivia,”
he said above the music. “Don’t you fret.”

“I know you will, Lou. And every piece of fruit will taste like it was plucked from
the richest soil on earth, washed
and delivered straight to my kitchens. That’s why I won’t serve my customers anything
else. You have a feel for growing things like no one I’ve ever met.”

He dipped his head at the compliment, flushing from neck to forehead. “It’s a callin’,
to be sure.”

“To farmers,” Olivia said, and held up her glass.

“To farmers!” The men and women around her echoed.

Next, they toasted fishermen, fishermen’s wives, an array of different types of laborers,
Millay, Olivia’s mother, and on and on until Olivia was dangerously close to being
drunk. Despite the close air and the way the whiskey made her feel overheated, she
was too content to leave. And when Captain Fergusson began to tell a tale about a
pod of dolphins changing into mermaids, she became as instantly enraptured as the
rest of his inebriated audience.

While the old man spoke in a voice as weathered and worn as his face, Olivia thought
about the note Flynn had given her. She glanced around at the people in the bar, reflecting
on how each and every one of them had grown up listening to the stories of their parents
and grandparents. Their elders passed down folklore on the weather, animal husbandry,
treating ailments, courting, raising children, and more. And here they were now, sharing
those same stories. Old, well-loved, and oft-repeated stories.

They are as much a part of us as our DNA
, she thought. She knew that in the small, coastal town of Oyster Bay, the local legends
focused mainly on the sea. She’d heard them over and over since she was little, but
now she was suddenly curious to hear what tales Flynn’s storytellers would bring to
share with them.

A burst of laughter erupted as Captain Fergusson reached the end of his story. The
woman in the tank top took a long pull from her beer and said, “Them mermaids might
not be real, but my daddy saw the flaming ghost ship last September. Said it came
out of the fog like somethin’ sneakin’
through the gates of hell. He was supposed to bring his catch into Okracoke that night
so it’d be fresh for the mornin’ market, but he sailed home with it instead.”

No one laughed at her. Millay wiped off the bar and poured another round. “I’ve heard
about that ship before. Would you tell me the whole story?”

The woman nodded solemnly, but there was a gleam of excitement in her eyes. Olivia
saw it and smiled to herself. She’d seen the same spark in her mother’s eyes every
night at bedtime. Without fail, Olivia was sent to sleep with a spectrum of wonderful
images and words floating through her mind. And though her childhood was long gone,
a good story was no less magical to her now.

“A long time ago, a ship full of folks from England sailed to Okracoke,” the woman
began.

Olivia turned away from the storyteller so that she wouldn’t see her take out her
phone. She quickly sent a text to Flynn, telling him she’d be glad to help defray
the costs of the retreat, and then turned the phone off and put it back in her purse.

When the woman was done with her tale of murder, robbery, and revenge, the talk returned
to the weather, as it so often did at Fish Nets.

“It’s hard to prepare for a dry season,” Lou Huckabee told one of the fishermen. “I
can irrigate, but nothin’s the same as real rain.”

“That’s true enough,” the other man agreed. “Much easier to get ready for a storm.
You know they’re comin’ and you know that, by and by, they’ll pass on through.”

Olivia sighed. “Still, we’ve had enough storms to last us a lifetime. I hope the big
ones pass us over this year.”

Captain Fergusson covered her hand with his, and Olivia sensed that he knew she wasn’t
referring to hurricanes, but to the number of violent deaths that had occurred in
Oyster Bay over the past few years.

She squeezed his hand. “I could use a season of peace and quiet.”

“It’s all right, my girl,” he said as tenderly as possible. “Life ain’t always easy
and it ain’t always fair, but there’s beauty in every day. You just gotta know where
to look.”

Olivia considered this. She looked around the room and decided that he was right.
Tonight, the beauty had been in this rough place filled with rough people. It had
been in their lore and their legends and the way in which their stories bound them
all together, weaving a spell of binding that could never be broken.

On impulse, Olivia told the captain about the storyteller’s retreat. “They’ll bring
energy and tranquility and a little bit of magic to our town,” she said, smiling widely.

For a long moment, the old fisherman didn’t respond. Then he rubbed his bristly beard
and slurred into his cup, “Outsiders tend to bring us things that we don’t want. Sure,
stories can be like a fire on a cold night. But they can burn too. There ain’t nothin’
can cut deeper or sting with more poison than words can. You’d best keep that in mind,
Miss Olivia. Words have power, and all things of power are dangerous.”

And with that, he tossed back the last swallow of whiskey, slipped off his stool,
and stumbled out into the night.

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