Authors: M. Ruth Myers
"You're shivering." He touched the back of his fingers to her cheek. "You're chilled to the bone." He shrugged out of the thick jacket flapping open around him. "Take this."
"No, I couldn't—"
"I've no need of it. Reckon I'm more accustomed to wind than you."
Its warmth was too welcome to argue.
"Thank you, then."
He smiled.
"You're a damned good sailor, Miss Hinshaw. I will take this, though." From the jacket pocket he produced a pint of rum. "I think we ought to toast the journey back."
Kate felt sudden alarm. She'd never anticipated the man she'd hired would be anything but sober while their lives rested in his hands.
"One drink each," he said dryly, offering it to her. "I'm as eager to get back in one piece as you are."
She flushed, wondering if he found her reaction insulting. The thought of the rum's warmth inside her was tempting, and as the wind whipped her hair a sudden feeling of camaraderie with the others made her light hearted. Breaking the seal and unscrewing the cap she lifted the bottle.
"To the pirate crew of the
Folly
," she said with a grin.
The others cheered.
The rum washed down her throat like bitter honey. She passed the bottle to Joe Santayna as they left Saint John Harbor for the exuberant hug of the wild seas of Fundy.
***
It was beastly of Kate to have such an adventure. She'd never been daring; never done anything except stick her nose in a book and drag about in the sand looking at birds' nests. Aggie moved restlessly around the comfortable back parlor where Rosalie was doing needlework by the light of a lamp with a hobnail base.
"Do sit down," said her sister with less than her usual patience. "Heavens, Aggie. You're making me quite dizzy."
"It's been five days." Aggie flung herself irritably down on a chintz-covered chaise.
"I know." Rosalie's perfect forehead wrinkled with concern. "I'm so beside myself I can hardly bear it," she confided in a low voice. "And Mama — I'm sure I can't keep her from going in Kate's room another day. I don't know what we'll do if she's not back by morning."
"I suppose we could always claim she's had a miraculous recovery and gone out on the
Folly
." Aggie flipped through a magazine.
Rosalie looked dubious.
The charade they'd had to keep up these last few days was too much. Taking trays up. Gulping down tea and thin soup so it would appear Kate was eating. Aggie snapped another magazine page as her mother came into the room.
"Woody wants a story from his red book," Mama said wearily. She scooped it from the table, then hesitated, the book clasped to her waist. "Rosalie, I really think either I must look in on Kate or we must call Dr. Walters. It's not at all late."
Rosalie wore a serene expression. She separated strands of embroidery floss with untroubled grace.
"Now, Mama. You promised to trust my judgment until tomorrow.”
"Yes, but— "
"Her fever's almost gone, and I do believe the spots are vanishing." Rosalie took a careful stitch to anchor her thread and began to wind the needle around the strands to make French knots. "And you must admit, I'm the family's expert on spots." The corners of her lips curved.
It was something of a joke, the number of times and intensity with which she'd fallen prey to various types of measles, as well as the chicken pox which she'd shared with all of them when she was a child. It seemed miraculous her milky skin had escaped unblemished.
Mrs. Hinshaw gave a startled turn as the doorbell rang.
"It makes me uneasy when someone rings after dark. No, I'll get it," she said with a gesture.
"You don't suppose there's really any danger, do you? Our being here alone?" Rosalie murmured.
Aggie shrugged. From the hall she caught the sound of Theo's voice, and a moment later the soft tap of his cane. He was not bad looking, she thought as he entered, just hopelessly conventional. She wondered what the others would think if she told them she'd seen him at Sammy's Cellar, so polluted that his chauffeur, who took him everywhere now that he no longer could drive, had been forced to carry him out.
"Hullo, Theo," she said getting up from the chaise and blowing him a fingertip kiss.
"Thought I'd come check on the invalid," he said with a smile. He waved a nosegay of florist's flowers. "Make her sneeze if nothing else."
"Kate's really much better, and being quite docile for once," assured Rosalie. "It's Mama who's giving us fits, wanting to run in and get all spotty herself."
"Yes, do talk some sense into her, Theo," Aggie begged hooking her arm through his and leaning against him. She looked up from half-flirtatious eyes.
Theo gave an unsteady laugh, caught off guard by her nearness.
"Since when has anyone ever listened to me?"
"Don't be silly! You kept us from disaster a thousand times when we were about to do something impulsive." Her sudden smile was captivating. "Well, I suppose it was usually me you rescued. Sometimes Kate. Rosalie was always too well behaved even to think of getting in scrapes."
"And you and Kate got into them before you even finished thinking," he teased. "But I do think she's right, Aunt Ginny. The last thing this household needs is you taking ill."
"I suppose so," Mama sighed. "Though I should think I've caught every germ there is after raising four children. Stay for a bit. I'll be back as soon as I've read Woody his story."
"I'll read to Woody," Aggie said, surprising herself.
Hardly anyone had been calling. They all thought she was in mourning. She could call Peely, even though he'd been duller than she expected that night on the beach. ‘It’ had been duller than she'd expected too. Just a good deal of fumbling and sweaty skin, actually.
It would be different with someone like Felix Garvey.
Nine
The bluefish came to shore while Joe was on the rum trip.
"Three days' worth," Vic related with satisfaction, stretching his legs in front of the sofa, "and plenty of 'em."
"Like the buggers couldn't wait to jump in our nets," said Drake from the chair where he sat reading the sports section of the paper. "They was that many."
Joe experienced mild disappointment that he'd missed this phenomenon that occurred only once a summer.
"Bet young Mike had a heck of a time," he said.
They were in the living room, his uncles with suspenders loosened and the tops of their white union suits for shirts as they relaxed at the end of the day. From the kitchen came the sounds and smells of Aunt Irene starting supper and the raising of Arliss' voice: "Keep out of Nana's way now, or I'll send you upstairs."
"Boy damned near fell in the water excited when he heard it was bluefish," Vic chuckled. "Almost sixty dollars we made off the three days. Not good as last year, but not bad considering how low the prices have been around here."
"A good take," Joe agreed, feeling guilt at what his take over the same three days had been.
"Out!" Arliss fussed in the kitchen.
A moment later her four-year-old emerged with the two-year-old in tow. The toddler was wailing. They climbed the stairs. Flouncing in their wake came Rose and Cecilia, Vic and Irene's two youngest. Rose was fifteen and starting to feel self-important, and Cecilia was just enough younger to get her goat. They were quibbling over a hair ribbon.
"Sebastian wasn't worth spit," Vic said crossly. "Soppy over some girl."
The doorbell rang. On their way to the front stoop, Rose and Cecilia answered. Joe recognized the light voice before Rita Pacheco stepped in.
"Hi, Mr. Santayna. Hi, Joe." She hung back with a demureness Joe knew was pretended. "Is Mrs. Santayna at home? I stopped to borrow a recipe."
"Irene!" Vic yelled. "Company."
Rita Pacheco reminded Joe of fruit just waiting to be sampled. Breasts round as melons pressed against the fabric of her pale blue dress. Her lips were red and moist. She had a habit of sliding the lower one in and out to wet it, which she did now as her eyes connected with his. Joe grinned inwardly. Rita was a knockout, even in the sedate little dress that advertised she'd come from Mass.
His aunt emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on the muslin apron that tied around her neck.
"Hello, Rita. Your pa's not worse, is he?"
"No, mending good. I just stopped to see if I could get your recipe for that rhubarb pie. Thought it might cheer him up if I made one."
"Now there's a good daughter. Come on through."
The women disappeared into the kitchen, Rita's slender backside swaying. Joe watched appreciatively. There was a spark to Rita. She went to church regularly, kept house for her father and two older brothers, but she wasn't above having a drink or two down at Finnegan's. He'd seen her there and other places. She flirted, but she seemed to stay on the right side of respectability. She might be fun, Rita might.
"Her old man's foot's still too swelled for him to go out," Vic said. "Claims his boys made a mess of things with the bluefish. Didn't get hardly any. But you know what a bad-tempered old cuss he is."
Joe nodded and finished the bottle of beer at his side. He'd known the Pachecos all his life. While he was overseas, though, little Rita had grown up.
"I'd say the girl might be fishing some herself," Drake suggested flashing a grin that revealed a gold front tooth. "Came around with some other excuse while you were away. Seemed real disappointed you weren't here."
The two uncles chuckled. Joe took it with good humor.
"Don't think she needs to do any fishing. She's got men lined up."
The kitchen door opened and Rita reappeared calling back thanks to Irene.
"Nice to see you all," she said to the men. "You going to hear the band down at that new place Saturday, Joe? I hear they're pretty good."
The Irish aunties' training was prompting him to get to his feet for a lady. He stood and stretched slightly. If he went in to relieve himself after Rita left, his uncles wouldn't accuse him of fancy manners.