Twice Loved (copy2) (42 page)

The storm had not abated by midmorning, when Rye was preparing to leave the house. Laura watched him as he stood near the door buttoning his jacket, pulling the knit cap low over his ears, and donning mittens. Ship stood at his knee, looking up and wagging her tail.

Rye turned to Laura. “We’ll be back soon. Is there anythin’ y’need?”

For just a moment the spoon stopped moving in the bayberries and their eyes met.

Is there anything I need?

Her eyes lingered on his, but she was conscious of Josh studying them both and she only smiled and shook her head, continuing to stir.

In a flash of memory, Rye was swept back to the beginning of spring and a day when he’d stepped to this door and found her standing just where she was now, with a spoon in her hand like that. It would take discipline he was not sure he possessed to leave Nantucket for good.

He turned and pulled the door open, and a flat wall of snow collapsed and fell into the keeping room, for it was piled up hip-deep around the building. A delighted Josh came running to eat a handful as Rye stepped back and looked at the floor. “The snow’s made a mess—”

“I’ll see to it.” Already Laura was crossing the room with a broom. When she reached Rye’s side, she looked into his eyes and murmured, “Keep warm.”

“Aye.”

Then Ship made a dive into the world of white, and Rye followed, securing the door behind him.

The windows were running with steam that collected in corners and formed triangles of ice. Laura cleared a small spot on a pane, to watch Rye and Ship trudge through the drifts of snow, Rye taking giant steps and Ship resembling a dolphin leaping and surfacing on the ocean. She breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving for having Rye here when she needed him, then turned back to sweep up the snow.

***

Josh took up sentry duty at the window, eager to have Ship back again. An hour later, he called, “Mama, there’s 
two
 
people coming!”

“Two people?”

“I think it’s Gramma!”

Laura crossed to stand behind Josh’s chair and peer outside. It was Hilda Morgan who braved the elements with Rye and the dog. Laura opened the door and welcomed the distraught woman with a brief touch of cheeks. Snow and wind swirled inside, sending the fire dancing and ash lifting to the hearth in a backdraft.

“How is he?” Rye and Hilda inquired together as soon as the door was closed.

“There’s not much change.”

They stamped the curds of snow from their feet, and Hilda surveyed the makeshift tent around Dan. “It looks like you two have been busy,” she noted while handing her coat to Laura, then she moved toward the alcove bed.

Hilda stayed until dusk. She proved to be a great help to Laura, taking turns with the bayberries, loading the forms with wicks, and helping with the pouring. She was an astute woman who immediately sized up the situation and read it correctly. Though Laura and Rye would have spared her the truth about how Dan had come to such a pass, Hilda was the antithesis of Dahlia Traherne, meeting life head-on instead of nursing self-delusions. She had deduced that Dan’s drinking was responsible for his state, even before Josh informed her of all that had taken place here last night. She noted, too, the careful way Rye and Laura avoided looking at each other or crossing paths as they moved about the house.

But as the three of them paused in the late afternoon to share hot apple cider together before Hilda went back home, the woman surprised both Rye and Laura by forthrightly admitting, “My son is a fool. No one realizes that better than I. He knows perfectly well the two of you belong together, yet he refuses to admit it. I told him the day you came back, Rye, that if he kept Laura, it’d be against her wishes. I warned him—‘Dan,’ I said, ‘you got to face reality. That boy is his, and that woman is his, and the sooner you come to terms with that, the better off you’ll be.’ ”

She examined the surprised faces before her and went on crisply. “I’m not so blind I can’t see what took place here. And I’m not too ignorant to figure out that you could just as easily have let him lose his fingers or wheeze himself to death. I only hope and pray that when he wakes up, he’ll realize how much love it took—from the 
both
 of you—to do what you done for him.” She reached across the table and covered one of each of their hands with her own, gave a firm squeeze, and added, “I thank you both from the bottom of my heart.” Then, pretending to ignore their self-consciousness, she took a last gulp from her mug and pushed herself to her feet. “Now, I’d best get these old bones home through the snow before nightfall.” Her tone changed to mock sternness. “Well, Rye Dalton, you gonna sit there all day, or you gonna see me safely to my door?”

To Rye’s further amazement, Hilda said but one thing after that. They’d trudged through the snow with heads low against the gale-force winds, and when they reached Hilda’s house, he hunched his shoulders, waiting for her to go inside so he could turn back toward home.

Hilda swung to face him. The wind licked her scarf and painted her nose bright red as she shouted above the storm, “That Hussey woman ain’t for you, Rye, just in case you was thinkin’ she is.” And with that, she opened the door and disappeared. Rye stared at the panel, dumbfounded. Was there anyone on this island who thought Laura belonged with Dan?

Rye made a sudden decision to stop at the cooperage again and let Josiah know how things were going. But as long as he was there, he took the opportunity to wash, shave, change his clothes, and comb his hair. Only then did he realize his loyal dog had remained with his son.

***

When he opened the door of the saltbox on the hill, the first thing he noticed was that Laura, too, had taken a few moments out for grooming. Her hair was wound into a neat nutmeg swirl at the back of her head, and she’d changed into a clean, simple dress of gray broadcloth, over which a white floor-length apron was tied. Rye hung up his jacket on the coat tree and stomped the snow from his trousers, and as he passed the table, noted it was set for three. Josh and Ship were preoccupied in a tug-of-war with a rag, and Laura was turning muffins out of a cast-iron form. For a moment Rye indulged in fantasizing that all was as it appeared—a man returning to his own abode, to a son, a dog, a wife who moved about their kitchen putting supper on their table. How ironic, Rye thought. It 
is
 what it appears, even though it isn’t.

A restless movement from the alcove bed reminded Rye that Dan was there. “How is he?”

“His coughing is worse, but it’s looser.”

“Good ... good.” Rye stepped near the fire, extended his palms, and rubbed them together. Laura moved about, doing small domestic preparations at his elbow. Hilda’s comments lingered fresh in their minds, and it suddenly seemed neither of them could look at one another.

“Wind might’ve gone down a little,” Rye ventured.

“Oh, that’s good news!” She looked up brightly, then instantly turned away when she found his eyes on her.

Rye studied the fire. She had stopped boiling bayberries to make room on the hearth for supper. He looked back over his shoulder at the three places set at the table and counted the months, the years, he’d been waiting for this night.

“Josh, supper is ready. Come to the table,” she called.

Rye turned from the hearth and stood uncertainly, watching Laura place the last of the serving bowls on the table, then settle Josh in his place.

Laura looked up to find Rye watching. In the subdued light of the candle and the fire glow, his pale blue irises looked like lustrous sapphires. “Sit down, Rye,” she urged softly.

His heart did a stutter-step, and suddenly he felt boyish, perhaps a little uncertain, like the first time after their marriage when she’d prepared a meal for him and called him to the table.

When they all were seated, she passed Rye a familiar tureen; it had been his grandmother’s. He lifted the cover and found one of his favorites: thick nuggets of venison covered with rich brown gravy.

There was, Josh noted, something different about the way Rye and his mother looked at each other and the way Papa and Mama looked at each other. Though Josh understood Rye was his real papa, he still relegated the title to Dan only. But watching the exchange of glances between the two who sat at the table with him, he puzzled over his mother’s pink cheeks and the cooper’s satisfaction at each bite he took.

The meal was strained. What little there was of conversation was stilted and came to sudden stops until finally they forsook talk altogether. When supper was finished, Rye checked Dan, changed the dressing on his burn, and noted how Dan was now expectorating green phlegm—a good sign. He spread a square of flannel on his pillow, turned Dan onto his side, and propped several pillows behind his back.

“Why you doin’ that?” Josh asked.

“So he won’t choke,” Rye answered, and Josh wondered how a man could know so much, then added this newest detail to his growing list of observations of how carefully Rye and

Mama took care of Papa. There were many things Josh noted about the tall cooper that puzzled him. There were many that intrigued him. Sometimes it took a great effort to keep from talking to him, but Josh still felt that to do so would be to divide his loyalty, and in his childish mind, this seemed wrong somehow.

Thus, the supper conversation had been thwarted by Josh’s refusal to take part whenever Rye tried to include him. Also, there was a childish guilt at work within the boy for what he had said and done the day he’d run away to the cooperage.

Now, in the dim keeping room, Ship had finished her supper and Josh could not encourage the contented dog to play, so he watched guardedly as Rye crossed to the coat tree and extracted a piece of wood and a knife from the pocket of his jacket. Without a word, Rye placed a chair near the fireplace, sat down, stretched his legs out, and rested his heels on the hearth. He whistled softly between his teeth while the short knife bit into the wood and scraped off a loose curl that fell to his lap. But though Josh’s interest was piqued, he remained guarded.

Another kettle of bayberries was hung on the crane, and Laura and Rye took turns tending them. In between times, Rye sat contentedly, whittling.

Josh was put to bed in the linter room, and as he kissed his mother, he inquired, “Is Rye staying here tonight?”

“Yes. We have to take turns watching Papa.”

“Oh.” Josh looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked, “What’s he makin’?”

Laura brushed the silky bangs back from his forehead and smiled. “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”

Josh seemed to think it over briefly, then posed a surprising question. “How come you look at him funny all the time?” Startled, Laura replied with the first words that came to her mind. “I didn’t know I did!”

When Laura returned to the keeping room, Rye had set aside his whittling and was stooping over Dan, checking him again. He straightened, unaware that Laura stood behind him, observing how he braced his back with one hand, his nape with the other, arching backward with a deep sigh.

“Rye, you haven’t really slept for forty-eight hours.”

He snapped erect and turned. “I’m doin’ fine. And I slept some last night.”

“In that chair beside the bed?”

“There’re berries left t’ boil yet, and we’d best keep steamin’ him at least till mornin’.”

“You need some rest.”

“Aye, then ... in a while.” Dan coughed. Rye turned to wipe his lips, then closed the hinged door so the steam could build up again.

Laura moved to the fireplace, doggedly taking up the spoon to stir the berries. She sensed Rye moving up quietly behind her. “You know—” She laughed tiredly. “I used to love this job, making bayberry candles. But I don’t think I’ll ever make another one as long as I live, once these are done.”

She felt Rye’s hands surround the tired muscles that sloped from her neck to her shoulders, and Laura’s eyes sank shut, the spoon drifting to a stop. She sighed wearily, tipping her head back until it touched his hard chest.

“Laura,” he murmured, gently turning her around.

“Oh, Rye ...” She met his eyes for a moment, then closed her own and let herself rest against the hard bulk of his torso while his cheek pressed against her hair and their arms circled each other very loosely. The embrace was one of exhaustion rather than desire, a drawing of strength, an affirmation of support, and perhaps a consolation.

For a long time neither spoke. Laura rested her palms against the back of his sweater and felt its coarse knit texture beneath her cheek. Again she smelled the lingering essence of cedar trapped in the wool and, through it, felt the warmth of his body.

Rye breathed the scent of bayberry and turned his lips lightly against the silken skeins of her hair while his palm closed loosely over her upper arm, then rubbed reassuringly.

“He’s goin’t’ live,” Rye murmured into her hair.

“Thank God,” she said with a sigh of relief. Suddenly, Rye’s knees trembled in sheer exhaustion. She felt it and backed away to observe his bloodshot eyes. “I’ve got a few good hours left in me yet. Please, Rye, will you rest? I’ll wake

you at midnight, I promise. Just go stretch out beside Josh.”

Rye’s brain could scarcely function, and he felt powerless to resist the temptation of closing his eyes and drifting into oblivion. And so he slept in his own bed for the first time in five years, though, again, not in the way of which he’d dreamed, not with Laura beside him. Rye slept instead with the gentle breath of his son falling peacefully against his wrist, which was flung out on the pillow between them.

He awakened in the deep of night, listening to the sounds of the storm losing strength and Josh’s rhythmic breathing, then the persistent hack of Dan’s coughing. Sitting up, Rye came alert, glanced back at Josh, then crept to the doorway on stockinged feet. It was well after three in the morning. The coals were glowing; a new batch of candles hung by their wicks on a lathe resting between two chairs. A candle burned on the table beside Laura, who was slumped across the trestle with one arm flung out, fast asleep.