by James, Ella
“Someone should hold a pillow over his face.”
I laugh. “You must be joking.”
“Insufferable bastard.”
“That’s really too bad.”
“Without the bottle, he’d just as rather be gone.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. It mustn’t be easy on you.”
“Counting down the days until I’m back there. Try to tend my caseload, will you? No more disappearing. Gave me quite a fright.”
“I’m sorry.”
The line crackles. “We’ll talk later. This has been a long ordeal. I’d like some rest now.”
My heart pitter-patters. “I do have a question for you.”
“Yes?”
I feel the sharp blade of his temper even through the phone line. I inhale…then let the breath out. “I need the location of the safe’s key. You know—”
“The only one. Yes, I know. What for?”
“For him—for Carnegie. He’s got an injury, a shoulder that’s giving him pain.”
“Injured in the fall, then?”
“I’m not sure when.”
“Weren’t you there?”
“Well, yes. But—”
“Is it an old wound or a new one?”
I bristle, as I almost always do in the past year when we speak. “Likely old. Truth be told, I didn’t ask.”
“What do you need the safe for?”
“Well, for the controlled substances. For the pain. I’d hoped to give a bit of something.”
“Did he ask?”
“He wouldn’t ask. But I can see it pains him. I didn’t want to broach the subject without having the safe’s key.”
“Broach the subject? Is it a tough one then? I’m quite sure I’m missing something, but I don’t know where. Care to enlighten me?”
I shut my eyes. “Doctor…he’s got a bit of history, I believe. That’s how I know he’d never ask.”
“A history? And you want to give him more? Are you out of your gourd?”
My stomach clenches. I feel foolish, as I always do around Doctor. “I don’t like to see him hurting.”
“You’re too soft.”
“Perhaps. Is there something I could give to help him rest or help with pain that isn’t those things?”
“Nothing that you’d need a safe key for.”
“What if the pain becomes unbearable?”
“You won’t know then, will you? You just said he wouldn’t ask. And if he does ask, how can you trust him? That’s the trouble with you native Tristanians. Never having lived off the island, you’re ridiculously naive.”
My stomach twists as anger builds. “Don’t be unkind, sir. I’m simply advocating for a patient. You know we can’t gauge injuries like that here on the island. Something in the shoulder could be torn or broken.”
“In ordinary society, this is why one has what’s called a family doctor. Let him contact that person if he has a need, get a prescription. They can contact me. Until then, offer NSAIDs. And Finley?”
“Yes?”
“Be wary of him. Sort like that—he’s damaged goods. Quite likely to do near anything.”
My throat is tight as I whisper, “Okay.”
There’s no arguing with Doctor, but my eyes well as the line goes dead. I put the dress away and start on soup. I’m chopping onion when I slice my fingers. Blood pools all around the rings, so dark there in the shadows that it looks black.
I put the rings away, bandage my hand. I curl up in an armchair while the soup burbles. The house feels empty.
I can’t bring myself to call him.
I don’t sleep but remain curled there in the chair until the sun is up. When other voices echo down the lane, it feels safe enough to rise.
Twenty-Two
Finley
I open the door to find Dorothy standing on my small porch in a dreary fog. She’s grinning wickedly as she leans against the door frame.
“Tell me all of it, trollop. You know I need to slurp back every detail.”
“Slurp?” I lift my brows, and she lifts hers like a mirror.
I run my gaze up and down her, taking in her lovely yellow dress and red sweater, her vibrant lipstick. “What have you got on, then?”
She runs her hand down the fabric, which looks a bit like silk.
“You were there when I made it. Saturday night sewing…” She twirls her hand in the air as if miming someone with a duster, and I swallow back shocked laughter.
“You’re dressed for him!”
She makes a duck face. “I’m dressed for me, but he could benefit.”
My belly goes all topsy-turvy at her tone, but I make sure not to show it when I snort and say, “Saucy.”
I turn back toward the kitchen, and Dot follows, her ludicrous heels clicking against the pale green linoleum. She spots some wedding cookies in a tin and pops one into her mouth.
“Careful there, Madonna. You might ruin your lipstick.”
She holds up a tube of it, and I realize she got it from a small, brown purse. Dot never carries a purse.
“Ready for the ball then, are we?”
“Aunt Bea lent it to me.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Dot’s Aunt Bea is a mere six years older than her, three older than me. She married poor Oliver Green but sets her sights upon the tourists like she’s hoping she’ll be spirited away.
Dot makes a silly face—a pretty face.
“You’ve got white powder…” I wipe a cookie smudge off her chin, and she smiles. “What’s he like, though? Really, Finley. Humor me. I’ll help you carry everything.”
I pile her arms with casseroles and cakes and send her to the red Bronco she drove to fetch me. For the next few minutes, I focus on loading the automobile. I unlock the door between the doctor’s quarters and the clinic and fetch a bag of things I need for Declan.
I feel nearly ill with remorse for not returning to him last night. Absolutely wretched as I buckle myself into the passenger’s seat.
Dot turns the Bronco toward Gammy’s and smiles over at me. “Would it hurt so terribly to indulge me? You’ve never been one to go seeking out a sweetheart, but do think of the rest of us. Think of me! I’m not the scholarly sort, as you well know. I’ll never go away to university. I’ll have to settle for Mike Green, and isn’t that a bit creepy?”
“Terribly so, Dorothy. He’s still a child!”
“Homer Carnegie is so gorgeous. All I want to know is what he talks of. How he smells. Could you smell his body there, inside the cave?”
I cover my face because it’s unbearably hot, and Dot squeals with laughter. “Forgive me.”
“Always with the pin-ups…and the bath tub faucet.”
“Shut up, cow! That’s secret!” Her hand slaps my shoulder, and I curl myself up more tightly. “I’ve the least options of anyone, being born at the worst time.”
I can’t argue that. Everyone within five years of Dot is female—just a stroke of poor fortune.
Fog rolls over the windshield. Through the haze, the amber lights adorning each stoop still shine brightly in the misty semi-darkness. As autumn marches on, the days grow even rainier. I get a deep, quiet breath and move my hands off my face. Must behave like normal.
“I don’t know, Doro. He’s…like a man. He’s actually quite kind. He worked tirelessly to dig us out.” It’s not untrue. He was frantic to free us before the dawning of the werewolf hour, as I’ve come to think of it.
“After the first day, we assumed you likely were together, seeing neither of you surface.”
“What sort of talk was there?”
“Only a few talked.”
“The usuals, I suppose.”
“But most felt he’d protect you. Baseball players, they’re an honorable sort, after all. I think no one worried for your virtue.”
I nod, staring at the glove box in front of me.
“Tell me, though—was it simply glorious to be so near to him? I’d never tell a soul, but even so, who
wouldn’t understand if you admit it was?”
I shut my eyes so I can’t see the lovelorn look on her face. “It wasn’t glorious, Dot. We were trapped there.”
She sighs, and guilt moves through me. Guilt and a twisting sort of sensation, like my insides being tied into a knot.
“I’m glad you made it back in one piece,” Dot says finally. “If you’d seen us when the two of you were missing…” She smiles faintly. “I’m not sure what was worse: the desolation over losing you or the horror at losing a Carnegie.”
We both have a good cackle at that.
“Old Tom was going wild, raving about you ruining the island, were he to perish. Quite the fury he was in.”
“Miserable old clod.”
By the time Dot parks the Bronco at Gammy’s, we’re wiping laughter tears from our eyes. Dot hugs me, and I cling to her. I shut my eyes and tell myself nothing’s amiss. No matter what’s said to him, he’ll be discreet about what went on between us. It wasn’t purely lustful. It was comfort and…companionship. The sort of incident that occurs at times that are difficult and fear-filled.
I banish the topic from my mind because my belly feels as if it’s dropped into my thighs. I can’t breathe properly as Dot knocks on the door, bearing a covered pound cake in one hand and a basket of jams in the other. Her back is straight, her chin held high as misty wind tousles her updo. When he doesn’t answer, she knocks twice more.
Then I realize— “The Land Rover isn’t here.”
She whirls around. “Where is it?”
We turn toward the village as horror falls through me. I’ve this primal fear he sailed away while I was resting last night—or somehow passed.
Dot steps off the porch, and I squint through the misting rain.
“I see! I can see that green of his Land Rover at the café,” Dot says.
“The café?”
“Oh I’m sure Miss Alice has done breakfast. No surprise there really. Someone—likely many someones—came and dragged him out of bed.”
“Contrary to the doctor’s advice!”
She snickers. “Quite an awful lot, these scoundrel breakfast-makers.”
“No one rang me,” I say with mock indignation.
“You’re not a Carnegie, are you?”
My throat aches as I force a smile. “I suppose not.”
I steel myself as Dot parks the Bronco in front of the café, where everyone and their lamb has gathered.
Lamb! Baby! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I realize Mrs. White has Baby. When I got back to the clinic quarters yesterday, I didn’t even think to call her. Oh, how awful of me. Perhaps she’s here now. How is poor, wee Baby? Guilt drags at me. I blink to find Dot’s hand waving in front of my face.
“What on earth?” she asks.
“I realized Mrs. White has Baby.”
“Indeed she does. She’s done a fine job, as you’d assume. Come now, you can worry over that later.”
Dot and I leave the food there in the Bronco and make our way through the mud to the porch, where I get shoulder pats and one-armed hugs.
“So delighted to see that face,” crows Mrs. Burns, my old piano instructor.
I smell cheese and eggs, perhaps cinnamon milk toast, as Dot escorts me through the café’s doorway. We step inside and someone pats my shoulder—Mr. Braun, my dear diabetic patient.
“Glad to see you, lady.”
We chat for a few moments. As we do, he shifts his weight, moving slightly rightward. The café’s rear corner comes into view over his shoulder, and my eyes snap to him: Declan.
Oh, but he looks radiant. He’s seated at round table, surrounded by adoring fans. His dark hair is neat—a wee bit wavy—and his handsome face clean-shaven. He’s clad in a pale blue Polo shirt, one thick arm resting atop the table as he nods attentively at Dot’s Mike Green.
As for me, I’m ensnared in greeting after greeting, but it’s all a dull buzz.
Between answering questions—it’s the same few on repeat—I catalog the motley crew seated around him: Holly, bottle Mac, Mike Green, Baby’s Mrs. White, Horris Ballard, and Father Russo. Declan moves and speaks as if he’s quite accustomed to the spotlight. I see his smile more in my periphery than perhaps I ever have. His low laughter makes my belly curl. My legs feel like a colt’s.
Dot and I move through the room together. Her eyes press at me in sidelong glances that I don’t return. She takes my hand and moves me toward the kitchen, where Miss Alice throws her arms around me like a mum.
“My dear girl…” My cheek presses against her mighty bosom as she squeezes me. “Rubbed the color off my beads.”
“I’m sorry.”
She steps back, her warm hands cupping my shoulders. “Don’t be. Apologizing for what’s not your fault is a disservice to yourself.” A fond smile crinkles her face. “You look well enough. So does that young man. I’ll suppose it’s you who kept him safe and not the reverse.” She winks, and heat suffuses my cheeks.
“Thank you for your faith, Miss Alice.”
She moves in for another hug and whispers, “You know I worry for you. And I love you.”
“I love you more.”
My eyes are welling as I step away, and my mind races. Now I’ve got to go into the dining hall and speak to him. What has he heard in my absence? What will he think of me? The more he hears…
I’m distracted from my worry by Rachel and Maura, who step into the kitchen through the back door, bearing a large pot of stew. Rachel is a year younger than Dot, and Maura two. Dot is closer to them than I am, so when she sees them, she rushes over. I think of the questions Dot just asked me and cringe. If I stay, there’ll be more of that, so I head off into the dining hall.
Mrs. Dillon appears out of nowhere, looking a bit like a fat bird in a mauve dress and feather-adorned pillbox hat. Her perfume is overwhelming. My head aches as she hugs me. “Oh you poor, unlucky dearie!”
Over her shoulder, I see Declan standing by his table. Old Mr. Button has him by the arm.
“We searched for days,” Mrs. Dillon murmurs. “Days and days.”
As she releases me, I hear my name called. I turn to find Rachel coming out the kitchen’s swinging doorway. Her blonde hair’s done up in dozens of tiny braids. As she throws herself at me, I smell something sweet—perhaps her lotion.
“So delighted,” she cries.
Mrs. Dillon pats me on the shoulder, taking her leave, as Rachel smooths her hand over my hair. “You look a bit thinner but essentially the same! Not at all as if you’ve been trapped underground.” She squeals, hugging me again. “How are you feeling?”
Rachel means well. This I know. So I oblige her, answering her questions while attempting to behave politely. I’m prattling on about our luck finding a stream in the cave when I feel something behind me.
Then his hand is on my shoulder. I know it’s him without turning my head. I know because the blood drains from my cheeks and my poor heart throbs sickly.
I turn to him slowly, aware that Rachel’s eyes are on us both.
Oh, but he’s a sight up close; he looks so clean and strong and handsome. I tell myself I’ve got to behave casually, and so of course my eyes well. I stare at the stubble on his jaw before I feel mellowed enough to meet his gaze. So blue. In the dark, I couldn’t tell how blue his eyes are.
His mouth twitches. “Finley.”
I feel like I’m in a film as I say, “Hi there.” I shift my gaze to Rachel. “Have you met Declan?”
She beams, buoyant as a schoolgirl. She holds her hand out. “Not exactly.” Declan takes it, and I can see he’s not sure what to do with it. He gives it a slight shake before Rachel tucks her arms around herself.
“We’re all so elated that you made it back safely! How are you feeling?” she asks.
He looks tired about the eyes, but he says, “Good.” His voice is low and warm. It sounds sincere.
Rachel smiles, glad as you please. “I’m delighted to hear it. Now that you’re above ground
, nothing but the very best. Would you like tea or coffee? Finley, you as well. What can I get the two of you?” Her cheeks blush, much as mine do.
“I’m satisfied as I am. Thank you.”
“I’m good too. Just had some cinnamon…” He frowns, as if he’s forgotten the name.
“Milk toast.” Rachel laughs. “I can’t believe they served him milk toast.” She makes a face at me. Behind her hand, she tells him, “We’ve much better.”
He smiles. “It was just fine.”
“You’re unfailingly polite.”
“Nah. Just hard-up for anything that’s not an Atkins bar.”
I watch as Rachel’s face transforms in understanding. “That’s what you had in your pack?” she asks me. “Those horrid bars for Mr. McGillin?” She laughs, looking beautiful as her lips curve. Youthful and unencumbered…
I watch Declan’s eyes. That’s how I find they’re not on her.
“Get yourself some French toast,” she’s telling Declan. “Or Miss Alice’s berry muffins. They’re the absolute best.” She waves as she turns to go.
I feel as if I’m caught inside a dream as she walks off and I look up at Declan. At least his gaze still feels familiar even as the rest of him looks like a polished stranger.
“You look…clean,” I manage.
His eyes search my face. When he fails to find whatever he’s seeking, his dark brows notch. “Let’s step outside.”
Even his soft voice sends sunlight rolling through me. It’s soft and husky, and it’s Declan. Odd and disorienting what a premium my poor heart seems to place on that alone: his mere Declanness. The blood in my veins glows as I follow him toward the door, barely aware of the room swirling around us.
Outside, we move past a group of school-aged kids kicking a bean sack on the porch. They whistle and clap as if we’re celebrities—well, as if we both are. I can feel their eyes on my back as I follow Declan through a patch of grass into the muddy lane. He leads me around about the side of the café, away from eager eyes.
When we’re there, his keen gaze sweeps me. I fixate on his lips, and then a bruise along his cheekbone.