“If your life and livelihood depend on your ability to get out onto the bay, you do whatever you have to do. I’m not saying I’d trust a boat like that to get me out and back, but then again, I don’t make my living on the water.” He stopped in front of the boat under discussion. “I’m just saying that some might see these old workhorses as a sort of insurance.”
“Do you ever wish you did?” she couldn’t help but ask. He’d sounded almost wistful. “Make your living on the water?”
He hesitated. “Maybe when I was a kid, I thought it might be cool.” He shrugged, but she could tell the pull was still there. “I’d watch the boats go out in the morning—I mean, really early, before dawn—and see them grow smaller and smaller until they disappeared. Then I’d watch for them to return, wonder what they’d caught, whether they’d had a good day. Whether the fish were running and the traps were full.” He gazed off into the distance, as if still waiting for those ships to come back to port. “One of my mom’s uncles was a water man, and his stories about his life on the bay always fascinated me. He had a skipjack that he and his brother built.”
“What’s a skipjack?”
“It’s a wooden-hulled sailboat with a long boom, the bottom shaped like a V, no motor. In its day, it was the boat to dredge for oysters, because the law back then was that you couldn’t dredge with a motorized boat. There aren’t that many still working the bay, because that law changed back in the sixties to permit motorboats to dredge a couple of days a week. Down around Cambridge, they have a heritage skipjack race in late summer—the crafts that are still seaworthy, anyway. Last I heard, the number was down to about forty, and my uncle Clifford built more than a few of those. He had a place down by where the marina is now, where he built his boats. I used to think . . .”
“You used to think what?” she asked when his voice faded.
“I used to think that I’d take over that shop one day, build some boats of my own.”
“That was your dream as a kid? To build sailboats?”
“To build skipjacks,” he corrected her. “But yeah.”
“Ever sorry you went into innkeeping instead?”
Dan shrugged. “It was always understood that I’d take over from my dad one day. I didn’t think that day would happen as soon as it did, but that’s the way it goes sometimes, right?”
“Any regrets?”
He leaned forward on the handlebars and appeared to be lost in thought. Finally, he said, “Not really. I love the inn, love that connection to my dad and my granddad and all the others who came before them. How many people can say they’re carrying on a business that their family founded two hundred years ago?”
“So do you ever go to those races and look at the boats your uncle built and think about what might have been?”
“I go to the races and admire the crafts, not just the ones he built but the others. And then I come back to the inn and admire what was built there.”
Jamie turned her attention to the landlocked boats on the dune. “They just all look so sad, abandoned out on the flats like that.”
“They all belong to someone,” he told her. “Someone’s father or grandfather or great-grandfather fished from the bow or dropped his traps off the side of every one of them. Think of them as heirloom boats, and maybe you’ll see the beauty in them.”
Jamie pulled up behind him, her feet dropping to the pavement for balance as she stopped. “There is a sort of beauty there, I will admit that: standing out here alone on the grass, looking as if they’re looking out to sea.”
“When a boat is retired, they do place them so that they’re facing the bay. Sort of a tradition here.” He straddled the seat of his bike, signaling that he was ready to resume the ride.
“The other day, I noticed that almost all the houses had fences around their front yards.” Jamie, too, got back on her bike. “Another tradition?”
Dan nodded as he pulled away from the side of the road. “Most of the island families have been burying their dead on their properties for generations. The fences mark the makeshift cemeteries.”
“I saw the white stones and wondered if they were grave markers.” Jamie caught up with him. “Is that legal? To bury people in your front yard?”
“I guess it is, lacking a law against it. Cannonball Islanders make their own laws, more or less. They have for centuries. The people who settled here originally didn’t choose to do so. They were St. Dennis townspeople who sided with the British during the revolution and were forced to leave by those who supported war against the crown. Since there were more rebels than Tories, the Brit sympathizers were the ones made to go. They were pushed across the sound to this island, which at that time was considered uninhabitable. Somehow those hardy souls managed to make a go of it, and their descendants are still here.”
“Exiled,” she said.
“Exactly.”
“Which goes a long way to explain why the islanders don’t like their kids to go to school in St. Dennis.”
“Right.” He pointed ahead and off to the left. “There’s one of the abandoned chapels. Want to make a stop?”
“Only if you have a story to tell.”
Dan laughed. “Of course. That’s what Cannonball Island is all about.”
A moment later, they were stopped in front of a tiny chapel, the windows and door of which were boarded.
“There’s another one like this about a mile from here,” Jamie said. “I saw it the other day.”
“Actually, there are three—this one and two others, all identical. This one was the first. The story goes that the minister, Reverend Jerimiah Sharpe, built this little church with his own funds. He was from Annapolis and had heard about the Tories being run out of St. Dennis. Thinking they needed some spiritual guidance, he moved his family out here and set up his church. Two of the more prominent members of the congregation had a falling-out, which resulted in one of the men leaving and building his own church. Since there was no preacher, he decided he’d do the preaching himself. That worked fine for a while, until—”
“Let me guess. He got into it with one of the members of the congregation, who decided to move on.”
“You catch on fast. That’s exactly what happened. So for a couple hundred years, there were three separate little congregations here. I’m not sure why, but about fifty years ago, the flocks began to diminish, until the chapels were boarded up due to lack of interest. I guess if any of the islanders feel the need for a sermon, they drive over the bridge to St. Dennis on Sunday morning.”
“The more you tell me, the stranger I think the locals must be.”
“They’re a strange lot, that’s for sure.” He turned on his bike seat. “You had enough? I said we’d only go as far as the chapel, so I’m ready to turn back, if you are.”
“I thought you wanted to go to the general store.”
“I do.” Dan turned his bike around to face her. “Let’s head back toward the bridge.”
“Ah, yes. The promised shortcut.” Jamie’s legs were beginning to tighten up slightly, so she was hoping the shortcut would be exactly that. She, too, turned around, and followed Dan the way they’d come.
They’d gone about five miles when Dan pulled off to the side of the road and got off his bike. “We can leave the bikes here,” he told her.
She pulled up next to him. “And what, fly?”
“Walk.” He pointed off to the left. “Over the dune.”
“How far?” she asked suspiciously.
“Not far.”
Jamie dismounted and left her bike next to Dan’s on the sand. “Are you sure it’s okay to leave these here? What if someone comes by and takes them?”
“Not likely. How many cars have passed since we arrived on the island?”
Jamie thought for a moment. “I don’t remember seeing any.”
“Right.
” He held out a hand to her. “Come on. There’s a path.”
“I thought I read somewhere that you’re not supposed to walk on sand dunes because it kills the vegetation.”
“I think the grass stopped growing here a long time ago. This path has been here as long as I can remember, and there’s never been any grass or anything else growing on it.”
The path was little more than a narrow trail, two persons wide, which they shared with a rabbit that darted in front of them, a few birds that rose from the ground to take flight as they passed, and a few curious gulls that circled overhead. Off the path, the grasses grew thick, and the early-morning breeze passed through with a shhhhh. Dan slowed his pace to match Jamie’s, and their hips brushed briefly. Dan reached for her hand, entwined his fingers with hers, and pointed out an osprey overhead, on its way toward the bay.
Within minutes, the back of the general store came into view.
“I wish I’d known about this a few days ago. I was half dead by the time I’d ridden around the entire island,” Jamie grumbled.
“Always good to know the terrain,” he agreed.
They went around to the front of the building and up the two steps. Inside, the same old woman sat in the same chair, reading what Jamie suspected might be the same newspaper. The woman looked up when the door opened, and studied the duo as they came into the shop. After a moment, she stood, then walked toward them, her eyes narrowing. “You there,” she said. “You look like one of the boys from the inn. One of Gracie’s boys.”
“That’s right, Miz Carter.”
“Which one of them boys are you?”
“I’m Dan.”
“Hmmph. You be the oldest. Been a while since you came by.”
“Been taking care of the inn,” he told her.
She nodded. “You taking care of your mama, too? I hear she’s been poorly.”
“She’s doing a lot better, Miz Carter. Broke her leg, but it’s mending now.”
The old woman nodded again. “Glad to hear it. You make sure to say I was asking for her.”
“I will.” Dan reached into his pocket and pulled out a fat envelope. “She asked me to give you this. Said she thought you might be running low.”
The woman’s gnarled fingers reached for the packet and opened it slowly, then she peered inside. A smile spread across her aged face. “You tell your mama that I much appreciate her thinking of me. Yessir, I much appreciate.”
“Will do, Miz Carter. You take care of yourself.”
“You do the same.” The woman seemed to notice Jamie for the first time. “You there. Girl. You been here before.”
“I was, yes. On Tuesday morning.”
“Dragged in here like you was half dead, looking for water.”
“That was me, all right.”
She reached out and took Jamie’s hand in her own. Her brows knit together, and she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she told Jamie, “You’re close to the end now. Mind the choices you make.”
And with that, Ruby Carter turned her back and returned to her chair, shuffling her feet, her body bent.
Jamie’s mouth dropped open, and for a long moment, she stared after the woman. “What do you mean, mind . . .”
“Mind the choices you make, girl,” Ruby Carter repeated.
Dan tugged on Jamie’s arm and whispered, “Come on. She’s done.” He practically dragged Jamie out to the front porch. Once outside, he pushed her onto the top step so she could sit, and he retrieved their water bottles from the bike baskets. “Here.” Dan opened a bottle and handed it to her. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
She reached up for the bottle and took a sip. “That might have been the spookiest moment of my life.”
“What do you suppose she meant?” he asked. “About being close to the end.”
Close to the end of my search, I hope. But how could she know?
To Dan, she said, “I have no idea.” She took another sip.
“Really? You sure? ’Cause you turned fifteen shades of white in there.” He was staring at her, and she knew the lie hadn’t fooled him one bit.
“Well, it was disconcerting.” She forced a laugh. “Having someone you don’t know make a pronouncement like that. It sounded so . . . final. Like, you know, The end is near. It just startled me, that’s all. I guess she likes to toss stuff like that out to shake people up. Maybe that’s what she does for fun.”
Dan said nothing. He was clearly not buying it, but he let it go. “Ready to head back to the inn?” he asked.
“Sure.”
They crossed back over the dune, retrieved their bikes, then rode back in silence, Dan leading the way. Once at the inn, he held his hand out for the helmet. “So how do you feel, having done a short ride?” he asked.
“My legs feel pretty good, thanks. You were right.” She walked the bike next to his and put the kickstand up.
“Good. We’ll do it again soon. Maybe next time we’ll go as far as Reverend Moore’s chapel.”
“That would be congregation number two?”
He nodded.
“Sounds good.” She stepped out of the way of the family exiting the inn. “Thanks again.”
“See you later.” He secured the bikes on the rack off to one side of the entrance.
Jamie had already passed through the double doors when it hit her. She turned and went back outside. “Dan, do you realize your phone didn’t ring the entire time we were out? That has to be a record.”
He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. “Turned it off,” he told her.
For the second time that morning, Jamie’s mouth fell open. There seemed to be no end to the surprises this day held. “You turned it off?” she repeated. “For a full . . .” She pulled her phone from her pocket and checked the time. “Almost two hours.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Are your hands shaking? Eyes twitching uncontrollably?”
Dan laughed. “Nope. All’s well.”
“How often do you do that?”
“Can’t remember the last time.” He stood with his thumbs hooked in his pockets, dark glasses covering his eyes. He turned the phone back on and scrolled for a few seconds before holding it up. “Nine missed calls.”
“Why today?”
“Because I wanted to focus on you. Just you.”
His words caught her off guard. “Well,” she said, “what do you think? Was it worth it?”
“I could get used to it.” He grinned. “Might even try it again tonight. Have dinner with me?”
“I’d love to.”
“Seven in the dining room?”
“Perfect.”
His phone began to ring.
“Your break’s over,” she told him.
“Apparently so. I’ll see you tonight.” He turned and answered the call. “Dan Sinclair . . .”
SHE WAS WORKING on the third box when something caught her eye. She studied the photo carefully, then set it aside. Two more boxes, another stack of newspapers for Grace, another photo that drew Jamie’s interest.
Jamie stared at the page. She still felt a pull toward these photos of the five girls, though she wasn’t sure why, and she wasn’t sure which one of them was drawing her in. That changed forty minutes later when she opened an issue from August 1979 and saw the photo of four young girls about to begin their senior year.
Four, where there had been five.
Jamie searched the faces to find the one that was missing, and her heart skipped a beat. “Grace,” she said, her voice barely discernible.
Grace looked up from her desk. “What is it, Jamie?”
Jamie brought the paper to Grace and opened it up in front of her. From the pile to Grace’s right, Jamie pulled the previous photos of the same girls.
�
�Why isn’t she in the senior-year photo?” Jamie put her finger on the girl who was missing from 1979. “She was in all the others. Why isn’t she in this one?”
“Well, let me think.” Grace pursed her lips. “That was the year her grandmother fell ill and she went to stay with her.”
“She stayed with her sick grandmother for the entire school year?”
“She might have returned in the spring. Yes, I believe she may have come back to graduate with her class.”
“Where did her grandmother live?” Jamie asked, although she knew what the answer would be.
“Somewhere in your home state, I believe.” Grace appeared to think, then nodded. “Yes, I’m pretty certain her grandmother lived in Pennsylvania. Somewhere around Bethlehem, I think. This was her mother’s mother—she was a literature professor at Lehigh University, if I recall correctly.”
Jamie’s heart began to pound. She’d met this woman and liked her. Her gut was telling her she was right. She looked up and met Grace’s eyes, so full of understanding and sympathy.
“You know,” Jamie whispered. “You know.”
Grace nodded slowly. “Yes, dear, I know.”
Chapter 16
HOW did you . . . how could you . . . ?” Jamie whispered.
“I’ve always known.” Grace reached for Jamie’s hand. “I knew the minute I saw you.”
“How . . . ?”
“I can’t explain it, Jamie. Sometimes I just know things, the way you know things about yourself. I knew who you were, and why you were here, the day you arrived at the inn. I saw you from the top of the steps, and I knew.”
“Did you tell . . . her?”
“Of course not. It’s not my place to interfere in such things.” Grace shook her head. “I could not in good conscience influence the outcome in something as serious—as life-changing—as this.”
“What do I do now?” Jamie’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
“What do you want to do?” Grace’s voice was so gentle, so filled with true concern, that Jamie’s throat tightened.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what I should do. I think part of me didn’t believe I’d ever find her, but at the same time, I felt I had to look. Now that I know . . . I don’t know what to do about it.”
That Chesapeake Summer (Chesapeake Diaries Book 9) Page 24