A Northern Romance_Atlantic Island Romances

by Liz Graham

  It wasn’t until Conor was forced to return to the Cove that summer with her father ill that she remembered the things she’d loved about her home on the tip of the Northern Peninsula. The clean water and sky, the wind-whipped clouds, the green of the woods, the ocean waves that crashed against the rocky beach not far from her front door, the sound of the surf rushing through the pebbles. All these things she had loved as a child and she'd felt more at home wandering that lonely shore than she’d ever felt in the city.

  She‘d also forgotten, or maybe her teenage eyes had never seen, how her father, her drunken Dad, had grown into the community over the years. Despite his drinking and his loud mouth, he had friends who cared for him and who enjoyed his company. He made them laugh. Even the tut-tutting ladies who disapproved of him, like Mrs. Malone, would be disappointed if he wasn’t cheeky to them. The young teenaged Conor had been so wrapped up in her own misery that she hadn't delved beneath the surface of the community.

  And even her old classmates, the ones who were still around, had matured over the years and genuinely welcomed her return.

  The best thing was that since her return, Seamus hadn't been doing nearly the drinking he used to. She kept a close eye on him, knowing he would never return to health without taking better care of himself.

  ‘It might be okay here, if only there was opportunity for me,’ Conor was surprised to find herself musing a month after her return. She was making bread, the country bread her father loved. This was a skill she'd taught herself growing up, for she’d learned early how to make do with very little. She transferred the loaves from the baking sheet onto the wire racks for cooling.

  ‘You know what this place needs,’ Seamus stated, surprising her. She hadn't heard him enter the kitchen. It wasn’t a question yet it demanded a response.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A bakery,’ he said. ‘A place that makes honest bread.’

  Conor paused to consider the idea.

  ‘I’d buy it,’ she agreed, mentally shuddering at the thought of the packaged, sliced white bread that was available. That stuff was as tasty as cardboard, and was one of the reasons she was baking today. ‘If it was made locally, with good ingredients, I‘d certainly spend the extra money.’

  ‘And you’re not the only one,’ Dad pointed out.

  ‘Strange that someone isn't doing it already,’ Conor commented. ‘If there’s such a market for it.’

  ‘There you go.’ he said. He sat back in the kitchen chair by the window over the ocean, smacking the table with satisfaction.

  She turned to him with a question in his eyes, not seeing what he was getting at.

  ‘That’s what you can do here,’ he said in explanation, his eyes round and excited. ‘You were just saying you wanted an opportunity to stay.’

  Conor sighed.

  ‘That’s not exactly what I was thinking of,’ she said. ‘Not much money to be made from baking bread.’

  She turned back to the oven.

  ‘And I’m not planning to stay here that long,’ she added over her shoulder. ‘Just till you‘re back on your feet.’

  ‘Just for the summer, then,’ Seamus said vehemently. ‘It'll give you something to do, and God knows you've been mooning about like a wet hen. I'm not going to get better if I‘ve got to worry about you.’

  That was a laugh, Conor thought. When had Seamus ever given a thought to his daughter’s welfare?

  But he was challenging her, she knew.

  He could tell by the softening of her shoulders that she was considering the idea.

  ‘Joe‘ll take it in his store,’ her father continued, standing up and grabbing a hot loaf in his hand. ‘Why don’t you bring him down a loaf of this and ask him?’

  And that‘s how it began. Joe, the convenience store operator, couldn’t keep her loaves on the shelves. Even Conor’s more daring experiments - Belgian, sour-dough, and flax seed bread - were tremendous successes.

  She was so busy baking and getting caught up in the success of her experiments that she didn’t notice the summer slipping away, and after a month of supplying Joe's store, Conor realized she had a hit. All the time she was in the kitchen working the dough, her business-trained mind kicked into gear forecasting potential profits and expenditures. She also played with how much she could produce in a properly equipped kitchen, and how far down the coast she could expand her market.

  When blustery October rolled around Conor lifted her head from the kneading and realized she had already made the decision to stay in the Cove, and from that moment on, everything she touched tuned to gold. With help from various government sources and a leap of faith from her bank manager, she supervised the building of a road-front addition to the house for the bakery and shop, incorporating the old parlor which they'd never used anyway. Seamus and his friends did all the labour. In addition to breads, she tried her hand at fancy cakes, sweets and candies, and all of it sold. She squeezed three tables into the small shopfront and it quickly became a popular spot for coffee and her delicious cream cakes.

  She called her place The Celtic Knot, and Seamus had painted the sign, making the simple continuous knot look like it was formed of baked loaf.

  They hadn't looked back since.

  ‘NOT CLOSED UP YET, are ye?’ her father asked, coming in the glass door. He preferred using the bakery entrance when he could, rather than the house door.

  Conor glanced at the simple black and white clock on the wall.

  ‘It’s only gone three o’clock,’ she noted. ‘Still another hour.’

  This was the slow time of the day. Most of the daily baked goods had left the shelves, yet there would always be a straggler or two, a shift worker perhaps coming through on their way home, or the kids after school.

  Three children were passing the bakery now, dragging their footsteps as they slowed their pace to peer in through the glass windows.

  She knew these kids. They came from a large family who lived down in the next cove, and they were on their way home to do their chores for the family's livestock. The two girls wore skirts throughout the year, even in cold winter, and she knew when they grew older they would never be permitted to shave their legs or indulge in other normal and unnecessary beautifying tasks for teenagers.

  ‘Is that the Lambs?’ Seamus asked, pouring himself a coffee.

  Conor nodded. He wasn't referring to the children’s family name but to their religious affiliation. The Lambs of God and their very fervent leader Enoch Sheppard were growing in popularity in these parts and he was a fiery preacher who promised salvation for his flock if they followed his strict rules. He’d been an insurance salesman until God had selected him to spread the word. According to his philosophy this life was Hell on earth, and he alone held the tickets for free passes to Heaven. Their devotions included weekly confession of all sins and these were many, as so much was forbidden under his leadership which seemed to grow stricter with each passing year.

  She could see little attraction in this religion, yet supposed that the preachings might hold something of value for those who preferred not to think for themselves.

  The boy noticed he and his sisters had caught the attention of Seamus, and he pressed his nose against the glass like a stray dog looking for scraps. The girls hung back, the older one shaking her head and tugging at his arm, urging him to leave off.

  ‘They’re only wanting a bit of candy,’ her father muttered. ‘What is childhood without treats, for the love of God?’

  He beckoned the children into the shop.

  ‘Be careful, Dad,’ Conor warned. ‘You'll get them in trouble if anyone sees them in here and tells Enoch.’

  ‘Ach!’ her father said in disgust. He scooped out a handful of the freshly made blueberry-flavoured hard candies from the glass jar on the counter and opened the door. After peering dramatically in both directions, he passed the candies to the small boy.

  ‘Don’t tell your mother,’ he called after them as the three thanked h
im and began to scurry away. ‘And mind you share with your sisters, young Billie!’

  ‘I will sir,’ the boy called over his shoulder. He passed the candies out to the girls and they quickly gobbled down the evidence.

  Seamus shook his head as he re-entered the bakery.

  ‘Lambs of God, indeed!’ he said. ‘I've a few choice words to say to that Enoch Sheppard next time I see him.’

  ‘Well, you won't see him in here anymore,’ Conor retorted. ‘You said a bit too much to him last week, from what l hear.’

  He paused, chuckling, his belly shaking with mirth.

  ‘The man has no sense of humor, Conor,’ Seamus said, a grin splitting his wide face. ‘If he'd take the plug out of his arse and sit down for a pint with the other lads, he might see life differently.’

  Conor crossed her arms and said nothing. Her father drank less these days than he had in her youth, yet he still tied one on a little too often for her. The police had phoned her one night last week when he’d had a shouting match with Enoch in the middle of town, and Conor had been required to come fetch him. She shouldn’t let it affect her after all this time, yet she still winced with the old embarrassment of her youth whenever she thought of it.

  ‘Have you made any progress with the work for your show?’ she asked, changing the subject. Seamus was a gifted artist when he could focus on his work, and for the past few years she had been encouraging his art for he drank less when absorbed in the creative process.

  The university in Corner Brook, a few hundred miles down the shore and the largest center on the west coast of the island. had agreed to host a showing of his life‘s work later that summer.

  ‘Pah!’ he replied, making his way through to the living quarters of the building.

  ‘It’s an honor!’ she called after him. ‘They’re recognizing the contribution you’ve made to the province over the past thirty years.’

  Seamus paused at the beaded curtain.

  ‘Contribution to culture!’ he repeated. ‘The only contribution I’ve made is to the support of the local tavern.’

  ‘I know that, and you know that,’ Conor scolded. ‘But you can at least make an effort.

  ‘Come on,’ she said in a kinder voice. ‘You'll be helping me by doing this, remember?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Your artists’ colony at the old logger’s camp,’ he replied, nodding thoughtfully. Conor had hatched an ambitious plan involving the use of an old lumber camp out near the airport. Built during the thirties to house the management of the massive logging efforts, the four large buildings had been abandoned in the early seventies, and the field on which they stood passed back to the Crown Lands Asset Disposal Agency of the province. Despite twenty years of non-use, the buildings were still solid. Conor envisioned an artists’ retreat in the location, one which would attract even more visitors to the area.

  ‘If you pull off a successful show, we'll be more likely to get the backing we need and the government support,’ she reminded him. ‘Plus, I‘d really like to see your large piece finished for the show in Corner Brook.’

  Among other things, Seamus had been working on a huge eight foot long canvas since before her mother’s death. It was a depiction of all the things which had led him to stay here, mixed up with his extensive knowledge of Celtic lore.

  St. Brendan’s rock had started it, really, all those years ago. It was a carved stone high up on a cliff, with inscriptions which may have, eons ago, been of the old Celtic script. This was rumored to have been carved by St. Brendan himself, that mad Irish traveling monk, way before even the Norse arrived at the place known today as L'Anse aux Meadows.

  The many smaller pieces which decorated the bakery wall were studies created over the years for Seamus’ larger work, yet all were magnificently detailed artworks in their own standing. His creations were realistic depictions of creatures and beings which lived solely in the head of Seamus, and who had their base in a mishmash of myths and lore from different cultures. In one picture Sedna the Inuit goddess of the sea rose out of the angry waves to clash mightily with the Viking Eric the Red in his tiny long-boat, while another work depicted St. Brendan making peace with Ashmudyim, a Beothuck devil described by Shawnadithit, the last of her people on the island.

  Seamus sighed heavily.

  ‘If you'd stop nagging me I might get some peace,’ he muttered as he turned back to the curtain.

  ‘If I stopped nagging you, you might get drunk again,’ she called after him. Conor sighed too as she smoothed the frown between her brows with her fingers and allowed herself to relax. He was having a good day and he wasn’t heading to the bars in town. Dad might, just might, get that major work finished in time for the show next month.

  Chapter 3

  S teady as she goes, lads,’ Seamus said as he stood back a little, shading his eyes in the May noontime sun as the men hung the large frame in the plate glass window. ‘Pull her down a little to your left, Joe, that’s it.’

  He turned to Conor, his round face beaming satisfaction. The harsh spring light showed up the lines life had engraved on his face.

  ‘There, daughter,’ he said ‘ls your wish not fulfilled now?’

  She could do little but stare speechlessly at the bright new addition to the Celtic Knot Bakery. The large driftwood frame hung by Seamus and his friends was held up by two sturdy hooks and a chain, fitted so that it would abut the top foot of the window glass. The wood held two sheets of glass separated by perhaps a half inch of space which was filled by brightly coloured glass twinkling and shining as the sun poured though.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she managed to say, bathing in its light.

  ‘Do you see the design?’ he pressed.

  Conor took two steps back. As she looked at the work, the individual pieces of glass merged and the colours separated to form a single Celtic knot. Red lines interwove with blue on a sea of greens, with the glass pieces placed so that the knot looked three dimensional.

  ‘Oh, Dad,’ she murmured, her eyes widening. ‘Is this what you've been working on?’

  ‘I knew the sea had an offering that day last week,’ he said, his hand running through his wild mane of hair so that it stood on end like a halo framing his face in the sunlight.

  ‘Beach glass?’ she asked, not believing. She stepped forward to inspect the glass pieces inside the frame. Yes, it was true. Each individual piece of glass, the biggest no more than three inches across, had the softened edges that came only by the action of wave against rock. Conor reached out and traced the knot within the design.

  ‘The red comes from the old glass net markers they used to use in these parts. I'd been saving those and the blues for something special,’ he said, pleased with her reaction. ‘The greens are from soft drink and wine bottles.’

  ‘You did this in a week?’ she said, still amazed. Despite his quick wit, Seamus rarely worked that fast on artistic projects.

  ‘It‘s been years in the making,’ he reminded her. ‘The sea’s been giving me the glass a little at a time. Last week she washed up the wood for the frame.’

  Conor walked over and gave him a quick hug. He squirmed in the unaccustomed display of affection, yet his ruddy face glowed a deeper shade of pleased red as he shrugged it off. He quickly called his friends and they escaped back into the sunshine.

  She watched as they made their way down the shore road to town, feeling just a little guilty as she glanced again at the glass art gracing her bakery.

  ‘I'm sorry for nagging you,’ she said softly to his departing back, her brown hair shining in the sunlight. Seamus’ heart was as big as the cove. No, as big as the larger bay. He loved his daughter dearly she had come to realize, and she hated the shame and embarrassment she felt sometimes because of his actions. These feelings were deeply ingrained from her childhood. If only he wouldn’t get into the bottle...

  She sighed, knowing the bottle was as much a part of him as his very soul itself. If he was different, he wouldn‘
t be Seamus. If he was different - well, he wouldn't be her Dad.

  A small gold sedan pulled to a stop in front of the bakery, distracting Conor from her thoughts. Her heart sank as she recognized its blonde driver.

  It was Melissa - yes, that same Melissa from all those years ago, the ‘family friend’ of Devon. Conor had seen her around St. Anthony a few times earlier in the winter and managed till now to avoid the woman. Although the hurt was long buried, her heart still ached at the memory of that awful day in Mrs. Radford's house, and the subsequent loss of what she might have had with Devon.

  But what kind of a life could they have had? She had often reminded herself, eventually convincing her heart that it could never have been. He came from money while Conor came from poverty. Those two families could never have mixed happily, not in reality. She stuffed the memory back down from sheer habit and turned away from the window, preparing herself for the inevitable meeting with Melissa.

  A few discreetly worded questions around town had quickly come up with an explanation for the woman's presence in the relative isolation of this Northern Peninsula town, hundreds of miles away from the lively life in the city. Melissa had a job with the provincial government, something in middle-management with the Social Services Department. Not that Melissa was a social worker, of course, but she was being fast-tracked to higher, more responsible and better paid positions. First she had to serve her time in the rural regions to gain experience.

  ‘That could have been me,’ Conor had thought ruefully to herself when she heard the news, remembering her youthful ambitions.

  But that wasn’t quite true, and she knew it. Conor would have had much more of a struggle working through the ranks of government service. Melissa hadn't graduated with an honours degree as Conor herself had, but the blonde woman had something more important going for her. She had family connections and old money behind her, which even in the twenty-first century counted for a lot. This was Newfoundland still, after all.