Whose Waves These Are

by Amanda Dykes

  Heat scorches and sun blinds as he works on the island. Footsteps sound on the path.

  “Well, Mr. Robert Bliss,” a voice says, a voice like music. Feminine and strong, with a story to tell. “I’d say names are quite the most unnecessary contrivances that ever were, but I’ll tell you something. If I’d have known a year ago that the nameless fisherman building a lighthouse was none other than you . . .”

  He stands, staring into the harsh sun. Before him is the silhouette of a woman. It can’t be.

  “Eva . . .” He clears his throat, unable to take his eyes from her as she steps into clearer view. “Miss . . . Rothford.”

  She picks up a stone from the ground, and he is tempted to kiss her for the way she handles it. With care, tenderness.

  “That’s Eva, to you,” she says. She’s different than when they met in Boston. The same strength—that spark igniting her—but different. She’s wearing denim pants and a plain white blouse, for one thing, and a sky-blue kerchief with some kind of small flower print over her head. It makes her eyes sing blue and her cheeks glow pink. There’s a quiet resolve, steely yet free, settled in her.

  “Oh, don’t worry.” She sees the way he’s noticed her clothes. “I’ve got other clothes. Better ones.”

  What is she talking about? Her dress, from that night?

  “This, for one.” She pulls a jacket from where it’s looped over her arm. Worn wool that he knows too well, so many winters did it rest on his own shoulders. “A mariner loaned it to me more than a year ago on a snowy night in Boston. I hope he won’t mind if I—”

  “He won’t.”

  She pauses, her smile growing. “Good.” She takes a step forward. “And I have coveralls now, you know. They’re just the best things. Ever tried them? They gave them to us in the welding shop.”

  “The welding shop.”

  “Oh, yes. After the rendezvous with the bumper—”

  “Fender.” He turns the joke on her, can feel mischief lace between them.

  “After the rendezvous with the bumper . . .” She stands her ground. “My mother feared for the fate of their Art Nouveau balustrades—iron, you know—and convinced my father to let me contribute to the war in less . . . creative ways.”

  “I wrote to you,” he says. It’s a statement, and a question. She’d never replied. Not to the first letter . . . or the second . . . or the third . . . or the fourth. A man had to take a hint at some point.

  “You wrote to a lot of people, it seems.” She takes something from her back pocket, unfolds it. The TIME article.

  He steps closer. “You didn’t write back.”

  “You met my father.” Her eyes are wide, sincere, but laughing. “One does not always receive one’s post in the House of Rothford.” Her turn to step closer. She smells of sweet peas. The sun lands on a stray wisp of hair, and he wills his arm down to keep from reaching out and touching it right then.

  “I . . . should have gone to find you, regardless.”

  She looks to the tower. To him. To the article. “It would seem you’ve been busy, Mr. Anonymous.” She winks, but there’s a sadness there, too. An understanding of all that has happened, all he’s lost.

  Waves crash, and the sun sinks lower, birds striking up their evening chatter.

  “Well,” she says, inhaling and planting her hands on her hips, looking to the horizon. “It looks like we’re losing daylight, mariner. Put me to work.”

  “You mean to stay?”

  “If you’ll have me.” She bites her lip. It’s the first crack in this cloak of confidence she wears, and she stands before him in an offering of vulnerability.

  Suddenly they have switched. Instead of him awaiting her permission to help haul her bumper to a war-bound pile of metal, she awaits his invitation to help him build these stones into a battle-born tower of hope.

  If you’ll marry me. He bites the words back. They’re reckless, even for him. There is more learning, knowing, unfolding of hearts before such words are fitting.

  But when he opens his hand to hers, and she slips hers in as if it was tailored for this very moment . . . he knows he will not be able to hold those words back for long.

  twenty-three

  JUNE 2001

  The morning after she learned of the history behind GrandBob’s poem and tower, Annie could think of little else besides picking up the building of his tower. As soon as it opened, she entered the general store at Joe’s Landing and left minutes later with mortar and trowel. When Jeremiah spotted her from across the green, he’d shaken his head, pulled that half grin of his into a dimple, and disappeared, only to return ten minutes later with tools to match hers. Every night for the past week, they had climbed that island trail and set to work repairing stray stones, piecing together where Bob left off, the whole time, an idea brewing.

  It had taken her three days to work up the courage to confide it to Jeremiah, and two more days of him convincing her to bring it to the next town meeting.

  So here she stands. Facing down the microphone in the library, with Spencer T. Ripley poised to take notes and Margie Lillian sitting before her like a force to be reckoned with. It’s been a bad start. Her three minutes nearly up, she leaves her post and distributes slices of hazelnut pie—complete with Great-Grandma Savannah’s “true Southern crust.” The room falls blessedly, horridly silent and she continues.

  “So you see . . .” She holds her hands out, wishing she had a chart, a graph, or some other visual aid to direct their attention to. But all she has are her open hands. “If we run a ferry to the island during Lobsterfest, it may pique enough interest to start bringing in more steady visitors for the rest of the summer. We can share some of the pictures and stories, the article from TIME, and let people find which stones match to which stories.”

  Margie Lillian chews her pie, eyes narrowed. Scrutinizing every angle of her plan. “All due respect, Miss Bliss. Please help me understand how, exactly, you think we can market a pillar of rocks as a tourist destination. No offense, of course. It’s just . . . the growin’s have lain abandoned for years now. We have public safety to consider. And frankly, I am concerned the hoopla will detract from the rest of the weekend, keep people out to sea when they could be spending money on shore. They might come to see a lighthouse, but with no light . . .” She shakes her head, letting Annie draw her own conclusions.

  Her stomach clenches. These worries, and so many others, had nearly kept her at home this evening, shackled by memories of Alpenzell. She had a long list of ways this could hurt the town, rather than help them. Not to mention . . . how would Bob feel? She’d kneaded these worries as she rolled pie dough earlier that afternoon, and if not for the warmth of that pie in her hands, she might well have stayed silent tonight.

  Face flushed, she looks around. Rich is examining his pie, nodding in appreciation. Has he heard a word she’d said? She could really use a vocal, business-savvy ally right about now.

  Ed and Sully are seated across the aisle from each other, each of them refusing to acknowledge the other.

  Jeremiah is seated in back, hat in hands, elbows on his knees, watching intently. He gives her a nod, encouraging.

  Margie speaks up. “Should we have Jeremiah Fletcher come speak on your behalf?”

  Annie’s face burns. A quick glance shows Jeremiah’s tall form, as still as possible, eyes wide as he gives her a shrug. Is he actually considering joining her? But Shirley the nurse had said he hated public speaking.

  He leans forward, hands on knees, as if readying himself to join her, his face afire. Would he really do this?

  “No,” Annie says quickly. She won’t ask it of him. Not after all he’s already given. “Thank you.” She flashes him a smile, then presses on. “Those are all valid concerns. I’ve drawn up a plan that reduces risk—keeping tours short, running them only a few times during the weekend. This would be a way to test the waters, so to speak. I don’t have answers for all of your insightful questions”—she purses her lips�
�“but one thing I do know.” Her pulse pounds with this truth that feels too big for her own life. “Drastic change requires drastic change. If Ansel is struggling, I can’t help feeling it’s worth it to try.”

  Remembering what a refuge this town had been for her, her passion starts to climb, reaching the heights of her fear—threatening to overtake that fear. “People need Ansel. I’ve heard it termed a hurricane hole, and I think that element of refuge extends far beyond literal storms.”

  Margie gives a thoughtful nod. She, as harbormaster, knows more than anyone how ships seek out this little pocket harbor for safety.

  Annie makes a last-ditch effort to convince her. “A whole world of examples is waiting on that island.”

  “Time’s up, Miss Bliss. This is a rather sudden request to decide on, with the festival commencing in only a few days, but we’ll take it under consideration.” She glances at the clock and concludes the meeting, saying they’ll all need to turn their attention to the Movies in the Harbor event tonight. Something akin to a drive-in theater, but for boats, with an oversized screen erected at Joe’s Landing.

  Annie looks for Jeremiah, but he’s vanished.

  Outside in the early evening, the smell of popcorn drifts from The Galley, where the dining room is dark but a light glows from the kitchen.

  “Nice speech.” Sully draws up next to Annie, walking with her toward The Galley.

  There’s no sarcasm in her direct voice, and with what little she knows about Sully, Annie has no doubt the woman would have no reservations telling her straight out if she disagreed with her.

  “Thank you,” she says. It’s unexpected encouragement, a balm to her still-quivering heart.

  “I didn’t know about the lighthouse.” Sully’s voice is thoughtful.

  Annie laughs. “That makes two of us. It’s hard to keep something a secret in Ansel.”

  Sully hoots. “That’s the truth!” They walk in companionable silence a few steps, and Annie thinks of the woman living alone on her island, about the light that so irked her.

  “Would you like to join me for coffee, Sully?”

  She looks hesitant.

  “I’d love to hear more about your time on the mountain.” Annie hopes the invitation will entice her and is pleased when Sully gives a silent nod.

  The Galley is closed, but she wants to check in on Bess, see if she can help, and she bets Bess won’t mind them using two of her mugs if Annie can drum up the coffee.

  Turns out she’s right. Bess is busy popping popcorn for the show and doesn’t mind them using the stools for a chat. Piping hot mugs before them, Annie nudges the bowl of creamer Sully’s way.

  “How’s your garden?” she asks, before pulling in a sip of cream-laden coffee.

  “Not about to win any awards,” Sully says. “But I think I’ve got some carrots coming up, and that’s something at least.”

  Annie smiles, wondering if she has any right to intrude but hating the fact she holds knowledge that might bring some good to this courageous woman’s life.

  As if reading her thoughts, Sully gulps down her sip and opens up her heart. “Tell you the truth, it’s a mite lonesome out there. You wouldn’t think it, me living up on the mountain so long. But I lived there with my husband the past two decades of it. Late bloomers, both of us. When he passed on, he left me this old estate, and I started to get some hints that an old woman like me was more a hindrance out there in the wilderness than a help.” She shakes her head, letting Annie fill in the rest.

  “You’re hardly an old woman,” Annie says. “You’ve got more spunk and grit in you than most twenty-somethings back in the city.” She laughs. “Including me.”

  “Now that’s not true.” Sully halts the thought with an open hand. “They can do a thousand things I can’t. And I saw the way you lit up when you talked about that light tower tonight. That’s really something.” She sighs. “Guess it’s just the solitude that gets to me. I feel it more in that empty house on the water than I did on the mountain.”

  This is it. The window she’s been watching for. “Sully . . . if I may . . .”

  “Oh, spit it out, girl. Not much can offend this old bird.”

  She takes a deep breath. “That light. On Ed’s island?”

  “That infernal thing! At least he finally took it down. I—”

  “Did you ever wonder why he might have it there?”

  “Of course I did. Why does a blind man need a light? But I couldn’t come right out and say that to him, could I?”

  “Maybe he sees a whole lot more than he lets on.” Annie repeats Jeremiah’s words, hoping Sully might pick up on some of the bread crumbs she’s dropping. “A light appearing right about when you did? A light facing the island of a newcomer who lives alone, out there where he knows just how isolating island life can be . . . ?”

  Sully is growing antsy on her stool. She stirs her spoon in her coffee, agitating the black surface of it.

  “It’s a sign of life,” Annie says. “For you.”

  “Well . . . as if I needed a light to tell me something like that.” Her words are gruff, but the lines on her face have softened, forehead pinching thoughtfully. She fingers the silverware laid out on the napkin before her, gaze intent on them. Foot tapping.

  Suddenly she’s up, shrugging into her jacket. “Time I did something,” she says. “Thanks for the coffee, Annie. You keep going on that tower.” And with that, she vanishes out the back door.

  Annie hardly has space to process what just happened before Bess pops her head out of the kitchen. “Got a minute?”

  “For you? Always.” Annie joins her in the warm room.

  “Would you mind taking these over to the landing?” She points at a box of stuffed-full red-and-white-striped popcorn bags. Annie can almost taste the hot butter and sea salt.

  “Sure.” She lifts the box. “Who am I taking them to?”

  “Fletch.” Bess tugs at her red kerchief. “He’s running the concession boat tonight.”

  Annie’s face goes grim. That man . . . he is a puzzle. Anytime she thinks she sees a flicker of connection looming, up goes the wall between them.

  “What’s his story, anyway?” Annie shifts the box to the stainless-steel counter beside her.

  “His story?” Bess empties the pot of fluffy white kernels, then pours in a slow drizzle of oil to coat it again, adding new kernels, clamping down the lid. She blows out her cheeks, shakes her head. “It’s not for me to say, Annie-girl.”

  Annie nods. She respects that. “I just wonder about him. There are times he seems like he could be . . .” She struggles to complete that thought. “A friend.” Maybe even more. “A real, true friend. The kind you only come across once in a lifetime, you know?” The kind who dumps a bucket of sand on his boat deck just because of a girl’s silly fear. “But then he just . . .”

  Bess nods. “Shuts down.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s Fletch, all right. He’s as honest and good as the day is long, but try and get close, and you see how stubborn that wall around him is.”

  “There has to be a reason for it,” Annie says, more to herself than to Bess.

  Bess shakes the pot to keep the kernels from scorching. Annie opens new striped bags and starts shoveling some of the cooled, buttered popcorn in.

  “There is,” Bess says.

  “I don’t mean to pry,” Annie rushes in, recalling Bess’s earlier words. “Just thinking out loud.” She thinks of his letter, that first line she read, and feels the guilt roll in.

  “You know about his wife,” Bess says. Her eyebrow peaks in a question.

  “His . . . wife?” Her mind reels to make sense of this. Jeremiah Fletcher has a wife?

  Bess nods. “Late wife. That much, everyone around here knows. He lost her some time ago, back in Seattle. Showed up here, locking himself away from everyone. It was like he’d run as far as he could from what had happened, hit the ocean, and had to stop. But even so . . . he doesn’t. You�
��ve seen him head out every morning.”

  “Yes.” Without fail, every single day before the sun.

  “No one knows where he goes. It’s like that heart of his is still running, and it does it in the dark.”

  Annie’s motions are slow, filling the popcorn bags blindly, trying to make sense of this information. A pain deep in her chest pulses for the man and what he’s been through.

  “One thing you should know about Fletch.” Bess pulls the pot from the heat, switches off the burner. “He doesn’t let people in quickly. Or at all, sometimes.”

  Annie nods, trying to resign herself to this, to the fact that she’s shared more of herself with this man than anyone she can think of. And yet . . . he is a vault.

  “But when he’s in . . . he’s all in. No turning back. He’s a lot like Bob, in that way. It’s no wonder those two are thick as thieves. He’s also a lot like someone else I used to know.”

  “Oh?”

  “Ayuh. Your father.”

  “You remember my father?”

  “There’s not a soul in Ansel who doesn’t remember him,” she says. “He won all our hearts back then.” Something heavy settles upon her then.

  “What is it?”

  “We miss him, is all. I pray still he’ll come back.”

  The question winds up through Annie, the one knit to her very bones. “I knew he came here for a time after my grandmother died, but what made him leave, Bess?”

  The woman gives out a low whistle. “That is a long tale,” she says. “One better saved for the light of day. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll tell you what I know, if you really want to know. For now, though”—Bess winks, picking up the box of ready-to-go popcorn bags and placing it in Annie’s arms—“get this to Fletch, or he’ll have a mob of angry yachters pounding at his rowboat.”