Bartholomew turned away. How naive he had been. Hester had always been manipulative, but he'd never guessed her capable of sinking to such depths. Yet, he could not doubt that what Ariah told him was true. Hester had wanted him to betray her. Somewhere in her twisted mind she had believed that his plunge into sin would erase her own. Had he driven her to such desperate measures by throwing her past into her face? By threatening her with it?
The same question that had haunted him the past two weeks and more came back to rattle about in his brain, like a pebble in a clam shell. If he had wooed his wife seven years ago instead of turning his back on her, would their marriage have travelled the same ugly path? If he'd offered her love rather than hate, would she have learned to love him in return? Hester had been badly misused by the men in her life before coming to Tillamook. And he had done her no better. He should have treated her with understanding and compassion, not intolerance and enmity.
Ariah was still there, behind him. He could smell her, feel her warmth, hear her soft breathing, and sense her longing for him. Steeling himself against his own physical reaction to her, he dragged up the bootstraps of his anger and made his voice as frosty as he could. "She still didn't deserve to die as she did."
"No, but it was she who chose to keep her condition a secret, she who refused to let Doctor Wills examine her. Bartholomew—" Her voice became intent, each word spaced for emphasis "—you did not cause Hester's death."
His only response was a disgusted grunt.
Ariah tried again. "Don't you believe what Doctor Wills told you? She had a deadly disease. There was no cure. Even if her leg hadn't become infected, she would have died before the year was half over, probably sooner. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it."
He made no reply, as if he hadn't even heard her.
Ariah released her breath in a long, weary sigh. Oblivious to the handsome birds strutting about the pen, or the duller females couched on their nests she retraced her steps to the door. After letting herself out and latching the door behind her, she gave the man inside one more glance. He stood with his back to her, hands on his hips, head bowed.
"I've invited Calvin and the boys to supper," she said. "I thought you might like to know."
When he said nothing, she went back to the garden, her heart so heavy that even the thought of the Easter festivities she had so looked forward to, failed to cheer her.
The guests arrived with Seamus shortly after noon. Ariah greeted them with a smile as big as the ocean, glad for the distraction of their company. In her hands she carried a tray bearing glasses of water, a spoonful of blackberry jam spiked with almonds balanced on the rims of each tumbler.
"This is glyko, which means spoon sweet," Ariah explained as she passed them out. "In a Greek home, it's traditional to greet guests with a drink and a sweet. If anyone is hungry, I'd be happy to fetch them something more substantial. Meanwhile, think of this as an official welcome to a Greek Easter feast."
Seamus took one look at the small treat and opted for his pipe instead. "Don't give me none o' that cat-lap, lass. All I want is some o' the grog Max brung."
Jacob swallowed his in one gulp. "We already ate, but this is good. I'll take Seamus's."
Calvin cuffed the boy on the head and everyone laughed.
A thin whisker of a man stepped forward to offer Ariah a bottle of French wine. He towered above her, perhaps as much as two inches taller than Bartholomew.
"I be Max, ma'am. Appreciate the invite."
The spikes of a well-waxed mustache quivered as he spoke through lips as red as the wine he held. Bony wrists hung far below the sleeves of a threadbare sack coat.
"I'm glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Hennifee, and to have you join in our celebration."
The middle-aged tavern owner blushed to the roots of his hair. "Don't be a-hanging that handle on me, ma'am. Nobody's called me nothing but Max in nigh on thirty years. Don't reckon I'd think to answer to mister."
"And you must call me Ariah."
Max bobbed his head. "'Tis honored I'd be, ma'am."
She turned to Seamus and held out the wine. "If this is the 'grog' you were looking for, you'd best open it and pour some for anyone who wishes to partake with you."
"That ain't grog," he growled. "That's fer women and loblolly lads, like them two pups o' Calvin's."
"Aye," said Max. "'Tis rum he be wanting, ma'am."
"Oh, well, if we have any, it would be Seamus who'd know where to find it. You can help yourself as soon as you get the lamb on the spit."
"Arg," Seamus groaned. "Now it's crumb bosins she's wantin' to make us into."
Ariah chuckled. "If that means what I think it does, you're exactly right. But remember, he who helps the cook, gets first cut of the meat."
"Suits me, doc," Max retorted, awarding her the sailor's appellation for a ship's cook. "Jest show me to the galley."
After instructing the men on how to prepare the lamb for roasting, Ariah took the wine Max had brought and the other parcels Seamus had gotten her, and returned to her kitchen. Watching the men through the open window, she heard Calvin ask where his brother was.
"Weepin' and wailin' like a dang female somewheres, likely," Seamus replied.
"Uncle Bart's at the light, if that's who you're talking about," Pritchard said as he joined them. "He offered to relieve me so I wouldn't miss the feast. He didn't seem to want to be around the rest of us."
Cal frowned. "He took Hester's death surprisingly hard."
"Huh! Woman was a Jonah, sure as I ever sailed a bloody ship to sea." Seamus spat into his left hand and Ariah knew it was for good luck, as if even the mention of Hester's name might bring him ill fortune. So much for her efforts to entice Bartholomew out with the smells of her cooking.
"Won't find her on no Fiddlers' Green, I tell ye," the old sailor added.
Cal laughed. "I doubt we'll find you in any sailor's heaven either, you old barnacle-back."
The voices drifted away on the breeze as the men set about roasting the lamb. Ariah turned her attention to her cooking, hoping Bartholomew hadn't heard Seamus's unflattering comments. The chances of him joining them today were slim enough without ill feelings stepping in to make matters worse.
Her heart ached, for Bartholomew and for herself. The man she loved was free now, but he obviously wanted nothing to do with her. She understood his remorse, shared his guilt and pain, yet she hated letting Hester win. And as long as the woman's death was allowed to keep them apart, the same way her living presence had, Hester had indeed won.
Checking the schedule she'd made up to ensure that all the food would be ready on time, Ariah measured flour into two large bowls, mixing dough for apple fritters in one, bread in the other. Guilt, sorrow and frustration were shoved aside. Today was a day for hope and new beginnings. She refused to knuckle under to the painful emotions seething inside her.
While the dough raised, she put rice and ground lamb on to cook, and rinsed brine from the bottled grape leaves. Scraps were set aside for the wolf-dog she had named Apollo, after the Greek god of goodness and beauty, the inspiration of muses. There had been no time to steal off into the forest the last few days, and she worried that the dog would be starving.
When everything was nearly ready, she went outside to ask the men to bring out the large table and chairs from the dining room. The morning breeze had fled, leaving the day calm and warm. Much too lovely to spend inside. Soon the table was set with a crisp white linen cloth, napkins and the best china. Jacob and Robert helped her carry out the food, while the men took the lamb from the spit and began to carve it. After depositing a covered dish on the table, Ariah took Calvin aside.
"Cal, would you see if you can get Bartholomew to join us? I invited him, but . . ." She let the words trail away, uncertain how to go on without exposing her feelings for Calvin's brother.
"No one knows better than me how stubborn he can be." Cal patted her on the shoulder and gave her a conspiratorial
wink. "I'll see what I can do."
Cal found him at the keeper's desk, a logbook in front of him. "Hey, little brother, Ariah's put a fine looking supper together up there," he said, motioning to the top of the bluff.
Bartholomew stared sullenly at the man leaning against the doorjamb, grinning as though all was right with the world and Bartholomew should have nothing on his mind other than food and the pleasure of family and friends. It rankled, yet he did not want to be churlish to his brother. Lord knew, they saw little enough of each other as it was. The last thing Bartholomew wanted was bad blood between them, simply because Calvin couldn't understand what he was going through, even though Cal had lost his own wife six years ago.
As though he had read his brother's mind, Cal said, "You know, for awhile after Ellen died, I hated myself for being the cause of her death—"
"What do you mean? You didn't cause—"
Cal held up a hand.
"She died trying to birth a baby I put in her body, Bart. Knowing that made me feel lower than a slug's belly, till one night Ellen came to me in a dream. 'You're a dang fool, Calvin Noon,' she said."
Cal chuckled, remembering. Ellen was always calling him a dang fool. "She reminded me that she had wanted that baby every bit as much as I did. No one understands the risks of childbearing better than a woman, she said. She chose to take those risks and I was a pompous, overbearing ass to consider my part in that decision weightier than hers. She was right. From that time on I concentrated on remembering the love we'd shared and being grateful for having her as long as I did."
Cal pushed away from the doorjamb. He leaned both hands on the desk in front of Bartholomew and stared his brother hard in the face. "We all know what you've suffered, but there comes a time to put grief aside, and today seems like a good day for it to me. What do you say?" Cal straightened and held out a hand.
Lines from the bible filled Bartholomew's mind: To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die . . . A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance . . .
Perhaps Ariah and Cal were right; he'd kicked himself long enough. He gripped Cal's hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. But Cal didn't stop there; he drew Bartholomew straight into his arms, embracing him openly and without shame.
"Sometimes, little brother, we have to ask ourselves if we're truly grieving or simply feeling sorry for ourselves."
Bartholomew punched him softly in the ribs. "Don't push it too far, old man," he muttered, but his voice lacked venom.
Cal chuckled and hauled him out the door.
Ariah avoided Bartholomew's gaze when the two brothers came to the table, afraid the hope in her eyes would reawaken his need to punish himself. When Cal suggested Bartholomew give the blessing, she wanted to kick the man.
Bartholomew gave them each a long, searching look, and nodded. The prayer was brief but succinct, asking for a blessing on the food and on each participant. Then he added, "Help us, Lord, to always know thy will, to remember thy commandments, and to find the strength to obey. Amen."
Ariah felt kissed and cursed in the same breath. His choice of words admitted that he might not always know the right thing to do, but they also reminded her—as they had been meant to do—that what was between them was forbidden, and that he meant to refuse her apple of temptation. Swallowing the emotion that swelled in her throat, she stood. Her voice quavered only slightly. "Since this is a proper Grecian feast, I think it fitting to give an old Greek toast." She raised her glass and saluted each guest. "May God bless you all with male children and all female goats."
As she had hoped, the awkward moment that had followed Bartholomew's solemn prayer dissolved into laughter.
Taking her seat, she helped herself to sliced potatoes cooked in olive oil and seasoned with lemon juice and oregano, and passed the dish on. Sensing an intense gaze upon her, she glanced up to find Bartholomew staring at her from across the table. Barely lifting his glass, his soft words intended only for her ears, he said, "Kali orexi."
That gentle reminder of another Greek meal shared in a cabin on the Trask River and the night that had followed it, surprised and pleased her as nothing had in a very long while. He had forgiven her for whatever part she had played in his guilt. Blinking back tears, uncaring of the love exposed in her smile, she whispered, "Kali orexi, happy eating."
Silence reined over the table, except for the clink of silverware against china and a few grunts of approval.
"Hey, this is good," Pritchard exclaimed, biting into a succulent morsel in a crisp, golden brown crust. "You sure you cooked this, Ariah? I didn't think you had it in you to come up with anything this tasty."
Bartholomew quelled the urge to slug the boy. "You have real class, Pritchard."
"Thanks, Uncle Bart. Pass that bowl in front of you."
"Yeah, I'll take some more of that too," Jacob put in. "I don't know what it is, but I wish you'd teach Mrs. Goodman how to make it, Ariah."
Ariah waited until both men had full mouths. "I'm glad you like it. It's fried squid."
Pritchard stopped chewing. His face turned a sickly green. "It's what?"
"Fried squid." She smiled. "Is something wrong?"
He shook his head. "Excuse me," he mumbled and raced from the table.
Everyone except Jacob laughed. The boy chewed, swallowed and pursed his lips. "Squid, huh? Sounds awful, but it sure tastes good."
"Here, try this." Ariah handed him a tureen of bite-sized chunks of meat cooked in tomatoes, wine, onions and celery.
Jacob gamely forked a bite into his mouth. "Umm, this is even better than the squid. I suppose you're gonna tell me this is octopus or sea lion or something."
"You're right. Octopus. Bartholomew caught them for me."
"I'll be danged."
Cal was sternly rebuking the boy for his language when a shout from Robert cut him off and ended the laughter that had followed Jacob's exclamation. Leaping to his feet, Robert pointed toward the forest.
"It's a dog. How'd you get Aunt Hester to let you have a dog, Uncle Bart? She hates dogs."
Ariah turned. There, standing beside the fence not more than a hundred yards away, was Apollo.
Pritchard returned, hugging his stomach, his face still pale, though no longer green. Seeing that everyone was staring off toward the trees, he looked to determine what had captured their attention. "That's the dog from the shipwreck."
"You mean that wreck a couple of months ago?" Robert asked. "Gosh, he must be hungry."
In spite of his queasy stomach, Pritchard smiled. "Ariah's been leaving him food in the woods to make friends with him."
"Can we pet him?" Too eager to wait for an answer, both Cal's boys left the table and headed for the gate.
"Wait!" Ariah jumped to her feet. "He was half-wild when we found him and he's still wary of people. Stay here, please. I'll take him some food."
The disappointed boys flopped down in their seats. Seven pairs of curious eyes followed Ariah to the house. Moments later she reappeared with a newspaper-wrapped packet. When she reached the gate, Apollo's tail began to wag. Ariah slowed her pace, afraid she would frighten him away. The dog watched her every movement, his big chocolate eyes shrewd and intent.
"Hello, Apollo. Did you get hungry enough to come looking for me?"
Six feet away, she stopped, hoping to make the dog come to her. "Look here, I've got something for you."
Ariah parted the folds of the paper to reveal the food scraps inside and held it out for him to see. Apollo's nose twitched. His tail went still. His mouth opened and a coral tongue swiped at his chops. Ariah set the packet on the ground and crouched beside it. The dog craned his shaggy head toward the food and sniffed. He pranced nervously in place and whined.
"It's all right." Ariah eased back a few inches to give him more space. "Come on, I won't hurt you."
Chocolate eyes searched blue ones questioningly. He inched c
loser and whined again.
Ariah waited, barely breathing.
Apollo eyed the food hungrily. Two more steps. His gaze flicked from her to the food. Seeming to make up his mind, he snatched a chunk of meat and darted away. When Ariah didn't contest his action, he hunkered down to gobble the prize. Now he came to the paper less warily. His tail swished in short, choppy swipes. He seized a bite and ate without moving off.
Ariah waited until half the food was gone. Then she began to talk in a quiet, soothing undertone. When he had eaten nearly everything, she inched her hand toward him. He flinched at her first touch. Food was forgotten as he watched her reach toward him again.
"It's all right, Apollo," she crooned. "You have a home now. You won't ever be hungry again. And I'll love you, the way a big, beautiful fellow like you should be loved."
Her hand sank into thick coarse hair almost as long as her fingers. She stroked his head where his dark markings came down over his eyes, her touch light and caressing. "In a way, I'm as alone as you are, Apollo, but now we have each other."
The dog eyed the last morsel of food on the paper and whined.
"Go ahead. I'm not going to hurt you."
He dropped his head and ate. Easing herself onto her knees, Ariah continued to stroke his matted, dirty. She longed to pull out the burrs but was afraid to try.
Suddenly something wet and rough sloppily laved her cheek. Startled, she drew back. Apollo's tail wagged double-time. He gave a short bark and licked her again.
Ariah's heart swelled and her eyes prickled. Throwing caution to the wind, she hugged him. He accepted the weight of her arms around him as he continued to lick her neck and face.
Behind her rose a round of cheers. She looked up to see that the men had left the table and come into the yard to watch. Every face held a smile, but the only one that captured her gaze, and her heart, was Bartholomew's. It came to her then that Apollo was not only the god of goodness and beauty; he was also the bringer of catharsis, of the purification of guilt-ridden consciences, and the god of peace.
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