by Tracy Sumner
Elle glared and kicked the door shut, propelling him onto the small landing. "Fine show of gratitude," he muttered and yanked his cuffs.
Closing in on Henri Beaumont, Noah reminded himself that Pilot Isle differed greatly from Chicago. He had to get used to being part of a community, tipping his hat and making eye contact, engaging the fishermen he had come to soothe in discussions about the weather or the latest catch. Inane, completely harmless conversation.
Hell, he might as well practice his rusty skills on Henri Beaumont.
3
"We must console ourselves with the comparatively few things which come up entire."
~ C. Wyville Thomson
The Depths of the Sea
You cannot force me, Elle thought to herself, her father's voice dissolving in her ears like mist in the sunlight. Her weekly dinners with her father were quickly becoming comparable to torture.
"Marielle-Claire, are you listening?"
Reaching for her wineglass, Elle drained it in one swallow. Her father kept a bottle of Bordeaux in the storeroom of Christabel's restaurant and insisted on drinking from his own crystal.
"Daughter, are you listening?"
"You cannot force me," she said, a kaleidoscope of color glittering across the tablecloth as she lowered the beveled glass.
"Force you? Grands Dieux! If I could force you, I would have. Long ago."
She drew a calming breath of air filled with the scent of smoke, fish, and Macassar oil. Strong enough to make her think every male head in the room was heavily slicked.
"You let Dr. Leland slip through your fingers, Marielle-Claire. Absurd, especially for a man, but I believe he wanted your love. Would not have you unless he had it, which, of course, he did not." Henri's lips parted on a sigh, a puff of smoke drifting forth. "Let there be only honesty between family. Your love is not available, now is it?"
She blinked and coughed, her eyes stinging. "Available? I've never loved a man enough to get married, if that's what you mean."
He flicked his hand, ashes from his cigar drifting to the floor. "Why do you insist upon believing in an antiquated ideal? Forget about a marriage based on love. I didn't love your mother. And she did not love me. We had a sensible relationship, a solid partnership. Love would have thrown a kink in a well-oiled piece of machinery," he said, candlelight revealing flaring nostrils and plump cheeks. Except for a hint of plumpness in her own cheeks, she and her father shared little. "If your mother had not been dead all these years, I would curse her for putting such nonsense in your head."
Elle dug her heels into the pine planks beneath her feet and prayed to God she could hold her tongue. She counted to ten, then whispered, "Grandmere Dupre filled my head with nonsense, if you must know."
"Ah... cela n'a rien d'etonnant." Henri stabbed his cigar in the clump of creamed spinach on his plate, lips curling back from his teeth. "Not a surprise, to translate for you since your French is much like a child's. This news makes me regret, not for the first time, sending Marie our address after we moved to America. Is this what she wrote about in those cumbersome letters she sent every month? Cautioned you to marry for love? As she did, but, alas, as her beloved daughter did not? Imbecilic drivel from an old woman."
Elle swallowed her ire, wishing for another glass of wine to soften her father's cruel counsel. "Marie Dupre bore seven children with a man she cherished more than life. She believed in the power of love and urged me to hold on to love if I found it, no matter the cost." Of course, years ago, not long before Marie's death, Elle had made the mistake of writing to her about Noah. Every cumbersome letter from then on had mentioned his name, asking if he had returned to Pilot Isle. As if she somehow knew he would. As if it mattered.
"Don't look at me with blatant hostility on your face. You are my only child, a beautiful woman, and I love you. However, you tend to dream far too much, Marielle-Claire. Life is for those who grasp it in both hands." He made a fist. "Who do, not who dream. Sad but true, but you need a man to grasp life for you. You cannot do it alone. It's impossible. I made a mistake allowing you unlimited freedom. University, the disruptive group of women who encouraged you to attend those ridiculous rallies. The trouble you got into was easy enough to rectify. After I assured them you were going home, the officers released you without complaint. But the ideas, they remain a wall around you. Grands Dieux! Ideas of independence and feminine freedom, as if there were such a thing." He rolled the rim of his glass along his bottom lip, took a measuring sip. "Caleb would have put up with your nonsense. After all, he continues to."
"He's in love with Christabel. A tad late, I'm afraid." Elle smothered a yawn; she had heard these complaints many times.
"Well, well. Gossip travels."
Elle's shoulders lifted beneath her faded dress. She felt calm, overly calm. She wondered if her father's Bordeaux were to blame.
"Christabel Connery is nothing for you to worry about. I will talk to Caleb, if you wish. If you changed your mind, I could be persuaded to change his."
Elle gazed through flickering candlelight—across an incongruous setting of chipped porcelain and gleaming crystal—into a stranger's eyes. At times like these, her mother's comforting smile returned, and Elle experienced grief greater than any she could imagine. If only... oh, damn and blast with if only. "Papa, I don't care about Caleb and Christabel. I don't care about Magnus and Anna Plowman. If I married a man, shouldn't I care if he loves another woman?"
Henri reared, his thumbs snaking beneath the braided edge of his waistcoat. "I imagine you would care if the situation involved young Noah. He asked me to translate a science text this afternoon. Mentioned he's living in the widow's vacant dwelling. How opportune."
She slid her glass in a slow circle. Would she care if Noah loved another woman? Kissed another woman? The naive young girl would have cared plenty, and gone after them, claws sharpened. Elle rubbed her hand across her stomach, the sudden ache warning her the young girl still resided inside her.
No. A woman did not experience the unconditional love of a child. And, her love for Noah had been unconditional from the first moment. She could still see him shoving Daniel Connery from her path and turning to escort her inside the schoolhouse. Her mind had not understood every word spoken that day, but her heart had.
Her father's fist cracked down, upsetting a tin saltshaker and her wineglass. "Marielle-Claire, you must get him out of your mind. I would be happy to hand you over to him, believe me. But be reasonable. He does not want you. He never has."
Elle righted her glass and reached for the bottle. "Our relationship does not include sharing my mind, Papa. What's there is mine and mine alone." Commending herself for pouring with a steady hand, she took a long sip before she looked into eyes that scaled and stored.
Exposed, she buried her anguish deep.
Henri leaned forward, wadding stained cloth beneath each elbow. "Forget him, daughter. Right now, right this minute. You made a perfect ninny of yourself, but you were a child, and people will excuse a child's impropriety. They will not excuse a woman's."
Anger bloomed hot and fast in her cheeks.
"I can see by your intractable expression that I will have to unveil harsh truths to make you understand your position. A scented letter was waiting for young Noah at the post office this morning. From a Mrs. Bartram. Caroline, I believe. Return address Chicago. Unfortunately, Garrett retrieved the missive before I had a chance to intercept. Written proof would work wonders in convincing you."
"That's despicable."
His shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. "Dear girl, I no longer presume where you're concerned. I learned that lesson long ago."
"I no longer presume where you're concerned either, Papa. Those lessons blistered."
He vaulted to his feet, his chair skidding back. "You set yourself on a perilous course." He stuffed his crystal wineglasses in his coat pocket. "A dire one."
Knowing it would fuel his ire as mere words could not, Elle flicked her fing
ers in a dismissive gesture. It worked, she thought, watching him storm from the restaurant, cursing the tables crowding his path, cursing his daughter, cursing the small town he ran his shipping empire from.
"Whew, that was a good one."
Elle propped her chin in her palm, watched Christabel Connery sweep her maroon skirt to the side and plant her ample bottom in the chair her father had vacated.
"A quick-tempered male, I tell you."
"At least he didn't break any crystal this time," Elle said.
Christabel pulled a dented cup from her apron pocket and emptied the rest of the wine in it. "Oh, he's just getting sick of ordering those fancy glasses every month. Sees it's cheaper to flounce outta here spitting curses rather than throwing things. For the love of Pete, at least that's free." She swished wine from cheek to cheek and swallowed. "Have a fit if he saw me drinking this from a tin cup, wouldn't he?"
Elle laughed, or tried to, and dipped her head low. Her father's tantrum hadn't left the sick feeling in her stomach. Oh, no, Noah's love letter had done that.
"Oh, honey."
Startled, she glanced up, taking note of the compassion in her friend's dark brown eyes. Not able to stand anyone's sympathy just then, Elle dropped her gaze to the tangle of blond hair trailing past Christa's shoulder. Her father called Christabel a floozy; Elle called her a friend. "He's never going to sign my money over to me, Christa. Never. He has no right to do this. My mother planned to give it to me for my education. She and Papa discussed the funds before she died. He promised her, promised me. And now, it's been so long. I'm too old to return to university."
"It seems he has every right, fair or no. Didn't your momma leave anything in writing? Anything at all? I don't know much about legal matters, but I do know you have to get it in writing."
Elle shook her head. Her mother's death had been sudden, three weeks after the headaches and dizziness started. There had not been time to sign papers and legalize things her mother had never dreamed would need to be legalized.
"Maybe you should marry—"
Elle's hand shot on, coming close to knocking the bottle to the floor. "Please, don't say it, Christa. Please, anyone but you."
"Honey, what are you going to do? Your school isn't a money-making business. Not enough, anyway. And what if Widow Wynne, bless her heart, passes on? You could open a shop, a millinery or something, like Carol Hudley. Except you can't sew worth a lick. And your cooking isn't good enough for even me to hire you." Christabel raised the cup to her lips, her words a hollow echo against tin. "You could still go back to Magnus."
Elle slammed her elbows to the table. "You must be joking."
Christabel lowered the cup, revealing flushed cheeks and a half grimace.
"Mercy above, you're embarrassed to even suggest it. How could you think...?" The words turned to a growl low in her throat.
"He still loves you, Ellie. Anna Plowman is a blind fool, I guess, not to see. Tell him you love him and didn't realize it before. He'd jump like you lit a firecracker under his tail end."
"I won't do it. Something deep inside tells me not to."
A dreamy smile rounded Christabel's lips as she took a lazy sip.
Elle leaned in and whispered, "Get that look off your face. It's not going to happen." She glanced over her shoulder, but no one appeared to be listening.
"Like your granny always said."
"Yes, yes, Noah's returned. Fat lot of good that will do me. My father just told me a woman is writing him from Chicago. Scented letters, of all things."
"Chicago's a long way, honey. Miles and miles. She's there, and you're here. Seems you have the advantage. Not so hard to make him fall in love with you if you put your mind to it."
A ragged laugh burst from her lips. "Noah Garrett, in love with me? Rich, Christa, really rich."
"Listen, from one woman who loves a Garrett to another who loves a Garrett but won't admit she does, it isn't that hard. You just got to make them see what's already there. Caleb never knew what hit him. Plain as the writing on a chalkboard most times. Men are just too stupid to read the message."
Elle shoved a spiral of hair behind her ear, wondering why her chignons never held for more than an hour. "Let me say this once, so I don't have to repeat it. I will never make a fool of myself over him again. I loved him, yes, I admit. Loved. A young girl's infatuation that is a faded memory now. As pathetically faded as this dress." She plucked at her bodice. "I avoided the post office this morning, because everyone is watching me, expecting me to swoop down, snatch Noah between my teeth, and fly off with him."
"Can you say you wouldn't enjoy flying off with him in your jaws? Can you really?"
Elle dropped her head to her hands and groaned. "Oh, Christa."
"I say you can't, because I saw him today, walking back from the docks. Honest, I nearly dropped my sack of potatoes. He grew up mighty fine." Christabel clinked the cup against her teeth. "Taller than any man on the street; a head full of hair the color of good scotch whiskey. Fancy fishing pole thrown over a broad shoulder. Picture spindly Noah Garrett having broad shoulders? Not as broad as Caleb's, mind you, but a surprise considering what a scrawny boy he was."
"He was never scrawny."
Christabel threw back her head and laughed.
"Stop it," Elle whispered. "Do you want the whole town to know what we're talking about? Heaven, that's all I need."
Christabel pressed her hand to her mouth, her head bobbing. "Sorry, sorry."
"I can handle this, I'm telling you. I can handle him. Don't go making a scene."
"Uh-huh. Did you see the clothes he wore? Slicked sharp as Sunday, neat as a pin. You always liked him spit-shined, didn't you?"
Elle pinched the bridge of her nose, a nagging headache creeping up on her. "Sure, I loved feeling fit for the rag box compared to him."
"Rag box? No, just a handful of trouble every now and then. Still are, I guess. But a man forgets all his arguments real quick when he looks into a face pretty as yours. Rag box? That's a new one." She gazed into her empty cup, her voice going soft. "Ellie, you and Noah were the sweetest things I ever saw."
"Sweet?"
"Oh, he acted like you rubbed him the wrong way, or acted like you didn't rub him at all. Once or twice, not long before he left, I know I caught him looking at you, a spark of interest showing." Christabel dabbed the frayed edge of her apron against her lips. "You see, honey, I recognize the spark of interest in the Garrett grays."
"Good for you. Good for Caleb. Just leave me, leave Noah, out of your spark-of-interest, Garrett-gray theory."
Christabel shook her head and sighed theatrically. "Sure a shame. Imagine the children you two would have. Smart as whips with a dash of spunk thrown in."
Elle's stomach twisted. Would they have had green eyes or gray? Hair the color of a burst of sunlight or dull, stringy red? Elle lifted her head to discover a shrewd smile crossing her friend's face. "Damn," she said and wrenched to her feet.
"Wait, honey, your daddy left this."
Elle grabbed Noah's textbook and skirted the crowded tables, ignoring the amused glances and the whispered comments.
All the way home, the book pressed to her bosom, Elle wondered how many people believed she still loved Noah Garrett.
Elle gave the dangling front doorknob a gentle twist, fearing it would fall off and roll into the tangle of shrubs surrounding the porch. Another chore to add to an unbearably long list. Tossing her shawl and gloves on the hall-tree shelf, she made her way along the darkened hallway.
Elle slid the pocket door aside and twisted the gasolier switch, flooding the parlor with murky light. Sinking to the edge of the tattered love seat, she turned her attention to the leather-bound volume in her hands. She read enough to see the red-and-gold slip marked an essay about coral erosion. Unfortunately, she could not read the text well. As her father had pointed out, her French equaled a child's.
Asking for a translation was a remarkably devious way of diverting
her father's attention. Especially for a boy who had once dragged her into the mercantile and made her apologize for stealing apples.
Propping her feet on a tasseled ottoman, Elle hoisted the book against her ribs. She flicked her finger over the dog-eared pages, paused to read the notes scribbled in the margin.
An hour later, the case clock chimed; the book thumped to the floor. She reached for it, stopped, sighed. Noah's accomplishments were buried in the index at the rear: doctoral research, expeditions in the Pacific. He had even lived up to his childhood nickname. Heavens, she had eaten lunch with a true professor with her skirt hiked around her knees.
She kicked the book, then curled her toes in pain. She hated this feeling of... inferiority, of envy. If she had finished university, maybe she could converse about science or literature, history or mathematics. A semester of domestic economy wasn't likely to help her much.
Elle let her gaze stray to the pilot coat hanging over the arm of the love seat. She drew her hand back before her fingers brushed the sleeve. She and Noah did not have one interest in common except a thirst for knowledge, something he did not even recognize in her.
She wasn't sure who he was anymore. The person in the book; the biologist who had traveled the world and written research papers; the man who received perfumed letters from a married woman and stood so tall he had to duck through doorways.
She didn't know him.
She didn't think she would ever know him again.
Noah felt the stare burning into his back a full minute before he turned. Shading his face, he squinted into the sun, seeing only the darkened silhouette of a woman. A jolt of undesired anticipation tore through him, then trickled away when he caught the scent.