Twice Loved (copy2)

by LaVyrle Spencer

  “Rye, I got the message you sent about Josh. I meant to thank you for sending it that day I came to the cooperage to order the cover, but my temper got the better of me and I—”

  “Laura, I’m sorry for what I said that day, and for not comin’ downstairs the day y’ came t’ pick up the cover. I knew y’ were down there, and I heard y’ tellin’ the old man y’ wanted t’ talk t’ me.”

  “Oh no, Rye, I’m the one who should apologize, for what I said that day about DeLaine Hussey. I realized later how unfair it was of me to put restrictions on you when I’m ... well ...” She let the thought go unfinished, and asked instead, “How did you find out that Josh knew you were his father?”

  “He came t’ the cooperage and denied it, then punched me in the stomach and took off, cryin’.”

  Unconsciously, Laura covered Rye’s hand with her free one. “Oh, Rye, no.” Her eyes were sad and her lips drooped compassionately.

  “I could see he was terribly upset, and I worried about him day and night after that, wonderin’ what was goin’ through the little tyke’s mind, and through yours. Then when y’ came to the cooperage, I ... I didn’t even bother t’ ask how he’d found out and how he was takin’ it.”

  “He found out from Jimmy ...” Laura relayed the happenings of that day, and as she finished, Rye was staring at their joined hands while his thumb stroked her knuckles.

  “Did y’ tell him about us? About the beginnin’?”

  “I did. I tried to explain everything so that he’d understand, about our childhood and why you went on the voyage and what it was like when I thought you were dead, right up to the time you came back.”

  “And what was his reaction?”

  “He wanted to know if I was married to both of you, and if you both ...” But she decided it was wisest not to finish.

  Rye shot her a sharp look, and Laura sensed that he knew, even though she hadn’t said it. She understood intuitively that what Rye sought was some assurance that Josh was growing to accept the knowledge of his paternity. Laura’s forehead showed lines of concern.

  “Oh, Rye, his security has been so badly shaken. I can see changes in him as time goes on, and I believe he’s coming to terms with the truth, but I really can’t say what his feelings are. I think he’s still very mixed up about all this.”

  Rye sighed, then absently watched his mug as he moved it on the tabletop in circular motions.

  Laura freed her hand and went to fetch the kettle once more. When she was again seated across from Rye, she purposely cradled her mug with both hands, gazing down into the wisps of steam as she stated quietly, “So you’ve been seeing DeLaine Hussey.”

  She looked up. Rye’s face was somber, and he studied her as if trying to decide how to answer. At last he sat up straighter. “Aye, I have ... a few times.”

  Her gaze dropped to the tabletop, where his hand rested. She concentrated on the back of it, where two engorged veins branched beneath the firm, brown skin. “It hurt when I heard that, ” she admitted thickly.

  “I didn’t do it t’ hurt y’. I did it ’cause I was lonely.”

  “I know.”

  “She kept comin’ to the cooperage—”

  “You don’t have to explain, Rye. You’re free to—”

  “I don’t feel free. I’ve never felt free of y’.”

  Her heart raced with renewed feelings, and though she’d said there was no need to explain, she could not stop herself from asking, “Did you enjoy being with her?”

  “Not at first, but she ... aw, what the hell, forget it, Laura.” Rye looked away. “She means nothin’ to me, nothin’ at all. When I kissed her, I—”

  “You kissed her!” Laura’s startled eyes flew to his and her heart seemed to lurch.

  “Y’ didn’t let me finish. When I kissed her, I found myself comparin’ her to you, and when I realized what I was doin’, I suddenly felt ... I don’t know what it was ... disloyal, empty, I guess.”

  “Yet you saw her again after that?”

  “Aw, Laura, why are y’ askin’ such things?”

  “Because DeLaine Hussey has had her eye on you for years.”

  “I tell y’, I’ve no designs on her, even though she all but asked me ...” But Rye abruptly halted and took a deep draft of tea.

  “Asked you what?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Asked you what, Rye?” Laura insisted.

  His lips tightened, and he scowled, cursing himself for letting his tongue flap. Laura’s lips dropped open as if her tea was too hot, but when he chanced a quick glance from beneath lowered brows, he found her face pinched with disapproval.

  “What did she all but ask you, Rye?”

  “Oh all right! T’ marry her!” he admitted in exasperation.

  In that instant, Laura tasted the bitterness Rye had been expected to swallow each time he saw her with Dan or thought of the two of them together. There was instantaneous jealousy tinged with a fine edge of anger at the idea that another woman could presume to make claim on the man she had considered hers most of her life. Laura’s stomach did cartwheels and the color surged to her face.

  "I told y’, she means nothin’ to me," Rye said.

  “Is that why you’ve been considering leaving Nantucket and making a new start on the frontier with her—because she means nothing to you?” Laura was only groping in the dark, but she studied Rye carefully for his reaction. Her head seemed to go light and fuzzy when Rye failed to deny it.

  Instead, he drained his cup, ran the back of his hand across his lips, and lurched to his feet. “You’re tired, Laura. Why don’t y’ try to get some sleep and I’ll sit up with Dan. If anything happens, I’ll wake y’.”

  Laura felt suddenly bloodless and cold as Rye rounded the table, took her elbow, and urged her to her feet. Tell me I’m wrong. Oh, Rye, don’t be considering such a thing.

  But she knew he was, and they need not discuss it further for Laura to know why he was. Jane had come right out and said it: this island wasn’t big enough for all three of them. And Rye was the one who was finally taking steps to give them all more space.

  Laura lifted her eyes to him now as they stood in the bay-berry-scented keeping room with the fire dwindling to lazily waving fingers of orange. The wind buffeted the house and snow hissed against the siding.

  But though she still hoped he’d deny it, Rye only suggested, “Why don’t you snuggle up beside Josh for a while? I think there’s room for one more.”

  There was nowhere else in the house for her to lie. But though she didn’t want to sleep, neither did she want to think. And she certainly didn’t want to face the truth in Rye’s blue eyes. Thus, when he turned her toward the alcove and nudged the small of her back, she resisted only halfheartedly as she whispered, “But you’re tired, too.”

  “I’ll wake y’t’ sit watch if I get drowsy,” he promised, and gave her a second nudge. She obediently crept to the bed, pulled back the covers, and slipped in, curling herself around Josh’s warm little body. At her feet the dog’s bulk pressed down on the quilts, but she pulled her knees up and faced the wall, scarcely caring or knowing how cramped the space was. She hugged Josh close and, behind her, heard Rye moving to take a chair into the linter room. She heard it thump lightly onto the floor, then a long, deep sigh.

  She tried not to think about DeLaine Hussey proposing marriage and Rye talking to a stranger named Throckmorton. But behind her shuttered eyelids those images came and stayed and blended with that anomalous picture of Rye, propped on a chair at the bedside of Dan, whose life was now in Rye’s safekeeping.

  Chapter 19

  THE NIGHT WINDS HOWLED and the wrath of a bitter Atlantic beat against the weathered cottages of Nantucket. In the linter room on Crooked Record Lane, Rye Dalton sat in a Windsor chair with his feet propped up on the bed, alternately dozing and stretching. Dan remained asleep, scarcely moving except for an occasional spasmodic twitch of his fingers inside the mittens. Rye leaned forward and place
d a palm on Dan’s forehead; it seemed hotter. Dan’s left hand jerked again, and Rye wondered how long it would be before he woke up. When he did, the pain would be horrendous for him. Would Dan call out? Would Josh hear? Would Laura have to witness Dan’s pain, too? Rye wished he could spare them.

  He wrapped his left hand around his right, braced his elbows on his knees, and bent forward, resting his chin on cold knuckles and studying Dan. His breathing seemed to come with greater difficulty, and as Rye stared at the rise and fall of Dan’s chest beneath the covers, his own thoughts meandered in disconnected fragments ... my friend, I remember sharing your bunk when we were boys ... why can’t y’ control y’r drinking ... I love y’r wife ... y’ knew we were together that day Zachary died, didn’t y’? ... Jesus, man, look what y’ve done t’ yourself... I don’t really want t’ be sittin’ here, but my heart tells me I must ... I will leave this island, come spring ... there’s no other way ... easy, friend, don’t move y’r hands that way ... I wish dawn would come ... I must go down and tell Hilda what’s happened ... Laura read the truth in my face... it’ll kill part of me t’ leave her, but ... Josh had the best smell t’ him ... y’r breathin’ seems worse ... supposin’ y’ died, Dan ...

  The dark thought straightened Rye’s spine, and he leaped from the chair, horrified at what had crossed his mind. He checked the time—five A.M. He’d been dozing, not fully responsible for the hazy wanderings of his mind. He stretched and made his way silently to the keeping room to add a log to the coals. When the wood caught and flared, he hunkered before it, elbows to knees, staring, thinking the awful thing again. Supposing Dan died ...

  After several long minutes he straightened, sighed, ran a hand through his hair, then ambled across to the alcove bed while massaging the back of his neck.

  The three slept soundly, but the only one he touched was Ship, who sensed her master’s presence and lifted a sleepy head, then stretched her feet straight out, quivered, and relaxed into sleep again. Rye’s gaze caressed the curve of Laura’s back, though she was covered by quilts to her chin. Her disheveled braid lay on the pillow and trailed over the quilt top, but as his hand gently slid from the dog’s head, Rye resisted the urge to touch her and turned back to his vigil in the linter room.

  He folded his long frame into the hard hoop-backed chair once again, but the room had grown chilly as the fire waned, and he wrapped his arms tightly across his chest, lifting his crossed calves again to the edge of the bed. He watched the rise and fall of Dan’s chest and wondered if he imagined it had accelerated. But Rye’s eyelids soon drooped, and the added log lent a small measure of warmth that seeped around the doorway, and soon he slept soundly with his chin digging into his chest.

  ***

  Laura awakened and glanced back over her shoulder. The fire still burned and the blizzard still blew. She glanced at the windows, but they were dark, and as she turned the coverlets back and crept from the bed, a strange sound seemed to whisper an accompaniment to the chitter of snow on shingles. Josh did not stir as she silently slipped to her feet and crossed to the bedroom doorway.

  Dan lay as before, on his back, covered to his neck, but with the mittened hands on top of the feather ticks, while Rye slumped beside the bed with his head drooping and his elbows propped loosely on the arms of the chair. The strident sound, she suddenly realized, was that of Dan’s labored breathing. She inched nearer to the bed, gazing at his face, but it seemed to glow and fade in rhythm with the candle stub that guttered on the bedside table.

  For nearly a full minute she stood utterly still, watching the quilt rise and fall, listening to the faint wheeze, trying to recall if his breathing had sounded like this before. She compared Dan’s breathing to Rye’s and found Rye’s much slower and lacking the strident sound.

  “Rye?” She touched his shoulder. “Wake up, Rye.”

  “What?” Disoriented, he opened his eyes and lifted his head. “Laura?” Still fuzzy from sleep, his head bobbed slightly before he jerked erect and ran his hands over his face. “Laura, what is it?”

  “Listen to Dan’s breathing. Doesn’t it sound strange?” Immediately, Rye leaned forward and came to his feet, bending over Dan and placing his palm on the hot forehead. “He’s got a fever.”

  “A fever,” she repeated inanely, watching Rye’s hand test the skin of Dan’s neck, then slip to his chest.

  “He’s hot all over. Why don’t y’ fix a vinegar compress for his forehead?”

  She left the room immediately to do as Rye suggested. When she returned and placed the cloth on Dan’s head, his breathing seemed no worse. The candle was nearly out, and she fetched a fresh bayberry one, lighted it, and placed it in the holder, giving the room a renewed brilliance.

  “I’ll stay with him for a while. Why don’t you go get some sleep?”

  But Rye was wide awake again. “It seems I did. And anyway, there’s noplace for me t’ lie, so I’ll stay, too.”

  He went into the keeping room and got another chair, which he placed on the opposite side of the bed from his. As they settled down across from each other, they both studied the man between them. The constant rush of his breathing grew more labored as dawn crept nearer. Dan’s chest seemed to strain for each bit of air, and soon the sound of his inhalations became like that of a bellows with a piece of paper caught in its intake.

  Laura lifted troubled eyes to Rye. He hunched forward with his lips pressed to his thumb knuckles, staring intensely at Dan’s chest. As if he sensed her watching him, he glanced up. But her eyes skittered down; she was unable to look at him.

  A pale thread of gray seeped over the windowsill, and with it the breathing of the man on the bed became more labored, carrying a distinct wheeze now.

  This time it was Rye who looked up first. Laura raised her eyes, too, as if compelled by his gaze. Her eyes appeared larger than life-size, unblinking.

  “I think he has pneumonia.” The words fell from Rye’s lips in a coarse, scratchy whisper that scarcely reached the opposite side of the bed.

  “I think so, too,” came her shaky reply.

  Neither of them moved. Their eyes locked while between them the chest of the man lifted painfully, the new hissing sound whistling even more sibilantly with each breath that escaped his dry lips. Outside, a limb tapped the eaves, and in the other room their son rolled over and murmured in his sleep. On the walls of the linter room a bayberry candle cast two shadows while lifting its bittersweet and nostalgic fragrance above the bed they had once shared. For an instant they were transported back to a time when nothing stood between them. And somewhere in a place called Michigan, a new beginning waited for Laura and Rye Dalton. A place of high, green trees, where a cooper could make barrels for a hundred years and never run out of wood; a place where a boy could grow to manhood without reminders of the past; a place where not a soul knew their names or their histories; a place where a man and wife could build a log house and sleep in the same bed and shower each other with the love they were longing to share.

  And in that moment of clarity, as Rye’s and Laura’s thoughts communed, as the pounding realization descended on them, their hearts hammered with the sheer magnitude of what they were considering. There was fear in their eyes as they understood with startling lucidity that this—all this!—could be theirs.

  All they needed to do ... was ... nothing.

  The solution to their problems. The obstacle removed. Fate taking over to give them back what it had robbed them of.

  The cognizance struck them both at once. They saw comprehension settle, each in the other’s eyes, while poised for that reckless moment in time.

  Nothing. All we need do is nothing, and who would there be to blame us? There was Ephraim Biddle to swear he’d stumbled on an unconscious drunk in the snow, and if nobody would take the word of a drunk like Eph, there was Hector Gorham to verify the condition of Dan when he’d been laid out like a plank in the Blue Anchor. Even the confrontation between Rye and Nathan McColl was proof that Rye ca
red immensely for the outcome of his friend. And wouldn’t the whole island know Doc Foulger was stranded somewhere on the far side of the island in this blizzard?

  Like two wax mannequins, Rye and Laura stared at each other across Dan’s struggling body, the list of justifications parading through their minds, each aware that this profound moment would change every moment that followed for the rest of their lives.

  I love you, Laura, the somber blue eyes seemed to say.

  I love you, Rye, the troubled brown eyes answered.

  The moment lasted but several seconds, the realization smiting them swiftly, alarmingly, as they strained toward each other from the seats of the hard, wooden chairs.

  Then suddenly, as if some wicked sorcerer’s spell had at last been broken, they simultaneously flew to their feet, two blurs of motion.

  “We have t’ move him nearer the fire.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  “No, y’ get Josh and bring him in here. We’ll switch beds. Y’ have extra sheets, don’t y’?”

  “Yes.”

  “And plenty o’ bayberries left t’ boil down into wax?”

  “More than enough!”

  “And onions t’ fry for a poultice?”

  “Yes, and if that doesn’t work, there’s oil of eucalyptus and mint and mustard packs, and ... and ...”

  Suddenly they halted, their eyes meeting with a new intense fire of dedication.

  “He’ll live, by God,” Rye vowed. “He’ll live!”

  “He’s got to.”

  The two sleeping bodies were interchanged without mishap. Josh’s bed was ideal as a steam tent, with its hinged wooden doors. There they placed Dan, and while Laura rubbed eucalyptus oil on his chest, Rye built up the fire and unceremoniously dumped a basketful of berries into the iron kettle, then hung it on the crane. Laura made a thick poultice of fried onions and covered Dan’s chest with it, while Rye worked to construct a makeshift funnel of linen sheets through which to direct the steam from the boiling bayberries into the opening of the alcove bed. They warmed bricks, wrapped them in blankets, and slipped them beneath the covers to keep Dan warm.