Spellbound

by Jeanette Baker

  Emma began to clear the plates. “There’s apple pie, too, if anyone’s interested.”

  Russ brightened. “You’ve talked me into it.”

  Mollie laughed. “Good choice. My mother’s apple pie is unparalleled.”

  “I’m sure it is. I haven’t had a meal like this since I left home.”

  “How long has that been?” Mollie asked.

  Emma took longer than necessary gathering the flatware. She was more than mildly interested in his answer.

  “About six months.”

  “Does your job keep you away for that long?”

  He shook his head. “Not usually. We’ve only had six major oil spills in the last decade. Two of them, including this one, happened in the last six months.”

  “What do you do when you’re not cleaning up spills?”

  “I’m a veterinarian, specializing in marine animals. I research, tag, and monitor animals, provide information to the community.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “There is always some new controversy over maintaining the wetlands. I provide education about the effects of development. Before I can do that, I have to do my homework.”

  “I don’t like homework,” Caili interrupted.

  “Hush,” Marni reprimanded her.

  Again Russ grinned, and Emma wondered how Mollie could remain so unaffected.

  “When you really love what you’re doing, homework isn’t so bad,” he said.

  Mollie’s lips twitched. “In the future, I’ll make more of an effort not to bore you, Caili.”

  “I’m not bored, Aunt Mollie. I just don’t like homework.”

  “You’re very lucky to have a teacher like Mollie,” observed Russ.

  “Why?” the child asked.

  His voice took on a deeper, intimate note. “Because I can’t imagine her boring anyone.”

  Satisfied that the conversation needed no help from her, Emma disappeared into the kitchen.

  Mollie wiped Luke’s hand and face and lifted him from his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to wash him off. Then I’ll make coffee and take it into the living room.” She looked over Luke’s head at the tall American. “You are a coffee drinker?”

  He nodded. “I like it thick and black.”

  “Tonight you’ll drink it mild and decaffeinated. The black part won’t be a problem.”

  His smile was a white triangle in his tanned face. “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

  “I doubt that,” she murmured under her breath, and walked the baby down the hall to the bathroom.

  CHAPTER 19

  Mollie tossed in the throes of a troubled dream. Water boiled around a small boat, lifting it to terrifying heights so that it balanced on the crest of the swell and then dropping it into deep caverns dwarfed by sea walls as high as the jagged, dangerous cliffs of Dun Aengus. She couldn’t make out the features of the men on deck, but she knew one of them was Sean.

  She woke, cold and trembling, and looked at the clock. Four in the morning. Pulling the comforter up to her chin, she stared at the ceiling. The darkness wouldn’t lift for another five hours. She dozed. At first she thought the pounding on the door was the beginning of another nightmare, but then her mind cleared and she heard heavy steps in the hall.

  Throwing back the covers, she reached for her robe, threw it on, raked shaky fingers through her shoulder-length hair, and ran down the stairs. Russ was already at the door. She reached his side just as he opened it. They stood there together, Mollie in her unbelted bathrobe, hair bed-tousled from her restless night, the tall American shirtless, trousers hastily pulled on, his fly zipped but not buttoned.

  Tight-lipped and grim, Sean stood on the porch, looking from one to the other. He spoke to Russ. “We need help. There’s a school of porpoises on the beach, slick with oil.”

  “Wait for me.” Russ disappeared up the stairs.

  “We need you, too, Mollie,” Sean said softly. “We need every hand we can get.”

  Her hand moved to her throat. She swallowed. “I’ll change and tell my mother. It won’t take long.”

  Minutes later, bundled in waterproof slickers, the three of them hurried, without speaking, down to the shore. The scene on the beach drew Mollie up short. Volunteers had already arrived, and small bonfires illuminated the scene. Terrified, she could only stare in horror at the carcasses and gasping animals wallowing on the sand, clinging to their last bit of life. A westerly wind carried the metallic stench of old blood, rotting animals, and kerosene across the beach and up toward the cliffs. Mollie pressed the back of her hand against her nose and clutched Sean’s sleeve with her other hand. “Is there anything to be done? It looks ... too late.”

  “It is,” he said shortly, “for most of them. We’ll save a few.”

  “They can’t go back into the ocean. Where will we put them?”

  “There’s a cove that’s nearly clean. It should hold the porpoises for the time being if we’re lucky, until we can transport them to clean ocean.”

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  Russ joined the conversation. “Mammals this size need more space.”

  Mollie breathed in through her mouth. Sean watched her hand leave it, watched her back straighten, and heard the words he knew she would say back at the cottage when he’d asked for help. He’d known her four months. Four months, a year, a lifetime. It didn’t matter. He knew her as well as he knew anyone. Another woman might answer differently but not Mollie.

  “What should I do?” she asked.

  Sean pointed to a section of beach where the largest group of people congregated. Washtubs had been set up on the sand. Human figures, white cloths in their hands, knelt beside the bodies of two inert porpoises, rubbing down the animals in sweeping circular motions. Three small canoe-like boats, curraghs, floated in the surf, and a fishing trawler hovered close to the shoreline. “Those vats are filled with detergent and water,” he said. “Before we can put the porpoises in the cove, they need to be scrubbed and rinsed. That’s where we need help the most.”

  Mollie climbed down the embankment and walked across the sand. Away from the beach, cottages were still dark and children slept. Here, on the beach, bonfires choked out the shadows, flame-painting figures, human and animal, illuminating faces, transforming the darkness into an unnatural golden daylight that Inishmore had never before seen in the dead of winter.

  “We can use another set of hands over here,” a woman called out.

  Mollie found a towel and walked toward the American voice. “Lift the flipper,” the woman said. “This one’s thick with it.”

  Automatically, Mollie reached for the leathery appendage and extended it. It felt smooth, cool, oil-slick.

  “I’ve got to suction out the blow-hole,” said the American. “Is everybody ready?”

  Mollie panicked. “For what?”

  “We’ve got to hold him down.” Someone else spoke, a man this time, again with an American accent. “He’ll think he’s suffocating. He’s going to struggle.” He placed Mollie’s hands on the hard skin just below the flipper. “Press here, hard. We’ll do the rest.”

  Mollie closed her eyes and pressed. Under her hands she felt the surge of powerful muscle as the animal struggled to survive. Someone swore. She pushed harder. The awful sucking nose of the syringe continued. Again the animal bucked in a terrifying final attempt to throw off the misunderstood invasion of its body. She found solace in a mindless litany, Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold. Tears coursed down her cheeks. Again the heaving wet animal flesh rose under her hands. She pushed still harder. Her breath came in short, desperate gasps. Finally, the animal lay still, completely spent, while the team of rescuers finished their ministering.

  “We’re done here,” the first woman said quietly. Sighing, Mollie stepped back. Two men hand-signaled the small boat. Working collectively, the team rolled the passive mammal onto a canvas sheet and dragged him to the boat where he was placed gently in the hold. “W
hy isn’t he moving?” she asked.

  “He’s been sedated,” the woman said. “As long as he doesn’t feel immediately threatened, he’ll lay still until we get him on the big boat and into the clean water of the cove.” She smiled. “I’m Beth Bradley from Scripps, San Diego.” She introduced the others, friendly, serious faces with open smiles and American manners. Two of them were already at work on the other porpoise.

  She smiled. “Mollie Tìerney.”

  “You’re not Irish,” Beth said.

  “No. I’m from Newport, California, not too far from you. I came to teach school for the year.”

  “Are you ready to start again?”

  “Yes.”

  Beth nodded. “Follow me. I’ve tagged the ones that are still alive.”

  Mollie worked furiously all morning long and late into the afternoon, scrubbing, rinsing, refilling the vats with fresh water, tearing clean strips from wide sterile sheets of cotton. Once, late into the morning, women from the villages passed by with mugs of steaming tea, hot bread, and jam. Gratefully, she eased her aching body into a sitting position and curled her frozen fingers around the mug. She had never been so tired and sore and cold.

  Sean sat down beside her. “You’ve been a trooper, Mollie. Thank you for your help.”

  Her mind, numb from cold and lack of food and sleep, stirred to life with the bread and tea. She looked around, the scene on the beach sharp and clear in the lead-gray afternoon. “Where is everyone?”

  “Everyone?”

  “The fishing boats are docked. Why isn’t anyone else helping?”

  “Alice is here.”

  Mollie shook her head impatiently. “Why aren’t the fishermen here?”

  He looked surprised. “Fishermen and porpoises are natural enemies. A porpoise school means less of a harvest. You won’t find any island families working to take the food from their mouths.”

  “They must resent us terribly.”

  He shrugged. “Not really. Islanders are a pragmatic people, Mollie. They recognize that others have a job to do. Cleaning up the oil is a priority. They want that, too. If it means rescuing a few porpoises, sea lions, and pelicans, they’ll go along with it, but they won’t inconvenience themselves.” He grinned. “You won’t be shunned in the village, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “It isn’t, and you know it.” She thought a minute. “I’m wondering what they’re thinking. All these people, professionals commanding salaries, their expenses paid, to save animals while the islanders ration food in winter. A small portion of the money spent on saving animals would tide these people over for several years.”

  “Cleaning animals is something we can do when we’re not cleaning oil. That’s what they’re really here for.”

  “I doubt it, Sean. These people are exhausted. We’ve been working around the clock. No one will be cleaning any oil until this is finished and they’ve had some rest.”

  “I knew all Americans weren’t environmentalists, but somehow I thought you would be.”

  She frowned. “I thought I was, too. It’s easy to be an environmentalist when you live in Newport Beach with money and choices. Life looks different from here.”

  His eyes were serious, the lines around his mouth pronounced with weariness. “I imagine there are many choices in America.”

  “Yes,” Mollie said, surprised that she meant it. All her years of romanticizing had brought her here, to this.

  She felt his eyes on her face. Her skin was stiff with salt, innocent of makeup. She’d pulled her hair back and secured it with an elastic twist. She cared what he thought of her, even now. Self-consciously, she licked the salt from her lips and turned away from him to look down the beach. “Where’s Russ?” she asked. “I haven’t seen him since we came.”

  “He’s working with another group from Australia at Saint Mary’s Point.”

  “More porpoises?”

  Sean shook his head. “Birds. The Australians have come up with a method to dry-clean them. It’s less stressful and doesn’t destroy the waterproof properties of the feathers.”

  “How do they do that?”

  “Finely ground iron powder. The birds are dusted with it and then combed with a magnet that removes the oil and the iron. Oil sticks to iron powder more readily than it does to feathers. Iron powder is cheap and plentiful. It’s also nontoxic and a nonirritant.”

  “How do you know all this? I thought you wrote plays.”

  He grinned, a flash of humor in the bleakness. “Haven’t you heard the old adage ‘Write what you know’? What do you think I write about?”

  “I don’t know any of your plays.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  “What’s the name of the one you’re working on?”

  “The Beggar of lnishmaan.”

  “It doesn’t sound very uplifting.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Her eyes closed. Maybe she’d offended him. Waves of weariness washed over her. His next words jerked her to attention. “What do you think of him?”

  “Who?”

  “Your American guest.”

  She answered without hesitation. “I don’t know him very well, but he seems pleasant enough. The girls can’t get enough of him.”

  “What about Emma?”

  Mollie laughed. “A man who does dishes? My mother thinks he hung the moon.”

  “Do men not do dishes in America?”

  “I imagine it’s the same as here. Some do, most don’t.”

  She left the rest of her thought unsaid, the unasked question, Do you do them?

  “I do dishes on occasion, when I can no longer find the kitchen counter,” he offered.

  She smiled. “That’s fairly typical of men. Even when they marry, women do most of the cleaning.”

  “But it wouldn’t be your arrangement, would it, Mollie? Is that what you’re saying?”

  She looked at him then, at the light in his eyes, at the sharp clean blade of his jaw. “No,” she said deliberately, “that’s not what I’m saying. Everyone’s circumstances are different.”

  He relaxed and stared out to sea. “It’s difficult,” he admitted, “to do it all.”

  “You have us,” she reminded him, “for now.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  She changed the subject. “Russ said this could last as long as a year.”

  “We’ll see oil residue here on this island for ten years.”

  “What about the cleanup? Will it take that long?”

  “Probably not. Most of what we can do will be finished in the next three months. The rest is up to Mother Nature. Storms, wind, rain all have their part to play. We’re fortunate that this happened now before the summer. We’ve some bad weather ahead. That disseminates more of the oil.”

  “What about the fish? Will the men be able to go back to work?”

  He shook his head. “Not this year.”

  “Have you given any thought to my suggestion?”

  “The lawsuit?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve mentioned it to Graham. When this dies down a bit, I’ll have more time to look into it, but it really isn’t my area, Mollie.”

  “It isn’t mine, either, but someone has to do it.”

  “And you’ve decided that someone is me?”

  “Who else?” she asked.

  “Someone more directly involved.”

  “Sometimes the most qualified person isn’t one who is directly involved. Besides, we shouldn’t wait too long.”

  “Why not?”

  “Litigation takes time, Sean. These people need money.”

  He was looking at her again with an expression she couldn’t read.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “You could do it.”

  Mollie shook her head. “I don’t know anything about maritime law.”

  “It was your idea.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a stretch,” she protested. “Any logical p
erson would have suggested a suit for damages.”

  “Not here. These people don’t think like that. Most of them are suspicious of outsiders. If they have experiences with the law, they aren’t positive ones.”

  “Would they go along with it?”

  “I think so, if it meant their survival.” He smiled at her. “The difficulty will be deciding who should benefit. If it isn’t everyone on the island, I wouldn’t pursue it. That would cause more problems than the oil.”

  “I agree. Everyone suffers from a poor economy. I think everyone should benefit.”

  “Will the solicitors think so, I wonder?”

  She sighed. “I’ll have to ask them, won’t I?”

  He nodded. “You will.”

  She rested her chin on her knees. “Did you know all along that I would do it?”

  He grinned, and the relaxed happy look of him turned her heart over. “I know you’re persistent and intelligent. I know you’ve resources people here have never heard of.”

  “Do you realize,” she said softly, “that you separate yourself from the people here?”

  “Surely not.”

  She said nothing.

  Curiosity made him ask. “What makes you say that?”

  “You refer to your neighbors as ‘the people here’ or ‘the islanders,’ never ‘we’ or ‘us.’ ”

  He thought about it. She was right. “I’ll have to work on that.”

  “It isn’t a criticism, Sean, just an observation. I wondered why, that’s all.”

  “You brought it up. You must have a theory.”

  She stood and brushed the sand from the back of her legs, “It’s just something I noticed. I really haven’t given you much thought lately.”

  He watched her walk away from him, her body falling into the swinging, athletic gait he’d come to associate with her alone, a colt in slow motion, young, confident, not at all Irish. For hours she’d worked like a laborer without complaint, and still she went back for more. He’d meant to tell her to go home, sleep. But, as always, she took his mind and twisted it, wrung it out and stretched it until it went somewhere he’d never intended for it to go. She no longer looked like Emma. She was nothing like Emma. A woman like her could steal the soul from a man, and when she left him there would be nowhere else in the world for him to go.