by Unknown
An offer for Melody's home, the house she and Robin had grown up in, the house she had naturally assumed she would bring her own baby up in.
The Saunderlys? She remembered them, talkative, too energetic, the woman raving about the peace and quiet as she bustled around the island. How long do you and Charlie have to make up your minds?
Fourteen days. Well, from the offer date. That was three days ago.
Three days gone already. If Melody had not called her mother, would Amanda have called her? I'll talk to Robin. How much was the offer?
Melody suppressed a gasp at the answer. From a purely practical point of view, her parents would be crazy to refuse an offer like that. Melody could not hope to match that price unless Robin wanted to share ownership of the house, a house that meant nothing to him, except that it was his sister's home.
Two weeks less three days, but she found herself doing the same thing Amanda had, putting off calling Robin to talk about it. She hugged herself, wondering what there was in the world that was hers. Everything seemed to be slipping away. Robin's life and hers had been separate for years now, ever since she had left Los Angeles. Her parents would probably never come back to this country to live now. Amanda had said something about buying a place in Mexico. Melody was the only one clinging to the Connacher home on the islands.
She should not feel that a future without this house was a formless unknown. She still had the job at the radio station, and she could build a music room anywhere, couldn't she?
Chapter Ten
The hospital corridor was cold and brilliant and completely immaculate. Melody had always hated hospitals, hated the thought of illness and waiting for bad news. She had no reason for it, just perhaps the fear of losing people she loved. She had never before spent a night waiting in a hospital waiting room, not knowing what would come.
She was scared. More alone than she had been in all her life. There was nowhere to hide here, no music room, no fantasies. Only the shining hospital that did not have the antiseptic smell she thought was supposed to go with hospitals, and the man on the other side of the room, as silent as she was, waiting for news that did not come.
It was the personnel officer from Scott's oil company who had telephoned Melody. Personnel had received a request to notify Scott Alexander's next-of-kin of an accident, but his recorded next-of-kin was a foster mother in care in a home for the elderly. Scott, however, had visited the personnel office only a couple of weeks before.
He made you beneficiary on everything, said the brisk, friendly woman. His group insurance policy. His registered pension plan. So I thought you were the one to notify.
Where is he? Scott. Seriously hurt. An accident on the icebreaker.
They're airlifting him to Calgary. The woman named the hospital and Melody had grabbed for paper and pen. They took him to Tuktoyaktuk by helicopter. A doctor met him at Tuk, and is accompanying him to Calgary.
Tuktoyaktuk to Calgary. Three hours from the Northwest Territories port to the modern facilities of Calgary.
He arrived in Calgary long before Melody could get there. She had to wait for morning and the jet to Vancouver, then another two hours for a connection to Calgary. Then the hospital, and it seemed forever without news.
Scott had been taken directly to surgery hours before Melody arrived. Then, about the time she landed at Calgary airport, he was rushed back into surgery a second time, hemorrhaging. She had not seen him, would not be able to see him for hours. Critical, the nurse had said, and the doctor was too busy trying to save his life to talk to anyone.
Melody paced from the window looking out over endless hospital buildings, to the corridor where eventually the surgeon must appear with news for her.
Look, miss-
She swung around. Her silent companion, the other man in the room. He stood, tall and lean, limping slightly as he walked towards her. His voice was soft, with a precise accent. British, she decided, amazed that part of her mind could still function.
Sit down, he said gently, insistently, his voice taking on the faint burr of Scottish ancestors. You cannot pace the floor all day like that. Sit down and I'll bring a cup of tea for you.
Tea. It sounded far better than the foul liquid she had coaxed from the coffee machine earlier. Even the bitter smell of it had made her nauseous. He was gone for ten minutes or so, and came back with two steaming cups. Real cups, not cardboard or plastic. She accepted the one he handed her, curling her fingers around it. He pulled a paper bag out of his jacket pocket and brought two doughnuts from it.
Lunch, he said. Of a sort.
Thank you. Doughnuts, when Scott might be dying.
She breathed in warm fumes from the tea, sipped and felt the heat flow slowly down her throat. Soon she would make herself eat one of the doughnuts. She needed the strength. If Scott-when Scott got better, he would need someone. She shuddered, knowing that if he had not put her name on his personnel forms, no one would have called her. She might have felt uneasy, a sixth sense telling her something was wrong. She would not have known where or what.
The stranger held out the flattened paper bag. She took a doughnut from on top of it. It tasted sugary, too sweet. She chewed for a long time and finally swallowed without gagging and asked, Who are you?
Harry. The mate from Jonathan Cartier. You're the skipper's woman, aren't you?
She wanted to be his woman, if he would ever let her that close. She said, I love him, and it felt like a release to say it out loud.
He nodded. They fell into silence, waiting together.
When Melody could sit no longer, she got up and prowled the little waiting room. She walked to the window, then to the corridor. No one there. Back to the window again, then past Harry's feet to the corridor where a nurse was hurrying somewhere else with a swish of rubber-soled shoes. Would they ever come to say Scott was going to be all right?
Soon, Harry would tell her to sit down. She looked at him, but he was staring at the floor between his feet. Then, finally, she sat beside him, staring at the doorway to the corridor.
It's my fault, he said in a low, soft voice. I've got this bad leg, and the skipper's been after me to get to the doctors with it. I'm his mate. She blinked and he said, First mate. Next in command after the Master. She nodded and he explained, Yesterday we were bringing up the rig's anchors, and the skipper must have seen me trip on the deck. It's the cold, gets to the damned leg. I've been afraid to go to the doctors, afraid I'd find out it was-well, anyway, skipper put me on the bridge and took my place. That's why he was there when the Bruce cut loose, instead of safe on the bridge where he should have been.
She hugged herself, trying to understand the strange terms. He's your captain, isn't he? He nodded and she said, If he ordered you off the deck, you had to go. He wouldn't blame you, would he? She wondered if she would ever feel warm again. Could you explain to me what happened? I don't know what the Bruce is, and I need to know what happened.
The Bruce is the kind of anchor we use on the oil rigs in the Beaufort. Here, have this last doughnut and I'll use this bag to show you.
He sketched an icebreaker for her, on the paper bag. She discovered that asking questions and concentrating on the answers was easier than waiting.
A doctor came finally, trailing a mask and wearing tired lines around his eyes. He nodded to Harry and looked at Melody, then said, I'm Dr. Walton. The nurse says you're waiting for word of Mr. Alexander. Are you a relative?
She was the mother of his unborn child, the woman who loved him. Was that enough to entitle her to news? She said unsteadily, We're getting married, because if he lived and the offer was still open, she intended to become his wife. She could not bear to spend the rest of her life knowing that if he needed her, no one would call and she would not be there.
The doctor rubbed his forehead with his forearm. You can't see him yet.
Is he-?
In the recovery room. The hemorrhaging is stopped. He'll have a couple of extra seams in the a
bdominal area, but he'll probably get through the next fifty years. The doctor half-smiled. That man of yours is one tough character. I think it's going to be all right. I-hey!
She could feel the room spinning, then hard hands gripping her. The world steadied and Dr. Walton was glaring at her, frowning.
I'm sorry. I just-
Get some rest, he said sharply. Then his eyes became more intent and he said, You're gravid, aren't you?
She blinked, pulling back from his steadying hold. What?
He grimaced. Sorry. Medical term. Expecting. A child. Her startled silence must have answered him because he said, Don't ask how I can tell. Something about the eyes. My wife says I should be a witch doctor. His voice shifted from indulgent to brisk. Look, you need to get out of this place. Check into a hotel, get some sleep. Have a long, relaxing soak in a tub. Then have a good dinner before you come back. Your man might be awake by then.
She was breathing again, reassured by his matter-of-fact instructions. Can I leave the name of my hotel with the nurse?
Yes, and we'll call if you're needed, but don't worry. Your sea captain's going to be fine. He'll be around to see his grandchildren born. You just make sure you get your rest. And regular meals.
It was Harry who insisted on taking her to a nearby hotel, Harry who called back to the hospital with the telephone number of the hotel and room number, Harry who ordered room service for her and sat with her to make sure she ate it before he left her to sleep.
Amazingly, she did sleep.
Chapter Eleven
Melody sat on a rock at the water's edge, her legs crossed, her chin in her hand, staring at the place where a loon had disappeared a moment ago. Two weeks, and neither she nor Scott had mentioned the future.
Magical weeks, if she did not think ahead. They had gone for long, slow walks through the lightly populated island. Scott had taught her the names of the trees, the nesting patterns of a multitude of strange seabirds. In return, she had started to teach him Morse code.
From his telephone, while he slept, she had called Laurie at the radio station, apologizing for leaving her high and dry.
I can't tell you when I'll be back. Or if, she'd admitted. You'd better find someone else.
Let's leave it in the air, said Laurie. I'll fill in a bit myself. I always miss the hands-on stuff. Let me know.
The next day Scott took her to a deserted cliff-side where he showed her the bald eagles nesting. She told him about her one disastrous appearance on stage when she was seven years old. She had frozen and Charlie had ad-libbed all around her, and she'd refused ever to go on again.
She made quiche and he ate it, and they laughed about his calling it egg pie, but he refused to eat yogurt when she bought it. He made a fire in a pit outside and they had a wiener roast because he said he'd never been to a wiener roast as a child. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, but was afraid to say the words in case he would not want to hear.
He told her about Tom, the foster father who had taken Scott onto his fishing boat and taught him to love the sea. About Sylvia, Tom's widow, who hated being left alone and lived in a residence now.
Another day, while he slept, she called Amanda and Charlie and learned that the papers had been signed. The house was sold. She called Mrs. Winston and warned her the buyers were coming to look.
You're moving then? said the woman who had been housekeeper to the Connacher twins since their teens.
Yes, said Melody, because that much was certain. Mrs. Winston deserved to be told more, but Melody could only say, I'll call you when I know something definitely.
Soon, she would have to go home and pack. She put off the decision, put off worrying about where she would be moving. Once, Scott had told her that she could move into his home, that he would make room for her music upstairs. Once, he had said they should marry, but since his accident, he had not referred to either the marriage or the unfinished room upstairs.
He talked freely about his other plans for the property on the Gorge. He was going to build a small bathhouse and sauna at the base of the hill behind the house. He wanted to turn the unfinished downstairs room where she was sleeping into a library someday. He drew sketches of his plans and asked for her ideas, but he never said one word that referred to her staying.
She did not have the courage to ask him.
Behind her, she heard the door of the veranda as it swung shut. A few minutes ago the telephone had rung. Something to do with the backhoe Scott was hiring to dig out the foundation for the bathhouse. Although he was not allowed to do any work himself, he was managing to organize quite a bit of action by telephone. Soon, she knew, it would be impossible to keep him from working.
Without turning to look, she knew when he was behind her, knew he would be leaning against the big rock with his arms crossed and his eyes narrowed against the power of the sun.
Did you get them for Monday? she asked. Everyday questions. She savored the sweetness of his nearness.
No. It wasn't the contractor.
Oh. She twisted and found him watching her. Something in his eyes started her heart keeping time in a slow thud. What-who was it?
Your mother.
Oh, lord! What on earth had Amanda said? Did-did she want me to call her?
He shrugged. Yes? Or no? She heard the loon call from the water behind her, but could not turn to look.
She said to tell you possession date is the end of August, and can you organize clearing out the house by then.
She nodded mutely.
You didn't tell me the house sold.
No. Because that would bring up the question of where she was going to move, and she was afraid to break the bubble. She pushed her hair back, wished it were long hair and could drop over her face to hide her confusion. He was not pleased to know that she was homeless. I-did you tell her I'd call?
I didn't get the chance. She said she wanted to meet me, she and Charlie.
Oh, lord! She knew what was coming. He unfolded his arms and crossed them again. She bit her lip, feeling very much the same as she had at the age of seven, on stage with everyone watching, messing it up and unable to escape.
She referred to me as your young man.
Robin, she whispered. Robin must have said something. She wished she could flee, but there was nowhere else she would want to be. She loved him. God, she loved him so much that she knew even her songs would dry up if she could not share her life with him.
Where would Robin get that idea?
She shook her head. From her, because she had told Robin she loved Scott. She saw a glimpse of color behind Scott's shoulder and she grasped at the distraction. There's a car ... or a truck. Coming here, I think.
Going past, he said. He did not turn to look.
The sound of the engine faded. She got up from the rock, wondering what came next. Was he trying to find the words to send her away? If he started talking about support payments and medical coverage, she thought she would scream.
She said helplessly, It's time for lunch, isn't it? Lord, why wouldn't he stop looking like that? She was scared. He did not answer and she could not stand here just waiting. She said uneasily, I feel like I'm on display. As if-I'll make some soup, shall I?
He followed her to the kitchen. She tried to act as if he was not there, to move around with some kind of purpose. She got out a can of soup and a saucepan. She went into the odds and ends drawer for the can opener, stood staring at bits of string and a roll of electrical tape, trying to remember what she was looking for.
Can opener, that was it. She pushed the drawer in and got the right one open. Scott was looming, saying nothing, and she felt as if everything was going to explode.
You look as scared as I am, he said quietly.
She dropped the opener. It clattered to the floor. She bent to get it and he said, Leave it.
She whispered, What do you want? Her throat felt dry and tight.
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He said, You.
&n
bsp; The ring of the telephone broke the silence. They stood, wordless, as the rings continued. His eyes were almost black with some kind of emotion. She licked her lips and caught her bottom lip between her teeth. The telephone gave one last ring and then quit.
He said, I want you to stay here. There was no feeling in his voice, although his eyes were black and filled with tension. She swallowed and no sound came. He must know that she wanted above everything to stay with him.
His hands were hanging at his sides, fingers hanging down. His face was haggard. When I was a kid, when my parents died, Donna and I went to our first foster home- He shrugged, showing no emotion although she knew it was there. Donna was just a baby, didn't really know what had happened. I didn't settle in very well. They made it plain-lord, I don't even know what their last name was now, I was supposed to call them Mom and Dad, but they made it plain that if it weren't for Donna, they'd send me back where I came from. Wherever that was. He shrugged uncomfortably. I don't like talking about this. The house was-anyway, after a couple of years we were both moved again. The foster mother was expecting a child of her own, couldn't handle us.
She wanted to go to him, to put her arms around him, but something in his voice forbid touching. He said, I made sure I worked hard enough to be able to stay at the next place, but I was only working for one thing. To have total control of my own life. I didn't want my happiness in anyone else's hands.
She had not known the details, but she had known it would take time. She would be patient, would not ask for anything he was not willing to share. She would love him, but she would be quiet about it.
He said, I went to sea because the sea doesn't ask a man to be anything but what he is. Because I could- He shrugged away emotions he could not put in words, said, I bought this place for myself, a place no one could kick me out of. He added flatly, I did not build this house to share with anyone else. He grimaced at his own words and said, This was the place where I was safe.