Second Honeymoon. Sandra Field
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provisos and heretofores it’ll take them forever to sort it out. But in the meantime the petrels’ll be safe. And that’s what counts.”
“Birds over people?” Troy asked with conscious provocation.
“Birds and people coexisting,” Hubert retorted with a gleam in his eye. “Non-interference. Respect for the intricacies of nature. I’ll invite you for dinner one evening, providing you don’t mind canned beans, and we’ll thrash it out.”
“You’re a proselytizer, Mr Woollner.”
“Hubert’s the name. By the time you leave I’ll make sure you know a least sandpiper from a semipalmated. How long did you say you were staying.”
“I didn’t say…because I’m not sure.”
“You’ll stay a while. The island gets you that way. Got me fifty years ago, and she’s been like a mistress to me ever since.” He pulled at his ear, laughter sparking his tawny old eyes. “Less trouble than a woman in the long run, I dare say.”
They both fell silent as the island drew closer, until Troy could see rocks girdled with kelp, ranks of spruce trees huddled and bent against the wind, and to the north the long sweep of a low-lying field, with drifts of yellow wildflowers between it and the shore. The Lucy he had fallen in love with would be very much at home on Shag Island.
With a kindling of excitement he wondered if during a summer spent in this wild and beautiful place she’d found herself again…become the old Lucy, the passionate, laughing creature who’d turned his life upside-down when he’d first met her five years ago. Maybe—just maybe—she’d welcome him with open arms, with all the delight in his presence that had always, paradoxically, both nourished and humbled him.
Clarence cut the engines and Gus went forward to hook the big pink buoy bobbing on the waves. Onshore a wooden dock sloped into the sea; a man was hauling a red-painted boat down it into the water. He clambered aboard, and in a swirl of wake headed for Four Angels.
“That’s Keith,” Hubert said. “You’ll arrive at the inn nicely in time for dinner.”
“Where’s your house?” Troy asked idly.
“I took over one of the bungalows where the light-keepers used to live. Mrs Mossop lives in the other one. Here’s Keith now—hand down the gear first, then get in and sit near the bow.”
Refraining from saying that boats had been part of his life since he was a boy, Troy did as he was told and introduced himself to Keith. A considerable part of Keith’s face was hidden by the twin growths of a fiery red beard and a mop of red hair; between them peered a pair of hazel eyes that were not so much unfriendly as desperately shy. Keith mumbled his name and with ill-disguised relief swiveled to face the motor.
When they reached the shore, he drove the boat right up on the slip. Troy stepped out and hauled it still further over the thick wood slats beneath which the salt water gurgled and slapped. He gave a hand to Hubert, who gathered up a small backpack, waved a cheery goodbye and set off along a trail that followed the curve of the shore.
“This way,” Keith said, and without looking to see if Troy was following set off on another trail that led in the opposite direction through the woods.
The ground was springy and the air smelled sweetly of moss and fallen needles; Troy tramped along, his heart pounding in his chest because at any moment now he might see Lucy.
Tucked into a sheltered cove, the Seal Bay Inn was a two-storied cedar building, with an expanse of glass overlooking the ocean and a generous deck where chairs and pots of flowers were scattered; a small cabin sat a little apart from it in the trees. “It’s delightful,” Troy said spontaneously. “Who built it, Keith?”
“Me.”
“You did a fine job.”
Keith said nothing, merely gestured for Troy to go ahead of him through the sliding glass door. It opened into a spacious living area paneled in pine; the sea and sky were as much a part of the room as the comfortable sofas and well-furnished bookshelves. An alcove was taken up by a long trestle table laid for dinner. Then Troy heard footsteps coming down the hall and felt his heart rise into his throat. Lucy. It had to be Lucy.
But the woman who entered the room was very different from Lucy. For one thing, she was at least eight months pregnant; for another her hair was as straight and dark as Martine’s, although it was pulled back into a ponytail from a face unadorned by make-up. She said in a friendly voice, “You’re our new guest—Mr Daniels, I believe?”
Struggling to overcome a crushing disappointment, Troy remembered that he’d reserved under a false name to avoid alerting Lucy to his arrival. He said awkwardly, and untruthfully, “I hope you don’t mind—my friend Daniels couldn’t come at the last minute. So I took his place. Donovan’s the name.”
“That’s no problem. Welcome to Shag Island, Mr Donovan. I’m Anna McManus.”
Because her smile was innocent of guile, Troy felt ashamed of his deception. Fighting down the urge to ask about Lucy, he went upstairs with her and approved his room.
“Dinner’s in half an hour—I ring the bell,” she said. “The bar’s downstairs; you keep your own tab. Please let me know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more pleasant.”
Give me back my wife, he thought wildly, and with relief closed the door behind her. He’d hoped to meet Lucy with some semblance of privacy; now, it would seem, she’d be waiting on all the guests at the dinner table.
Her face, when she first saw him, would tell him all he needed to know. He must keep his eyes glued to her face.
But thirty-five minutes later, when Troy was seated in the alcove, the woman who carried in the bowls of steaming fish chowder was plump and middle-aged, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove. The widowed Mrs Mossop, thought Troy, and politely made conversation with the four other guests, whose names he’d forgotten as soon as he’d heard them and whose impassioned discussion about a buff-breasted sandpiper couldn’t have interested him less. Lucy surely hadn’t left the island, he thought, his throat constricting with terror. She must be in the kitchen, working behind the scenes. She had to be.
However, Anna was the cook that evening—so Mrs Mossop informed them, when one of the guests complimented her on the roast chicken. “It’s Lucy’s day off,” she said. “She’ll be back in the morning, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she’ll make blueberry pancakes for breakfast; she was going berry-picking today.”
So she was here. He could relax.
But tomorrow seemed an aeon away. Troy ate his apple pie with less attention than it deserved, swallowed his coffee and excused himself. Hoping to bump into Lucy, he hiked along the shore until dusk. Then, knowing he hadn’t got a hope of sleeping yet, because he was still jet-lagged, he sat in one of the chairs on the deck, watching the last peach flush fade from the sky.
His body merged with the shadows. A pale arm of the Milky Way gestured gracefully across the heavens, whose blackness was studded with larger, brighter stars, their cold, impersonal light making him all the lonelier.
An owl hooted in the distance. A crescent moon rose, curved like an empty bowl; the tide sucked at the rocks. And then, overriding the sounds of the sea, Troy heard the one voice he’d been wanting to hear for months. Lucy’s voice. He twisted to face the woods and saw two people standing close together on the little porch of the cabin.
“Thanks so much, Quentin,” Lucy was saying, her clear, light voice carrying through the velvet darkness. “I had a lovely day. I promise I’ll make you some blueberry muffins tomorrow.”
“I got you home later than I’d planned—you have to get up so early in the morning.”
“It was worth it.”
“I’ll drop by tomorrow for the muffins.”
“Great.”
Because