Jo held her breath, thinking. Ida had never given them an option to stay on the farm, but Jo knew that it would be a cold day in hell before she signed her life over to a Turner, no matter how skint she was. “Go away, Whit,” she finally said, tired all of a sudden. She turned and started walking back toward the house, skirting the horseshoe of graves. What was it about her family’s land, she wondered, that made the past so burdensome, and why didn’t the Turners, with all the acres they owned, have the same problem?
That spring, while Jo’s scars finished healing and the new salt barn rose from the ashes of the old, Jo started to think that maybe she’d finally exorcised her family ghosts. The worst had happened, but she and Mama and Claire had survived, and the salt was still theirs. Maybe, Jo thought as she scraped the crumbling sides of yet another ditch, it was better that Ethan had left Claire. Claire had paid a terrible price for that loss, but Jo still had her sister. They would grow old together in the marsh, she and Claire, with her sister maybe bringing in a little extra cash from secretarial work, maiden spinsters to the end, the last of the Gilly line. Now that Ethan was gone, Claire would surely turn back to Jo, and as they stepped into the future together, they’d also travel back to a time when they’d both loved Our Lady, and Claire still consented to work the salt, and Jo wasn’t reminded every instance she looked in a mirror that she had a pretty big ugly side.
Chapter Ten
Dee had kept her eyes peeled for legitimate signs of autumn—crispy red leaves, the glories of an Indian summer, hard apples sold in bushels by the roadside—but she guessed she must have been looking for the wrong kinds of things, because the weather just turned nasty and wet, the sky overhead about as attractive as a leaky nose.
As if in compensation, the diner’s business increased when the town’s last few fishing boats docked and the area’s surrounding bars closed shop for the season. Suddenly the Lighthouse turned bustling and friendly. All day the cloudy lanterns that Cutt had reclaimed cast a mellow glow on the checkered linoleum, and the deep crimson of the booths was warm against the rain outside. Cutt started adding an extra dollop of butter to his simmered vegetables and stews, and even they started looking pretty good.
For the first time since her mother had died, the tight bands in between Dee’s ribs loosened a nudge and she started to feel like she could breathe deeply again—that she wasn’t taking anything away from the memory of her mother by doing so. Her father felt the same way, too, she could see. He started whistling as he mopped the kitchen floor at the end of the day, and every now and then he even cracked jokes over the grill, although they were the kinds of things a person would tell a five-year-old and not funny—knock-knock jokes and riddles about animals. Dee’s mother had been the one with the better sense of humor. Neither Cutt nor Dee had gotten any of that from her, and they both knew it. Still, Dee would laugh, just to show her father she noticed the effort he was making, and in return he’d hold off on shouting at her for forgetting to replenish the napkin dispensers or refill the mustard pots.
Dee would have thought the constant rain would have deterred Claire from her morning rides, but Claire’s huge white horse didn’t appear to mind a jaunt through slush, and neither did Claire. The only difference that Dee could see was that Claire didn’t tie the beast up outside anymore, for fear he’d get a chill. Instead she now arrived after her ride in her red sports car, the convertible roof thrown back to the elements, spray flying as she squealed into any old parking spot she liked. No one, it seemed, was going to ticket Claire Turner.
Mr. Weatherly noticed how antsy Dee grew every time Claire swished into the diner for her single egg and mug of coffee. “Aye,” he muttered, nodding as he took a sip from his own mug, his eyes following Dee’s across the diner to where Claire was bent over her newspaper. “You’re wise to stay skittish around that one. Pretty as a morning glory she is, but with poison lacing her veins.”
Dee put down her coffeepot and leaned forward across the counter on her elbows, lowering her voice. “She doesn’t want us to serve Jo’s salt, you know. That’s why we don’t have it out on the tables. I just bring it to the few customers who want it. Do Jo and Claire really hate each other that much?”
Mr. Weatherly fixed her with his cloudy eyes. It amazed Dee that someone as papery and frail-looking as Timothy Weatherly could still swing a hammer, but he did, hitting the nail perfectly every time before he took his handkerchief out and wiped his forehead. He worked his mouth in a circle, swallowing his coffee. “How old are you?” he asked, dabbing at his chin with a napkin.
“Seventeen,” Dee answered. “I’ll be eighteen in January.”
A little smile danced around the edges of Mr. Weatherly’s thin lips, and Dee suddenly wondered what he’d been like when he was her age. Her father had told her how he’d heard that back in the day Mr. Weatherly used to be quite the town hunk. He and his brother used to juice up cars. They’d been famous for it up and down the Cape. Dee tried to imagine the man stooped across from her now with shiny muscles and black hair combed into a ducktail, but she failed. That was nothing new. She never did have a very good imagination beyond the here and now.
“You’re still so young,” Mr. Weatherly said, putting some change down on the counter. He was a dime short, but Dee didn’t bother to point that out. He fixed her with his eyes like a chicken homing in on feed. “Young and foolish, but young most of all. And that’s the point. Claire ain’t young.”
Dee snuck a look over at Claire. “Well, she’s not exactly old.”
Mr. Weatherly worked his gums. “Not exactly old ain’t the same as young. The fact that you don’t know that yet proves my point.” He took a knotted piece of string out of his pocket and set it down on the counter next to his change. “Here,” he said. “That’s for you.”
Dee frowned. The string was yellow and dirty. She didn’t really want to touch it. “What is it?”
“A knot charm. Go on. Take it. I can make another one.”
Dee took the snarled length of string off the counter and slipped it into her pocket. “Thank you. What does it do?”
Mr. Weatherly’s face grew serious. “Tangles up trouble before it finds you. The fishermen around here use them.”
Dee tried to hide her smile. “I really don’t think there’s much to worry about in a tiny town like Prospect,” she said, lifting the coffeepot again. “Especially not in the dead of winter.” Any day now, she thought looking out the window, the freezing rain would switch to snow and everything would grow hushed until spring.
Mr. Weatherly shook his head as if he were shaking away flies. “That’s when you’ll need it most,” he insisted, unfolding his long limbs off the stool. “That’s when trouble always begins in this town.”
“What are you talking about?” Dee asked, and Mr. Weatherly looked at her like she was stupid.
“Why, the December’s Eve bonfire, girl. Can’t invite more trouble than that.” And without further explanation, he hobbled out the door, tipping his hat to Claire.
Dee whisked his dishes into the kitchen and dumped them in the sink. Maybe Mr. Weatherly was totally right about her, she mused. She was dumb and young. Here she was trying to play both sides of the salt when the Gilly sisters themselves hadn’t even been able to do that. She touched the twisted charm in her pocket and smiled. It was such a small, silly object. Still, it had been sweet of Mr. Weatherly to worry about trouble finding her, Dee thought, especially since in her experience it usually happened the other way around.
That Sunday, Dee knelt next to her father in St. Agnes, as usual. The tiny church was almost empty, except for Mr. Weatherly, the postmistress, and a few other souls Dee didn’t recognize. And, of course, Whit and Claire. They arrived last as they always did, waiting to make an entrance even though everyone was so used to them that they were no longer impressed.
Over the past month, Whit had gotten bolder with her. His flirty orders had turned into outright insinuations. “The coffee’s not the only
thing that’s hot today,” he’d say, taking the steaming mug from her tray. Or he’d ask with a wink, “What else can I get here on the side?” Normally such over-the-top suggestions would have come out creepy, Dee thought, but there was something about the way Whit said them, laughing at himself even as he leered, that made her want to play along with the joke. And besides, he was a great tipper.
Her father, of course, loved him. They were both Red Sox fans, it turned out, and every time he came in to the Lighthouse, Whit made it a point to talk some ball with Cutt before he sat down and ordered.
“He’s not the first man in this town for nothing,” Cutt would say, watching Whit climb into his car after a quick meal. “Mr. Friend over at the hardware said Whit even organizes a little pool for the town every year during the World Series. Now, that’s the kind of civic duty I like to see. He’s got brains and money, sure, but he’s not afraid to shoot the shit like a regular guy either.”
Dee wondered what her father would say if he knew what else Whit wasn’t afraid to do, but she kept the flirtation between herself and Whit quiet. For one thing, Cutt would just blame her for it and, for another, she actually liked the attention.
She shook herself and blinked. Mass was ending, so she crossed herself one last time, touching her thumb to her head and her heart, her left shoulder and then her right, realizing that her feet were freezing in their thin loafers. She was just about to stand up when Father Flynn surprised her by spreading his arms out and asking all the worshippers to stay seated for an extra moment.
“I have an announcement,” he said, his voice warbling. Dee sighed and settled herself back into the pew. “As you know,” the old priest said, his eyes growing rheumy, “I have served this parish faithfully for the past several decades—for most of my adult life, as a matter of fact.” He looked around at the faces in the pews, as if remembering better days, then sighed and continued. “Well, to paraphrase Ecclesiastes, there is a time for everything under the sun, and I’m afraid mine has come. I regret to inform you that in February I will be handing over the reins of this parish.”
There was an intake of breath, and Father Flynn held his arms a little higher. “Fear not,” he said. “You will be in good hands. In familiar hands, as a matter of fact. My replacement is someone you all know very well. It’s young Ethan Stone—now Father Stone.”
The chilly air in the church grew so still that Dee wouldn’t have been surprised if it actually cracked down the middle like a block of ice. No one moved, not even Father Flynn. Eventually he put his arms down, bowed his head, and made his way to the rear of the church, where he took up his customary place by the door, waiting to send his parishioners off into the miserable weather with blessings and a plea to return next week.
Cutt leaned down to Dee, his brow furrowed. “Isn’t Ethan Stone that fella Whit’s wife used to date when she was young?” Dee nodded, watching as Claire moved stiffly down the aisle on Whit’s arm, her green eyes hard as hammers.
“Well,” Cutt said, his mouth curving with amusement. “This ought to get people’s tongues moving. Guess we know what the topic of conversation will be at the counter for the next few weeks.”
The day was frigid outside St. Agnes, and the sky was as damp as an old sponge, but Dee was so restless she decided to take her usual walk anyway. She knew that the beach would be empty, but for good reason. It was so windy over there that she’d get sandblasted for sure. She stood for a moment, weighing her options, and finally wrapped her scarf tight around her neck, tucked her chin close to her chest, and started ambling down the lane into the tight breeze, letting the cold pinch at the corners of her mouth and eyes.
A huge gust of wind swooped across the dunes and almost knocked her sideways as the sky began spitting a heavy mist. She stumbled a bit, buttoning the highest button on her coat collar, her bare fingers tingling in the cold. As she neared the marsh, she stopped in the middle of the empty path, the wind urging her to keep traveling, to step through the grasses and down to Salt Creek Farm, even while her better sense screamed at her to stop and mind her own business. She took another pace forward. Joanna wouldn’t be out in weather like this, she calculated. Dee would have the place all to herself. Maybe she could even poke around in that barn.
But she was wrong. She wasn’t as alone as she thought. A dark, glossy car pulled up next to her, spraying sand over her loafers, its engine purring. Dee squinted through the wind, wiping rain from her forehead, but she didn’t need to look twice to know who it was. Only one man in Prospect drove an auto that shiny. She glanced into the interior of the car, but the seat beside him was free and empty. Whit was alone. He leaned over and opened the passenger door for Dee, letting out a pulse of heat. “Get in,” he said. “You look like a drowned rat. What are you doing out here?”
She hesitated for a fraction longer, but the lure of warm leather and the low rumble of the engine tempted her too much. She slid into the front seat as a burst of legitimate rain splattered over the windshield. “Taking a walk,” she answered, shaking water out of her hair. “What are you doing out here?”
Whit put the car back into gear and continued idling down the rutted lane. “I dropped Claire off at home and am on my way to see Jo.”
Dee lurched forward in her seat as they rattled over a pothole and she bit the corner of her mouth by accident. “Jo?” she echoed, dabbing at the corner of her lip. “What on earth for?” Whit glanced sideways at her, and Dee’s pulse sped up. She took a deep breath and smoothed her skirt over her knees. After Claire and her father, Dee thought that Whit might be next on her list of people she wanted to hide her visits to the marsh from. “I mean, do you call on Jo often?” she asked, folding her hands demurely in her lap.
Whit didn’t look fooled. “Only when there’s unfinished business,” he said through clenched teeth, pulling the car up to the barn and turning to Dee. He raked her with his eyes, dragging his gaze over her breasts and back again, until Dee couldn’t take it anymore and she looked away, blushing. He raised his hand, and for a moment she thought he was about to stroke her cheek, but he put the car keys into her palm instead. “This won’t take long,” he said, closing her fingers over the metal. “I’d like very much to give you a ride back to town. If you get cold, start the engine.”
And then he was jogging across the muddy marsh with his jacket held half over his head, squinting against the slashing rain. Dee watched him and then leaned back in her seat, spreading her hands on the fine leather. The car was so luxurious she wanted to sleep in it. She guessed Whit must have come to visit Joanna with some sort of business proposition, and she wondered how that would go. Jo didn’t seem like she’d be too agreeable when it came to that kind of thing. Jo wasn’t really agreeable when it came to much.
Dee closed her eyes and listened to the rain falling on the roof of the car. The sound cocooned her, making everything feel dreamlike. Well, it kind of was. After all, here she was waiting in Whit Turner’s car—on a Sunday, no less—parked at what might as well have been the edge of the world. She closed her fist tightly around the keys, liking the way the metal felt as it bit into her skin, both cold and hot at once. It matched what was going on inside her.
Whit startled her, reappearing without her seeing him, throwing the door open so suddenly that Dee grew chilled all over again. He was soaking wet, his hair dripping onto his collar, his cheeks running with rain, and he was pissed, Dee could tell. He took the keys from her without a word and threw the car into reverse so hard her head snapped.
“So… um, it didn’t go well?” she finally said, peeking at Whit from beneath her eyelashes and wishing she had a towel to give him. He didn’t answer, just clenched his teeth and bounced the car hard over the lane’s potholes.
They passed St. Agnes and reached the last turn before town. Dee straightened up in her seat, arranging her coat, which had fallen open. She was feeling foolish all of a sudden. He thinks I’m just a kid, she told herself. He’s just being nice. She reached in
to her pocket and felt the knot charm that Mr. Weatherly had given her. Maybe it was working after all, when she least wanted it to.
They were on the wrong side of Tappert’s Green. Another stretch and a bend and they’d be on Bank Street. Back at the diner. Back to her room with the dormer ceiling and the creaky bed and her father muttering to himself through the walls. Dee sighed, and Whit glanced across at her, and then, without warning, he pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned off the engine.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the edges again, his lip curving in a most pleasing manner. “Here I have a lovely companion sitting next to me, and what do I do but go and ignore her?” Dee blushed, but before she could say anything, Whit leaned across the console and put one hand up to her cheek. “What wouldn’t I do,” he murmured, stretching even closer.
Dee held her breath for a moment and half closed her eyes. This was her last chance, she knew, to push him away, to tell him he had the wrong idea after all. Instead she leaned into him as he touched his lips to her neck and then opened her lips to his mouth, letting the hot point of his tongue shock hers. He pulled away a little and took a breath.
“Damn,” he breathed, “you’re tastier than anything in your father’s diner. I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I first saw you.”
Dee hid her smile. She knew she should probably be scrambling out of the car right about now, but there was something thrilling about this moment. She brought her palms up to Whit’s cheeks, feeling as if she were taming a large cat, and started kissing him again, letting all the pain and boredom of the last few months melt away as Whit undid her coat and worked his hands up under her sweater.
The Gilly Salt Sisters Page 17
