by James, Ella
We curve around the island’s edge, and finally I see it—Edinburgh of the Seven Seas, the long name of the little village I remember.
From here, it looks like a smattering of brightly colored buildings in the shadow of a mountain. Fuck—it looks like almost nothing.
I wrap a hand around the top of my pack, take a deep breath. I rub my forehead. Christ.
We’re headed toward the jagged shoreline, which has dipped down lower, rising only ten or fifteen above the crashing waves. I tighten my grip on my pack and try to look alive when Mark glances at me.
Soon the motor’s noise softens, the boat slows slightly, its nose tipping up, and I see we’re coming up on the strange dock—two lines of cement jutting outward from the shore like two arms forming an almost-circle. Waves crash into them, shooting toward the sky in a wall of frothy white. As we edge closer, spray slaps my cheeks. I push a hand back through my now-wet hair and smile as my escorts grin back at me.
As we idle into the gap between the arms of the dock, the waves beneath the boat smooth out some, so we’re bobbing lightly. I can hear birds caw above us, smell the thick, salty air. A wave hits the dock behind us, and I see a flash of rainbow just ahead of the boat. I’m looking at it when I notice people standing at the shoreline—blurry figures through my wet eyelashes. They’re clearly here to greet us. To greet me.
Fuck, I’m really here again. And suddenly I feel like I can breathe.
Chapter Three
Finley
I see him coming up the hill from Calshot Harbor like Richard the Lionheart, trailed by half the island.
I’m the watcher—Miss Alice’s eyes and ears outside the kitchen. I turn and hurry down the backside of the hill, toward Middle Lane, where the café sits half a mile down, between the Smiths’ house and the Crenshaws’. My arms swing with my long, fast strides as I pass homes with wreaths and flags that weren’t there yesterday.
On our island, Carnegie is a holy name. Has been since his father, Charles Carnegie, wandered off a ship bound for Antarctica in 1988 and failed to step back on before the ship’s departure from Tristan. He was here almost three months before leaving on another ship, not to return for seven more years. But his resources came in his stead. Crates of medical supplies, books, food, and other goods started arriving a few months after Charles departed, and in 1991, his famous family’s foundation upped the ante even further with a million-dollar donation for updated farm equipment.
We got a new schoolhouse in 1992; in 1993, a new medical clinic was built. Carnegie Foundation dollars have helped lure three fulltime school teachers to Tristan—and, of course, Doctor. Before Dr. Daniels arrived four years ago, the island had only transient physicians. Prior to those, my grandmother and Mrs. Petunia White cared for sick people, Uncle Ollie for the unwell animals. Before Charles Carnegie and his pocketbook, children here stopped attending school at age sixteen. Now we’re in class until twenty. For those eighteen-year-olds who are eligible, there are scholarships to schools abroad for university.
The last time a Carnegie stepped foot on the island was in 1998, when Charles and his young son visited, ostensibly to look in on their wealthy family’s charitable endeavor.
When Declan began playing baseball for the Red Sox—about the time Doctor arrived here, I believe—the island was star-struck. The few times the Red Sox have played and we could get the signal, a group gathered to cheer him on at the café. When they heard this past September that the foundation was sending a crate of signed baseballs, they were quite beside themselves. Then the shipment was delayed. When word came, around Christmas, that “Homer” would be bringing them himself, no one believed it.
The day Mayor Acton got Declan Carnegie’s travel application, people gathered at the pub and nearly drained the bar dry. When I got his medical records, it was as good as confirmed.
We Tristanians have been busy in the last week. Drew Hollis smoothed the packed dirt of Upper, Middle, and Lower lanes with a tractor; flowers were planted in every last window box; front doors were re-painted; two homes got new roofing; the café was redecorated; the barber shop stayed open an extra hour each day to accommodate the many who wished to get hair cuts; the island’s twelve vehicles—four rusty Land Rovers, five pick-up trucks, and three Broncos—were washed and cleaned. Fresh crawfish were caught, meat pie was made, beef was marinated, and lamb was stuffed—but not yet sliced.
Miss Alice, the café’s chef, didn’t want to cut the lamb until she knew Declan had stepped foot on the island. Couldn’t have it drying out.
I’m panting slightly when I shove through the café’s teal door. My friend Holly looks up from where she’s setting a table, and Dot laughs from a corner where she’s watering a plant.
“You look a mess,” she says.
I sniff and march past them into the kitchen.
“Slice the lamb, Miss Alice! The Carnegie has arrived!”
She smiles from underneath her hair net, blue eyes twinkling in her lined face. “I’ll get to it,” she says gamely. She turns to a counter bearing four platters of lamb, and I watch her slice for a moment, marveling at how quickly she works. I hope I’m that dexterous when I’m ninety.
I walk back into the dining room, which is buzzing with activity. If one half of the village is escorting him here, the other half is waiting for him. Rachel, Maura, and Blair—all clad in Sunday best and lacy aprons—wave their arms, herding the stampede, while Holly stands behind the largest chair at an empty table, fussing with the ribbons tied to the end of her blonde braids. She’s wearing her favorite candy-apple-red dress and red lipstick, and I’d wager she’s got those inserts in her bra. Holly’s flat as a boy, but she’s got something that resembles cleavage peeking from behind her dress’s neckline. She gives me a panicked wave, and I laugh. Holly’s single, and she loves celebrities. At least she thinks she does. No one here would really know.
As I wave back, our friend Dot comes to stand beside her. She’s wearing a white dress that makes her lovely skin look deeper olive. Her dark hair is piled atop her head—perhaps a bit extravagant for the occasion, but she looks none the worse for it.
“Finley!” She gestures up and down her body as her eyes bulge, and I gather she’s not pleased with my wardrobe choice. I step closer to her. “I’m headed to the slopes right after this.” Which makes my blue jeans, boots, and flowing green blouse perfectly appropriate.
“Your hair!”
I run my hand over my ponytail as more familiar faces arrive, almost everyone dressed in Sox gear. Babies wear hand-painted onesies, kids homemade sport jerseys. Old Mr. Button has his face painted—God spare him.
I try to spy the guest of honor as more people cram inside, but it’s bedlam. Villagers crowd ’round the café’s eight tables and then line the walls, their bodies heating up the air and scenting it with ghastly quantities of perfume.
I spy Anna, my dearest friend, on the other side of the room. She’s wearing a navy dress with a pink hydrangea print, and wee Kayti is draped over her shoulder in a pale pink onesie. Anna slides into a spot behind the coat rack to the right of the door, and I start toward her, swimming through the sea of elbows and shoulders.
I smile in greeting as I squeeze past Mrs. Dillon, whom I’ll need to speak to after the gathering is over, to see if she’d like me to show Declan Carnegie to the house. I’m maneuvering through the crowd when Anna shifts Kayti in her arms, turning her around to face me. Kayti blinks her big, blue eyes, and I grin, pausing mid-step to make a silly face at my goddaughter.
I’m sticking my tongue out when it happens—something hard and warm bumps my shoulder. I turn and blink at one Declan Carnegie.
That first glance drives the breath out of my lungs. I know it’s him because his face is unfamiliar; there’s no such thing as a stranger on Tristan. At the same time, I feel as if it can’t be him. If he was quite so stunning, surely I’d have heard.
His hair is chestnut brown: rich and dark, with streaks of burnished gold. S
tubble lines his hard jaw, drawing my gaze to his thick lips, then to his nose—strong and straight—and at last to his eyes. It takes me a moment to note their color—sea blue—because the set of them, above those high cheekbones and under strong, thick brows, is so disarming.
He looks like a warrior. Like a king. He’s tall and large, with hulking shoulders, smooth, tanned skin, an air of confidence and ease.
Privilege, I almost murmur.
Then I feel his hand on my shoulder. “Sorry.” He smiles, revealing dimples and a set of sparkling white teeth.
My breath is hung up in my throat. I swallow and croak, “Quite all right.”
It’s work to tear my eyes from his, but somehow I manage. Time trips back to normal speed as I near Anna and wee Kayti. Anna’s arm wraps around my back. Her pink lips smirk. I laugh, too, only half aware of how the volume in the café has grown louder. By the time I have the wherewithal to turn around, facing the table Dot and Holly claimed for Declan, he’s standing beside it with his arm around Sara Hollis. She looks bewitched as she stares up at his statuesque face.
“Shockingly gorgeous,” Anna murmurs.
Her husband, Freddy, nuzzles her hair and pulls a mock frown. “Is that right?”
We all laugh, and I’m supposed to help serve lamb, so I stroke Kayti’s pudgy cheek, smooth her silky black hair, and blow Anna a kiss before turning toward the kitchen.
“Watch your step,” she calls, and I shoot her a wicked look.
The kitchen is hot enough to make me sweat in my jeans and boots. As soon as I step in, Miss Alice smiles at me and holds a plate out.
“Take this to him, Finley. I think you should be the one. His dear father cared so for your mum, you know.”
Hank Smith is standing at my elbow. I look up at him, and he winks.
“Rawr.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not the one, you are.”
“Go on, dear. Before it cools.” Miss Alice waves toward the door.
I take the plate, but as I walk through the doorway, Dot appears.
I thrust the plate toward her. “Take his food, Dot.”
Her hazel eyes widen. “Oooh, is this for him?”
I nod, and she grins wide enough to hurt.
“Okay.” She sounds breathless. I watch from the wall just outside the kitchen as Dot serves Declan his plate. The way she smiles and preens. The way he smirks and winks. My body warms just watching his big shoulders shift, seeing flashes of his white teeth. When he smiles, he looks like a playboy prince. When he frowns, a pirate.
And you’re ridiculous.
As if he can hear my thoughts, his gaze rises to meet mine. Our gazes lock, and for that moment, nothing’s on his face; his features freeze as if he’s been hexed, and I feel like I’m looking through his eyes into the heart of him.
I can’t breathe, can’t even move my throat to swallow. Dot touches his elbow, and his eyes are ripped away from mine.
My heart hammers. My stomach flips. I don’t want to stand here anymore. I suck in, tucking my elbows to my sides, and try to sidle through the crowd as quickly as I can.
When I reach the café’s door, I push through carefully. Outside, I find the smooth, dirt street cloaked in strange silence. The green Land Rover is parked near the door—for him, I’m sure. Being the least rusty of our vehicles, it’s reserved for foreign dignitaries and other honored guests. God forbid they should have to walk a mile or two.
I walk quickly down Middle Lane, looking at nothing but my own two feet. As I follow Upper Lane toward Gammy’s cottage, my heart feels as if a stone’s become lodged in my belly.
What did you think, Finley? What did you think he would look like? Who did you think he would be?
I wipe my eyes and fetch the bags I stashed beside the kiln at Gammy’s house. When Mrs. Dillon doesn’t find me at the café, she’ll show Declan here. She has the key. It was never necessary for me to show him inside. I just…wanted to. But now I have no interest. Now I’ve seen him.
Chapter Four
Declan
“It’s a pretty good life.” I smile at the little blue-haired lady who’s been standing by my table for five minutes. She’s clutching a cane that’s got a dog’s face carved up top.
“But aren’t you worried about being injured?” She shakes her head. “Those balls are thrown so fast.”
“I’m good at dodging them.” I flash her another smile that falters at the corners.
Her son, a big, burly guy standing behind her, pats her shoulder.
“I think it’s time we get on, Mum.”
“Quite right, Johnny.” She smiles over her shoulder, and I hold out an index card bearing my pen-scrawled signature. “Don’t forget this.”
She smiles, and Johnny leads her to a group of four other white-haired ladies. I toss back the last of my Guinness and turn to the girl beside me.
“I’m gonna step outside for just a second. Hold my seat?” I wink, and Dorothy beams. “Of course.”
But on the way outside, I’m stopped by a young mom and her son—this one grade-school-aged. He wants a baseball signed. I take some time for him. A few more steps toward the door, and an older man stops me. He’s wearing a plaid flat cap, his face sporting the deepest grooves I’ve ever seen. He sticks his hand out.
“Seymour, sir.”
I shake it. I can never tell how hard to go with old guys. Better to go too hard than too soft, I think, so I do that, hoping I don’t crush his hand.
“Nice to meet ya, Seymour.”
His lips twitch at the corners. “You’re my favorite.” His voice warbles.
“Is that right?”
He nods once. “Used to be my wife’s, too.”
I know better than to ask about the wife, and sure enough, Seymour tells me she passed on three years ago.
“She spotted you when you were just a rookie. Said, ‘That one’ll be a record-breaker.’”
I give him what I hope is a kind-looking smile. “Thanks for telling me that.”
He shakes his head then clears his throat. I run a hand back through my hair. “I just wanted to greet you,” he tells me, in that halting way that very elderly folks have. When I feel sure he’s finished speaking, I nod.
“Thank you. Looking forward to spending time here again.”
I get out the door, but kids are outside. These are older kids—teenagers. I see them notice me in a sort of domino effect: one then two then three, now eight, and finally a hush falls over the group. Some look down, a few grin, and one girl’s jaw drops right before her cheeks flush.
I can’t help laughing. “C’mon, guys. You’re making me self-conscious.”
That’s all it takes to break the ice. The youth of Tristan da Cunha crowd around to see my iPhone, begging me to show them videos of other Sox players, pleading for me to sign their clothes and, in one case, a hand.
The look in their eyes…especially the guys. It’s pretty sweet at first, but soon I feel like I can’t breathe. They all talk fast and loudly, desperate to impress—to impress me. Their questions never end, and that’s okay, except my hands are shaking now. My throat is dry. My head is pounding.
By the time a brown-haired woman in a pale pink pants suit walks up, my eyelid is twitching.
“Homer? Hi—I’m Mrs. Dillon, hospitality coordinator for the island. I’m here to help you escape,” she teases, in a soft, low voice.
Thank fuck she’s pretty low key, because her appearance heralds another half hour of on-air time. We get into a green Land Rover and she drives me down the road, onto another little road, and up the foothills to a little Hobbit cottage tucked into a grassy hill, under a sky of storm clouds. Inside, she shows me everything, even opening the freezer and trying out the faucet in the bathtub. I appreciate her hospitality, but when she leaves, I lock the door.
Back in the bedroom, I open my bag, fumble past some folded clothes, and snatch out one of two oversized ibuprofen bottles I’ve got rolled up in two editions of ESPN Magazine.
I wrap my fist around it, feeling lightheaded at the clattering sound it makes. Still, I walk around the house again, checking things out. I open a few windows so I can listen to the rain when it comes.
I’m okay, I tell myself. Sweat prickles along my hairline as I look down at the bottle. I want to take the top off, but not yet. If I see the shit inside, sometimes it’s too hard to hold off. I’m not due for another mini-dose of subs for two more hours. With that taper and the Valium one, I’m allowed to take a little extra—but I don’t. I didn’t bring much extra. Don’t want room to fuck up.
So far, knowing what will happen if I cave to either craving has been enough to keep me straight. If I blow through the subs or the Valium all at once, the post-acute withdrawal will be worse than it is now—and on the island, there’s no getting more of either drug.
I poke through the fridge and pantry, but I don’t think I can eat, so I step onto the patio behind the house and watch the clouds gather and burst. I lean my back against the wall and shut my eyes and feel my body tremble.
You’re okay. This is the best place for you. Good things coming.
Back inside, I force myself to eat an apple, drink some water.
The rain is really coming down now, bringing darkness early. Good. I lie on the too-soft bed and stare up at the ceiling. I laugh softly.
Here I am.
Just a few steps and I’m in the bathroom, running the faucet of the claw-footed tub.
Another few minutes and I’m sinking into a pile of minty-smelling bubbles.
I squeeze the ibuprofen bottle in my hand and grit my teeth. My chest feels hot and tight. I dry my hand off on a towel, twist the top off…peer inside. It’s the tiny Ziploc bag of papery amber fragments that gets my blood pumping: the Suboxone strips, cut into micro-doses. My hand shakes as I work the baggie’s zip-seal open. I just want to touch one of the strips. Sometimes a fake-out like that helps…something to chill me out.
