by Liz Graham
She took a deep breath to steady herself as she heard the bell tinkle over the glass door and she tried to steel herself to face the woman. She remained standing at the sink however, with her back to the shop.
‘I’m sure she won’t even remember me,’ Conor comforted herself. ‘After all, it was years ago and far away. I’ll just treat her like any old customer and hope she leaves quickly.’
But it wasn’t to be. Melissa, not bothering to call a greeting to the woman behind the counter as most locals would, settled herself into a chair by the window, her hand placed proprietarily on the arm of her companion, a tall well-built blonde man whose back was turned to Conor. His green overcoat was a little worn around the edges, and the collar of a checked flannel shirt was visible. Surely not Melissa‘s usual type, Conor thought.
‘She wants me to go serve her,’ Conor realized, and glanced at herself in the mirror by the beaded curtain to make sure she had no flour dusted on her nose from the morning’s baking. She stopped in mid-stride and returned to the counter.
‘Forget it,’ she thought, anger rising within her. ‘I’ll treat her the same way she would treat me. I don’t want to encourage her to make a habit of coming here. I don’t need or want her business.’
‘Coffee?’ she called out to the couple, still with her back to them. She heard the man’s coat rustle and sensed that he turned in his chair to talk to her.
‘At least Her Highness’s companion has manners,’ Conor thought snidely, taking down two mugs from the shelf. She didn’t inspect them for stains as she usually did.
‘Two please,’ a deep voice replied, the familiar tone causing Conor to pause, coffee pot in her hand. She knew that voice from somewhere.
‘And I want fresh milk with that,’ Melissa called. ‘Not that canned milk.’
‘Honest to God,’ the blonde woman continued to her companion, not bothering to lower her voice. ‘You have to ask for real milk or they’ll give you that old crap from a can.’
Conor contemplated spitting into the cream jug but held herself back. She herself had grown up using the traditional canned milk in her tea, as had most people in the rural parts of the province. Years ago milk or ‘fresh milk’ as it was known, had been hard to get, especially in the more isolated areas. She loaded the tray and took her time getting it to their table.
Setting the heavy tray down, she deliberately looked at Melissa for a sign of recognition, but the blonde woman didn’t even look at her, having eyes only for the man seated next to her.
‘Typical of her, ignoring the help,’ Conor thought, lifting the corner of her lip with a sneer and glancing at the man to see if he was equally absorbed in his delightful companion. Fortunately, the tray was already on the table so it didn’t crash onto the floor.
The bright blue of a long-gone May morning met her eyes in a flash of astonishment. It was Devon. Conor could only stare into the depths of his eyes, so shocked was she to see him here, in this town. In those clothes!
His face had matured over the years, the laugh lines had deepened into crow’s feet, and his eyes had developed a hint of solemnity that had not there when he was fresh out of med school. Even the air around him seemed, somehow, more serious.
Devon stood up, the chair almost toppling to the floor behind him, and reached out his arm just as Conor stepped back. His fingertips brushed the long sleeve of her white tee-shirt, and she felt the old electric tingle up her arm. Dear God, he hadn’t changed, and nor had this feeling that rushed through her body at his touch. She withdrew a few inches more so he had to let his hand drop.
‘Devon,’ she said
‘Conor,’ he started at the same moment, then they were both silent.
Melissa’s large grey eyes narrowed as she looked at Conor.
‘You!’ she said, finally recognizing the other woman. Her eyes darted between Conor and Devon, then belatedly widened with what might have passed for pleasure.
‘Have you been here in St. Anthony all this time?’ the blonde woman cooed, taking over the situation. ‘Sit down, join us!’
Melissa pulled out the chair beside her, leaving Conor no choice but to do as she bade. She sat down heavily, conscious of the net over her hair and the unflattering apron covering her body. Melissa, on the other hand, looked like she just stepped off the pages of the Sears catalogue with her soft pink angora sweater. Her hair was no longer tortured into the big do so popular five years ago. Now she wore her blonde locks in silly high pigtails from the top of her head for all the world like a little girl, but the heavy eyeliner stated she was a woman of the world. Devon continued to stare at Conor across the table.
’We thought you’d dropped off the face of the earth,’ Melissa continued, her hand again resting possessively on Devon‘s. Conor quickly glanced down to the movement, then back to the other woman. Brown eyes and grey silently acknowledged everything implicit in that action, and Melissa smiled ever so slightly, in triumph.
‘One minute it was Conor, Conor, Conor, and then the next, you were gone!’ Melissa said, relaxing back into her chair. Her hand remained on Devon’s arm. ‘Oh, well, some things just weren’t meant to be.’
‘Conor…’ Devon began again as if unable to believe she was there. Melissa tightened her grip on his faded green coat sleeve.
‘What was that all about, anyway?’ she asked, her eyes all innocence as if she didn’t realize the pain she was raking up. ‘You must remember, the scene you made that day in Mum’s drawing room. Did dear old Uncle Hebert make a pass at you?’
She laughed, the lightest tinkle yet it went straight through Conor’s nerves like splinters of glass.
‘We should have warned you,’ Melissa continued, not allowing anyone else a chance to speak. ‘Hebert tries to get into every woman’s pants. Anyone with half a grain of sense would have known not to take him seriously.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Conor’s question was directed solely to Devon.
‘He came to rescue me from this social black hole,’ Melissa cut in. ‘He couldn’t stand the thought of me being so lonely up here, so he’s slumming it. He’s the new GP at the hospital. So good of you to do this.’
She turned to him and stroked his arm.
‘God, you need a new coat!’ the blonde exclaimed, changing the subject as she examined the object in question. ‘Look at this thing! People are going to start think you’re from here if you go around dressed in that rag.’
She jokingly rolled up her eyes, then quickly caught herself when she saw Devon’s eyebrows pulling together.
‘Oh! I didn’t mean… Sorry,’ she tittered, turning back to Conor, her large eyes dancing with that same mischievous light Conor remembered from the awful afternoon at Devon’s home.
Okay, she got the hint. Conor was a low-class local, and Devon was now Melissa’s man. She pushed herself away from the table.
‘Well,’ she said, drawing a deep breath for strength. ‘Great to see you both again. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.’ She had to get away from the couple before she threw up.
‘Conor, wait,’ Devon said. She paused on her way back to the counter to see him rise from his chair, pulling his arm away from Melissa’s grasp. The blonde woman looked up at him sourly. He crossed the short space to Conor.
‘I, um, I’m so taken aback by seeing you again,’ he started, his blue eyes blinking in confusion.
‘I want to talk with you,’ he continued in a low voice. Devon glanced at Melissa, then back at Conor. ‘Perhaps some time, I can come here.’
Conor turned away from him, trying to get a sensible thought in her head. She was as confused by their unexpected meeting as he obviously was. There would be lots of time to face him in the future, after she pulled herself together.
After all, Devon was living here now. Her heart sank as she realized the implication. In her deepest heart, over all those years, she had never let go of the tiny hope that maybe one day, somehow, they could meet up again. More mature, they would
laugh at the events which had led to their break-up, and resume their lives together, somewhere far away from St. Anthony and her father, away from St. John’s and his family.
But now she would have to get used to seeing him with the hated Melissa, and accept that whatever they might have had was over. It wasn’t just the blonde woman, she knew. Living in a small town like this, Devon would find out that she had given him the wrong impression all those years ago. He’d soon realize there had never been any expensive boarding school in Conor’s past, no skiing trips or family vacations on exotic beaches. In Conor’s past, there had only been charity and her drunken Dad.
She might as well steel herself for the inevitable. She had to bury that tiny shred of hope, it had to die a quick death before it brought her more pain.
‘You know where I am,’ she called over her shoulder, loudly enough for Melissa to hear. ‘Drop in any time.’
Whatever he was about to say next was drowned out by the noise coming from the road. A man’s rough deep voice called out, answered by a chanting chorus and the clanging sounds of metal on metal. All three turned towards the large plate glass window.
Enoch Sheppard was leading his flock of Lambs on a procession to town. A tall, wiry man, he was dressed in a black robe like a priest and his short brown hair was sheared around his ears and neck, leaving a shock of brown roughly cut on the top. Gesticulating widely with his arms, he quoted Bible verses, and his own doom saying prophecies, as he made his way down the unpaved road toward town. He looked more like a crazed medieval monk than a modem preacher, Conor had always thought.
The congregation followed close at his heels, half shouting, half singing the answering chorus, and beating metal spoons on pots and pans for emphasis. Even the children played their part, shaking tin offering cups with coins inside. The crowd were dressed in dowdy dark clothing, for Enoch frowned upon bright colours or anything that smacked of lightheartedness.
Melissa and Devon were stupefied.
‘What the heck is that?’ the blonde demanded, looking to Conor for an explanation.
She watched the crowd as they slowly passed the shop window, then glanced at Devon. He was standing frozen on the spot, his pale eyebrows almost disappearing beneath his fair hair.
‘That’s the Lambs of God,’ she answered. ‘Enoch Sheppard and his flock. They’re on a fundraising drive to build a new temple down in the cove.’
‘Did you see that guy?’ Melissa was laughing. ‘This place is so full of crazies.’
Devon shook his head as if in disbelief.
The blonde was leaning back in her chair now and turned to face the other two.
‘You think this guy is bad. Devon, wait until you meet the town drunk!’
Conor’s eyes widened abruptly and she felt the pit drop out of her stomach.
Oh God, no! Not yet, she prayed silently and fervently. Give me time to get used to Devon being here before you expose my father to him. Before you expose my soul.
‘I saw him last week stumbling out of a bar,’ Melissa continued. ‘Reeking of booze, singing up a storm…’
‘He doesn’t smell that bad,’ Conor mumbled, looking down.
‘And his hair! All red and grey like some sort of weird afro,’ Melissa was laughing hard now. ‘He’s just the stereotypical Irish drunk. Like a character in a movie! God, what we have to put up with here!’
Conor could feel Devon’s eyes on her, and she withdrew behind the counter, busying herself with washing the few mugs in the sink.
‘Who is that guy, anyway, Conor?’ Melissa pressed, wanting to find more to laugh at. ‘What’s his story?’
She now knew how Peter had felt when denying Jesus in front of the jeering crowd. Why not just come out tell the woman that the crazy drunk was her father, and he was a wonderful man when he wasn’t pissed, and she loved him very much, and now just shut up and get out of her store?
She couldn’t. Not with Devon standing right there. Conor despised herself for her weakness, for the old shame which closed her throat and didn’t allow her to say one word in her father’s defense.
‘What’s his name — Sean, or Shane, or something very Irish,’ Melissa just couldn‘t let it drop. It was as if she unconsciously sniffed out Conor’s most tender spot and was at it like a dog with a rat in its mouth.
‘Seamus,’ Conor replied in a low voice, after a pause, fervently hoping that the man in question wasn’t with earshot.
No, he had gone off with his friends, probably to the tavern to celebrate the completion of the beautiful beach glass art that now hung in the store window.
Her eyes caught Devon’s, and she hated the sympathetic look she saw there, as if he could sense her discomfort. She turned her back on that sympathy, for she didn’t want to explain, not right now.
‘You have great art on the walls,’ he commented in an obvious attempt to change the subject. Devon walked closer to examine the painting of Sedna rising up from the waves. ‘Incredible portrayal of the light in a storm at sea,’ he said, truly interested now.
Melissa, unable to remain the center of attention where she sat, rose to look at the painting.
‘So realistic,’ he murmured.
The blonde looked at the artwork in disgust.
‘What’s so realistic about it?’ Melissa asked, determined to find nothing positive in the place of her enforced exile. ‘The woman is coming out of the waves, looks like she’s part of the waves. And l don‘t think she’s Norse, so she shouldn’t be hanging out with a Viking, different traditions.
‘It’s stupid, really,’ she said, crossing her arms and pulling her lower lip into a pout.
Conor looked at the woman steadily, reining in her temper. Her eyes were as stormy as Sedna’s facing the Viking intruders. Never had she hated someone as much as she hated Melissa at this moment. She drew a deep breath to calm herself down. The woman wasn’t worth losing her cool.
‘What’s this about?’ Devon asked as her turned to Conor. ‘The woman looks familiar, something about her…’
‘It’s Sedna,’ Conor replied, meeting his eye and daring him to remember the first night they met. ‘The lnuit goddess of the sea, fighting off the first white men coming to the shores of the New World.’
A light of recognition flashed in Devon’s eyes, and a small smile came to his face. He turned to look at the painting again, then his eyes flashed back to Conor.
‘Of course,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I met Sedna once. How could I forget?’
Conor looked towards the painting. She had posed for Sedna when Seamus painted this two years ago, and the resemblance was undeniable. The goddess’s hair was streaming with sea-weed in Seamus’s portrayal, and her dress was the silver, grey and deep blue of the waves from which she sprang, but the eyes and the body were Conor‘s.
Devon let it go, and walked to the next painting. He slowly made his way through all five scenes hanging on the white walls of the Celtic Knot’s storefront.
Melissa had lost interest, and with it her patience. She zipped up her jacket and stood by the door, occasionally giving a loud sigh.
Other customers came in and went on, but still Devon lingered on.
‘I’m leaving now,’ Melissa finally called, opening the door but not going through. The cool spring wind blew in to the shop, bringing with it the salt smell of the ocean to mingle with the warm yeasty smells inside.
‘I‘ll be right with you,’ he said. He looked at Conor.
‘Are any of these for sale?’ he asked her.
Conor thought for a moment, taken aback.
‘Normally, I’d say yes,’ she replied. Dad’s sale of paintings had been few and far between in her youth, and she was in the process of rounding up the best ones for the gallery show, those bought or given by Seamus to local people. However, they had to have some for sale at the show.
‘The artist is saving them for a show in Corner Brook later in the summer,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I can’t sell them.’
<
br /> Devon‘s disappointment showed in his face.
‘I’ll have to make sure I get down there to see it, then,’ he said.
‘Devon, come on!’ Melissa said. ‘I’m freezing.’
Conor looked at the woman with eyes like flint. Shut the door then, you stupid b…, she thought but didn’t say aloud.
‘Who is the artist, anyway?’ Devon asked, half-turned toward the door. ‘I can’t make out his signature.’
‘His name is Seamus,’ she replied, her eyes still on Melissa. ‘But you know him as the town drunk.’
Chapter 4
T he notice of the meeting had attracted, if not a large crowd then at least a dozen people who she knew would work hard and be dedicated to the cause, Conor noted with satisfaction. All the chairs in the storefront were filled.
She nodded to Doc Oster at the table nearest her. Conor had known she could count on her help. Although not from the island, the woman had dedicated her life to this small town. It must have taken no small amount of guts to set up practice in this relatively isolated area, for she had been the first ‘lady doctor’ in the region, and a foreigner to boot. Doc Oster had ignored any prejudice she had encountered at the beginning and calmly carried on the business of healing and educating the masses. Some might think it strange that this gruff and practical medical practitioner should interest herself in the arts but the woman was one of the staunchest supporters of culture and creativity in town.
The good doctor had in fact bought the first piece of Seamus’s artwork when he first arrived here thirty years ago, about the same time she herself had moved here. In her native Scandinavia, she had explained, artists and writers were respected as being the voice of the ordinary man.
