Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Autumn 1953
It was just as he remembered it. Windswept and wild.
Perched on the transom seat of the motorboat, skipping fast over rollicking swells, Oliver adjusted the rudder to steer westward toward a convenient passage between two high dunes. Main Station wasn’t visible from the water, but he knew its location like the back of his hand. He also recalled the precise position where the Belvedere had run aground, though the wreck was gone now, buried beneath the ocean floor.
As for the island itself, the dunes were unrecognizable, altered, no doubt, by the continual hammering of storms over the past seven years.
Oliver approached the beach and drove his boat fast and aggressively onto the sand, where he waited briefly for a wave to retreat before he leaped out and dragged the vessel to dry ground.
Out of breath from exertion, he bent forward and rested his hands on his knees, then straightened and looked all around. He’d half expected a small crowd to come running at the sight of a visitor, but he was alone on the beach. Where were the patrols on lookout for signs of shipwrecks? Not that he fell into that category. His steamer was anchored comfortably a mile out, manned by a capable crew, and it was a clear, sunny day. But where was everyone? The island felt deserted.
Oliver glanced back at his motorboat to ensure it was safe from the incoming tide, then trudged up the sandy incline toward the dunes.
“Hey, there!”
The sound of a voice, shrill like the call of a bird, arrested him on the spot. He gazed in all directions until he spotted a small boy sliding fast down the slope of a dune to the east. The boy reached the bottom and ran toward Oliver, who paused, feeling slightly like an enemy invader.
When the boy reached him, he was panting, and he dropped to his knees. “Who are you?”
“I’m Oliver Harris,” he replied, turning to point toward the ocean. “I’m captain of that ship out there. I came ashore to visit some friends. May I ask who you are?”
“I’m Matthew,” the boy replied, shading his eyes against the blinding sun behind Oliver. “But today isn’t Boat Day.”
Oliver laughed. “You’re right about that. I’m not with the supply ship. I’m just passing through. I was hoping to visit John Clarkson, the superintendent. Have I come to the right place?”
The boy’s eyes lit up. They were deep blue, like the ocean. “That’s my grandfather!” He swung around to point inland. “We live just over there.”
As Oliver comprehended the boy’s identity, he felt the familiar stirrings of those old feelings—not forgotten, just withdrawn. John had written years ago with the news that Emma had married and given birth to a child. At the time, Oliver had done his best to be happy for her—and he was, he truly was—but that lingering sense of regret and the inevitable question “What if?” had never left him.
“I was here once before,” Oliver told Matthew. “But it was a long time ago, and everything looks quite different. Could you take me to your grandfather’s house?”
“Yes! Come with me.” Waving his whole arm for Oliver to follow, Matthew loped clumsily over the shifting sand.
Amused by the boy’s enthusiasm and eager to return to Main Station, Oliver plodded up the sloping beach.
Main Station was mostly the same, except for the narrow concrete walks between the buildings. What had changed was the level of activity. There was no one about to notice the arrival of a stranger.
“Where is everyone?” Oliver asked with curiosity as he followed Matthew to the Clarkson home.
“They’re at East Light, doing repairs. Everyone’s gone except for me and my mom.”
Oliver’s thoughts drifted back to the day Emma had walked with a sack full of books into Abigail McKenna’s sickroom, where he lay convalescing.
“She stayed behind?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s bread day,” Matthew replied, “so she’s in the kitchen.”
Matthew led Oliver up the steps to the front door and walked in. “Mom! Someone’s here to see Grampa!”
Oliver kicked the sand off his boots before he entered. He quickly ran a hand over his windswept hair and wished he’d thought to bring a comb.
“Who is it, Matthew?” she called out.
The sound of her voice and the familiar scents of the house stirred more memories for Oliver—mostly of fresh feelings of hope and anticipation when he knew he would spend time with Emma and talk to her about things he’d never spoken about with anyone.
Seven years ago, she’d brought him back to life, and he’d been alive ever since. He’d come a long way since the war and the ordeal of the Belvedere .
“It’s the captain of a ship!” Matthew shouted as he ran into the kitchen, leaving Oliver to stand and wait uneasily in the entrance hall, where he listened to Emma speak in soft tones to her son.
A full minute must have passed before she finally appeared, wearing faded, baggy blue jeans and a white oversize collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her dark hair, which had grown long, was loose and wavy about her shoulders. The sight of her was like a thunderbolt in Oliver’s chest.
“Hello, Emma,” he said, doing his best to be friendly and open.
She cleared her throat and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Captain Harris. What a surprise to see you.” She took a tentative step forward. “Goodness. What in the world are you doing here? How long has it been?”
All he could do was shake his head at the time it had taken him to finally come back here. “Too long. How are you?”
“I’m well. But ...” She glanced in the direction of the sea. “How did you get here?”
“I came on my ship,” he explained. “The Overton . We’re bound for New York, but we’re ahead of schedule, so I thought I’d stop by.” An awkwardness overcame him, and he waved his hand about. “I took a small tender boat on my own and left it on the beach.”
“I see.”
They gazed at each other in silence for a few seconds.
To Oliver, Emma seemed taller somehow. Her figure was more womanly, but of course it would be. She was a married woman now, and she’d had a child.
Suddenly he felt the distance between them, deep as a canyon. The last time they’d spoken, she’d confessed a passionate love for him, and he had rejected her quite cruelly, which had, of course, been a necessity. Months later, her letter about her father’s accident had suggested she bore no ill will toward him, which had come as a tremendous relief. But Oliver never heard from Emma again after that. It was her father who kept in touch over the years.
Matthew darted out of the kitchen, slammed into her legs, and wrapped his arms around her waist.
Emma laughed. “This is my son, Matthew.” She looked down at her boy and pushed his blond hair back from his forehead.
The mood grew lighter, and Oliver was glad.
“We met on the beach,” he said cheerfully. “Matthew was kind enough to show me the way here.”
“Yes, he told me that,” Emma replied. “He also said you came to see my father. I’m sorry to tell you that he took the Jeep to East Light this morning and won’t be back until suppertime.”
Oliver scratched the back of his head. “That’s unfortunate. Is your husband here?”
It would be proper to meet him. Oliver wanted that very much.
Emma inclined her head slightly, then spoke to Matthew. “Darling, will you be a gem and go outside to get me some flowers for the table tonight? Roses will do fine.”
“Is Captain Harris staying for supper?” Matthew asked.
“I’m not sure,” she stammered. “We’ll have to talk about that. If he’s expected in New York, he might need to be on his way.”
Oliver remained silent until after Matthew dashed past him and out the front door, which he shut fast behind him.
“He’s a wonderful boy,” Oliver said. “You should be proud.”
Emma smiled, and it was the first time her expression truly warmed to him. It made him realize that she was no longer the impassioned young woman who thought herself in love with him and couldn’t wait to share intimate thoughts and feelings. She must now reserve that part of herself for her husband.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.
“I don’t want to impose if you’re busy,” Oliver replied. “Matthew said it was bread day.”
“It’s no imposition. I just put a few loaves in the oven, and the last of the dough is rising. All the hard work is done. Please, come into the kitchen, and I’ll put the kettle on.”
He followed soberly and entered the room that he remembered so very, very well. His eyes settled on the sink. He recalled escaping the gentlemen’s company one evening and speaking to Emma while she washed dishes. He also remembered the window above the sink, with a view of the rolling dunes and waving marram grass.
His gaze swept across the floor, sprinkled with flour. A blue floral apron, also dusted in flour, hung on a hook by the back door.
“Have a seat at the table,” Emma suggested, “and we’ll get caught up.”
While she filled the kettle, Oliver sat down and wondered if coming here had been a mistake. He’d expected her father to greet him on the beach. He’d imagined the animated pumping of hands and manly talk about the conditions of the sea and the might of his new steamer. But it was Emma who had welcomed him, and in that sphere, nothing was entirely comfortable. Oliver’s feelings were complicated, and he suspected the same of hers.
Emma carried the kettle to the stove and switched on the burner, then moved to fetch a few tea bags from the cupboard. When at last she faced Oliver, she leaned back against the counter by the sink, her hands curled around the lip of the countertop.
“You asked about my husband,” she said, casually but bluntly. “I’m afraid he’s not here because ... well ... it didn’t work out.”
More than a little shocked, Oliver shifted uneasily on the chair. “I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know. Your father never mentioned that in any of his letters.”
Emma lowered her gaze, and he sensed a resignation in her, or perhaps shame. “I’m not surprised.”
“May I ask what happened?” Oliver carefully asked.
Emma moved to the table and sat down across from him. “It’s quite embarrassing, to be honest—not something I’m particularly proud of, because ...” She paused. “I suppose I was a bit naive.”
Sympathy rose up in him, and while he waited for her to continue, she couldn’t manage to look at him. When her eyes finally lifted, they held a touch of animosity.
“I might as well just come out with it,” she said. “The man I married came to Sable Island to hide from the law.”
“Oh dear,” Oliver replied. “What did he do?”
“He killed someone.”
Oliver nearly lost his breath. “My God. Really.”
She sat back and nodded. “Imagine my shock when I found out. Obviously, he never revealed that to me when he came courting. I only found out after Matthew was born.”
Still reeling from shock, Oliver asked, “How did you find out?” He craved every detail.
“The police finally tracked him down and arrested him in Halifax. And he’s been in prison ever since, for the past six years, halfway across the country, in Saskatchewan, which was where he’d come from.”
Oliver shook his head. “I can’t believe it.” They sat in silence for a few seconds. “I’m so sorry, Emma.”
Her eyes were downcast again, and she spoke, surprisingly, with indifference. “Thank you, but it’s been six years, and I’m over it. I’ve been fine here on my own. I’m grateful to have Matthew. He’s my whole world now.”
Something inside Oliver broke, for this was not the spirited young woman he’d once known. The woman before him had experienced betrayal. She’d learned that the world was not always a kind or safe place, and not everyone could be trusted.
He wanted to reach across the table and take hold of her hand, to show her some sympathy and understanding—because God knew he understood—but the kettle began to whistle, so he sat back as Emma stood and poured the steaming water into the teapot.
A moment later, she was seated again, and they were sipping their tea.
“Does Matthew know?” Oliver carefully asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “He started asking questions about his father last year when a new wireless station chief came here with his wife and children. They often play together, and the oldest asked Matthew where his father was. Matthew didn’t know the answer, so he asked me.” She paused and sipped her tea. “I’d never intended to keep it secret from him, because I’ve come to learn that secrets never stay hidden. I knew that if I kept the truth from him, he’d find out eventually and resent me for not telling him.”
“That’s true. He probably would have.”
She nodded. “So, after I told him, I dug out all the letters his father had written to him from prison, which I’d been stuffing into a box. I read a few of them to him, and I’ve been using them to help him learn how to read.”
“You’re a good person, Emma. Not every mother would be so honest or levelheaded about it.”
She laughed. “I didn’t say I wasn’t tempted to burn each one to a crisp whenever they arrived on the supply ship.”
Oliver chuckled also. “In any case, you did the right thing.”
She took another sip of her tea. “I hope so, because it’s confusing for Matthew. More than once, he’s asked if his father is a bad man. All I can do is try and help him understand that sometimes adults make mistakes.”
“That’s true.” Oliver had made his own share of them.
For a moment, he gazed pensively toward the window, then returned his attention to Emma. “But killing someone is a rather gargantuan mistake. What were the circumstances, may I ask?”
“He claimed self-defense,” she explained, “but the court didn’t agree. Some people thought it was murder because there was a clear motive. He’d been having an affair with the man’s wife.” Emma paused. “In the end, he was found guilty of manslaughter, but I’ll never know for sure if that was the right verdict, because it’s obvious that I didn’t know the first thing about the man I married.” She finished her tea and set the cup in the saucer.
Oliver gave her a moment. “How long will he be in prison?”
“The sentence was twelve years,” she explained, “but you never know. He could get an early release.” She ran the pad of her finger around the rim of her teacup. “But that’s enough about me. I’d rather hear about the shipping business. How is it?”
“Going well,” he replied. “Better than I could have imagined.”
“That’s wonderful, because I remember your concern after what happened to the Belvedere .”
He nodded. “It took a while to sort through all that, but I’m pleased to say that I’m now captain of my own ship, and I own two others.”
Emma’s eyebrows lifted. “Goodness! Congratulations. How did that come about?”
He wondered how much he should reveal, and in the end decided to bare all because she had just done so, and for some reason she still had that same old effect on him. With Emma Clarkson, he couldn’t seem to keep anything to himself.
“I have a patron,” he explained, “who wanted to keep me at sea and ... let’s just say reward me for certain loyalties.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Such as?”
“Discretion regarding my wife,” he candidly explained.
Oliver studied the expression in Emma’s eyes. She was interested, curious, engrossed, so he continued.
“My father-in-law has friends in high places, as it were, and he wanted to avoid the scandal of a divorce—which I wanted. So, he introduced me to an investor who made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. We’re partners now, and in return for the favor of the introduction, I’ve agreed to turn a blind eye to my wife’s affair.”
“But what about your children?” Emma asked with sympathy.
Oliver swallowed heavily. “That’s the fly in the ointment, so to speak. But I was able to make sure that my presence in their lives was part of the arrangement. I see them every time I return to England, and we usually go on a holiday, just the three of us. But I’m away a lot, so it isn’t easy. Sometimes I feel as if I’ve sold my soul to the devil, in a way.”
The front door opened, and Matthew ran into the kitchen with a fist full of flowers. “I found some!”
Emma stood and took them from him. “Well done. These are beautiful. I’ll put them in water.”
While she retrieved an empty vase from a shelf and filled it at the sink, Matthew sat down on the chair she’d been occupying, rested his chin on his small hands at the table, and stared at Oliver. “Are you staying for supper?”
Oliver wasn’t expected back at the ship until dusk, but he would never dare to presume that Emma wished to extend an invitation.
She returned to the table with the flowers and set them down. “The captain is welcome to stay if his schedule allows. What do you think, Captain Harris? Would you like to join us? I know my father would be disappointed if he missed you.”
Oliver’s gaze rested on Emma’s face, and he could barely comprehend the heights of his elation. “I’d be delighted. And we’re old friends, Emma. I think it’s time you called me Oliver.”
Matthew looked up at his mother and grimaced. “He talks funny.”
Emma gave him a stern look. “That’s not a polite thing to say, darling. Please say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” Matthew said sheepishly to Oliver.
“Apology accepted,” he easily replied. “But you’re quite correct. I do speak differently, because I’m from England, and I have what they call a British accent. And you have a Canadian accent.”
Matthew looked up at Emma again. “Is that true, Mom?”
“Yes, it’s true.”
When she smiled at Matthew and rubbed the top of his head, Oliver saw a joyful light in her eyes and recognized that old spark in her. He was relieved to see that it had not gone out completely, and something in his heart took to the air.
“Do my eyes defy me?” Emma’s father asked jovially as he walked through the door with his cane and spotted Oliver rising from the sofa in the great room. “Captain Oliver Harris! I saw a ship anchored offshore and wondered if it was you.” He set his cane against the wall and limped toward Oliver to shake his hand.
“It’s good to see you, John.” Oliver patted him on the back. “You look well.”
“As well as can be expected.” He turned to Emma. “What a surprise, eh? You must have fainted with shock.”
“Not quite,” she replied with a chuckle as she helped John remove his coat. “But it was definitely a surprise.”
“How long can you stay?” he asked Oliver.
“I told the crew I’d be back before dark.”
Her father checked his watch. “Well then. We’ve got a few hours. You’ve been invited for dinner, I assume?”
“I have.”
“Then let’s not waste time. We should have some brandy. Emma, will you join us?”
“I need to finish making dinner first,” she replied. “But I’ll bring you the drinks tray.”
“Wonderful.” Her father limped to his chair in the great room. “Just like old times, eh?”
“Old times and good times,” Oliver replied. “With the exception of the sinking of the Belvedere , of course.”
Emma’s father slapped his thigh. “Good God. Let’s not mention that. Ah! Here comes the brandy. We’ll drink to better days ahead.”
A short while later, they all sat down in the kitchen to dine on duck stew and fresh bread for dipping. Matthew finished his entire bowl and remembered all his table manners, and the conversation was relaxed and friendly.
“Are Abigail and Philip still here?” Oliver asked, reaching for another slice of bread.
As Emma dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin, she exchanged a look with her father. He scratched behind his ear—a gesture that was his habit when he needed time to formulate an appropriate response to an awkward question.
“They left the island for greener pastures,” he said. “When was it, Emma?”
“April of ’49,” she helpfully replied.
Oliver turned to her. “Where are they now?”
“Back in Halifax,” she told him. “Philip has family there, and he still works for the federal government, studying and reporting on the weather.”
“And Abigail? Is she working as a nurse?”
“She’s retired,” her father quickly put in.
“Knitting her fingers to bone, I suspect,” Oliver said, with good humor.
Emma looked down at her bowl. “Most likely.”
Matthew fidgeted with his spoon and shifted restlessly in his chair. “May I be excused, Mom?”
“Of course, darling. Go upstairs and brush your teeth and get ready for bed. I’ll come up to say good night. But before you go, say goodbye to Captain Harris, because he’ll be leaving us soon.”
Matthew rose from his chair, walked around the table, and held out his hand like a little gentleman. “It was nice to meet you, Captain Harris. I hope we’ll see you again.”
Oliver shook his small hand. “I hope so too, Matthew. Good night.”
Matthew turned and hugged his grandfather. “Good night, Grampa.” Then he left the kitchen and ran to the stairs.
A quietness settled upon the room. Emma stood up to clear the table. “Would you like coffee or tea?” she asked as she carried the bowls to the sink.
Oliver glanced at the window, where the sun was setting in glowing streaks of pink. “I’d love some, but I really should be going.”
“Yes, you must,” her father replied. “Otherwise, your men will think you’ve been captured by the locals.”
Oliver smiled at the jest. “Indeed.” He folded his napkin and made a move to rise. “But to be imprisoned on paradise. There could be far worse fates.”
Emma was flattered by the compliment to her island home. Or perhaps part of the compliment was directed at her?
Heaven help her. She’d been fighting all afternoon against an undercurrent of her old feelings for this man, but they were irrepressible. Once she and the captain had begun talking—and he’d asked her to call him Oliver—it all came rushing back. It was as if not a single day had passed since the week that followed the shipwreck. Emma wanted to keep talking to him, to share so much about her life these past seven years, and to learn more about his.
And it could not be overlooked that she was still wildly attracted to him. There was no one more handsome, more striking, or manlier than Oliver Harris. And she was a woman of experience now. She understood what was possible between them, as a man and a woman, in private.
At the same time, she was determined not to let herself go down that road again. He was leaving, and who knew if he would ever return?
Her father turned to her then, and she quickly hauled herself out of the depressing depths of that reality.
“Emma, we can’t just send him out alone when it’s getting dark. Take the flashlight and walk him to his boat.”
With the sudden, fast beating of her heart, her body felt energized. “Of course.” She fetched the light from the drawer in the hall table, and after her father said goodbye to Oliver, she led him out the door.
The small bulb from the flashlight illuminated a narrow sandy path through the tall marram grass. Emma stepped carefully in front of Oliver, who followed as they walked in silence, in single file.
Soon, the noise from the ocean grew louder as they approached, and Emma felt an increasing tightness in her belly. She didn’t know what to say, yet she wanted to say everything—to lift the lid on her feelings and let them all come flying out.
When they reached the passage to North Beach, the narrow trail widened to a small field of sand, and Oliver moved to walk beside Emma.
“I hope you won’t mind,” he said, “if I ask a question.”
“Not at all.” Despite everything, she was pleased by the return of their natural intimacy.
“At dinner,” he said, “I sensed you weren’t telling me everything about Abigail and Philip. Maybe it’s none of my business, but did something happen?”
Emma sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid so. It wasn’t a good situation when they left us. The isolation finally caught up with Abigail, and she had a ... let’s just call it a nervous breakdown.”
“Dear God.”
“She’d kept to herself all winter,” Emma continued, “and wouldn’t come to any of our social gatherings, not even to the beach on Boat Day. Then one evening, she ran to the water and tried to wade into the surf, but Philip chased after her and dragged her back in. That’s when we all realized she needed help, so she was taken ashore, and they have no plans to return.” Emma shook her head at the memory of that harrowing night. “I wish there was something I could have done to help her, but even with all the reading I’ve done about the workings of the mind, it was beyond my level of understanding.”
“Is she better now?” Oliver asked, genuinely concerned.
“In some ways, yes. She was released from the hospital, and Philip writes every few months to keep us updated.”
By now, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and the sky was a dark shade of purple. Bright stars began to flicker and shine.
Emma gazed out at Oliver’s ship, a stark black figure on the edge of the world, and she resented it for taking him away. Side by side, they trudged down the beach until the tender became visible in the fading light. When they reached it, they turned to each other.
This was it. The painful parting. But this was Emma’s life. It was the way things were on Sable Island, and she’d accepted long ago that there was nothing she could do to stop the world from turning.
Oliver hesitated, looked toward the high dunes, then back out at his ship. “I wish we could talk more.”
“I wish the same thing.”
“What about the work on the East Light?” he asked. “Do you think your father could use some help?”
Her blood began to race at what he might be suggesting. “I’m sure he could.”
Oliver pondered it for a moment and scratched the back of his head. “What if I bring some crewmen ashore in the morning and provide a few extra hands?”
Her body was now on fire with excitement at the prospect. “But don’t you have to be in New York soon?”
“I’m days ahead of schedule,” he told her.
He turned toward the ocean and stared at the horizon, and Emma admired his profile in the colors of twilight, and how the breeze lifted his thick dark hair. How pensive he looked.
“Who knows,” he said. “Maybe I planned it this way, so that I’d have an excuse to come here.”
The hostility she’d felt on the beach seven years ago, when he’d called her a child and told her to forget him, became hazy. All that mattered was the prospect of seeing him again the next morning.
“If you can delay your departure,” she said, “and lend a hand at East Light, I’m sure my father would be thrilled.”
Oliver faced her, and a faint light twinkled in his eyes. Or perhaps it was just the moon’s reflection as it began its slow rise over the ocean.
“I’ll bring three men with me,” he said. “What time does the work usually begin?”
“They start at nine.”
“Very good,” he said. “Tell your father we’ll meet him there.”
As he turned and dragged the small boat in a circle to face the waves, then dug his boots into the sand, hauling it to the water, happiness charged through Emma’s heart.
“No need to cook us breakfast!” Oliver shouted as he strode into the waves. The water splashed above his knees before he leaped into the boat. “We’ll eat on the ship and bring our own lunches!”
Emma watched him start the motor and pick up speed. The boat bounced over the breaking waves. When it reached the heavy swells beyond, he looked back at her and waved. She waved in return, her body alight with anticipation for the morning.
Moments later, Oliver’s figure grew distant. As he faded into the darkness, she was jolted by the image of Logan’s face in her mind. She saw herself with him—working on their paper night after night, galloping on the beaches at dawn, sneaking away to private hollows in the dunes to be alone together and drown each other in sensation.
God ... Emma had fallen too fast with him, without the slightest hesitation. She’d been swallowed up by the pleasure of her desires after the frustrations of her unrequited love for the captain.
She stood on the beach for another moment, then turned to walk home, shivering the whole way in the chilly north wind.