Grace in Autumn (16 page)

After shooting Gribbon an exasperated look, she lowered her voice and turned to her helper. “Can't you get his bread, Abner?”

“Yes,” Abner silently mouthed, “but he wants you to wait on him.”

“He can't have me,” she whispered back.

“Then he won't leave,” Abner said, his face brightening to the shade of a cherry tomato.

After the embarrassing exchange of last week, Birdie was in no mood to go another round with the scrappy skipper. But here he was, behaving as if nothing had happened, looking for his weekly bread and cookies and insisting that she wait on him. She! Why, she owned this bakery, and she didn't have to lift a hand for anyone if she didn't want to.

Absently touching a hand to her hair, she toyed with the idea of refusing to serve him. If he wanted his bread and cookies, he'd have to let Abner get them or do without.

Then again, she was running a business and she couldn't cut off a customer because of personal feelings. She lifted her gaze and peeked at the old goat. The set of his square jaw told her all she needed to know. He was as stubborn as a barnacle and he wasn't about to leave until she personally filled his order.

Downright mule-headed, that one. He deserved to stew in his juices, but maybe, as an act of Christian charity, she ought to turn the other cheek and give the man his cookies.

“Seriously, Birdie, you need to take care of him,” Abner pleaded. “I have pies in the oven and they need to come out.”

“Oh, all right.” Squaring her shoulders, Birdie paused in front of a shiny aluminum baking tray to make sure her lipstick was still intact, then marched up to the counter with a bright smile pasted on her face.

“One loaf of rye and two dozen molasses cookies coming right up,” she called, injecting a falsely cheerful note into her voice. “Will there be anything else this afternoon, Cap'n?”

Gribbon stood behind the counter, his arresting blue eyes focused on her. She shivered, wondering what he was thinking—no, she didn't want to know; it would only upset her. She'd been upset enough by her own recent actions.

She bent to wrap the cookies, grateful for a chance to look away. Buying those books for Salt Gribbon had been a mistake. One she wasn't likely to make again.

She hurriedly bagged the bread, avoiding his burning gaze. Stepping to the register, she rang up the sale. “Two dollars and twenty-four cents.” Silence stretched between them as he fished in his pocket and counted out change. He laid two dimes and four pennies on the counter, then added two dollar bills.

“Thank you.” She gave him a prim smile, then put the money in the register and closed the door. She wheeled on her heel, about to return to her dishwashing, but his iron-edged voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Birdie, let's go for a walk.”

A walk? Her heart tripped. Events were taking a serious turn: a walk was more personal than, say, a talk. She'd only talked to him before, never walked with him.

What should she say?

“You're about through here, aren't you?” His voice was lower now, and there was no denying it held a note of pleading. Even Bea would have heard it.

She glanced at the clock and saw that it was a few minutes past two. Abner could take care of what little business there'd be between now and closing. Still undecided, she turned and looked at the man. When his eyes captured hers, she couldn't think of the simplest excuse.

“Why . . . okay.”

“Bundle up tight. It's breezin' up outside.”

Before Birdie knew what hit her, she was buttoning her coat and winding a heavy wool scarf around her neck. From the corner of her eye she saw Abner grinning as he took three pies out of the oven and set them on the cooling rack.

Avoiding his gaze, Birdie lifted her chin. “I may not be back before you close, Abner. Make certain the front door is shut tight—the thing popped open on me yesterday.”

“I'll do that, Birdie.”

“Thank you.”

Sly as a cat, Abner stepped into her line of vision and winked. “You be a good girl.”

Flustered, Birdie reached for her keys and dropped them in her pocket, then meekly followed Gribbon out of the store. An unannounced and unchaperoned walk was highly unusual; Bea would have a cow if she found out. Of course, in this day and at her age she shouldn't have been concerned about taking a simple little walk with a man, but something in her clung to the old ways . . . and Salt made her more than a little nervous.

Stuffing her hands in her coat pockets, she matched the captain's stride, step for step. Neither of them spoke as they headed up Main, then turned onto Ferry Road and walked north toward Puffin Cove. Despite the sunshine, the wind was sharp and from the southwest.

She lifted her eyes to the church steeple, which reached up and above its historic neighbors with a kind of easy majesty. Next to the church stood the parsonage, and Edith Wickam had hung an autumn wreath on the front door. The effect of the colorful wreath against the dark green door was utterly—

“Charming,” she said aloud, then bit her lip. Heavens, suppose Salt thought she was talking about him! She walked a few more paces, her eyes wide and her nerves tense, but either he didn't notice her slip or he was content to ignore her.

Just like a man—ask a woman out for a walk and not say a blessed word the entire outing.

They walked on, past the Lobster Pot and the municipal building, and then it hit her—for some reason Birdie couldn't fathom, she was enjoying this unexpected diversion. Social activities on the island were as scarce as feathers on a fish. With the few exceptions of church functions, most islanders kept to themselves during the winter months.

They turned slightly into the wind and kept walking toward the lighthouse. It would have been more comfortable to talk in the civilized part of town where the road was smoother, but this was Salt's walk, not hers, so she kept quiet.

Wind whipped across the island, colliding with the incoming waves and shooting a cold spray across the rocky shoreline. Overhead, a watery sun skipped in and out of lowering clouds. The island was in for another snowstorm by nightfall. Birdie thought about turning around and going back; the path was cold and the company even colder.

She took another stab at conversation. “Feels like sleet.”

“Ayuh.”

The silence began to pluck at Birdie's strained nerves. Talkative by nature, she didn't know how to handle conversational lapses. She found herself grasping for topics.

“Thanksgiving's right around the corner—will you be visiting family?”

“No.”

“Will family be visiting you?”

He paused, turning to give her a penetrating, almost frightening look. For an instant she wondered if he'd brought her out here to bean her with a rock and teach the others a lesson.

Watching him, she saw something almost like bitterness enter his face. “Why did you bring those books?”

“Because . . . I want to help.” She felt color creeping up her cheeks, a flush that had nothing to do with the weather.

“You'll help me by staying away.”

“Away?” She bristled, falling into step when he resumed his pace. “I was trying to do you a favor, Salt Gribbon.”

“Don't need any favors from you, woman. Nor anyone else.”

Birdie was running now to keep up with his long-legged stride. If she'd known he'd react so negatively to those books she would have kept them to herself.

“If you want to return the books—”

“Don't want to return 'em.”

Then what did he want? Simply to berate her for an act of kindness? Birdie crossed her arms, offended and bewildered, and stopped dead in the middle of the road. “Salt Gribbon,” she fixed him in a steely gaze that would match any of his own, “you have to talk to me. Speak!”

Pausing, his eyes scanned the horizon with seasoned experience. “Backing wind,” he murmured.

Birdie frowned. “Backing what?”

“Backing wind is an ill wind. Storm approaching.”

Birdie focused on the choppy three-foot swells and huddled deeper into her coat. This time of year weather could disintegrate from bad to worse in a matter of minutes. From the corner of her eye she studied Salt and wondered about the sights he'd witnessed over the years. Rumor held that he'd been a longliner—a fisherman who went out at sea longer than most but returned with more catch. Longliner fishermen sometimes came into the bakery, and she heard them talking about working twenty-hour days for as long as two to three weeks, then falling numb into bunks to sleep round the clock on the long trip home. All to meet a quota.

She nodded toward the sea. “Guess you've spent your fair share of time out there?”

“Ayuh.” She expected that would be the extent of his conversation, but then he surprised her. “Let's sit a spell.”

Guiding her into a windbreak behind a tree, he sat down and motioned for her to follow suit. She settled on a rock beside the tree and found that she could see for miles. Out on the blue Atlantic, ships bobbed against the horizon while gulls caught the updrafts and soared high above their heads.

Contentment washed over Birdie, and suddenly she was glad she came. Out here a body's problems seemed insignificant, easily swallowed up by the rolling surf. She could understand why the sea obsessed men. Such beauty and power tended to put things in perspective.

Salt was a man of the sea, as elemental and rough and powerful as the breakers crashing on the shore. He didn't walk or talk or think like a shore-hugger . . . and in that lay his appeal.

They sat, each of them deep in thought, staring out across the waters. What she'd considered awkward lapses in conversation now seemed moments of comfortable and quiet companionship. Birdie found herself enjoying the moment.

“Ever been in a bad storm?” she asked.

“Ayuh. Many.” He turned to look at her, his stance softening. “Working a school of cod one time when a gale blew in. The fish were closely packed, and we were having a hard time keeping our distance from other boats. Fishing grounds can be small and close to the shore, so a man is stationed at each end of the boat to cut anchor cables should another boat bear down on 'em. That night, without warning, the stars disappeared and snow started to drive down on us horizontally. I looked up and saw a craft heading straight for us, so I yelled for the line to be cut. But by the time the men sliced through the heavy cables, we were hit astern. Both vessels went down. Water closed over us.” He shook his head, apparently overcome by memories of the night's horror. “When I surfaced, the night was so dark I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. Waves buried me for a minute at a time, and I couldn't get a clear breath. Every few minutes I had to retch the sea from my lungs. The winds were howling and the sea was covered in foam—spindrift. All around me I could hear my shipmates yelling, trying to save themselves. After a while I lost strength; I could hardly keep my head up. Then I went under.”

He paused, and Birdie waited, her heart constricting with compassion. In all her years, she'd never been in a situation even close to what Salt was describing.

“The instinct not to breathe under water is so strong that it overrides the need to supply air to the lungs,” he said, his eyes staring out across the water. “I struggled, thoughts shrieking through my mind: I was too young to die; I had a wife and four-month-old son waiting for me at home. I could see my mother shaking her head, railing over my senseless death. Then, through the grace of God, I came back up, sucking air, puking water, and crying like a frightened boy. A piece of flotsam passed and I grabbed out and held on. Somehow I reached out for five more of my shipmates, and then a tuna boat came up to pluck us out of the churning water. Saved us from dyin' of the cold.”

They fell silent, with only the sounds of the breakers against the shore to break the heavy quiet. Birdie stared at the sun-spangled sea, thinking of the men who lost their lives that night, men calling out for help that did not come soon enough—

“God is good,” Salt said quietly. “I don't know why he saved me and allowed the others to die, but I'm grateful.”

Birdie's blood ran thick with guilt. He'd suffered so much in his life, and she'd intruded upon the boundaries he'd set up to protect himself. What did it matter that he couldn't read? A man could be wise in other ways.

“Salt,” she said, the words coming out in a tumble, “I'm sorry about those books. I was out of line and nosy and intrusive and unkind—”

“No.” He stopped her with an uplifted hand. “I overreacted, Birdie. I sometimes say things unkindly. I appreciate the books, but I'm going to ask that you keep the reason for them quiet.”

She met his worried gaze with a compassionate smile. Of course he would be concerned that others would laugh if they knew he couldn't read. None would, but she supposed she might feel the same way if the situation were reversed. “I'll not tell another soul, Salt.”

“I don't want you to tell Bea. She . . . gets around the island too much, if you know what I mean.”

“I certainly do.” Birdie loved her sister, but Bea couldn't be trusted with sensitive information. She wasn't a gossip, at least not intentionally, but information leaked out of Bea like a sieve. Birdie learned long ago if she didn't want something made known, she didn't dare mention a word of it to Beatrice.

As Salt looked away Birdie detected a red flush creeping up his neck. Why, he was ashamed of his lack of knowledge! Her heart went out to him.

“I figured it was the only thing I could do,” he said.

“Yes, but working alone isn't always the best way,” she gently pointed out. “I could help.”

Frowning, he turned back to look at her.

“I could come to your place and help out—”

“No!”

She blinked.

“No.” He tempered his voice. “I don't want you or anyone else snooping around the point. It's too dangerous.”