The Gilly Salt Sisters (25 page)

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.

D
ee 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.

T
hat 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.”

T
he 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.