Light Over Water Read Free Page B

something.  
              Sam saw this and
said,” What?”
              Alison shook her
head, unwilling to say anything.  Her eyes narrowed and she seemed to study Sam
for a moment.  She nudged Esther and said, “Let’s go back to my house.”  They
got up to leave and Cleo rose to join them.  Esther turned to her and said,
“Where do you think you’re going?”  Her words sounded as strangely sharp as her
mother’s had.
              “I want to come with
you,” Cleo answered.  Her little pointed chin jutted out and her cheeks flushed
suddenly.  But she controlled her usual whiny manner in front of Aubrey,
causing Sam to chuckle.  Cleo heard and whipped around, demanding, “What are
you laughing at?”
              Sam just looked away
as Esther answered her sister.  “Mum needs help with supper and it’s your
turn.”
              “I’ll walk you up to
the house,” Aubrey offered Cleo, who turned, as the tide turns, docile and
agreeable.
              The girls moved off
the wharf to the road that led through the village, around the harbor and out
to the Granger homestead.  Aubrey and Cleo headed up the high hill to the
Eliot’s home.  Sam stayed, running his hand over Brute’s bony head and watched
them until they passed into the trees, which shaded the road.  Aubrey seemed to
be listening and nodded at Cleo’s chatter, but he kept turning his head back to
catch a glimpse of Alison and Esther.  “Which one, Brute?”  Sam wondered aloud,
a sudden concern erupting that Aubrey’s interest might be in Alison.  In such a
small village, one’s friends became as familiar as family.  Alison, with her
eyes the color of blueberries in August, her freckled nose and wide smile, was
like a sister to him.  But there was more that he felt for her; a sensation
undefined but certain and proprietary.  As he watched her and Esther walk away,
he realized how slowly they moved and how little they spoke.  And he wondered
why exactly Alison had been so close to tears.
     
    Only at night did
Mary Reid allow herself to visit her husband.  Ian kept trying to edge into her
thoughts, as stubborn as always, making it hard for her to get any work done. 
Sometimes, like today, it would be in broad daylight; she’d be lecturing her
students on the importance of proper grammar and Ian would be there saying,
“There’s naught else for me but you, me darlin.”  Or she’d see the blue of the
sea under a certain sky and be staring into his eyes.  The caress of a warm
breeze across her shoulders was his touch, or the ripple of men’s laughter from
the shore was his laughter.  She held him at bay, never allowing herself to
linger over any of these unexpected glimpses, never crossing the line to
embrace these snatches.  Except at night.
              After a long day at
school filled with children, she would step across the road to her small
cottage and continue working, correcting papers and planning lessons.  Work in
her garden was followed by supper, and then she read the newspaper and her
books until bedtime.  Then she would wait.  Ian came to her when she closed her
eyes.  She never beckoned him, but he was there with his grin, his sun browned
hands, his infectious laugh.  At times he was young, his blond hair untouched
by gray and his skin smooth and unlined.  She’d see him before the accident
that left him with a limp, flying across the fields of their farm after a stray
heifer.  Sometimes it was as if they’d never parted.  He’d be there in his
brown wool suit and button down collar; his traveling clothes, his face seamed
with sorrow, yet calm, going to bury his mother.  On their first trip back to
Ireland in ten years they had been grieving for her, yet thrilled to see their
homeland.  The worst nights were those in which she felt Ian’s hands firmly
moving her to the lifeboat, heard his insistent directive, “Don’t move from
there,