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Early the following morning Opaline and Marin left the house and walked down to the harbor to catch a ferry to Jamestown. The sun was still two hours out to sea, and there was a glimpse of a thin slice of a left-hand moon lying lopsided in the southern sky. The wind brought a biting chill and natural rouge to the high cheeks of fair skin.
“When I went in to check on Phoebe this morning, I found Jude lying on the floor beside her bed.” Opaline said.
“Had he fallin’ out?”
“No, Marin,” she replied with an impatient and short breath. “He told me he was going to watch over Phoebe while we were gone. I doubt he trusts Phillipe.”
“There’s irony for you.”
“You know what he means by that, Marin. Besides, there seems some sort of connection between Jude and her.”
“Oh, they were connected alright.”
Opaline gave a neat nod, “I thought as much. So, Jude thinks there is a chance the child may be his?”
“Mister Prince is a player of long odds.”
Crossing Narragansett Bay from Newport to North Kingston was a three-part journey. First you had to ferry across to Jamestown, situated on Conanicut Island lying between Newport and North Kingston. Then you had to hire a carriage across the island in order to catch another ferry to complete the journey.
Arriving at the pier and finding no boat for hire, Marin coaxed Opaline back along the waterfront to Mister Walter’s fishing boat, The Merry Maiden’, tied up in the harbor. The soft glow of an oil lamp shone through a tiny window of the little hutch at the rear of the wooden scow, giving evidence of its captain’s presence. Opaline stayed ashore with the suitcases as Marin boarded the small vessel. He hadn’t taken but a few steps onto the deck when the cabin door flew open and Mister Walter appeared with a fishing spear in hand.
“Hold yer place and state yer business,” he yelled.
“It’s Marin Carpenter, Mister Walter.”
The old gentleman craned his neck out into the darkness before stepping out of the cabin door.
“Ya came within a step a becomin’ bate, Mister Carpenter,” he said.
“Sorry to board without permission, but a young lady and I need to get across to Jamestown, and the ferries aren’t running. We were wondering if you could take us across.”
Mister Walter squinted toward the bow of the boat and could just trace the form of Opaline standing on the pier.
“What takes you and the lady ta Jamestown by the thin light of the moon?” Mister Walter asked. “Ya wouldn’t be sneakin’ off ta marry, now would ya?”
“Would you ferry us across if we were?” Marin asked.
“Well, course I would,” and he called to Opaline, “Come on aboard Miss.”
“Opaline,” Marin added.
“Miss Opaline,” he called again.
Marin went to the side of the craft to give Opaline a steady hand aboard. The choppy waters gave the deck a clumsy footing, and Marin wrapped one arm around her waist to assist her. She braced herself a bit too stiff in reaction to his open hand laid full across her taught flat stomach, and so Marin pressed his fingertips into the silk material to secure her. She could feel his heat as if it were against her bare flesh.
“I’ve got you,” he assured her.
‘That is what I am afraid of,’ she thought, while attempting to relax. Her heart lodged in her throat as he pulled her closer to his side. As they began walking across the deck, the rhythmic massage of Marin’s hand, back and forth across her lower torso, further weakened her equilibrium.
“Wrap your arm around my waist,” he instructed, but she feared completing the bond. As they reached the entrance to the cabin, she grabbed hold of the door with one hand and pealed Marin’s arm from her waist with the other.
“I think I can make it from here,” she assured him, as she helped herself into the cramped little cabin.
Marin retrieved the two suitcases from the dock and placed them inside the cabin door. “Are you alright?” he asked her.
“I will be fine, thank you,” she said.
“Toss the line and gimme a hand with the mainsail, Mister Carpenter,” Mister Walter called out.
Marin closed the cabin door and went to the front of the boat to assist him.
“Why would ya be goin’ ta Jamestown ta get hitched?” he asked Marin.
“We are actually going to Providence. We are crossing the Narragansett to hire a carriage in North Kingston.”
“Well I could sail ya north ta Warwick. The winter flounder’s schoolin’ through there this time a year. Ya could just as easy hire a carriage there. No need goin’ so far east, only ta head north.”
Marin smiled and helped unfurled the mainsail. The wind caught the canvas and it puffed out, revealing a blue mermaid embroidered half the height and all the width of the linen sheet. Mister Walter pulled his index finger out of his mouth and pointed it straight up into the air.
“We’ve got a little luck what with a twelve-knot southwest wind in the month a December. She’s usually blowin’ from the north. We’ll be sailing broad reach, due north between Prudence an’ Hope Island, then swingin’ wide ‘round Patience Island. Should reach Warwick before noon.”
As they slipped out of the harbor toward Goat Island, the wind picked up and shifted a little more southern. Within half an hour the boat was clipping along at eight knots.
Marin went to the cabin to check on Opaline and found her lying down on the stowaway bench, looking a little off-green in the cheeks.
“Feeling poorly?” he asked.
“Will this boat ever stop rocking?” she gasped.
“Probably not.” He grabbed an old mop bucket and placed it at her side. “But look on the bright side. You’ll only be tossed about for another six hours.”
“Marin...” she urged, followed by a hard swallow, “I am in no mood for your humor.”
“Sometimes a little fresh air and looking to the horizon helps. Why don’t you come out onto the deck and sit astern?”
“I have no idea what that means, and I am afraid if I leave this bench, I will die.”
Marin held back a laugh and told her she would probably be feeling better soon. “I’ll be back to check on you in a little while,” he said.
Returning to the deck he told Mister Walter about Opaline’s condition.
“There’s an unwelcome chill in the air,” Walter said. “I’m afraid the bays ‘bout to turn dicey.”
***
Back at the house in Newport, Mister Prince was up making buckwheat cakes when Phillipe came into the kitchen.
“There’s a fresh pot of tea and I’m whippin’ up some breakfast should ya be hungry,” Jude said.
Phillipe poured himself a cup of tea and sat at the table without responding.
“How many cakes should I put ya down for?” he asked.
“Have Marin and Opaline left?” Phillipe asked.
“Well past an hour ago.” Jude replied.
“And you spent the night?”
“Yes, sir. If it’s alright with you, I thought I’d stay and help with Miss Phoebe.”
Phillipe pondered for a moment. “No, of course I don’t mind ...we don’t even know her last name, do we?”
Jude flipped a large pancake onto a plate and handed it to Phillipe. “And neither of us know the first thing about tending to a lady ...woman, in her condition,” Phillipe added.
Jude set a plate of butter and a jar of sorghum on the table, and handed Phillipe a knife and fork. “I don’t imagine she’ll cause us much trouble,” Jude said, pouring more batter onto the griddle. “Besides, it’s only for a couple-a-days.”
“Jude,” Phillipe proceeded with caution, “does it bother you that she is ...how should I say, a lady that sells her favors?”
“A whore? Why would that be botherin’ me? I’m not exactly a monk in chains, mind you. No point in the left foot cursin’ the right.”
“No, of course not. Let me ask you this, do you think Marin knows the young woman ...as it were ...in the Biblical sense of the word?”
“Are ya askin’ has he fucked her’?” Jude asked as he lifted up the edge of a buckwheat cake to examine its underside. Phillipe turned his face to the wall. “If he has, it’s none-a-my business,” Jude continued. “Besides, he seems to favor Aja.”
“Asia?” Phillipe asked with a turn of his head, “What in the world are you talking about?”
“What?” Jude asked.
“Are you saying Marin prefers Asian women?”
“Prefers? No. Marin doesn’t care where they’re from. There’s a girl in Martinique that ...well, never you mind that. I’m the one that called on Phoebe.”
Phillipe placed his fork on the plate, leaned back in his chair, swallowed his half-chewed bite, and asked, “So that may be your child?”
“No way of knowing, is there?” Jude said.
Phillipe looked around the room as if he had lost his bearings. He wrapped his hands around his teacup, mooring himself to the familiar. “And that doesn’t bother you?” he begged.
Jude tilted his head in a questioning manner for a moment, and then flipped the buckwheat cake onto a plate, took it to the table, buttered it carefully, covering the entire surface before pouring sorghum over the top until it oozed down the sides. He grabbed a fork, slid it under the cake and said, “At this point, what does it matter?” and he left the kitchen to deliver the hotcake to Phoebe.
***
As the Merry Maiden approached the tip of Prudence Island their advance had slowed due to a shift in the wind, and the roughing of bay waters. Both men were wearing their fair share of the brine, and the same cold wind that carried them along, exacted a toll in comfort. A fog had closed in and blocked their view of either shore and the intermittent clapping of the sail with each shift of the whistling wind, kept both sailors busy.
Mister Walter sang out to Marin, “Take the boom, Mister Carpenter. I’m gonna fetch us some slickers.”
Marin took the boom and found it more difficult to hold steady than he had imagined. No wonder Mister Walter’s forearms took on the bulbous appearance of two large New Jersey eggplants.
Inside the cabin, Mister Walter found Opaline asleep atop the lid of the storage bench where the rain gear was stored. He tried prying it open far enough to pull out a couple of slickers.
Opaline came to with a start, and demanded to know,
“What are you doing?”
Mister Walter jerked back and let close the lid with a clap. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Ma’am. I’m simply trying ta gather a little rain gear for the Mister an’ I.”
Opaline grabbed a breath, and said, “Oh. Forgive me. I am not quite feeling myself. How much longer...” but she stopped midstream, finding it difficult to finish the question.
“We’re approaching Prudence Island, Miss.”
“I am not sure what that means,” she spilled out.
“It means we’ve a-ways ta go, I’m afraid. The waters should calm a little by the time we glide past Hope Island. If ya don’t mind, Miss, I need ta get a few items from the bin.”
Opaline braced her arm against the wall of the cabin, doing her best to stand upright. Mister Walter grabbed a pile of shiny yellow items and four black rubber boots, and let the lid slam shut. He dropped the gear onto the floor and pulled a couple of covers and a pillow from an overhead compartment. He doubled one of the covers over the top of the lid, and fluffed the pillow before laying it at one end.
“There ya go, Miss. That should provide a little more comfort for ya.”
Opaline gave him a nod of thanks and, teetering short of falling, slipped back into a full recline on the bench.
Mister Walter drew the other cover over her, and said,
“Ya should be feelin’ quite regular before long, Miss; wouldn’t want ya too queasy at yer weddin’.”
“Wedding? What are you talking about?” Opaline asked.
“Mister Carpenter let it slip that the two a ya were ta be married in Providence.”
Opaline pushed her head toward him, and in short, soft breaths, aided with a couple of abbreviated swallows, managed to say, “Would you please inform Mister Carpenter ...that weddings were never meant to be a surprise ...and that it is only fitting and proper ...that he offer a lady a choice in the matter?”
Mister Walter gathered the rain gear and returned to the deck. He threw Marin’s coat, boots and hat at his feet, and exclaimed, “So ya lied ta me?”
“Sir?” Marin said.
“Ya tol’ me ya were goin’ to Providence ta marry the lass. She says otherwise. I don’t know what yer schemin’, Mister Carpenter, but if it weren’t for the lady, I’d be of a mind ta put ya ta shore on Despair Island.” Mister Walter hurriedly put on his rubber gear, and grabbed the boom from Marin.
Marin, struggling to put on his boots, said, “I didn’t quite say we were going to be married. What I said was, if we were to marry, would you take us to Jamestown.”
“Yer Erik Carpenter’s boy alright,” the old fisherman cackled, “same slippery tongue glidin’ ‘round the truth.”
“Wishing isn’t lying,” Marin muttered into the wind.
***
“Do ya mind if I smoke me a bowl,” Jude asked Phillipe.
“Do it by the fire,” Phillipe answered, buried behind his morning paper. “How is our guest?”
“Sleepin’ peaceful like. She’s got quite a journey in front of her.”
“I wonder if she will return to ...her previous occupation?” he asked casually, as if he were just making conversation. “Do you think, after the child is born, that she might repent her tangled life and return to the straight and narrow?”
Jude took his time puffing rapidly on his pipe, pulling the flame from the end of a small stick of wood deep into the bowl of freshly packed tobacco.
Phillipe, wondering what happened to the answer to his question, folded down the top half of newspaper and asked, “Well, do you?”
Jude exhaled a long stream of smoke, and replied, “You have a knack for the knotted question, don’t ‘cha lad?”
“I am afraid I don’t quite follow you.”
“Have you ever come across a knot that you can’t untie?”
A smile sculpted itself on Phillipe’s face as he recalled, “Marin use to tie knots and challenge me to untie them?”
“U-m-m ...and could ya?”
“Some of the easier ones. But there were a few that I deemed impossible.”
“But Marin could untie it, ay?”
“Of course, he’s the one that tied it.”
“Exactly,” Jude said, leaning back in the chair and committing himself to his pipe.
***
Sailing past Hope Island, the water in the bay turned a deeper blue and the water flowed glass smooth, reflecting the morning sun back to from where it came. The fog had lifted and the shoreline was again visible from both sides of the boat. The sail took on a bellyful of warmer southwest wind and pushed the Merry Maiden at a good clip toward Warwick, about five miles out. With Mister Walter at the boom, Marin gathered up the weather gear and headed to the cabin. Opaline was sitting upright writing in her diary as Marin opened the door.
“Well, catch a glimpse of my fiancé,” she mildly scoffed. “No, wait ...how presumptuous of me ...perhaps you are my beau. No, silly me ...I seem to be counting crow. Who might you be, then?”
“I’m sorry about that,” Marin offered, “it was a simple misunderstanding.”
“Was it? How fortunate for me.”
Marin stood entangled in the comment, arms full of dripping wet rubber gear. “Why do you say that?” he asked in earnest.
Rather than stand up and allow Marin to stow away the gear, Opaline curled her legs up onto the bench and went back to writing in her diary. She paused a moment to say, “You should air things out before tucking them away.” The double entendre was not lost on Marin.
“Glad you’re feeling better,” he said, on his way out the door.
He spread the wet gear out on the deck behind the cabin and returned to the helm.
“If our luck holds, we should be ashore within the hour,” Mister Walter said above the whoosh of the wind. “Can’t be too early, ay?’
Marin did not reply.
***
Jude sat beside the bed while Phoebe devoured her buckwheat cake; she had a forkful of sorghum-coated pancake halfway to her mouth even as she was swallowing the last mouthful. This pleased Jude, and he said so. When he asked how she liked the flapjack, she didn’t respond, at least not verbally. When she tucked the last bite safely into her tummy, she picked up her napkin and patted her round puffy lips in a self-conscious manner.
“Can I get anythin’ else for ya?” Jude asked, taking the tray from her. She had an answer ready for him, but it stayed lodged in her throat. “Miss Phoebe?” Jude asked again, “is there anything ya might be a-wantin’?
“Bacon and cabbage,” leaked from her lips.
“Ba-con an’ cab-bage,” Jude deliberately pronounced, skeptical of the combination.
Phoebe nodded her head.
Jude scratched his neck, and said, “Might take a while.”
Returning to the kitchen, he asked Phillipe if there was any bacon and cabbage in the house.
“I canned some cabbage last fall, and there is a slab or two of bacon in the cellar ...why?”
“Phoebe’s cravin’ some bacon an’ cabbage.”
“Oh, is she now?” came Phillipe’s haughty response, spoken precisely as he had learned it from Maria.
“Could be the baby a-wantin’ it,” Jude offered.
“Well please inform our guest, the kitchen is closed.”
“Her and the baby are hungry just the same.”
“Take her some crackers and cheese,” Phillipe said, dismissively, and then muttered one of Maria’s old saws, “Better to feed a beggar than create a thief.”
Jude returned to the bedroom, and said, “I’m afraid the bacon an’ cabbage is goin’ ta take some doin’, but I’ve brung ya some cheese and crackers.” He pulled a chair up beside the bed, and asked Phoebe, “So, what are you plannin’ ta do after the little one comes along?”
Phoebe placed a short, shy silence in front of her response. “Haven’t any plans,” she said.
“Will ya be goin’ back ta Ruthie’s?”
“Where else would I go?”
“Dunno. I thought with the baby an’ all...”
“No place for a baby,” she conceded.
“No, I wouldn’t think so.”
While Phoebe sat wondering where this conversation was heading, Jude sat wondering the same thing. He noticed a book on a table beside the bed, titled, A Mother’s Guide to Infant Care. He picked it up and began to peruse through it. Phoebe watched him from the corner of her eye. After a few minutes, Jude laid the book on his lap and said, “Phoebe...”
“Please,” she interrupted, “call me Lydia ...but only you ...and only when we’re alone. I don’t want anyone else calling me Lydia.”
“Lydia? Ya mean ta tell me, all this time I been fuckin’ a Lydia?”
She grimaced and gave a short nod of her head.
Jude, sensing his own lack of delicacy, said, “Sorry ...Lydia.” She broke a smile, and Jude asked her, “Why don’t you an’ the baby come an’ stay with me? I only live a block from here, an’ when I’m gone, Miss Opaline can check in on the two of ya.” The intervening silence felt a little longer for him than it did for her, but not by much. “Well, you think about it. I’ll let ya get some rest,” he said, placing the book in her lap, and with soft step, he slipped out of the room.
***
Once ashore at Warwick, Marin thanked Mister Walter and offered, “Perhaps you could join us for a bite.”
Mister Walter held an open hand against his ear and turned it out to the bay. “Hear that?” he asked. “That’s the Flounders a-callin’. No time for lunch, Mister Carpenter.”
He doffed his limp blue sea cap at Opaline, and said, “Pleasure ta meet ya, Miss. Here’s ta choices.” He let loose the line and slipped off back into the bay.
“What did he mean by that?” Marin asked.
Opaline only smiled.
At lunch Marin ordered oysters and Opaline dined on Winter Flounder. Marin attempted to broach the ‘misunderstanding’ once again, but Opaline only ignored him. Her eyes were caught on a gentleman standing across the room giving her the occasional glance. He was a dapper young man, proud to be in his mid-twenties, sporting a white frock coat, gold vest, and snug, ocean blue pants. It was when his expression turned to a smirk that she recognized him. She set her fork down upon her plate, patted her lips with her napkin, and excused herself.
She walked outside and stood braced against the frosty December air. Having forgotten to put on her coat, she wrapped her arms snuggly around herself and brushed her hands up and down her arms. Before the cold could make its presence too unpleasant, Marin was at her side, placing her coat around her shoulders.
“Are you feeling faint?” he asked her.
She shook her head. Marin nodded his.
“Let me settle up and we’ll hire a carriage,” he said, returning into the restaurant. He had no more than closed the door behind him when the dapper gentleman came to her side.
“Well, well ...if it isn’t Miss Downing, or should I say Mistress Downing?’
Opaline turned her head aside, ignoring him.
“Come, come, dearie,” he said, reaching out and taking her by the chin, pulling her head toward him. “A working girl needs to be a little more accommodating.”
She whipped the back of her hand against his arm, knocking it away.
“Such an impudent little whore. How do you manage to make ends meet?” he jeered.
Marin exited the restaurant in time to witness Opaline spit in the young man’s face, an action that resulted in the man backhanding her and sending her sidestepping toward the edge of the wooden sidewalk. Her coat fell from her shoulders as she twisted to keep her balance, and taking one more step than the sidewalk would allow, she fell, face first, into the mud and manure-filled street.
Marin reached out and grabbed a loose fistful of the man’s garment, but the scoundrel’s quicker reaction pulled him free, and he jumped on-board a one-horse chaise. But before he could start the buggy forward, Marin grabbed the reins and held the horse in place. He then reaching out with his left hand and grabbed the man by the scruff of his shirt, let go of the reins and slapped the horse’s ass, sending it and the carriage galloping away without its passenger. Marin cold cocked his opponent and left him face down in the tracks of his own departed chariot. Two men on the scene had plucked Opaline from the gutter and guided her to the sidewalk. Marin came up and thanked them.
“Perhaps you could attend to the young rotter,” he said to them.
“Let him lie,” one of them replied.
“Good day, Ma’am”, said the other, and they both went about their business.
“Are you alright?” Marin asked her.
“Do I look alright?” she replied, smearing the mud and manure in long brown trails down the front of her dress, as if to wipe the sullied fabric clean. Try as she may to hold her composure, she abandoned all sense of herself and sat down on the edge of the walkway and began to cry.
Marin sat down beside her, placed his hands between his legs and said nothing, waiting for her to regain her poise.
Swallowing the last of her tears, she pulled her head up level with the world, and said, “That man lying in the gutter is Talmadge Berry, Jonathan’s younger brother.”
Marin gave her a wide pause. When she didn’t elaborate further, he asked, “What was it that led to your spitting in his face?”
“He called me a whore.”
Marin felt it best to leave the discussion for another time. He put his hand under her arm and gave it a lift, encouraging her to her feet.
“I must get you out of those clothes,” Marin said, with an ornery grin.
“This is, by far, your best opportunity to date,” she said, returning the smile.
Standing up, they joined arms and strolled past young Mister Talmadge Berry sprawled out full in the road. As they walked down the main thoroughfare to find a coach service, passersby would halt their walk and watch the two of them stroll by as if mud and manure were, la mode du jour.
“We seem to be quite the attraction,” she said.
“You, my dear, are the attraction; I am simply your escort.”
Arriving at a hotel called, The Grand Dutchess, Marin approached the desk and asked if he could get a room for an hour or so. The clerk settled a stern eye on Marin before glancing past him at Opaline, who was standing as conspicuous as humanly possible in the middle of the lobby. The clerk picked up a large bell and shook it in Marin’s direction. A bell boy was swift to arrive.
“Chatsworth, escort this ‘gentleman’ and his courtesan to the street.”
Marin pulled his arm away from Chatsworth’s grasp, saying, “The last man that called her that is still lying face down in horseshit. I am merely requesting that the lady have access to a room long enough to clean up and change clothing. I will remain here in the lobby.” In a calmer, but no less stern voice he added, “Also, I would like to know where we may obtain a coach to take us to Providence, where we are to be married this evening.”
The clerk grabbed two lungs full of air, and said, “There is a lavatory at the end of the hall. The lady can freshen up there.”
Opaline picked up her satchel, and without her eyes leaving Marin, she managed to follow Chatsworth to the lavatory.
“Mister William Hartsworth operates a coach service down on Delancy Street,” the clerk said, handing Marin a business card.
Opaline came back down the hall about twenty minutes later, aplomb in an all-white day dress. Her hair was wound in a tight bun atop her head, and she had a long red coat draped over her folded right arm, and a large linen bag held by the drawstring in her in her left hand. She placed one sure foot in front of another, while keeping her eyes on the distance, as she walked past Marin and out the front door.
Marin thanked the clerk and trailed along behind her.
***
The sun had settled on the edge of the horizon, and low hanging blue-gray winter clouds were chasing it over the border as the coach pulled up to the entrance of The Patterson Hotel, in Dorrance Street in Providence. Conversation between Marin and Opaline had been sparse on the road from Warwick, Opaline having slept most of the way.
Entering the hotel, they each took a seat in the lobby before approaching the front desk.
“How are we going to handle this?” Marin asked.
“To what are you referring?” she inquired.
Marin juggled a tangle of terms through his head and settled upon, “The arrangements.”
Opaline pulled back a smile and said, “How would you imagine they would be handled?”
“Well, I can see two options; you and I share a room, or, we get you a room, and I stay with Emily.”
“You have quite an imagination,” Opaline said, folding her arms. “How about a third option? You know, the one where we get separate rooms, enjoy a nice dinner, get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow you can visit Miss Wallace by the light of day, while I attend to ordering supplies. That way we could each accomplish our business and be in a coach back home by noon.
“Or-r-r,” Marin said, drawing the word out while hoisting a smile and raising a pointed finger into the air, “I could accomplish my business with Emily tonight, and help you with your task tomorrow, and we could be on our way home before noon.”
“Interesting. You see your business with Emily as taking all night to accomplish?”
“No-o-o, but why pay for two rooms when I can stay with Emil—”
“Oh, I see, it’s the money. Well how about if I pay for both rooms?”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Have it your way, Captain Carpenter,” she said, leaving her seat and approaching the front desk. “I would like a room for the night please,” she told the hotel clerk.
The clerk glanced over Opaline’s shoulder at Marin.
“Are you accompanied, Ma’am?” he asked her.
“Do you see anyone beside me, sir?” she queried.
As Marin began to approach the front desk the man hesitated to answer her, waiting on Marin’s arrival.
“I would like to pay for the lady’s room,” Marin said.
“That won’t be necessary,” Opaline replied. “She can attend to her own affairs.”
“Have it your way, Miss Downing,” Marin said, walking away.
Marin found a tavern attached to the hotel and decided to consider his options while in the company of a glass of whiskey. He pulled Emily’s note from his pocket and read the address to the bartender, asking where Stimson Avenue was in relation to the hotel.
“It’s right across the bridge and a half-a-mile north. You could go there on a whim, sir.”
‘On a whim.’ Those words stuck with him through his first glass of whiskey. But his wasn’t just a whim, Marin assured himself. He pulled the note from his pocket and read the line, ‘I have some news that may interest you.’ He tucked the note back into his vest pocket and ordered another whiskey.
The second glass of whiskey sat a little closer to him than the first as his thoughts drifted back and forth between the first time he saw Emily, and the parting glance she gave him as she rode away with Aunt Belle.
After Marin had finished the second glass, the bartender stood before him holding the bottle of Black Swan whiskey out at a slight pouring angle. ‘If I continue drinking whiskey,’ he thought to himself, ‘I am going to end up in Emily’s arms.’ The very thought of her soft, white, rose petal skin pressed against him set his insides aquiver, and his head gave a faint nod to the barkeep. He watched as the bottle listed past the tipping point, the whiskey flowing down the neck into his glass, filling it to the brim.
As the bartender retreated, leaving Marin and his whiskey to themselves, Marin looked at the glass as if it were a buoy marking the point of no return. He knew he was halfway between Emily and Opaline.
Staring into the golden-brown liquid, the light from the fireplace came streaming through it, casting a dancing gold reflection at an oblique angle onto the bar. ‘I find you oblique,’ he remembered Opaline saying. He recalled the quarrelsome back and forth nature of their initial meeting. He smiled at the remembrance of her chasing after him when he stormed out of the funeral. When he thought of the night she appeared in the barn, ‘to keep him company’, he braced himself against the bar and closed his eyes. A vision bloomed in full detail of her standing before the fire in her nightgown, her silhouetted body thinly veiled through the thin cloth, and the shadow of the dancing flames licking at the vertex of her thighs. ‘I am fearful of your warmth,’ she had once told him. ‘You are afraid of your own fire,’ he had replied. He envisioned her sitting in the bath, her long and ruby shaded hair falling in independent spiraling strands over her thin shoulders, and down the bare curved lines of her back; her milk white breasts glistening wet and naked, with a drop of bath water catching the light as it hung tenuously from the protruding tip; the opaque, mirage-like reveal of her torso under the water, with a darkened patch at the bend where her legs stretched out full. He breathed in full, as his heart released the most endearing of memories, the sound of her voice as she said, ‘to bring comfort’. He opened his eyes as he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Perhaps you would be more comfortable in your own room, sir,” the bartender said, adding, “You can take your whiskey with you if you wish.”
“Was I asleep?” Marin asked with a tinge of apology.
“For quite some time, sir.”
Marin paid for his whiskey, leaving the third glass sitting full on the bar. At the front desk, he asked for a room, ‘as close to Miss Downing’s as possible’.
He lay in bed with the dim light of the moon, waning crescent, peeking through the window at his feet.