FOUR

While Elizabeth Carr was dressing, Captain Johnson and Peter Hubbard drove to the village. Johnson had to start the official wheels turning at the town hall. At the Jessica’s dock, Hubbard checked the now-­crated specimens he was taking. Ben Dorset stowed them on board for the crossing to Chatham. Hubbard was surprised to see Bonnie Taylor sitting quietly at the bow of the boat, taking in the bustling harbor. She didn’t turn to him, and he did not intrude, aware that the woman preferred being alone. Patience was her balm now.

The man realized afresh how providential it was that he and Elizabeth Carr had met again, and would, God still willing, have their lifetimes together.

Back at the Johnson house, Elizabeth, making her breakfast, was pleased to be alone, too. It came to her that she had scarcely had a moment to herself for the past four days. Could this be only the fifth morning since a carefree Bonnie had so gaily taken Sharky off for a picnic on High Ridge? The nightmare hours since would always seem an eternity to her, an interval out of normal life, like something heard that could not have been real, could not have been experienced.

But it was real, of course. So many people bereft. And the awful, irrefutable evidence Peter was carrying for the scientific world to study and marvel at—while Yarkie mourned.

Fragrant coffee was on the stove, eggs were frying in butter—a diet-­defying treat. Elizabeth was starving. She smiled smugly to herself—her hunger wasn’t due to the switchels of the night before, it was the voyage of love she had taken with the man she could claim now. As the omelette sent its mouth-­watering odors through the kitchen, Elizabeth thought with delight that making love with Peter would always be like their first magic last night, no matter how long they lived.

Elizabeth wiped her plate clean with extra toast, and laughed at herself. If the bliss of sex with Peter did this to her appetite, she would have to cut down on one or the other. It would be food! she promised herself fervently.

After breakfast she wanted to walk, to walk by herself, to go along paths she had known so intimately as a child. She knew in her heart that though she would return for visits, this morning was her farewell to “grampa’s island.” Elizabeth started up the old dirt road leading from her grandfather’s house to High Ridge. As she went from the village up the curving incline, she heard birds singing again. Things were returning to normal. The trees, unfortunately, would take years, but there might even be an ecological silver lining, Elizabeth considered. With the old trees burned, new growth would have more room and encouragement to flourish.

Meantime along her way there were the familiar and beloved old friends. There was the poverty grass, so named because it grew only in poor soil. It was usually found on the dunes, but there were patches of it here and there around the island, a welcoming mossy carpet of silver green. From nearby houses along the lanes she passed came the distinctive fragrance of boxwood. There was the crisp bayberry plant, too, its berries a gray-­green color that glistened to gold although the sky was cloudy again this morning.

On the path, Elizabeth saw a beautiful conch shell. Some child must have dropped it, perhaps when the people had hurried to the evacuation ferries. She tried to shake that thought out of her head. They would be coming home soon, it would do no one any good to dwell on what had happened. Picking up the conch, Elizabeth smiled as it reminded her of the captain telling how he and his fellows had used these shells as horns when they were young fishermen out in dories blowing signals to the mother ship.

The pink lavender of beach peas invited Elizabeth Carr, and among nearby junipers she made out a flower whose name she had loved best as a child—the “pearly everlasting.” She had thought that should be the name for the inside of oyster shells, which truly shone like pearls.

On her left, Elizabeth recognized the very same blueberry bushes from which she had so often come home with a happily smeared face. The fleabane plant was across the lane, supposed to keep away fleas—which she, thankfully, had never acquired.

Elizabeth stopped near the top of the climb to enjoy a stand of beach plums. How many times she had stood on this very spot, mouth and eyes wide in wonder at the sight in the flowering season. Their blooming had put to shame the celebrated Japanese cherry blossoms she later knew along the Potomac.

She turned at the top of the hill to look back down the path she had come, taking in gratefully the variegated flowers, the neat houses, the tidy village centering on the harbor. The sky was a stretched gray canvas, but the clouds were light and slow-­moving this morning. The sea seemed calm. The well-­known streets, stores, and landmarks were reminders of her childhood security on Yarkie. Tears came to Elizabeth Carr’s eyes. How, how could the horror of the past days have happened amid this peace! Thank God it was all over.