FIFTY-FIVE


 

 

Miles used the unexpected lull to call Marion again. This time, to his instant joy, she answered. In an oddly stilted conversation, Miles asked her to dinner. Of course, Sylvia had to come along too. So with a glimmer of hope that it might help him find a moment to be alone with Marion, he invited Floyd to join them.

They met at a cozy place on Harrison Street called Kelly's—the only alternative to Morgan's for a sit-down dinner. It had been a thriving pub before Prohibition. But its Irish-influenced menu, including its hugely popular lamb stew, kept it alive.

Miles and Floyd arrived wearing the same suits they'd had on all day—Floyd's pressed, Miles's rumpled. But Marion and Sylvia came looking as tony as ever, sticking out like a couple of fashionable sore thumbs in an unfashionable one-horse town. They all ordered the stew, split two rounds of brown soda bread served with salted local butter, then lingered over fresh blackberry cobbler and coffee as Miles caught them up on the basics of their investigation.

"In sum, as of a few hours ago, we had two tong highbinder assassins, a rabidly racist labor agitator, an assaultive temperance fanatic, and heaven only knows how many murderous rumrunners, opium smugglers, human traffickers, pirates, and deranged revenue agents loose on and around the island," Miles said.

"And let's not forget our cutthroat salvager-maybe-turned-treasure hunter lurking in the surrounding seas," Floyd added, apparently no longer concerned about discussing an investigation with two civilians.

"And no promising leads," Miles said with emphasis.

"You should write a book about this case," Marion suggested.

"My mother would say the story is too complex for the impatient, lazy modern mind," Floyd said.

"And it has no ending," Miles added. "Yet."

They fell quiet as their server refilled coffee cups.

"So how long does it take you to travel out here from New York?" Floyd asked.

"Four days," Sylvia said.

"Holy cow. I'd lose my mind, sitting in a train seat for four days."

"Oh, no—the long-distance trains are really quite elegant. There's a restaurant car, a lounge, a game room. And we get sleeping berths. The bedding is Egyptian cotton."

"Oh. How many times did you have to change trains on the way out here?"

"Only once. We rode the Broadway Limited from New York to Chicago, then the Oriental Limited from Chicago to Seattle. I'll tell you, that Oriental Limited is a gorgeous train with a gorgeous route. The Rocky Mountains. The Cascades. Indian lands of the golden plains."

"Sounds romantic," Miles muttered.

"It is, indeed," Sylvia said, with a covert glance at Marion.

"And you're from Boston, Sylvia?" Floyd asked.

"I am."

"I would love to go to Boston. So many great universities. So much science and education and enlightenment."

"Enlightenment?" Miles said, giving Floyd a dubious look. "I'd always heard it was a town full of drunk Irish Catholics."

"Who says alcohol isn't the path to enlightenment?" Marion asked. "And my mother is Irish, you insensitive ass."

"Some neighborhoods—the Jewish ones—are more enlightened than others," Sylvia added with a wink.

As the weather was good, they took an after-dinner walk, making a rough circuit of town. Marion and Sylvia smoked aromatic brown cigarettes jammed into the ends of long cigarette holders. Before long, with each of them pausing in different places to peek through darkened shop windows or gaze out over the quiet harbor, and with Miles doing a bit of surreptitious maneuvering, the group split in half, with Miles and Marion bringing up the rear, a block or so behind Sylvia and Floyd who were laughing and chatting away. The sun had set and the town and harbor glowed in a magical pink light. Miles kept sneaking glances at Marion. She was as beautiful as ever.

"How is your grandfather?" he asked.

"Still hanging on. He's a strong old man."

"Maybe that's where you get it."

"It's hard on my mother though. Sometimes I think it would be better for her if he'd just let himself move on."

"You mean pass away? Can a person decide that?"

"I'm sure you can. Think how many stories you hear of people with broken hearts willing themselves to die just after their spouses pass away."

Miles figured such stories encompassed coincidence and only seemed commonplace because they were so memorable.

"So you may be staying in town longer then?" he asked, his heart leaping in his chest.

"Good question. We have engagements back in New York."

"Engagements?"

"Sylvia teaches at Mount Sinai Hospital, and I'm enrolled at Barnard College."

"You're in college? I'll say it again: you amaze me."

"And I'll say it again: I am amazing. Still, it's hard to imagine leaving my mother alone in this situation. Maybe I'll just send Sylvia home."

"Yes?" Miles said, trying to keep the surge of joyful hope from showing on his face.

"It's just that I hate the idea of her travelling alone."

"She's been to war, Marion. I'm quite sure she can handle first-class train travel."

"Do you care for her?"

"For Sylvia? Yes. Very much."

"I'm so glad. That means quite a lot to me."

"Really? You've never struck me as the type to care what anyone else thought about who your friends were."

"Well. She's a very good friend. And so are you. It's different."

They walked half a block in silence. Twice, Miles caught Marion sneaking quick, cautious glances at him. Was this really happening? Was she attracted to him? Was she working up the nerve to say so? His heart began to pound.

"Sylvia told me something of your conversations," Marion said, her tone confusingly reluctant.

"Yes?"

"About the war."

"Oh." Miles deflated. "What did she tell you?"

"Nothing specific. She tends to speak in metaphors when it comes to this sort of thing—at least when she talks to me. Probably because I'm such a delicate flower."

"Ha-ha."

"But she said that you've gazed into the abyss."

"Hmm."

They walked a few more steps, then Marion stopped in her tracks and looked at him. "Life has more to offer you, Miles. I know it's easy for me to say. But I miss the happy, spirited boy I grew up with. I want you to find a way to reconnect."

"Yes." He swallowed hard. "Actually, along those lines, it would mean the world to me if—"

"Sheriff!" Bill shouted, jogging up the street. The commotion got Floyd and Sylvia turned around. "Just got a call from the RCMP in Vancouver."

"You were still at the station?" Miles asked.

"Just tying up some loose ends. Mopping blood out of the cell and so forth."

The mention of blood drew a troubled look from Marion.

"You're a dedicated man," Miles said, not quite able to conceal the irritation in his voice. "What's up?"

"They found Angus Cooper's boat."

"The Daisy? Where?"

"Mouth of the Fraser River, run aground on a sandbar just off Steveston."

"In British Columbia?"

"Sounds like Cooper ran for it to Canada," Floyd said.

"I got the number for the RCMP constable handling the case. He said he'd wait up for your call."

Miles's jaw tightened in frustration. He turned to Marion, aching to pour his heart out to her, restraining himself in the presence of everyone else. "Listen, we should continue this conversation," he said to her.

"I know. Call me tomorrow. I'll be at home all morning."

She leaned in close and, for the first time ever, kissed his cheek. For a split second, he caught the scent of jasmine in her hair, and his mind reeled in the dazzling light of a thousand happy memories from their shared past. He felt as if his whole body were suddenly filled with a sustaining warmth—the formerly hollow parts of him brimming over with a sensation he instinctively recognized as eternal, pure, and good. He yearned to wrap his arms around her. To hold her. To keep her.

Instead, he had to content himself with a longish hand squeeze and one more look at her smiling face framed by the otherworldly backdrop of a dusk-lit Friday Harbor and a sky filling with stars.