Geneva hauled up the cod line, the thick, wool nippers encircling her palms protecting them from the coarse rope. She loosened the hooks from the cod and haddock gullets with the gobstick and let the fish flop into the bottom of her boat and turned her attention to rebaiting the line.
She spared a glance for Jake, who sat at the prow. “You’ve been good, boy. I know you must be gettin’ restless. Like to stretch your legs, huh? So would I.” She didn’t know what she was going to do with him. She wished she hadn’t—No, she wouldn’t start with regrets about Captain Caleb. It was too late to think about how he would have been the natural person to leave Jake with.
She filled each snood with pickled clams from the bucket at her feet. After securing the net bags to the line and adjusting the hooks, she heaved the line back down over the side. Then she brought up the second line and repeated the procedure, all the time reminding herself that she still hadn’t followed Mrs. Bradford’s advice.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she told Jake, who was staring at her dolefully. “I did the first part, didn’t I? You saw me get down on my knees just like Ma used to do before she got too ill to leave her bed. I asked God’s forgiveness. I pretty near begged Him to help me make things right with the cap’n.”
But that’s as far as it had gone. “I just didn’t have the courage to say ‘I’m sorry’ to his face.”
She’d seen him at work in his yard countless times. And how many times had he walked by her house? But she’d always made sure her back was to him as he passed.
She dearly hoped Mrs. Bradford had forgotten all about their conversation. She wouldn’t want to disappoint the old lady by telling her the praying hadn’t worked. She was beneath God’s notice, just as she’d always suspected.
Geneva turned her attention back to her catch. With her knife, she sliced off the fish heads and threw them overboard. Another slit down the belly and out went the guts, everything but the liver, which she dropped into a bucket. Jake looked longingly at the scraps, but Geneva just shook her head. “You’ve had enough, boy. Get yourself sick.”
The gulls screeched and circled overhead, diving for the scraps with the precision of an arrow heading straight for its target. Geneva pulled her boots up over her thighs. She ignored the apron of oiled canvas splattered with blood and fish guts. Only when she’d filled half her boat did she stop for a break. She retrieved the flask of tea from under the thwart and removed the sailcloth she’d wrapped it in to keep it warm. She drank straight from the flask and munched on some hard crackers, all the while keeping an eye seaward, where the fog obscured the horizon. Jake got up and took a few turns around the small space allotted to him, then sat back down.
After her meal, she pulled up the lines a last time, before shipping anchor and hoisting her sail to head to the next bay. She navigated through the Juniper Island Narrows between a few small, uninhabited islands scattered between the jutting point of the mainland and the larger Juniper Island opposite. Past them lay Hendricks Bay, a large expanse of water dotted with several small islands.
Saluting to a distant fisherman, with Jake standing up straight to bark his own greeting, Geneva made her way to her favorite fishing grounds, and proceeded to bait her lines and cast them overboard.
When the fog began to roll in, in billowing clouds, she put on her oilskins and sou’wester and kept hauling her lines. The fog crept in over the ocean, first blanketing one island, then another, swallowing each one up, then obscuring mooring posts and buoys. Not until it began edging the beach and forests and fields above it did Geneva pull up her last lines and head homeward.
She made her way by sound, recognizing the bells along the inlet and the sounds of cows lowing at the Roberts’ farm, until passing close enough to spot a buoy in her own bay. She eased up on the sail, peering through the shrouded world until she made out the boulders looming darkly through the fog and heard the barking of the Stillmans’ hounds, which Jake returned.
At last she reached her strip of beach. Jake was ahead of her, jumping out while they were still in a few feet of water. He immediately disappeared up the trail to the house. She followed him more slowly, sloshing through the water until the boat scraped the stones on the bottom. She pulled it up above the tidemark, where the rockweed was stiff and black and tangled with bits of rope and pieces of driftwood. Before she’d finished securing the line to a gnarled tree branch that bent low over the stones, she heard Jake’s joyful bark coming nearer once again. Behind his quick, pattering footsteps, she heard another set crunching down the path.
For a second Geneva froze, remembering Lucius. But, no, Jake wouldn’t bark like that for him.
The dog came bounding out of the fog, and right behind him, his dark head and pea jacket visible through the mist, came Captain Caleb.
Geneva sagged in relief. Never had she been so glad to see him. Maybe God did answer prayer. She vowed silently to ask the captain’s pardon, no matter what the outcome.
But the next moment he stood beside her, and she lost her nerve. Instead, she bent over the line, her numb fingers fumbling with the knot.
“Hello there.”
His voice sounded friendly. She stole a look at his face. It looked calm. His dark hair was edged with drops of moisture. Her glance darted to his deep blue eyes. He didn’t look angry. He had every right to be, yet his whole demeanor spoke nothing but acceptance.
Without asking for permission, he gently pushed her hands away from the half-formed hitch and finished the job for her. She didn’t argue.
“Your hands are cold” was his only comment.
When she didn’t say anything, he cleared his throat, “I know I shouldn’t be intruding, but I saw the fog and knew you’d gone out.” He smiled sheepishly. “I just wanted to make sure you’d gotten back all right.”
That smile was the loveliest thing she’d ever seen. Suddenly Geneva couldn’t talk for the lump in her throat. No one had ever cared about her whereabouts before. Why, if she went down in a storm or got lost in the fog, folks probably wouldn’t notice it for days. She looked down at the rope, trying to form some words.
“It’d take a little more’n fog to keep me from coming home,” she said gruffly, still not looking at him. Why couldn’t she say what was in her heart and be done with it?
She heard his chuckle, deep and reassuring. “I’m sure it would, Miss Patterson. I’m sure it would.”
“Wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
“Call you what? Miss Patterson? It’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Always sounds like you’re making fun o’ me when you call me that. Nobody else calls me that.”
“Perhaps it’s time somebody did.” His voice lost its mirth. “I’m not making fun of you when I say it.” His finger came up and hooked her chin.
She couldn’t breathe, looking into his blue eyes.
“What would you like me to call you?”
“Geneva,” she whispered.
“That’s fine with me. It’s the way I think of you anyhow.”
Before she could fathom the meaning of that, he let her go and looked toward the boat.
“Can I help bring anything up? Or would that be interfering where I shouldn’t?”
She shook her head mutely. This was the opportunity she’d been hoping for. But the words of apology still wouldn’t come.
“No, no,” she said quickly when she realized he was still awaiting a reply. “Just got my catch in there, but it’s awful smelly. You look so neat and clean.”
She looked down at herself, suddenly aware of what a sight she must appear. She began tugging at the knot of her sou’wester.
“I’ve handled worse things than a mess of cod. Come on. It’ll be quicker with two.” Without waiting for her answer, he went to her boat and looked inside.
Geneva collected the tubs from the shore and brought them to the boat. “I fill these and carry them up.”
He didn’t even let her load, but took off his jacket and started filling a tub with fish. Geneva followed suit. When both tubs were full, she led the way up the path.
“I’ll start splittin’ these,” she told him as he turned to get another load. Her hands shook while handling the first fish, but as soon as Captain Caleb was gone, she calmed down a bit and began gathering her usual speed. She’d just store them in saltwater tonight and lay them on the racks to dry tomorrow.
When he’d brought the last of the fish up and filled a hogshead for her with saltwater for storing the fish, he watched her work for a few seconds and then said, “I’ll clean out the boat.” Before she could reply, he was gone.
When he returned, he washed out the emptied tubs and stacked them by the shed. “All shipshape and accounted for,” he told her when he’d finished, his eyes twinkling with humor, the same way they had when he’d rescued her on the wharf.
“I’m just about finished with these,” she said, not knowing how to thank him, wishing he would stay, wishing for so many things….
“Can you spare any of those, or are they all for the market?”
“Uh, no, I save some for myself. Why?”
“How would you like to give me a piece of haddock and I’ll give you the best-tasting fish chowder you’ve had all month?”
She had to smile at that. “Who’s going make it?”
“You’re looking at him.”
She laughed out loud.
“You’re going to regret that laughter. You think I’m from Boston and don’t know how to prepare a fish chowder, do you?”
“Stop ribbin’ me, Cap’n. You’re…a gentleman—a ship’s captain—”
“Who has held just about every other position aboard ship—” he cocked his head “—except perhaps cook. But as cabin boy, I hung around the galley long enough to learn to fend for myself.”
“You expect me to believe you’ve swabbed the deck and climbed the rigging?”
“My father believes in learning from the bottom up.” His smile disappeared. “I told you I’ve gotten a lot more than cod on my hands.”
She shook her head, not able to adjust her picture of the captain so quickly. His next words jolted her still further.
“If I’m to address you as Geneva, you must call me Caleb.”
She reddened. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?” His blue eyes pierced through the fog.
“Don’t sound right. I’ve always thought of you as Cap’n.”
“Well, I haven’t always been a captain. I was only captain for a relatively short period. If you don’t want me going back to ‘Miss Patterson,’ you’ll have to overcome your aversion to ‘Caleb.’”
“Very well, Cap—” She could feel her cheeks grow hot again, and hoped the fog muted their color. She cleared her throat. “Caleb.”
“That’s better.” He took a few steps closer to her, and Geneva tensed.
“Let’s have a look at that catch. This one looks good.” His hand scooped up one of the smaller fish.
“What do you have in that garden of yours now? Nothing in mine is ready.”
Geneva could hardly keep up with the changes in the conversation. She struggled to think. “I have some radishes, peas, a few heads of lettuce, might have a few spears of asparagus still left.”
“Perfect. Would you trust me in your garden to get what I need?”
“Sure. You’ll find a bushel basket in the lean-to.” At the moment, she was willing to give him whatever he wanted. He could go in her garden and trample all her crops down for all she cared. She rummaged in her pocket. “Here’s a knife.”
“No need.” He patted his own pocket. “I have my own.” He grinned. “A sailor always goes prepared.”
“I still think you’re ribbin’ me about all that.”
“I’ll prove you wrong with my chowder.”
“We’ll see about that.”
As he turned to go, she remembered something. “You can skip the asparagus.”
He looked back over his shoulder at her. “Why’s that?”
“Never eat it. I just grow it to sell.”
“You don’t care for it, or it doesn’t agree with you?”
“Don’t care for it. Can’t see all the fuss summer folks make about it.”
“You wait until you’ve tried it the way I’ll fix it for you, and then decide.”
She nodded, resigned.
“Come down to the house in a couple of hours, how’s that? Does that give you enough time to finish up?”
She nodded again, unable to believe she would be dining at the captain’s table. “I’ll be there.”
Geneva had finished splitting the fish. She’d gone into the garden and found everything in order. No boot prints where they shouldn’t be, no crushed leaves or blossoms. She decided to cut some rhubarb and make a cobbler for the captain—Caleb, she reminded herself, feeling the color steal through her cheeks at the name.
While the cobbler was baking, she went out to the pump and hauled in buckets of water to heat. She filled the tin washtub and began scrubbing herself until she was sure the smell of fish was off her. Her stinking clothes were now in the washtub, to soak overnight. She put on her only remaining clean shirt, looking in distaste at the frayed collar and faded plaid.
It was nothing like the outfit Miss Harding had worn that afternoon on the wharf. Now, why did she have to go and think about that? All her pleasure at the thought of dining with the captain dissolved at the memory of the captain’s former betrothed.
Miss Harding had worn a light blue suit. Once, up at the hotel to deliver some vegetables, Geneva had seen a little girl carrying a porcelain doll, a doll much finer than any owned by the girls in the village. Miss Harding’s outfit had reminded Geneva of that doll. Its little skirt and jacket had been trimmed in a darker shade of velvet. Miniature buttons, covered in the same fabric as the suit, formed a row down the little doll’s front. The skirt was meticulously pleated. Pale lace peeked out from its collar and cuffs, which matched the miniature suede gloves and buttoned boots. A saucy little hat perched atop its blond ringlets.
Geneva tugged at her cuffs and looked at her image in the tiny square of mirror on the wall, in which she could see only a portion of her face at a time. Just as well—she’d never liked what she saw, ever since she was a girl and climbed up on the chair and peered in the glass and had her first glimpse of herself.
A thin face had stared back at her, its black eyes frowning, her hair so straight she couldn’t do anything but braid it.
No, neither features nor hair had been anything like the plump, curly-haired, peaches-and-cream faces of the girls who walked to school each morning.
Geneva turned from the mirror, beginning to dread the coming hour. There was nothing left to do. She’d washed and changed her clothes. She’d even washed her hair, putting some vinegar in the final rinse. She’d heard somewhere that lemon juice was good, but since she didn’t have any of that, she’d decided to try the vinegar. Anything that might wash away the smell of fish.
Why was she so scared? she chided herself. She’d been to the capta—Caleb’s—home before.
The name made her feel self-conscious. It sounded different by itself. She was used to rattling it off, as an appendage to “captain.” By itself, the two syllables Ca-leb made themselves felt, calling attention to the man who bore them.
In a few moments, she would be sitting across the table from this man, attempting idle conversation. Something about eating a meal with him frightened her. She was used to taking her meals in the solitary confines of her one room.
The captain would watch how she held her knife and fork. She remembered her picnic with Mrs. Bradford. That had been merely a picnic, with Mrs. Bradford, a woman of extreme kindness and tact. Geneva couldn’t bear it if Caleb, with only a look, expressed displeasure—or worse—distaste over her manners.
Geneva folded her arms across her waist, beginning to feel sick to her stomach. How was she ever going to swallow down even a mouthful of chowder?
The thing that scared her most was knowing she couldn’t sit down to a meal with him without apologizing to him first.
The captain had done nothing but give and give and give, and what had she done in return?
Smelling the cobbler, Geneva got up from her rocker and walked toward the oven, her footsteps slow and heavy. The cobbler was bubbling, the pastry golden brown and beginning to scorch a little around the edges.
It was now or never.
Geneva marched up the steps toward the etched glass doors. Jake had arrived ahead of her and was already scratching at the entrance.
“Hold on.” Grasping the cold brass knocker as if it might lend her strength, she tapped it against the door, hearing its knock echo within the house. An instant later, Captain Caleb stood before her.
She swallowed, already feeling in the wrong place. He looked so neat and polished in a pair of charcoal-gray trousers instead of his usual denim dungarees. The flannel shirt had been replaced with a crisp white shirt and dark vest. Before Geneva could back away, he was inviting her in.
She gestured toward Jake, not knowing how to explain his presence. “Hope you don’t mind my bringing him along. I can leave him in the barn.”
“Nonsense. Hi there, boy.” Caleb was already squatting before Jake and rubbing his fur. He gave her a sheepish look. “I never had a dog of my own.”
She looked at him in astonishment. “Well, you’re welcome to Jake’s company whenever you want. I wouldn’t want him becoming a nuisance, though.”
“I don’t think he’ll become a nuisance—do you, Jake?” He gave the dog a final rub before standing. “I noticed you took him out with you today. Is that usual?” He motioned her inside as he spoke.
Geneva didn’t know how to answer. If she told him about Lucius’ threat, there was no telling what Caleb would do. She didn’t want to make trouble for him.
“No,” she answered finally, standing awkwardly in the entrance hall, the dish of cobbler balanced atop the reading primers and slate that Caleb had left with her.
“Here, let me take that.” Before she could stop him, he had relieved her of the cobbler, exposing the books underneath. He couldn’t help but see them, but he made no comment. Geneva clutched them to her side.
“I—I—” She tried to regain her train of thought. “I don’t like leaving Jake alone so much. But a small boat’s no place for a dog.”
“Would you like to leave him with me when you go out?”
She stared at him. The invitation seemed to slip from him so easily. “Do you mean it?”
“Of course I do. What did I just tell him?”
He bent over Jake. “You’ll never be a nuisance.” Caleb gave her a sidelong wink. “He’ll keep me company.”
Before Geneva could express her gratitude, he held up the dish of cobbler, taking a deep sniff.
“I thought I was doing the cooking tonight.”
“It’s just a cobbler. I didn’t want to come empty-handed.”
He gave her an understanding look. “It smells good enough to eat right now and skip the chowder.”
Geneva began to relax slightly. “You just don’t want to admit you can’t make a chowder.”
“That’s what you think. I’ll put this cobbler on the shelf and bring out my five-course dinner.”
Geneva followed him down the hall to the main room as they talked. When she entered the room, she stopped short. Wooden crates and boxes lay everywhere. Stacks of books sat upon the bookshelves. A few oriental vases and a pair of carved ebony elephants with ivory tusks joined the ship’s clock on one shelf.
Large Persian carpets, navy blue and burgundy, unlike anything Geneva had ever seen, covered the wooden floor. She felt as if she’d stumbled upon a treasure trove of exotic booty. Her gaze traveled slowly around the room, her eyes widening when she noticed the walls. Where there had been whitewashed plaster, now there stood a section of muted striped wallpaper. The reading table was loaded with rolls of wallpaper and a bucket of glue and brushes. Jake was already busy sniffing around the new items.
“What’s all this?” she blurted out when Caleb returned from the kitchen.
Caleb came toward her with a smile. “Like it? It’s called settling in. I’ve ordered some furniture as well. It’ll be coming in on the packet from Boston. The books just arrived yesterday.”
Geneva stared around her, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to think. “Where did you get so many…treasures?”
Caleb smiled at the word. “I’ve collected many things over the years during my sea voyages. I never had a place to put them. They’ve been sitting in a warehouse in Boston until now.”
After a moment he said, “You were right the other day about my not having a stick of furniture in here.” He held up a hand before she could speak. “Actually, I’d already sent for these things before you spoke. I told my friend, Nate, to ship them when he got back to Boston.”
He smiled. “I was probably trying to prove to him that I was here to stay. He didn’t believe me, either. And he tried his best to persuade me to come back to Boston.”
Geneva swallowed, feeling worse than she had when she’d made the remark. Then her thoughts shifted to his friend’s visit. She forced herself to ask. “He didn’t succeed?”
Caleb shook his head. “I know it will take more than a few pieces of furniture to prove my staying power here, but I also have a few plans for this place.”
Geneva shifted her books from one hand to the other. “I had no right to—”
Caleb stopped her attempt at an apology. “Forget it. I already have.” He chuckled. “Up until now I had no heart for doing much of anything. You could thank your gardening for saving me. It inspired me to begin rebuilding my life.”
Geneva’s words weighed more heavily than ever now. “I spoke outta turn the other day, Cap’n. I didn’t know what I was talking about.”
“You spoke the truth as you saw it. You stick to your directness. It’s one of the things I like about you. And what happened to calling me Caleb?”
She could feel herself flush. “Sorry. It takes some getting used to.” She cleared her throat. “I guess I’m not used to seeing newcomers around here. Most everyone’s family’s been around since the place was settled.”
He smiled again, that rich smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes and reached down to her very insides. “So, a few pieces of furniture won’t do it? My name shall have to span a few generations before you’re willing to consider me part of the community?”
“You’re making fun of me again.” She moved away from him, farther into the room, still clutching the pair of books at her side.
“I told you you could keep the books,” he said quietly.
She stopped and looked down at them. “They’re beautiful. Better than any readers we ever had in school.” She met his gaze. “But they wouldn’t be any use. After I left school, I tried learning on my own. But it didn’t do no—any—good. I tried and tried but I just couldn’t make sense of the letters all strung together.”
The way he was looking at her, she became embarrassed by her confession. She glanced back down at the books, her fingers outlining the gilt lettering on the top cover.
“Geneva, do you want to learn to read?”
She nodded without looking up.
“Are you willing to give it another try with me as your teacher?”
She looked at him then. “Yes.” The sound was a choked whisper, but that’s all he required.
His tone became brisk. “Good. Now that that’s settled, I’ll expect you here tomorrow afternoon.” He rubbed his hands together. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to get dinner on the table. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Do you want me to give Jake something?”
At the sound of his name, the dog came over to Caleb, eagerly stretching his neck upward.
Geneva felt such a relief that things were back to normal between her and the captain, she was afraid her legs would collapse under her. She took a deep breath and slowly loosened her grip on the books. To keep the captain’s attention on Jake, she spoke sharply to her pet, “Get your muddy paws off the captain.”
“Listen to your mistress, dressing you down like that. Your paws are clean. Look at that silky coat of yours. I bet you’ve just had a bath.” Caleb’s voice was warm and affectionate, his hands echoing his tone as they scratched Jake’s head. “So, have you had anything to eat?”
Geneva forced her mind to what he was saying. “He’s eaten. I—I fed him before we came over.”
“Do you want to come out to the kitchen with me anyway?” Caleb continued to address the dog. “Sit by the warm stove?”
Jake followed Caleb as if he’d found a new master.
Glad of the time alone to put everything back into perspective, Geneva took a slow turn around the room. Hesitantly, she walked first toward the shelves. She fingered one of Caleb’s books with awe, wondering if she would ever come to read well enough to make head or tail of the words in them. A few looked like stories, with an interesting picture here and there throughout the text.
She could hear Caleb going from the dining room to the pantry and kitchen, and asked him if he needed any help. When he declined, she walked over to one of the carpets. She didn’t dare walk on it. It looked exotic, thick and soft, appropriate only for soft slippers such as she imagined Miss Harding wore indoors.
To dispel the image of the woman who had been meant to be mistress of this house, Geneva kept moving. She went up to the wall that the captain had started papering.
“Like it?”
She jumped at the captain’s voice behind her, then looked more closely at the paper. Little sprigs of blue flowers and ribbons formed vertical stripes against a creamy background. The blue was the same periwinkle shade as Miss Harding’s suit.
“Pretty enough” was all she said, but in reality she’d never seen anything so lovely.
“Come on. Your dinner is served.”
“Where’s Jake?”
“Curled up in front of the stove.”
Caleb had set up the small kitchen table in the dining room and covered it with a cloth. Fine china and crystal goblets and silverware adorned it. A small vase of daisies sat in the middle. It looked elegant and inviting at the same time, and it took her breath away. She gave a rapid glance toward the captain. He’d done this for her.
Caleb held out a chair at one end for her, and she sat down carefully. At least she wouldn’t be balancing fine china on her lap above the cliffs on an island. Making it through this meal without disgracing herself shouldn’t be so difficult after her picnic with Mrs. Bradford. The memory of it made her smile.
“What are you thinking about?” Caleb asked as he took the seat opposite her.
“If someone would’a told me that I’d be dining off fine china and linen, using real silver, twice in two weeks, I would’a laughed in his face.”
He looked interested. “This is your second time?”
Geneva told him about her employment with Mrs. Bradford.
“Maud is a wonderful lady. She’ll teach you a lot of things if you spend some time with her.” Caleb lifted the bottle. “Would you care for a glass of wine?”
She looked away. “I never drank much spirits. Pa…well, he…liked to drink, and it used to make him mean.” Those were the times Geneva would wake up the next morning to find her ma with black-and-blue marks on her arms. Once he’d given Ma a black eye.
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “It’s all in the past now.”
“Too often, people think they can run from their situation through liquor. I can tell you from firsthand experience, it doesn’t work.”
She looked at his twisted smile, wondering at his admission. Did that mean he no longer drank? “Pa never could give it up. Not that I ever saw him try,” she added dryly.
He met her gaze. “I’m sorry. He was probably one of those unfortunate men who become slaves of the bottle. And you and your mother suffered for it.”
He glanced at the bottle in his hand. “Unfortunately—or fortunately, I should say—drinking myself to oblivion did nothing to ease my pain. It only made waking the next day more agonizing than I care to remember.”
He set the bottle back on the table. “Would you like a glass of water or tea?”
“Anything would be fine.”
After he’d served her, she looked down at her place. Four spears of asparagus lay against each other on a small plate, which sat on a larger plate. A thick yellow sauce had been poured on the asparagus.
Carefully she took the linen napkin from under her fork and unfolded it. She draped it on her lap as she’d seen Mrs. Bradford do, and waited. Caleb took up his fork and knife and began cutting. When he was ready to take the fork up to his mouth, she blurted out, stalling for time. “Mrs. Bradford prayed. Before the meal, that is,” she added at his look of inquiry.
He set his fork back down. “By all means.” When she didn’t say anything, he prompted, “Go ahead.”
She didn’t know what to say and tried to remember Mrs. Bradford’s words. “Thank You, Lord, for this food. Uh, please bless it, uh, in Jesus’ name,” she ended in a rush, remembering those three words.
“Thank you.” Caleb proceeded to take up where he’d left off. After his first mouthful he looked at her. Wiping his mouth with the napkin, he said, “Try it. Just one bite.”
She cut through the bright green stem.
“Try it with the sauce.”
Obediently, she dipped the piece into the creamy sauce and then brought the fork to her mouth.
She looked at him in surprise. “It’s good.”
“Of course it’s good. I told you I could cook.”
When they’d finished the asparagus, Caleb removed the top plate. He brought in a steaming soup tureen and bowls. The fish chowder was rich and delicious, and she told him so.
“You really do know how to cook,” she said, looking at him in awe, trying to reconcile what he’d said about his background with her own assumptions.
She marveled at how he put her at ease, talking about things she knew about. He asked her about her fishing, about how she spent the winter, without asking her anything personal that might be difficult for her to talk about, such as her father or mother, or the way the villagers viewed her.
He, in turn, told her about his visit with Silas, the boat builder, and recounted some of his adventures at sea with his friend Nate, all without saying anything about the troubles in Boston that had brought him to Haven’s End.
The room around them grew darker until only their own small area lit by the kerosene lamp on the table was visible. Jake had wandered in at some point during the dinner and now sat asleep at their feet.
Caleb drained his glass. “Now that I’ve proven I can make a passable fish chowder, I’m looking forward to judging your efforts at cobbler.”
“It’s nothing special. Just some rhubarb and the last strawberries.”
“How about having it in the other room with our coffee?”
“That sounds fine with me.” She stood and helped him clear the table. Jake stirred, but did not stand, only watched his mistress’s movements as if it were the most natural thing in the world to see her in Caleb’s house doing household chores.
Geneva tried to begin washing up, but Caleb stopped her. “Just put them to soak.”
She noticed the pump he had right at his sink.
“Yes, nothing but the best for this place,” he said with a trace of irony in his tone, as he filled up the coffeepot with water.
“Why don’t you serve the cobbler, while I get the coffee cups?” he suggested, reaching above her head to open one of the cupboards.
Working alongside Caleb in his kitchen felt as right as tilling his garden or bringing in a smelly load of fish with him. Geneva stared at the crust of the cobbler, willing those kinds of thoughts away. But it was getting harder and harder not to imagine such things as natural.
She scooped out a generous portion of the cobbler for Caleb, knowing by looking that it had turned out well. She carried the two plates into the sitting room, Jake at her heels, and set them on the crate by the armchair, while Caleb waited for the coffee to boil.
She lit the sitting-room lamp and adjusted the flame. The crate held a spyglass, a book and newspapers. As she removed these to make room on the surface for the coffee that was to come, she saw the locket.
It lay open, and she could see a woman’s photograph within. She stared at the locket as if it were a vial of venomous poison, one drop capable of destroying all the well-being she’d gained during the meal. It was probably a portrait of a family member, she told herself, her hand already reaching for it. She must know.
She had known all along what she’d find. Arabella Harding’s sepia image stared back at her, those same blond curls framing a heart-shaped face under a pert little hat.
Those few weeks last summer flooded Geneva’s memory. Just as Miss Harding had predicted, Geneva had fallen much harder than against the planks of the wharf. She’d done nothing but dream of the captain day and night during his short stay at Haven’s End. She’d been obsessed with catching a glimpse of him around the harbor, without being seen by him. She hadn’t wanted to risk another humiliating encounter.
She shook her head, trying desperately to chase away the shameful memories. But they refused to flee. The most embarrassing was of the night she stole out to the village, when she’d heard of the dance the captain was giving at the hotel in honor of his bride-to-be. Geneva had stood outside in the dark, peering through the long windows. She’d watched the captain dance with his fiancée.
The two had circled around and around, clearly the most elegant couple in the entire room. She saw how he bent his head to hear what Miss Harding had to say, watched his tender smile—and imagined what it would be like to be the recipient of that smile.
“What are you doing?” Caleb’s sharp question brought Geneva up short. The locket clattered against the floor.
“Nothin’. I…I…was just clearing…” Geneva stuffed her hands in her pockets and took a step away from the crate, feeling as guilty as if she’d been caught stealing something.
Jake, who’d found a comfortable spot near the armchair, immediately stood and growled low in his throat.
Caleb stepped forward and set down the coffee cups. Very deliberately, he picked up the locket, snapped it shut and put it in his pocket.
Geneva took a few more steps back. “I better be off,” she muttered, not even sure he heard her. “Thanks for the meal.” She spun around and headed for the doorway.
“Wait, Geneva.”
Geneva turned. Caleb looked at her across the length of the lamp-lit room, his eyes pleading. She hesitated, knowing to stay meant disaster for her. Unable to leave, she berated herself for the worst kind of fool as she hovered on the threshold.
The captain walked toward a window. He stood there so long, staring at the black panes, that she thought once again he’d forgotten her existence.
“Forgive me, Geneva. I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”
She stayed where she was, neither advancing nor retreating. “I shouldn’a been nosing into things that don’t concern me.”
“The locket was lying there. It was natural to take a look.”
Geneva’s foot was raised behind her, poised for flight.
“Do you realize how difficult it is to get used to the fact that the goddess you worshiped has feet of clay?”
Caleb’s words stopped her.
He gave a harsh laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “That’s not the best part. The best part is, you still want her. You’d do anything to have her back.”