everything in his previous life and his reclusive existence now in Haven’s End. “None of what happened in Boston matters anymore.”
“In a pig’s eye.”
“Maybe,” Caleb conceded, “but I’m settled here now. Whatever goes on back in Boston is no concern of mine.”
“Your father is sorry for not trusting your word. He realizes he shouldn’t have condemned you out of hand on the basis of circumstantial evidence. But you know him. He’ll never be able to tell you that. But let him show you. He’ll never doubt your word, nor your loyalty, again.”
Why was it too little, too late? Caleb stood, unable to contain himself within the confines of a chair.
“It won’t work, running away.” Nate’s tone was soft, persuasive.
“It’s called renouncing,” Caleb said quietly.
“Is nothing I say going to make any difference?”
“No.” The one syllable conveyed finality. He had thought long and hard about his decision.
Nate took up his glass and tilted it, watching the circle of liquid around its edge. He met Caleb’s gaze over its rim. “I’m not giving up, you know.” Without allowing the other a chance to reply, he changed the subject as if he hadn’t just thrown down a serious challenge.
“So, what do you find to do in this place?” He looked around the sparsely furnished room and added, “What do you do when the fog rolls in?”
“I sleep.”
Nate threw back his head and laughed. He took another sip of his drink before placing it on the crate and rising to stroll the perimeters of the room. “Glad to see you didn’t renounce every last remnant of your past life,” he said, stopping by the sea chest and picking up the spyglass sitting atop it. He focused it out the window.
“At least you shall never be bored with this view before you. I envy you that.”
“How reassuring there’s something you find redeeming about my new home.”
Nate lifted his brow at the word home. He replaced the spyglass and continued his perusal of Caleb’s belongings, fingering sextant, chronometer, compass—those tools by which a captain located his position at sea.
At the bookcase he examined Caleb’s pitiful collection of books, which filled only half a shelf. Leafing through Becher’s Navigation, he said, “Arabella has set a date for her marriage.”
The news hit Caleb like an unexpected blow to the gut. His muscles hadn’t had a chance to tense and form a wall rigid enough to withstand the assault.
Well, it was done. He should have known it was coming. Now he could get on with his life, knowing this chapter was irrevocably closed. What life? a part of his mind countered, taunting him with the emptiness of his days.
As if in reply to a question, Nate continued. “August twenty-fifth. Three o’clock. At the Congregational Church. Reception to follow at the home of the bride’s parents.”
Once again, the only sound in the room was that of the clock. “There’s still time to do something about it. She continues in ignorance of Ellery’s role.”
Caleb turned to look beyond his back lawn, beyond the cove, to the sea. Cloud cover gave the ocean a silvery green appearance. A small whitecap here and there signaled the stiff breeze blowing in from the Atlantic. A few islands lay directly in front of his cove, outcroppings of rock more than real landmasses. The larger one was flat, like an old man lying half submerged by water.
He watched a wave curl against one side of its forbidding gray rock, then slip back down into the ocean in defeat. His soul felt like that rock. Assaulted. Barren. Alone.
Knowing Nate waited for him to say something, he asked, “Why shouldn’t Arabella continue in ignorance about Ellery? What went on in the firm has nothing to do with her.”
Nate slammed the heavy tome shut and turned to Caleb. “Nothing to do with her that the man she’s planning to marry is the man who did everything in his power to make you look guilty? Nothing to do with her that the man who could have cleared you with one word was silent throughout the whole ordeal? And that you’ve done nothing to make her see the truth? Caleb, why do you insist on continuing the martyrdom? Wasn’t it bad enough when you had no choice? Now you’ve got your father behind you.”
Caleb tightened his hands into fists against the windowsill. Hadn’t he had the same discussions in his head over and over?
“Arabella made her decision.”
“She made a mistake.” Nate’s voice softened. “We all make mistakes. Is that a reason for condemning her to a lifetime shackled to a weak, envious, backstabbing—”
Caleb turned toward the room once more.
“You forget, Ellery is my cousin.” When Nate made a sound of disagreement, Caleb held up a hand. “I made the decision to leave.” He looked steadily at Nate, reminding him of his promise not to interfere. “My decision was final. What Ellery chooses to tell Arabella, or anyone else, is no longer my concern. It’s not the reason I left Boston. You and I both know why I did that.”
Nate replaced the book on the shelf. The care he took in putting it back exactly where he’d taken it told Caleb that his friend was using the time to compose himself. When he faced Caleb once again, his tone was calm.
“You’re still letting your father rule you. Even way up here, where you can’t see him or hear him, he continues to be a tyrant over you. I just wonder how long it’s going to take you to figure that out.”
Caleb awoke and looked up at the whitewashed ceiling, orienting himself. His mind was permeated with a feeling of anticipation, and he had to think a minute, wondering at its origin.
Nate had stayed until the day before, when he’d left on a schooner to Eastport, where he’d catch the overnight steamer to Boston. Caleb spent the two days of his visit showing him around. They had hiked and explored the coastline the same way they’d done as young sailors exploring the various ports of call.
Caleb stretched, reaching his arms up behind him, wondering at the sense of purpose he’d awakened with. He lay back on his pillow, the sunlight streaming in through the bare panes, until it came to him. The seeds!
Like an interrupted conversation that needed to be picked up where it had broken off, Caleb felt the need to follow through on his last encounter with Miss Patterson. She’d offered him seeds, and he was going to see about getting them.
Caleb threw back his sheet and blanket and jumped up from his bed, glad he no longer had to pretend that everything was all right, or weigh each word to make sure his faithful friend wouldn’t pounce on it, ready to use it as ammunition for Caleb’s return to Boston.
Glancing outside, he saw the sun shimmering off the blue Atlantic. Suddenly he felt a desire to plunge into it. He needed the cold, clear water to wash his mind of all the debate Nate’s visit had threatened to resurrect.
Grabbing a towel, he headed outside in his drawers and undervest across the remaining knee-high grass of his back lawn, down the rickety wooden stairs to the beach below. He flung the towel onto the round stones, stripped off the undervest, and began walking toward the surf. Immediately, he had to slacken his pace, his feet finding it hard going over the stones. They were as round and smooth as ostrich eggs, originally a slate hue but now bleached almost white by the sun.
When he first entered the water, the cold almost made him turn back, and as he went deeper, his ankles and feet grew numb. The rubbery rockweed covering the stones beneath the surf made walking precarious. When the water reached his thighs, Caleb braced himself for the impact and plunged in.
He swam straight out against the tide, then, turning, he veered to the side, swimming parallel to the shore, up and back, until his body recovered from the shock of the icy water and the exertion made him impervious to the cold.