Breakwater Beach Read online

  A welcome cool breeze tousled the boughs. A pungent aroma of sap escaped as the horse’s hooves crushed pinecones.

  Edward seized the opportunity to fill the subject. “Seems the weather is changing.”

  “I, for one, welcome the fresh air, Mr. Barrett. This summer has been far too long.” Elisabeth glanced up as the earl, his face red with anger, thundered toward them. “You should go.”

  Edward considered his options but couldn’t leave her to bear the man’s wrath alone. This time on his account. “I’ll stay until I know you’re all right.”

  “Good day, Mr. Barrett.” She bowed her head, clucked, and her horse broke into a trot.

  “Good day, Lady Elisabeth,” Edward called after her.

  “What are you doing out here all by yourself?” Baxter brought his horse up so short the animal squealed with pain.

  “Copper was limping a bit, and I stopped to rest her. This gentleman asked if I needed assistance.” Elisabeth lied with such conviction Edward almost believed her.

  Something else to admire her for.

  Baxter stared at Edward. His chin trembled and eyes narrowed. The Earl recognised him, despite the new clothes.

  “Move along now, sir. You’ve been paid well for your trouble. I’ll see to my daughter, and the groom to the horse.” He jabbed his mount in its side and caught up to Elisabeth.

  Edward guided his horse behind some bushes and watched the pair ride up the long path to the house. A groom came out, helped Elisabeth dismount first, and took the horses. She paused atop the stone steps and looked toward where he’d concealed itself. He dared not wave, lest the earl see him hidden among the brambles once again.

  Elisabeth disappeared into the house. His heart sagged. Indulging this infatuation was creating numerous complications. She’d taken a risk by stopping to speak to him, let alone inviting him to meet her in London. He’d be sailing away soon, but what would happen to her if Lord Baxter found out? This game had to come to an end. He’d only been playing because the idea of that suitor pawing at her—or anyone else for that matter—resulted in a sickness in his gut not even the roughest seas had conjured. He’d see her once more to say goodbye, but there was little more he could do.

  Edward directed his horse back toward London.

  Teacups tinkled, spoons clanked on china, ladies and gentlemen whispered, chattered, and chortled. Edward sat alone at a table watching Elisabeth amongst a group of young women dressed in summer pastels. The perfume of blooming roses wafted through the air.

  Edward caught his breath as he studied Elisabeth’s profile as she stared at a vase of white lilies, her head held high, her neck a graceful curve. Her dress spilled over the chair into a puddle of green silk. The colour of her hair reminded him of the exotic spices he’d sampled in the Far East. A string of pearls around her neck matched a set of mother of pearl combs holding the coiffure.

  In the middle of the table sat a tea service, likely worth more than his entire salary for one year. The china and silver were set along with trays of sandwiches. The ladies had barely touched them, the plates without a telltale crust to show they’d been used. Their attention was fixed on a dowager speaking, and as she stood the others collected their things.

  Edward tore his gaze off her and considered slipping a spoon and fork into his pocket to pawn for a few extra pounds in his pocket. Thinking better of it, he rubbed his hands against the jacket, glad the wool absorbed the perspiration. The better-bred patrons regarded him with some suspicion. Or perhaps the raised chins and narrowed gazes indicated disdain. He drained his cup, tossed the napkin aside, motioned for the waiter, and settled the bill.

  He lingered in the lobby, surrounded by a lush, verdant wall of potted palms. Elisabeth sauntered toward the door and paused, nodded, and smiled. Jewellry sparkled at her neck and on her ears. A regal neckline and hint of décolletage stole his breath and sent a tingle of desire through him. He certainly couldn’t fault the fellow he’d interrupted for wanting her, just for his approach.

  Elisabeth pursed her lips the way she always did when pleased. If she noticed he was wearing the same clothes, it didn’t appear to cause her concern. “Godspeed on your journey, Mr. Barrett.” Her voice was as wistful as the harp music being played across the room. She paused while the dowager walked by, nodded, and curtsied. “Good day, Your Grace.”

  Elisabeth kept her face turned away from Edward until there was no one else nearby, or at least no one of import. “The Countess of Sandringham.” She sighed. “I hope to see you again, Mr. Barrett. If you should care to write, please apprise me of the sights.”

  Edward’s voice stuck in his throat. Did this woman fancy him, or was she merely toying with him like a cat with a mouse? “Of course, I will. And I, too, would like to see you when I return to London.”

  “When might that be?” Elisabeth’s eyes studied the carpeting momentarily, before she looked back at him.

  “Hard to say, my lady.” Many months for sure. Shall I post a letter in every port?” Little comfort but it spared him a wrenching final goodbye.

  A smile returned to her face, a twinkle to her eyes. “Please do. I’m sorry, but I must go.”

  “Good day, then.” Edward wanted to kiss her hand, get down on one knee, anything to cheer her, but didn’t dare. They’d been standing alone long enough to attract stares and second glances.

  The music ended as Elisabeth swept out of the lobby, and the sound of silk rustling echoed in the cove created by the plants. A groom helped her into an elegant landau, and she disappeared beneath the raised hood. A matched pair of black horses tossed their heads at the crack of a whip and clattered off.

  “Cab, sir?” the doorman asked.

  “No.” Edward, now out of money and out of hope wandered back to the docks. The sun began to set, ending both the day and his brief foray into the world of the Ton. They’d sail at dawn into the only world he had a chance of conquering.

  Three weeks sailing to America had given Edward ample time to ruminate about Lady Elisabeth Baxter. She’d likely already dismissed him as a brief diversion from her unhappiness. But after the pleasure of her cultured, gracious company, he’d suddenly become less enamored of the violent, sordid smuggler’s life.

  Warm temperatures and calm seas had allowed him time to envision being the captain of his own ship, a member of polite society. At night, when rocking in a rope hammock, he imagined Elisabeth lying next to him. But with snoring, unwashed bodies above, below and beside, he was incapable of providing her even a clean, private place to rest.

  Finally in Boston Harbour, while walking off a hearty dinner at Durgin Park, Edward saw a large crowd of sailors. A man dressed in a tailcoat and top hat was handing out cards. By the time Edward got there, the group had dispersed.

  “Who’s that toff?” Edward called to a shipmate.

  “Neville Somersell. He owns an American shipping company and is hiring.”

  Edward shrugged and kept going. With Elisabeth in London he had no desire to be in America.

  “I say, my man!” Somersell strode toward him, twirling a walking stick. He peered out from behind his pince nez. “You’re much better dressed and groomed than most. Can you read?”

  “I might be a poor sailor, sir, but I finished school and my mother taught me to keep myself clean.” Edward pulled himself to attention.

  “I need men with the stomach and know-how to get past the pirates and deliver the goods on time. How much experience do you have?”

  “I’ve been told I’m first mate material, sir.”

  “Then headed to be a captain. Despite what most of you Britons think, America has a lot of opportunity. I could try you on a few local runs. If you’re as good as you say there’s a fine uniform, a commission, and a ship of your own waiting. No more sackcloth and hemp. Good money and bonu
ses for prompt deliveries. A nice life. Married?”

  “Not yet,” Edward said, intrigued.

  “You’d make plenty of legal money to provide for a wife and children, young man. You sail with Captain Percy?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Piracy and smuggling is only good for getting yourself murdered. Or hung.” Somersell dangled a card in front of Edward’s face.

  He saluted. “I’ll be down to see you tomorrow, Mr. Somersell.” After I post a letter to Elisabeth apprising her of this new venture.

  Edward took the card and slipped it into his breast pocket. A captain had status, the right to control activities on his ship, and a private cabin. That night, dreams of Elisabeth lying in his bed left him aroused and determined to slake that desire.

  Chapter 4

  Liz ducked from one shop awning to the next to escape the downpour. The five-block walk home seemed like fifty. She turned the corner onto the residential street lined with Beacon Hill row houses and slogged through the puddles. Freezing rain dribbled down the back of her neck. Liz’s feet, as numb as her soul, squished in soaked loafers.

  The world seemed turned upside down. It should be snowing in mid-winter. A blanket of white would have brightened the drab black and gray cityscape. But that would have brought back memories of snowball fights, sleigh rides, and hot cocoa, with Gerry, in front of their fireplace.

  In the daylight, she could keep up appearances. Teach high school history. Revise lesson plans, grade papers. Worry about Jay. Darkness closed in earlier than usual, as if a swarm of specters enveloped the normally bustling streets with cloaks of foggy gloom. Hunched under umbrellas and hoods, chins tucked into collars against the chill, any of the faceless figures could have been the one who’d visited her last night. Tonight would be an especially long one.

  Her outdoorsy neighbor passed, dragging a reluctant dog along the sidewalk. He peered out from under the hood of his foul-weather gear. “Hi, Liz. Be sure to let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thanks, I will.” She’d become very skilled at lies and forced smiles.

  The door slammed behind her, the thud echoed through the empty house. Her coat and shoes left puddles in the marble foyer. Shadows in the living room seemed to follow her down the halls. Liz banished prickles of fear with the click of each switch on her way upstairs.

  She studied her wedding picture. What happened to that fine, upstanding lawyer’s wife always at her husband’s side for benefits and charity events? She couldn’t push aside the memory of the oddly familiar hands stroking her face and hair. She’d been trying to convince herself the dream lover was Gerry visiting. But he wasn’t her clean-shaven husband, or at least a form of him she recognized.

  Sadness wrapped around her heart so tight she struggled to breathe. She grabbed hold of the dresser for support and stared into the dusty mirror. The image looking back, fuzzy and out of focus, matched the way she felt inside. The back of her neck tingled and pins and needles ran down her spine.

  Take back your life, the one I stole from you. The voice inside her head was more than just a thought or rumination, more like a command than a gentle suggestion or wish.

  She brushed off the mirror and her vision cleared. “I’ll try, Gerry. Please help me.” Tears ran down her cheeks. Sobs loosened the fist of despair clenched in her chest.

  The promise of Gerry’s usual comforting presence had died along with him, if this was indeed him and not some grief-induced hallucination. The memorial services are over, thank-you notes written. But I’m trapped here, half-dead, half-alive.

  Liz dabbed at the streaked mascara, then raked fingers through her bedraggled hair. Jay couldn’t see her like this.

  She kissed Gerry’s urn, then his picture, and fled into Jay’s room. The spaceship curtains that matched the wallpaper border still hung over the windows. She remembered the sandy haired, freckle-faced kid, about age nine, “blasting off,” jumping from one twin bed to the other. Another ghostly vision to remind her she was neither a wife nor a mother, just a widow with a grown son. Who would be home any minute.

  She wandered down to the kitchen and rummaged in the cabinets to assemble dinner. While making room on the counter, an official looking letter amidst the coupons, credit card offers, and white sale catalogs demanded her attention. Liz’s hands trembled, her heartbeat in her throat. She sliced open the envelope with a kitchen knife. “Please, no more bad news.”

  Dear Mrs. Levine,

  The Boston Public School System, in an attempt to reduce our budget deficit, is offering all teachers with at least twenty years of service a buyout offer. In exchange for early retirement you would receive a year’s salary.

  Pension payments would not be reduced, and you have the option to continue in the family medical benefits plan, at the group rate, until age 62. Teaching or working in an administrative capacity full-time within our system is prohibited under the terms of the buyout, but substitute teaching will be permitted in any district.

  Please submit all enclosed forms to the Superintendent’s Office by February 28th if you wish to take advantage of this offer.

  Sincerely,

  Robert Holmes

  Secretary to the Superintendent

  Liz put the letter on the counter. Life insurance payments will come in by next month. This job doesn’t stimulate me anymore. With all that free time, I could finish my book.

  She hadn’t thought about going up to the Cape this summer. She hadn’t thought much about anything. Gerry’s sudden illness had nixed all their plans and disrupted every scrap of their lives. There were just too many memories—good and bad—trapped in this house. She’d never recover by wallowing in her own misery and guilt. By starting fresh, she’d be able to banish these crazy voices and visions with different friends, different furniture, different clothes, and a different job.

  Liz abandoned dinner and scrolled through her phone book, found the real estate broker’s number, and dialed. She got ready to leave a voice mail, but a breathless Betty Bracken, likely on her way out for the night, picked up.

  “Hi, Betty, Liz Levine.”

  “Liz, uh, how is everything? I’ve been thinking about you since you cancelled the seasonal lease last spring.” Betty’s voice was unusually high-pitched.

  Her tongue thickened. “Gerry died the fourth of December.”

  “Oh, Liz, I’m so sorry.”

  She was so tired of that line. “Thanks, Betty. I’d like to see some houses in Brewster.”

  “I have some nice seasonal listings.”

  “I’m interested in buying, not renting.” Saying it out loud made it official, but didn’t slow down her thoughts running like a gerbil in a squeaky wheel.

  “Really?” Betty’s voice quavered.

  Exactly the reaction Liz had expected, but it was better to practice over the phone than endure shocked stares and gaping mouths.

  “I’ve always wanted to move to the Cape. Now that Gerry is gone, and my son is going to college, there is nothing left for me in Boston. Do you have anything with income potential, like a bed and breakfast?” Liz paced. What am I doing?

  After a short pause, Betty seemed to shake off the surprise. “The old Barrett place is beautiful, but needs a lot of work.”

  “Where is that?”

  “I’m sure you’ve seen that big Victorian on Stony Brook Road. It’s set back and all overgrown. They say you can see all of Cape Cod Bay from the widow’s walk. The house is landmarked and has a lot of the original furnishings, a barn, and a caretaker’s cottage. How much are you thinking about spending?”

  A fleeting memory of the ramshackle house perched on a hill overlooking Paine’s Creek came to mind. A shiver ran down her back, and her head throbbed. The enormity of a restoration would offer plenty to keep her occupied. “I, well, uh, Bett
y, just show me anything near Breakwater Beach. I should be getting life insurance payments within the next month or so. Can I come up Saturday?”

  “Sure. Meet me at the office at ten a.m. I’ll check the multiple listings and email you the links.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you then.” Liz hung up and got back to chopping garlic, crying from onions and anxiety.

  Jay barged through the front door without wiping his feet and tossed his book bag on the living room sofa. He strode into the kitchen grinning and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Smells like pasta with homemade sauce.”

  For a fleeting moment, she was his mother and he was her son. For months, Jay had spoken of needing to take care of her, to protect her. Losing his father so young had forced him to mature so fast, too fast. The normalcy of the conversation in the face of what was to come, the decisions that needed to be made, and the courage that needed to be summoned provided a welcome respite, and the first sign that things would indeed work out for both of them.

  “Yes, your favorite. Please hang your wet things up.” Liz dumped the contents of a pot into the colander. Steam spewed up, offering the perfect excuse for the stinging flush rising from her neck to her cheeks.

  “Okay, Mother. What’s the occasion?” Jay draped his coat over the back of a chair, dipped a piece of Italian bread into the sauce, and savored the appetizer.

  Liz smiled. He always called her that when she was making him do something he didn’t want to.

  “Does there need to be a reason for me to cook dinner?” Liz swiped a sleeve across her brow.

  “No, of course not, Mom. I know you haven’t felt like doing much since . . .” Jay’s voice trailed off and his smile faded. The magic moment evaporated.