Leaving Lucy Pear(7)

“You wished to see me, Mr. Story?”

Josiah stared. “Your eyes are the color of our stone,” he said before he could stop himself, and because he couldn’t explain why he’d said it, he felt compelled to keep talking. “Olive green. Very rare. Very valuable. When my father-in-law bought this spot, he had no idea. He thought it would last a year, maybe two, thought he would cut it for paving stones, ship it to New York, be done with it. But twenty feet down the rock came up green. Almost no seams or knots. So here we are, still cutting. People pay us to ship as far as Washington, D.C., and Chicago. They want the biggest slabs so they can turn the stuff into monuments.”

Josiah stopped. The woman looked perplexed. He realized he hadn’t stood when she entered, or asked her name, or shaken her hand. Now he stood, causing her to stand, the mechanics relieving them for a moment of each other’s eyes until, upright, they appeared ready to part.

“Call me Josiah,” he said, extending his hand.

“Emma Murphy.”

Her skin was dry and rough but she didn’t look away. He thought of the creams Susannah kept lined up like little dolls on her chest of drawers. He waited to feel repelled by Emma Murphy’s hand, but the feeling didn’t come. He saw that he hadn’t been exaggerating: her eyes really were the color of Stanton stone. They were so strange, and yet so perfectly matched to the quarry, that looking at them gave him a haunted feeling, as though she had worn these eyes especially for this visit, and as he looked and she looked back he saw the closest derrick reflected in each of her eyes so that two tiny derricks looked back at him, their identical arms going through their identical slow motions, and before the shrunken derricks Josiah felt oddly free. His sentence floated into his mind—I did not come to Gloucester, I was born here . . . —and floated out just as easily.

He dropped her hand and motioned her to sit, all the while working to regain his sobriety.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Murphy?”

“I’ve come with a proposition.”

He waited. A patch of pink crept up her neck. Clearly she hadn’t done anything like this before. She didn’t know that confidence was key—you had to appear entirely certain that what you had Josiah would want. The derricks were gone from her eyes now—they’d been replaced by sky and a bright, blank distress. “I’m listening,” he offered.

“Are you familiar with perry, sir? It’s a fermented drink, made from pears.”

“Like cider?”

“But less common. People will pay more for it.”

“Is that right?” He sounded interested in the money, but that wasn’t how he felt. He had noticed a small mole on Emma Murphy’s right cheek.

“We’ve everything we need to run an operation, sir.”

He waited again.

“Except the press. And the bottles. And possibly a small shed, for cover.”

“Of course.”

“But we’re not starting from nothing. I know someone who’s been making the stuff for years. We’d offer you ten percent.”

“And who is we?”

“My family. The Murphys. Of Leverett Street, sir.”

“Josiah,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Will you say it?”

“Is that necessary? My family includes myself, my husband, and my children. I’ve nine.”

Josiah went to the window. The children stood against the wall in a tight line, their hair as pale and thin and blown as their mother’s, except for one girl in the middle whose hair was nearly black. To an onlooker, her dark eyes appeared dense and unfocused, but in fact she was calculating the number of jugs of perry they would have to sell before she could siphon off enough money to buy a train ticket to Canada. And Josiah was thinking about how Emma Murphy, clearly, was not a stranger to infidelity.

“I count only seven,” he said.

“The others are grown, sir.”

“And does your husband know you’re here?”

“He’s fishing, out at the Grand Banks.”

“So he doesn’t know?”

“He will.”

Josiah returned to his desk. He searched her face for coyness or deceit but found neither, only a frank nervousness he wanted to soothe.

“And his name would be?”

“Roland Murphy.”

“Roland Murphy the fisherman, out on a long trip. And you’re an aspiring cider woman.”

“Perry. Sir. We intend to wet the cape in it. We can give you ten percent.”

Josiah nodded, trying to appear calm, though her words aroused him. He tried to focus on the 10 percent, hoping money would bring him back to his role. He laughed, as he was supposed to. “Forty,” he countered.

“Fifteen?”

“Thirty,” he said, frowning. He snapped his mind back to Susannah, who would be preparing to eat her lunch now, fully dressed and alone; this afternoon, if it was the right time of month, she would pull back the coverlet on their bed and lay down a fresh towel as a rag—Turkish cotton, bought at Stearns—in preparation for his coming home. Susannah, who was a better businessman than him and who would tell him not to be sorry for Emma Murphy, not to go lower than 40 percent, not to frown but to smile when he negotiated. He focused on Emma Murphy’s overbite and said, “Last offer.”