The Night Mark(41)

“Don’t you mean the rest of your life?”

“I meant what I said. Even if the good Lord takes me home tomorrow, I’ll keep a watch on you. And I will never let that whoreson of a bitch hurt you again.” Carrick winced. “Sorry. Told you I’m out of practice. I should put a penny in a jar every time I forget myself. We’ll be rich by Sunday.”

She swallowed fresh tears and turned to him. She wasn’t Faith but she got a good glimpse into Faith’s heart when Carrick said those words.

“Maybe that’s why I chose you. Because you’ll never let that whoreson of a bitch hurt me again.”

Carrick met her eyes. It seemed he wanted to say something to her, but he stopped himself. Last night he’d kissed her so passionately there was no doubt in her mind that Carrick harbored deep feelings for Faith. How brokenhearted would he be when he learned Faith was dead? Faye knew. Faye knew all too well.

“I know this isn’t any girl’s idea of heaven.” Carrick put his hand on the small of her back, and Faye stiffened at the touch. He rested his fingers there lightly and only for a moment before dropping his hand to his side again as if remembering he shouldn’t be doing that. “Wouldn’t have been mine at twenty years old, either. Especially since I know you’re used to a different kind of life.”

Different kind of life. Twenty years old. She knew she’d come from a very different place than this island now and she knew her age.

“If my old life were heaven,” Faye said carefully, “I wouldn’t have come here, would I?”

Carrick gripped the rail of the porch and stared out at the ocean like the ship he’d been waiting for all his life was just over the horizon.

“I should have stopped the wedding,” he said. “I should have stopped the wedding and thrown you over my shoulder and put you on a boat bound for China. There are only two reasons a girl cries on her wedding day—either she’s happy to be getting married or she’s making the worst mistake of her life.”

“And I wasn’t happy,” Faye said, remembering her two weddings. She’d cried with happiness when she had married Will, cried in sorrow and sickness when she’d married Hagen.

“Saddest girl I’d ever seen. And the prettiest, too. But I shouldn’t be saying things like that to a married woman. Where’s the jar? I’ll put a penny in it.”

Before Faye could reply, Dolly stuck her head out the front door and waved them in.

“Breakfast,” Carrick said. “Come on, before I run out of pennies.”

The kitchen table was round and painted green to match the trim of the house. It seated four, and three places were set. That was good. She was happy to see Dolly ate with them and not somewhere else like a servant. The question of whether Dolly could read or write was answered by the presence of a chalk slate on the table. Carrick picked it up and wrote “Dig in.” Dolly laughed and Faye was so shocked by the sudden burst of sound from the girl that she jumped, which caused both Dolly and Carrick to laugh even more. She waited until they sat before taking her seat across from Carrick. Dolly sat between them. Would it be awkward and rude to talk to Carrick when Dolly couldn’t hear or understand what they said? Probably. Faye stayed quiet while eating, staring out the kitchen window at the pier and enjoying the food so much she almost forgot she would have sold her right arm to be back in her own time again.

Dolly’s cooking was wonderful. Wonderful if Faye could forget she didn’t belong here. She could pretend Carrick was Will, Dolly was their daughter, and that nothing bad had ever happened to her and nothing ever would. A nice dream, but just a dream. The man at the table wasn’t her father. But he wasn’t her Will, either.

She’d just taken a bite of her bacon—a bite that had her wondering if she wasn’t in heaven after all—when she heard the sound of an engine. Carrick stood up at once and walked to the window.

“We have a visitor,” he said.

“Who?” Faye asked.

“Looks like John Hartwell. Must have gotten himself a new boat.”

“Oh,” Faye said as if she knew the significance of the name. “Should I...do something?”

“Just be yourself,” he said. “Well, not yourself. Pretend to be yourself.”

“That’s not a helpful suggestion.”

“Just be nice,” Carrick said. “He’s important ’round these parts. Or at least he thinks he is, which is worse.”

Faye smiled at Dolly, who was looking from her to Carrick. Faye picked up her chalk slate and wrote, “Someone is visiting” on it as neatly as she could. Dolly’s pretty dark eyes widened and she peeked out the front window before making an exasperated sound and running back to the kitchen.

At the end of the pier a man squatted by a pillar, tying up his boat. It was a beautiful boat, polished mahogany with a red racing stripe down the side. Carrick clasped her hand a moment, squeezed it and then walked to the front door. Faye followed him, scared to go and too scared to stay. The man had made it halfway from the pier to the porch by the time Faye and Carrick opened the front door. He wore a suit and a hat, plus what looked like goggles. Driving glasses? Well, it was 1921 after all. The windshield hadn’t been perfected yet. As he walked up to the porch, he took off his hat, took off his glasses and flashed a bright white politician’s campaign smile at both of them.