The Night Mark(80)

“That was years ago.”

“Now you’re overdosing and blacking out,” Hagen continued. The man could go on like this for hours if she didn’t stop him. “I’m allowed to worry about the woman I was married to for almost four years. Even if that woman does hate me.”

“I don’t hate you. I never hated you.”

“You hated being married to me.”

“Not all the time.”

The last thing she expected was to hear Hagen laugh, but he did. A real laugh, not ironic, not sarcastic. Just amused.

“Hagen?”

“We did suck at being married to each other, didn’t we?” he asked.

Faye smiled. “We absolutely did. We sucked hard,” she said, amazed Hagen had admitted it. Finally.

Hagen sighed so hard the phone rattled in her ear.

“Maybe you should come back for a few days,” Hagen finally said. “Just until you’re sure you won’t have another blackout. You know the house is big enough you wouldn’t have to see me if you didn’t want to.”

“You know that’s not a good idea.”

“Fine, go stay with your mom and aunt, then. Stay with somebody who will keep an eye on you.”

“Aunt Kate can barely keep an eye on Mom. And I have friends here. One took me to the ER today and waited until I was done to drive me home. He’ll take me there again if I have to go back.”

“He? Are you dating somebody again already?”

“My personal life isn’t your concern.”

“So you are?”

“I’m hanging up now...” She sang the words, trilling them to him, something he always hated.

“Faye, please. Keep in touch with me, okay? I worry about you.”

“You don’t have to worry. I’m okay. Really.”

“Because of this new guy?”

“He’s part of it, yes.” Faye didn’t want to hurt Hagen needlessly but the sooner he moved on, the better for everybody involved, especially him.

“Who is this guy?”

“He’s a lighthouse keeper.”

“A what? I didn’t think they existed anymore.”

“They don’t.”

Faye told Hagen goodbye before he could get in another word. She hung up, got in her car and threw the phone in the glove compartment. She drove straight to Pat’s house. When he didn’t answer her knock on the door, she followed a hunch and drove over to the Marshlands. Faye spotted his white hair and his Gregory Peck profile parked in his usual painting spot in front of the house by the stone bench.

“Miss Faye, what brings you out here?” he called across the lawn. “Come to take pictures of the sound? Nice evening for it.” He pointed his paintbrush at the sky. Red-and-gold clouds crowded together over the water, creating a ruby-and-citrine sunset. “Red sky at night, sailor and painter’s delight.”

Faye sat on the stone bench next to his chair and looked him in the eyes. At first he didn’t seem to want to return her gaze, but eventually he gave in and looked at her.

“I need to know everything you know about Carrick and Faith Morgan,” Faye said. “Everything. And I know you didn’t tell me everything, so don’t pretend you did.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“You know. You performed Carrick’s funeral mass. I’m guessing you heard his confessions, too?”

“Faye, I’m a priest.”

“You’re a retired priest.”

“Once a priest, always a priest. I won’t betray a parishioner who put his trust in me. There are rules.”

“I don’t care about the rules. I have to know about them. I have to know what you know about Faith Morgan.”

“Faith Morgan—why do you have to know about her? She died in a storm almost a century ago.”

“In a storm? Are you sure? Because last time we talked, she fell off a pier and drowned.”

Pat’s eyes narrowed. He looked up to the sky. “Was it a storm? It was. I know it was. But a pier...that sounds right, too.” He turned and met her eyes. She saw fear in his. He stood up and put his hands to his head, lowered them and faced her.

“The pier,” he said. “I remember the pier. Faye, what’s happening?”

“I don’t know. But I think you do.”

“You went into the water, didn’t you?” he asked.

Faye slowly nodded. “Pat, I’m going to tell you about a miracle. You’re a priest, so I assume you believe in them.”

“I want to believe in them.”

“Then believe in this,” Faye said, taking his paintbrush from his hand and placing it on his easel. She took both of his hands into both of hers. Hers were steady. His weren’t, but she knew they weren’t shaking because of his tremor. In his eyes, she saw fear. Maybe he didn’t want to believe in miracles. Maybe he was afraid to.

“What’s the miracle?” he asked.

“I am Faith Morgan.”





19


Faye told Pat the truth, all of it, and he listened without speaking until she reached the end of her tale.

She thought it had started raining until she realized the two drops of water on her wrist hadn’t come from the clouds above but from the eyes of the priest whose shaking hands she held.