‘See you at the Samson on Saturday? I’ll bring some stamps for your boyfriend.’
Ellie laughs, and to Thomas it’s like the sound of ice dripping off the stage roof after a long winter. It was the sound of hope.
She glances at her watch. ‘Oh, good grief. I must get back to the fire station. You’ve made me late.’
Thomas calls after her as she hurries towards the exit. ‘Was it worth it, Ellie Mae Burgess?’
Turning around, she waves the fedora at him. He watches her until she disappears through the glass doors.
Chapter 17
Tippy’s Tickle – 13 September 2001
Rod Fizzard’s boat shed – or ‘store’ as Florie had corrected her – perches on a base of stilts on the edge of the tickle, its red paint faded to a pinkish rust by the assault of the salty North Atlantic wind. ‘It’s what we calls a stage, duck. The shed’s the store, and the wharf and the shed together are the stage. You’ll has to get used to that. People here’ll think you’re some stunned if you calls it a shed.’
The frames of four small square windows – two facing the tickle and two facing the shore – gleam with a coat of fresh white paint, and a wharf, its wood as grey as a winter sky, and stacked with lobster traps and crab pots, leads down from the rocky shore and wraps around the side of the store. A small motorboat is moored to the wharf, and a larger boat – a shiny white streamlined cruiser – is beached on the shore, propped up by three-legged metal stands.
Sophie snaps several photos, then she slides her camera into the back pocket of Ellie’s borrowed jeans. She pushes the sleeves of Florie’s striped cotton sweater up her arms and heads down the hill. As she descends the wooden steps from Kittiwake, the sound of an electric tool filters over to her from the cruiser. ‘Hello?’ she calls out as she approaches the boat. She raises her voice. ‘Hello?’
Rounding the prow of the boat, she spots Emmett on his knees pressing a sander against the boat’s hull. She taps him on his shoulder and he jerks to his feet. Switching off the sander, he pushes his safety glasses up onto his forehead.
‘Hi, Emmett. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was wondering if Sam was here.’
Emmett points at the store. ‘He’s in there.’
‘Thanks very much.’
Nodding, Emmett slides the safety glasses over his eyes.
‘That’s a lovely boat,’ she says, but Emmett is back on his knees, her words swallowed by the whir of the sander.
She heads down the wharf and finds Sam inside the store, frowning over a piece of wood he’s turning on an old electric lathe. She knocks on the doorframe.
Sam looks up. He turns off the lathe and pushes his safety glasses to the top of his head. ‘Well, if it isn’t Princess Grace. I thought you were out picking berries.’
Sophie holds up her purple-stained fingers. ‘We’ve just got back. Becca’s helping Florie make a blueberry pie. You don’t have any white spirit, do you?’
‘You’re definitely a CFA, aren’t you? Just use some salt and lemon juice. That’ll get the stains off your skin.’
‘A what?’
‘A Come From Away. CFA for short. Not from around here.’
‘Well, that’s for sure,’ she says as she wanders into the room. ‘That’s quite a boat out there Emmett’s working on.’
‘We’re fixing it up for an American client over in Salvage. He hit a rock in the harbour and she sprung a leak.’
‘Emmett’s full on with the sanding. It’ll be smooth as a baby’s bottom when it’s done.’
‘You know what they say. If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.’
Sophie strolls over to the lathe. ‘Did you find out anything about my flight?’
Sam shakes his head. ‘Nothing yet. The airspace reopened today, but Gander hasn’t been told when the planes can leave yet. Best guess is a couple of days, but it could be as long as a week, with the backlog. Don’t worry, I’ve got a fellow in air traffic control on speed dial.’
‘Thanks.’ She peers out a window to the view of the steeple of St Stephen’s Church glinting in the morning sunshine. ‘I can’t believe I’ll be in New York in a few days. I like the quiet out here. It makes for a change.’
‘It’d bore the socks off someone like you.’
Sophie grunts. Who’s he to judge me? He doesn’t even know me. But what do I care? I don’t care. I really don’t. I’ll be done soon and we’ll be out of each other’s hair.
‘What would I do without Harvey Nichols or Neiman Marcus, right?’ She runs her hand over the smooth curves and valleys of the wood on the lathe. ‘This doesn’t look like it’s for a boat.’
‘It’s not.’ Sam fills a mug with coffee from a coffee machine set up on a table under one of the windows. ‘Coffee? Only black here. No fridge.’
‘No arsenic in it?’
Sam grins. ‘No. It’s safe. Promise.’
He pours out a second mug and hands it to Sophie. She takes a sip, grimacing at its bitterness. She nods at the lathe. ‘What are you making?’
Setting down his mug, Sam strides over to a bulky mound covered by a large Hudson’s Bay point blanket. He pulls off the blanket. Underneath, two chairs, contemporary in design but with intricate turned-wood spindles supporting their fanned backs, sit on the battered, wooden-planked floor.
‘Oh, wow. They’re beautiful, Sam. Can I sit?’
‘That’s what they’re for.’
She sits on one of the chairs, tracing the subtle curves of the arms with her fingertips. ‘Aunt Ellie said you made furniture, but I had no idea. These are stunning.’
‘Emmett works on them too, sometimes. He’s the one who got me started.’
‘Where do you sell them?’
‘Tourists in from St John’s mostly. I’ve sent a few pieces off to Toronto and Montreal. Florie puts the pieces in her shop when they’re finished.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s just furniture.’
‘Are you kidding? You could sell pieces like these in New York. Boston. Anywhere. Interior designers and architects would go crazy for this kind of handmade quality.’
‘Sure.’
‘Yes, really, Sam. I’m an architect. I’d love to commission pieces like this for my projects.’
‘You’re an architect?’
‘It’s why I need to get to New York. I have an interview at Richard Niven Architects.’
Sam whistles. ‘Richard Niven? That’s a big name.’
‘You’ve heard of him?’
Sam laughs. ‘You know, we’ve even heard of this band from England called the Beatles out here.’
‘Very funny.’
‘I was a building contractor in Boston before I moved back here with Becca. I’ve heard of Richard Niven.’
Sophie looks over at Sam. ‘Ellie told me you’d been living in Boston. She told me about the accident. About Winny. I’m sorry, Sam. That must have been … that must have been awful.’
Sam rubs his forehead. ‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘Yes, it was. I moved here for Becca. It seemed the right thing to do. She loves it here with her grandmother and Florie.’