so much all of a piece. Deciding the sooner she was away from these old harpies the better, she turned back to Mr. Watson.
Stifling the urge to tell him to wipe the smirk off his face, she picked up the parcel of nails. “Good day to you!”
She shoved away from the counter. It was then she noticed the silence. Not one of the women had said a word, not even the outspoken Mrs. Bidwell. In fact, they weren’t even looking at her. Everyone was staring at the door.
Slowly Geneva turned. There, his dark form silhouetted against the sunshine of the open doorway, stood Caleb Phelps. She couldn’t make out his features, but she could feel his gaze on her, as intense as it had been that day last summer.
Hugging the parcel to her chest as if it might conceal the workings of her heart, Geneva took a step forward, then another. The pounding of her heart was so loud, he must surely see the bib of her overalls flapping up and down clear across the store. She kept on marching until she reached the captain’s looming figure. She’d forgotten how tall he was, a good head above her, and she was as tall as several men of her acquaintance.
He moved aside just as she approached and tipped his hat to her as she passed. Touching her own hat briefly at the brim, she lunged through the doorway into the sunshine. She took the steps down two at a time, her boots clattering on the rickety wooden planks.
Why was it that every time she ran into the captain, she felt compelled to flee afterward, as if she were guilty of something?
Caleb Phelps turned toward the banging screen door, the only sound in the small village store. He watched the long strides of the overalled figure taking her rapidly away from the store and toward the wharf.
Only her voice gave her away as a woman.
In the couple of weeks he’d been back to Haven’s End, he’d felt a distinct chill every time he was in the presence of the villagers.
Funny how quickly bad news traveled. He had thought he’d become inured to suspicious looks—or worse, those self-righteous, smug expressions that said more clearly than words, Well, he got his just deserts! He’d certainly endured enough of them in Boston.
Somehow he’d thought this little village where he was scarcely known, but where he’d always had pleasant if superficial dealings with the residents, would welcome him differently.
The woman’s harsh words to the villagers rang in his ears. She’d expressed more clearly than he ever could exactly what he’d felt.
Strange, how belief in one’s integrity could come from the strangest quarters. What did she know of him or of events in Boston?
From her yard farther up the road from Ferguson Point, through the thin screen of hackmatack trees, Geneva watched her new neighbor with a frown. Ever since Captain Caleb had begun to turn the soil in a portion of his yard, she’d started to worry. When it became clear he was making a garden, her concern deepened. As she hoed her own young plants, she fretted that her neighbor wouldn’t have the same success, not knowing the land in these parts.
“If I was plantin’ a garden on the Point,” she told her black Labrador, Jake, “I’d make it on the other side. For one thing, it’d get sun there the whole day. I remember Pa telling me there used to be a chicken yard nearby, so the soil’ll be rich over yonder.”
She banged her buckets together. “Ain’t none o’ my business what he does. Even if nothin’ comes up, he won’t go hungry. Isn’t as if he depends on his garden to live, like most of us.”
But no matter how much she debated with Jake over the next few days, Geneva couldn’t help observing Captain Caleb each time she went outside. And the longer she watched him bent over his fork, the more she itched to offer her advice. He had helped her out of a mess once. She told herself she owed it to him.
Finally, making up her mind, she threw down the pump handle. “No, you stay here,” she told Jake. “Don’t need you scarin’ him before I can get a word out.” She wiped her hands down the sides of her trousers and headed for the dirt road. When she saw Jake at her heels, she stopped once again and shook a finger at him. “Now, do I have to chain you up, or are you going to obey?”
The dog whined, but after another stern look from Geneva, he stayed put. Her tone softened. “That’s a good fellow. I knew I could count on you.”
She walked down the sloping dirt road to the end of Ferguson Point, where a gate stood. The newly erected barrier, the lumber still raw and unpainted, matched the house beyond it. Together, house and gated fence stood out like intruders against the familiar landmarks of the Point. Geneva’s gaze swept the vista before her, never tiring of it. She’d always thought this the best location in all Haven’s End.
A large expanse of cleared land descended toward the sea. Below was a sheltered cove with dark, rocky cliffs curved around, protecting it from the open sea. Tall, ancient firs and spruce, their long, thin peaks looking black against the sky, grew down to the very edge of the cliffs, like multi-tiered sentinels standing guard against the sea.
Above the cove, where there had once been an old, abandoned house, now stood an imposing, new structure. Despite its freshness, there was something sad about it, Geneva thought as she observed the overgrown grass in the yard. It wouldn’t take long for the bright reddish-brown luster of the cedar shingles to take on the faded gray of her own shack. The curtainless windows stared back at her like empty eye sockets.
Shaking aside the morbid thought, Geneva opened the forbidding gate. Spying her target at the far side of the yard beyond the barn, she walked resolutely toward the new owner of Ferguson Point.
The captain squatted by the half-turned garden plot, a clod of dirt and grass held in one hand. He was studying this as if it held the answer to a mystery.
Already she regretted coming. What in the world was she going to say to him now? So she stood, not saying a word, until he raised his head. His initial glance was startled, but it quickly changed to one of suspicion.
He sat back on his heels, pushing his hat away from his eyes to observe her. The sun shone full on his face, and Geneva struggled to hide her shock. Was this the same gentleman who’d helped her last summer? It wasn’t just the absence of a smile, but the complete lack of welcome. His dark hair hung long and shaggy over his collar, his jaw shadowed with several days’ growth of beard. Sweat and dirt stained his shirt. Only the color of his eyes remained unchanged—the same hue of the ocean.
But now they were no longer crinkled at the corners with mirth, but narrowed in bitter distrust. They gave her no encouragement to proceed.
Well, she was in for it now. Best have her say and be done.
“Be lucky to get much of anything to grow here.” She kicked a clump of dirt with the toe of her boot.
After several seconds of silence in which Geneva wasn’t sure whether he was going to order her off his land or just plumb ignore her, he answered in a quiet voice, each word carefully modulated as if he was holding on to his patience with an effort. “Why is that?”
Geneva made an abrupt gesture with her hand. “Poor soil.” She jerked her head sideways. “Get half day’s shade from those trees.”
She watched him swallow as he digested her words. By the set of his unshaven jaw, she could tell he was having a hard time just being civil to her.
“Where
