service was simple and brief. When the minister paused, one of the men in the front pew went to the lectern, and only then Camille recognized her piratical stranger’s dinner companion of the previous evening.
Shocked, she turned her gaze to the second man.
He’d had a haircut, but the broad shoulders straining at the jacket of the suit, and the confident tilt of his head, were already familiar. She half expected him to turn and grin at her with the same bold insouciance he’d shown last night.
But of course he wouldn’t. This, she realized as his brother began to speak, was his father’s funeral.
Camille hardly heard the eulogy, dimly registering words like “adventurous” and “indomitable” and “determined.” She wondered if his sons had really known Barney Broderick. If they too had longed for a father who went to the office every day and came home for dinner every night and read the newspaper and watched TV before going off to bed. She swallowed, assailed by a familiar sensation—half sadness, half anger.
The man in the front pew dipped his head, momentarily out of her sight, but when he raised it again his big square shoulders were straighter than ever.
He didn’t take up the minister’s invitation for anyone to share their memories of the deceased, but a few gristly, weather-creased men spoke of a staunch friend, a fine sailor, a great bloke, and “one of nature’s gentlemen.” The last elderly raconteur told a couple of down-to-earth anecdotes about “old Barney” that had his cronies rocking with laughter and then wiping away tears.
His two sons as they helped lift and carry the coffin were tearless, seemingly emotionless. Outside, the coffin was slid into a hearse and the brothers stood shoulder to shoulder, fielding handshakes and condolences.
Camille waited for a gap and had almost decided to give up and return to the hotel when the pirate brother looked over the shoulder of a man who was shaking his hand, and she saw the quick flare of recognition in his eyes as they met hers.
He said something to the man and then he was pushing through the crowd, throwing a word here and there, moving inexorably toward Camille until he fetched up directly in front of her, so close she took a startled step backward.
Scowling down at her, he said, “Who are you?”
“Camille Hartley,” she told him. “I’m sorry about your father, Mr. Broderick.”
“Rogan,” he said. “Or Rogue, if you like. Did you know him?”
“Not really. I was supposed to meet him here yesterday, but when I arrived I was told he’d…died. I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“Why were you meeting him?”
“He asked me to. It concerned…my father.”
“Your father?”
“Thomas McIndoe.”
For a second he looked confused. Then he said, “Taff? Taff was your father?”
“Yes,” she admitted stiffly.
“So old Taff does have descendants.”
“One,” she confirmed reluctantly.
There was a stir in the crowd behind him, and his brother came to his side. “Ready to go to the crematorium?” he quietly asked Rogan. The notice in the newspaper had said the cremation would be private. “I told everyone we’ll see them later at the Imperial.”
He nodded curtly to Camille and made to turn away and take his brother with him.
But Rogan stood his ground. “Granger,” he said, “this is Taff’s daughter.”
Granger stared at his brother, then at Camille. He looked back at Rogan. “You’re kidding.”
“She’s his daughter. So she says.”
Slightly miffed at the addendum, Camille held out her hand to Granger. “Camille Hartley,” she said. “I’m sorry about your father.”
Granger took her hand and briefly clasped it in a firm, cool grip. “Hartley?” he queried. “You’re married?”
Camille shook her head. “It’s my mother’s name.”
The two brothers exchanged a fleeting glance that obscurely annoyed her with its hint of some secret joke.
Then Granger cast her a keen look. “You do know about Taff? I mean—”
“That he died, yes.”
“Then may we return your condolences?”
“Thank you, but I scarcely remember him.”
A woman touched Granger’s arm. Middle-aged, with brass-colored curls and red-rimmed eyes. “Sorry to interrupt, love. I just want to say, your dad might have been a bit of a rough diamond, but he had a good heart. I won’t go along to the pub, only I’d like to talk to you two boys sometime. You’ll be in town for a while?”
Rogan said, “A couple more days anyway.”
She moved off and Granger turned back to Camille. “Will we see you at the wake?”
“I wasn’t intending to be there.”
Rogan asked, “Are you staying at the Imperial?”
“Yes. But—”
“We have to talk to you,” he said, “don’t we, Granger?”
Granger said slowly, “I guess we do.” He glanced back at the hearse, where the driver was showing signs of impatience.
“You’re not leaving Mokohina yet, are you?” Rogan pressed her.
After a small hesitation she conceded, “Not yet.”
“Then we’ll see you later.”
Camille didn’t answer, and as he moved away with his brother he shot a glance over his shoulder as if willing her to stay.
The wake was just the sort of send-off Barney would have enjoyed. Drinks and stories flowed freely, and Rogan lost count of the number of beer-breathing, teary-eyed old salts who clapped him or his brother on the shoulder and urged them to join in yet another toast to their father.
One white-bearded, purple-cheeked character whispered hoarsely, “Did he tell you about his find then, boy?”
“What find?”
Rogan edged backward, but the beard only moved closer, and the man squinted up at him through watery, bloodshot eyes. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?” The old guy was probably talking through the bottom of his beer glass.
The man looked about them covertly and clutched at Rogan’s arm. “We gave Taff a send-off the night your dad got his, y’know. In absentia, so to speak. Poor old Taff.” He shook his head
