voice. “Drive carefully.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“I mean it, Rosco.”
“I know.”
Rain descended diagonally onto Belle’s front porch, streaking the lower halves of the windows and pounding the white-painted clapboard siding. By the time Rosco rang the bell, daylight had vanished totally, leaving the stormy evening black and desolate. He scraped his feet on the sodden mat, but a squelch of water merely resaturated his soles.
“Hi,” Belle said, opening the door and then immediately slamming it shut when Rosco hurried in. Her worried smile and anxious demeanor exuded domestic peace. For a moment he felt as if he were returning home rather than paying a visit. The sensation engendered a complex reaction that was partly happiness and partly concern that he and Belle might be moving too fast. To mask his thoughts Rosco studied the floor; his shoes had made puddles on the bare wood.
“Don’t you think a carpet might be a nice touch, Belle?” he said in an attempted jest. He couldn’t bring himself to verbalize his feelings, while immediately embarking on a discussion of his interview with Pepper seemed absurdly businesslike.
Sharing Rosco’s mixture of emotions, Belle followed his bantering vein. “I don’t know . . . I think I’m getting fond of the bare-bones look . . . It reminds me of my footloose college days. Besides, the house used to look so . . . well, you know, decorated . . . I’m glad Garet took all the stuff.” Then she grew pensive. “What did Pepper say?”
Rosco sighed. He didn’t answer for a moment, then finally said, “It’s a tough situation, Belle . . . The man’s frantic with worry.”
“I would be, too.”
Both were silent while around them the little house creaked and groaned under the violent attack of the wind-driven rain. The fact that the entry and living room had been nearly denuded of furniture following Belle’s divorce made each sound echo dolefully. Her eyes drifted across her new thrift-shop decor: an overstuffed chair covered in green cretonne printed with cabbage roses, a standing lamp, and a good-sized hinged wooden box she’d snagged from a local junk hauler transporting it to the dump. Faded block letters claimed the box to have once belonged to CRUZ BROS. DAIRIES, SANTA ROSARIO, CALIF; how it had arrived in Newcastle, Mass., remained a mystery that Belle found intriguing. At the moment, however, none of these objects brought pleasure or solace.
“Has Pepper heard anything?” she asked at length.
Again, Rosco sidestepped the question with a noncommittal: “Is there anything to eat?”
“Besides my famous deviled eggs, you mean?” Belle matched his mood, and forced a bemused smile.
“That’s what I was hoping.”
Belle thought for a second. Deviled eggs were her one and only culinary specialty—as well as being a food she treated with both reverence and relish. Her other staple was licorice—which fortunately needed no cooking. “There might be a can of soup . . . cream of something . . . broccoli, maybe?”
This time Rosco smiled genuinely; he found Belle’s quirky view of nutrition endearing. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“It might have cheese in it . . . or something exotic like that.”
“Most people don’t consider cheese in the ‘exotic’ category, Belle.”
“Anything you don’t have to cook yourself is extra special,” she countered, before turning serious again. “So, tell me about your conversation with Pepper.”
Rosco didn’t respond for a long minute. “The Coast Guard has suspended the air portion of their search until the weather improves.”
Belle shut her eyes, then opened them wide and stared at the rain-drenched windows. “I was afraid they might.” Then she looked at Rosco; her gray eyes swam with concern. “Could anyone survive in an open boat in a squall like this?”
Rosco didn’t answer. After a moment, he pulled her into his arms. “Look at you and me, Belle . . . Anything’s possible . . .”
6
The storm had moved off about three A.M., and the morning revealed crystal-clear weather, warmed to a comfortable sixty degrees. Shafts of reflected sunlight ricocheted wildly through the black-tarred harbor pilings as Rosco angled his Jeep into Mystic Isle Yachts’ gravel parking lot and studied the picturesque scene. The marina water was cobalt blue, and the seas still running high and fresh in the storm’s wake. Whitecaps sent feathery plumes of salt spray spiraling into the air or jouncing against the sun-spattered pilings and wood-decked walkway. The tang of ocean, wet teak, and hot tar pervaded the air. A perfect day for anyone who loved the sea.
Rosco eyed the waves with nervous distaste, then stepped out