Cape Cod Noir - By David L Ulin Page 0,19

Blond hair, more ash-gray now, but the same face. The same cant to the shoulders, an old injury never healed, but so recognizable, so dear.

Anna sat, smoothing out her gown, as if it was all she’d meant to do. She put her head down on clasped hands.

Her eyes closed, she had but one thought, as urgent as prayer, over and over: Look at me.

She tilted her head, still on her hands, and opened her eyes.

He saw her. The intake of breath, the widening eyes revealed his recognition, and confirmed her suspicion.

Not dead. Not lost.

Restored to her.

Emotions in a flood of memories, good and sweet and sad. Suddenly, Anna had a reason to keep searching for her answers.

After the final hymn, she got up and walked away from the congregation, moving in the direction he’d indicated. She saw him vanish into a slender stand of trees by the churchyard, beyond sight of the parishioners. Slowing by the gravestones to see whether she was observed, she followed him through the late winter snow.

He was hunkered down against a tree, waiting for her. His face, like his strong hands, was older, and browned with the sun. Once they had been thought a match for each other: her blond hair fine and light, his thick and unruly. Good features on both faces, hers more precisely delicate, his kept from fae beauty by the scars of his work and weathering, but well formed, nonetheless.

Anna stepped forward. He rose and clasped her shoulders, peering into her face.

“It is you.”

She nodded. “It is.”

“I thought it was some dream, seeing you.”

“I thought you were a thousand miles away, Bram Munroe, making your fortune. How do you come to be so close to home?”

“Ill fortune at every turn, Anna, kept me tethered here, and betrayals kept me from returning to Boston. I would not let my bad luck follow me to you.”

They embraced. It started to rain, with heavy, cold drops, and she shivered. They both laughed.

“I’m a respectable widow now. There’s no shame in being seen together near a warm fire.” This much freedom she had, at least. The gift of a kingdom.

He nodded, but didn’t move. “I’d not tarnish our meeting—a public disagreement with my former employer. A trifle, but seeing him would sour the moment.”

“But … you are well?”

“The better for seeing you, Anna.”

A shadow moving beyond the trees. Seaver, walking to the inn.

Anna collected herself; he could not have seen them. “I cannot stay. Tell me where to meet you, and I’ll find you later.”

“There is a shack on the dunes of the strand. Meet me there, late tonight.” He pressed her hand to his lips. “Oh, Anna.”

“Tonight.”

For the first time in many weeks, Anna smiled.

Here, then, was what she’d been waiting for, the reason she’d continued when all seemed lost. A fresh start with an old love, plenty of money, and new ideas. No burden of her husband Thomas Hoyt, as dead a weight alive as he was deceased. The Queen was no longer a coffin confining her; Bram and her fortune made space enough.

These happy thoughts fled as she entered the inn. Adam Seaver was sprawled out before the large fire, boots off, a pewter mug, large enough to stave in a man’s head, on the table by his side. It was a cold day and there was room enough around the fire for the other patrons, but they found places away from Seaver. Perhaps they knew him, perhaps not, Anna thought. Knowing Adam Seaver was not necessary, if one had eyes to see and a brain to reason.

He seemed to sense her arrival, for he opened his eyes to slits, then sat up. “Mistress Hoyt.”

There was no avoiding him now. On the ship, she’d kept to herself, pleading illness, and he had been satisfied with that.

“Mr. Seaver.”

“You look very well.” He stretched, and looked more closely. “Sermons agree with you.”

He couldn’t have seen us, she thought. She looked straight at him. “I’m glad to be off the ship.”

“You’ll dine with me tomorrow. We have business.”

“We have no business. Mr. Browne asked for you to stop.”

Seaver said nothing at this bald rebellion. Before, when he had spoken to Anna, it had been as if Mr. Browne himself had done so. He shrugged. “I would consider it a kindness, then, if you would.”

There were no manners from Adam Seaver that did not conceal worse things. Anna understood she’d gone too far, too quickly. “Of course.”

“I stop to collect on a debt, but the gentleman