Water, Stone, Heart - By Will North Page 0,47

a deft touch and filled in the tenor harmonies. The crowd, some thirty strong, fell into two groups: those who sang all the stanzas along with Jack, whom Andrew took to be locals; and those who only chimed in at the chorus, whom Andrew figured were visitors, like him. Some distance away, he could see Lee singing, too. He wondered what happy bit of magic, what curious throwback to another decade, made her want to be here, with adults, singing old folk songs and sea shanties.

Andrew was well into his third pint, and singing the chorus of “John Barleycorn,” when a voice in an upper register joined him. He knew the voice even though it had never sung for him before. The song ended.

“Hello, sailor,” Nicola said. She was wearing a simple but flattering raw linen wrap dress tied at the hip, and heels.

“Not me; I get seasick,” Andrew said with a grin.

“When you're sailing, or when you're drinking?”

“Yes.”

She punched his shoulder, and suddenly he was reminded of the way adolescents poked and shoved in their awkward early attempts at physical intimacy. Was that what he and Nicola were—middle-aged adolescents?

“Do you always sing harmony?” Nicola asked.

“Guess so. Used to drive my mother nuts. We'd be riding in the car, listening to the radio, and she'd ask why I didn't sing the melody like everyone else. I just sing what I hear, which is usually the bass harmony line.”

“You could be a regular here, with that voice.”

Andrew feigned shock. “I believe that was a compliment!”

“Christ, I think you're right; I must be slipping.”

“Careful; you have a reputation to protect.”

“A reputation?”

“You know: prickly, pugnacious.”

“I prefer to think of it as proactive.”

“Get 'em before they get you?”

“Something like that.”

“Is it so unsafe out there?”

“You have no idea.”

“No. I suppose I don't. Then again, I'm not a woman.”

“Yes, I noticed that.”

“Did you, indeed? What was the clue? The fact that I'm a monosyllabic mouth breather? The way I slope along, hairy knuckles dragging, drool dripping from the corner of my mouth? Maybe it was the club in my hand? Like those Neanderthals you warned Lee about?”

She looked down at her drink. “I'm pretty sure you're not one of them.”

“Ah, but you can't be sure, can you? My wife left me, after all.”

“Look,” Nicola said, looking directly at him. “I'm sorry about last night.”

“Sorry for what? Sorry for sharing a lovely meal with me? Sorry for giving me the gift of your company? Sorry for being so pleasing to the eye?”

“You know what I mean.”

“If I do, I don't remember.”

“Okay, I give up. I'm sorry I drank so much of the wine. That's what I meant, of course.”

“Speaking of which, how about another drink?”

Nicola smiled. “I wouldn't say no.”

Andrew slipped through the crowd to get their drinks. Nicola waved across the room to Lee, who was sitting on the steps to the upstairs sitting room. I wouldn't say no, Nicola repeated to herself. Freudian slip? She'd been saying “No” for years now. “No” was her armor. “No” was her stockade, her weapon against … what? Her fears? If it was, it wasn't working; they still shimmered in the air around her, like an aura. And what was it about this Andrew fellow that suddenly made her wall feel as permeable as mesh netting?

When he returned with her gin and tonic, she was nodding her head to the music, but not singing. She looked far away.

“You okay?” he asked.

“What? Oh yes, fine! Just enjoying the scene. Thanks for the drink.”

“You said last night you've only been here a few years, but you seem very at home.”

“Yes … yes, I suppose I am.”

“You hesitated there for a moment.”

“You're right. I do love it here, truly, and people have been so sweet to me. But if I'm honest, I have to say I miss St. Ives—and Trevega House, too, for that matter. Partly, it's just the light in that part of Cornwall, but light means a lot to me. Someday some scientist is going to figure out what it is about the light in St. Ives, but artists have understood it intuitively for more than a century. It's just clearer, truer. And let's face it, St. Ives is a bit more cosmopolitan than Boscastle—for Cornwall, at least. Lots of galleries and shops and cafés and a community of painters that just doesn't exist here. Plus … well, Jeremy's Dad made me feel more at home there than I ever felt in Boston. I suppose that sounds weird.”

“Not at