Page 5 of All Our Beautiful Goodbyes

Chapter 4

Oliver woke to the hush of solitude and shadows. The house was no longer groaning in the brutal gale, and the windowpanes were clean and dry of rain. Miraculously, outside of Abigail McKenna’s sickroom, the whole world seemed to be at peace—or perhaps just sleeping.

Either way, it mattered not, because inside was the menacing silence that Oliver had been dreading. It was an open door to his dark thoughts, which crept stealthily into his head and dug a deep hole there. He saw his crewman going overboard and flailing in the waves. He threw a life preserver, but it was tossed about in the wind, utterly useless. The storm roared like a beast. The deck was slippery, and the spray was as cold as ice on his flesh. He grabbed at the rail ...

Oliver heard the sudden clang of a ship’s bell. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead. Stop thinking. Look around you, dammit.

His eyes flew open. He was in a bedroom. It was quiet. Warm and dry.

As his heart rate began to slow, he ran a finger over the tender lump on his skull that had not yet diminished in size. At least he was no longer nauseated. He felt rested, along with a noticeable improvement in his cognitive abilities.

He sat up in bed. With pupils well adjusted to the gloom, he tossed the covers aside, swung his feet to the floor, and stood up—rising carefully in case the dizziness returned. Bloody hell. Every muscle in his body ached.

He took a moment to gain confidence in his sense of balance before he padded stiffly to the window and looked out at the night sky. A rose pink light over the rooftops of Main Station glowed on the horizon. It was the light of a new dawn.

He returned to the bed, sat down on the edge of the mattress, and asked God why he’d been spared. It was the young crewman who should have been saved.

But who was Oliver to question the decisions of God? Because Oliver certainly hadn’t made the best decisions in his own life.

A short while later, Oliver walked out of the house and descended the porch steps to the yard. The salty pang of the sea filled his nostrils. Mixed with a plethora of other unfamiliar fragrances, it created an extravagant perfume. He stopped to inhale deeply and listen to the roar of the waves beyond the dunes.

Clearly, the ocean was still angry after the storm.

Turning toward the thunder of the breakers, he slid his hands into his pockets and strode across the yard, his boots grinding strangely on the sand. The grains sang like crystal, like nothing he’d ever experienced, and fleetingly he wondered if he’d passed away during the night and was now walking on a different plane or heavenly dimension.

It was a ridiculous thought, he knew, but nothing seemed normal that morning. He’d slept like the dead after narrowly skirting death, and he felt an unsettling urge to glance over his shoulder to check for the grim reaper—to make sure he wasn’t following, eager to launch a second attempt.

Eventually, Oliver reached the top of a high dune. He stopped and gazed down at the beach below and the raging ocean beyond. The sky was growing brighter. His eyes scanned the incoming waves, searching for a body washed ashore, but saw nothing.

With a raw mix of sadness, shame, and despair, he looked toward his ship, wrecked off the western tip of the island. She lay on her side while the constant cruel whip of the waves rained down on her.

Suddenly in need of a closer look, Oliver skidded down the steep slope of the dune to the beach and walked briskly. Perhaps she was not yet done for. Perhaps her hull had not been damaged. Perhaps it might still be possible to float her when the tide came in ...

Suddenly, his desperate thoughts were wrenched away from the Belvedere . Thunderous galloping hoofbeats on the beach reached his ears. With a hot rush of doom in his blood, he turned, but it was not the grim reaper, here to collect another soul. It was Emma, the superintendent’s daughter.

For some inexplicable reason, Oliver was embarrassed to be out on the beach at dawn, marching toward his half-sunken ship. What could he possibly do about the situation?

She slowed her horse to a trot, then a walk, and drew up beside him. He stopped and noticed the color of her long hair matched her chestnut mare almost exactly.

She regarded Oliver jauntily. “Good morning, Captain. You must be feeling better.”

Her cheeks were flushed from exertion and the chill of the cool morning air, and he found himself judging her as a woman immensely confident for one so young. Or perhaps it was because of her position, high in the saddle, looking down at him.

“Somewhat better,” he replied dully.

The mare blew a forceful breath from flaring nostrils and tossed its head. Emma patted the horse on the neck, and when Oliver resumed his trek toward the West Spit, she dismounted. Within seconds, she caught up with him. “May I walk with you?”

“Of course,” he replied, though clearly she’d already taken it as a given.

Emma led her horse behind her, and they fell into a matched pace.

“It was nice to wake up to a clear sky,” she said, and Oliver wondered if she’d ever known a truly dark day in her entire young life. “But that’s the thing about storms, isn’t it? They always blow over.”

“Do they?” he replied pessimistically, feeling her gaze lingering on his profile as he walked.

“Yes, but I’m just talking about the weather,” she said.

He stopped and faced her. “I suppose I wasn’t.”

She stopped as well. “I gathered that.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds, then started walking again at a slower pace, a significant distance from the waves that crashed and rolled, foaming onto the beach.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about when we can leave the island,” Oliver said.

“The last thing I heard before I went to bed last night,” she replied, “was a plan to wait for the supply ship next week.”

Oliver stopped abruptly. “Next week?”

Emma’s horse nickered and tossed its head again.

“Yes. I’m so sorry. It’s not easy to come and go from here, especially after a storm.”

“But the skies are clear now.” He gestured angrily with a hand.

“Yes,” she argued, “but the beaches aren’t safe to land a plane. After a storm, the sand shifts, and it takes a while for everyone to get a handle on things.”

Oliver realized his headache had returned. He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple.

“I’m so sorry I don’t have better news for you,” Emma said, and they began walking again.

“It’s not your fault.” Oliver was fully aware that he was the one to blame for all this.

They continued in silence for a long while until Emma spoke her thoughts openly—as she often seemed to do, without reserve.

“I can guess where we’re going,” she said. “This must be why you were up at the crack of dawn. You want to see your ship?”

“I do,” Oliver replied. “But I’m usually an early riser, regardless.”

“I’m the same.” Emma’s gaze slid to meet his. “As soon as I hear the birds chirping, I want to get moving.”

The rules of proper etiquette were pushing Oliver to respond in a polite manner, but his honest self was bucking violently. His head was pounding, and there was a bitter bile in his stomach because he hated himself for what occurred here twenty-four hours ago, and he wanted to be alone.

“I don’t feel much like talking,” he said brusquely, under the assumption that she would understand and return to Main Station.

But Emma stopped. Her horse stopped as well. Oliver continued for a few more strides before he finally paused, squeezed his eyes shut, and wished he had not encountered her at all.

Reluctantly, he turned around.

“I should probably head back,” she said awkwardly, her cheeks flushing with color. “There’s quite a lot to do. Breakfast for the men in the staff house and ...”

Good God. She was hurt.

Oh, bloody hell, when had he become such an ornery old man? He took a tentative step toward her. “I apologize again, Emma. That was rude of me. I’m not myself.”

She regarded him with a look of genuine empathy, which surprised him. “Please, Captain Harris. Don’t apologize. It’s perfectly understandable. I shouldn’t have intruded upon your walk.”

“You didn’t intrude.”

“Yes, I did,” she argued. “I saw you walking, and I galloped faster to catch up with you, and then I invited myself along. My father would scold me for having the manners of a walrus.” Emma started walking again. “I think I’ve been living on this island too long. I don’t know how to interact with new people. It’s a skill I need to learn.”

“Clearly, a shipwreck was just what the doctor ordered.” It was a grim attempt at humor, and he regretted it immediately.

Emma nodded at him knowingly and continued walking.

A short while later, she said, “I have binoculars in my saddlebag, if you’d like to use them to see your ship. And if you have any questions about the rescue effort, I’m happy to answer. I was there for all of it.”

Despite Oliver’s throbbing head and his melancholic wish to be alone, he was grateful for the offer. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “This is Willow, by the way.”

He glanced over his shoulder as well. “Hello, Willow. I’m Oliver Harris. New to the area.”

The mare tossed her head as if she understood every word, and Emma laughed.

“She’s very smart.”

“I can see that.”

They continued along the beach, walking briskly toward the tip of the island.

Abigail McKenna woke with a start, sat up, and remembered the dream—a recurring dream where she was sinking into quicksand and a band of wild horses stood in a circle all around her, heads down, watching her struggle. She begged them for help, but they galloped off to frolic in freshwater ponds. A beautiful black stallion neighed and nickered, bucked and clawed at the air with his powerful hooves, his long mane blowing in the wind. Meanwhile, Abigail sank deeper and deeper into the quicksand, up to her nose.

She woke drenched in sweat, panting. It was morning, and she was alone in the bed. What time was it? Past seven. Abigail cursed herself for sleeping late and prayed the captain wasn’t up and moving about in the kitchen, riffling through her cupboards for coffee.

She quickly dressed and flew down the stairs but found both the kitchen and sickroom empty. Philip’s jacket was gone from the hook on the wall, which was not unusual. He was probably outside, launching another ridiculous weather balloon. Perhaps the captain had gone with him to watch.

She pulled on her rubber boots, walked out the back door, and marched to the hut where Philip was alone, bent over a table, recording data.

“Where’s the captain?” she asked, looking around in disbelief.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The captain!” she shouted. “He’s not in the sickroom. Did you see him this morning?”

“No,” Philip replied vacuously.

“You didn’t check on him?”

“No.”

She swung around and stalked back to the house, but there was no point going inside because the captain wasn’t there. Perhaps he’d gone to John Clarkson’s house, because everyone seemed to think the superintendent’s residence was the center of the universe.

Abigail was out of breath by the time she pounded on John’s door. While she waited, she looked down at herself and became conscious of her unsightly appearance. She hadn’t brushed her teeth or her hair, or washed her face. Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed herself to appear composed, but no one came to the door.

Finally, she stomped down the steps and looked around the station yard for signs of activity. Her gaze finally settled on the large Quonset hut where the staff men lived.

Abigail strode furiously toward it, working through what she would say when she knocked. But before she had a chance to resolve that question, the door flew open. She leaped back as four crewmen from the Belvedere burst out and sprinted toward the boat shed.

Joseph and his crew darted out, one by one, chasing after them. “Stop! Hold on there!”

Abigail backed out of the way. John Clarkson was last to exit the hut, and he moved slower than the younger, fitter men under his supervision.

Abigail followed and fell into a jog beside him. “What’s happening?”

“Don’t ask.”

The Belvedere crew reached the shed and attempted to open the door, but it was locked. The others caught up with them, and a scuffle broke out.

Abigail stood motionless, shocked by the anarchy before her. A shot rang out. The sailors scuttled away from each other and held up their hands while John aimed a pistol at each one in turn.

“Settle down,” he ordered. “No one’s going anywhere. You’ll wait patiently for the supply ship to arrive.”

“I told you, I ain’t stayin’ a whole week!” one man shouted. “This ain’t nothin’ but a sandbar!”

“This island has been here for centuries,” John replied. “We’re all perfectly safe.”

“What about the skulls?” another man asked, pointing at the shed. “What sort of people keep a shrine like that?”

Abigail shook her head. She’d always rued that ghoulish collection of bones and never understood why John allowed it.

“It’s not a shrine,” he explained. “It’s a record of lost souls, and a reminder of why we’re here. To provide safe sanctuary.”

“Feels more like purgatory to me,” the largest man snarled through a clenched jaw.

In that moment, a shout from the distance caused a hush among the men. Abigail turned and caught sight of Captain Harris on horseback, like a phantom hero galloping out of the mist.

Her heart nearly burst out of her chest as he reached the station yard and reined the horse to a halt. Only then did she realize that young Emma Clarkson was on the back of the horse. Abigail’s gut squeezed like a fist.

They both dismounted.

The captain strode toward the ruckus. “What’s going on?”

None of his crewmen responded.

He turned to John. “Lower the weapon please, sir, if you will.”

John did as the captain asked. Captain Harris then approached his men and spoke to them privately. Abigail watched with a shortness of breath, mesmerized, not knowing what to expect.

To her surprise, before long, they were all laughing and joking, and the men dispersed and headed back to the staff house. On the way, one of the Sable crewmen patted a Belvedere man on the back, as if they were fast friends again.

What magic words has the captain bestowed upon them? Abigail wondered. He certainly had a way with people, herself included, because she couldn’t take her eyes off him as he was speaking to John.

But then Emma entered the periphery of her vision. As she led her horse to the barn, she pulled a ribbon from her thick auburn hair and shook it down her back until it blew lightly in the breeze.

What a performance. Abigail could have expelled the entire contents of her stomach. And where had Emma and the captain been that morning, obviously alone? Did no one else wonder this? Did her father not recognize the impropriety of it? His daughter was barely out of school, and the captain was a man of experience. Not to mention the fact that he had a wife. And a concussion. He was in no condition to be galloping around the island with anyone, much less a single young woman.

Turning to march home, Abigail struggled to set her thoughts on making more sandwiches—but damn them all to hell! She couldn’t get the striking image of Captain Harris on horseback out of her head. Nor could she forget the sight of Emma’s thick, beautiful hair. It wasn’t fair. She wanted to spit.

It was past noon when the captain finally returned to the McKennas’ house. Abigail was in the kitchen, slicing sandwiches. At the sight of him, she dropped her knife onto the worktable, wiped her hands on her apron, and hurried to greet him. “Captain Harris. My word, you look about ready to fall over.”

“I might have overdone it this morning,” he admitted, wincing with pain as he removed his coat.

“Any dizziness?” she asked.

“No, but the rib’s tender.”

“Tender?” She reached out and took hold of his arm to escort him toward the sickroom. “That’s got to be the understatement of the year. I saw you leaping off that horse earlier. What were you thinking?” she asked scoldingly. “You need to take better care of yourself. You’re injured, and you’ve had a serious concussion. You need to rest.” She led him to the bed. “Come and lie down. Yes, that’s right. Let me help you.” He carefully lowered himself to a sitting position. “Easy now,” Abigail uttered as she removed his boots. “Let’s get you under the covers, and I’ll bring you some hot soup.”

At long last, he laid his head on the pillow and let out a breath of exhaustion. “Thank you, Abigail. You’re an angel.”

She drew back with surprise and stared down at him, then quickly began to straighten the blanket at his feet before drawing it up over his shoulders. “Just doing my job,” she replied, feeling a strange tingling in her body and heart. “Get some rest now.”

He closed his eyes, and she stood for a while, watching him until he slept deeply. Then she turned and left the room, shutting the door softly behind her.