Storm Surge. Celia Ashley

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СКАЧАТЬ to learn about my parents’ relationship, about our lives together as a family, when we were one. About my dad, what he made of his life…after. I guess to start, I’d like to know how he died. The circumstances. Do you know?”

      Bea’s lips thinned, nearly disappearing. “Edwin was a tough one. Tough to know. Tough to love, too, I think.”

      Paige swallowed, giving a ring on her finger a nervous spin.

      “He found himself in business with some objectionable people.”

      “Like who? What kind of business?” She wasn’t surprised by Bea’s statement, but oh, how she wanted to be.

      “I don’t know, really. One hears rumors. And he wasn’t inclined to listen. To anybody. Incautious, too. Determined to pick the wrong path, stick with decisions out of pride, even if they were plainly foolish. And this last time? Well, I could have told him he’d come to a tragic end. You have to respect the demands of the sea. He never did.”

      “The demands of the sea?” Paige’s fingers stilled. “What are they, exactly?”

      “He had another business in recent years. Did you know that? A legitimate one. At least that’s how he made it out. Taking sports fishermen out in that sailboat of his.”

      What did Bea mean, a legitimate business? What had her father been up to prior to that?

      “Sometimes he took them places where they shouldn’t have been,” Bea continued.

      “Like where?”

      “There’s danger out on the sea. That’s what they paid him for, to show it to them, those places no one else would take them in pursuit of big fish. But that ship of his? It was destined for destruction.”

      “How? Was there something faulty in the way it was made? If so, someone should look into the manufacturer.” Someone? As his daughter, that someone should be her.

      Bea shook her head with emphatic jerks, setting her well-sprayed hair to jiggling. “There wasn’t a blessed thing wrong with that ship. It was Edwin’s disregard for the will of the sea.”

      Bea’s turn of conversation began to worry Paige. The woman had acted lucid enough, but now…

      “Every man who sets foot on a boat knows better. But your father was determined to flaunt his disregard. He started out dressing himself and whatever crew member he roped into helping him in red shirts with the company’s name on them.”

      “What’s wrong with that? I’d say that’s a savvy business move, having your logo on a shirt.”

      “Red. They were red. No sailor with any conscious respect for the power of—”

      “How do you know this?’ Paige interrupted. “You said you hadn’t any contact with him before he died.”

      “One hears things. And it wasn’t just that. His last, his deadly mistake, was an improper rechristening of that ship of his. Bad luck to change the name of a ship without proper observance. He was warned but took none of it seriously.”

      Paige rose, uncertain how to respond to such tripe. This woman was seriously going to blame a man’s demise on the fact he wore a red shirt onboard a seagoing vessel? And what did he rename his sailboat that was so very ominous? Titanic?

      “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hunt, but—”

      “Don’t dismiss what I say, Paige. The gods of the sea are demanding. My own husband made a fatal error on his last run fifty years ago and never came home to me.”

      After gathering her purse from the sofa arm, Paige paused to address the woman. “That’s very sad, Mrs. Hunt, and I can understand why you would want to place the blame on something in a realm other than our own, but the sea is a dangerous place, as you said. Ships go down all the time. But it’s nature or mechanics or pilot error or—”

      “No, Paige—”

      “Can you at least tell me where the ship went down? Was it a storm? What?”

      Bea Hunt’s eyes glittered. Paige couldn’t tell if the gleam came from unshed tears or anger. Choosing the former, Paige touched the woman’s shoulder in sympathy. She spoke in a gentler tone. “Do you know where the ship went down? Can you tell me?”

      Bea made a negative gesture with her hand. “A storm, yes. North. North of here somewhere is all I know. Are you leaving?”

      Paige took a step in the direction of the foyer and then stopped. “I have other folks I need to speak with, but I’ll come back. We’ll have tea then, all right?”

      Bea didn’t believe her. A stab of guilt shot through Paige’s chest. For her mother’s sake, she would come back. There’d be no talk about the sea, only about the flowers growing in Bea Hunt’s garden out front and maybe her mother’s days in school.

      “I will. I’ll be back.” Paige moved to the door, waving Bea back in her seat when she made to rise. “Do you want me to lock up on my way out?”

      “There’s no need. Who’s going to bother with an old lady?”

      Paige’s gut churned with seven kinds of shame despite her aggravation at Bea Hunt’s nonsense. She headed straight for her car and climbed behind the wheel, where she glanced through her list again. Other than Bea, the folks who’d answered their doors today did so in wary friendliness and had avoided inviting Paige in by stepping outside to speak with her. None of them had offered any information worth a damn.

      Spotting Bea peering through the parted lace curtains at her, Paige waved and pulled away from the curb. At the stop sign, she leaned the notepad against the steering wheel, studying the names the woman with the outrageous hair had crossed off, supposedly in the interest of keeping her from trouble with the townsfolk. What was it the woman had said? One way or another, these people were gone. Why on earth had Paige taken the word of someone who hadn’t been inclined to help her?

      She’d start with Alva Mabry. After the brief and unfortunate interview with Bea, Paige knew she’d probably regret seeking Alva out, but she turned right at the stop sign. Although Paige never heard her mother say anything about an Alva, the woman’s name and address had been in the shabby address book with an asterisk beside the entry in bold, purple ink. Paige was determined to find out the significance.

      * * * *

      Liam grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and pressed the cold bottle to the blister on his thumb. On the counter, the grilled burger sat on a plate beside cooked beets. Behind him, a floorboard creaked. He lifted the bottle. “Want one?”

      He received no answer. Of course he didn’t. What the hell was he thinking?

      Snatching up the plate, he turned and headed outside. On the porch, he shoved a box out of his way and lowered himself onto a badly painted Adirondack chair. Knees bent, he planted his bare feet on a wooden baluster on the railing. A chill swirl of air danced across his forearm, raising a rill of hair. He ignored it. Cold air dancing on an otherwise hot evening meant nothing. Not every odd occurrence was something to sweat about. Some were just nature.

      Liam bit off and chewed a meaty mouthful, then chased it down his throat with a deep swig of beer. He’d worked СКАЧАТЬ