Read Strawberries in the Sea Online
Authors: Elisabeth Ogilvie
Strawberries in the Sea
The Bennett Island Series
An Answer in the Tide
Summer of the Osprey
Day Before Winter
Tide Trilogy
High Tide at Noon
The Storm Tide
Ebbing Tide
Lover's Trilogy
Dawning of the Day
The Seasons Hereafter
Strawberries in the Sea
Elisabeth Ogilvie
Camden, Maine
Published by Down East Books
A wholly owned subsidiary of The Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Inc.
4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200, Lanham, Maryland 20706
www.rowman.com
16 Carlisle Street, London W1D 3BT, United Kingdom
Distributed by National Book Network
Copyright © 1973 by Elisabeth Ogilvie
Reprinted 1999 by arrangement with the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ogilvie, Elisabeth 1917â2006
Strawberries in the sea / by Elisabeth Ogilvie
p. cm. â (Bennett's Island saga ; 6)
1. IslandsâMaineâFiction. 2. WomenâMaineâFiction. I. Title. II. Series: Ogilvie, Elisabeth 1917â2006 Bennet's Island saga ; 6.
PS3529.G39S77 1999
813'.52âdc21
99-17862
ISBN 978-1-60893-335-8 (pbk. : alk. paper)
The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Printed in the United States of America
The man in the wilderness asked me,
How many strawberries grow in the sea?
I answered him, as I thought good,
As many as red herrings grow in the wood
â
Old Nursery Rhyme
CHAPTER 1
S
he thought the pain was going to burst out of her in a groan or a cry there on the dingy staircase. Half-blinded with tears and with a sensation like that of a knife in her throat, she reached the vestibule and stood back against the wall, holding her big handbag up to her chest like a shield. The doors stood open and Main Street was a blurry glare of motion with the people passing by and the flashes of light from moving cars. The cheerful din seemed to be rising to some fearful climax.
Trying to press herself into the wall and become invisible, and knowing that was impossible for a hundred and seventy pounds in wine-and-turquoise knit, she fought the silent fight so familiar from the days when she tried not to cry in school. In the early grades she used to lose the battle quite often, in a noisy, blubbering surrender that delighted the rest of the class and made her loathe them. But only until the next day, or even until just after school the same day; she was a compulsive optimist who would rather be friendly than not.
Even now, in a panic for fear someone who knew her might glance in and see her wallowing in the mire of lost pride, she was not angry with Con for being the cause of it. Instead she was grief-stricken, as if she had just made arrangements for his funeral. When she'd told the lawyer where the papers could be served, it had been like telling the funeral director where the family plot was.
If she was mad at anybody, it was at the Seal Pointers who'd been waiting to see just how long she could hold Con. They'd never really believed in their marriage. How could a Conall Fleming fall in love witha Rosa McKinnon? Sure, she was a good girl, a great housekeeper, handy in a boat, and strong. If a man wanted a helper, he wouldn't have to pay twenty per cent out of each haul. But a girl like that for Con Fleming?
No. Rosa McKinnon had property, that's what it was. The old man should have left it tied up. He hadn't been gone a year before Con had the boat, the gear, the shore privilege, the whole works. That was all good old Rosie had for Con Fleming.
Rosa knew what they said, because some of the older ones had tried to warn her. She believed their doubts had ill-wished the marriage from the start, and at this moment, in the stuffy vestibule of the Hanchett Block, her rage was like the dash of icy water tossed in her face when she was three and used to hold her breath. She gasped, the flood receded, and she groped in her bag for one of her father's big handkerchiefs; tissues were no good, they were too small and frail. She wiped her face vigorously, remembering too late that she'd worn powder and lipstick today and experimented with eye shadow as a kind of armor.
Oh, the hell with it, she thought, and blew her nose. Then she stepped out into the sidewalk traffic, and moaned softly with a purely physical pain. Her feet had swollen since she'd gotten them into high-heeled pumps this morning. Dampened with perspiration, her girdle had tightened into a ribbing of iron. She fixed her eyes on the pickup truck parked down the street in front of the First Baptist Church. To get home and free her flesh to cool air, and then howl for hours in a locked room until she couldn't wring out another sound, was the biggest bliss she could imagine at the moment.
The sidewalk ahead of her shimmered and billowed like an ocean swell under the sun. When she stepped off the curb, one of the high heels turned and she pitched toward the pavement. There was a car coming, but she was not allowed to plunge beneath its wheels. Arms went around her waist like a vise.
“
Con
?” The name came before she could hold it back, twisting to look into a stranger's face; young eyes laughing at her shock and astonishment, but not maliciously, out of a wilderness of hair and beard.
“Sorry I'm not,” he said, still holding her.
“Never mind,” she muttered, burning hot. “Thanks, I guess I was about to break my neck.” He let her go. He had a friend, John the Baptist with dark glasses and bedroll. At least they didn't know her, she was nothing to them, not Con's fool or anyone's. For this she could smile and say again, “Thanks. It's these damned high heels. I should've stuck to my rubber boots.”
They laughed, and she felt a small triumph. She lifted her hand jauntily. “Goodbye.”
One of them said, “Don't blow your cool, sis.” He sounded kind. She set off blindly and rapidly, and in a few yards bumped into someone else, who called her by name.
“Rosa! Hi, Rose! Where you bound for?”
Her mother's cousin Jude Webster stood in her way. His face gradually grew clear to her, so narrow the features seemed sharpened like an ax blade, graying hair springing back from high temples, his eyes set deep in creases behind his glasses.
“Come on and have a cup of coffee,” he said. He pulled her arm through his; he was very strong for such a thin man. When they went into the coffee shop he said, “You better go wash your face. I'll get a booth.”
She started to object, until two young girls approached her, hastily looked away, and giggled after they'd passed by. She plunged toward the door marked Ladies and locked herself in. The mirror gave back her face shiny with damp, streaked and blotched with lipstick and the green eyeshadow.
Why green? she wondered dispassionately. Those boys had been damned mannerly not to hoot out loud. She soaked a paper towel and sprinkled it with liquid soap, and scrubbed her face until the skin was pink and stinging. She had a square chin with the big McKinnon dimple in it, and wide cheekbones, lightly freckled. As she looked back at herself to see if she was presentable and wouldn't disgrace Jude, her gray eyes were at once timid and eager, staring into the glass as they'd gazed into mirrors all her life, watching for whatever it was that watched
her
from behind those eyes.
The doorknob rattled impatiently, and she called, “Just a minute!”, hastily combing her hair. She'd chopped it off one day in rage and frustration when she didn't have the guts to cut her throat but wanted to do something violent. She'd looked foolish with long hair anyway; just another of Con's jokes on her.
I love your hair, I want it long enough to tangle my hands in
.
She unlocked the door and went out, smiling steadily at the woman and the jiggling child. She smiled the same way at Jude, who looked relieved.
“Now I recognize you. What was that green stuff around your eyes?”
“Eyeshadow. I was just wondering why I thought it had to be green.”
“I thought you'd come down with some new disease, like Irish measles . . . I ordered you an eclair. I know how crazy you are about that stuff.”
“Stay me with eclairs and comfort me with cream puffs,” she said. “I've been stayed and comforted for so long that if it was all liquor I'd be rolling in the gutter by now.”
“Better food than rum anytime, girl.”