|
|
Doria Hanrahan clung to the railing of the Port Harbor fishing pier with one hand and clutched the keys to her father's trawler, the Merrichase, in her other hand. The old, but well-kept vessel now legally belonged to Murray Santoro. Doria's father had clearly stated in his will that Mr. Santoro deserved the boat.
The wind roared like some mythical beast but Doria only narrowed her eyes momentarily as a powerful gust slapped her. She refused to cower in the face of nature's fury just as she would not allow someone else to own the Merrichase. It should belong to her!
She glared out over the crashing waves with her lips pressed tightly together and realized how numb and heavy her heart felt, as though it had been weighted down with lead sinkers. Alone with her grief for the first time since her father's death, she relished the blast of the gale. It pumped some of its power into her thin frame and woke her from a weeklong nightmare.
"How could you do this to me, Dad?" she cried out over the howl of the storm. "You made a promise to me." But the tempest tore her words away and the only answer to her question was the shrill scream of the wind and a shower of salty spray that stung her eyes.
Sheets of rain pelted her and the pier shuddered as the waves slammed into it, but Doria stood her ground. With a Nor'easter battering the New Jersey coastline, conditions on the pier were hazardous, however what she intended to do would only take a moment.
She opened the palm of her hand and frowned at the keys, each one labeled with her father's tidy printing. Seeing the neat handwriting nearly immobilized her as her heart filled with remorse because she hadn't helped her father when he needed her.
She clenched her teeth tightly together and struggled with her emotions. Still, she couldn't forget that Murray Santoro had robbed her. The Merrichase should rightfully belong to her. Though aware that she would merely create a delay with her reckless action, seeing the stony arrogance on Mr. Santoro's face crack would be worth it. She wound up her arm to pitch the keys far out into the surging tide when suddenly, someone grabbed her from behind.
She screamed as one massive hand snatched the keys from her while the attacker's other arm held her fast in a steely grip. For a moment, she froze in total panic as the memory of being mugged at gunpoint in New York City flashed through her mind.
But this wasn't New York City. This was Port Harbor. Her terror dissolved as adrenaline shot through her system. She flailed her arms and legs, but that didn't help matters. She could see nothing of the hulking figure who imprisoned her except his yellow slicker.
"Let me go!" she demanded while pummeling the thief's arm with her fists.
In answer to her command, the mugger lifted her up and slung her over his broad shoulder. The action robbed Doria of air for a minute. Gasping for breath and disoriented by looking at the world upside down, she clung to the yellow slicker with white-knuckled hands. They passed through the gate at the entrance to the pier. With a flick of his free hand, the man shut the gate and snapped the lock securely.
Despite the throbbing blood rushing to her head, Doria renewed her struggle. One of her fists made an impact and momentarily halted the lengthy stride of her kidnapper.
"Cut it out," he rumbled. Doria gasped. She had been attacked by Murray Sanforo!
"Put me down!" She screamed.
He ignored her shrieks until they reached the porch of the bait house. There he slid her off his shoulder and deposited her on her feet with a bone-jarring thud. Despite the fact that he had treated her so callously, the man had the nerve to glare at her. Doria's blood simmered.
"Of all the idiotic, insane -- "
He slid back the hood of the slicker to reveal his face. His expression would have frightened a more timid woman but Doria had never been intimidated by anyone except that mugger in New York City with the gun. She put her hands on her hips.
"You had no right to -- "
"What? Save your life!" he boomed. "You don't weigh more than a signal flag. A wave could have knocked you right off that pier."
"I have stood on the deck of the Merrichase in twenty-foot seas," she spat out.
Murray dug into his pocket, pulled out the ring of keys, and waved them in front of Doria's face. "These are mine and don't you forget it!" Then he snapped them shut in his fist.
A pain stabbed at Doria's heart. Her throat tightened. She took a ragged breath and studied the seething man beside her. In the flickering light of the porch lamp, the golden strands in Murray's hair gleamed. Her father had always disapproved of men who wore long hair. Yet Murray stood arrogant and proud with his long ponytail tied neatly in a leather string at the nape of his neck.
Doria twisted her mouth at a wry angle. Some might consider him handsome. With a wide forehead, high cheekbones and straight nose, he looked more like an investment broker than someone who worked on the docks. But his refined features didn't make the situation any more palatable. Because he had come to Port Harbor, her own dream of owning a restaurant would have to be postponed. He had stolen her future.
Doria smoothly spun on her heel to dash off the porch.
Unfortunately, Murray had longer legs. He grabbed her arm before she had gone three feet.
"Hey, be careful," he warned. "It's gusting up to sixty-five miles an hour."
"I can take care of myself." Doria injected a dose of chill reserve into her voice. Murray Santoro deserved no less than her abject scorn. She shot a withering glance at the hand that squeezed her arm and then glared at his face. Murray shifted his weight from one foot to the other and something flickered in his odd green eyes. He released her from his grasp.
"Why did you come back here anyway?" he asked. He cocked his head and furrowed his brow, peering at her intently. His action suggested that he believed her to be the interloper, the stranger in town. "Your father wasn't expecting you."
"This is my home," she replied.
"Your uncle seemed surprised to see you, too." Murray put his hands on his hips and gave a sardonic lift to one of his brows. "He claimed you've been gone for years. He thought you liked New York City so much that you would never come back here."
The ache of grief started to throb in Doria's chest again. She turned away from him.
"Not everyone gets to be a chef in the Plaza." She hoped he didn't hear the tightness in her throat. She didn't want him to find out she wasn't a chef anymore.
"New York City isn't that far away," he commented.
Doria's eyes misted. "I called Dad and Uncle Walter regularly." She bit her lip. Why did she feel she had to explain things to him? Yet, the words continued to tumble out. "Last Christmas, I invited them to dinner and a Broadway show. And I did the same thing last spring. I would have paid for everything, even the bus ride to the city, but they refused my offer."
"Uh-huh." The note of irony in his tone aggravated her. Who was he to judge? She hated the man!
She wheeled around to spout off her fury and saw him studying the keys. He rubbed his thumb over the ridges and peered at the worn writing with such concentration, Doria wondered if he suspected her of damaging the hard metal.
Her anger flared. Murray Santoro had no right to that boat!
"The Merrichase should belong to me!" she shouted. She lunged at his hand, but despite his six feet and one inch of hulking muscle, he deftly sidestepped her.
Then, something rumbled under her feet. Doria frowned down at the wooden floor beneath her while the hideous groan of straining timbers set her teeth on edge. Above the wild scream of the storm, she thought she heard a long peal of thunder crashing. But it couldn't be thunder. Not in December. Fear chilled the blood in Doria's veins as she glanced down the length of the pier. Her stomach rolled as she watched the wooden structure topple and crumble into the sea right before her eyes. It took a moment for the danger to register in her brain. The bait house shared the same pilings as the pier.
"Run!" Murray shouted.
He grabbed her hand but she stumbled as the boards beneath her feet tilted. She slammed against one of the porch columns and crumpled down in a heap, stunned.
"Come on!" Murray yanked her up, put his arm around her, and dragged her to the relative safety of the steel awning on a boatman's shop across the street. Guiding her to a wooden bench, he released her. She sank down on the wet boards with her mouth feeling as dry as sandpaper. Oddly enough, Murray's arms had wrapped her with sense of safety, but now she shivered in the cold, wind-driven rain.
Then another crash sounded above the screech of the storm.
"There goes the bait house," Murray muttered. "You nearly got us both killed."
Doria barely heard him. An icy sweat broke out on her forehead as her stomach pitched. She watched the foaming sea batter the heavy timbers of the pier to a pulp against the rock jetty. Her hand trembled as she fought to cover a sob. Murray had saved her life.
Her whole body felt weak as her heartbeat slowed.
"Oh great," Murray grumbled sarcastically. "You're going to faint." He shoved her head down between her knees.
Doria would have fought against him if she didn't feel so awful.
Wrapped in a heavy blanket, Doria drew closer to the fireplace in Uncle Walter's office in the rectory of St. Raymond's church. She had not passed out, but she still felt lightheaded and weak. Her hand trembled as she reached for another log to throw on the fire, unable to stand the damp chill that pervaded the room.
Port Harbor had lost all electric power. Doria glanced about the room as the flickering shadows cast by the firelight made the storm outside seem even more ominous. Idly, she watched drops of water cascading from the ceiling into a plastic trashcan. But neither the steady plop of the water nor the howl of the wind still raging outside could mask the angry rumble of Murray's voice on the other side of the heavy oak door. Doria tugged the blanket more tightly about her shoulders.
"She doesn't have an ounce of sense!" Murray growled.
"She's had a terrible shock," Uncle Walter's voice broke in.
"She's lucky I found her in time!"
The violence in Murray's voice made Doria cringe.
"Thank the Lord." Uncle Walter's tone had a touch of agitation in it. "But we've got other problems. One of our parishioners died of a heart attack two hours ago while trying to push his car out of the water. Atlantic Avenue is impassable. We have no telephone service and no electricity and it is starting to snow, on top of everything else. This is the worst Nor'easter to hit New Jersey in thirty years."
Doria winced. Uncle Walter was in a rare state. She couldn't expect much sympathy from him.
"And there are ten families who have been flooded out of their homes sitting in the church right now with nowhere to go," Uncle Walter added.
"Eleven." Murray cleared his throat. "My sister and her son, Jason, had to leave their home, too."
"Baytown is setting up the high school gym as a shelter, since we may not get electricity back for a week," Uncle Walter reported. "You have a Jeep. Why don't you transport those families?"
"Okay. Sure," Murray agreed.
Doria heard the thump as Uncle Walter slapped Murray on the back. She hoped it stung a bit. But then her uncle's words finally registered in her brain and she sat up straight.
A week without electricity! But she had to look for another job, type letters, mail resumes, and set up interviews!
Throwing the blanket aside, Doria sprang to her feet. The sudden change in position made her head spin. She clung to her uncle's desk and waited for the spell to pass. At that moment, Uncle Walter entered the office.
"Sit down before you fall down," he commented dryly.
"I'm all right," Doria insisted.
"Well, you don't look it." Uncle Walter ran his hand through his abundant gray hair and sat down at his desk.
Doria counterattacked. "Your collar is crooked."
"Drat." Uncle Walter's fingers fumbled with the Roman collar around his neck. "I could sure go for a hot cup of coffee. And I do mean hot."
Doria saw an opportunity to worm her way into her uncle's good graces. She took a deep breath and released her grip on the desk, even though her knees still felt rubbery. "I could cook a grand feast in the fireplace. It'll be just like one of our camping vacations."
Uncle Walter snorted. "As I recall, we ate canned stew, canned chili, or hot dogs on those bold forays into the forest."
"This will be different, I guarantee it," Doria boasted. "After all, I'm a professional chef now."
Uncle Walter folded his arms and fixed her with his icy blue eyes. "You were a chef. I believe you mentioned briefly that you had resigned. Why?"
His question caught Doria off guard.
"Um," she faltered. "Of course, Dad always said that the city wasn't a nice place to live, you know."
"You broke up with that young man you worked with." Uncle Walter continued to look at her intently. Doria could feel the hot stain on her cheeks.
"Um. Well. Yes." Doria crossed her arms and turned to stare at the flames dancing in the hearth. "As it turned out, he wasn't the prince I originally believed him to be."
"He wanted you to move in with him." Uncle Walter stated simply. Doria froze. Her uncle had a way of getting to the heart of the matter that always left her floundering.
She nodded slowly.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.
Doria bit her lip. She could never repeat the horrid things that her boyfriend had said to her. He had taunted her by accusing her of holding onto some moldy morality from the last century designed by a bunch of Bible-thumping clerics. She couldn't tell that to Uncle Walter who was, after all, a priest.
"No," she whispered in a high, thin squeak.
"Good thing you had the strength of character to walk away." Uncle Walter sniffed loudly.
Doria shrugged. She had seen several of her good friends make the mistake of moving in with their boyfriends. Ultimately, each of her friends had regretted it later.
"Ted didn't handle my refusal well and since we worked together, the situation became...difficult." Doria grimaced.
"So why didn't you get another job in the city?"
Doria rubbed her arms as a chill went through her at the memory of the mugging. However, she didn't intend to tell Uncle Walter about it.
"Don't you remember? Dad promised to retire and sell the Merrichase if I came home. He told me he would give me the money to start a restaurant here. But out of the blue, this stranger walks into town." She ground out his name with the vehemence most people reserve for swearing. "Murray Santoro!"
"Now wait a minute young lady," Uncle Walter rumbled. "Your father wasn't in good health this past year -- "
"Why didn't anyone tell me!" Doria blurted out.
"You told your father you didn't ever want to smell swamp gas again," he reminded her.
Doria covered her eyes. Yes. She had hated Port Harbor. She had despised being a fisherman's daughter, wearing clothes bought at the thrift shop in St. Raymond's basement.
She fingered the fine cashmere sweater she wore. She had purchased it in Saks, but it couldn't take away the pain of despair that gnawed at her heart, now that her father rested beside her mother in St. Raymond's cemetery. She faced her uncle again.
"You should have told me," she accused. "I could have taken him to a specialist."
"I took him to two specialists and the verdict was basically the same," he explained. "Nothing could be done."
Guilt, sharp and cold, cut at Doria. Why hadn't she asked her father about his health? Now she would have to suffer the awful pain of remorse and the knowledge that because she had abandoned her father, he had found someone else to help him. The fact that Ed Hanrahan had bequeathed his old fishing vessel to a stranger was her own fault. She dug her nails into her palms.
"So where did Mr. Santoro come from?" she asked.
"His brother-in-law came looking for work and signed up on the Merrichase." Uncle Walter went on, "Soon after, he bought a little house and Murray's sister, Pam, invited her brother to visit. They introduced him to your father, Murray took one ride on the Merrichase, and he was hooked."
Doria pressed her lips together and frowned. Her uncle had not really answered the question. But, she didn't have a chance to grill him further because they were both startled by the loud knock sounding at the front door.
Doria rushed to answer it. A mighty blast of snow and wind rushed in and tore the knob from her hands. The door banged against the wall and Murray stood before her illuminated by the wavering light from the hurricane lamps. He carried a small child on his hip. The kid was screaming.
"Here." He shoved the wailing bundle at her. "He's hungry and wet, I think. Hey, Father Zaleski! We have an emergency here! It's my sister, Pam!"
Doria tried to hold onto the squirming kid as several other people came in carrying a woman. The woman let out a shriek that rivaled the screaming wind.
Uncle Walter's voice thundered from inside his office. "Put her on the couch in here!" he directed.
The kid yanked at Doria's hair and pulled out a fistful of her brown waves. Doria's eyes watered as she struggled with the thrashing child.
Uncle Walter suddenly appeared at her side and relieved her of her impossible task.
"I see you've met Jason," he smiled.
Jason stopped crying, yanked the glasses from Uncle Walter's face, and started gnawing on them.
Doria gulped. "What's going on?"
"Jason's mommy, Pam, is going to have a baby any moment now and since you can cook, Murray said you better get some water boiling in that fireplace real fast."
"A baby!" Doria gasped. "Can't we get an ambulance over here."
"A huge oak blew down on Ocean Avenue," Uncle Walter shrugged. "And the ramp to the bridge is flooded so we're stuck here for now. But don't worry, the Lord has provided. Nan Lyons is a nurse and, of course, there's Murray."
Doria curled her lips in disgust. Under the circumstances, she appreciated the fact that Mrs. Lyons was a nurse. But what was so terrific about Murray? Could he calm his sister down?
"The Lord certainly works in mysterious ways," Doria muttered under her breath, too softly for her uncle to hear.
"Come on, Jason, let's go get a big pot for Doria and cookies for you," Uncle Walter said as he headed down the hall.
"Cookies." Jason repeated. He threw Uncle Walter's glasses on the floor.
Murray's brow beaded with sweat. Anything could go wrong. The cord could be wrapped around the baby's neck, Pam could hemorrhage, and with the unsterile conditions, an infection could set in. But this is an emergency, he reminded himself. His sister trusted him and they could not rely on any other help. He had to do the best he could. Swallowing hard, he tried to focus.
He couldn't ask for a better nurse than Nan Lyons. She coached Pam through her contractions with consummate skill. Her calm, practical approach had caused the terror to fade from his sister's eyes. Pam responded to the breathing commands well, directing her energy to the birth of her child.
The baby's head crowned. Murray muttered a quick prayer and with Pam's next push a new little stranger's head popped out into the world. Murray allowed himself a brief spark of hope, since there was no cord in sight to strangle away the fragile life. Then came another contraction, and Murray caught the infant as it slid out into his waiting hands.
"It's a girl," he announced. "And she's just as pretty as you," he added with a smile and a wink at his sister.
Quickly, he handed the child to Nan who cleared the child's airway and wrapped it snugly in a cotton bath towel.
Murray took a moment to breathe and glanced at Doria seated by the fireplace, hovering over the pot of boiling water. The firelight glowed about her silhouette making her abundant, wavy hair look like a halo. He blinked but the hazy halo remained, despite his suspicion that she could hardly qualify as an angel. When she poked at the fire and sent a shower of sparks flying up the chimney, it seemed to confirm his thoughts.
"I'll be needing the rest of those instruments," he stated in a low voice. Mrs. Lyons handed the infant to Pam and helped Doria line up the sterile instruments.
"Are you a member of the First Aid squad?" Doria asked him.
He heard the skepticism in her voice. Obviously, neither her father nor her uncle had offered any explanation about his background. Caught up as she must be in her own selfish whims, she apparently didn't read the newspaper either. He could understand why Ed Hanrahan had spoiled his daughter, but at twenty-four, she needed to grow up.
He didn't answer her question. He glared at her for a moment. She glared back at him just as fiercely.
"Nobody is supposed to practice medicine without a license," she blurted out.
Nan Lyons hushed her. "He is a doctor."
"You have got to be kidding," Doria scoffed.
Murray clenched his jaw. He could feel the veins standing out on his neck. It took a great effort for him to speak in a pleasant manner.
"I'm sure Pam would like these stitches to be nice and neat," he said. "Could you direct some more light here, Nan?" Murray asked. Nan quickly adjusted the beam of the heavy-duty flashlight they had been using. But, as he worked, a lump of fear crept into his throat. After all, he might not have a license much longer. Or his freedom.
But he couldn't allow himself to think about that. Not right now.
Doria wondered if her lightheadedness had affected her brain. Murray -- a doctor? She rubbed her temples and tried to remember if her father or her uncle had ever mentioned that pertinent bit of data. She could recall her father praising his new helper's dedication to work and his ambition to get a captain's license. But an MD? Nobody had breathed a word of that fact. Why not?
Shrugging to herself, Doria poked idly at some half-burned logs as Murray talked with his sister for a few minutes.
"I'm so glad you were here," Pam whispered tearfully. "I was so afraid. I only wish Rich could have been with us."
"He's probably stuck on the other side of the bridge," Murray said.
Pam let out a sob. "Nobody warned us about flooding."
"When the water goes down, I'll help you fix the place up," Murray offered. "And until then you can live in the cabin on the Merrichase."
"A toddler and an infant on a fishing boat?" Pam cried. "That's insanity."
Doria clenched her teeth as she threw another log in the fireplace, sending hundreds of sparks dancing up the chimney. She felt sorry for Pam, but Murray shouldn't be loaning out the boat for living quarters, especially since she intended to contest the will as soon as possible.
Murray turned to give some instructions to Nan Lyons. He sounded professional, matter-of-fact, business-like, as though he delivered babies everyday. He walked out, saying he'd be back to check on Pam and the baby during the night.
Nan cleaned up mother and baby while Doria, carrying a spare flashlight, went outside to the back porch to grab more firewood from the log holder. Unfortunately, the log holder stood empty. Grumbling to herself, she swung the flashlight's beam over the backyard. Fallen branches along with two toppled pine trees littered the property; but that wood was all wet or green and not suitable to keep a fire blazing.
She walked around to the front of the rectory and gasped. Half of the parking lot lay under water. The sight of the destruction sent a shiver up her spine. Had God caused all this misery?
She hadn't thought about God for years, until now. Like a prodigal daughter, she had come home expecting a fatted calf, and instead chaos had rained down on her. It all sounded like something from one of Uncle Walter's homilies.
She glanced up at the sky. The wind had died down considerably. Big, fluffy snowflakes landed softly on the ground. Doria stuck out her tongue and tasted one of the flakes but it melted away to barely a drop, leaving her thirsty. Sighing, she wondered where Uncle Walter had gone.
Then she blinked in amazement as she noticed the bright light streaming out of the church basement windows. When she went inside, she caught sight of Uncle Walter ladling out soup to a line of weary-looking parishioners. The aroma of soup wafting through the hall smelled like heaven. Propane stoves heated the bubbling mixture as a propane lantern lit most of the basement with a cheery glow. Several men and women were dispensing blankets, cots, and pillows to the families whose homes had been inundated by the sea.
Doria walked up to her uncle and tugged on his sleeve. "Where did all this come from? I thought nobody could get out of or into Port Harbor."
Uncle Walter handed her a bowl of soup. "I told you the Lord would provide. Our own First Aid Squad is helping out. They arrived in rowboats. How's the new baby?"
"Okay, I guess." Doria took a sip of the steaming soup. It tasted like the stuff from a can, watered down. With all her culinary training, she usually despised such common fare, but tonight that soup could have been an elixir. She couldn't remember anything that had ever felt so good going down. After another spoonful, she said, "We don't have any more firewood and I suppose we need to keep the new baby warm."
"I've always told you to ask Jesus," Uncle Walter said. "He'll take care of it."
Doria sighed. Despite everything, Uncle Walter's faith never wavered. She could never understand his absolute trust in the Lord.
"I'll go ask around. Maybe someone here knows of a spare woodpile somewhere." Doria walked around the basement, asking each family group if they knew where she could find a stack of dry wood. It didn't take her long to realize the futility of her quest. Most of the people appeared to be in shock. They had left all their possessions behind to the mercy of the wind and waves.
Teenagers huddled together to console one another. Younger children wailed and clung to mothers who looked ready to sob along. Though the men didn't have tears in their eyes, their drawn faces bore the ravages of the situation. Nobody had expected this. The tide had never been this high. Nor'easters came every year, but never had one so devastated the little town as this storm had.
The weight of their sorrows touched Doria's heart. After all, she was homeless, too. Though she could stay at the rectory as long as she needed, she didn't have a place of her own anymore. Impulsively, she had signed over the lease on the apartment to her roommate. Now, she didn't even have the Merrichase, thanks to Murray.
She rubbed her arms in a useless effort to warm them. While she knew Murray had probably anchored the fishing boat securely in the middle of the river for the duration of the storm, she couldn't help hoping it sprang a leak.
She glanced around at the people bedding down for the night in the church basement. She couldn't cook up a gourmet meal on a couple of propane stoves without any provisions. Port Harbor had one small grocery store, which, by now, would undoubtedly have empty shelves. The modern supermarket was on the other side of the bridge.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a warm tenor voice singing, "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine..."
Doria narrowed her gaze and drew closer to the swarm of children gathered around a handsome fellow strumming his guitar. She frowned as she recognized Chad Fernandez. The same Chad who had graduated from Baytown High with her. The same Chad who had asked her out hundreds of times even though she had always turned him down. The same Chad who had been voted "Class Clown."
He saw her and winked as he continued to lead the children in the song. By the time he got to the last verse, nearly everyone in the basement had joined in, except Doria. She wandered back to her uncle. He sat by the propane stove, enjoying a bowl of soup.
"What is Chad doing here?" she asked.
"He was downsized out of his job and came home to rethink his future." Uncle Walter lowered his spoon, glanced at Chad and smiled. "Worked on the Merrichase for the last few months."
"For Dad?" Doria furrowed her brow trying to remember. "But didn't he major in communications at college?"
"Yes. He worked in an advertising firm," Uncle Walter answered. "But the company merged with another and cut the work force in half. He found that he liked fishing."
Doria glowered. "Then why didn't Dad will a share of the boat to Chad?"
"Chad will be leaving Port Harbor again, soon." Uncle Walter got up to stir the simmering soup and ladle out another portion for himself. "Right now, he's preparing Murray for confirmation."
"What? Chad teaching Murray religion!" Doria stared at her uncle with disbelief. "That's ridiculous! Chad was such a devil in the choir. Remember when he set his mice loose?"
Uncle Walter chuckled, "He's still a little rough around the edges, but Jesus won't let him go."
Chad broke out into the rollicking "Joy, Joy, Joy," and Doria couldn't help tapping her foot to the happy song but she kept her lips tightly pressed together. It was bad enough that she had lost her mother, her father, and the Merrichase, but to be swindled out of her inheritance by someone who now intended to become a Christian seemed the ultimate injustice. All her plans, her hopes and dreams, had been swallowed up; a lot like the fate of the town pier, which had crumbled into the sea.
She wanted to scream. Instead, she left the basement. Despite her lack of faith, she entered the church to seek solace. The peaceful church usually had a soothing effect on her, but tonight it seemed as gloomy as the rest of Port Harbor.
Votive candles flickered at the side altar, lending an eerie atmosphere to the great, looming nave that sent chills up and down Doria's spine. Still, she walked toward the dancing tongues of flame, running her hand along the end of each of the pews she passed. Her skin prickled with goose bumps in the murky vault of the church and when her footsteps creaked on the wooden floor, she swallowed hard and listened breathlessly for other sounds, other footsteps. But she heard only the sighing of the wind outside as the storm blew out over the ocean.
Nearing the altar, she was startled by the sight of a dark figure kneeling in the first pew. She stood rigid for a moment as her heart beat against her ribs so loudly, it seemed the echo reverberated in the cavernous church. She tried to reassure herself that she had simply come upon another troubled soul seeking peace. Then the faint glimmer from the candles caught in his hair. Doria peered at the golden glints on the bowed head of the worshiper. She clenched her teeth and turned to leave. Couldn't she go anywhere in Port Harbor without coming across Murray Santoro? Why must he haunt her?
That's when her nemesis suddenly uttered a loud groan. The heart-wrenching sound sent a tremor through Doria. What could possibly cause Murray to break down with grief? Certainly not the death of her father. He barely knew her father and besides, he had gained the Merrichase, which ought to be more than enough to console him.
Without warning, Murray turned around and riveted his gaze upon her. She stepped back into the shadow of a pillar to avoid him, but it was too late. He got up and walked toward her. For the second time in her life, she felt intimidated. While the mugger had used a gun to frighten her, Murray's only weapons were his penetrating eyes.
"Did you want something?" he growled low.
"Um. W-wood," she stammered. "Firewood. So the baby won't get cold." She hated the way she stumbled over her words but with Murray towering over her she found it impossible to think straight.
He rubbed his hand over his face. "Right. I should have thought of that." He let out a huge sigh. "I'll see what I can do."
His footsteps rumbled away from her across the old wooden floor and he was gone. Alone, Doria shivered in the bleak church. For a moment, as Murray had knelt and cried out to God, she had the strangest compulsion to comfort the man. But she couldn't be kind to him! He was her enemy! With her nerves frazzled, she, too, rushed out of the church.
Two hours later, Doria filled up a log carrier from a stack of relatively dry firewood that had appeared as if by magic in Uncle Walter's garage. Doria had been so busy helping Nan Lyons set up sleeping accommodations in Uncle Walter's office that she hadn't noticed anyone stop by with the wood. But when she heard the garage door slide shut, she dashed out to investigate.
"Isn't it wonderful what the Lord can do?" Uncle Walter beamed when she showed him her discovery.
Doria wondered who Murray Santoro had paid off to accomplish the feat.
She settled down for the night on the floor of Uncle Walter's office along with Jason and Nan Lyons. Pam Villars and her new baby stayed cozy on the couch, huddled together. Uncle Walter cheerfully insisted that he would be fine in his austere and very cold bedroom upstairs.
Around midnight, Murray breezed in to check on his patients. Nan snapped to attention immediately and bustled about, pressing Doria into service by handing her the baby.
"But I don't know anything about babies!" Doria protested. She sat stiff, afraid to even breathe.
"Just make sure she doesn't crawl away," Nan smirked.
The tiny bundle squirmed in Doria's arms.
"She's moving!" Doria squealed.
"That's normal," Nan reassured her.
"What do I do if she cries?" Doria asked. Pam and Nan laughed. Murray frowned.
"Rock her," he said. "We won't be long."
"Okay." Doria slowly rocked the baby back and forth in her arms. "Is this the right way?"
"You're a natural." Nan said, without so much as a backward glance.
The baby stared up at Doria with huge, trusting eyes.
"I guess she likes me." Doria smiled tentatively down into the round, rosy face of the infant. A funny tingle spread from Doria's arms to her heart. She'd never given much thought to the idea of being a mother.
For a moment, a bright, warm memory washed over her. She saw a sunny day a long time ago when she had fallen from her bike. She had hobbled home with a bloody knee. But, then the feel of her mother's arms about her and the soothing words of comfort from her mother's lips had eased away her pain.
That happy scene was quickly crushed as a black pall settled over Doria. The ache of her mother's last dark year pressed down on her. She remembered her mother dying, growing weaker and thinner day by day. Doria could do nothing for her. No hugs or kisses could banish the agony.
She tried to force back the searing memory, but she did not succeed. She closed her eyes and pictured herself on her knees begging God to make her mother well, but her mother had died a horrible death. From that point on, she had doubted God's existence. She couldn't understand how Uncle Walter could continue being a priest and she couldn't understand why her father had continued to place his faith in a God who had allowed the most wonderful woman in the world to suffer so much.
Nan tapped her shoulder. Doria's eyes flew open and she nearly jumped. The baby threw back its arms and looked completely alarmed.
"I'm sorry," Doria apologized to the baby. "I didn't mean to scare you." A tear spilled over and coursed down her cheek.
"It's okay," Nan said soothingly. "Newborns do that all the time. Here," she held out her arms. "You can hand over that little terror. Pam's blood pressure and temperature are fine."
Doria sniffed as Nan gathered up the infant. She watched the nurse unwrap the tiny bundle. Then Murray immediately began poking and prodding the little one. The nurse and the doctor seemed oblivious to the sound of the tiny infant whimpering in distress while they tormented her.
"She'll catch cold," Doria objected. "You're hurting her!"
Pam patted Doria on the back. "It's all right. She needs to exercise those little lungs of hers."
"We're almost done," Murray muttered as he bent over the unhappy newborn. "Have you got some hot water in that kettle?"
Doria gasped. "What are you going to do now?"
For the first time since she had met him, Murray smiled and, oddly enough, the sight of that grin made Doria's heart flutter.
"I'd like a cup of instant coffee or tea if you can rustle up the ingredients," he explained.
"Oh." Doria blinked. Feeling like a fool, she grabbed a flashlight and rushed out of the room.
Murray stood on the Ocean Avenue Bridge in the gray dawn of the new day and watched the Merrichase fight the turbulent waters of the still-swollen river. To his left, the ocean continued to crash over the sea wall. The storm had blown out to sea, but the waves kept churning in its wake, leaving Atlantic Avenue flooded. Fortunately, road crews had cleared Ocean Avenue so that emergency workers could come into Port Harbor. Pam and her new
baby had been the first to be whisked off to the hospital for an official checkup with her regular obstetrician.
Murray grimaced. He could easily imagine the look of horror on the obstetrician's face when he learned who had attended the birth of the baby.
Leaning on the concrete railing, Murray stared at the date on his watch. December 12th. Three and a half weeks until his trial. He had spent half of the past year trying to prepare himself for his ordeal, but it was Ed Hanrahan who had taught him to enjoy what time he had left.
"Every day is a gift, son," Ed had reminded him.
A stab of pain shot through Murray's heart. He missed Ed. In a year's time, Ed Hanrahan had become for him the father he had never known, and the crusty old fisherman had given him the most precious gift of all -- faith. If it hadn't been for Ed, Murray would never have decided to become a member of St. Raymond's parish. Murray had spent years in school learning all about the human body and its many ills, but he had never read the Bible. Not really. He had been forced to muddle through some passages by a cranky World Literature teacher in college. At the time it had meant nothing to him except extra work in a subject that didn't factor into his future, or so he thought. It took Ed Hanrahan months to break through to him. But Ed, condemned to die by his doctors, had a faith that never wavered. He didn't worry about death, confident that he would gain his eternal reward.
Murray, who could be sentenced to die by twelve jurors, had no hope at all, until Ed finally convinced him that Christ, unlike the jurors, would know the truth. The outcome of his earthly trial mattered little, for the Savior would welcome him with open arms.
However, now that Ed had died, Murray found his faith bobbing up and down like the Merrichase riding the tide. Though Ed, Father Zaleski, and Chad had instructed Murray to pray for Alex Kuhlman every day, it became more difficult as the trial date drew closer.
Then a familiar voice shattered his thoughts.
"Pity. I see it didn't sink."
Murray swung his head around and glared at Doria. She stood there looking so much like a younger, female version of Ed that for a moment, Murray found it difficult to dislike her despite her acid comment.
"Go back to bed," he ordered. "You have circles under your eyes."
She scrunched up a nose full of freckles and gave him a fierce look. Yet, somehow, on her that stubborn jaw jutting out looked cute. "Believe me, I didn't tramp through the snow and the mud because I wanted to see you. Nan and Uncle Walter shoved me out the door and told me to find you."
Murray tensed. "What now?"
"Your brother-in-law arrived shortly after his wife and baby were bundled off in the ambulance. Uncle Walter asked if you could come and give a professional diagnosis." She gave him an artificial smile and added, "Please."
That was when he noticed that she had a dimple in her left cheek. It lent her an air of innocence and youth. Murray had to admit he found her appealing this morning, despite the heavy smudges under her eyes. He wanted to reach out and touch her mass of wavy, brown hair.
He drew his right hand into a fist and jammed it in his pocket. He didn't dare consider where his thoughts had wandered. What was the matter with him?
He could easily guess at the problem if he were honest with himself. He was headed to life in prison at best. At this point, any woman would look good to him.
He rubbed his left hand over his face before glancing at Doria again. She had her gaze fixed on the Merrichase, but it appeared as if her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Odd, for he had believed her heart to be made of flint.
"What's the matter with Rich?" he asked.
She jumped as if startled from a distant reverie. "Um -- -your brother-in-law is incoherent, shivering violently -- and -- um -- "
Murray tensed. "Are his clothes wet?"
Doria shrugged. "I don't know. But Nan said something about his temperature...I think," she said.
Murray growled under his breath. It could be hypothermia, or any of a dozen other illnesses. He turned and ran as if the devil were at his heels. The exercise felt good. Bounding over fallen limbs, jumping over downed wires, and speeding around huge puddles made him long for a full day's work on the Merrichase, where he could strain his muscles until they ached. He hadn't slept last night. Only a full day of fishing out in the ocean could deaden his mind enough to allow him to crash into bed for a few hours and forget.
As the rectory came into view, Murray saw a police car standing outside. Before he came up to the steps of the old building, the car pulled away with its lights flashing and siren wailing. Father Zaleski stood on the steps with Jason. The small boy waved bye- bye with his pudgy hand.
"Rich's condition seemed to be deteriorating, so Nan went in the patrol car with him," Father Zaleski explained. "The police had stopped by intending to make arrangements to transport the flood victims to Baytown, but -- " The priest shrugged.
Murray nodded as his lungs burned from the strenuous run. He had delivered the baby last night because there was no alternative. But every time he practiced medicine the nightmare of Kelly Morris' death haunted him. Again, he thought of Alex Kuhlman and a shaft of pain zinged through his head.
Blinking his eyes against the ache, he said, "The hospital has heat and light. Rich will be better off there."
"Undoubtedly," Father Zaleski agreed. "But I do wish Doria had come back with you. I have to talk with the widow of the man who died pushing his car and I had hoped my niece could watch Jason."
"Doria doesn't know anything about children." Murray scowled.
"I know." Father Zaleski shrugged. "I thought that some time with Jason might foster some of her natural instincts."
Murray snorted. "After watching her last night with Pam's new baby, I don't think she even knows which end is up."
The priest sighed. "If only -- "
"Look. He's my nephew," Murray interrupted. "I can keep an eye on him. We can't take the Merrichase out today. It's still too treacherous."
Murray scooped Jason up and settled him on his shoulders. Jason chortled with glee.
"When Doria gets back, would you ask her what we should do with the meat in the freezer?" Father Zaleski asked. "It's defrosting."
Doria stayed on the bridge for a while, staring down into the river, watching the current heaving beneath her and wishing she could stop the blood in her veins from surging just as wildly.
Murray affected her. The truth of it made her shudder. He had ruined all her future plans and yet every time she saw him, he cast some crazy spell on her. It wasn't fair. She wanted to hate him, but instead she found herself mesmerized by him. Then, she got all tongue-tied and clumsy. She covered her eyes and took a ragged breath.
Love your enemies. The words drifted into her mind and she groaned aloud. Uncle Walter and her parents had drummed Bible verses into her head, but the phrases floated into her consciousness at the strangest moments. She shook her head to clear her mind.
Anyhow, Murray would quickly be nothing more than a bad memory, like Ted, her former boyfriend. The sooner she got away from Port Harbor altogether, the sooner her life would get back on track. Straightening up, she pounded the rail of the bridge. Her number one priority had to be getting another job, and she sure wouldn't find one here.
She took one last, lingering look at the Merrichase as it bobbed on the waves. She knew every inch of that ship. There had been a time, before her mother's illness, when she had enjoyed being on board the old trawler. But everything had changed when her mother died. The rose-colored glasses had fallen from her eyes. She had learned that prayer didn't matter. She decided that if God did exist, he didn't really care about what went on in the world. People had to fend for themselves.
She made a vow that she would have her own restaurant. It might take her longer, but she wouldn't let go of that dream.
From behind her, she heard the roar of an engine. When she turned, she saw a man on a motorcycle pull up beside her. He lifted the visor on his helmet. Chad Fernandez winked at her.
"Want a ride?" he offered.
"Only if you're leaving Port Harbor," Doria said.
"So you still like the big city?" he asked.
Doria's shoulders slumped. "Not really. But there's nothing for me here, either."
Chad glanced behind him. No other cars were heading toward the bridge. He switched off the motor. "I'm sorry about your father. I'm sorry I missed his funeral, too. I was out of town."
Doria's throat tightened, but she had no intention of giving in to tears. "Dad willed the Merrichase to Murray Santoro. I guess he was trying to teach me a lesson."
"Your father wasn't like that," Chad objected. "He couldn't be vindictive. Besides, everyone in town knows you can't stand Port Harbor and Murray helped your father out a lot this past year."
Doria bit her lip. Had she really been that vocal about her loathing for the little town? She swallowed a large lump in her throat. Yes. She remembered the anger. Anger felt better than grief. In her last year at Baytown High, she had become rebellious, even disrespectful, though she hadn't been foolish enough to let her grades go down. She wanted to get out of Port Harbor and never look back.
Only now, years later, did she have some regrets. She hadn't found happiness in the city, as she had anticipated. Despite a good job, lots of clothes, frequent attendance at Broadway shows, and a steady boyfriend, she felt restless, even empty inside.
She cleared her throat. "I heard you're preparing Murray for confirmation."
Chad's face brightened. "Yes. I'm enjoying it as much as he is. Teaching him has made me appreciate a lot of things I took for granted."
"It's hard to believe you could teach someone else about faith," Doria taunted.
Chad took a deep breath and stared down at his boots for a moment. As the silence stretched on, Doria twirled one of her tight ringlets around her finger. Okay, she had hit a raw nerve deliberately. That was mean.
"I never lost my faith." Chad lifted his face. "I never doubted God, either. I just tried to do things my way and well, I found out God has better ideas."
Doria frowned. "There are far too many people giving God the credit for things that usually happen by sheer chance."
Chad lifted his brows. "So that's the way it is."
Doria heard a condescending note in his voice and narrowed her eyes. "All my prayers went unanswered. So I gave up praying."
Chad got off the motorcycle and reached out to her but she spun around to avoid his touch.
"You've had a terrible loss, but God is still there for you," he stated softly.
Doria struggled with her anger. She drew her hands into fists and put them on her hips.
"If God is there for me, why did He let my mother and my father die? And then why did He allow my father to leave the Merrichase to Murray? Am I a test case between God and the devil? Am I supposed to suffer like Job and then get everything back in spades?" She gave a bitter laugh. "If I remained faithful to God, would a luxury yacht come floating into the harbor with my name on it?"
Chad sputtered, "I-I didn't realize -- I had no idea -- "
"That I lost my faith?" Doria spat out as she turned around to face Chad. "Why should it bother you? You think God has answered all your calls, and I'm sure Murray has a lot to be thankful for -- but it's all chance. Who knows? By next year, I could be sitting on top of the world."
Doria ended her tirade as she noticed a stricken look on Chad's face. He swallowed hard a few times and shook his head.
"I'm sorry. Really sorry," he croaked. "I wish -- " He pounded one fist into the palm of his other hand. "Are you going to be okay?"
Doria glanced down at the swirling water beneath the bridge. "I would never jump, if that's what you're worried about."
"Then let me take you home," he coaxed. Getting back on the motorcycle, he revved up the engine and slid the visor back down over his face.
"No." Doria shook her head. "I'd much rather walk."
Looking dejected, with slumped shoulders, Chad nodded and then raced off into Port Harbor. Doria watched him speeding away with a sinking sensation in her heart. Had she just burned another bridge in her life? What was the matter with her? She shouldn't have lashed out at him.
She clenched her teeth. It was all that God loves you stuff. Chad had changed and she didn't like that. She preferred him as a clown.
She rubbed her forehead to ease the dull ache that had begun to throb with her outburst. She had to take responsibility for her capricious behavior. She came home expecting to be welcomed with open arms, but instead her father had died, leaving her without a cent. That hurt. But had she deserved it?
The tightness came back into her throat. Yes. She hadn't been there for him during his illness. But Murray had.
For the first time since her father's death, Doria let the tears flow freely.
Murray shuffled a deck of cards he had found in the bottom drawer of Father Sealskin's desk and winced at the thought of all the playthings he had given to his nephew that had been left behind in his sister's now water-logged home. The Parable of the Rich Fool came to his mind. He had not attempted to store up treasure for himself but he had overindulged Jason, hoping that the toddler would never forget him.
Still, Jason did not seem to mind the lack of toys. He delighted in pulling books from Father Zaleski's shelves and throwing them on the floor but Murray tired of putting them back. Besides, the books were showing signs of abuse.
Murray knelt down and laid the deck of cards on the floor. He thought he could teach Jason how to play "War." He swept the deck open in one wide arc and pulled out all the aces.
Jason simply kept yanking books off the shelf.
Murray heard a knock on the door and called, "Come in!" He turned to greet the caller and found himself staring at Chad Fernandez.
"Where's Father Z.?" Chad asked.
"He had to visit with the woman whose husband died yesterday," Murray explained. Chad's slumped shoulders and furrowed brow warned Murray that something had gone terribly wrong.
"Do you think he'll be back soon?" Chad stared at his watch.
"I don't know." Murray could almost touch the black cloud that hovered over Chad's head. Despite the tension, Murray went back to the cards to search for all the deuces.
"Okay. I'll wait," Chad said. He stood at the window gazing outside with an anxious expression. Then, while Murray set out to retrieve all the threes, Chad took up snapping his fingers repeatedly.
Jason continued to draw books from the shelf, with an obsessiveness that would drive any sane uncle to hire a babysitter. Murray gathered up the cards and tapped them neatly back into the deck with the ones he had selected on top. Gritting his teeth, he started to reshelve the books.
Chad began to slap his palm with his fist.
"Something the matter?" Murray asked.
Chad gave a noncommittal shrug and continued to fidget. Murray narrowed his eyes and studied him. On the Merrichase, under trying conditions, Chad always had the coolest head.
"What's with you?" Murray asked. "You're behaving like a fish gasping for oxygen and slapping on the deck."
Chad started to pace the floor. Murray stared at him in amazement.
"Tell me what's bothering you," Murray suggested. "Sometimes it helps to get it off your chest."
Chad ceased his restless movement and ran his fingers through his hair. "I suppose I could -- but then -- it really has nothing to do with you after all."
"Good. I can give you a fair and unbiased opinion." Murray waved the cards in front of Jason to draw his attention away from the bookshelf. Jason snatched up a handful of cards and tasted them.
Murray groaned. He handed Jason his keys and slipped the cards away to wipe them dry on his jeans.
"What did you do? Lose your best friend?" Murray asked.
Chad glanced at the ceiling with a wretched look and slumped into Father Zaleski's chair.
"Some girl ditch you?" Murray questioned.
Chad let out a deep sigh.
The muscles along Murray's shoulders tensed. "I knew you'd get in trouble with the ladies one of these days. I warned you."
"Hey! It's not what you think." Chad's voice had the sharp edge of anxiety in it. "I mean, she was a good friend -- sort of -- and I should have been there for her. I should have understood -- and I didn't. Now it's too late." He slammed his fist on the desk.
"You're the one who's always telling me its never too late."
"This is different." Chad drummed his fingers relentlessly and then stared at his watch again. "Look, I have to make some phone calls and set up a few more appointments which means I'll have to go to Baytown. Think we'll head out tomorrow?"
Murray snorted. "If the forecast is good, the swells go down, and if Rich is okay."
"What's the matter with Rich?" Chad asked.
"I don't know the official diagnosis yet," Murray reported. "He's at the hospital."
"First the house gets flooded, then the baby, and now Rich is sick. Lord. How much can they take?" Chad shook his head and looked pained. "Well, I'll pray for him and I'll try to see Father Z. tonight then. Let him know I stopped in. You can tell him -- tell him," Chad took a deep breath. "Lord, forgive me. It's about Doria."
With that Chad sped from the rectory. Murray stood there gaping. Doria and Chad. Of course. He should have known.
Murray spent the next half-hour constructing a magnificent three-story house of cards while Jason toyed with the card box and the keys.
Doria and Chad. They had gone to school together. Played together. Sung in the church choir together. They came from similar backgrounds.
Why else would Doria return to the town she had despised? Especially since, according to her uncle, she had just suffered a failed romance.
Doria and Chad. Murray let out a deep sigh and one wing of his house of cards caved in.
He never expected the phone to ring, so when it did, it shattered his concentration. His fingers slipped and the entire construction project disintegrated, much to the delight of Jason who gleefully picked up a handful of cards and threw them into the air.
"Down!" Jason squealed.
Murray got up to answer the telephone on Father Zaleski's desk. At the same time, a knock sounded at the office door.
"Come in!" he called. Doria entered with an armload of wood. Murray's pulse sped up at the sight of her, a sensation he could well do without. He turned his back to her.
He spoke into the receiver, "St. Raymond's rectory, may I help you?"
Silence greeted his question.
"Hello?" Murray asked. "This is St. Raymond's rectory. Do you have a message for Father Zaleski?" He strained to hear an answer, but the person on the other end of the line did not respond. A cold chill went up his spine. How many times had this happened last week? Still, he couldn't be sure if the person on the other end of the line had called, hoping to speak with the pastor.
"I'm sorry if I can't help you," Murray said. "Father Zaleski should be back later." He hung up the receiver and rubbed the back of his neck, while he tried to convince himself that the annoying phone calls meant nothing.
"How about that. I guess we've got our telephone service back on. No lights. No heat. But now we can call to complain about it," Doria said.
"That was a wrong number," Murray mumbled. He sat down on Father Zaleski's chair and lifted his gaze to watch Doria as she knelt at the hearth and added more wood to the blaze. She would be pretty if she smiled, he decided. But so far, when she looked at him, her eyes shot out sparks of dislike, like those leaping from the flames in the grate. He felt a stab of jealousy when he thought of her gazing at Chad with adoring eyes.
He tried to rein in his emotions. After all, he believed her to be nothing more than a greedy child and he wondered if she had ever loved her father. Then he bowed his head. What had happened to all his new Christian principles? He should try to heal any bitterness.
"Where's your brother-in-law?" she asked as she sat back on her heels and unzipped her jacket.
"The police just happened to stop by and Nan decided his condition warranted a hospital visit so she had him whisked off before I got here," Murray replied.
Jason continued to throw cards up into the air and laugh hysterically as the cards came back down.
"Looks like he's playing a game of fifty-two pickup," Doria commented. "It's great that he can keep himself amused."
"Not for long," Murray said. "He'll get tired, or hungry, or need a diaper change."
"Yuck." Doria made a face.
Murray shook his head. "Children are gifts."
"So are flowers and perfume," Doria noted. "But they smell better and they're much quieter."
"Flowers and perfume can't love you back." Murray got out of the chair and swooped down to snatch up Jason. He lifted his nephew way above his head.
"Up, up," Jason cried.
Murray zoomed around the room with Jason aloft, his chubby little arms held out like the wings of a 747. Jason laughed wildly. Murray thought he saw the beginning of a smile on Doria's lips.
As Murray lowered Jason from the skies, Jason wrapped his pudgy arms around his uncle's neck.
"Mama?" Jason asked.
Murray sighed as a twinge of disappointment went through him. But, what could he expect? Naturally, the kid had to be wondering what had happened to his mother.
"Yes. Let's call Mama on the phone," he said. But before he lifted the receiver he remembered the message he was supposed to give to Doria.
"By the way, your uncle wants to know what he should do with the meat in the freezer. It's defrosting." Then Murray called the hospital.
Fortunately, there wasn't a lot of meat. Uncle Walter didn't cook large meals or host grand parties. He got by with simple fare, occasional invitations to dine with his parishioners, and once a week he usually ate out, often at his favorite fast food restaurant.
Still, several pounds of beef sat in the small freezer getting soft. Doria scavenged through the kitchen cabinets and decided that the quickest way to solve the problem would be to make a generous serving of boeuf bourguignonne. It shouldn't be too difficult to manage in the fireplace.
But who would eat it? The families who had spent the night in the church basement had now been carted off to the shelter set up in the high school gym in Baytown. She would ask Uncle Walter to invite some people to the rectory to polish it off.
She scavenged through the cabinets and made up a list of ingredients she needed for the recipe. Then, she wrote out a note to leave for her uncle, but when she knocked at the office door, nobody answered. Peeking in, she saw that the room was empty. Murray must have gone off someplace with Jason. She hoped he would return by the time she had the meal prepared. She tossed back her curls and reminded herself that it wasn't that she wanted to see him. But, a fisherman his size would undoubtedly have a ravenous appetite, and then she wouldn't have to worry about leftovers.
She winced inwardly as her conscience pricked her. Maybe she ought to invite Chad, since she had behaved so badly when she had seen him on the bridge. Taking the coward's way out, she added a postscript to her note and asked her uncle to call Chad along with anyone else he could think of who might enjoy a serving of boeuf bourguignonne.
Traffic on the road to Baytown crawled at an infuriatingly slow pace. Nevertheless, though it took Doria twice as long to get to the supermarket, the trip seemed worth it. Baytown had lots of lights and lots of heat. Doria strolled down the aisles of the store enjoying the warmth, the piped-in music, and the glare of fluorescent bulbs. She thought about the way that everyone tended to take the marvel of electricity for granted. Without it, the human race had little advantage over the Stone Age. Until the lights and the heat vanished, even she didn't appreciate the wonderful miracle of electricity.
Then, unexpectedly, the dreadful ache of remorse hit her and she stopped in her tracks. She hadn't appreciated her father either and now he was gone. The ache traveled to her throat as her eyes welled with tears. She tried to stem her reaction. After all, her father had rarely been home as she grew up. Due to his long trips at sea, she had never really gotten to know him. And after her mother's death, she had focused all her energy on escaping the dreary little town of Port Harbor.
Still, what if she hadn't been so anxious to leave her hometown? Would it have made a difference? Could she ever have developed a rapport with her father? If she had, would he have given her the Merrichase as he had originally promised?
But it was too late now. And that fact stabbed at her over and over again. She could have made more time for her father when he was alive, but she didn't. She gripped the bar on the shopping cart and plowed blindly ahead; not even bothering to look where she was going. She only wanted to be rid of the bitter memories that kept assaulting her. The best way to do that would be to leave Port Harbor again, but this time she wouldn't come back.
She swung wildly around a tall, cardboard display of new, low-fat cookies and her cart crashed into another cart.
"Watch where you're going!" rumbled a familiar deep voice.
Doria flinched and then felt the blood drain from her face as she glanced up into the stern face of Murray Santoro.
"Wh-what are you doing here?" she stammered.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" he said with a note of disgust. He backed his cart away.
Doria noticed that Jason sat amid the groceries in the cart, sucking on a lollipop. He didn't appear to be perturbed at all by the abrupt crash, probably because he leaned against a nice, soft bag of disposable diapers, which must have cushioned the blow.
"Pam told me what she needed," Murray said. "I'm going to get her and the baby at the hospital. But Rich is in the ICU with pneumonia."
Doria tried to swallow though her mouth felt as if she had stuffed it with cotton. Why did Murray make her so nervous?
"That's too bad," she managed to croak.
Murray's brow clouded like a storm brewing out over a wind-whipped sea. "Aren't you going to apologize?" he growled.
"For what?" Doria wrinkled up her nose.
"For ramming my cart and my nephew," Murray stated crisply.
"Oh. Sorry." Doria lowered her head. She realized she had been staring at him. His finely chiseled features could easily grace a Roman statue.
As he headed off down the aisle, he tossed a few parting words over his shoulder.
"Get some sleep tonight, you remind me of a fish left lying on the deck too long." Then he added, "You don't want to be the next one to get pneumonia."
After a stop at an ATM machine, Doria regretted her purchases. The balance in her bank account had already taken a nosedive. She needed a job. Soon. With the combined load of her college loan, her car payments, and the monthly payment on her credit card, financial ruin could be right around the next corner for her.
Getting back into her car, she slammed the door a lot harder than necessary while remembering the expensive jacket she had bought for her boyfriend's birthday. She was still paying for it. How stupid she had been! How naive! She had believed that he loved her, when all he really wanted was --
No. She gripped the steering wheel tightly. She would not dwell on what Ted had hoped to gain. It scared her to think that he might have succeeded in convincing her to live with him if she hadn't caught him necking in the elevator with the blond who occupied in the apartment above hers.
Doria's face burned with a mixture of anger and shame as she drove over the bridge and back into Port Harbor. Reviewing her past, she had made more blunders than she cared to count.
When she returned to the rectory, she saw Uncle Walter sitting at his desk and talking on the phone. He waved at her and motioned to a pile of mail on the corner of his desk, which included a large package.
Gloom settled on Doria's shoulders as she picked up the envelopes addressed to her. Bills. All bills. Her throat tightened with emotion as she glanced at the package. She knew that inside she would find a heavy Irish sweater that she had intended to give to her father for Christmas.
Grief threatened to overwhelm her. She dashed out of the office and ran upstairs to the small guestroom. The air in the room felt colder than the air outside. Every breath Doria exhaled sent out a small cloud of vapor. If she let any tears fall, the moisture would surely freeze on her cheeks. She paced the room, hugging her coat closely to her body. She needed money and she needed it now. She opened the door to the closet. Her fabulous wardrobe bulged out of the cramped space. The sight of it made her stomach churn. She should have saved some money instead of throwing away her salary on designer labels.
She sank down on the old iron bed. The ancient springs creaked in protest as the icy bedclothes made her shiver.
She had never given a thought to how easy it was to go from being a success to being a failure. It didn't take much -- simply the loss of a few steady paychecks.
Just ask Jesus. Uncle Walter's favorite phrase jostled against her despair. She stood up quickly and cast the idea back into the deepest recesses of her mind. She knew how useless it would be to beg the Lord for help. The endless prayers she had said for her mother had been little more than a waste of breath.
She took in several great draughts of the stingingly frigid air. Her nostrils burned and her lungs hurt, but it did clear her head. She would put all her payments on the credit card and then tomorrow she would start her search for another job.
She walked over to the closet again and started to open the door, but she shut it before the sight of all those lovely outfits made her change her mind. Tomorrow, she would stop in Baytown and leave as many outfits as she could at the consignment shop on Broad Street. Hopefully, she could get some cash back from the sale of those clothes.