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WALKING TO THE inn for lunch, Anna wondered why she wasn’t more upset. All this way for no good reason. Of course they would still go to Mount Loretto and ask questions, but the chance of real progress seemed unlikely. They might just as well turn around and go back to the city, but neither of them raised the subject, and Anna was glad. The very idea made her head ache.
The restaurant was more of a café, just a few tables and a lunch counter where older men hunched over coffee cups and slabs of pie. They got the last free table, one that overlooked the ferry terminal. Through windows polished to a high shine Anna watched seagulls wheeling overhead calling to each other in voices that had always struck her as forlorn, even in such bright weather.
“We can go to Mount Loretto this afternoon,” Jack said. “And find a beach to walk on, after. Take a nap somewhere in the shade. Maybe I should write a thank-you note to McKinnawae for not being here.”
Anna thought of saying what came to mind: maybe it was time to give up. The Russo boys were gone, they could only hope to good families. But instead the waitress came, and they ordered oyster stew—the freshest on the island, they were told—thick with potatoes and carrots all jumbled together in a silky broth, served over great rounds of delicate buttery pastry.
“I can’t eat all this,” Anna said, and then proved herself wrong. She stopped just short of the last spoonful, which Jack was glad to finish off. And he was still hungry; that was obvious by the way he was sizing up the row of pies kept under glass domes. He ordered lemon meringue and offered her a taste on his fork, smooth and tart and sweet all at once.
What an oddly intimate thing, to eat from the same fork. Anna let the pie rest on her tongue, enjoying the flavors and textures, and enjoying too the way Jack’s eyes were fixed on her mouth and then her throat as she swallowed. There was no sheen of perspiration on his skin but still she thought there was a scent, maybe one that she alone could perceive. She was aware of the beat of her own pulse at her wrists and at the base of her throat and low in the very core of her being.
They were almost finished when a cranky toddler sitting with his parents at the next table let out an impatient bellow and launched himself out of his chair, so abruptly that neither mother nor father had any chance of catching him. He hit the floor chin first, and bounced to his feet like the three-year-old rubber ball he was.
For one second there was silence all around and then he realized that a sheet of blood was pouring off his chin. To Anna’s ear it was clear that he wasn’t howling in pain, but outrage, to have been so thwarted. His parents, on the other hand, looked as though they might swoon.
Anna got up.
“May I have a look? I’m a doctor.” And at their confused expressions: “A physician.”
At first she thought they would send her away, outraged at such an obvious lie. Then common sense won out, and the young man with a face almost as smooth as his son’s picked the boy up and thrust him into her arms. Anna sat down with the boy on her lap, angled so that he would bleed on his already ruined clothes rather than her own.
“His name is Ernst,” the mother offered, her hands fisted together as if she had to fight the urge to snatch him up and away.
Jack had already brought her bag over and opened it for her, crouching beside it and waiting to hear what she might need.
“My goodness,” she said to the little boy called Ernst, and pointed to an invisible spot on the floorboards. “Look at the hole you made in the floor. You must have a very hard head.”
Startled, he stopped his wailing and considered the floor. While Anna blotted away the blood with a square of gauze, she talked to him in a calm voice, offering observations that made him forget how insulted he was supposed to be.
“There,” she said, gesturing to his parents to come closer. “He’s sprung a leak, but just a small one. No need for stitches. It just needs disinfecting and a plaster to keep it clean.”
Anna looked up and caught sight of Jack watching her, his expression open and frank and unmistakable: he really did love her. She had wanted to believe it, she had set herself the task of believing it, but now she saw it as clearly as she saw the face of the little boy in her arms, round cheeks and sea-green eyes still full of tears.
Ernst looked at her solemnly and said, “I made a hole in the floor?”
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IT WAS THE waitress who warned them about Mr. Malone at the livery: he liked a nap in the early afternoon, and never in the same place.
“Calling his name will do you no good,” she said. “On a good day he’s mostly deaf, and he hasn’t had a good day in a year or more.”