The Captain's Daughter

“I don’t want it to dry.”

Mary wet one of the bamboo cloths and got down on her hands and knees and wiped up the blood—there was a trail, from table three to the door—and then she crumpled up the cloth and stuffed it into her pocket. This one time she wasn’t going to put it in to be washed. When she was done Charlie pulled out a chair for her at table three and said, “We’ll sit for a minute, and then I’ll see you to your car, and then you can go on home and forget that bastard. If you’re okay with all of that.”

“I’m okay with all of that,” said Mary. She couldn’t meet Charlie Sargent in the eye. She also couldn’t tell him that the guy he’d just sent out of town was the father of the little bunch of coffee beans currently growing inside of her. And then, without even a speck of warning, she was telling him. She didn’t break down; she didn’t apologize or hesitate or dress the fact in some fancy language. She just said, very calmly, “I’m pregnant, and Josh is the father.” Then she kept going: she told him about the paper bag in her closet at home that Josh had put there, and she told him about how she kept hoping her mother would turn into some other kind of mother but never did, and about how she couldn’t imagine living with Vivienne forever, especially with a baby. She even swallowed hard and told him about how her teacher said she was really good at math and could do something with it someday but now, well.

Charlie took all of this in, nodding, and finally he said, “Oh, Mary,” very gravely and gently, and she felt like those two words were an embrace. A long minute passed after that, and Mary realized that she felt better after having said all of that out loud, but because she didn’t know what do with that feeling she said, “Were you really looking for lobster cookies?”

“Yes,” said Charlie. Then, “No. Just went out for some air. But when I saw the lights on and saw Josh in here I figured I’d better take a closer look. The sign on the door said OPEN, so…” That made Mary remember she still hadn’t turned the sign to CLOSED; she rose to do that, and then she went behind the counter and opened a fresh package of lobster cookies—she’d pay the cash register before she left for the night—and put two on a plate and brought them back to the table. Her legs were shaky and her breathing was still a little bit unsteady and she felt the way you do the first day back to school after a week home with the flu. When she bit into her cookie she realized how hungry she was. She hadn’t eaten properly that day at all. Tomorrow: fruits and vegetables, everything that was good for the baby.

Charlie said, “I’d say you’re better off without him. But what would you say?”

What would Mary say? Two days ago, even yesterday, she would have said that she was terrified to be with Josh, but also terrified to be without him. Now something had changed—a subtle shift in the atmosphere when she started imagining a pale yellow nursery, walking with the baby by the wharf. “I’d say yes,” she said. “But I didn’t plan to tell you any of that. I don’t know what happened, I just—I don’t know, it just came out.” She squinted. “Are you going to tell anyone?” She didn’t want Andi and Daphne to know—she didn’t want anyone to know. But now she’d told Eliza Sargent and Charlie Sargent, and Vivienne knew, and Josh knew, and probably Alyssa Michaud had guessed too.

Charlie made a motion like a zipper closing up his lips. “It’s your business, Mary, not mine. I don’t go telling other people’s business. Never have, and I’m not going to start now.”

“Thank you,” whispered Mary. Mary’s phone buzzed: a text. Daphne. She’d forgotten she was supposed to let her know when everything was done at the café. The text said ALL CLOSED UP? EVERYTHING OKAY?

Debatable.

Mary put the phone down. She should lock up and go home, but she didn’t really want to. The café felt warm and comfortable and she didn’t want to leave it and go out into the fog of the summer evening, the uncertainty of her house, her mother, her room. So she searched for a way to keep the conversation going. Even with that in mind, she wasn’t sure, later, where she got the courage to say what she said next. Charlie was almost done with his cookie, just the tail was left. She ate hers the other way, leaving the head for the end. She said, “I just told you the biggest secret of my life. Now you have to tell me something, so that we’re even.”

Charlie raised his eyebrows at her, saying nothing.

“Something that nobody else knows about you. It can be small, like your favorite ice-cream flavor. Or it can be big, like—well, I don’t know. Something big.”

“Oh, hey now,” said Charlie. Mary couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or pleased. “That’s one hell of a question. You’ll have to give me a minute on that one.” Mary nibbled on her cookie and waited; she could still hear the little bubbling noises the refrigerator made every so often.

Finally he said, “Okay, Mary, are you ready for this one?”

She nodded.

“Now, you are absolutely not to tell anyone this, ever, okay? You have to promise. I don’t want this getting out, getting around. Town like this. You know how it is.”

“Okay. I promise.” Mary breathed in deeply. She felt like she was holding a whole universe inside her lungs.

Charlie leaned close to Mary like he was going to whisper, although when he spoke he did so at a regular volume. And then he said the most astonishing thing. He said, “That accident I had on the boat, beginning of the summer?”

Mary could hardly breathe. “Yes?”

“That wasn’t an accident.”

Another text: MARY? EVERYTHING OKAY? DIDN’T HEAR BACK? This time she said, “Sorry,” to Charlie Sargent, “I just have to—” And she texted back, ABSOLUTELY.

Mary looked at Charlie Sargent and her heart was throbbing in her chest, a little bird beating its wings, and she said, “Tell me.”





32


One month earlier…

LITTLE HARBOR, MAINE





Charlie


This is it, thought Charlie Sargent. The last everything. The last cup of coffee, the last time rinsing the mug and leaving it to dry, the last time starting the truck, switching off the kitchen lights, blowing on his hands while the truck warmed up—because even though it was summer now it was still damn cold in the hours before sunrise when only the fishermen were out.

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