We stand at the counter and Bev Palsson swaps money for cakes. Finn buys an obscene number of cinnamon twists with Dory Maud’s money. Once we actually have them in our hands and stand outside the door where Dove is tied, Finn makes George Holly unwrap one of the cakes so that Finn can observe his reaction. Holly takes a bite, honey slipping over his lip, and closes his eyes in pleasure so pronounced that it’s hard to tell if it’s exaggerated for Finn’s benefit.
“I’m told,” Holly says, “that food tastes better in your memories. I don’t see how I can improve on this in a memory.”
Finn is pleased by this. It’s as if he made them himself. I see something bittersweet in Holly’s expression, though; I think, possibly, that this island has begun to get its hooks into him, and this makes me like him even more. Anyone Thisby chooses to seduce can’t be half-bad.
Holly asks, “Finn, would you be so kind as to ask them for another bag so we can separate these into two parcels? And if I give you this, would you fetch me another twist to take back to my room? Get another one for yourself, too, so your other hand doesn’t feel empty.”
Once Finn is dispatched, Holly says, “Puck, I’m stepping so badly over the line here that I might never return. But there’s quite a few people who don’t care to have you on the beach. I’m not sure if you’ve heard.”
I think of Peg Gratton telling me not to let anyone else tighten my girth. I lose my appetite for my sticky breakfast. “I’ve an inkling.”
There’s genuine worry on George Holly’s face. “You’re the first, aren’t you? The first woman?”
It’s strange to be called a woman, but I nod.
“It just sounds quite bad down there,” he says. “I wouldn’t say anything if I didn’t think it seemed dangerous.”
How quickly George Holly’s become one of us – that I should be riding in a race against a few dozen
“I know not to trust anyone,” I say. “Except…”
Holly studies my face. “You do fancy him, don’t you? What a strange, wonderful, repressed place this is.”
I glare at him, relieved that I seem to be out of blushes, or perhaps I’m still blushing and can’t get any redder. “I’m not the one letting myself be played by three sisters with four and a half eyes between them.”
Holly laughs delightedly. “Very true.”
Dove strives for my November cake and I push her away with my elbow. “Annie’s all right,” I say. “Do you think she’s pretty?”
“I do.”
“I reckon she finds you agreeable, too,” I say. I glance at him sideways with a sly smile. “Since she can’t see any farther than her arm. I wouldn’t count on her baking you any of these cakes, though. There’s a reason Palsson’s is full of women. Thisby women are lazy.”
“Lazy as you?”
“Just about.”
“I think I could bear that.” He glances up; Finn has just broached the door of Palsson’s, bearing two bags, and he approaches us looking cheerful. Holly says to me, “I sure do wish you the best of luck, Miss Connolly. And I hope you won’t wait for Sean Kendrick to realize that he’s lonely.”
I want to ask him,
So we merely exchange pleasantries, and Holly goes on his way to watch the training on the beach, I go my way to get Dove to the cliff top, and Finn gets ready to go back to Dory Maud’s to do odd jobs.
“Did you hear his accent?” Finn asks.
“I wasn’t born deaf.”
“If I were Gabe, I’d go to America instead of the mainland.”
This statement ruins any good mood I had germinating in my soul. “If you were Gabe, I’d slap you.”
Finn is unperturbed. He gives Dove’s rump a friendly pat before starting away.
He trots gleefully off, so easily pleased by the arrival of food. I balance my cakes in one hand and take Dove’s reins with the other, leading her toward the cliffs. I think about George Holly’s comment about food tasting better in memories. It strikes me as a strange, luxurious statement. It assumes you’ll have not only that moment when you take the first bite but then enough moments in front of it for that mouthful to become a memory. My future’s not that certain that I can afford to wonder what will become of the taste later. And in any case, the November cake tastes plenty sweet to me now.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
I’m already waiting when Puck gets to the top of the cliffs. I’m not the only one; about two dozen race tourists have made perches out of rocks, watching Corr and me as closely as they dare. Puck glares at them all, searing enough that some of them flinch in surprise. I’m not certain what to expect from her after last night. I don’t know how to address her. I don’t know what she expects from me or what I expect from me.
What I get is a wordless hello and a November cake in my hand. We each silently eat one under the attentive audience of the tourists and then scrub our sticky palms on the grass.
Puck grimaces at the onlookers. “Dove is timid around the water horses.”
“As she should be.”
She turns her ferocious expression on me. “Well, it won’t do for the race now, will it?”
I turn my attention to her dun mare. She’s very aware of Corr’s presence, but she doesn’t look fearful.
“She doesn’t have to love them,” I say. “A little respect will give her some speed. As long as you aren’t afraid that she’s afraid.”
I can see Puck working it out, getting her mind in the right place. Her eyes are narrowed as she studies Corr, and I wonder if she’s remembering our ride on the cliff tops.
“Myself I can trust,” she says. She looks at me as if it’s a question, but if it is, it’s one only she can answer.
“Ready to work?” I ask her.
We work.
Corr’s not at all tired from the gallop the night before, and Puck’s horse is fresh and hot in the wind. We circle and tag, gallop and skirmish. I pull ahead until Corr is distracted and then Puck is suddenly beside us, her dun mare’s ears pricked and clever. We match stride for stride, not racing, just running for the sake of it.
I forget that I am working, forget that the race is only days away, forget that she is on an island pony and I am on a
Then it is an hour gone by without me noticing and I have to pull Corr up. I don’t want to overwork him. Puck brings Dove to a halt, too. For a moment, I see that she’s about to say something; her tongue presses against her teeth. But in the end, all she says is my own words back to me. “I’ll see you on the cliffs tomorrow?”
Sean’s there the next day, and the next day, and the next. I think that I won’t see him on Sunday, because I’ve never seen him in St. Columba’s and I don’t know where he would go if he’s not there. But after Mass I walk to the cliff top and there Sean is, his eyes already trained down onto the beach.
We watch the training below, exchanging only a few words, and the next day, we return on horseback. Sometimes we skirmish together, sometimes we ride dozens of lengths apart, just within sight of each other. I think every now and then about Sean’s thumb pressed against my wrist and daydream about him touching me again. But mostly I think about the way he looks at me – with respect – and I think that’s probably worth more than
