briefcase. He took out his pencil box and sorted through it until he found a Kimberly 4B with a reasonably sharp point.
He hadn’t seen her in six years, not since he was seventeen. His father or Clare had changed the sails —they used to be white —andnow the mainmast sail, currently furled, was an ugly salmon color, as was the foremast sail. Unless, pray his heart out, they were sail covers. Couldn’t tell from here.
The rest of her was the same. Oh, there were some pots of flowers and herbs on the deck, which his old man never had, some painted paper Chinese lanterns strung out in a cheery red and yellow dotted line, some colorful rag rugs thrown about, and —well, there it was, a painted sign with curlicue letters that said Bed and Breakfast . A short garland of red flowers dangled from a corner of the sign.
Sixteen feet at her beam, fifty-two feet on her length, and add another three feet if you count the retractable swimming platform off the port stern his old man put in the summer Murray was seventeen. Same beautifully paneled woodwork and shiny brass fittings that made other yachties pause for a look when she came into a marina. Same lettering on the transom, which Murray could not have done better, his mother’s name when his old man met her one summer at the resort on Long Island: Maggie Bright .
Clare watched Maggie come to hollerin’ life beneath his pencil.
When he finished, he withdrew as he always did from a drawing, backing out from one reality into another, and cocked his head.
Clare studied the drawing, and then looked up at him. She looked at the boat, back to the drawing.
He felt a pleased flush.
“Like it?” he said like a little kid.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s marvelous. I feel foolish.”
“Why?”
“I just do.”
The drawing time gave him a chance to get used to seeing her again. Things might go easier when he went aboard. The cabin Clare had described was his. And Clare’s was his old man’s. It raised a sweat in his scalp.
“It’s perfectly foolish,” Clare said with unexpected fierceness.“You’re wasting your talents on propaganda posters. Father Fitzpatrick surely knows this.”
Murray put his pencil and drawing pad away.
“Wait —give me the drawing. I have an idea.”
He retrieved it from his briefcase, and gave it to her.
She studied him for a moment, and then sighed. “Well, come on then —let’s meet our fate. Please try not to look like a burglar. Or a murderer. Don’t even frown. You look very intense when you do. Be on your best behavior, for Mrs. Shrew is going to kill me but we may as well present a good show. And remember —you know nothing about the dear BV. We must not let on that you are connected.”
“Why?”
“She’ll think another American has come to kill her. Oh dear, there she is. Courage, now.” She swallowed. “Courage. Vision. Singularity of purpose. That will conquer all.”
She didn’t look like she believed a word.
Clare needn’t have worried.
She used the sketch of Maggie as a peace offering for bringing a disapproved man aboard. She held it out like silver before a werewolf, and after a sharp look around Clare at Murray, whom she had instructed to stay safely behind her, Mrs. Shrew snatched and studied the drawing.
It was somewhere in the middle of Clare rushing to say, “He’s another paying tenant, you see, isn’t it wonderful? He is an American and his name is Murray Vance. I know he is a man, but isn’t that a splendid drawing of our Maggie? What a clever little creature there on the bowsprit. Such talent, wouldn’t you say?” when Mrs. Shrew grabbed her own throat, not Clare’s, and said, a bit strangled, “Good heavens — the Murray Vance? I thought you were dead! I wore black.”
Astonished, Clare turned to Murray. He gave a charming smile, spread his arms to display himself, and said, “I ain’t dead.”
“Do you know,” said Mrs. Shrew, her voice now musical,
He hadn’t seen her in six years, not since he was seventeen. His father or Clare had changed the sails —they used to be white —andnow the mainmast sail, currently furled, was an ugly salmon color, as was the foremast sail. Unless, pray his heart out, they were sail covers. Couldn’t tell from here.
The rest of her was the same. Oh, there were some pots of flowers and herbs on the deck, which his old man never had, some painted paper Chinese lanterns strung out in a cheery red and yellow dotted line, some colorful rag rugs thrown about, and —well, there it was, a painted sign with curlicue letters that said Bed and Breakfast . A short garland of red flowers dangled from a corner of the sign.
Sixteen feet at her beam, fifty-two feet on her length, and add another three feet if you count the retractable swimming platform off the port stern his old man put in the summer Murray was seventeen. Same beautifully paneled woodwork and shiny brass fittings that made other yachties pause for a look when she came into a marina. Same lettering on the transom, which Murray could not have done better, his mother’s name when his old man met her one summer at the resort on Long Island: Maggie Bright .
Clare watched Maggie come to hollerin’ life beneath his pencil.
When he finished, he withdrew as he always did from a drawing, backing out from one reality into another, and cocked his head.
Clare studied the drawing, and then looked up at him. She looked at the boat, back to the drawing.
He felt a pleased flush.
“Like it?” he said like a little kid.
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s marvelous. I feel foolish.”
“Why?”
“I just do.”
The drawing time gave him a chance to get used to seeing her again. Things might go easier when he went aboard. The cabin Clare had described was his. And Clare’s was his old man’s. It raised a sweat in his scalp.
“It’s perfectly foolish,” Clare said with unexpected fierceness.“You’re wasting your talents on propaganda posters. Father Fitzpatrick surely knows this.”
Murray put his pencil and drawing pad away.
“Wait —give me the drawing. I have an idea.”
He retrieved it from his briefcase, and gave it to her.
She studied him for a moment, and then sighed. “Well, come on then —let’s meet our fate. Please try not to look like a burglar. Or a murderer. Don’t even frown. You look very intense when you do. Be on your best behavior, for Mrs. Shrew is going to kill me but we may as well present a good show. And remember —you know nothing about the dear BV. We must not let on that you are connected.”
“Why?”
“She’ll think another American has come to kill her. Oh dear, there she is. Courage, now.” She swallowed. “Courage. Vision. Singularity of purpose. That will conquer all.”
She didn’t look like she believed a word.
Clare needn’t have worried.
She used the sketch of Maggie as a peace offering for bringing a disapproved man aboard. She held it out like silver before a werewolf, and after a sharp look around Clare at Murray, whom she had instructed to stay safely behind her, Mrs. Shrew snatched and studied the drawing.
It was somewhere in the middle of Clare rushing to say, “He’s another paying tenant, you see, isn’t it wonderful? He is an American and his name is Murray Vance. I know he is a man, but isn’t that a splendid drawing of our Maggie? What a clever little creature there on the bowsprit. Such talent, wouldn’t you say?” when Mrs. Shrew grabbed her own throat, not Clare’s, and said, a bit strangled, “Good heavens — the Murray Vance? I thought you were dead! I wore black.”
Astonished, Clare turned to Murray. He gave a charming smile, spread his arms to display himself, and said, “I ain’t dead.”
“Do you know,” said Mrs. Shrew, her voice now musical,
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