“Well, think about this, Reverend. Think about how you’ll feel if something more serious than having our well polluted or our car riddled with bullets happens to us. Think about the consequences if one of us is shot instead.”
“Oh, Mrs. Ryerson, I’m sure it will never come to that.”
“Are you? Are you, really?”
Olsen raised his pale eyes to her. And behind the torment reflected there, she saw clearly what had been masked in them before-the true essence of the man. It was weakness augmented by fear and self-doubt; it was cowardice. The Reverend Harvey Olsen was a poor excuse for both a minister and a human being.
She stared at him for several seconds, letting him see her anger and her contempt. Then she turned abruptly and stalked out of his church.
Alix
When she came in sight of the lighthouse an hour later, she saw an old olive-colored humpbacked sedan parked just outside the gate. She didn’t recognize it-but she did recognize the woman walking across the yard. It was Cassie Lang, wrapped in a heavy brown sweater and matching scarf.
Her surprise gave way to wariness as both she and Cassie neared the old sedan. Had Cassie come because she was still a friend? Or was she there for some other reason, one that confirmed she was on the side of Lillian Hilliard and the other villagers? A friendly face would be welcome, God knew… but even at that, her timing could have been better. It was Jan she wanted to talk to now.
After she’d left the church she’d driven aimlessly for a while, following the coast highway nearly a dozen miles south before she turned back. Her anger and disgust had gradually faded, leaving her determined not to confide in anyone else, to deal with the situation strictly on her own from now on. And even more convinced that she and Jan must leave the lighthouse as soon as possible. Subtle argument hadn’t swayed him; neither had a more direct approach. But what about a direct approach in a less emotionally charged setting than Cape Despair? If she could persuade him to go someplace for dinner-anywhere but Hilliard-then maybe they could talk, really talk, and she could make him understand her position.
As she neared the gate, Cassie waved and pulled it open for her. Alix drove through, stopped the Ford near the garage, and got out. Cassie had shut the gate again and was coming toward her, smiling in a friendly way.
“Hi,” Cassie said. “I was afraid I’d missed you.”
“I’ve been out for a drive.”
“Where’s your husband? No one answered when I knocked on the door.”
“He was working on his book when I left,” Alix lied. “He gets so involved sometimes, he doesn’t pay any attention to his surroundings.”
“Well, I can understand that. I’m the same way.”
“Yes, so am I.” Alix paused. “I stopped by to see you the other day, but the gallery was closed.”
“I wasn’t feeling well-a touch of the flu, I guess. I spent the day in bed. Did you ring the bell at the house?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“I must have been asleep; I’m a heavy sleeper. I’m sorry I missed you.”
“Me, too,” Alix said, and felt herself relax. So she did have one friend in the village after all. She’d all but written Cassie off for no good reason. She should have known better than to jump to conclusions, even in a place like Hilliard.
Cassie said, “I should have called before I drove out, but I’m feeling so much better today and I decided an outing would do me good
… I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all.”
“I thought if you’re not busy, I’d take you up on your offer of a tour of the lighthouse.”
“Well… this isn’t a good day for it, I’m afraid. Jan’s working and I don’t like to disturb him.”
“Oh, I understand. We could walk on the beach for a while, though, couldn’t we? Unless you have something you need to do?”
Alix hesitated, glancing toward the light. “I don’t know…”
“Just for a little while? It’s such a nice day.”
There was something plaintive in Cassie’s voice-a need for companionship that Alix understood all too well. And it was a nice day, at least as far as the weather was concerned: the last of the overcast had blown inland or burned off, leaving the sky cloudless, and there was very little wind. The sun transformed objects that had previously seemed drab or ugly, invested the patchy grass with a subtle green, the rocks with a rich brown, the sea with deep blues and turquoises. It was the kind of rare fall day made for a walk on the beach.
Well, why not, then? It was early yet; what difference did it make if she talked to Jan now or an hour from now? Talking to him tonight, away from Cape Despair, was the important thing.
“I guess I can spare an hour or so,” she said. “Can we get down to the beach from here?”
“Oh, yes.” The plaintive quality was gone; Cassie seemed almost animated now, as if spending an hour with Alix-with anyone-meant a great deal to her. “I know a way down the cliffs you probably haven’t discovered. One of the women in the village told me about it. I’ve been there three or four times when the weather’s good, to pick through the driftwood.”
The route down to the beach, it turned out, was only a short distance from the lighthouse gate-no more than four hundred yards. Cassie led her on a zig-zag course among dun-colored outcrops and boulders to a series of natural-and crumbling-“steps” that scaled the cliff wall. Alix paused as the gallery owner started down, feeling a brief flash of vertigo. But when she saw that Cassie didn’t seem to have any trouble keeping her balance, she took a deep breath and followed.
It took almost ten minutes to make it all the way down the series of knobs and outcrops and niches; in one steep place she had to scoot a couple of yards on the seat of her jeans. When she finally reached the beach she was a little winded. But Cassie, in spite of her recent illness, looked nearly as fresh as when they’d started out.
The beach here was narrow, no more than fifty yards wide. A third of it was strewn with driftwood, all sizes and shapes, some of the jumbled pieces driven back and up into declivities in the rocks by the force of the wind and the sea. Here and there, the stark white and gray of the wood was garnished with brownish-green seaweed. Cassie set off at an angle through the coarse, pebbly sand, Alix at her side. The sea was remarkably calm this afternoon. Further down the beach, small shorebirds-sandpipers? grebes? — ran from the breakers, then turned to chase them as they receded. Cassie made no attempt at conversation, and neither did Alix. She breathed deeply of the salt air instead, feeling it relax her even more; even the strain of her thigh muscles as she slogged through the loose sand was not unpleasant.
As they approached the waterline, the birds scattered in a great gray and brown and white cloud, screeching their disapproval of the human interlopers. Alix sat on her heels, let one of the waves break up close to her so she could test the water. It was icy enough to make her jerk back her hand.
Cassie’s voice came from behind her right shoulder, startling her. “On days like this, I’m almost glad I moved here.”
“Only almost?”
“Yes.”
Alix stood, drying her fingers on her jeans. Then in silent accord they both turned and began to move along the wet hard-packed sand toward where the beach narrowed and finally disappeared altogether. It was windier than it had been up by the lighthouse, and Alix buttoned her jacket to the neck and thrust her hands into her pockets. Beside her Cassie seemed to be lost in thought, perhaps trying to decide if she wanted to reveal any more about her feelings for this place and for the village.
At length Cassie said, “I hated it here when I first arrived-the bleakness, the loneliness. Now it’s… home, I guess, as much as any place can ever be for me.”
“What about Eugene? That’s where you used to live, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”