“Not necessarily,” Ann said. “But I’m still surprised. You worked so hard to get there. Is there something else you’d rather be doing?”
“I don’t know,” Zee said.
Ann thought about it for a minute. “So you’re giving up your practice and your engagement all within a month,” Ann said.
“I’m just thinking about giving up my practice. I haven’t made any decisions.”
“Interesting,” Ann said.
“Which means?”
“Interesting,” Ann said again. She thought about it some more. “Don’t become a full-time caregiver,” Ann said.
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve seen what it does to people. To Melville, for one.”
“Poor Melville,” Zee said.
“What the hell happened between those two?” Ann asked. She knew it was something big, could feel the weight of it, but she had no clue as to its origins.
“I wish I knew,” Zee said.
Some kids were setting off firecrackers on the wharf. A cat scooted under the bed.
“What was that?” Zee saw it flash past.
“That’s Persephone. She’s a Katrina cat,” Ann said. “They shipped a lot of them up here. I got her at the shelter.”
The three masts of the Friendship moved by Ann’s window. She was headed out for a Fourth of July sail. Ann noticed Zee watching it. She thought about the weather. There was no sign of a storm on the horizon as yet, so they should have smooth sailing for an hour or so.
Maybe it was the reenactors, maybe it was the Friendship itself-the three masts of the tall ship and its rigging made Ann think of Salem’s past days of shipping, the bustle of the busy wharves, the excitement of Salem as a world port. She pictured the powerful shipping families, the man they called King Derby who owned the next wharf and the Pickerings who owned this one. At any time there might be a hundred ships like the Friendship in port, loading and unloading their bounty. The tunnels that ran under Derby Wharf and up to the houses owned by the shipping families were a perfect place for hiding their taxable goods. Ann lived in one of the historic houses up on Orange Street. In the middle of her kitchen floor was a trapdoor that led to the old Derby tunnel. It was a place that Persephone loved to hide, and Ann had taken to blocking it off at night, so the cat wouldn’t end up lost in the tunnel somewhere under the wharves and more frightened than ever.
One of the Friendship’s sails was set, and the huge ship moved solely on wind power as she left the harbor now. Hawk was high in the rigging, helping set the foresail.
Ann observed Zee watching the ship and handed her a pair of binoculars she kept on her desk.
“Binoculars. A police scanner. Have you started working for the CIA?”
“Just nosy by nature,” Ann said.
Zee held up the binoculars and looked at the ship.
Ann watched as Hawk moved quickly down one mast and up another. “I’m surprised he doesn’t fall,” she said.
“He moves really well,” Zee said.
Something about the way she said it took Ann by surprise.
The people on the wharf began to cheer and clap as the Friendship hoisted her second sail.
Zee didn’t stop looking and was still watching Hawk as the ship reached the mouth of the harbor.
Oh, my God, Ann thought. She’s sleeping with him. The thought came to her in words, and she was relieved to find that she hadn’t uttered those words aloud.
And just as quickly another thought came to her, and before she had a chance to censor herself, this time the words did come out of her mouth. “Be careful of that one,” Ann said to Zee. “He’s not who you think he is.”
“What?” Zee asked, surprised to have her thoughts so clearly invaded.
Ann knew that Zee didn’t believe in any of this stuff. But she also observed a blush starting on Zee’s face that quickly spread all the way down her neck.
26
LIGHTNING HIT THE MAST of a moored Hunter 31 that had sailed north to the tip of Cape Ann and into Rockport Harbor even before the storm appeared on the horizon. Luckily there was no one on board at the time. The charge traveled down the aluminum mast, and, not finding a path to ground, it side-flashed, blowing out the boat’s hull.
“Shit,” someone said. “That boat just exploded.”
Hawk flew down the rigging of the Friendship as if he were on a slide.
“Lightning,” he said.
No one agreed. The sun, so strong just minutes ago, was now behind a cloud. But the sky was still bright blue. The general opinion was that it was probably a leaky propane tank, but Hawk had seen the strike from his post high in the rigging.
The captain listened to Hawk and put into Sandy Bay, just outside Rockport Harbor. “Better safe harbor than sorry sailor,” he said. The plan had been to reach Newburyport in time for the fireworks, but the wooden mast on the Friendship had been hit once before, and the captain didn’t want to risk it again. Though Gloucester Harbor would have been a much better choice, there was no time to get there. Within five minutes the sky had blackened and lightning flashed overhead like natural fireworks.
The Friendship dropped anchor.
“Everybody below deck,” the captain ordered. “And don’t touch anything metal.”
As a general rule, Hawk liked thunderstorms. He especially liked them on the water, where they came up fast and you could see the thunderheads forming and pushing upward in the sky. But this one seemed to have come out of nowhere, a phenomenon he’d heard about but had never yet seen. There were people struck by lightning as much as thirty minutes before a storm arrived. It wasn’t that uncommon. The charge could travel.
But today he’d been on the rigging when the strike hit. It was close enough that he felt the elation from it before he saw the burst. The hair on his neck and arms stood up as the errant bolt passed. By all rights it should have hit the Friendship, which was by far the tallest ship around, but instead it moved on, striking the Hunter. He knew it wasn’t random-lightning followed the rules of electricity-but it seemed personal somehow. The Friendship would have survived the strike, but Hawk, on the rigging, would most likely have been its casualty. He couldn’t help feeling he’d been spared.
He didn’t share his story; he knew these guys too well. They’d had enough trouble believing that there’d been a strike at all, though they certainly believed it now. The ocean had come up, and the ship rolled as it took the swells sideways. Even Rockport’s breakwater did nothing to stop the surge.
The sailors sat down below, listening to the crack and boom. As the sky lit up, the town of Rockport froze in silhouette, leaving a burned, stuttering image of terrified tourists huddled in doorways on Bearskin Neck.
Normally a rowdy group, the men were unusually quiet as they watched the Hunter 31 burn and sink.
“I thought aluminum masts didn’t conduct electricity,” one of the sailors said.
“Sure they do,” Hawk said. “The problem must have been in the grounding.”
“Shit,” one of the other guys said.
“Double shit,” another said. “We’re the highest mast in the harbor, and wet wood is a conductor.”
“We’ll be okay,” Hawk said. “We have lightning rods, and we’re grounded with copper.”
Everyone was silent, hoping that he was right.
When it finally ended, the crew made their way back on deck. One of the lines was singed, probably the result of a side flash from the Hunter 31.
Someone pointed to the mouth of the harbor. A rolling fog was moving in slowly from open ocean. It was an odd occurrence, more suited to the Pacific than this part of the Atlantic. Usually the New England fog fell in patches rather than rolled.
“Jesus,” one of the crew said.
BY 6:00 P.M. THE WHOLE of Cape Ann was fogged in. There would be no making it to Newburyport tonight.
They all walked into town. Until recently Rockport had been a dry town. Even now the only place you could get a drink was at one of the local inns, and so that’s where the crew headed. When they got to the top of High Street, Hawk broke from the group.