“That’s her son, Matthew,” John said, “and her new baby.”
“I assume that’s her husband?” Roger asked, examining the last photograph.
John’s stomach clenched tight with agitation. What the devil was happening on the mainland? It had been weeks since Emma had posted the letter. Was Logan still there?
“Yes. That’s him,” he replied. “They were married for less than a year before he was sent to prison for killing a man.”
Roger’s mouth fell open, and he gaped at John. “No kidding.” He examined the photograph more closely. “He doesn’t look like a killer.” He passed the photos back to John, who slipped them into the envelope.
“He claims it was self-defense, but the courts called it manslaughter. I still have my doubts.”
“And your daughter waited for him?”
“I wouldn’t saywaited,” John replied. “But she never divorced him. Now he’s out of jail and back in her life again.”
Roger started the engine, pressed his foot to the gas pedal, and steered the Jeep toward Main Station. As they picked up speed on the beach, John gazed out at the gloomy gray ocean and thought about what Emma had written in her letter.
He turned to Roger, behind the wheel. “For months, my daughter’s been trying to convince me to leave Sable and join her in Halifax to be close to my grandchildren.”
Roger glanced briefly at John. “Does she know they’re shutting us down?”
John rubbed his palm on his pant leg. “Not yet, but I wrote to her about it yesterday. The letter went out with the ship today. She’ll be shocked when she reads it—and sad—because it’s the end of an era.”
Roger agreed. “All these newfangled ships, eh? With radar and sonar and who knows what else?”
John spotted a few horses grazing on the high dune. They raised their heads at the roar of the Jeep, then galloped away in perfect unison and disappeared over the rise.
“You’re too young to remember,” John said, “but there was a time when shipwrecks were a regular occurrence here. We were busy, taking care of survivors and salvaging cargo. Now the lifesaving crew just trots up and down the empty beaches, day after day, carrying out pointless patrols. You’ve seen them. It’s hard to keep up morale when the work seems so futile. I’m not surprised they’ve cut our funding.”
In all honesty, John was glad. It was time to go.
“I guess you can’t fight progress,” Roger said as he shifted into a higher gear and increased speed on the beach.
“I suppose not,” John replied, and looked down at the envelope that contained photographs of his daughter, his grandchildren, and his son-in-law, Logan. “But sometimes we have to try. Take me to the wireless station, will you? I need to contact the ship right away, before she leaves.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m getting off this island today.”
John had an itch to scratch—a hankering to grab Logan by the throat and remind him what would happen to him if he ever hurt Emma again. If the man had any sense, he’d never put another foot wrong for the rest of his days.
Part Five
Progress
Chapter 30
Summer 1995
There were few things Joanna Griffin liked better than an open road, especially after leaving the congestion of the city. Gridlocked traffic, obnoxious car horns, and sickening exhaust fumes had no place in the stifling humidity of a hot summer day. It didn’t help that earlier, when she’d made her way from the veterinary clinic to her car, a teenager had bumped into her and knocked her fruit basket out of her arms. Mangoes, oranges, and plums flew everywhere, bouncing and rolling across the pavement. By the time Joanna finished picking everything up, she was drenched in sweat, and the kid hadn’t even glanced back to apologize, let alone give her a helping hand. What was the world coming to, when people forgot how to be polite? When they stopped caring about each other?
At least now she was free of stoplights and traffic jams, driving past sprawling green fields and forests on the way north, to her grandfather’s house. It was a special day—an anniversary of sorts—because one year ago, Joanna’s grandmother had passed away after a long and agonizing battle with thyroid cancer. Now her grandfather lived alone in the country house they’d shared for more than fifty years, and every time Joanna walked through the door and saw their large gilt-framed wedding portrait on the wall, her heart frayed a little at the seams.
The house was so quiet these days, like a church with only one person sitting alone, praying in the pews. The absence of aromas from the kitchen, which had always been her grandmother’s domain, made the house feel lonely and abandoned.
A few fat raindrops splattered against Joanna’s windshield, which wrenched her from her thoughts. Leaning over the steering wheel, she peered up at the sky. Angry thunderclouds loomed overhead, and within seconds, a raging downpour began. Joanna touched her foot lightly to the brake pedal and switched her wipers to full speed. They batted back and forth while she gripped the steering wheel and focused all her attention on the road ahead.
Joanna’s grandfather lived in a two-story, centuries-old stone house at the base of a small forested mountain. Out front, an ancient limestone wall with a wooden gate surrounded a well-tended English garden.
