There's No Place Like Home Read online

  Time, ever the miscreant, ever the mischievous mistress, plays its usual tricks upon Connor, dragging days out to feel like weeks, and weeks like months, then compacting months into the space of a week, and he finds himself watching the eastern sea for signs of the ship. He finds himself consulting his calendar and marking days off, when he used to barely care for the arrival of the ship at all, except that it meant fresh food and new spirits and the occasional batch of news from beyond his island, and perhaps the silent company of Elijah.

  Now, though, he finds himself waiting for the ship with impatience he’d never known before. It bothers him, his impatience. His hope. That hope frightens him—to survive alone in so desolate a place requires a certain numbness, an apathy, a willful lack of concern for the company of others, disdain for what the future might hold.

  Until Tess, each day of Connor’s future held the same as the day before; now, though, the future holds something else: the unknown. Possibility.

  It is a tantalizing thing.

  He still spends much of his time at the railing of the lighthouse, watching the sun rise and set. In his hands, he holds the small square of paper she’d handed him upon her departure, now wrinkled and thin from much folding and unfolding. The wind plucks it, trying to snatch it away, but he holds it firmly. On the paper are written a few words in a neat, looping, feminine script:

  * * *

  I SHALL BE A VERY PATIENT TEACHER, MR. YATES.

  —TESS

  * * *

  He reads this over and over again, thinking back to that conversation, and hoping that her note means she will return, and that she will want him.

  Folded into the square of paper had been a scrap of lace, which smelled of perfume, of woman. He isn’t at all sure where the lace had come from, and his imagination plays tantalizing tricks on him, suggesting all kinds of possibilities. It really is just a scrap of lace, a few small inches of fabric that could have come from a handkerchief or a bedspread or the rags of an old dress. But it smells of her, the way he remembered her smelling.

  He keeps this piece of lace folded into a scrap of cloth and tucked away in his Bible, a generations-old keepsake handed down from grandfather to grandson. The note he keeps in his pocket, and withdraws to read often.

  And so, he waits.

  He lives the life he’s always lived, there on the remote island, going about his daily chores the way he always has; nothing has changed. But yet…all is changed. She changed things just by existing, by offering even the faintest ray of hope.

  No, he tells himself. Don’t be absurd. You are a silent, sullen, soldier prone to nightmares, he tells himself. You drink too much. You live on a remote island far from civilization. You have nothing to offer anyone, let alone a vibrant, funny, beautiful woman like Tess Kinross—

  She said it herself, though, he argues back: she knows what she wants. And she made rather clear what she wanted—

  Unless you were imagining that—

  The note referring to our conversation doesn’t leave much room for misunderstanding, though—

  And so, around and around it goes.

  Days, weeks, and months more, stretching and compacting. The air grows cooler and he harvests his vegetables—he knows from the inventory tally in his ledger that the ship is due soon.

  He is in his garden, turning over the soil so it will go fallow for the following spring. His back aches, and his hands are blistered from the rough handle of the hoe. He straightens, stretching his lower back, resting the hoe against his shoulder and rubbing his stinging palms on his trousers.

  There, off in the distance, is the ship. Anchored, sails furled. He can almost make out the bustle of activity on the deck, tiny specks hustling to and fro, the shadowy outline of the lighter as it is lowered.

  His heart pounds.

  Is she on that lighter?

  Will eight months of the wide, complex, interesting world beyond this isolated shore have changed her mind?

  He turns back to his work, knowing it will be quite some time before the lighter is loaded and longer yet before it can make the trip from ship to shore. He finishes turning over the garden, washes his hands at the well pump, goes inside to change his shirt. Pausing at the mirror by the front door, he examines his reflection—his wild, long, tangled hair, his unkempt beard.

  He stumbles hurriedly to the bedroom, finds a comb on the bureau, drags it through his hair and his beard. His reflection, then, is somewhat more presentable—but his shirt is buttoned wrong.

  He curses his foolishness, and takes a deep breath. Considers stopping in the kitchen for a slug of whiskey to fortify his nerves, but rejects the idea—Tess would not want to shackle herself to a drunkard.

  He is a mass of jangling nerves by the time the lighter arrives, and his heart sinks when only Captain Kinross is in the boat. Tying off the line, Connor begins immediately retrieving supplies, without a word. Captain Kinross helps him, handing up bags and sacks and barrels and crates. Not a word is spoken until the lot is piled on the dock and tallied, and then Kinross ascends to the dock, wipes his forehead with a kerchief, and settles his weight on the top of a barrel.

  “You were hoping to see Tess, unless I’m mistaken,” Kinross says.

  Connor just nods.

  “She took ill in the weeks before we departed.” Captain Kinross delves a hand in the breast pocket of his suit coat. “A dreadful case of influenza. She would have taken berth for this journey even ill, but I feared for her life, and forbade it.”

  “She will recover, then?” Connor asks.

  “Oh, most certainly. Her anger at me may not, but her health will.” Kinross hands Connor an envelope. “She bade me give you this.”

  “I see.” Connor takes the letter, slices it open with his knife then and there, and withdraws the letter.

  * * *

  MY DEAREST CONNOR,

  * * *

  CURSE THIS ILLNESS, AND MY BODY FOR SUCCUMBING! I HAVE MISSED YOU MUCH THESE PAST MONTHS. I HAVE SPENT NEARLY EVERY WAKING MOMENT THINKING OF YOU, AND I LOOK FORWARD MOST EAGERLY TO OUR REUNION. I DO NOT DARE LEAVE SUCH WEIGHTY MATTERS AS OUR FUTURE TO THE VAGARIES OF TIME AND THE CAPRICE OF THE SEA, AND SO I RISK ALL WITH AS MUCH FORWARDNESS AS I POSSESS:

  IF YOU SHALL HAVE ME, I WOULD BE YOUR WIFE.

  I KNOW WELL THIS IS NOT HOW SUCH MATTERS ARE CUSTOMARILY ARRANGED, BUT I AM FAR TOO IMPATIENT TO WAIT. IF YOU DESIRE THIS UNION, ASK MY FATHER FOR MY HAND WHILE HE IS THERE, AND TELL HIM I HAVE ALREADY AGREED. THEN, I WILL, WHETHER SICK OR HALE, JOIN YOU ON YOUR—NAY, ON OUR ISLAND—AS YOUR WIFE. IF YOU SHOULD AGREE, I WILL BE MRS. CONNOR YATES BY THE COMING SPRING.

  WITH ALL OF MY LOVE, AND MORE YET TO COME,

  SOON TO BE YOURS,

  TESS

  * * *

  Connor reads the letter through a dozen times before the meaning and the import of the contents truly sink into his head and his heart.

  “Well?” Captain Kinross grumbles. “What does she say?”

  Connor blows out a breath, considering his next words with great care. “She regrets her absence, and curses her illness.”

  “Is that all?” Kinross’s voice betrays doubt, and not a little amusement. “I seem to see more words upon the page than that.”

  Connor nods, reading it through yet again. “She bids me—” He stops, teeth clicking down on his words. “What I mean to say, sir, is that I humbly beg you for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

  Kinross is quiet a moment, considering. “Well, I do admit this is not momentously shocking news to me. You were, these past months, nearly all my daughter would speak of.”

  “Sir, I—”

  Kinross interrupts. “Connor—Mr. Yates. Answer me this: is this marriage your idea, or hers?”

  Connor just blinks. “Both.”

  “You told me, last we spoke, that I have a headstrong daughter on my hands. You little know how much so, I fear. I would not want to see her suffer for getting what she thinks she wants, and coming to regre
t it. Your isolation here is total, for the majority of the year.”

  Connor nods. “I said so to her myself, back in the spring. I believe I love her, sir, and will love her all the more every day, if I should be so honored as to have her as my wife. I would never begrudge her the chance to change her mind. If she were to ever want to leave, if she grew to hate this place, I would see her gone on the next ship, so she could find her happiness elsewhere. But yet, as long as she willfully desires to be my wife, I will love her and protect her with all that I am.” He is nearly panting with exertion, having used so many words all at once, and so properly.

  Captain Kinross nods. “I believe you. You have my blessing.”

  The rest of the visit passes swiftly—without Tess, the men find little to speak of, and so waste little time transferring the various goods to the residence and packing them away. There is a pot of coffee, a little food, less conversation, and then Captain Kinross makes his departure.

  Standing on his lighthouse, Connor watches the ship vanish over the horizon. He finds it little coincidence that the ship vanishes from sight at the exact moment of sundown, when the last orange slice of sun sinks under the horizon, and he takes it as a portent of good fortune when the rim of the bright yellow-orange-crimson orb flashes green.

  Another moment, and the sun is gone.

  Now comes the long, cruel winter. Storms, and bitter cold. Endless wind, sharper than razors. Deep nights, dull days.

  It is, in every way possible, the longest and most lonely winter Connor has ever known.

  Eagerness to see Tess consumes him, and stretches the passing of the weeks and months out to unbearable agony. It is worsened by the fact that there could be no letters in the meantime, even if could he find the words to put on paper. He tries, just for practice, but his penmanship is so awful and the few words he did manage so clumsy that he burns the scraps of paper.

  The waiting is torture, and with the storms raging so frequently and the cold so brutal, there is little enough for him to do besides sit in the lighthouse and tend the light. He very nearly lives up there, that winter. He has a stockpile of bits of wood of odd shapes and sizes, and he whiles away the time whittling, carving little figures, likenesses of horses and wolves and bison and whales and dogs and roosters, until he has enough to fill a crate.

  The storms fade, flowers bloom, and warmth returns.

  His inventory tells him the ship is due soon—he’s nearly out of coffee, sugar, tobacco, and wheat, which he very carefully rations.

  Then, on a sunny but cool evening, he spies the ship cresting the horizon, spurring a freshet of panic in him.

  He quells it, with difficulty.

  As the lighter approaches, he combs his hair and beard, changes into fresh clothing; he considers attempting to trim his hair and beard, but decides against it—she claimed a desire to marry him as he is, so why attempt to change himself into something else? If she wants his hair and beard trimmed, perhaps she will do it herself.

  He does, however, find himself waiting on the dock, impatiently whittling away at a block of wood, slowly revealing the shape of a flower.

  He finishes the flower when the lighter is still only halfway between ship and shore, and so he pulls out a scrap of sandpaper out of his pocket and sets to work smoothing out the edges. He has little enough to offer Tess, and this, at least, is something of his own doing which he can present as a token of his affection.

  At long last, the lighter comes to rest against the dock. Within the lighter, aside from the supplies, are Captain Kinross, Tess, a black-clad priest or minister—Connor is not a religious man, and little knows the difference—and a handful of men who must be ship’s crew—the first mate, the bosun, and the quartermaster, most likely.

  Connor’s nerves thrum into life, then, at the sight of so many people. He has not encountered so many people all at once since the war, and he finds his heart squeezing and clotting in his throat, his pulse hammering wildly, irrational fears racing in his mind.

  Then his eyes land on Tess, and all quiets within him.

  She is wearing a yellow dress, and it is not designed for practicality this time, but for allure. The neck is scooped almost indecently low, and it hugs her waist and hips, and when she steps from lighter to dock, Connor sees a glimpse of her calf. Her eyes dance merrily, happily, as she drifts across the dock to where Connor stands, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other clutching the carven flower.

  Tess stops mere inches from him, gazing up. “Why Connor, you’ve combed your hair and beard.”

  “Probably needs a bit of a trim,” he mumbles.

  She only smiles. “Nonsense.” She reaches up and runs her fingers through his beard. “You’re quite handsome just like this.”

  “Your dress is…” he hems and haws, and tries again. “You’re the loveliest woman I ever saw.”

  “Thank you, Connor. I purchased it especially for this day.”

  He just stares down at Tess, drinking in her face, the black luster of her hair, the vivid azure of her eyes, the pale cream of her skin. “You’re here. Felt like you’d never get here, some days.”

  Her hand rests on his chest. “Oh, the voyage here was absolutely interminable! And Papa even says we made excellent time. I just…I couldn’t bear a single minute apart from you.”

  “Thought I’d dreamed it all.”

  “So did I.”

  “You…you really want to be here? With me?”

  “There’s nowhere I’d rather be, and no one I’d rather be with, than here, with you.”

  “Why?” He can’t help the question. “Why me?”

  She combs her fingers through his beard again, her touch gentle and affectionate. “My heart chose you. The moment I stepped onto this dock and saw you, I knew. And when I stepped off the dock the last time, I knew I’d be back. And now that I’ve returned, I just know…”

  “Know what?”

  “I shan’t be leaving again. I’m home, now.”

  “I’m not much for pretty talk, Tess.” He steps a little closer, so he can almost feel her body against his, a tease, a ghost of a touch, a promise. “But if you’re patient, and you’re willing, I’ll learn how to love you. That’s about the best I can promise.”

  “I don’t care overly much for fancy words. I can get those in books, if that’s what I want.” She takes his hands in hers. “I just want you, Connor. Just as you are. Gruff, and quiet, and dependable.”

  “Don’t deserve you, Tess.”

  “That’s the thing about love, Connor—it’s not something we earn, or deserve. We have only to accept it, and give all we have in return.”

  He hesitates a moment, and then shows her the flower he carved for her. She takes the carving and examines it with surprise and joy.

  “Why, Connor! I had no idea you were such an artisan!” She tucks it into the valley of her bosom, and then returns her gaze to Connor’s.

  “It’s just...I just wanted to have something to give you.”

  “It’s lovely. I shall treasure it always.”

  Behind Tess, the other men were unloading the goods, but for once, Connor let himself stay still, let himself just stand and hold the woman who had decided she was his, and he hers.

  “I got one question, though,” he murmurs.

  She smiles softly up at him. “Which is what?”

  “The lace, that bit of lace you gave me with the note.” He hesitates, and then continues. “Where’s it from? What’d you cut it out of?”

  Her smile is less soft, and more playful. “Well, Connor, I’m not sure it’s proper or decent that I tell you.” She tugs on his beard, an eyebrow quirked up. “You’ll have to wait until after we’re married to find that out.”

  His face heats. “Oh. The wondering has been eating at me, these months.”

  “You won’t have to wonder long.” She glances at the minister, who has remained in the boat, perusing a passage in his Bible. “Reverend Galloway can marry us today.”

>   “Today?”

  She nods, and then eyes him quizzically. “Unless you’ve a reason to want to wait?”

  “No!” he protests, a little too suddenly. “No.” He eyes the cluster of men standing around the pile of supplies. “There’s no one else you want with you for the wedding?”

  “My mother died many years ago, and I’ve spent most of my life aboard ship with these men. They’re nearly as much my family as Papa.” She pats his chest. “And really, all I need is you.”

  “You have me.” He gestures at the island. “This place…it’s all I have to offer, Tess.”

  “As long as you’re here, I shall be more than happy.”

  He shakes his head, not quite able to dislodge the lingering doubt and disbelief. “You’re sure, Tess? I know I’ve asked this more than once, I just…I need you to be sure. About me, and about this life.”

  She laughs, then. “I’ve had a year to think on this, Connor—a year to consider the hardships, the realities, and the dangers. I’ve thought of little else, all this time.” Her hand comes to rest on his cheek. “I am absolutely sure this is what I want. I have not a single doubt. Not one.” A glance at her father, and the other men, huddled together, trying to light their pipes despite the wind. “Now. Kiss me, quickly, while they’re distracted.”

  Her lips are softer than velvet, and warm, and damp, and she tastes of something sweet. It is a moment only, a promise of a kiss, lips on lips for mere seconds, but Time plays its trick on Connor, and he feels the kiss to last a lifetime, and more.

  They are married just outside the garden, with the sun setting. Tess clutches a spray of daisies and gardenias Connor has grown, and she wears a white dress, which leaves Connor’s breath coming short and pulse hammering hard, and he wears his only suit. There is a time of conviviality afterward with the captain and the other officers, a bottle of wine brought by Captain Kinross for the occasion is opened and shared, and then, with a few tears on the part of Tess, and a gruff, huffing hug by the captain, the lighter departs. Connor and Tess watch it shrink across the water, watch it be drawn up into the ship, and then the ship’s sails drop down and belly out in the stiff wind. A cannon blasts once, a farewell, and then the ship slowly dwindles over the horizon.