Storm Tide by Elisabeth Ogilvie

shoulder, not speaking. Winslow Fowler. The shadow was a shadow no longer, and again the tiny scene, the brief exchange of dialogue she had heard in the store was there in her mind. Not Winslow, but his father, Randolph; and Tom Robey.
    Now she knew. Now she did not tell herself it was a discussion about feeding cows, or stopping arguments among the seining crew. She knew the truth of that instant, and she would never believe any other explanation of it. It all fitted together so perfectly that she could not doubt her own logic. Only the why remained; why Randolph didn’t want Tom to let the Bennett’s men have bait; why Randolph had put it in Tom’s mind to come ashore tonight and ask that question. . . . She was sure the bullying was Tom’s own idea. Harmless, profane noise. But not his last question. . . .
    She felt cold suddenly. What if Nils did ask the Marianne to come out? What did they expect to make of it? She wished that Nils would come ashore soon so she could talk it over with him.
    They talked it over, late that night, long after the others had gone home and the seiner was heading back to Pruitt’s Harbor. At least they talked over Tom’s visit. When Joanna tried to form the words to tell him about Randolph and Tom in the store, they all sounded weak and futile, and she realized again that she had so painfully little to tell, to convince Nils as she was convinced, heart and soul.
    Nils chuckled about Tom. “So he swore, did he? Well, let him swear. If he doesn’t want the Marianne here, let him give us some bait.”
    â€œHe wanted to know if you brought the Marianne out here,” she pointed out. They were in bed, and Nils’ arm tightened around her.
    â€œI’m dog-tired, but I feel good,” he said. “What did you tell Tom?”
    â€œThat it was none of his business. But Nils, you know he sounded funny when he asked me . . . not like Tom, I mean. Too quiet.”
    â€œHe’d probably run out of wind about that time.” Nils laid his cheek against her hair. “He’d been drinking today, I guess. Sounds like it.”
    Nils was tired, his body was heavy with contented weariness, but Joanna felt strung-up and alert. “But what could he do if he wanted to keep you from bringing another seiner here?” she insisted.
    â€œDo? Oh, make a hell of a lot more noise and wave his arms around. . . . What did you think he could do? Poor old Tom.”
    But it’s not Tom alone , she thought with something very like agony. Not Tom alone. And how am I going to make you see it?

8
    W ITH THE BAIT IN , the men could put their minds to other things, and by the first of November the Donna was overboard. In her new white paint, her name in dazzling black on either side of her lovely bow, her engine installed, she rode at her mooring in the harbor. Joanna could see her from the house. When the wind was from the west’ard, and swung her around so that her stern-lettering showed, Joanna could read it with the field glasses, and the sight of those crisp black letters was like a defiant banner unfurled to the wind:
DONNA
    BENNETT’S ISLAND
    Yes, there was her name, and her home port’s name; the first boat in five years to carry the Island’s name. As Nils went about his business, hauling his traps or slipping into Brigport Harbor to sell his lobsters and get his mail and groceries, the name was there for all the world to see, and let Brigport know that Bennett’s Island was alive again. That was how Joanna thought about it; for her conviction was growing that Brigport didn’t want to see Bennett’s alive again.
    It was a secret conviction, because there was nothing tangible to base it on, and Nils was like Joanna’s father, Stephen. He didn’t hold with wildcat suspicions, he asked for proof, he didn’t look for evil until it confronted him.
    He implied that the bait episode was just another display of the Robey