protested, but his exit from the car was slow, and by the time he reached his porch Leigh had deposited the bags inside on the living room table that served as eating place, library and worktable. Sam’s housekeeping skills, never laudable, had deteriorated.
From the dirty cups and dishes lying about, scattered newspapers and bits and pieces of tools, Leigh figured that Sam had been living alone too long. When he pushed open the screen door, he gave a halfhearted gesture with his free hand.
“Don’t do much entertainin’ these days,” he said, breaking into a wheezing cackle that ended in a coughing fit. Leigh led him to a chair and got a glass of water from the kitchen.
While he sipped the water, she surveyed the room again, noticing the array of photographs mounted on the walls. They began in one section of wall near his bookshelf, with dog-eared black-and-white photos of Sam and his longdeceased wife—young parents each with a child in arms. Then an assortment of Sam and his fishing buddies standing in front of all the various boats Sam had piloted in Pamlico Sound and the Atlantic. There were familiar faces, but none Leigh could fix a name to.
She paused in front of one photograph—a young Sam with his arm around another man, both holding pipes and wearing squall gear. Nets hung heavy with fish behind them on the bow of a boat—the Heron, Leigh could just make out. Pride from a day’s fishing glowed in their faces.
“This one here—the other guy looks like my grandfather.”
“Why, sure it is! Your Pa’s daddy and I were good friends. Mind, he was older’n me, but we fished together a good ten years before his arthritis got to him.”
Leigh peered more closely. The resemblance between her father and grandfather was strong. She wondered if her grandparents on her mother’s side looked like Ellen. That set of grandparents had died when Leigh was still an infant, and she’d only seen a few photographs. Pete Randall’s parents—native Ocracokers—had passed away when Leigh was in elementary school, but she could still summon memories of them. When she was home, she’d go through her own family photos more diligently.
She inched along the wall, examining photographs of Jen’s parents. They were an eccentric couple for Ocracoke, she thought, even in the late 1960s. With their bell-bottom jeans, Nehru shirts and love beads they looked as though they’d been airlifted directly from Haight-Ashbury. Leigh remembered Jen’s whispered story during one sleepover.
Her mother had run away from the boring life on Ocracoke and traveled across the country. She’d met Jen’s father and had a whirlwind courtship, resulting in Jen and a sudden return to Ocracoke when funds ran out. Jen always said her father had tried to make a go of the local life, but his romantic soul had trouble adapting to a fishing village. Then, two short years after Jen’s birth, both parents had been lost at sea in an unexpected storm.
When she reached a big section of photographs of Jen growing up, Leigh stopped. Sam Logan’s love for his granddaughter came through in every shot. It was ironic, Leigh thought, that the tragedy that took a daughter from him also gave him Jen. For she doubted that Jen’s parents, had they lived, would have spent the rest of their lives in Ocracoke.
The collection of snapshots of Jen and Leigh were familiar. She and Jen had framed or stuck most of them on the wall themselves, tacking masking tape behind each one and arranging them artistically on the painted barn board. Leigh’s eyes flicked past them, settling on a bunch at the door she’d never seen before. Snaps of Jen and Spencer just after they’d eloped, judging by their clothes. They must have asked someone to photograph them, and there they were, posing awkwardly in front of Spencer’s father’s truck outside a motel.
Leigh waited for the quick stab of pain she expected. Instead, she felt a flash of pity for the two teenagers. They
From the dirty cups and dishes lying about, scattered newspapers and bits and pieces of tools, Leigh figured that Sam had been living alone too long. When he pushed open the screen door, he gave a halfhearted gesture with his free hand.
“Don’t do much entertainin’ these days,” he said, breaking into a wheezing cackle that ended in a coughing fit. Leigh led him to a chair and got a glass of water from the kitchen.
While he sipped the water, she surveyed the room again, noticing the array of photographs mounted on the walls. They began in one section of wall near his bookshelf, with dog-eared black-and-white photos of Sam and his longdeceased wife—young parents each with a child in arms. Then an assortment of Sam and his fishing buddies standing in front of all the various boats Sam had piloted in Pamlico Sound and the Atlantic. There were familiar faces, but none Leigh could fix a name to.
She paused in front of one photograph—a young Sam with his arm around another man, both holding pipes and wearing squall gear. Nets hung heavy with fish behind them on the bow of a boat—the Heron, Leigh could just make out. Pride from a day’s fishing glowed in their faces.
“This one here—the other guy looks like my grandfather.”
“Why, sure it is! Your Pa’s daddy and I were good friends. Mind, he was older’n me, but we fished together a good ten years before his arthritis got to him.”
Leigh peered more closely. The resemblance between her father and grandfather was strong. She wondered if her grandparents on her mother’s side looked like Ellen. That set of grandparents had died when Leigh was still an infant, and she’d only seen a few photographs. Pete Randall’s parents—native Ocracokers—had passed away when Leigh was in elementary school, but she could still summon memories of them. When she was home, she’d go through her own family photos more diligently.
She inched along the wall, examining photographs of Jen’s parents. They were an eccentric couple for Ocracoke, she thought, even in the late 1960s. With their bell-bottom jeans, Nehru shirts and love beads they looked as though they’d been airlifted directly from Haight-Ashbury. Leigh remembered Jen’s whispered story during one sleepover.
Her mother had run away from the boring life on Ocracoke and traveled across the country. She’d met Jen’s father and had a whirlwind courtship, resulting in Jen and a sudden return to Ocracoke when funds ran out. Jen always said her father had tried to make a go of the local life, but his romantic soul had trouble adapting to a fishing village. Then, two short years after Jen’s birth, both parents had been lost at sea in an unexpected storm.
When she reached a big section of photographs of Jen growing up, Leigh stopped. Sam Logan’s love for his granddaughter came through in every shot. It was ironic, Leigh thought, that the tragedy that took a daughter from him also gave him Jen. For she doubted that Jen’s parents, had they lived, would have spent the rest of their lives in Ocracoke.
The collection of snapshots of Jen and Leigh were familiar. She and Jen had framed or stuck most of them on the wall themselves, tacking masking tape behind each one and arranging them artistically on the painted barn board. Leigh’s eyes flicked past them, settling on a bunch at the door she’d never seen before. Snaps of Jen and Spencer just after they’d eloped, judging by their clothes. They must have asked someone to photograph them, and there they were, posing awkwardly in front of Spencer’s father’s truck outside a motel.
Leigh waited for the quick stab of pain she expected. Instead, she felt a flash of pity for the two teenagers. They
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