The Sacred Shore by T. Davis Bunn

Uncle Guy to see to the passage.”
    The passage . Another reminder of things to come. “You’re sure …”
    â€œMama, we’ve been through all that.”
    It was true. They had been through it, but Louise kept hoping, praying, begging God to make Nicole change her mind.
    â€œWhen you see Catherine—”
    â€œI may never see her.”
    â€œI thought that was why you’re going.”
    Nicole hesitated, as though fearful to look that far ahead. As though she dared not get her hopes centered on such a possibility, lest she be dreadfully disappointed. “We do not know if she’s still there. If she is even alive, for that matter.”
    Louise shivered in spite of the heat. “She’s alive.”
    â€œHow do you know? It’s been more than eighteen years. She might—”
    â€œI’d know. I’d feel it.” Unconsciously Louise placed a hand over her heart.
    Nicole turned her eyes to the hazy sky. Not even a bird disturbed the shimmering haze. There was only the stifling heat and noise and dust and confusion of milling bodies, both man and beast.
    The three-day trek from Vermilionville had been grueling. Even Henri had looked exhausted by the time they had reached the mouth of the Mississippi. Guy’s young ones, who had begun the journey with all the excitement of childhood, now stood solemnly and mutely upon the docks in a bewildered, weary little group. The youngest child had fretted constantly from the irritating heat rash covering his entire little body. The crying baby wore on nerves already stretched to the limit.
    Louise sat beside her daughter and spotted Henri bending his way through cargo and milling bodies and coils of hemp rope. She watched as he approached an officer in the ongoing negotiations to secure passage for the travelers on the boat that rested in the harbor. She could not bear to watch, so she turned her eyes back to where her daughter sat and gazed over the deep-running waters. We should be talking , thought Louise. We should be saying all those things that we’ll wish we had said once the boat pulls up anchor . Yet she could not think of a single comment or question. Perhaps they had said it all. Perhaps they were too fatigued from fighting feelings and the elements and the heat to be able to converse. Perhaps they didn’t want to speak—for speaking meant thinking, and Louise was not certain she could bear to think of what lay ahead.
    It was Nicole who broke the silence. “Would you like another sip of water?”
    The water jug lay near at hand. Louise knew that she should drink. But the water was warm and insipid. What she would give for a cup of cool water from the village well, or a refreshing glass of cider brought up from the depths of the cellar. She shook her head.
    â€œIn this heat you should drink, Mama.” Nicole lifted the jug to her own lips and swallowed several times. A trickle of water dripped from her chin and she lifted a hand to wipe it away.
    Louise, watching silently, suddenly felt moisture on her own chin. But it was not water. It was a tear that splashed a trail down her cheek, followed closely by another. Nicole reached out and took her hand. “What are your thoughts, Mama?”
    Louise stirred and blinked back more threatening tears. She lifted her other hand to brush at the wetness on her cheeks. “So many things,” she eventually managed to answer. “So many things. Things I have pushed back for so many years. You—your leaving has brought them all to mind again.”
    Nicole leaned away and showed her mother yet again this strange womanly gaze. One so full of calm and strength Louise could not observe it without thinking that she had already lost the child she loved.
    She breathed hard, seeking to press her thoughts into shape. “I wonder what it is like in Acadia. I wonder if the spring still comes to the meadow in such lavish color and brightness. I