was something of a black sheep, and his wife, Jessie, was not mentioned at all. However I have always admired them both and wish I could have known them.” I gestured toward my typewriter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
“I see. You got work to do. Well, one of these days soon I’ll be back with some work for you, Miss Fremont Jones.” A few long-legged strides took him to the door, but there he turned back. “Or is it Mrs. Jones? You wouldn’t be a widow by any chance, and you so young?”
Naturally he assumed I would not have a living husband and be working. I knew it was unreasonable to be irritated—anyone would have assumed the same; nevertheless my throat felt tight as I said, “I am unmarried and self-supporting, Mr. Furnival. Good day.”
On the way back to the lighthouse I stopped at the tobacconist’s shop, where one may also buy newspapers and magazines, and obtained a copy of the afternoon paper, which is called
The Wave.
Once I had smiled and nodded my way through the most populous part of town—that is to say, up to Pacific Street—I unfolded the paper and scanned headlines as I walked. I turned page after page, every so often hefting the strap of my bag up higher on my shoulder.
So assiduously did I search through the paper that I was unaware of entering the wood until relative darkness among the trees made the newsprint difficult to decipher.
“Oh, botheration!” I swore, pages rattling as I folded
The Wave
without attention to neatness. Various woodland creatures, startled by my noisiness, ceased their chattering and scampering. The wood became unnaturally quiet. A chill slithered down my spine, feeling like a premonition, in spite of the fact that I am not the least bit superstitious.
“Why?” I didn’t realize I had spoken aloud until I heard the word resound through the silent wood. Even my footsteps on the sandy dirt trail made scarcely a sound. Why, I reiterated silently, was there nothing at all in the newspaper about the Poor Drowned Woman?
I was beginning to think of her in capitals, as if that were her proper name. Surely there should at least have been a simple report that the body of a woman had been brought from the bay by the men of the ocean rescue.The ocean rescuers are local heroes; therefore one would assume their actions to be newsworthy.
I quickened my steps, with the consequence that grit from the sandy road worked its way between my shoes and stockings. The price of living near the beach! No matter; the sooner I got to the lighthouse, the sooner I could give
The Wave
a thorough perusal. Some sort of article had to be there. I told myself as I hurried along that the lack of a photograph was a good sign. Probably someone had already identified the unfortunate woman.
I came out of the wood to discover that there was more than one source of the gloom that had stopped my reading. The day was clouding over, and not with simple fog. A massive dark gray cloudbank rose up from the south, spreading so fast that its progress could be seen with the naked eye.
Quincy, laconic as always, was herding the Holsteins into the barn. “Dispatch come from the Coast Guard,” he called out as soon as he saw me. “Stuck it on the door.”
“Thanks, Quincy,” I called in return. Lifting my skirts I ran up the walk. My heart was pounding, not so much from the climb plus that final burst of speed as from sheer excitement. We had not had a storm since Hettie left, but if that ominous sky did not portend a storm I could not imagine what would!
The dispatch, which would have been delivered by a Coast Guardsman on bicycle from the Monterey station, said that their cutter returning from Point Sur (approximately twenty nautical miles south) had reported gale-force winds headed up the coast. I dumped newspaper and bag at the foot of the stairs and charged up to the watch room with its panoramic view. The ragged, rocky projections of Point Pinos were directly ahead of me, a
“I see. You got work to do. Well, one of these days soon I’ll be back with some work for you, Miss Fremont Jones.” A few long-legged strides took him to the door, but there he turned back. “Or is it Mrs. Jones? You wouldn’t be a widow by any chance, and you so young?”
Naturally he assumed I would not have a living husband and be working. I knew it was unreasonable to be irritated—anyone would have assumed the same; nevertheless my throat felt tight as I said, “I am unmarried and self-supporting, Mr. Furnival. Good day.”
On the way back to the lighthouse I stopped at the tobacconist’s shop, where one may also buy newspapers and magazines, and obtained a copy of the afternoon paper, which is called
The Wave.
Once I had smiled and nodded my way through the most populous part of town—that is to say, up to Pacific Street—I unfolded the paper and scanned headlines as I walked. I turned page after page, every so often hefting the strap of my bag up higher on my shoulder.
So assiduously did I search through the paper that I was unaware of entering the wood until relative darkness among the trees made the newsprint difficult to decipher.
“Oh, botheration!” I swore, pages rattling as I folded
The Wave
without attention to neatness. Various woodland creatures, startled by my noisiness, ceased their chattering and scampering. The wood became unnaturally quiet. A chill slithered down my spine, feeling like a premonition, in spite of the fact that I am not the least bit superstitious.
“Why?” I didn’t realize I had spoken aloud until I heard the word resound through the silent wood. Even my footsteps on the sandy dirt trail made scarcely a sound. Why, I reiterated silently, was there nothing at all in the newspaper about the Poor Drowned Woman?
I was beginning to think of her in capitals, as if that were her proper name. Surely there should at least have been a simple report that the body of a woman had been brought from the bay by the men of the ocean rescue.The ocean rescuers are local heroes; therefore one would assume their actions to be newsworthy.
I quickened my steps, with the consequence that grit from the sandy road worked its way between my shoes and stockings. The price of living near the beach! No matter; the sooner I got to the lighthouse, the sooner I could give
The Wave
a thorough perusal. Some sort of article had to be there. I told myself as I hurried along that the lack of a photograph was a good sign. Probably someone had already identified the unfortunate woman.
I came out of the wood to discover that there was more than one source of the gloom that had stopped my reading. The day was clouding over, and not with simple fog. A massive dark gray cloudbank rose up from the south, spreading so fast that its progress could be seen with the naked eye.
Quincy, laconic as always, was herding the Holsteins into the barn. “Dispatch come from the Coast Guard,” he called out as soon as he saw me. “Stuck it on the door.”
“Thanks, Quincy,” I called in return. Lifting my skirts I ran up the walk. My heart was pounding, not so much from the climb plus that final burst of speed as from sheer excitement. We had not had a storm since Hettie left, but if that ominous sky did not portend a storm I could not imagine what would!
The dispatch, which would have been delivered by a Coast Guardsman on bicycle from the Monterey station, said that their cutter returning from Point Sur (approximately twenty nautical miles south) had reported gale-force winds headed up the coast. I dumped newspaper and bag at the foot of the stairs and charged up to the watch room with its panoramic view. The ragged, rocky projections of Point Pinos were directly ahead of me, a
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