Daughter of Providence by Julie Drew

Author:Julie Drew [DREW, JULIE]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC 014000, FIC 019000
ISBN: 9781590208946
Publisher: The Overlook Press
Published: 2011-11-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

August in Rhode Island is a volatile, untamed thing. Some days are blisteringly hot, hazy and breathless. Others are foggy, the constant drip and drizzle of moisture bone-chilling, the condensation so thick it is indistinguishable from rain. The light changes, becoming diffused, as if shining through a silk veil in an effort to soften the coming blow. The days shorten as the month progresses, and the winds that blow inland bite, a reminder of how bitter—and inescapable—winter is. Summer spends itself on squalls that spring up unexpectedly, pounding the coast with rain and ripping shingles off homes. Hurricanes gather themselves in warmer waters until September, when they lumber inexorably up the eastern seaboard, the onslaught of wind and tidal surge wiping out whole towns, crops and livestock and hope.

I have always loved August for its sheer unpredictability. Each deep inhalation of warm, late-summer air insists I pay attention, appreciate, store up warmth and food and memories for the bleak, brutal days ahead.

August that summer kept a slow, even pace so as not to call attention to itself, and we were happy to oblige. Its first days were deceptively calm, warm and dry, inviting us to relax. I went to Ezra’s nearly every day, intent on finishing the boat. I was so close, eager to get her out on the water before it grew too cold. And, of course, after my dinner with Oliver, I had begun to think about what it would be like to keep doing this, not as some quirky hobby, an indulgence of my father’s until I was safely married, but as a career, designing and building through the years, growing and changing along with the boats I built. I imagined myself an independent businesswoman, a skilled and respected craftsman.

My daydreams during those first days of August were all about boats, and about a life I had never seen a woman live. I allowed myself a glimpse—just a glimpse—of a life with purpose, making things that were beautiful and useful. The act of doing something that mattered stretching out endlessly in front of me. I began to believe that I had the strength to fight for that life.

August lulled me with its blue skies, scudding white clouds, gently lapping tides that marked the passing hours I could never get back. I dreamed of my boat when I was away from her, and when I was at Ezra’s I rolled her in the cradles when the planking was complete, eager to get started on the deck and seats. Maria Cristina waited at home, or wandered Milford alone when Deirdre Sullivan was busy with chores. I was obsessed with finishing the boat now that she had begun to take on her finished shape beneath my hands. When I caught sight of Maria Cristina digging in the sand with a stick, or standing silhouetted against the sunset while I worked, I told myself that we would have a lifetime to spend together. I could not be bothered with her just now—or with guilt, either.

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