The Silver Boat by Luanne Rice

Author:Luanne Rice
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2011-02-18T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Rory and Dar stood stone-faced at the arrivals gate at Cork Airport, waiting for Delia to clear customs. They’d argued last night, with Dar wanting to go to the nursing home right away, and Rory saying they had to wait for Delia.

Dar accused Rory of wanting to spend the night cyber-stalking her ex, and Rory snapped that Dar was obsessed with a dream that had stopped existing the day their father sailed away. Dar had shown her the board and told her what Tim had said about their father, and for a moment Rory felt speechless. Then she came back strong.

“He wasn’t some other woman’s to love,” Rory had said. “He and Mom never got divorced.”

“I agree with you.”

“Who is this guy, anyway?” Rory had asked. Arms folded across her chest, stalwart, deep blue eyes suddenly coal black. “He doesn’t know us, and I’ll bet he never met Dad.”

“He seemed so convincing, and did carve that sign . . .”

“Well, it’s a pretty name for a boat. He could have come up with it on his own.”

“It didn’t sound that way,” Dar said. “Why would he lie? I can’t believe Dad came here and had a love affair.”

“Think about it, Dar. He was a selfish asshole. He left us for a ridiculous reason. Who cares anymore? Why are we finding it hard to believe he’d get involved with someone else?”

Dar left her alone. They had checked into a harbor guesthouse, seedier than Rory would have liked and nothing like the charming hotel in Kinsale, but with a direct line of sight to McCarthy Manufacturing—obviously so Dar could keep her eye on the place. This time the sisters had adjoining rooms. It was just as well; Rory was losing patience fast.

The flight from Boston was in, and they saw Delia lugging her suitcase behind her. No wheels, no extendable grip, an old Samsonite with a patched handle that looked about ready to give out. Once she came through the gate, Dar and Rory surrounded her in a welcoming hug.

Dar hefted the suitcase. Rory took Delia’s shoulder bag. They started off down the hall. Rory kept silent, just waiting for Dar to find the words to start filling Delia in. But to her shock, Delia was the one stammering, trying to get something out. Her face was beet red and her eyes bloodshot, as if she’d been crying or drinking or both all through the flight.

“What is it?” Dar asked, stopping short.

Delia shook her head. “Not here,” she said in a strangled voice.

Now they were really hurrying, hauling ass out the door, down the sidewalk, into the Opel.

Rory handed her a bottle of water. Delia guzzled it down, then clutched the near-empty bottle to her chest.

“Tell us what’s going on,” Dar said as they climbed into the car. Silence until she started it up, drove out of the parking lot, and then the floodgates broke.

“Jim and I are separated,” Delia said, her voice still strained, her red face cracking into wrinkles as the tears began to pour down.

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