Good Harbor

“What about your husband?”

“He’s in the city during the week.”

“Poor fella.”

Joyce shrugged. “Do you come here often?” She winced at the cliché.

“First time,” he said, smiling again. “It’s a grand view. Reminds me of home.”

“Ireland?”

“Yeh.”

Black hair pulled into a scant ponytail at his neck; he was fair-skinned, smooth at the knuckles and wrists. In his thirties, Joyce thought, but she couldn’t tell if he was four years younger than her or ten.

“Any other questions?” he said.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asked, horrified again at the suddenly maternal tone of her voice. What was wrong with her?

“You must have a little one at home.”

“Well, I have a twelve-year-old daughter. She’s at summer camp.” So now he knew she was on her own.

“You miss her.”

“Yes.”

r /> “I miss my little girl, too. But not her mother.”

“You’re divorced?”

“Never married her.”

And now Joyce knew that he was on his own.

A gull appeared. Together, they watched it trace the horizon. The black-and-white scene had turned sepia. Low clouds on the horizon turned out to be a fog bank, which was filtering toward them, shrouding the water, and exhaling mist into their faces.

“A mysterious morning, isn’t it?” he said, and shivered. “And I am a bit chilled. Shouldn’t have left my shoes in the truck. I could use a cup of coffee.”

“Sorry. I didn’t bring any.” Joyce clapped her hand over her mouth. He must think I’m an idiot.

He laughed. “Would you join me for a cup? There’s a lovely diner down the road a bit.”

“Sure.” Joyce wondered what her hair looked like as they started back.

She paused to negotiate a three-foot gap between two boulders, and he reached out a hand to help her across. He held on for an extra split second after she jumped over. Joyce let him break the hold.

As she got into the car to follow him to the diner in Lanesville, she thought about turning left instead of right. She could tell Kathleen about meeting a handsome Irish stranger at dawn at Halibut Point, flirting a little, and disappearing into the morning. That would be a good story and a good place to end it. The man might be a sicko who lured women to their death.

But Joyce didn’t really think he was dangerous. He had a sweet smile, and the way he looked at her was . . . It was like water in the desert. His hand was soft. She wanted to know his name. And it was just a cup of coffee in a public place. It would make an even better story.

The diner was a cheerful-looking hole-in-the-wall she’d passed a thousand times, always meaning to stop. It might have been the same place Kathleen had taken her boys.

He smiled at her as she opened the door. His name was Patrick. They ordered eggs and toast and drank cup after cup of coffee as he smoked and talked. He’d been in the States for six months, working for the cousin of a friend who ran a messenger service. He drove nights and sent earnings home to his two-year-old daughter, Clare. He sent the money orders to his mother, though. Not to Elizabeth, the girlfriend. He spit out her name like a curse.

Patrick had grown up outside of Dublin, dropped out of high school but got a night school diploma. He wanted to go to university to study geography. “Geography?” Joyce asked.

“Yeh. And poetry.” He reeled off a list of his favorite modern Irish poets, with names that sounded like a sonnet of beautiful nonsense syllables: Padriac, Ciaran, Donagh, Nuala. She watched as the words dropped from his mismatched lips — the lower more generous than the top.