Free If I Wait For You by Jane Goodger Page B

her words. It was the most fun
she’d ever had, using her hands and eyes, as well as well-chosen
words, to draw a gruesome picture of a giant squid, its tentacles
slowly, slowly engulfing a ship, screaming men diving off only to
be captured by the huge and snapping beak at the center of the
beast’s body.
    In the middle of the tale, Sara
sneaked a look at the captain who watched her beneath hooded eyes.
She had no idea if he were enjoying her tale. Indeed, he had more
the look of a menacing and hungry giant squid at the moment, so she
turned her attention to the other men who were so obviously swept
up in her bloody tale. When she was finished, all was silent for a
few moments before Mr. Mason slapped his palm on the table loudly,
letting out a loud laugh.
    “ By gor, Mrs. Mitchell,
I’ve got to get ye to tell that tale to the greenhorns. They’ll
have nightmares for a week.”
    “ No.”
    Sara’s joy at Mr. Mason’s praise
disappeared with the sharp, unrelenting sound of that word uttered
by the captain.
    “ I’ll not have my wife
entertaining the men with tales like some barroom wench, Mr.
Mason,” West said.
    “ Oh, I do beg yer
highness’s pardon,” Mr. Mason said with a little snort. But he did
not press and Sara knew no more would be said on the
matter.
    For some reason, West’s pompousness
did not disturb Sara. Instead, despite her new resolve to not care
a whit about West Mitchell, Sara could only think how nice it was
to hear him call her “my wife.”
    When dinner was finished, Sara excused
herself and made her way to the aftercabin knowing she would have
the cozy room to herself for a few hours. She was exhausted and no
longer in the mood to spin tales or make anyone laugh. She felt,
quite oddly, like crying, though she didn’t know exactly why. Sara
sat upon the cushioned sofa, her head resting on the back, and
stared at the teak-paneled ceiling. Before she knew it, tears were
streaming down her face, tickling her ears, wetting her neck. She’d
just had a wonderful time, why was she crying? Then a rush of
memories assaulted her, crushed her.
    How could she mourn a woman who never
loved her? She squeezed her eyes closed. That yearning she’d felt
as a little girl flooded her heart, even now hoping that she would
someday earn her mother’s love. Sara could not remember ever being
held. Or loved. Except, of course, by Zachary. But he was older and
had escaped their house as much as possible, leaving for good when
she was just fourteen.
    Her father, though she loved him, was
rarely around, and when he was, it was a gruff, distant man she
saw. The only time she shared with him was at the dinner table when
he was spinning his tales. Now they were both gone, forever gone.
She’d have no more chances to make her mother love her. There would
be no more stories at the dinner table. Then a memory, sharp and
cruel, came to her. That last night they were together as a family,
her father had delighted in torturing her mother with the story of
the young man who’d been murdered practically outside their
door.
    “ Heard there was some
excitement today,” John Dawes had said as he’d sawed at a piece of
pork and popped it in his mouth, chewing noisily and
opened-mouthed. His brown eyes glinted with something close to
amusement as he noted his wife’s look of disgust at his bad table
manners. He let out a noisy, liquidy burp.
    Sara had looked up expectantly at her
father, who had returned just before supper from an overnight trip
to Fall River to look over a new lumber yard.
    “ What excitement?” she
asked, feeling more tension between her parents than was typical.
She looked from one parent to the other, but they only had eyes for
each other, and the look was not loving.
    “ Murder,” her father
growled. “A young boy.” He emphasized the word “boy” in a odd way,
as if it would have some significance to Evelyn, and Sara furrowed
her brow.
    “ You’ll wrinkle your
forehead if you continue to