Free The Passion of Mary-Margaret by Lisa Samson Page A

as Jude’s grew out of her head in a heavy mass of curl that she clipped near the nape of her neck. And her lips, such sweet lips, she’d cover with pink. I thought her a free spirit, yet sweet. Not coarse or rough. Untamed, really, like periwinkle gone wild. The few times I saw her with Jude when we were young, she was just crazy about him.
    He refreshed my tea with a shaking hand. “Of course people tried to warn me. She’d been hanging around the bar down near the shoe store.”
    â€œBroomhall’s?”
    â€œYes. And then one day she met that man. But I suppose I lost her the day I bought her that boat.”
    Jude walked in from the decking, gold-brown hair mussed by the fingers of the breeze, cheeks pink, blue eyes still filled with the sun.
    â€œCan I make myself some coffee?” he asked.
    â€œThat’s fine, J.G.”
    And even at fifteen I saw their relationship in that inch-long snippet. Dad offers tea; son wants coffee.
    Tea is good. Coffee is good.
    Unfortunately, Jude and I left thirty minutes later. We skimmed over the bay, calm that day, and he said little and it didn’t feel awkward.
    I returned to school, to the prayer chapel where I said some prayers for my friend, Sister Thaddeus joining me silently. Jude went home and got the beating of his life from his stepfather.
    He should have stayed at the lighthouse, but nobody knew enough to interfere in the situation.

    Gerald called up the steps, pulling me back to the here and now. “MM? Everything all right?”
    I headed back outside and looked down to where my old friend stood on the dock beneath the lighthouse. Somehow he made it out of the boat on his own. His strength seemed to be returning, infusing a revived will in his muscle fibers, pumping blood to spots gone weak. In years gone by, the keepers kept their own livestock down there on a platform just above the boat slip. It wasn’t strange for cows and chickens to lose their lives to a squall, the waves of the bay reaching over the railing for the poor beasts and dragging them into the water. Of course, even back in the forties when I’d head out here with Jude, there was no longer a need for any livestock. They had installed a generator that ran their electric lights, and their stove and refrigerator ran on propane.
    â€œIt’s fine, Gerald. Just a little spooky. I’m hearing the voices of years gone by. Do you think you can make it up the steps?”
    He grabbed onto the railing. “If not, I’ll die trying.”
    â€œI have to admit, it would be the perfect way for you to go!”
    Gerald shook his head. “How you get away with being so caring and yet so unsentimental is beyond me.”
    I hurried down the steps and circled an arm around his waist as he climbed up to the only true home he ever knew.
    â€œI’m not sure how you and Jude turned out so differently, Gerald. Could you be any less alike?”
    â€œNo.” He grunted as he heaved his body up another step. “But Jude and I had different mothers.”
    â€œWhat?”
    We paused. He nodded, his clear blue eyes picking up the light sliding in through the pilings. “He didn’t know that. Only Hattie knows. I hate to talk about it. My father was first married to a fine woman. She didn’t have those . . . urges that Petra had. Guess sometimes our paths are handed down to us in our genes.”
    â€œOh, I hope not, friend. At least not completely. And I hope it’s not ironclad.”
    â€œWell, that’s where people like you come in, I suppose. Hopefully it makes a difference.”
    Oh dear Lord, yes. At least that’s the hope, isn’t it?
    We continued the climb. A gull swooped in and out beneath the house, weaving her flight between the iron pilings; in the distance a couple of pleasure boats skimmed along the bay, their sails fully pregnant with the breeze. People on the water just know how to live, don’t