Chapter 10 - The Name on the Harbor
Six months later, on a bright, sharp morning in early June, the wind off Boston Harbor was warm, smelling of salt, fresh tar, and the dark green seaweed clinging to the granite pilings of the Long Wharf.
A thirty-foot wooden launch with a bright teak deck and twin brass funnel stacks lay tied to the private slip behind the Custom House.
On the pier stood four people.
Evelyn was wearing a navy blue linen dress with a white collar, her dark hair pulled back into a simple knot at the base of her neck. She looked healthy, her skin dark from two months of working in the gardens at Milton, her eyes clear and untroubled as she looked out over the blue water toward the islands.
In her arms she held Eleanor.
The baby was six months old, plump, with a shock of thick dark hair and large, dark blue eyes that were currently fixed on the brass buttons of her grandfather’s coat.
Arthur stood next to them, holding a small leather bag containing three thermoses of cold tea and a box of lemon biscuits from the bakery in Quincy.
Thomas Vale sat in a folding canvas chair near the edge of the pier, his silver-headed cane resting between his knees, his old eyes squinting against the hard white light coming off the water.
A black sedan pulled up to the gate at the head of the wharf.
Graham stepped out of the front passenger seat, carrying a brown leather briefcase under his arm. He walked down the stone steps toward the launch, his boots making a crisp, dry sound on the oak planks.
"The papers were signed at ten," Graham said, standing beside Evelyn and handing her a single sheet of cream-colored parchment with three red wax seals at the bottom. "The Mercer lease on the South End property has been formally canceled by the city. The building was sold at auction forty minutes ago."
Evelyn didn't open the paper. She held it in her left hand while Eleanor’s small, warm fingers reached out to catch the red ribbon hanging from the lowest seal.
"Who bought it?" Arthur asked, leaning over his father’s chair.
"A trust," Graham said smoothly. "Registered under the name of the Eleanor Vale Foundation. The building will be torn down next month to make room for a private park for the neighborhood children."
Evelyn looked across the harbor toward the grey outline of the South End brownstones visible beyond the high iron arches of the Fort Point bridge.
She remembered the broken suitcase handle. She remembered the sound of Colleen’s heels on the oak planks, and the smell of Paige’s lily perfume mixing with the grease in the alley gutter.
It all felt very far away now—not like a life she had lived, but like an old story someone had read to her in a dark room a long time ago.
"Did you see Travis?" she asked Graham.
"He’s working at a gravel pit in New Hampshire," Graham said. "He lives in a trailer behind the office. His mother’s staying with her sister in Rhode Island."
"Does he know about the park?"
"He knows," Graham said. "I sent him a copy of the site plan this morning. With your compliments."
Evelyn looked down at her daughter.
Eleanor had caught the red ribbon between her two tiny hands and was pulling it toward her mouth with a solemn, concentrated look that was entirely Arthur’s.
"Let’s go on the boat, Dad," Evelyn said, turning toward the launch where the captain was already idling the engine, the blue smoke from the exhaust rising straight up into the warm summer air.
Arthur reached out, took the heavy canvas sea bag from his shoulder, and threw it onto the teak deck of the boat with a loud, wet thud.
He picked up Thomas by his elbows, helping the old man to his feet with that same smooth, effortless strength he had used in the Milton snow three months ago.
"Watch the step, father," Arthur said. "The tide’s coming in fast."
Thomas didn't look at the water. He looked at Evelyn, his old hand reaching out to touch the white collar of her dress where the four-pointed silver star was no longer hanging.
"You look like a Vale today, Evie," the old man said, his harsh Boston accent softer than usual in the warm salt wind.
Evelyn smiled—a small, clean movement of her mouth that reached all the way to her dark eyes.
"No, Thomas," she said, stepping down onto the teak deck as the launch rocked gently in the harbor swell. "I look like myself. And that’s plenty for today."
May you like
The launch cast off its lines at eleven o'clock.
As the boat cleared the stone pier and turned its nose toward the open water of the outer bay, the small red ribbon on the parchment paper slipped from Eleanor’s fingers and fell over the gunwale, floating for two seconds on the white foam of the wake before sinking into the cold, deep blue of the Atlantic.
