Osprey Island

“Yeah?” he said. “Yeah, I almost think I could use a drink myself,” he said softly, so sadly she almost felt sorry for him.

“I’ve some whiskey,” she offered.

“Oh . . .” he said, as though relishing the thought, knowing its power, knowing he shouldn’t, feeling how much he wanted it. “Oh . . .” he said again.

“Come, have a whiskey with me on the porch, won’t you?” she said.

“Oh, honey,” he said. “Could I do that?” His voice was different, the harsh tones gone, sadness overtaking.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll fetch it. Find us some jars—glasses— find us some glasses, why don’t you? And meet me on the porch.” She felt compelled to give him some direction, as if he were sitting there asking her, Please, tell me what to do.

He seemed grateful, and he struggled to his feet to make his way toward the bar at the far end of the dining room. “A hot redheaded angel,” he said, more to himself than to her. “A hot little angel.” Brigid went to the office, to Gavin’s staff cubby, where they’d stashed the whiskey.

On the deck, Lance took over Gavin’s chair from earlier that evening; Brigid reclaimed her own. She tipped whiskey into their glasses. He lifted his gingerly. “Cheers,” she suggested. “To better evenings.”

“Shit,” he said, and clinked her glass. He was a practiced drinker— downed his shot and lifted the bottle, his eyes on her: OK if I take another? She gestured: Be my guest. He poured and drank again.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” she said.

“Fuck you.” His tone mocked hers. Then he said, “It’s been a bad night.”

“Cheers,” she agreed.

“So what fucked you up tonight, pretty girl?” he asked.

“Whiskey,” she said, “and men.” She drank.

The night was quiet. Across the sound, pier lights from the mainland wharves and docks reflected on the water. A radio tower blinked. In the water, red and white lighted buoys bounced as the tide lapped and strummed against Sand Beach. A seagull flew in, landed on the porch railing nearby, and pecked at a fallen corn chip.

“And what’s it been that fucked with you this evening, Mr. Squire?” Brigid said.

Lance laughed again. “Mrs. Squire.” He took another long drink.

“I expect that’s as it’s meant to be,” Brigid said.

“Hmm.” Lance snorted. “Yeah, guess so.”

The seagull knocked the chip to the porch, hopped down behind it. Peck peck peck.

“Ever been married, beautiful?” he asked suddenly.

She laughed at that. “I’m just nineteen.”

Unfazed, he said, “So was I.”

“Nineteen? When you were married?”

He nodded. “Lorna was seventeen . . . prettiest girl you ever saw.”

“Is she still, then?” Brigid asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Lorna,” he said, as if introducing them.

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” she told him.

He wrinkled his brow. “You’re kind of a bitchy little thing, aren’t you?”

“What?” she said. “Why? What’ve I done?”

“What, me? Who, me?”

“And I’d begun to think you weren’t such a bollix as they’ve made you out to be.”

“What the fuck’s that?”

“Bollix? An arsehole,” she said.

“Well, you’d be wrong about that,” he told her.

“I suppose I would, wouldn’t I?” She drank the rest of her whiskey down and reached for the bottle.

“Should I fuck him up a little for you? Your college boy? He’s the one you’re pissed at? Should I fuck him around some for you?” Lance offered.

“No,” she said. “Grand of you to offer, all the same.”

“No problem.” There was another pause. “You like it when they treat you wrong?” he asked.

Brigid let out a soft snort. “I bloody must, mustn’t I?”

Some quiet, sipping.

“What’s happened between you and your wife?” she asked.

“Oh, married woes,” he said, as though she wouldn’t understand.

“I see: you’ll ask the questions, but you won’t stoop to answer them then, will you?”

Lance was flustered, suddenly afraid she might get up and leave. “No no no no no,” he said. “No, you got me wrong.”

“Oh I do, do I?”

“What do you want to know? I’ll tell you. You tell me what you want to know.” He waited. “Come on, you ask me. Anything you want to know.”

Brigid considered. “Do you cheat on your wife, Mr. Squire?”

Lance paused before answering. “I do not,” he told her.

“Hmm,” she said.

“What’s that mean?”

“That’s the truth, is it?”

“Do I look like I’m lying?”

She fixed her stare on him. “You always rather look as though you’re lying.”

“Nothing new,” he said, dejected. “You’re nothing new, sweetheart. That’s nothing, nothing, nothing new to me in the world.”

“Hmm,” Brigid said again. “Why’s that?”

“Why’s what?”

“Why’s it you always look as though you’re lying?”

“Couldn’t tell you.” He pouted out his lower lip and shook his head slowly.

“Couldn’t or wouldn’t?” she asked, but all he did was laugh.

“You wouldn’t believe I was telling the truth anyway, would you?”

Now she laughed. “You claim you’ll not cheat on your wife,” she repeated, a detective taking inventory of the facts. “Yet you look on me as though you surely would . . .” It was not something she’d have said sober, and she knew it. Her ego was talking, nursing bruises.