Deluded Your Sailors (44 page)

Gabriel smiled. —Where'd you learn that?

Dorinda gave up trying to find the nerve to ask Gabriel to spend the night – just spend the night, be in the same part of this big house, because sleeping – or trying to sleep – got lonely. She wouldn't mind a good shag with him, couldn't help comparing his body to Seth's –
Jesus, Seth
– but she wanted something more. And she had no idea how to ask for it.

They parted, Gabriel sleepy from the big supper and the two warm houses. Dorinda fell asleep under two sedatives on the couch, breathing in Gabriel's scent. Downstairs, Gabriel wanted to kick in the studies for
Sea Sentry
, as though destruction might mean something. Instead, he walked carefully around them and got in bed. Maybe the caffeine in the tea, maybe the weird feeling off Dorinda, maybe the whole God damned last ten months – something made him dream the whole night long. Of gas and lighters, of St Raphael's, of a man who slowly spun, shouting at him through the wind.

Seth Seabright paced westward along the waterfront, knees and healing fingers aching hard in the damp. Cruise ship season might be finally over, small mercies. He felt run down, like he'd not eaten a proper meal in weeks – true. Like he'd not slept without the aid of some or another drug for months – also true. Like he'd kept a hard watch in the fog without knowing what he watched for, or why.

He'd met Nichole in a coffee shop line that afternoon.

Mischief and joy lit up her eyes.
I'm turning that play manuscript
into a novel. My publisher's really interested.

He threw his cigarette butt in the harbour, weakly, with his right hand; the ember glowed as it arced up, then down. A seagull tried to eat it.

I got to start writin this shit down again.

—Nichole.

—Evan, good, I was looking for you. VOIC is on the phone.

They want a comment on Jackman destroying
Sea Sentry
.

—Did you say anythin to them?

—Just told them I had no comment, but I'd be happy to put them in touch with a supervisor.

—I'm not a supervisor.

—I guess that's why they're still on hold.

—Nichole, you want to grab a coffee after work?

—Me?

—Anyone else here called ‘Nichole'?

She swallowed, reached out for the stone counter behind her, gripped it. —I'd like to, but I need to get my loins respectable first.

—You need to what?

—Tomorrow any good to you?

—Tomorrow's fine.

She smiled at him, eyes crinkling up with pleasure – but still sad. Compassionate.

That, Evan recognized as Nichole spoke again, was what sparked her beauty, no matter how much she tried to hide it with tricks of shadow and light.

To Dr Miller, Nichole explained it this way. —I simply chose not to go. I did not comply; I did not respond like a groomed child; I chose. Spit, not swallow. Poorly chosen figure of speech, maybe, but it gets the job done.

Miller nodded, smiling.—So exactly what did you say to Evan?

Knowing Miller would eventually pick out the sense of it, Nichole cherished the truth of her reply.

—I told him, I can't go out tonight because I've got to fray well.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The woman-disguised-as-a-man storyline is an old one and turns up in several folk songs. The one that sparked me is ‘The Handsome Cabin Boy,' as sung by Kate Bush. When I first heard the song in 1990, I knew I'd be running with the idea – but it turned out I had to write
Sky Waves
first.

The song that helped me finish this novel is ‘Maid on the Shore,' as sung by The Once.

Special thanks to David Adams Richards for mentoring – and slogging through – an early draft of what is now
Acts of Fever
during a correspondence course through the Humber School for Writers.

Warm thanks to my husband, David Hallett, who reads nearly every word I write, to my parents, sister and brother-in-law, my mother-in-law, and to my daughters, my compassionate girls, Madeleine and Alexandra: I cherish you. Jeff Bursey, for a critical eye on earlier versions of
Acts of Fever
and a long friendship. Robin Martin, for years of ready history and ready kindness. My editor, Susan Rendell, for a thoughtful, close and very helpful edit. Phil Churchill. Creative Book Publishing. Cristin Fraser at True North Records. Anne Furlong, for helping this heathen with the saints. Blair Harvey. Joel Thomas Hynes. Madison Violet. Melanie Oates. The Once. Lee Thompson. Leslie Vryenhoek. Dave Walsh. Russell Wangersky. Kathleen Winter.

I crewed on Bytown Brigantine's tall ship
Fair Jeanne
in late October 1996, on the Halifax to Boston leg. Thanks to all of you on board then, particularly XO Chris Smith. I hope you're well, wherever you are.

The epigraph from Phil Churchill's host video,
Anything Is
Possible
, shown at the 2008 Newfoundland and Labrador Arts Council Awards Show, is used with permission.

The epigraph and chapter titles from Blair Harvey's song ‘Bury My Body in the Pines' (
GutterBeGutted
2006) are used with permission.

The epigraph from Madison Violet's song ‘Wake Up' (
Worry
the Jury
2004) is used with permission.