High Tide at Noon by Elisabeth Ogilvie Read Free Book Online

empty except for Donna, already fixing the dinner vegetables, and Stevie, eating his breakfast. Stephen and the older boys had gone to the shore. Mark, who came between Joanna and Stevie in age, was weeding the vegetable garden over by the woods.
    Donna glanced smilingly at Joanna’s dungarees. “No dress this morning?”
    â€œI’m going hauling with Nils.” On an impulse she bent to kiss her mother’s cheek. Mother, you’ll never have to worry about me, she thought, remembering the night before.
    She heaped a plate with fish hash and poured milk from the pitcher, feeling as if she could eat the world. Stevie watched her from the other end of the table. His eyelashes were very long, at eleven he was terribly ashamed of them.
    â€œIs Nils your fella?” he asked interestedly.
    â€œDon’t talk so foolish!”
    â€œWell, Mark said—”
    â€œMark says a lot more besides his prayers,” said his mother. “Joanna what about your work? Will Nils wait for you?”
    â€œSure he will!” She leaped toward the stairs like a gazelle. Hers was the chamber work, the beds to make, the rooms to tidy. She did a large part of the washing each week, when she was home from school in the summer; she did most of the ironing. Her arms were as strong as a boy’s for splitting kindling or lugging water if none of the brothers happened to be around.
    Donna’s clear pallor and erect slenderness, that made her so distinctive a figure among her vigorous, dark-eyed family, were the direct signs of her fragility. Sometimes Joanna, in a surge of fierce protective love, wanted to take over the whole burden of the household. But somehow Donna had arranged it so the girl had a part of the freedom that meant so much to her. For to be on the water and around the boats was as necessary to Joanna as the air she breathed.
    This morning she raced through her work, her mind leaping ahead to the beach where Nils was probably waiting patiently. She hoped his grandfather hadn’t taken it into his tyrannical old head to come down and sniff, and ask him what kind of lobstering was that, to sit on the beach on a fine day and smoke. Gunnar had learned discipline on sailing ships and he never let his sons and grandsons forget it.
    Her premonition was right. When she came over the brow of the beach, the old man stood by Nils’ double-ender; Nils stood beside him, one foot on the gunwale, his strong-featured face impassive under the broad visor of his cap. Joanna hesitated, seeing Gunnar pound one fist into the other palm; then with a tilt of her chin she went down the beach toward them.
    They heard the beach stones rattle under her sneakers and turned. Gunnar was past seventy, but there was not a thread of white in his thick brown hair; he was stalwart and erect in overalls and flannel shirt. His cheeks were like russet apples and his eyes were bright blue, crinkled at the corners; he looked like a jolly Kris Kringle. Joanna hated him.
    â€œHello, Mr. Sorensen,” she said civilly.
    â€œHa, Yo.” His gnarled brown hand took Joanna's chin. “You look more like your grandfadder all the time. Same eyes, same mouth, same chin. He vass hard, yust like steel.” He pinched Joanna’s chin and beamed at her. “Not much like your fadder, huh?”
    Joanna jerked her chin free. “Will you please not say anything about my father?”
    â€œHa!” Gunnar sniffed, and the twinkle grew. “Impertinence, is it? If you vass mine—”
    â€œYou’d hang me up by my thumbs in the barn and take a whip to me,” said Joanna swiftly. “But I’m not yours, thank God, and if my grandfather was anything like you—” She bit her lip, suddenly abashed by her bad manners and startled at the current of hate that surged between herself and the old man. “You going now, Nils?”
    â€œGet aboard.” His face was still impassive.
    The peapod slid