Angling for you, p.23
Angling for You, page 23
“I’m getting too spoiled by you.”
“I like spoiling you. To the victor goes the spoils. Or is it, the victor gets to spoil? I can never get that right.” He turned and leaned his hips against the edge of the countertop, savored her smirk.
“Feeling victorious, are we?” she asked.
“Just now? Very. What would you like? Eggs? Cereal? Something else?”
She snorted. “Something else, all right, but for now I’ll settle for cereal. It takes less time than…something else.”
He checked the clock on the microwave. “True. Cereal now, research and…something else this evening.”
“That’s all for today, then. Remember, your final papers are due Friday.” Professor Bishop gathered up her notes and put them into her tote, reaching out to touch Sam’s shoulder before she exited the small seminar room. “Samantha. I wanted to talk to you about something. Do you have a minute to talk?”
Sam paused. “Um. Yeah. I have to be at work at eleven, but I have a few minutes.”
“Come with me to my office.”
Dread welled in Sam’s chest as she walked with Professor Bishop. “Have a seat,” the other woman said as she closed the door behind them.
Did I do something wrong? Am I in trouble?
The professor sat behind her tidy desk and considered Sam for a moment, the fluorescent lights shining off the lenses of her glasses. Sam swallowed, her throat dry.
“Have you ever thought about advocacy work after you graduate?” Professor Bishop pushed her glasses up and Sam could see her eyes clearly. They were warm and interested, not hostile and interrogating.
“Um. Advocacy work?” Sam’s brain was clogged, sluggish.
“Yes. I’ve been intrigued by your choice of paper topics over the last couple of years. You seem to always land in my seminars…which I admit is flattering. But we also seem to have interests in common. I’ve been impressed by your work. But you know that from your grades, I expect.”
“Impressed? But…I’m nobody.” Sam floundered. She always tried to have one of Professor Bishop’s classes on her schedule because the woman had such a grounded, yet hopeful approach to what JFK had called “the problem of water.” The professor was flattered by this? By her?
Professor Bishop leaned over her desk, her eyebrows lowering. “You’re the future, Samantha. You care about waterways. You’re not nobody.”
“…But. We have things in common?” Sam’s brain stalled, whirred. She wouldn’t be surprised if she smelled smoke.
“Yes.” The professor looked at her computer screen, clicked her mouse a few times. “You seem to have a special interest in rivers that support fish that fly fishermen use, if your past papers are any indication.”
Sam blinked. “Um. Yeah. I’m a fly fishing guide. I didn’t realize…”
Professor Bishop’s eyes went wide and her mouth curved in an elated smile. “Oh, that’s perfect.” She tapped at her keyboard and a printer hummed behind her. She swiveled around and grabbed the printout, turning to present it to Sam. “The RiverKeeper’s Alliance is looking for an entry-level policy advocate. I told them I’d send them my best student if I could.”
Sam stared at the papers in her hand, dazed. “Your best student? Me?”
“You. This is the job advertisement. I’m pretty sure you’d be a standout candidate.”
“Me?” Sam said again, her vocabulary contracted to the single word. She blinked and tried to read the text that blurred under her eyes.
“You. Unless you already have a job lined up after graduation.”
Sam shook her head. “No, no job lined up.”
Professor Bishop tapped the papers. “Apply for this one. List me as a reference. I’m not saying it’s a slam dunk, but I’ve worked with the RiverKeepers before. They’re good people and they have a connection with the law school. One of the clinics does pro bono legal work for them. They’ve done some amazing things. I trust them. See if it’s a fit. I’ll write a very strong letter in support of your candidacy if you decide to go forward with this.”
“Wow. I never expected anything…like this.”
“Do you have a résumé ready?”
Sam shook her head. “No.”
“Well, visit the Career Center before you apply. Have them help you put something together that showcases your experience as a fishing guide. The executive director of the RiverKeeper’s Alliance told me that he’s looking for someone with practical experience. Someone who’s used to getting their feet wet. Literally.”
A grin burst through Sam’s haze. “Oh, no worries there. Wet feet? I’m your girl.”
Honey lifted her head and cocked her ears at the front door a few seconds before the doorbell rang. Graham grinned, sliding a bookmark between the pages of the novel he was reading and getting to his feet. Honey had already scrambled up and was dancing in front of the door.
“Easy, girl. She’s had a long day. Don’t overwhelm her.” But when Graham opened the door, it didn’t seem possible the glowing face in front of him had taken a class and worked an eight-hour shift at the bar.
“You look like you’ve had some good news,” he said, taking her backpack from her as she sank to her knees and greeted the dog.
“I have.” She let Honey lick her face for a little, rubbing the dog’s coat. Rising to her feet again, she took the backpack back from Graham and stepped all the way into the house, letting him close the door. She dug in the bag and pulled out a couple of papers. “Professor Bishop gave this to me today. She wants me to apply.”
Graham scanned the text. It was a job posting, for an entry-level advocacy position at an environmental organization. “Wow. That’s great.”
“She’s even going to write me a letter of recommendation. She also told me to get myself to the Career office to get my résumé together.”
He lifted his eyebrows as he handed the papers back to her. “Miss Samantha Halvorsen letting people help her. I’m impressed.”
She swallowed and her bright expression dimmed. “If I even am Samantha Halvorsen,” she said, reminding him of the reason she had come over.
“Hey.” He touched her shoulder. “You know you’re Samantha Lisbet Halvorsen. Regardless of whatever DNA you might have, you know who you are.”
“Do I?” Her eyes, didn’t quite meet his.
“Of course you do.” He pulled her to him, both pleased and worried by the way she came, unresisting, into his arms, leaning her forehead on his shoulder, her arms winding loosely around his waist. He pressed a kiss to her hair. “You’re the most determined, strongest, most amazing woman—no, person—I’ve ever met.”
“I just feel like I’m a mess.”
“You can be both. It’s allowed.”
“Can I?” She lifted her forehead and looked at him, her eyebrows drawing together.
He traced a finger across her cheekbone, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, a lump rising in his throat. “You can. You’re not alone anymore. No matter what happens, I’m here.”
“That easy?”
“That easy, that hard. I’m in it for anything.” His heart was thudding so hard he was surprised that she didn’t notice it, remark on it.
She swallowed. “Okay. Then let’s see if we can find some answers.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I’m sorry. I really thought that database would have some more. Nicole said it was really good.” Graham slumped in his chair and took his glasses off, rubbing his eyes with thumb and index finger.
“It’s not your fault.” Sam sighed, her hand tracing over the back of his other hand, resting on the kitchen table. “Maybe there’s nothing to find?”
He straightened his back, putting his glasses back on and refocusing on the laptop screen. “No. People have events in their lives. Those events leave records. Births, marriages, deaths. Those are the big ones.” His eyes lost focus as he thought. “Big ones…” His gaze re-sharpened and he looked at Sam, his excited expression making her pulse thud and her throat go dry.
“What?” she asked.
“Ordinary lives have ordinary milestones. Birth, marriage—or marriages, death.”
She frowned. “…And?”
His grin was practically feral. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. Your grandparents’ lives weren’t ordinary at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“The shipwreck.” He struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. What kind of a librarian am I, anyway?”
“I don’t follow. And you’re an amazing librarian.” The fierce, protective emotion that flared under her sternum surprised her.
He shot her an amused glance. “You may be a little biased.” He pulled the notepad she had filled with the scanty store of information she had had about her family toward him and picked up a pen. “Okay. Tell me the date your grandparents arrived here. Any other details you might know about how they got here.”
“Okay.” Sam squeezed her eyes shut, rubbed her temples. “Give me the pad?” Graham pushed it to her, and she looked at the notes she had scribbled. He angled the pen toward her and she took it. “The ship was the Dagmar. They came here in 1938. I know because my dad was born about five months later.” She wrote the name of the ship and the year on the pad, almost surprised that he didn’t know the facts that were so foundational to her existence. But how would he?
“Okay. Shipwrecks are news. News gets written up in major newspapers.” He opened a new browser window and logged in to a database. Entered the names of her grandparents and the ship, limited the search to 1938.
Sam held her breath. A list of results filled the screen. The first one carried the screaming headline: Tragedy at Sea: Passenger Vessel Dagmar and Cargo Ship Italia Collide off Nantucket.
Graham glanced at her. “You ready?”
She gulped and nodded. “I can’t believe I never looked up news reports about it. It was always…just there. Part of our family history. As if it didn’t affect anyone else. But of course it did.”
“Almost more like a legend? Instead of being real?” Graham asked and she nodded.
“Exactly. But it really did happen.”
He clicked on the headline. A grainy scan of the full story as it had originally appeared, with a photo of the two horribly damaged vessels. The text was surprisingly brief, containing more details about the collision than Sam already knew. Apparently, the Dagmar had listed hard to starboard, putting half the lifeboats too high to be lowered. The frantic rescue efforts were described.
Then there was the list of the survivors. Sam’s pulse hammered and her head buzzed as she scanned the closely packed text. Nils Halvorsen, Gerda Halvorsen. She read through the list again. And then a third time.
Nobody named Einar Johannasen.
Sam’s face lit up like a child faced with a birthday cake studded with candles. “It’s not true,” she said, her voice choked. “It’s a mistake somehow. It’s all just…I don’t know how, but that lawyer messed something up.”
Fierce joy shot through Graham. He had done this for her. He had found what she needed.
But it was followed by a thread of unease. He looked again at the news report. “Wait.”
“Wait? Why? We have our answer.”
“We have most of our answer.” He pointed at the screen. “They only account for the survivors here. They don’t list the ones who didn’t make it. They don’t even have an exact tally of those who died. It only says ‘approximately a hundred’ were lost.”
“Who cares? We found my grandparents.” Sam’s jaw set.
“Just let me do one more thing. Original passenger manifests are hard to find sometimes.”
“How do you know?” Curiosity seemed to win out over stubbornness.
“I helped a history professor do some research for a book once. We had to get librarians in other countries look the information up in their news archives. More and more historical newspapers from most countries are digitizing historical news accounts and other data, but it’s still pretty spotty and hit or miss. And if you don’t speak the language…” Opening yet another browser window, he ran a search and his jaw dropped. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“What?” Sam craned her neck to look at the screen. Her brows went up. “There’s a whole site devoted to Norwegian emigration?”
“It appears so.” He looked up the Dagmar. “This is the full passenger manifest.” Scanning down the list, his eye rested on Einar Johannasen.
Directly below that was Gerda Johannasen. In a column labeled “Remarks” was wife.
“Maybe it was a different Gerda,” Sam said. “Scroll down. Why didn’t they put this in alphabetical order?”
Graham shrugged. “Who knows? The fact that we have it at all seems like a minor miracle.” And there it was. Nils Halvorsen. And nothing else. There was no other passenger named Gerda on the list.
A sick wave of unfamiliar, hysterical emotion swept through Sam. “What does that mean?” She wanted to hit something. Wanted to lie down on the floor and cry. Wanted to go back to last week when none of this had happened and her family were known stars, set in their familiar constellations.
“I…I don’t know.” Graham took his glasses off and rubbed his eyelids with the heels of his hands. Blinking, he slid the glasses back on and leaned back in his chair. “I mean…why would someone leave a country with one name and arrive with another? I mean, unless you got married by the ship’s captain on the journey.”
“But…that couldn’t happen if she was already married. And Johannasen wasn’t her maiden name.” Sam’s teeth gritted together so hard her jaw hurt.
“I know, I’m grasping at straws. I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?”
“I don’t know. I just feel responsible.”
“You aren’t. I just…” Just don’t know what to think, what to feel, how to deal with this sense of betrayal and confusion.
And all the while, a tiny, petulant corner of her mind did wish he hadn’t pushed for the whole answer.
“I wish the data were different, Sam.” Graham laid a tentative hand on her shoulder and she looked up to meet his eyes. An expression of worry, and maybe a little hurt drew his brows together.
“Yeah. Me too. Do you think there’s anything else we can find? Anything to try to make sense of this?”
Graham rubbed his cheek, his beard rasping audibly against his fingers. “I can’t think of anything else at this point. My best hope is that your aunt might know something.”
“But if she did, that would mean she lied to me. She and Bestemor. And Bestefar. And maybe Dad and Mom, too.” She swallowed, an action made difficult by the rising lump in her throat. “All of it. Everything. Built on lies. Why?”
The hand on her shoulder squeezed. “You don’t know that. Not yet at least.”
“Well, then I’m back to just not knowing.” She took a deep breath, shuddering a bit. “There’s no good here. Every possibility just sucks.”
He nodded. “That seems pretty accurate.” And then, as if he didn’t want to go on, but had to, “What do you want to do now?”
Her reaction was almost automatic. “I should go home.”
He paused for a moment. “Why ‘should?’”
“I don’t know. I just…I need to process this. Or something.” Honey, possibly hearing the rising panic in Sam’s voice, came over and shoved her cold, wet nose into her hand. It was the last straw. Sam burst into racking sobs, chest heaving, hot tears trickling down her cheeks.
“Shh.” Graham stood, pulling her up against his chest. “You don’t have to go. You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“I…” She couldn’t explain the impulse to flee. She just felt it. “I do need to be alone. I just…let me talk to Kari when she gets back. This is all too much.”
“Okay.” His voice was very small and quiet. “Text me when you get home? Let me know you’re safe?”
She nodded, her face still damp, but with no new tears flowing. Honey whined at her side. “It’s okay, Honey-girl.” She gave the dog’s head a distracted pat. She avoided looking at Graham’s face until they got to the front door. He held it open and turned on the outside light and her gaze lifted to meet his. His eyes held a look of dull pain. Whether it was for himself or for her, she didn’t know.
“I’ll… I’ll text you.”
He licked his lips. “Okay. Drive safely.”
She nodded. After yesterday and the day before they would have kissed goodbye. But she felt as remote and un-kissable as a rock in the middle of the ocean. Blinking back a fresh spate of tears that threatened, she almost ran to her truck.
Graham stood, his finger crooked in Honey’s collar, and watched Sam start her truck and back out of the driveway. He looked down the road long past the time when her taillights disappeared.
“She sure couldn’t wait to get out of here, could she, Honey?”
The dog looked up at him. Her wrinkled brow looked worried, but Honey always looked worried. He was probably projecting his own emotional state. Instead of going back inside, he sat on the step and wrapped his arm around the dog, pulling her warm, furry weight toward him. Honey sagged against his side, her nose tipping up as he scratched her chest.
“What am I going to do, dogger?”
Her ears pricked and she looked down the road. A brief hope flared in Graham’s chest and he looked in the same direction, fiercely willing the headlights of Sam’s truck to reappear, for her to return.
To need him.
The realization robbed him of breath. He wanted to be essential to her. The last few days had been wonderful, not just because of their growing trust and not because of the sex. But also because this strong, self-reliant woman had allowed him to help her. For a brief time, she’d needed him as much as he was beginning to need her. Or she had seemed to.
The cold cement of the front step was seeping into his butt, making his tailbone ache. He got to his feet. “She’s not coming back, Honey.” The dog looked up at him, then down the street again. “No, girl. In the house.” He opened the front door and Honey scrambled inside. Her nails clicked on the hardwood, then came the softer noise of her hopping onto the couch, turning around, flopping down with a soft whump and a doggy groan.
