-Sea of Hope-

Chapter One

Doria Hanrahan clung to the railing of the Port Harbor fishing pier with one hand and clutched the keys to her father's trawler, the Merrichase, in her other hand. The old, but well-kept vessel now legally belonged to Murray Santoro. Doria's father had clearly stated in his will that Mr. Santoro deserved the boat.

The wind roared like some mythical beast but Doria only narrowed her eyes momentarily as a powerful gust slapped her. She refused to cower in the face of nature's fury just as she would not allow someone else to own the Merrichase. It should belong to her!

She glared out over the crashing waves with her lips pressed tightly together and realized how numb and heavy her heart felt, as though it had been weighted down with lead sinkers. Alone with her grief for the first time since her father's death, she relished the blast of the gale. It pumped some of its power into her thin frame and woke her from a weeklong nightmare.

"How could you do this to me, Dad?" she cried out over the howl of the storm. "You made a promise to me." But the tempest tore her words away and the only answer to her question was the shrill scream of the wind and a shower of salty spray that stung her eyes.

Sheets of rain pelted her and the pier shuddered as the waves slammed into it, but Doria stood her ground. With a Nor'easter battering the New Jersey coastline, conditions on the pier were hazardous, however what she intended to do would only take a moment.

She opened the palm of her hand and frowned at the keys, each one labeled with her father's tidy printing. Seeing the neat handwriting nearly immobilized her as her heart filled with remorse because she hadn't helped her father when he needed her.

She clenched her teeth tightly together and struggled with her emotions. Still, she couldn't forget that Murray Santoro had robbed her. The Merrichase should rightfully belong to her. Though aware that she would merely create a delay with her reckless action, seeing the stony arrogance on Mr. Santoro's face crack would be worth it. She wound up her arm to pitch the keys far out into the surging tide when suddenly, someone grabbed her from behind.

She screamed as one massive hand snatched the keys from her while the attacker's other arm held her fast in a steely grip. For a moment, she froze in total panic as the memory of being mugged at gunpoint in New York City flashed through her mind.

But this wasn't New York City. This was Port Harbor. Her terror dissolved as adrenaline shot through her system. She flailed her arms and legs, but that didn't help matters. She could see nothing of the hulking figure who imprisoned her except his yellow slicker.

"Let me go!" she demanded while pummeling the thief's arm with her fists.

In answer to her command, the mugger lifted her up and slung her over his broad shoulder. The action robbed Doria of air for a minute. Gasping for breath and disoriented by looking at the world upside down, she clung to the yellow slicker with white-knuckled hands. They passed through the gate at the entrance to the pier. With a flick of his free hand, the man shut the gate and snapped the lock securely.

Despite the throbbing blood rushing to her head, Doria renewed her struggle. One of her fists made an impact and momentarily halted the lengthy stride of her kidnapper.

"Cut it out," he rumbled. Doria gasped. She had been attacked by Murray Sanforo!

"Put me down!" She screamed.

He ignored her shrieks until they reached the porch of the bait house. There he slid her off his shoulder and deposited her on her feet with a bone-jarring thud. Despite the fact that he had treated her so callously, the man had the nerve to glare at her. Doria's blood simmered.

"Of all the idiotic, insane -- "

He slid back the hood of the slicker to reveal his face. His expression would have frightened a more timid woman but Doria had never been intimidated by anyone except that mugger in New York City with the gun. She put her hands on her hips.

"You had no right to -- "

"What? Save your life!" he boomed. "You don't weigh more than a signal flag. A wave could have knocked you right off that pier."

"I have stood on the deck of the Merrichase in twenty-foot seas," she spat out.

Murray dug into his pocket, pulled out the ring of keys, and waved them in front of Doria's face. "These are mine and don't you forget it!" Then he snapped them shut in his fist.

A pain stabbed at Doria's heart. Her throat tightened. She took a ragged breath and studied the seething man beside her. In the flickering light of the porch lamp, the golden strands in Murray's hair gleamed. Her father had always disapproved of men who wore long hair. Yet Murray stood arrogant and proud with his long ponytail tied neatly in a leather string at the nape of his neck.

Doria twisted her mouth at a wry angle. Some might consider him handsome. With a wide forehead, high cheekbones and straight nose, he looked more like an investment broker than someone who worked on the docks. But his refined features didn't make the situation any more palatable. Because he had come to Port Harbor, her own dream of owning a restaurant would have to be postponed. He had stolen her future.

Doria smoothly spun on her heel to dash off the porch.

Unfortunately, Murray had longer legs. He grabbed her arm before she had gone three feet.

"Hey, be careful," he warned. "It's gusting up to sixty-five miles an hour."

"I can take care of myself." Doria injected a dose of chill reserve into her voice. Murray Santoro deserved no less than her abject scorn. She shot a withering glance at the hand that squeezed her arm and then glared at his face. Murray shifted his weight from one foot to the other and something flickered in his odd green eyes. He released her from his grasp.

"Why did you come back here anyway?" he asked. He cocked his head and furrowed his brow, peering at her intently. His action suggested that he believed her to be the interloper, the stranger in town. "Your father wasn't expecting you."

"This is my home," she replied.

"Your uncle seemed surprised to see you, too." Murray put his hands on his hips and gave a sardonic lift to one of his brows. "He claimed you've been gone for years. He thought you liked New York City so much that you would never come back here."

The ache of grief started to throb in Doria's chest again. She turned away from him.

"Not everyone gets to be a chef in the Plaza." She hoped he didn't hear the tightness in her throat. She didn't want him to find out she wasn't a chef anymore.

"New York City isn't that far away," he commented.

Doria's eyes misted. "I called Dad and Uncle Walter regularly." She bit her lip. Why did she feel she had to explain things to him? Yet, the words continued to tumble out. "Last Christmas, I invited them to dinner and a Broadway show. And I did the same thing last spring. I would have paid for everything, even the bus ride to the city, but they refused my offer."

"Uh-huh." The note of irony in his tone aggravated her. Who was he to judge? She hated the man!

She wheeled around to spout off her fury and saw him studying the keys. He rubbed his thumb over the ridges and peered at the worn writing with such concentration, Doria wondered if he suspected her of damaging the hard metal.

Her anger flared. Murray Santoro had no right to that boat!

"The Merrichase should belong to me!" she shouted. She lunged at his hand, but despite his six feet and one inch of hulking muscle, he deftly sidestepped her.

Then, something rumbled under her feet. Doria frowned down at the wooden floor beneath her while the hideous groan of straining timbers set her teeth on edge. Above the wild scream of the storm, she thought she heard a long peal of thunder crashing. But it couldn't be thunder. Not in December. Fear chilled the blood in Doria's veins as she glanced down the length of the pier. Her stomach rolled as she watched the wooden structure topple and crumble into the sea right before her eyes. It took a moment for the danger to register in her brain. The bait house shared the same pilings as the pier.

"Run!" Murray shouted.

He grabbed her hand but she stumbled as the boards beneath her feet tilted. She slammed against one of the porch columns and crumpled down in a heap, stunned.

"Come on!" Murray yanked her up, put his arm around her, and dragged her to the relative safety of the steel awning on a boatman's shop across the street. Guiding her to a wooden bench, he released her. She sank down on the wet boards with her mouth feeling as dry as sandpaper. Oddly enough, Murray's arms had wrapped her with sense of safety, but now she shivered in the cold, wind-driven rain.

Then another crash sounded above the screech of the storm.

"There goes the bait house," Murray muttered. "You nearly got us both killed."

Doria barely heard him. An icy sweat broke out on her forehead as her stomach pitched. She watched the foaming sea batter the heavy timbers of the pier to a pulp against the rock jetty. Her hand trembled as she fought to cover a sob. Murray had saved her life.

Her whole body felt weak as her heartbeat slowed.

"Oh great," Murray grumbled sarcastically. "You're going to faint." He shoved her head down between her knees.

Doria would have fought against him if she didn't feel so awful.

Wrapped in a heavy blanket, Doria drew closer to the fireplace in Uncle Walter's office in the rectory of St. Raymond's church. She had not passed out, but she still felt lightheaded and weak. Her hand trembled as she reached for another log to throw on the fire, unable to stand the damp chill that pervaded the room.

Port Harbor had lost all electric power. Doria glanced about the room as the flickering shadows cast by the firelight made the storm outside seem even more ominous. Idly, she watched drops of water cascading from the ceiling into a plastic trashcan. But neither the steady plop of the water nor the howl of the wind still raging outside could mask the angry rumble of Murray's voice on the other side of the heavy oak door. Doria tugged the blanket more tightly about her shoulders.

"She doesn't have an ounce of sense!" Murray growled.

"She's had a terrible shock," Uncle Walter's voice broke in.

"She's lucky I found her in time!"

The violence in Murray's voice made Doria cringe.

"Thank the Lord." Uncle Walter's tone had a touch of agitation in it. "But we've got other problems. One of our parishioners died of a heart attack two hours ago while trying to push his car out of the water. Atlantic Avenue is impassable. We have no telephone service and no electricity and it is starting to snow, on top of everything else. This is the worst Nor'easter to hit New Jersey in thirty years."

Doria winced. Uncle Walter was in a rare state. She couldn't expect much sympathy from him.

"And there are ten families who have been flooded out of their homes sitting in the church right now with nowhere to go," Uncle Walter added.

"Eleven." Murray cleared his throat. "My sister and her son, Jason, had to leave their home, too."

"Baytown is setting up the high school gym as a shelter, since we may not get electricity back for a week," Uncle Walter reported. "You have a Jeep. Why don't you transport those families?"

"Okay. Sure," Murray agreed.

Doria heard the thump as Uncle Walter slapped Murray on the back. She hoped it stung a bit. But then her uncle's words finally registered in her brain and she sat up straight.

A week without electricity! But she had to look for another job, type letters, mail resumes, and set up interviews!

Throwing the blanket aside, Doria sprang to her feet. The sudden change in position made her head spin. She clung to her uncle's desk and waited for the spell to pass. At that moment, Uncle Walter entered the office.

"Sit down before you fall down," he commented dryly.

"I'm all right," Doria insisted.

"Well, you don't look it." Uncle Walter ran his hand through his abundant gray hair and sat down at his desk.

Doria counterattacked. "Your collar is crooked."

"Drat." Uncle Walter's fingers fumbled with the Roman collar around his neck. "I could sure go for a hot cup of coffee. And I do mean hot."

Doria saw an opportunity to worm her way into her uncle's good graces. She took a deep breath and released her grip on the desk, even though her knees still felt rubbery. "I could cook a grand feast in the fireplace. It'll be just like one of our camping vacations."

Uncle Walter snorted. "As I recall, we ate canned stew, canned chili, or hot dogs on those bold forays into the forest."

"This will be different, I guarantee it," Doria boasted. "After all, I'm a professional chef now."

Uncle Walter folded his arms and fixed her with his icy blue eyes. "You were a chef. I believe you mentioned briefly that you had resigned. Why?"

His question caught Doria off guard.

"Um," she faltered. "Of course, Dad always said that the city wasn't a nice place to live, you know."

"You broke up with that young man you worked with." Uncle Walter continued to look at her intently. Doria could feel the hot stain on her cheeks.

"Um. Well. Yes." Doria crossed her arms and turned to stare at the flames dancing in the hearth. "As it turned out, he wasn't the prince I originally believed him to be."

"He wanted you to move in with him." Uncle Walter stated simply. Doria froze. Her uncle had a way of getting to the heart of the matter that always left her floundering.

She nodded slowly.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

Doria bit her lip. She could never repeat the horrid things that her boyfriend had said to her. He had taunted her by accusing her of holding onto some moldy morality from the last century designed by a bunch of Bible-thumping clerics. She couldn't tell that to Uncle Walter who was, after all, a priest.

"No," she whispered in a high, thin squeak.

"Good thing you had the strength of character to walk away." Uncle Walter sniffed loudly.

Doria shrugged. She had seen several of her good friends make the mistake of moving in with their boyfriends. Ultimately, each of her friends had regretted it later.

"Ted didn't handle my refusal well and since we worked together, the situation became...difficult." Doria grimaced.

"So why didn't you get another job in the city?"

Doria rubbed her arms as a chill went through her at the memory of the mugging. However, she didn't intend to tell Uncle Walter about it.

"Don't you remember? Dad promised to retire and sell the Merrichase if I came home. He told me he would give me the money to start a restaurant here. But out of the blue, this stranger walks into town." She ground out his name with the vehemence most people reserve for swearing. "Murray Santoro!"

"Now wait a minute young lady," Uncle Walter rumbled. "Your father wasn't in good health this past year -- "

"Why didn't anyone tell me!" Doria blurted out.

"You told your father you didn't ever want to smell swamp gas again," he reminded her.

Doria covered her eyes. Yes. She had hated Port Harbor. She had despised being a fisherman's daughter, wearing clothes bought at the thrift shop in St. Raymond's basement.

She fingered the fine cashmere sweater she wore. She had purchased it in Saks, but it couldn't take away the pain of despair that gnawed at her heart, now that her father rested beside her mother in St. Raymond's cemetery. She faced her uncle again.

"You should have told me," she accused. "I could have taken him to a specialist."

"I took him to two specialists and the verdict was basically the same," he explained. "Nothing could be done."

Guilt, sharp and cold, cut at Doria. Why hadn't she asked her father about his health? Now she would have to suffer the awful pain of remorse and the knowledge that because she had abandoned her father, he had found someone else to help him. The fact that Ed Hanrahan had bequeathed his old fishing vessel to a stranger was her own fault. She dug her nails into her palms.

"So where did Mr. Santoro come from?" she asked.

"His brother-in-law came looking for work and signed up on the Merrichase." Uncle Walter went on, "Soon after, he bought a little house and Murray's sister, Pam, invited her brother to visit. They introduced him to your father, Murray took one ride on the Merrichase, and he was hooked."

Doria pressed her lips together and frowned. Her uncle had not really answered the question. But, she didn't have a chance to grill him further because they were both startled by the loud knock sounding at the front door.

Doria rushed to answer it. A mighty blast of snow and wind rushed in and tore the knob from her hands. The door banged against the wall and Murray stood before her illuminated by the wavering light from the hurricane lamps. He carried a small child on his hip. The kid was screaming.

"Here." He shoved the wailing bundle at her. "He's hungry and wet, I think. Hey, Father Zaleski! We have an emergency here! It's my sister, Pam!"

Doria tried to hold onto the squirming kid as several other people came in carrying a woman. The woman let out a shriek that rivaled the screaming wind.

Uncle Walter's voice thundered from inside his office. "Put her on the couch in here!" he directed.

The kid yanked at Doria's hair and pulled out a fistful of her brown waves. Doria's eyes watered as she struggled with the thrashing child.

Uncle Walter suddenly appeared at her side and relieved her of her impossible task.

"I see you've met Jason," he smiled.

Jason stopped crying, yanked the glasses from Uncle Walter's face, and started gnawing on them.

Doria gulped. "What's going on?"

"Jason's mommy, Pam, is going to have a baby any moment now and since you can cook, Murray said you better get some water boiling in that fireplace real fast."

"A baby!" Doria gasped. "Can't we get an ambulance over here."

"A huge oak blew down on Ocean Avenue," Uncle Walter shrugged. "And the ramp to the bridge is flooded so we're stuck here for now. But don't worry, the Lord has provided. Nan Lyons is a nurse and, of course, there's Murray."

Doria curled her lips in disgust. Under the circumstances, she appreciated the fact that Mrs. Lyons was a nurse. But what was so terrific about Murray? Could he calm his sister down?

"The Lord certainly works in mysterious ways," Doria muttered under her breath, too softly for her uncle to hear.

"Come on, Jason, let's go get a big pot for Doria and cookies for you," Uncle Walter said as he headed down the hall.

"Cookies." Jason repeated. He threw Uncle Walter's glasses on the floor.

Murray's brow beaded with sweat. Anything could go wrong. The cord could be wrapped around the baby's neck, Pam could hemorrhage, and with the unsterile conditions, an infection could set in. But this is an emergency, he reminded himself. His sister trusted him and they could not rely on any other help. He had to do the best he could. Swallowing hard, he tried to focus.

He couldn't ask for a better nurse than Nan Lyons. She coached Pam through her contractions with consummate skill. Her calm, practical approach had caused the terror to fade from his sister's eyes. Pam responded to the breathing commands well, directing her energy to the birth of her child.

The baby's head crowned. Murray muttered a quick prayer and with Pam's next push a new little stranger's head popped out into the world. Murray allowed himself a brief spark of hope, since there was no cord in sight to strangle away the fragile life. Then came another contraction, and Murray caught the infant as it slid out into his waiting hands.

"It's a girl," he announced. "And she's just as pretty as you," he added with a smile and a wink at his sister.

Quickly, he handed the child to Nan who cleared the child's airway and wrapped it snugly in a cotton bath towel.

Murray took a moment to breathe and glanced at Doria seated by the fireplace, hovering over the pot of boiling water. The firelight glowed about her silhouette making her abundant, wavy hair look like a halo. He blinked but the hazy halo remained, despite his suspicion that she could hardly qualify as an angel. When she poked at the fire and sent a shower of sparks flying up the chimney, it seemed to confirm his thoughts.

"I'll be needing the rest of those instruments," he stated in a low voice. Mrs. Lyons handed the infant to Pam and helped Doria line up the sterile instruments.

"Are you a member of the First Aid squad?" Doria asked him.

He heard the skepticism in her voice. Obviously, neither her father nor her uncle had offered any explanation about his background. Caught up as she must be in her own selfish whims, she apparently didn't read the newspaper either. He could understand why Ed Hanrahan had spoiled his daughter, but at twenty-four, she needed to grow up.

He didn't answer her question. He glared at her for a moment. She glared back at him just as fiercely.

"Nobody is supposed to practice medicine without a license," she blurted out.

Nan Lyons hushed her. "He is a doctor."

"You have got to be kidding," Doria scoffed.

Murray clenched his jaw. He could feel the veins standing out on his neck. It took a great effort for him to speak in a pleasant manner.

"I'm sure Pam would like these stitches to be nice and neat," he said. "Could you direct some more light here, Nan?" Murray asked. Nan quickly adjusted the beam of the heavy-duty flashlight they had been using. But, as he worked, a lump of fear crept into his throat. After all, he might not have a license much longer. Or his freedom.

But he couldn't allow himself to think about that. Not right now.

Chapter Two

Doria wondered if her lightheadedness had affected her brain. Murray -- a doctor? She rubbed her temples and tried to remember if her father or her uncle had ever mentioned that pertinent bit of data. She could recall her father praising his new helper's dedication to work and his ambition to get a captain's license. But an MD? Nobody had breathed a word of that fact. Why not?

Shrugging to herself, Doria poked idly at some half-burned logs as Murray talked with his sister for a few minutes.

"I'm so glad you were here," Pam whispered tearfully. "I was so afraid. I only wish Rich could have been with us."

"He's probably stuck on the other side of the bridge," Murray said.

Pam let out a sob. "Nobody warned us about flooding."

"When the water goes down, I'll help you fix the place up," Murray offered. "And until then you can live in the cabin on the Merrichase."

"A toddler and an infant on a fishing boat?" Pam cried. "That's insanity."

Doria clenched her teeth as she threw another log in the fireplace, sending hundreds of sparks dancing up the chimney. She felt sorry for Pam, but Murray shouldn't be loaning out the boat for living quarters, especially since she intended to contest the will as soon as possible.

Murray turned to give some instructions to Nan Lyons. He sounded professional, matter-of-fact, business-like, as though he delivered babies everyday. He walked out, saying he'd be back to check on Pam and the baby during the night.

Nan cleaned up mother and baby while Doria, carrying a spare flashlight, went outside to the back porch to grab more firewood from the log holder. Unfortunately, the log holder stood empty. Grumbling to herself, she swung the flashlight's beam over the backyard. Fallen branches along with two toppled pine trees littered the property; but that wood was all wet or green and not suitable to keep a fire blazing.

She walked around to the front of the rectory and gasped. Half of the parking lot lay under water. The sight of the destruction sent a shiver up her spine. Had God caused all this misery?

She hadn't thought about God for years, until now. Like a prodigal daughter, she had come home expecting a fatted calf, and instead chaos had rained down on her. It all sounded like something from one of Uncle Walter's homilies.

She glanced up at the sky. The wind had died down considerably. Big, fluffy snowflakes landed softly on the ground. Doria stuck out her tongue and tasted one of the flakes but it melted away to barely a drop, leaving her thirsty. Sighing, she wondered where Uncle Walter had gone.

Then she blinked in amazement as she noticed the bright light streaming out of the church basement windows. When she went inside, she caught sight of Uncle Walter ladling out soup to a line of weary-looking parishioners. The aroma of soup wafting through the hall smelled like heaven. Propane stoves heated the bubbling mixture as a propane lantern lit most of the basement with a cheery glow. Several men and women were dispensing blankets, cots, and pillows to the families whose homes had been inundated by the sea.

Doria walked up to her uncle and tugged on his sleeve. "Where did all this come from? I thought nobody could get out of or into Port Harbor."

Uncle Walter handed her a bowl of soup. "I told you the Lord would provide. Our own First Aid Squad is helping out. They arrived in rowboats. How's the new baby?"

"Okay, I guess." Doria took a sip of the steaming soup. It tasted like the stuff from a can, watered down. With all her culinary training, she usually despised such common fare, but tonight that soup could have been an elixir. She couldn't remember anything that had ever felt so good going down. After another spoonful, she said, "We don't have any more firewood and I suppose we need to keep the new baby warm."

"I've always told you to ask Jesus," Uncle Walter said. "He'll take care of it."

Doria sighed. Despite everything, Uncle Walter's faith never wavered. She could never understand his absolute trust in the Lord.

"I'll go ask around. Maybe someone here knows of a spare woodpile somewhere." Doria walked around the basement, asking each family group if they knew where she could find a stack of dry wood. It didn't take her long to realize the futility of her quest. Most of the people appeared to be in shock. They had left all their possessions behind to the mercy of the wind and waves.

Teenagers huddled together to console one another. Younger children wailed and clung to mothers who looked ready to sob along. Though the men didn't have tears in their eyes, their drawn faces bore the ravages of the situation. Nobody had expected this. The tide had never been this high. Nor'easters came every year, but never had one so devastated the little town as this storm had.

The weight of their sorrows touched Doria's heart. After all, she was homeless, too. Though she could stay at the rectory as long as she needed, she didn't have a place of her own anymore. Impulsively, she had signed over the lease on the apartment to her roommate. Now, she didn't even have the Merrichase, thanks to Murray.

She rubbed her arms in a useless effort to warm them. While she knew Murray had probably anchored the fishing boat securely in the middle of the river for the duration of the storm, she couldn't help hoping it sprang a leak.

She glanced around at the people bedding down for the night in the church basement. She couldn't cook up a gourmet meal on a couple of propane stoves without any provisions. Port Harbor had one small grocery store, which, by now, would undoubtedly have empty shelves. The modern supermarket was on the other side of the bridge.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a warm tenor voice singing, "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine..."

Doria narrowed her gaze and drew closer to the swarm of children gathered around a handsome fellow strumming his guitar. She frowned as she recognized Chad Fernandez. The same Chad who had graduated from Baytown High with her. The same Chad who had asked her out hundreds of times even though she had always turned him down. The same Chad who had been voted "Class Clown."

He saw her and winked as he continued to lead the children in the song. By the time he got to the last verse, nearly everyone in the basement had joined in, except Doria. She wandered back to her uncle. He sat by the propane stove, enjoying a bowl of soup.

"What is Chad doing here?" she asked.

"He was downsized out of his job and came home to rethink his future." Uncle Walter lowered his spoon, glanced at Chad and smiled. "Worked on the Merrichase for the last few months."

"For Dad?" Doria furrowed her brow trying to remember. "But didn't he major in communications at college?"

"Yes. He worked in an advertising firm," Uncle Walter answered. "But the company merged with another and cut the work force in half. He found that he liked fishing."

Doria glowered. "Then why didn't Dad will a share of the boat to Chad?"

"Chad will be leaving Port Harbor again, soon." Uncle Walter got up to stir the simmering soup and ladle out another portion for himself. "Right now, he's preparing Murray for confirmation."

"What? Chad teaching Murray religion!" Doria stared at her uncle with disbelief. "That's ridiculous! Chad was such a devil in the choir. Remember when he set his mice loose?"

Uncle Walter chuckled, "He's still a little rough around the edges, but Jesus won't let him go."

Chad broke out into the rollicking "Joy, Joy, Joy," and Doria couldn't help tapping her foot to the happy song but she kept her lips tightly pressed together. It was bad enough that she had lost her mother, her father, and the Merrichase, but to be swindled out of her inheritance by someone who now intended to become a Christian seemed the ultimate injustice. All her plans, her hopes and dreams, had been swallowed up; a lot like the fate of the town pier, which had crumbled into the sea.

She wanted to scream. Instead, she left the basement. Despite her lack of faith, she entered the church to seek solace. The peaceful church usually had a soothing effect on her, but tonight it seemed as gloomy as the rest of Port Harbor.

Votive candles flickered at the side altar, lending an eerie atmosphere to the great, looming nave that sent chills up and down Doria's spine. Still, she walked toward the dancing tongues of flame, running her hand along the end of each of the pews she passed. Her skin prickled with goose bumps in the murky vault of the church and when her footsteps creaked on the wooden floor, she swallowed hard and listened breathlessly for other sounds, other footsteps. But she heard only the sighing of the wind outside as the storm blew out over the ocean.

Nearing the altar, she was startled by the sight of a dark figure kneeling in the first pew. She stood rigid for a moment as her heart beat against her ribs so loudly, it seemed the echo reverberated in the cavernous church. She tried to reassure herself that she had simply come upon another troubled soul seeking peace. Then the faint glimmer from the candles caught in his hair. Doria peered at the golden glints on the bowed head of the worshiper. She clenched her teeth and turned to leave. Couldn't she go anywhere in Port Harbor without coming across Murray Santoro? Why must he haunt her?

That's when her nemesis suddenly uttered a loud groan. The heart-wrenching sound sent a tremor through Doria. What could possibly cause Murray to break down with grief? Certainly not the death of her father. He barely knew her father and besides, he had gained the Merrichase, which ought to be more than enough to console him.

Without warning, Murray turned around and riveted his gaze upon her. She stepped back into the shadow of a pillar to avoid him, but it was too late. He got up and walked toward her. For the second time in her life, she felt intimidated. While the mugger had used a gun to frighten her, Murray's only weapons were his penetrating eyes.

"Did you want something?" he growled low.

"Um. W-wood," she stammered. "Firewood. So the baby won't get cold." She hated the way she stumbled over her words but with Murray towering over her she found it impossible to think straight.

He rubbed his hand over his face. "Right. I should have thought of that." He let out a huge sigh. "I'll see what I can do."

His footsteps rumbled away from her across the old wooden floor and he was gone. Alone, Doria shivered in the bleak church. For a moment, as Murray had knelt and cried out to God, she had the strangest compulsion to comfort the man. But she couldn't be kind to him! He was her enemy! With her nerves frazzled, she, too, rushed out of the church.

Two hours later, Doria filled up a log carrier from a stack of relatively dry firewood that had appeared as if by magic in Uncle Walter's garage. Doria had been so busy helping Nan Lyons set up sleeping accommodations in Uncle Walter's office that she hadn't noticed anyone stop by with the wood. But when she heard the garage door slide shut, she dashed out to investigate.

"Isn't it wonderful what the Lord can do?" Uncle Walter beamed when she showed him her discovery.

Doria wondered who Murray Santoro had paid off to accomplish the feat.

She settled down for the night on the floor of Uncle Walter's office along with Jason and Nan Lyons. Pam Villars and her new baby stayed cozy on the couch, huddled together. Uncle Walter cheerfully insisted that he would be fine in his austere and very cold bedroom upstairs.

Around midnight, Murray breezed in to check on his patients. Nan snapped to attention immediately and bustled about, pressing Doria into service by handing her the baby.

"But I don't know anything about babies!" Doria protested. She sat stiff, afraid to even breathe.

"Just make sure she doesn't crawl away," Nan smirked.

The tiny bundle squirmed in Doria's arms.

"She's moving!" Doria squealed.

"That's normal," Nan reassured her.

"What do I do if she cries?" Doria asked. Pam and Nan laughed. Murray frowned.

"Rock her," he said. "We won't be long."

"Okay." Doria slowly rocked the baby back and forth in her arms. "Is this the right way?"

"You're a natural." Nan said, without so much as a backward glance.

The baby stared up at Doria with huge, trusting eyes.

"I guess she likes me." Doria smiled tentatively down into the round, rosy face of the infant. A funny tingle spread from Doria's arms to her heart. She'd never given much thought to the idea of being a mother.

For a moment, a bright, warm memory washed over her. She saw a sunny day a long time ago when she had fallen from her bike. She had hobbled home with a bloody knee. But, then the feel of her mother's arms about her and the soothing words of comfort from her mother's lips had eased away her pain.

That happy scene was quickly crushed as a black pall settled over Doria. The ache of her mother's last dark year pressed down on her. She remembered her mother dying, growing weaker and thinner day by day. Doria could do nothing for her. No hugs or kisses could banish the agony.

She tried to force back the searing memory, but she did not succeed. She closed her eyes and pictured herself on her knees begging God to make her mother well, but her mother had died a horrible death. From that point on, she had doubted God's existence. She couldn't understand how Uncle Walter could continue being a priest and she couldn't understand why her father had continued to place his faith in a God who had allowed the most wonderful woman in the world to suffer so much.

Nan tapped her shoulder. Doria's eyes flew open and she nearly jumped. The baby threw back its arms and looked completely alarmed.

"I'm sorry," Doria apologized to the baby. "I didn't mean to scare you." A tear spilled over and coursed down her cheek.

"It's okay," Nan said soothingly. "Newborns do that all the time. Here," she held out her arms. "You can hand over that little terror. Pam's blood pressure and temperature are fine."

Doria sniffed as Nan gathered up the infant. She watched the nurse unwrap the tiny bundle. Then Murray immediately began poking and prodding the little one. The nurse and the doctor seemed oblivious to the sound of the tiny infant whimpering in distress while they tormented her.

"She'll catch cold," Doria objected. "You're hurting her!"

Pam patted Doria on the back. "It's all right. She needs to exercise those little lungs of hers."

"We're almost done," Murray muttered as he bent over the unhappy newborn. "Have you got some hot water in that kettle?"

Doria gasped. "What are you going to do now?"

For the first time since she had met him, Murray smiled and, oddly enough, the sight of that grin made Doria's heart flutter.

"I'd like a cup of instant coffee or tea if you can rustle up the ingredients," he explained.

"Oh." Doria blinked. Feeling like a fool, she grabbed a flashlight and rushed out of the room.

Murray stood on the Ocean Avenue Bridge in the gray dawn of the new day and watched the Merrichase fight the turbulent waters of the still-swollen river. To his left, the ocean continued to crash over the sea wall. The storm had blown out to sea, but the waves kept churning in its wake, leaving Atlantic Avenue flooded. Fortunately, road crews had cleared Ocean Avenue so that emergency workers could come into Port Harbor. Pam and her new

baby had been the first to be whisked off to the hospital for an official checkup with her regular obstetrician.

Murray grimaced. He could easily imagine the look of horror on the obstetrician's face when he learned who had attended the birth of the baby.

Leaning on the concrete railing, Murray stared at the date on his watch. December 12th. Three and a half weeks until his trial. He had spent half of the past year trying to prepare himself for his ordeal, but it was Ed Hanrahan who had taught him to enjoy what time he had left.

"Every day is a gift, son," Ed had reminded him.

A stab of pain shot through Murray's heart. He missed Ed. In a year's time, Ed Hanrahan had become for him the father he had never known, and the crusty old fisherman had given him the most precious gift of all -- faith. If it hadn't been for Ed, Murray would never have decided to become a member of St. Raymond's parish. Murray had spent years in school learning all about the human body and its many ills, but he had never read the Bible. Not really. He had been forced to muddle through some passages by a cranky World Literature teacher in college. At the time it had meant nothing to him except extra work in a subject that didn't factor into his future, or so he thought. It took Ed Hanrahan months to break through to him. But Ed, condemned to die by his doctors, had a faith that never wavered. He didn't worry about death, confident that he would gain his eternal reward.

Murray, who could be sentenced to die by twelve jurors, had no hope at all, until Ed finally convinced him that Christ, unlike the jurors, would know the truth. The outcome of his earthly trial mattered little, for the Savior would welcome him with open arms.

However, now that Ed had died, Murray found his faith bobbing up and down like the Merrichase riding the tide. Though Ed, Father Zaleski, and Chad had instructed Murray to pray for Alex Kuhlman every day, it became more difficult as the trial date drew closer.

Then a familiar voice shattered his thoughts.

"Pity. I see it didn't sink."

Murray swung his head around and glared at Doria. She stood there looking so much like a younger, female version of Ed that for a moment, Murray found it difficult to dislike her despite her acid comment.

"Go back to bed," he ordered. "You have circles under your eyes."

She scrunched up a nose full of freckles and gave him a fierce look. Yet, somehow, on her that stubborn jaw jutting out looked cute. "Believe me, I didn't tramp through the snow and the mud because I wanted to see you. Nan and Uncle Walter shoved me out the door and told me to find you."

Murray tensed. "What now?"

"Your brother-in-law arrived shortly after his wife and baby were bundled off in the ambulance. Uncle Walter asked if you could come and give a professional diagnosis." She gave him an artificial smile and added, "Please."

That was when he noticed that she had a dimple in her left cheek. It lent her an air of innocence and youth. Murray had to admit he found her appealing this morning, despite the heavy smudges under her eyes. He wanted to reach out and touch her mass of wavy, brown hair.

He drew his right hand into a fist and jammed it in his pocket. He didn't dare consider where his thoughts had wandered. What was the matter with him?

He could easily guess at the problem if he were honest with himself. He was headed to life in prison at best. At this point, any woman would look good to him.

He rubbed his left hand over his face before glancing at Doria again. She had her gaze fixed on the Merrichase, but it appeared as if her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. Odd, for he had believed her heart to be made of flint.

"What's the matter with Rich?" he asked.

She jumped as if startled from a distant reverie. "Um -- -your brother-in-law is incoherent, shivering violently -- and -- um -- "

Murray tensed. "Are his clothes wet?"

Doria shrugged. "I don't know. But Nan said something about his temperature...I think," she said.

Murray growled under his breath. It could be hypothermia, or any of a dozen other illnesses. He turned and ran as if the devil were at his heels. The exercise felt good. Bounding over fallen limbs, jumping over downed wires, and speeding around huge puddles made him long for a full day's work on the Merrichase, where he could strain his muscles until they ached. He hadn't slept last night. Only a full day of fishing out in the ocean could deaden his mind enough to allow him to crash into bed for a few hours and forget.

As the rectory came into view, Murray saw a police car standing outside. Before he came up to the steps of the old building, the car pulled away with its lights flashing and siren wailing. Father Zaleski stood on the steps with Jason. The small boy waved bye- bye with his pudgy hand.

"Rich's condition seemed to be deteriorating, so Nan went in the patrol car with him," Father Zaleski explained. "The police had stopped by intending to make arrangements to transport the flood victims to Baytown, but -- " The priest shrugged.

Murray nodded as his lungs burned from the strenuous run. He had delivered the baby last night because there was no alternative. But every time he practiced medicine the nightmare of Kelly Morris' death haunted him. Again, he thought of Alex Kuhlman and a shaft of pain zinged through his head.

Blinking his eyes against the ache, he said, "The hospital has heat and light. Rich will be better off there."

"Undoubtedly," Father Zaleski agreed. "But I do wish Doria had come back with you. I have to talk with the widow of the man who died pushing his car and I had hoped my niece could watch Jason."

"Doria doesn't know anything about children." Murray scowled.

"I know." Father Zaleski shrugged. "I thought that some time with Jason might foster some of her natural instincts."

Murray snorted. "After watching her last night with Pam's new baby, I don't think she even knows which end is up."

The priest sighed. "If only -- "

"Look. He's my nephew," Murray interrupted. "I can keep an eye on him. We can't take the Merrichase out today. It's still too treacherous."

Murray scooped Jason up and settled him on his shoulders. Jason chortled with glee.

"When Doria gets back, would you ask her what we should do with the meat in the freezer?" Father Zaleski asked. "It's defrosting."

Doria stayed on the bridge for a while, staring down into the river, watching the current heaving beneath her and wishing she could stop the blood in her veins from surging just as wildly.

Murray affected her. The truth of it made her shudder. He had ruined all her future plans and yet every time she saw him, he cast some crazy spell on her. It wasn't fair. She wanted to hate him, but instead she found herself mesmerized by him. Then, she got all tongue-tied and clumsy. She covered her eyes and took a ragged breath.

Love your enemies. The words drifted into her mind and she groaned aloud. Uncle Walter and her parents had drummed Bible verses into her head, but the phrases floated into her consciousness at the strangest moments. She shook her head to clear her mind.

Anyhow, Murray would quickly be nothing more than a bad memory, like Ted, her former boyfriend. The sooner she got away from Port Harbor altogether, the sooner her life would get back on track. Straightening up, she pounded the rail of the bridge. Her number one priority had to be getting another job, and she sure wouldn't find one here.

She took one last, lingering look at the Merrichase as it bobbed on the waves. She knew every inch of that ship. There had been a time, before her mother's illness, when she had enjoyed being on board the old trawler. But everything had changed when her mother died. The rose-colored glasses had fallen from her eyes. She had learned that prayer didn't matter. She decided that if God did exist, he didn't really care about what went on in the world. People had to fend for themselves.

She made a vow that she would have her own restaurant. It might take her longer, but she wouldn't let go of that dream.

From behind her, she heard the roar of an engine. When she turned, she saw a man on a motorcycle pull up beside her. He lifted the visor on his helmet. Chad Fernandez winked at her.

"Want a ride?" he offered.

"Only if you're leaving Port Harbor," Doria said.

"So you still like the big city?" he asked.

Doria's shoulders slumped. "Not really. But there's nothing for me here, either."

Chad glanced behind him. No other cars were heading toward the bridge. He switched off the motor. "I'm sorry about your father. I'm sorry I missed his funeral, too. I was out of town."

Doria's throat tightened, but she had no intention of giving in to tears. "Dad willed the Merrichase to Murray Santoro. I guess he was trying to teach me a lesson."

"Your father wasn't like that," Chad objected. "He couldn't be vindictive. Besides, everyone in town knows you can't stand Port Harbor and Murray helped your father out a lot this past year."

Doria bit her lip. Had she really been that vocal about her loathing for the little town? She swallowed a large lump in her throat. Yes. She remembered the anger. Anger felt better than grief. In her last year at Baytown High, she had become rebellious, even disrespectful, though she hadn't been foolish enough to let her grades go down. She wanted to get out of Port Harbor and never look back.

Only now, years later, did she have some regrets. She hadn't found happiness in the city, as she had anticipated. Despite a good job, lots of clothes, frequent attendance at Broadway shows, and a steady boyfriend, she felt restless, even empty inside.

She cleared her throat. "I heard you're preparing Murray for confirmation."

Chad's face brightened. "Yes. I'm enjoying it as much as he is. Teaching him has made me appreciate a lot of things I took for granted."

"It's hard to believe you could teach someone else about faith," Doria taunted.

Chad took a deep breath and stared down at his boots for a moment. As the silence stretched on, Doria twirled one of her tight ringlets around her finger. Okay, she had hit a raw nerve deliberately. That was mean.

"I never lost my faith." Chad lifted his face. "I never doubted God, either. I just tried to do things my way and well, I found out God has better ideas."

Doria frowned. "There are far too many people giving God the credit for things that usually happen by sheer chance."

Chad lifted his brows. "So that's the way it is."

Doria heard a condescending note in his voice and narrowed her eyes. "All my prayers went unanswered. So I gave up praying."

Chad got off the motorcycle and reached out to her but she spun around to avoid his touch.

"You've had a terrible loss, but God is still there for you," he stated softly.

Doria struggled with her anger. She drew her hands into fists and put them on her hips.

"If God is there for me, why did He let my mother and my father die? And then why did He allow my father to leave the Merrichase to Murray? Am I a test case between God and the devil? Am I supposed to suffer like Job and then get everything back in spades?" She gave a bitter laugh. "If I remained faithful to God, would a luxury yacht come floating into the harbor with my name on it?"

Chad sputtered, "I-I didn't realize -- I had no idea -- "

"That I lost my faith?" Doria spat out as she turned around to face Chad. "Why should it bother you? You think God has answered all your calls, and I'm sure Murray has a lot to be thankful for -- but it's all chance. Who knows? By next year, I could be sitting on top of the world."

Doria ended her tirade as she noticed a stricken look on Chad's face. He swallowed hard a few times and shook his head.

"I'm sorry. Really sorry," he croaked. "I wish -- " He pounded one fist into the palm of his other hand. "Are you going to be okay?"

Doria glanced down at the swirling water beneath the bridge. "I would never jump, if that's what you're worried about."

"Then let me take you home," he coaxed. Getting back on the motorcycle, he revved up the engine and slid the visor back down over his face.

"No." Doria shook her head. "I'd much rather walk."

Looking dejected, with slumped shoulders, Chad nodded and then raced off into Port Harbor. Doria watched him speeding away with a sinking sensation in her heart. Had she just burned another bridge in her life? What was the matter with her? She shouldn't have lashed out at him.

She clenched her teeth. It was all that God loves you stuff. Chad had changed and she didn't like that. She preferred him as a clown.

She rubbed her forehead to ease the dull ache that had begun to throb with her outburst. She had to take responsibility for her capricious behavior. She came home expecting to be welcomed with open arms, but instead her father had died, leaving her without a cent. That hurt. But had she deserved it?

The tightness came back into her throat. Yes. She hadn't been there for him during his illness. But Murray had.

For the first time since her father's death, Doria let the tears flow freely.

Chapter Three

Murray shuffled a deck of cards he had found in the bottom drawer of Father Sealskin's desk and winced at the thought of all the playthings he had given to his nephew that had been left behind in his sister's now water-logged home. The Parable of the Rich Fool came to his mind. He had not attempted to store up treasure for himself but he had overindulged Jason, hoping that the toddler would never forget him.

Still, Jason did not seem to mind the lack of toys. He delighted in pulling books from Father Zaleski's shelves and throwing them on the floor but Murray tired of putting them back. Besides, the books were showing signs of abuse.

Murray knelt down and laid the deck of cards on the floor. He thought he could teach Jason how to play "War." He swept the deck open in one wide arc and pulled out all the aces.

Jason simply kept yanking books off the shelf.

Murray heard a knock on the door and called, "Come in!" He turned to greet the caller and found himself staring at Chad Fernandez.

"Where's Father Z.?" Chad asked.

"He had to visit with the woman whose husband died yesterday," Murray explained. Chad's slumped shoulders and furrowed brow warned Murray that something had gone terribly wrong.

"Do you think he'll be back soon?" Chad stared at his watch.

"I don't know." Murray could almost touch the black cloud that hovered over Chad's head. Despite the tension, Murray went back to the cards to search for all the deuces.

"Okay. I'll wait," Chad said. He stood at the window gazing outside with an anxious expression. Then, while Murray set out to retrieve all the threes, Chad took up snapping his fingers repeatedly.

Jason continued to draw books from the shelf, with an obsessiveness that would drive any sane uncle to hire a babysitter. Murray gathered up the cards and tapped them neatly back into the deck with the ones he had selected on top. Gritting his teeth, he started to reshelve the books.

Chad began to slap his palm with his fist.

"Something the matter?" Murray asked.

Chad gave a noncommittal shrug and continued to fidget. Murray narrowed his eyes and studied him. On the Merrichase, under trying conditions, Chad always had the coolest head.

"What's with you?" Murray asked. "You're behaving like a fish gasping for oxygen and slapping on the deck."

Chad started to pace the floor. Murray stared at him in amazement.

"Tell me what's bothering you," Murray suggested. "Sometimes it helps to get it off your chest."

Chad ceased his restless movement and ran his fingers through his hair. "I suppose I could -- but then -- it really has nothing to do with you after all."

"Good. I can give you a fair and unbiased opinion." Murray waved the cards in front of Jason to draw his attention away from the bookshelf. Jason snatched up a handful of cards and tasted them.

Murray groaned. He handed Jason his keys and slipped the cards away to wipe them dry on his jeans.

"What did you do? Lose your best friend?" Murray asked.

Chad glanced at the ceiling with a wretched look and slumped into Father Zaleski's chair.

"Some girl ditch you?" Murray questioned.

Chad let out a deep sigh.

The muscles along Murray's shoulders tensed. "I knew you'd get in trouble with the ladies one of these days. I warned you."

"Hey! It's not what you think." Chad's voice had the sharp edge of anxiety in it. "I mean, she was a good friend -- sort of -- and I should have been there for her. I should have understood -- and I didn't. Now it's too late." He slammed his fist on the desk.

"You're the one who's always telling me its never too late."

"This is different." Chad drummed his fingers relentlessly and then stared at his watch again. "Look, I have to make some phone calls and set up a few more appointments which means I'll have to go to Baytown. Think we'll head out tomorrow?"

Murray snorted. "If the forecast is good, the swells go down, and if Rich is okay."

"What's the matter with Rich?" Chad asked.

"I don't know the official diagnosis yet," Murray reported. "He's at the hospital."

"First the house gets flooded, then the baby, and now Rich is sick. Lord. How much can they take?" Chad shook his head and looked pained. "Well, I'll pray for him and I'll try to see Father Z. tonight then. Let him know I stopped in. You can tell him -- tell him," Chad took a deep breath. "Lord, forgive me. It's about Doria."

With that Chad sped from the rectory. Murray stood there gaping. Doria and Chad. Of course. He should have known.

Murray spent the next half-hour constructing a magnificent three-story house of cards while Jason toyed with the card box and the keys.

Doria and Chad. They had gone to school together. Played together. Sung in the church choir together. They came from similar backgrounds.

Why else would Doria return to the town she had despised? Especially since, according to her uncle, she had just suffered a failed romance.

Doria and Chad. Murray let out a deep sigh and one wing of his house of cards caved in.

He never expected the phone to ring, so when it did, it shattered his concentration. His fingers slipped and the entire construction project disintegrated, much to the delight of Jason who gleefully picked up a handful of cards and threw them into the air.

"Down!" Jason squealed.

Murray got up to answer the telephone on Father Zaleski's desk. At the same time, a knock sounded at the office door.

"Come in!" he called. Doria entered with an armload of wood. Murray's pulse sped up at the sight of her, a sensation he could well do without. He turned his back to her.

He spoke into the receiver, "St. Raymond's rectory, may I help you?"

Silence greeted his question.

"Hello?" Murray asked. "This is St. Raymond's rectory. Do you have a message for Father Zaleski?" He strained to hear an answer, but the person on the other end of the line did not respond. A cold chill went up his spine. How many times had this happened last week? Still, he couldn't be sure if the person on the other end of the line had called, hoping to speak with the pastor.

"I'm sorry if I can't help you," Murray said. "Father Zaleski should be back later." He hung up the receiver and rubbed the back of his neck, while he tried to convince himself that the annoying phone calls meant nothing.

"How about that. I guess we've got our telephone service back on. No lights. No heat. But now we can call to complain about it," Doria said.

"That was a wrong number," Murray mumbled. He sat down on Father Zaleski's chair and lifted his gaze to watch Doria as she knelt at the hearth and added more wood to the blaze. She would be pretty if she smiled, he decided. But so far, when she looked at him, her eyes shot out sparks of dislike, like those leaping from the flames in the grate. He felt a stab of jealousy when he thought of her gazing at Chad with adoring eyes.

He tried to rein in his emotions. After all, he believed her to be nothing more than a greedy child and he wondered if she had ever loved her father. Then he bowed his head. What had happened to all his new Christian principles? He should try to heal any bitterness.

"Where's your brother-in-law?" she asked as she sat back on her heels and unzipped her jacket.

"The police just happened to stop by and Nan decided his condition warranted a hospital visit so she had him whisked off before I got here," Murray replied.

Jason continued to throw cards up into the air and laugh hysterically as the cards came back down.

"Looks like he's playing a game of fifty-two pickup," Doria commented. "It's great that he can keep himself amused."

"Not for long," Murray said. "He'll get tired, or hungry, or need a diaper change."

"Yuck." Doria made a face.

Murray shook his head. "Children are gifts."

"So are flowers and perfume," Doria noted. "But they smell better and they're much quieter."

"Flowers and perfume can't love you back." Murray got out of the chair and swooped down to snatch up Jason. He lifted his nephew way above his head.

"Up, up," Jason cried.

Murray zoomed around the room with Jason aloft, his chubby little arms held out like the wings of a 747. Jason laughed wildly. Murray thought he saw the beginning of a smile on Doria's lips.

As Murray lowered Jason from the skies, Jason wrapped his pudgy arms around his uncle's neck.

"Mama?" Jason asked.

Murray sighed as a twinge of disappointment went through him. But, what could he expect? Naturally, the kid had to be wondering what had happened to his mother.

"Yes. Let's call Mama on the phone," he said. But before he lifted the receiver he remembered the message he was supposed to give to Doria.

"By the way, your uncle wants to know what he should do with the meat in the freezer. It's defrosting." Then Murray called the hospital.

Fortunately, there wasn't a lot of meat. Uncle Walter didn't cook large meals or host grand parties. He got by with simple fare, occasional invitations to dine with his parishioners, and once a week he usually ate out, often at his favorite fast food restaurant.

Still, several pounds of beef sat in the small freezer getting soft. Doria scavenged through the kitchen cabinets and decided that the quickest way to solve the problem would be to make a generous serving of boeuf bourguignonne. It shouldn't be too difficult to manage in the fireplace.

But who would eat it? The families who had spent the night in the church basement had now been carted off to the shelter set up in the high school gym in Baytown. She would ask Uncle Walter to invite some people to the rectory to polish it off.

She scavenged through the cabinets and made up a list of ingredients she needed for the recipe. Then, she wrote out a note to leave for her uncle, but when she knocked at the office door, nobody answered. Peeking in, she saw that the room was empty. Murray must have gone off someplace with Jason. She hoped he would return by the time she had the meal prepared. She tossed back her curls and reminded herself that it wasn't that she wanted to see him. But, a fisherman his size would undoubtedly have a ravenous appetite, and then she wouldn't have to worry about leftovers.

She winced inwardly as her conscience pricked her. Maybe she ought to invite Chad, since she had behaved so badly when she had seen him on the bridge. Taking the coward's way out, she added a postscript to her note and asked her uncle to call Chad along with anyone else he could think of who might enjoy a serving of boeuf bourguignonne.

Traffic on the road to Baytown crawled at an infuriatingly slow pace. Nevertheless, though it took Doria twice as long to get to the supermarket, the trip seemed worth it. Baytown had lots of lights and lots of heat. Doria strolled down the aisles of the store enjoying the warmth, the piped-in music, and the glare of fluorescent bulbs. She thought about the way that everyone tended to take the marvel of electricity for granted. Without it, the human race had little advantage over the Stone Age. Until the lights and the heat vanished, even she didn't appreciate the wonderful miracle of electricity.

Then, unexpectedly, the dreadful ache of remorse hit her and she stopped in her tracks. She hadn't appreciated her father either and now he was gone. The ache traveled to her throat as her eyes welled with tears. She tried to stem her reaction. After all, her father had rarely been home as she grew up. Due to his long trips at sea, she had never really gotten to know him. And after her mother's death, she had focused all her energy on escaping the dreary little town of Port Harbor.

Still, what if she hadn't been so anxious to leave her hometown? Would it have made a difference? Could she ever have developed a rapport with her father? If she had, would he have given her the Merrichase as he had originally promised?

But it was too late now. And that fact stabbed at her over and over again. She could have made more time for her father when he was alive, but she didn't. She gripped the bar on the shopping cart and plowed blindly ahead; not even bothering to look where she was going. She only wanted to be rid of the bitter memories that kept assaulting her. The best way to do that would be to leave Port Harbor again, but this time she wouldn't come back.

She swung wildly around a tall, cardboard display of new, low-fat cookies and her cart crashed into another cart.

"Watch where you're going!" rumbled a familiar deep voice.

Doria flinched and then felt the blood drain from her face as she glanced up into the stern face of Murray Santoro.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" she stammered.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" he said with a note of disgust. He backed his cart away.

Doria noticed that Jason sat amid the groceries in the cart, sucking on a lollipop. He didn't appear to be perturbed at all by the abrupt crash, probably because he leaned against a nice, soft bag of disposable diapers, which must have cushioned the blow.

"Pam told me what she needed," Murray said. "I'm going to get her and the baby at the hospital. But Rich is in the ICU with pneumonia."

Doria tried to swallow though her mouth felt as if she had stuffed it with cotton. Why did Murray make her so nervous?

"That's too bad," she managed to croak.

Murray's brow clouded like a storm brewing out over a wind-whipped sea. "Aren't you going to apologize?" he growled.

"For what?" Doria wrinkled up her nose.

"For ramming my cart and my nephew," Murray stated crisply.

"Oh. Sorry." Doria lowered her head. She realized she had been staring at him. His finely chiseled features could easily grace a Roman statue.

As he headed off down the aisle, he tossed a few parting words over his shoulder.

"Get some sleep tonight, you remind me of a fish left lying on the deck too long." Then he added, "You don't want to be the next one to get pneumonia."

After a stop at an ATM machine, Doria regretted her purchases. The balance in her bank account had already taken a nosedive. She needed a job. Soon. With the combined load of her college loan, her car payments, and the monthly payment on her credit card, financial ruin could be right around the next corner for her.

Getting back into her car, she slammed the door a lot harder than necessary while remembering the expensive jacket she had bought for her boyfriend's birthday. She was still paying for it. How stupid she had been! How naive! She had believed that he loved her, when all he really wanted was --

No. She gripped the steering wheel tightly. She would not dwell on what Ted had hoped to gain. It scared her to think that he might have succeeded in convincing her to live with him if she hadn't caught him necking in the elevator with the blond who occupied in the apartment above hers.

Doria's face burned with a mixture of anger and shame as she drove over the bridge and back into Port Harbor. Reviewing her past, she had made more blunders than she cared to count.

When she returned to the rectory, she saw Uncle Walter sitting at his desk and talking on the phone. He waved at her and motioned to a pile of mail on the corner of his desk, which included a large package.

Gloom settled on Doria's shoulders as she picked up the envelopes addressed to her. Bills. All bills. Her throat tightened with emotion as she glanced at the package. She knew that inside she would find a heavy Irish sweater that she had intended to give to her father for Christmas.

Grief threatened to overwhelm her. She dashed out of the office and ran upstairs to the small guestroom. The air in the room felt colder than the air outside. Every breath Doria exhaled sent out a small cloud of vapor. If she let any tears fall, the moisture would surely freeze on her cheeks. She paced the room, hugging her coat closely to her body. She needed money and she needed it now. She opened the door to the closet. Her fabulous wardrobe bulged out of the cramped space. The sight of it made her stomach churn. She should have saved some money instead of throwing away her salary on designer labels.

She sank down on the old iron bed. The ancient springs creaked in protest as the icy bedclothes made her shiver.

She had never given a thought to how easy it was to go from being a success to being a failure. It didn't take much -- simply the loss of a few steady paychecks.

Just ask Jesus. Uncle Walter's favorite phrase jostled against her despair. She stood up quickly and cast the idea back into the deepest recesses of her mind. She knew how useless it would be to beg the Lord for help. The endless prayers she had said for her mother had been little more than a waste of breath.

She took in several great draughts of the stingingly frigid air. Her nostrils burned and her lungs hurt, but it did clear her head. She would put all her payments on the credit card and then tomorrow she would start her search for another job.

She walked over to the closet again and started to open the door, but she shut it before the sight of all those lovely outfits made her change her mind. Tomorrow, she would stop in Baytown and leave as many outfits as she could at the consignment shop on Broad Street. Hopefully, she could get some cash back from the sale of those clothes.

Chapter Four

"I don't belong at the head of the table," Murray protested as Father Zaleski nudged him in that direction.

"Nonsense," Father Zaleski said. "You're the captain."

"You're the priest and this is your house," Murray reminded.

"This rectory doesn't belong to me," Father Zaleski chuckled. "I'm simply living here temporarily."

A sudden clatter of silverware drew Murray's attention. Doria stood beside an open drawer at the sideboard. She had dropped the forks on the floor.

"Are you being transferred?" Doria asked.

Murray noticed a slight tremor in her voice.

"No, no. Nothing like that," the priest chuckled. "But the Lord is preparing a room for me."

Murray watched the corners of Doria's mouth turn down. What it would be like to see a genuine smile light up her face? And why he should even care? Yet, he did, and worse, he wanted that smile to be only for him. He sat down and smoothed back his hair. He had more important things to think about than Doria Hanrahan's happiness.

He saw her bend to pick up the forks. He drummed an impatient tattoo with his fingers for a minute before he decided to get out of his chair and help her, though he doubted that she would appreciate his assistance. Crawling on his hands and knees beneath the table, he picked up three forks. When he held them out to her, she snatched them from his grasp.

"I don't..." she began with a venomous tone.

"Hmmm?" Father Zaleski shot a warning look at his niece.

She lowered her head and muttered, "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Murray replied automatically. He frowned as he sat down again, surreptitiously studying Doria as she fumbled with the utensils. He couldn't stop wondering if her father's death truly affected her or if she simply mourned the loss of her inheritance?

Father Zaleski seemed happily intent on slathering a chunk of bread with butter.

Murray picked up a piece of bread and slowly ripped it in two while continuing to peer at Doria from under his heavy brows. She pulled out the drawer in the sideboard and picked out several large spoons and a ladle. When she set them down on the table, she cast a furtive glance at him. He saw a bloom of color rise in her cheeks before she quickly turned and left the room. Oddly enough, he felt a strong urge to go after her, but he fought against the crazy idea. What difference would it make?

Chad's face beamed as he came into the dining room with a large serving bowl. A billow of steam trailed in his wake. He seemed to be in a sunny mood -- and Murray wondered why. Chad couldn't have patched things up with Doria. She looked miserable.

"We better eat quickly before everything gets cold." Chad set the bowl down in the middle of the table. "Best keep the grace brief, Father," he warned.

Father Zaleski closed his eyes and sniffed the air. "Ah, but this smells worthy of a mighty long thanks."

Murray's stomach growled as the aroma from the beef wafted under his nose. He hadn't eaten a decent meal in days. Away from the rigid schedule he kept while aboard the Merrichase, he grabbed whatever happened to be on hand when he got hungry.

Nan Lyons and her husband, George, brought out more bowls with noodles, salad, and green beans. Jason toddled along behind them.

"Pam and the baby are going to stay in the office," Nan explained quietly to Murray. "She's got another feeding in progress."

Murray nodded. "Come here, Jason." He smiled at his nephew. "You can sit on Uncle Murray's lap."

Jason, sucking his thumb, shuffled obediently toward Murray. The child looked weary to the bone.

"You must be running on fumes." Murray scooped him up in a big, bear hug. "You know, you're a big brother now. You're going to have to keep that baby sister of yours in line."

Nan laughed. "His sister is a feisty little thing. In a few more years, she'll be bossing him around."

"That's what all you women do best," George commented dryly. "It's one of the reasons I like fishing."

"And why is it so peaceful in our house when you're off on the ocean?" Nan retaliated.

Murray caught the merry gleam in George's eye and knew the two were simply teasing each other. Nan always met the Merrichase the moment it pulled into the dock. Judging from the hugs and kisses she showered on George, their ten-year marriage had lost none of its fervor.

Murray tousled Jason's hair and tried to block out the thought of what it would be like to have a wife and kids of his own. He couldn't make any plans; everything hung in the balance for him. Yet, the idea wouldn't go away.

Then Doria entered the room again, her hair a wild mass of springy ringlets that Murray had a sudden longing to touch. She lugged a pot that filled the air with a spicy scent. Murray bent his head.

Lord, if there's even a slight chance and I am acquitted, I'd like a home of my own. One as pungent with the fragrance of home cooking as this.

Murray lifted his head and inhaled deeply. Had he asked for too much? He sighed. A home. How about simply asking for his life? He had been accused of murder.

"What's in there?" Chad asked Doria as she set the pot down and started to ladle its contents into a mug.

"Mulled cider," she answered. "Apple juice with cinnamon, allspice, and cloves. It should warm up your insides."

"It looks like a wonderful meal," Father Zaleski beamed. "Please sit down, dear, for a blessing."

Murray watched the grim set of Doria's mouth as she obeyed her uncle's request. He sensed the tension in her as she sat stiffly in the chair to his right. But as he reached out to join hands with her for the prayer, he saw the burn on her skin, nearly hidden by her sleeve.

He grabbed her hand and turned it to assess the damage. "What did you do?"

"It's nothing." She tried to escape his grasp.

"It's a second degree burn," Murray growled. A half-inch wide, it ran upwards from her wrist but with the sleeve covering it, he didn't know how long it might be. "It needs attention."

"Leave me alone," she cried. "Let's eat before the food gets cold. The noodles are already mushy."

Nan got up from her seat and peered at the burn. "My, my, my. That must hurt an awful lot." She patted Doria's back.

Murray waited for Nan's sympathy to break down Doria's rigid facade but only a tiny flicker of pain passed over her features.

When she tried to tug her hand free, Murray refused to let her go. She glared at him fiercely.

"Nan, why don't you hold on to Jason for me and I'll dress Doria's burn," Murray suggested. Nan reached out for Jason who snuggled into her arms as easily as he would have cuddled up to his mother.

"We may have to cut away that sleeve," Murray said.

Doria flinched. "I got it in Saks!" she protested. "Besides, it isn't stuck to the skin. See." She began to pull at it and winced.

"Stop that. You'll only make it worse." Murray slid his hand over hers. Her fingers, thin and tapered, were dwarfed by his callused paw. Something stirred inside him -- something that he thought had been snuffed out forever.

"Run along and fix her up," Father Zaleski said. "Take your time. I can bless the food without you."

Murray stood up but kept Doria's hand in his. "Make sure you save some food for me," he reminded everyone.

"Aye, aye, Captain!" Chad picked up a serving spoon and took up a fencing pose. "I will keep away the curs. I will stand guard unto the death." He stabbed at the air. "Valor and honor will be mine!"

Nan, George, and Father Zaleski laughed. Jason took his thumb out of his mouth. Murray frowned as Doria lowered her head. Did a small smile grace her lips? He couldn't tell.

"Come on into the kitchen," he said.

The icy tap water running over Doria's skin washed away some of the pain but Murray's nearness made her heart beat quicker.

"I've burned myself at least a hundred times," she stated through clenched teeth. "I mean -- you play with fire and you're going to get burned."

"This bad?" Murray muttered. He held her fingers and turned her arm slightly to get a better look.

Doria swallowed hard and dared a peek at the wound. Her stomach turned. She closed her eyes. "It's so much more difficult to cook in the fireplace. The noodles are terrible. I couldn't get the water to boil so I put on more wood -- "

"What's more important? Noodles or your skin?" Murray asked.

"I'm a chef," Doria snapped as she opened her eyes to glare at him. "Mushy noodles could ruin me." Her throat tightened as she thought about the bills she had to pay.

"Roasted skin is definitely worse than mushy noodles." He stated in a flat tone. "Do you want to wind up in the hospital with a nasty infection?"

Doria pouted and thought about the co-pays on her insurance.

Murray turned off the faucet. "I've set up everything on the kitchen table. You sit down and lay your arm on that sterile paper."

Sighing, Doria did as she was told. Murray snapped on a pair of latex gloves and started to work on her burn. Doria didn't watch. She sat rigid in the chair. She refused to flinch no matter what. Murray had already seen her come close to fainting. She didn't want him to think she was some clingy, anemic female. Why did she have to be so clumsy?

"It was tough seeing Rich in the ICU," Murray said softly.

Doria's lip trembled as she heard the snip of his scissors cutting away at her blouse.

"Pam was a basket case the moment she walked in and saw the tubes and the monitors," Murray went on. "But I called in about an hour ago, and Rich's condition has stabilized. We're short one man for the trip out tomorrow, though."

"You're taking out the Merrichase?" Doria frowned. "But this is the worst time of year."

"Christmas is right around the corner," he commented. "And we'll get close to top price. I've got to get a present for my new little niece. Besides, Rich and Pam will need some extensive repairs done on their house."

"But it's dangerous! Didn't you see the weather report?" Doria turned to look at Murray but he had his head bent and his gaze intent upon his task. She detected the slightest hint of his spicy aftershave drifting into her nostrils despite the prevailing essence of wood smoke and candle wax that clung in the air. Her pulse raced.

"Unfortunately, this will scar," he said, ignoring her question.

"Dad would never take out the boat if it looked like another Nor'easter would hit," Doria insisted before a sudden qualm of conscience silenced her. Actually, there had been many times her father had not heeded the weather reports but he had always been lucky. The Merrichase had never failed to return to Port Harbor.

"Did Pam tell you what she named the baby?" Murray continued calmly.

Doria covered her eyes. "The boat could be swamped or roll over with the weight of the ice -- "

"Theresa was our mother's name," he said in a level tone. "She died five years ago."

"Three years ago, during a Nor'easter, a boat from Port Harbor went down with all the crew on board!" Doria's voice rose.

"The Angelica," he responded. "Your godfather was the captain."

Doria barely stifled a sob. She felt a pain stab at her heart as she recalled that she had not come home to attend the memorial service.

Murray lifted his head. "Did I hurt you?"

She took in a ragged breath. "No."

"I was told that the Angelica went down trying to make it back from Georges Bank against a bitter cold head wind. We'll head south for porgies. Odds are it'll be warmer."

Doria fell silent. Her father had taught him well. She thought of all the time and patience her father must have showered on Murray. If she had stayed in Port Harbor, Ed Hanrahan would have given his daughter as much. She kept her mouth firmly shut in an attempt to hold back her emotions.

"Too tight?" Murray asked as he rolled gauze around her arm.

Doria shook her head and straightened her spine. "Aren't you done yet?" she asked brusquely.

He snipped off the end of the tape. "All set. You can go now. I'll clean up here."

Doria lifted up her arm and frowned at the thick bandage.

"Don't you think you went a little overboard with the gauze? This looks like I met up with Moby Dick."

"The idea is to prevent any dirt from getting into the wound," Murray muttered as he rolled up the paper, which included the cut-off portion of her designer blouse. Doria watched him throw everything into the garbage. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach as she fingered the ragged edge of the sleeve above her elbow. The little scrap of fabric Murray had discarded was easily worth the price of a dinner at a very nice restaurant.

"I can't go for an interview with this bandage," she grumbled. "Nobody would hire me. They would think I'm accident prone."

He lifted his brows and gave her a piercing look.

"I can take a look at it tomorrow before we go -- that is if we can find another man to take Rich's place."

"There's always somebody hanging around the docks willing to go out." Doria got off the chair. She wiggled her fingers and bent her elbow. The bulky bandage didn't impede her movements.

"The problem is that Rich doubled as the cook." He shrugged his wide shoulders and shook his head.

When they entered the dining room again, the hum of conversation halted abruptly and the air filled with a sense of tension. Doria slid into the chair at Murray's right hand. Chad sat at her right. Her cheeks burned as she felt all eyes staring at her bulky bandage.

Uncle Walter cleared his throat. "How is the burn?"

Murray started to answer. "There's some -- "

"It's fine," Doria interrupted as she gave Murray's ankle a swift kick under the table. He didn't flinch.

"It'll be healed in no time," she said, stretching her mouth into a wide smile. Then she added, "Thanks to Murray."

"Speaking of thanks," Nan broke in. "We thanked God for every drop of water, every herb, and every cow who wound up in this delightful concoction of yours."

"It was a very long blessing," George mumbled with his mouth full. "I nearly died of starvation waiting for the end of it."

"This meal deserved no less," Chad defended. "Don't worry, boss. I doled out the portions so there's still plenty left."

"Where's Jason?" Murray asked.

"He fell asleep," Nan replied. "He's snuggled into his sleeping bag in the office. Pam and little Theresa are asleep, too."

Murray nodded as the bowls were passed along the table to him. Doria watched as he heaped an inordinate amount of food on his plate.

"Hey," George glowered. "I expected seconds."

Murray looked up at George and grinned. "Really?" He dug into the food on his plate and carefully lifted one chunk of beef out with a spoon. He dumped it back into the serving bowl.

"Gee, thanks," George grumbled.

"Don't mention it." Murray passed the bowl to Doria.

Nothing made Doria happier than seeing people enjoy the food she had cooked. The ache from the burn on her arm faded at the sight of everyone eating heartily. She almost smiled while she ladled out a small portion for herself.

"By the way, Ted called," Uncle Walter said.

Doria froze with the ladle in midair.

"He said he'll stop by tomorrow night. To talk," Uncle Walter leveled his gaze at her.

Awkwardly, she plopped the ladle back in the serving bowl. A hundred different scenarios rushed through her mind -- none of them good. Why would he feel inclined to see her? Why would he insist on talking to her in person?

"I won't be here tomorrow night." Doria's voice shook. "I'm -- I've got an appointment."

"But he said he had something to give you," Uncle Walter explained. "He had a trip to make out to Long Island. He'll be coming here directly from there."

"Did he leave a number where he can be reached?" Doria tried to stay calm. The last person in the whole world that she wanted to see ever again was Ted. The slimy worm.

"Unfortunately, he didn't give me a number and I didn't think to ask," Uncle Walter shrugged. "Sorry."

Doria lost her appetite. She pushed her food around with her fork. She knew Ted would create a big scene when he showed up. A master manipulator, he would have Uncle Walter ready to canonize him.

"Hey, this is good." Murray licked his lips. "Come on and eat up." He wagged his fork at her.

"The noodles are mushy," she complained.

"Who cares?" Murray shrugged. "Throw a little more of your great gravy on them."

"Think of the noodles as fish," Chad said with a dangerous tilt to one eyebrow. "You must search through the gravy. Drag your net through the deep and then voila. You catch him on your fork." Chad speared a noodle and lifted it high.

Doria rolled her eyes. "Honestly, you haven't changed at all since high school. I can't believe it."

"I know," Chad teased. "I'm a living example of arrested development."

"It's actually a gift," Uncle Walter commented.

"Some gift," George muttered. "You should try living in a small room, on a boat in the middle of the ocean with Mr. Perpetual Sunshine."

"George!" Nan exclaimed as she gave her husband a stern look.

"It's okay," Chad reassured her.

"No, it's not!" George glared. "He wakes up and starts singing opera -- "

"Opera?" Doria blinked.

"Of course," Chad explained as he took in a deep breath. "It's very cleansing -- "

"All right, boys!" Murray rapped his spoon on the table. Doria turned her gaze on him. It appeared as though a thundercloud had settled on his brow.

"Do you want to go out tomorrow or not?" Murray asked.

"Christmas is in thirteen more days." Chad suddenly had a worried look on his face. "I didn't buy anything for Mom, yet."

"Buy me ear plugs," George said. Then he added, "We have to go. They're getting great prices at the market."

"There's another Nor'easter due mid-week," Murray stated solemnly.

"Yes, but the tides should be lower," Chad offered hopefully. "The full moon will be gone by then."

"Really," George smirked. "Then maybe you won't be so manic."

"George, you apologize right now!" Nan insisted. "You two are friends. Remember?"

"We have a problem," Murray went on. "With Rich in the hospital we need a cook. Can either of you cook?"

Chad looked sheepish and shrugged his shoulders. "Mom never let me in the kitchen."

Nan chuckled. "George can't cook to save his life."

George glowered. "Now wait a minute! I make great pina coladas -- without the booze. I mix up this cream of coconut stuff, it comes in a can, with pineapple juice and I put crushed ice in the blender. It tastes like dessert."

"We need more than dessert," Murray stated dryly. "You guys know anyone who can cook?

Doria saw everyone look down at their plate and then at her. She felt the blood drain from her face.

"No way," she said. "I am not going out with you guys."

"You said you need a job." Chad covered her hand with his.

She pulled her hand away. "I'm a chef, not a cook. There's a difference."

"You had a stack of bills come in today," Uncle Walter pointed out.

"With the current market price for porgies, we stand to make a killing," George explained. "And you'll have it in four days, most likely. Cash. We split it as your father did. A broken 45."

He didn't have to tell Doria. She knew how profitable winter fishing trips could be -- if the crew had luck on their side. She knew all about the dangers, as well. An angry ocean could be deadly. Still, the short, four-day trip providing quick cash to pay her bills tempted her.

"She can't come with us," Murray said sourly. "We need a man who can double as the cook, as Rich did. Otherwise, I'll have to hire someone else for the heavy work and when we split the money, we'll all get less."

Doria's blood pressure skyrocketed. She jumped up. "A man for the heavy work! What a chauvinist! I can do anything on board that any of you can do. The winches do the heavy work!"

"When she was a youngster, she could repair the nets faster than anyone else," Uncle Walter contributed.

"It's too dangerous!" Murray roared. "She's a woman!"

"I'm no coward." Doria glared at him. "I told you I have stood on the deck of the Merrichase in twenty foot seas and it's the truth. Right, Uncle Walter?"

"She loved every minute of it," he agreed.

"It will mess up your hair." Murray's eyes narrowed to slits.

Doria held up a mass of her brown ringlets. "This is naturally curly! I am not one of those women who worries over a broken nail."

"She bites them," Uncle Walter nodded sagely.

"Down to the quick," she held out her hands for Murray to examine.

"You could take care of her burn on the boat," Nan suggested.

"I said no," he growled. "She's not going and that's final."

"She cooks better than Rich," George mentioned.

"She looks better, too," Chad added.

"I am not going out with a woman on board." The veins on Murray's neck stood out.

"Just because I'm a woman?" Doria put her hands on hips.

"As I recall, you said you had an appointment tomorrow," Murray reminded her.

Doria clenched her teeth. He had an excellent memory for trivia.

"I'll cancel the appointment." She crossed her arms and glared at him.

Murray's eyes narrowed. "It's a mighty big ocean out there and it only takes one small slip-up to put us all in danger."

"Jesus will be right beside you," Uncle Walter promised. "You have nothing to fear."

Murray clenched his hands into fists and banged the table with so much force that everyone jumped. Then he rushed out of the room.

"Show up tomorrow at dawn," George said. "I think you got the job."

"Can you cook a western omelet?" Chad asked.

"Of-of course," Doria answered, still a little startled by Murray's display of fury.

"Well, I like mine with sausage rather than ham." He smiled.

"You haven't changed a bit, Chad." Doria sighed and sat down.

"Mom says that, too." He shrugged. "She claims I'm either sweet or crazy. Nothing in between."

"Mostly crazy," George agreed.

"George!" Nan scolded.

"I'm sorry." He rolled his eyes. "But don't forget the ear plugs."

"Speaking of opera." Doria pulled out a drawer in the sideboard and took out a pen and paper. "Do you guys like Italian food?"

Everyone laughed. Even Uncle Walter.

"Murray's favorite is lasagna," Nan said. "I have the recipe for the sauce his mother used to make. Pam gave it to me."

Doria nodded. Perhaps the special sauce would help.

"My favorite is corned beef," George stated. "With horseradish."

"Actually, he'll eat anything," Nan commented. "With horseradish."

"What should I tell Ted when he shows up here?" UncleWalter asked.

"You'll think of something." Doria wrinkled up her nose as she thought of her former boyfriend. "But don't let him fool you. He's really not much of a gentleman."

Uncle Walter sighed and took off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "I figured that out all by myself."

"Let's get this cleaned up guys," Nan said brusquely as she stood up. "You've got a busy day tomorrow."

"I like apple pie," Chad said thoughtfully. "With vanilla ice cream on top." He carried a serving platter out of the room.

"Brownies with vanilla ice cream are better," George asserted as he hefted a batch of dirty plates and followed Chad.

"They'll eat anything as long as it's not nailed down." Nan winked at Doria. She lugged out the pot with the remains of the mulled cider in it.

Doria felt herself go pale and sat down. "Uncle Walter, do you know what I just did?"

"Yes." He wiped his glasses with a napkin.

Doria covered her eyes with a shaky hand. "Four days on a boat with Murray Santoro. I'm crazy."

"It's the Merrichase, not just any old boat," Uncle Walter soothed. "I think it's a great idea for you to go out on it one last time."

Doria bit her lip. One last time. That sounded so final. Suddenly, she heard the crackle of static. Her uncle lifted a black box close to his ear and frowned.

"What is that?" Doria asked.

Her uncle put his finger to his lips. Doria waited while the sound of garbled voices sputtered out unintelligible language.

Uncle Walter shrugged and laid the box on the table. "A traffic violation, I think. On the other side of the bridge."

Doria's mouth dropped open. "That's a police scanner? What are you doing with it? Where did you get it?"

"The widow gave it to me," Uncle Walter sighed. "In fact, she insisted I take it. Her husband used to work on the First Aid squad."

Doria shook her head. "You are a priest, not a paramedic."

Uncle Walter toyed with the buttons. "But maybe I need to be praying for people with traffic violations, too."

"People with traffic violations are the bad guys," Doria reminded him. "They're supposed to be punished."

Uncle Walter smiled. "Jesus still loves them."

Chapter Five

Murray stood in the wheelhouse of the Merrichase scanning the radar screen and the engine gauges on the console but the small figure huddled on the deck below him kept drawing his attention away from his task. Clad in an ill fitting, dazzling yellow oilskin, Doria had taken up her position in the bow of the boat the moment they had left Port Harbor. Though the wind buffeted her and the salty spray drenched her, she remained stalwart and steadfast, staring out over the ocean. The only bright spot in all of the seascape surrounding the trawler as it cruised beneath gray skies with an angry ocean reflecting the slate above.

Murray shook his head. He didn't like this situation one bit. As captain of a fishing vessel, he wielded a rather tenuous authority over his crew anyway but last night, it had seemed as if he had a mutiny on his hands.

Father Zaleski and even his sister, Pam, had tried to cajole him into believing that this trip would be good for Doria, a sort of catharsis for her grief but the whole situation rankled.

He couldn't stop doubting Doria's motives. Did she mourn the loss of her father or did the loss of the cash she could get from selling the Merrichase cause her more pain?

He winced inwardly as he thought about the conversation he had with Chad that morning as they had loaded the ship with supplies. Murray had bitterly rattled off his theory about the true nature of Doria's grief with a vehemence he rarely used. When he had finished, Chad became unusually serious.

"I discussed Doria's problem with her uncle before the dinner last night," Chad explained. "Evidently, she never healed after the loss of her mother. She has built up a tough shell to protect herself from further damage and that's what we see, that hard exterior. But deep down inside, she's bleeding as anyone else would after suffering the loss of her father."

"Since when did you become a psychologist?" Murray asked sarcastically, unrepentant about his views, and still feeling singed by what he perceived as his crew's lack of loyalty.

Chad had simply shrugged. "I took a few graduate courses."

"While you were working in advertising?" Murray questioned in a cynical tone. "Did you think shrink techniques could help you sell more ads?"

"No." Chad stated simply. "The truth is that I hated advertising. I did nothing but tell lies all day. It clashed with my Christian upbringing."

At that point, Murray felt a cold chill grip him as he realized that he wasn't behaving like a Christian at all. He lowered his head and cleared his throat. With Ed Hanrahan around, being a Christian had seemed so easy. But now he found himself slipping into his former bad habits so easily.

"So when does Doria disassemble that tough shell of hers and heal?" Murray asked gruffly.

"Maybe never, if she doesn't regain her faith," Chad sighed. "Pray for her. It's all we can really do."

Murray had noticed Doria's absence at church that morning but he had no intention of mentioning it. After all, until he came to Port Harbor, he had rarely seen the inside of a church himself.

"I grew up in Port Harbor with Doria," Chad continued. "She was sweet, kind, always thinking of others, and more devout than anyone else I knew. When her mother got sick with cancer, she prayed constantly. Her mother died anyway."

"Father Zaleski told me the same thing. But that happened eight years ago," Murray pointed out.

"Yes." Chad looked pained. "At the time, I didn't recognize what had happened."

"You were a kid, too," Murray frowned.

"True. And I was selfish and self-centered." Chad shrugged. "But I was also angry because Doria refused to go out with me. I did something very unchristian and told everyone she -- well -- I told them -- a lie."

Murray wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and peered at Chad in amazement. "You started a rumor?"

Chad nodded. "Yep. A very nasty rumor. I wanted to exact a little revenge."

Vengeance is the Lord's. Murray squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He knew how that powerful emotion could twist a man. He had wanted to strangle Alex Kuhlman with his own hands.

Then Murray glanced down at the huddled, yellow lump beneath the wheelhouse. No doubt, Doria would relish getting even with him because he had possession of the Merrichase and she did not. He couldn't watch her every minute. What if she decided to sabotage the trip? How would she do it? Poison?

He shook his head at the thought of his own paranoid reaction. He had to trust that Father Zaleski's suggestion would work. This last trip out could be the way for Doria to find closure and come to terms with her father's wishes.

Lord, forgive me for my harsh attitude. Help me to be willing to allow Doria this trip so that she can rid herself of her grief and anger. Help me to renew her faith in you, too. Somehow.

He sighed. It didn't sound sincere. His prayers always came out so weak and uninspired. Yet, Chad and Father Zaleski had always assured him that the Lord would hear and understand.

Suddenly the yellow lump moved. Startled, Murray nearly veered off course. Obviously, Doria had endured enough of the ceaseless wind and water. She sought the shelter of the galley.

Murray noted the time on the clock in the wheelhouse. It was getting close to supper. His stomach rumbled in agreement. The memory of last night's tender beef and rich gravy had his mouth watering. Murray thought his brother-in-law was a great guy, but when it came to beef, Rich always fried it up with onions. Most of the time, his beef turned out rather tough.

Murray shuddered as he imagined how it must have hurt when Doria burned herself in the fireplace. He shook his head as he remembered the severity of the injury. He had cared for hundreds of burns in the emergency room, and seen burly men cry during the process of treating the wound but not Doria. She had behaved as though she had a force field surrounding her and nothing could harm her. At least, she wanted him to believe that. Probably because he had witnessed her nearly pass out when the pier collapsed.

Murray clenched his hand into a fist. She wasn't invincible. What if she fainted on deck? What if she fell overboard? But that could happen to Chad or George as well.

Murray frowned knowing he had to leave it in God's hands. Easing the wheel to the right to correct his course, he wished faith could be as easy to follow as the LORAN signals that helped to guide him through the ocean.

Still, he wondered how Doria could deny God when her father's faith had been so radiant that those around him had soaked it up. Murray grew more somber as the Merrichase plowed through the water. Some of Doria's anger could be caused in part by her own sense of hopelessness. After all, without the promise of another life, what meaning did all our trials here on earth have?

Murray took a deep breath. No matter what happened on this trip, he vowed to be kinder to Doria. They would only be at sea for four days and then she would be out of his life. Probably forever.

But when he thought about her bouncing curls and her deep brown eyes, forever didn't sound so good.

Doria hummed an old sea chantey as she stirred the sauce on the stove. For the first time in years, she felt free, as if she had left all her problems on the dock in Port Harbor.

"So tell us about Ted," George asked as he and Chad played rummy at the table.

The question didn't bother her. Not at all. Ted could never reach her here.

"Ted is a cad," Doria replied. "He has this veneer that makes him appear to be a gentleman, but once you get to know him better, you find out he is nothing more than an ordinary, verbally abusive control freak."

"Gee, now I feel bad about leaving Port Harbor," Chad complained.

"Yeah, we could have dumped a load of nice, cold dead fish on him." George smiled as he laid down a row of aces.

In her mind, Doria pictured the suave, debonair Ted surrounded by a mountain of fish. Ted, who could be obsessive about cleanliness, would go nuts. Doria smiled.

"Now you know it wouldn't be right to do that," Chad added soberly.

"Why not?" George asked.

Chad pulled a card from the top of the deck.

"They wouldn't be just cold and dead. They would also be smelly -- a few days old, perhaps," Chad mused. "Maybe a week old."

Doria laughed. The men joined her. The simple camaraderie warmed her.

Chad stopped laughing and laid down a king, queen, and jack. "Rummy," he called with delight.

"I hate it when you do that," George grumbled.

"Sorry." Chad grinned. "But you know, this is my favorite part of the trip. Playing cards with you and winning."

George shuffled the cards with a certain amount of vengeance and dealt them out. "I'll get you this time," he promised.

Doria turned back to her humming and stirring. She had forgotten how cozy and comfortable the Merrichase was. Brightly lit and clean, it had always been the best ship out of Port Harbor. Then a heavy feeling of regret started to seep into her, crowding out the wonderful sense of freedom that had given her a brief respite of peace.

She would never go out on the Merrichase again. This would be her last trip.

The timer on the stove startled her from her reflections. She had made a tangy orange cake that would taste like sunshine. As she removed the pans from the oven and set them on a rack on the counter top to cool, she sniffed the fragrant layers. Her mother had taught her this recipe a long, long time ago. A tear eked out of the corner of her eye.

"That smells great," Chad commented.

"It isn't anybody's birthday," George said. "Is it?"

"I thought we'd celebrate Murray's first trip out as full-fledged captain of the Merrichase." Doria hastily dashed away the tear before anyone could see.

"Let's just eat the cake," George muttered. "And skip the celebration part."

"Why?" Doria asked. She intended to draw a ship's wheel on the cake with mocha frosting.

Chad put his cards down on the table and rubbed his eyes. "George is right. It wouldn't go over well with Murray."

Doria frowned. "Because Dad died?"

"Murray's been acting captain for about three months," Chad answered.

"Nope. Three and a half months," George corrected as he laid down a row of tens. "Your father spent a couple weeks in the hospital. From that point on, he stayed in his cabin a lot. Unless it was nice outside. Then we'd set him up on deck in a chair. He liked that."

Chad picked up his cards again. "He ate better those days."

Doria held on to the counter top. She suddenly felt sick. Worse than sick. Guilt pressed down on her. Her father had needed her and she hadn't been there for him. The memory of her father's last few hours haunted her. That day, she had driven into Port Harbor unannounced. She had found her father in bed in his cabin with Murray standing guard. She had called an ambulance. Murray had yelled at her. Her father had begged her to let him die on his boat. He had died in the hospital.

She shoved the nightmare away and took a deep breath.

"Well, all right. We could celebrate the fact that Murray owns the Merrichase now." Her tone took on a hard edge but neither Chad nor George seemed to notice the rancor in her voice. They didn't look up from their game.

George shrugged. "He'll probably put it up for sale in a few weeks."

"He doesn't have much time before the trial," Chad said.

"What trial?" Doria wrinkled up her nose.

The two men lifted their heads and gave her puzzled frowns.

"Don't you know?" George asked.

A cold shiver ran up Doria's spine. "What?"

"Murray's been accused of murder," Chad explained. "His trial is on January 6th."

Doria stared at them as her mouth went dry. She was out in the middle of the ocean with a murderer. "W-who did he kill?"

"He didn't do it," Chad informed her.

"Who?" Doria's voice rose.

"He was set up," George stated.

"Who died?" Doria pounded the counter top for emphasis.

"A former fiancée of Murray, Kelly Morris," Chad said quietly. "Didn't you read about it?"

Doria shook her head.

"It was in all the papers," George said. "On the television news, too."

Doria drew her arms around her body. "Somebody broke into my apartment and stole the TV."

"It happened at the hospital," Chad stated softly. "Murray is accused of injecting Kelly Morris with the wrong medication. After breaking her engagement to Murray, Kelly became engaged to a man named Alex Kuhlman. She wound up in the ER after a supposed fall in her home."

Doria could barely breathe. "A murderer? And he took care of my father?" Her lips started to tremble as she remembered how Murray had yelled at her when she called the ambulance for her father. Then she looked down at the bandage covering her burn and her body started to shake.

"He didn't do it." Chad got up from the table.

Doria ran to her cabin, slammed the door, and locked it.

Chad knocked.

"You can't possibly believe Murray would commit murder," his voice sounded muffled over the constant rumble of the engine. "His only mistake was leaving Kelly alone for a few minutes. He suspected that she had not fallen down the steps but had been pushed instead after Kuhlman battered her first."

"Hey, what do I do with this sauce stuff?" George pounded on the door. "It's boiling over."

Doria reached for the doorknob but stopped herself before she opened it. "Turn the heat down," she called.

"Doria, please," Chad begged. "Have some faith in the man. He was so kind and gentle in caring for your father. If only you had been here. You would understand."

Doria let out a sob and crumpled to the floor. Chad kept calling to her for a few more minutes but she didn't listen to the words. She wallowed in her misery, wondering how much it would cost to have a helicopter pluck her from the deck and get her back to dry land. Or maybe they would pass by another fishing vessel and she could make her escape with the lifeboat.

Murder. The word caught in her throat. She had nearly been killed on a New York City street by a deranged madman. He had held a gun to her head while other pedestrians gawked at the spectacle as if the event had been staged for their entertainment. Only one man had the presence of mind to throw his attaché case at the criminal and shout for the police.

But Murray had committed his crime silently, with a thin, slender needle and deadly poison. The thought chilled Doria to the bone. What kinds of medicine had Murray given to her father? Could her father have bestowed the Merrichase to Murray under the influence of some mind-altering drug?

If he did, would there be some kind of evidence?

Doria dried her eyes on her sleeve and got up from the floor. This cabin had been the one her father used. Modern and utilitarian, it didn't offer many hiding places. There were three bunk beds and six small cabinets to stow personal gear.

Doria sniffed and headed for the cabinets. After a quick inspection, she found one cabinet that had been locked. Logically, it must contain her father's personal effects but the possibility existed that some significant clue resided in there as well. A scrap of paper, a prescription bottle, a needle. She fought against the queasy feeling in her stomach.

She needed a key. She tore through her backpack and found a pair of cuticle scissors. Jamming them into the keyhole, she concentrated on trying to spring the lock. She didn't even hear the cabin door open. So when Murray spoke she jumped.

"You were the one who wanted to come on this trip and cook for us," his deep voice rumbled. "So get out in the kitchen and finish the meal."

Doria's heart hammered in her chest but she drew herself up to face him with her scissors clutched firmly at her side, just in case. He stood casually, leaning up against one of the bunks with his gaze fixed on the floor.

Doria wavered in her defensive stance. He didn't look like a murderer. She stiffened her spine. Hah. What was a murderer supposed to look like? They committed their inhuman acts in moments of rage, like the man who had held a gun to her head. He wasn't sane at the time. Murray could not have been sane at the time he slipped the deadly needle into his ex-fiancé's arm. He went off the deep end. But couldn't he do it again?

"W-what medications did you give to my father?" she stuttered.

He lifted his head and sighed. Doria realized his eyes were the same shade of green as the ocean on a bright day. She blinked and stared in wonder at them for a moment.

"I can give you a list," he stated. "But perhaps you should talk to the pharmacist since you won't believe me anyway."

Doria shivered as she noticed the scar above his right eyebrow. It lent him the air of a pirate. Greedy and ruthless, he had taken everything from her.

"I want the key to this cabinet," she demanded.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. Slowly, he worked one off the ring. He held it out to her. Doria picked it out of his hand. His skin felt warm as she touched it. The key held the same warmth.

"We aren't going back until we have our limit of porgies in the hold," he said. He turned and left her in the cabin. She bent to try the key. It worked. She hesitated opening the cabinet all the way; she needed time to comb through everything. Quickly, she closed the cabinet and locked it again. She would look through her father's possessions later.

Murray ate the food in front of him but he barely tasted it. He stuffed it down with dogged determination. He knew Pam or Nan must have given Doria the recipe for his mother's sauce but the food offered him no solace.

He had seen the fear and accusation in Doria's eyes. It cut him to the quick. He had dealt with the angry sparks she had directed at him previously, but now he saw condemnation in her narrowed gaze. She believed he was a murderer. She believed he had jabbed that needle into Kelly's vein and deliberately killed her. She looked at him as though he was less than human -- a madman, a lunatic -- capable of killing again.

Did she think he would kill her if she hadn't finished cooking the meal? Probably, he admitted. The food stuck in his throat.

He told himself that he ought to get used to that look. He would see more of it in a few weeks. He had been comforted for a time by the faith that the people of Port Harbor had granted to him. In fact, their trust in him had helped lead him to his own belief in the Lord. But his period of grace had nearly come to an end. His trial would begin and the media would plaster Kelly's perfect face on the front page of every newspaper in the country. His lawyer had already warned him that the proceedings would resemble a three-ring circus.

George, unnaturally quiet, sat beside Murray on the deep-cushioned settee. At the other end of the table, Doria toyed with her food. She pushed it around with her fork and stared at it blindly. More than likely, her thoughts were elsewhere. She had undoubtedly made up a plan to escape the next chance she got.

Murray closed his eyes. Lord, please don't let Doria do anything foolish. Especially out here in the middle of the ocean.

He opened his eyes and reached for his coffee. It burned going down.

"Oil level check?" George asked.

Murray shook his head. "I'll do that but see what you can do with the pump. It isn't working to capacity."

"What's the latest on the storm?" George asked.

"Tuesday night into Wednesday morning," Murray replied.

"Could catch a lot of porgies until then," George said.

"If we get lucky." Murray pushed away his bowl. He needed to work. He stood up.

"There's dessert." Doria slipped out of her seat and rushed to put a cake on the table. Murray saw her hand shake as she held the knife over the top of the creamy frosting.

"How much?" she mumbled.

"I don't want any," Murray said. He felt a stab of pain when he saw the stricken look in her eyes.

George held out a clean bowl. "I'll take his piece and mine."

Murray turned to head to the engine room when he noticed the assignment board. Chad's name had been written in twice for the night watches in the wheelhouse. Usually everyone shared a single, one and a half-hour watch.

Murray tightened his fists as the veins stood out on his neck. If anyone was tired, they were likely to make a mistake, and on board a fishing vessel, that mistake could easily be deadly. Murray ascended the steep ladder into the wheelhouse to confront Chad.

Chad had on headphones when Murray reached him. Murray snatched them off his ears.

"Hey!" Chad complained. When he noticed who had taken his headphones, he grinned sheepishly. "Hi, boss. I thought you were George. I was just listening to Jason's Raffi tape. Great kid's songs."

"I checked the assignment board and noticed that you erased Doria's name and took her watch." Murray scanned the radar and checked out the gauges on the console as he talked.

Chad took a deep breath. "Sorry. But she seemed to take the news hard. I don't know if it would be a good idea for her to handle her watch -- alone."

"If anybody takes two shifts, it'll be me," Murray growled. "Got that?"

"You don't get enough sleep as it is," Chad objected.

"I'm better off without it." Murray pointed to the dot blinking on the radar screen. "Keep an eye on this," he cautioned. "If it comes within three miles, turn in the opposite direction."

"No problem." Chad said.

Murray raked his hand through his hair. There was a problem. Once that had been bothering him since Chad had walked into Father Zaleski's office the day before.

"Are you romantically involved with Doria?" he asked.

Chad leaned back and chuckled. "Me?"

"I fail to see the humor in this situation," Murray stated flatly.

At that point, Chad let out a roar of laughter. He dug in his pocket for a handkerchief to wipe his eyes and blow his nose. "Okay," he gasped for breath. "Okay. There," he sobered. "I won't crack up anymore."

"Great. So what's the answer?" Murray nerves tensed as the blinking dot on the radar screen continued to head directly for the Merrichase and it appeared to be moving fast.

"I asked Doria out exactly two hundred and fourteen times when we were in high school," he explained. "She turned me down every single time."

"So has she reconsidered?" Murray asked.

"Not as far as I know." Chad shrugged. "But I think we're friends now." He added. "I hope."

Murray tapped the radar screen and began to swear.

"'On judgment day people will be held accountable for every unguarded word they speak,'" Chad reminded cheerfully. "Matthew, Chapter Twelve."

Murray clamped his mouth shut and then raked his hand through his hair. "Sorry. Bad habit," he muttered. He pointed to the blinking dot on the screen. "But I'm getting worried. Look at that thing move."

"No problem." Chad eased the wheel around. "There."

Murray continued to watch the blinking dot for a few more moments as it headed away from the Merrichase. "Probably a freighter," he commented. He rubbed at the tight knot at the base of his neck.

"Probably." Chad nodded.

Though Murray massaged the tight muscles in his neck, it didn't relieve the tension. "How do I deal with Doria now?" he finally asked.

Chad shrugged. "Go easy on her, boss. Deep down inside, she's got a heart of gold. And she's brilliant to boot. Scored 1520 on the SAT's in high school."

Murray raised his eyebrows. "I never would have guessed. She's so stubborn."

"As Father Z. would say, 'It's a gift,'" Chad chuckled.

Murray shook his head. "The Lord works in mysterious ways."

"Sometimes," Chad agreed. "But sometimes He's right on target. Sometimes we can't see the forest for the trees."

Murray glanced down at the radar screen again. In the ocean they didn't have trees. Still, plenty of other dangers lurked just beyond the radar screen's twelve-mile radius. Even modern technology didn't allow them to see the big picture. Though it seemed the Merrichase plowed through the ocean alone, Murray had to believe they were never alone. Jesus made that promise. For help, he only had to ask.

Lord, Ed believed in my innocence. Couldn't Doria show a little more faith in me?

Murray frowned. She had no faith in God. How could she have faith in another human? Then a twinge of guilt pricked his conscience. He had been gruff with her most of the time. Perhaps some of her lack of belief in him could be traced to the way he had treated her. He could see the splinter in her eye but not the plank in his own.

Murray handed the headphones back to Chad who happily slipped them on his head. Murray watched for a moment more as Chad hummed a childish tune and drummed his fingers on the wheel in time with the music. Though the Merrichase had all its lights blazing, the night and the dark sea surrounding them made a shiver run up Murray's spine. Sighing, he patted Chad's shoulder and then headed down the ladder to the galley.

Chapter Six

Doria stood alone in the galley washing the dishes. She leaned against the sink with her "sea legs" firmly planted, adjusting to the motion of the rocking boat with the ease of one long used to it. All these years and she hadn't forgotten a thing about life aboard the Merrichase. Nothing had changed, really. Murray kept to the same rigid schedule her father had followed. Though strict, the monotony of life on the boat had a rhythm to it; the routine calmed her, providing her with the opportunity to think clearly.

She knew, without a doubt, that her father had believed the accused doctor to be trustworthy. Otherwise he would never have permitted Murray to come aboard the Merrichase. Nobody had ever swindled her father out of anything. Nobody had ever taken him for a fool. His sharp eyes missed nothing and he could do an accurate character analysis that was right on target. But could his illness have affected his judgment?

Doria shivered as she scrubbed the lasagna pan. Or could his perception have been impaired by some drug? She tried to remember exactly how her father's voice had sounded on the phone. Had he slurred his words? Or had he simply sounded tired?

A tear splashed into the dishwater. Why hadn't her father told her about his illness? She would have come home. Wouldn't she?

She cringed inwardly as she remembered when she had first started dating Ted. That was less than a year ago. She had phoned her father to give him a glowing description of her new love. In a gruff voice, he told her exactly what to expect from Ted -- and it wasn't marriage. Doria had refused to listen to her father's opinion and had disagreed vehemently. She bit her lip at the memory because her father's precise assessment of her boyfriend's character had proved true.

Doria rinsed off the lasagna pan. She could see the reflection of her face in the spotless steel. The lines in her forehead looked permanent.

Somehow, Murray had convinced her father that he was blameless. But not only her father -- Chad, George, Nan, and even Uncle Walter believed Murray to be a paragon of virtue. Had he hypnotized everyone in Port Harbor with his odd green eyes?

She pressed her lips firmly together. She would not be swayed by anyone else's opinion. She could not trust Murray.

"A man's man," her father had called him. What had made her father admire him so when she had seen only a surly chauvinist?

She sighed as she dried the pan. Okay. He did have some really incredible biceps and his stomach must be made out of granite. He worked nonstop, too. Her father wouldn't put up with a slacker.

Then a blush rose to her cheeks as she admitted to herself that the sight of Murray would make most women swoon, which is exactly what she had nearly done when the pier collapsed. Simply the memory of the humiliation she had suffered when Murray pushed her head down between her knees made her close her eyes and wince.

Dumb move. She dunked her arm in the sudsy water.

"Ow," she muttered between clenched teeth. She got the bandage on her arm sopping wet and the burn beneath the bandage stung. She held her breath and took her arm out of the sink. It still hurt. A lot.

She grabbed the dish towel and spun around to slam right into Murray.

"Where's the fire?" he asked as he stepped away from her. One of his hands remained on her shoulder.

Angrily, she shrugged his hand off her shoulder and started to walk away from him with her head down, but evidently he had sharp eyes.

"I told you not to get that bandage wet," he admonished.

"Then you should have done the dishes," she snapped tartly.

"You're right," he agreed. "I'm sorry I didn't think of it."

Doria stood motionless, enveloped in a state of shock. Why was he being nice to her?

"Here, you sit down and I'll change the dressing." He nudged her toward the table.

"Don't touch me!" she lashed out with a sharp tongue. "I'll take care of it myself." She lifted her head to glare at him. He dropped his hand and raised one eyebrow, the one with the scar. Doria's knees felt rubbery.

"Okay, I'll get the first aid kit out and you can change your own bandage," he suggested softly. "I'll finish the dishes."

A few minutes later, Doria sat at the table and snipped away the bandage.

"This is ridiculous," she grumbled. "I'm not going to wrap it up so much."

"I've seen flesh-eating bacteria," he stated calmly while he stood at the sink with his back to her.

Fear prickled along Doria's spine. She carefully lifted away the old bandage and peered at her burn.

"The disease has a rapid progression," he continued. "Of course, there is a fever..."

Doria felt her forehead before she realized exactly how he had manipulated her.

He went on, "Severe inflammation -- "

"Stop it!" she spat out.

"Wear rubber gloves next time," he insisted.

"All right!" she agreed.

Doria heard a deafening blast of noise as the door to the engine room opened. Then the cacophony of sound softened as the door closed. She turned to see George sauntering up to her, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. His scowl appeared deeper than usual.

"Gross," he commented as he glanced at her burn.

"You have black grease on your face," she retorted.

"Which side?"

"Left," she answered.

He smeared the spot with his sleeve.

"Gross," Doria taunted. "It's worse now."

A slow smile crossed George's face. Quick as lightning, he touched the very tip of her nose with his greasy finger.

"Hey!" she protested.

"Touché." He nodded before he walked over to the sink.

"How are the pumps?" Murray asked.

"I can't work miracles," George answered.

Doria's stomach rolled uneasily. She knew how important the pumps could be in an emergency, especially if they started to take on water. With a Nor'easter heading their way, churning up gargantuan waves, they could run into trouble. She shoved the bandages away and stamped over to Murray.

"You took us out with a storm coming and bad pumps?"

"Take care of that arm," Murray stated flatly.

George sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve, smudging it with grease, too. "The pumps worked fine until today."

Doria narrowed her eyes. "If you think I'll swallow that lie -- "

"It's the truth." Veins stood out on Murray's neck, his face reddened, and his chest rose and fell as he heaved a great breath. "Now cover up that burn," he shouted.

The force of his anger had Doria taking a few steps back. Is that how he looked when he slipped the poison into Kelly Morris' veins?

"Had no pumps working on the Valhalla four years back in a Nor'easter." George shrugged. "Made it back with a full quota. I quit anyway."

An icy shiver went up Doria's spine. "What happened?"

"The cook didn't like horseradish." George winked and walked away, leaving Doria alone again with Murray.

Feeling shaky, she sat down at the table and applied ointment to her wound. Trying to appear calm took all her strength. Aiming for mechanical precision, she wound fresh, clean gauze around the burn. She had done some foolish things in her life, but this last trip on the Merrichase could turn out to be her biggest mistake. With a murderous captain, bad pumps, and a Nor'easter heading their way, the crew might not make it back into port to collect that fantastic price on porgies.

She remembered the old hand pump her father had kept in the hold "just in case." After all these years, she didn't know if it still worked.

She swallowed hard. If prayers could work, she would be saying several. But her cries to God had gone unanswered before so she knew she could only count on luck and the strength of her fellow crewmembers to get through the next few days.

She cleaned up the table and neatly replaced the items that had come from the first aid kit.

"Keep it dry and clean." Murray remarked as he wiped his hands on the dishtowel. "And wipe that grease off the tip of your nose."

He stood there as arrogant and superior as ever, raking her with his heavy-lidded, sea green eyes. A rush of anger filled her, crowding out any fear or weakness. She lifted her chin in defiance.

"All things considered, this burn is the least of my worries."

Her words, spoken with venom, evidently startled him. He blinked and then frowned. Taking a deep breath, he hung the dishtowel over his shoulder and put his hands on his hips. He lowered his head and closed his eyes.

Doria paled. Would he become violent? Should she run? On a boat in the middle of the ocean, where could she run to? She held her breath. But Murray stayed quite still, except for a slight movement of his lips. With closed eyes, he looked like the coach in a locker room thinking up a speech to spur his team on to victory.

She gulped. He appeared to be praying. He blew out a great gust of air and raised his head to stare directly at her.

"Fishing is the most dangerous job on this earth. A fisherman risks his life every time he leaves the dock," he rumbled. "I'm sure you know that. Your father went out in less than ideal conditions lots of times. He went out whenever he figured it was safe enough."

Doria twirled a curl around her finger. She knew all that stuff, of course. "B-but this is different -- "

"This is not a luxury cruise."

That remark ignited the sparks of fury inside her. Even the lobes of her ears blazed with heat. "I came aboard to work just like everyone else."

"Yes." He narrowed his eyes. "You were desperate for some cold, hard cash."

"Not at the expense of my life!" She faced him squarely. She could not back down, not with this man. The pirate would take no quarter.

"If you were really listening, you would know that the pumps aren't completely dead. They are simply not working to capacity."

His voice had a cold edge to it though his words came out controlled and even. "Besides, there's a hand pump in the hold which I checked and oiled before we left. I do not take unnecessary risks with anyone's life."

Doria's rage seethed inside her with all the power of a hurricane. Without a minute's hesitation, she let her tongue shoot back. "You let my father die and you killed Kelly Morris."

He flinched slightly at her words and Doria saw a flash of pain cross his features. But within a moment, his chilling restraint held sway.

"I can see that I was correct in originally forbidding you from coming with us in the first place, but we are not turning back. We are going to catch as many fish as we can." With those words he left her alone in the galley.

She sank down on the cushioned bench at the table and held her head in her hands. Controlling her mouth had always been an insurmountable difficulty, but this time she had really outdone herself.

"I'm an idiot," she sniffed. "I insulted a man who committed murder. He could toss me overboard for some shark's breakfast."

She shivered at the thought of the chilly water and the bite of razor-sharp teeth. The ocean could be so deadly and yet...she closed her eyes and thought about the beautiful white foam frothing behind the Merrichase and the endless majesty of the aqua waves. She sucked in her breath as she saw the vast, rolling ocean in her mind. Murray's eyes glowed with the same hue as if he had been born a son of Neptune.

She knew he was right. Her father had gone out innumerable times when other captains had stayed at the dock. But whenever her father had been at the helm, Doria had felt safe. No matter what difficulties they faced.

"I am holding fast to Jesus," her father would say to reassure her when the waves crashed over the bow of the ship and the lightning flashed all around them. She believed without a doubt that her father would bring them home with Jesus guiding him.

She opened her eyes and stood up slowly. She hadn't said a single prayer in eight years but she couldn't deny that she wanted to say one now. A hollow ache inside gnawed at her. She longed to be forgiven for abandoning her father when he needed her most. She wished for the same sense of peace that had often flowed down upon her when she knelt in prayer in St. Raymond's church so long ago. She hadn't experienced that deep calm in her soul since then and she did miss it.

She rubbed her forehead. But she knew a prayer could not guarantee that she would see Port Harbor's docks glistening in the sun again. If the storm passed them by, if the pumps worked well, if another boat happened to be close at hand -- all those factors might help them to get back safely. Not God.

She sighed. Praying to God was simply a crutch for desperate people. A cold shiver went up her spine. What if the ship sank? What would be the last words on her own lips?

She shoved the frightening idea away. Turning, she walked toward her cabin, intending to look through her father's things and then go to bed. But an image kept haunting her of the radiant smile she had seen on her mother's face just before she passed away.

"It's so beautiful," her mother had whispered.

Had her mother seen heaven? Or was her final vision a hallucination brought on by a lack of oxygen in her brain? That question had been bothering Doria for years. Doria shivered. She didn't want to know the answer yet. At least, not from her own personal experience.

Murray sat in the wheelhouse on watch, sipping his third cup of coffee. At anchor, the Merrichase rocked in the ocean swells while the rest of the crew slept. With the lights on the deck glowing brightly, Murray could see every part of the vessel that had been such an important part of his salvation.

He had offered the ship to his brother-in-law, but Rich didn't wish to become captain. George didn't want the job either and Chad claimed to have bigger fish to fry. Murray loved the old trawler. He hated to see it pass into hands that wouldn't care for it with the same meticulous attention he had devoted to it. Still, if he could sell it, the profit would help with his legal fees.

He had radioed Pam and Father Zaleski to check on Rich's condition and been relieved to learn that his brother-in-law continued to make progress. However, his sister and Father Zaleski seemed inordinately interested in Doria, which annoyed Murray.

They told him to let Doria know that Ted had visited as he promised. He acted truly disappointed when he learned that Doria could not be there to talk with him. Still, he had left a package for her.

Murray assured them that Doria had done fine on her first day out. He comforted himself with the knowledge that it wasn't exactly a lie. She had cooked a decent meal and she seemed to get along quite well with everyone except him, which didn't seem worthy of note either since he and Doria from the first had reacted to each other like gasoline and a match.

He stared at three blinking dots on the radar screen about six miles away from the Merrichase. Since they hadn't moved, he could only assume they were other fishing vessels waiting as he did for the dawn to lower their nets. If the other boats caught a good number of fish, the market price for everyone would certainly go down. But with a storm headed towards them, Murray drew a small measure of relief from the fact that should his ship run into trouble, help would not be far away.

He had turned the engine off but the electrical generators clattered away down in the engine room. The grinding racket had become as sweet as any lullaby to him.

He blinked a few times and took another sip from the steaming mug. Scanning the deck, he though he saw a movement on the port side. He tensed and narrowed his eyes. Yes. He spotted a shadow approaching the stern.

With a quick, parting glance at the radar screen, he left the wheelhouse to investigate. He moved quietly on deck, a simple task since the constant creaking and groaning of the ship as it rolled on the waves muffled his footfalls.

It didn't surprise him to find that his midnight stroller was Doria. She crept to the stern carrying a bulging plastic bag. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what she intended to do with that bag. Murray guessed that it didn't contain leftovers from that evening's meal. More than likely, she was sabotaging the voyage by removing some vital piece of equipment.

He shadowed her with clenched fists, well aware that he should never have allowed her to come aboard.

He caught up to her slight form just as she lifted her arm to toss the bag over the gate guarding the stern ramp. When he snatched it out of her hand, she screamed.

"You have a very bad habit of polluting the ocean," he growled as he held the weighty plastic bag out of her reach.

In the greenish glow of the deck lamps, her skin had a sickly cast.

"Let it go," she asked with a quiver in her voice.

He shook the bag and she stepped back, as her eyes grew wide.

"What have you got in here? Rocks?" He snorted. "Are you trying to weigh it down so it will stay on the bottom?"

"I promise I won't throw it out if you'll just give it back to me." She held out a trembling hand.

He frowned at her. Did he hear a pleading note in her tone?

He began to open the bag.

"No! Leave it alone!" she begged. "Be careful!"

He stopped. "Why?"

"Please, gently pass it to me." Her voice wavered and she bit her lip.

He ignored her and stuck his hand inside the bag. Tissue paper crinkled beneath his fingers, he yanked at it while glancing at Doria, hoping to catch the look of guilt on her face when he discovered what she had taken from the boat.

Instead, he saw Doria's face go white. He recognized terror easily enough after all that time he had spent in the emergency room at the hospital. The tense strain in her features worried him but he must know what she had wrapped up in the bag. He couldn't trust her.

"Stop," she whispered. "I-I think it-it's loaded." She backed further away from him.

His blood ran cold as he pulled a gun out of the paper wrapping. He recognized Ed's sleek Beretta. He checked the safety switch.

"This belonged to your father," he said. "Why were you going to throw it overboard?"

"It could -- it could -- " She put her trembling hand over her mouth.

"Kill somebody?" he finished the sentence for her. She nodded. He clenched his teeth together. He understood perfectly. She believed he was a murderer, evil incarnate, a madman. He removed the cartridge and held out the gun to her. "Here, now it's safe."

She wouldn't take it. She continued to inch back away from him and stare at the gun.

"It doesn't have any bullets in it now," he ground out the words. "Lock it away."

He watched her take in a ragged breath and gulp hard. She stepped closer and he handed her the gun.

"Keep it handy," he warned. "There are still pirates out here."

She gave a short, high hysterical laugh. "Okay, Captain Kidd!" She saluted, turned, and walked toward the bow.

Murray frowned. He watched the progress of her sure and steady gait on the rolling deck. She seemed as much at home on the water as any sailor. Was there a gene for mariners? Or had she merely adapted to her environment?

He rubbed his hand over his face and felt the rough stubble of a day's growth of beard. Weariness descended on him like the weight of a full net of fish. He stood there as captain of the Merrichase because Doria's father had believed in him and trusted him. Obviously, Doria did not. If he couldn't convince her that he was a nice guy, how would those twelve jurors react to him?

Yet he realized his concern went deeper than that. He had experienced moments when Ed Hanrahan's daughter stirred up ideas he couldn't seem to totally repress, no matter how tired he felt. He shuddered.

Enough. He had better things to do than fantasize about a future he didn't own. He strode across the deck to get back to the wheelhouse. Once there, he immediately checked the radar screen but nothing had changed. He took a gulp from the mug of coffee and grimaced. It was cold.

He gazed down and saw Doria standing at the bow. The deck lights reflected off the silver gun she held in her hand. She wound up her arm and pitched the gun into a high arc. It splashed into the waves.

She spun around and looked up at him, then, flashing a triumphant grin, she raced away.

Chapter Seven

Doria knew her nerves were jangled from more than the cup of coffee she had gulped down after she had stumbled out of her bunk. For one thing, she hadn't slept well. Tossing her father's gun into the ocean hadn't eased her mind. After all, the crew had more than a dangerous captain to contend with on this Monday morning.

One glance at the sky and the size of the swells had Doria wishing her father's hands were on the wheel of the Merrichase. The solid, ominous gray above didn't bode well for the fishermen on the trawler. Mirroring the brooding heavens, the ocean churned with angry waves driven by brisk gusts.

Doria pulled the yellow hood over her unruly curls and tied the string securely under her chin. Murray gave a signal from the wheelhouse and Chad started unwinding the net from the drum. Doria picked up her pole and pushed the cod end of the net down the stern ramp and into the water. The net slid into the froth of the boat's wake.

Eternal Father, strong to save, whose arm doth bind the restless wave. The old Navy hymn played inside Doria's mind. Her father used to sing it every morning as they set the net. She bit her lip and tried to fight back the old memory.

She couldn't. The music marched through her head until the final line, for those in peril on the sea. She remembered how her father's baritone rumbled with conviction through every stanza.

"Yo!" Chad called. "Wake up, sleepyhead!"

Doria blinked and took in a ragged breath. She hooked the end of the main tow wire into the ring at the corner of the net mouth. She saw Chad frown at her as he worked at the other end of the stern ramp. She swallowed hard as her heart thundered. She had to pay attention to the routine. Nothing was more important than setting the net properly. If the net became tangled, they could waste the entire day undoing the mess.

George, operating the winches, pushed the levers forward and the tow wires whipped through the pulleys in the gallows overhead, the steel framework spanning the width of the stern. With the rough sea, the trawl doors hammered against the gallows, setting off a ringing in Doria's ears.

Next came the job of hooking on the trawl doors, one of the most dangerous maneuvers. At every step of the operation, one false misstep could lead to a potentially fatal accident. She and Chad worked carefully with all the precision of two expertly choreographed dancers. With each of the oak and steel doors weighing about a ton, any mistake would be disastrous.

Once the doors, chained securely to the tow wires, finally touched the water, Doria felt the ship surge ahead at full throttle. Taking a deep breath, she watched the tow wires run out from the winches. Automatically, she began counting the markings on the wires. She knew she must concentrate despite the dull ache pulsing just behind her eyes. Gritting her teeth, she reminded herself about the bills waiting to be paid. She would simply do the job and collect her share of the profit. The Merrichase never failed to return home. This time would be no different.

Her thoughts seemed to form a litany of their own, a mantra of sheer determination. She would work hard. She would catch a lot of fish. She would save the Merrichase single-handedly, if need be. She would make it back to port and walk away with her pay.

She jumped when George slammed the hammer against the winch controls, signaling Murray to decrease the speed of the boat. As George stopped the winches, Chad and Doria hurried to lock them. George pounded the steel on the controls again to let Murray know that they were ready to tow the net.

Doria's shoulders slumped. It was only the beginning. They would pull the net in and put it out again several more times before the day ended. But she had an additional burden. She had to feed three ravenous fishermen.

Doria's stomach grumbled as she quickly stirred the eggs with the spatula. She hadn't been this hungry since -- well, probably since the last time she had been out on the Merrichase. The smell of the bacon sizzling in the pan seemed to usher in a wealth of memories from her other voyages, trips that had been filled with happiness and laughter, until the day when her mother had gotten sick. Then all the joy had vanished. Her father continued to go out and catch fish, but she remained on land, caring for her mother.

She frowned. She had been saddled with a crushing load at that young age. In looking back after all these years, she realized that the anger she had experienced had been a normal reaction; even an adult would have felt a considerable amount of resentment under similar conditions.

The timer for the oven buzzed. Doria mentally shook off her dismal thoughts and pulled a pan of muffins out of the oven. The muffins had gone into the oven straight from the freezer. She hadn't the time to whip up a batch of her own. In fact, she hadn't planned anything fancy for this meal, knowing it wouldn't be appreciated. Simple, hot food and lots of it would fortify them all for their strenuous labors and take away the damp chill of the ocean before it crept into their bones. Doria put the muffins into a towel-lined basket and set them on the table in front of Murray and Chad.

"How many should we save for George?" Chad asked.

"At least one," Murray commented as he reached in and took out four muffins.

Doria narrowed her eyes and glared at Murray. She had seen George climb up to the wheelhouse so that Murray could eat first.

"I warmed up a dozen which means each of us gets three." She held her spatula in a threatening manner over Murray's hand. "Put one back."

Doria watched Murray's brows lower. His gaze traveled from her head downward and back again. She felt a blush burn on her cheeks.

"You can't eat three muffins," he scoffed.

"Yes, I can," she stated through clenched teeth.

She saw him shoot a questioning look at Chad. Chad nodded in response. Murray dropped one muffin back into the basket. Doria lowered the spatula.

"Rich never rationed out muffins," Murray grumbled.

"He's your brother-in-law," Chad stated.

"Who's the boss here, anyway?" Murray growled.

Doria started to shake with fury. She wanted to blurt out that in the kitchen, she was the boss. Instead, she held back her words, turned around and went back to the stove. I'll only be here a few days. I'll get back to Port Harbor, safe and sound. I'll pay my bills, pack up and leave. Forever, she vowed.

As she chopped at the scrambled eggs with more force than necessary, she heard Chad chastise Murray.

"Remember all that stuff about washing feet. You're supposed to be the servant to all."

"I'm hungry," Murray complained.

"You should thank the Lord for what you have," Chad reminded.

"She should have made more!" Murray growled.

Doria switched off the burner under the eggs and whirled around. "I've cooked up a pot full of oatmeal, a pound of bacon, and a dozen eggs. Plus I've quartered a melon. That's a standard breakfast on the Merrichase and you know it. You are harassing me." She faced the glowering Murray with her hands firmly planted on her hips.

"She's right," Chad said. "You are being unreasonable."

Murray stood up and bellowed. "I can't trust her. She nearly threw the keys to this boat in the ocean the other day. Last night I caught her sneaking around on deck and figured she was ready to sabotage the trip by tossing some vital piece of equipment into the water."

Chad didn't blink. "And did she?"

"It was a gun," Doria broke in. "My father's gun. I had the right to get rid of it. Didn't I?"

Chad didn't answer. He stared down at the tabletop and drummed his fingers on the wooden edge.

"She thought I would shoot her." Murray's words sound raw and harsh. Doria dared to glance at him and thought she saw the strain of anguish on his face. But was it real, or only an act? How could she tell?

Sighing, Chad got to his feet, picked up two bowls, and went to the stove. Calmly, he dished out some of the eggs into the bowls and topped them with several strips of bacon.

"I'm going to go up to the wheelhouse with George so you two can work this out," he said.

"No!" Doria blurted out. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, she grabbed Chad's sleeve. "He's a -- "

"He did not kill Kelly Morris," Chad spoke in a deliberate, measured tone.

Doria gathered more of Chad's sleeve in her hand. "You can't be sure. You don't know."

"I know he's innocent." Chad fixed her with a stony glance. "Besides, you aren't afraid of anything, as I recall."

She wanted to tell him about the mugger with the gun. She wanted to explain that Murray did frighten her, one look at him made her knees turn to rubber. But she had her pride. She swallowed hard and released him. He walked away without even a backward glance.

There would never be total silence in the galley with the engines struggling to drag the weight of the net behind the trawler, but the only sound Doria could hear was her heart as it thundered in her chest. She twirled one of her curls around her finger as she went back to the stove.

She fought to keep her hands from trembling as she dished out the eggs and bacon. Chad had turned against her. What could she work out with Murray? Aside from the fact that he had been accused of killing a woman, his motives in caring for Doria's father were certainly suspect.

Murray had bellowed at her to prevent her from calling an ambulance and while her father had expressed his desire to stay on the boat, perhaps he would have lived longer if he had been given the proper care during his illness. And why had her father left the Merrichase to Murray when he had originally promised it to her? She had no doubt that Murray had taken advantage of the sick, old man and somehow coerced him into signing away the trawler.

As for throwing that gun overboard, she had no regrets. The stunt had merely been an act of self-preservation. She did not have to apologize for it.

She wiped away all emotion from her face and served the food with hands that appeared steady and calm, not that she felt that way. She sat down at one end of the table and started to eat. Nothing tasted good and her stomach felt nauseous, but she intended to eat every last crumb -- including the three muffins.

Murray sat down opposite her and accidentally banged his knees into hers.

"Sorry," he mumbled. He shifted his long legs away from her. His avoidance somehow only served to make her feel worse.

Doria listened to the engines rumbling beneath their feet. Vibrations, like a constant drone, shivered through the entire vessel. Yet, the lack of conversation made the room seem as still as a mausoleum.

"I talked to your uncle last night, and Pam," Murray said. "That boyfriend of yours seemed disappointed that you weren't there."

Good, thought Doria. The idea of the usually suave and charming Ted being crushed by her absence cheered her. She brightened as she formed a mental picture of Ted standing at the door of the rectory and listening to Uncle Walter explain that she had gone out on a fishing boat with three men! It didn't matter that one of those men was married, the other simply an old friend, and the captain her enemy. She couldn't help thinking that perhaps going out on the Merrichase hadn't been such a bad decision after all.

"He left some sort of package for you," Murray continued with his face a mask of indifference.

Despite her best intentions to remain silent, Doria couldn't contain her curiosity. "How big is it?"

"I don't know," he replied.

"Why didn't you ask?" Doria threw up her hands. How could he be so -- so dense? This was important. She had to know. "It could have been the size of a shearling coat or the size of an engagement ring. There's a big difference."

"I think I understand. You were playing hard to get." Murray snorted. "Obviously, you take the game quite seriously. Hiding out in the middle of the ocean is rather extreme for most people."

Doria slammed her fist on the table and glowered at him. "I am on this boat to earn some cash. I put myself in deeper debt to buy a coat for Ted. If he returns it, it will demonstrate that he has at least a little bit of a conscience."

"The ring?"

He stared at her with his sea-green eyes and Doria wondered if he really did know how to hypnotize people, for she didn't feel angry anymore or even afraid. Instead, she felt incredibly sad, and she had the most overwhelming inclination to tell him why.

"If he gave me a ring, it would mean that my father was wrong." She couldn't go on. She gulped hard.

"I see." He dropped his gaze and picked up his fork to finish his breakfast.

Doria fought the urge to cry. He didn't understand. How could he? If her father had been wrong about Ted, then perhaps he had also made a mistake in judging Murray to be trustworthy.

Murray polished off every last crumb of food and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He stood up and poured himself another cup of coffee.

"I'll send Chad and George down to clean up."

With that he left Doria alone. She pushed her bowl away, closed her eyes, and laid her head down on the table. Even if Ted did give her a ring, she wouldn't marry him. She didn't love him. She had never loved him.

Ted didn't make her heart beat faster. Ted didn't make her knees turn to jelly. She didn't find his face fascinating. She didn't gaze at him as if she wanted to memorize every inch of him.

A tremor of fear ran through her. It was Murray who caused her body to react in ways that frightened her half to death. But she couldn't love him. Could she? A man who would never trust her just as much as she would never trust him.

She clenched her teeth tightly together. Perhaps the guilt she felt from her father's death had caused some strange psychological reaction in her. Nevertheless, it could not continue. She could never, ever fall in love with Murray.

Murray had sensed something wrong in the way the ship moved with the net behind it. It simply didn't feel right. He ordered the net hauled up and discovered they had caught some dogfish, the bane of fishermen everywhere. But that wasn't the only problem. His head started to throb as he took in the disaster on deck.

Doria stood by the empty net, shaking it and examining the belly of it, which hung in tatters.

Murray pinched the bridge of his nose as his headache threatened to turn into a migraine. He could understand why the old sailors considered it bad luck to have a woman aboard. It would be easy to claim that Doria had jinxed the ship.

"It must have snagged on something down there," she commented. "Something big."

Murray reined in his anger before it exploded in a hail of vile language. At times like this, it became a real struggle to remember that he had new principles guiding him. He shook his head. The dark blot he had seen on the depth sounder's tracing hadn't been a school of porgies, only dogfish. Anyone could have made that mistake. Even Ed Hanrahan.

But worse than capturing those useless creatures, Murray had discovered the location of some massive obstruction in the depths. It could be a wreck, or some rocks. It happened all the time to lots of captains. He would mark it on the chart and avoid this area from now on. Unfortunately, time was money -- especially on a fishing boat. They had to work quickly to get the net back into the water.

Chad and George had already started tossing the wretched dogfish back into the sea. While some fishermen tried to persuade the public that the prolific fish tasted like a rare delicacy, the market for them remained poor.

Murray's gaze fell on Doria. Her hood had slid off her curls and her pert face had a look of deep concentration. He watched her hands work their way across the hole in the net. She had begun to count the mesh along the tear.

"I'll get another piece of net," Murray offered. The boat drifted as he strode to the bow where he kept the spare pieces of netting. For a brief instant, he saw in his mind the image of Doria triumphantly tossing the gun into the water. But he blinked and the memory faded.

He shook his head. She haunted him, day and night. Thoughts of his impending trial had retreated to some distant corner of his mind. He had diagnosed himself, but he knew no medications could cure his disease. He was infatuated. It didn't make any sense because he might be on death row in a matter of weeks, but whenever he got near to Doria, his hormones went haywire.

It pained him to acknowledge that he had treated her callously from the first and while he thought that might be for the best, it hardly assuaged his conscience. Anyway, she would always hate him because her father had given him the Merrichase.

He gathered together the netting, twine, and the other tools for repairing the hole. As he walked back to the stern, he considered that while Doria's motive for disposing of the gun had everything to do with her lack of trust in him, owning a pistol hardly fit in with Christ's commandment to "Love one another." Yet, Ed Hanrahan had kept the gun on board.

"For pirates," Ed had said.

Murray shrugged. On a fishing boat, what would a thief steal? Then he thought of Doria's dimpled cheeks and curly hair. As a child, she must have been cuter than any doll, much like his nephew, Jason, and his new niece, Theresa. Doria would have been a most precious cargo, trusting and innocent. A shiver went up Murray's spine. That could be why Ed had purchased the gun, to protect his darling daughter.

Now the gun lay far below on the ocean floor where it couldn't harm anyone. Murray shrugged. Perhaps that was a good thing.

Returning to the stern, Murray saw that George and Chad had opened the scuppers along the side to shovel out the varied odds and ends that had come aboard with the dogfish, some rusted pieces of metal, wood, and an old bottle.

"Maybe we found Davy Jones' locker," Chad said brightly.

"Davy must have kept a large chunk of the net for himself," Doria commented. She had already started slicing away the ragged sections of the mesh.

"Davy's been down there for a while." Chad leaned on his shovel. "Could be he's doing some redecorating. You know, a few lobster traps, a red plastic lobster, and the net -- draped over the bar." He picked up the old bottle. "Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum." He tossed the bottle over the rail.

Doria laughed, a sound that washed over Murray, sweet and warm, like the gentle ripples on a lazy river in the summertime. Longing flared through him and he leaned against the winch controls, certain he would lose his footing in the grip of this odd seizure.

"If Davy Jones has the net, he's probably catching porgies with it," George grumbled. "He'll have enough from the sale of them to buy himself a whole new locker."

George's complaint shook Murray out of his trance. He rubbed his forehead as if he could erase some of the wild ideas racing through his mind. He had to remind himself that his life had essentially ended. The day Kelly Morris died had also marked the final stage of his journey on earth.

"Quit gabbing. Let's get moving on this," he growled. "Chad, you finish cleaning up first."

Chad shrugged and bent back to his task. George moved to stow away his shovel. Doria's eyes, narrowed in angry slits, glared at him.

"Yo ho ho," she stated with a deadpan expression.

He stood there for a minute and found that for the first time since Kelly Morris had died; he wanted to say something witty and charming. He wanted to laugh. To relax. To enjoy. But he couldn't. Except for his occasional flights of fancy with Jason, he had forgotten how to unbend.

Every day is a gift, son. Ed Hanrahan's words reminded him but it didn't help. Murray had to have work to do every day, lots of work. He set his mouth. The physical labor of fishing had kept him sane; he wouldn't give it up for a laugh.

He shook out the folded section of mesh he had brought from the bow. "Let's get this net repaired so we can fill up the hold with porgies."

"Aye, aye, Captain Bligh," Doria muttered.

He ignored her taunt and set about tackling the job of fixing the hole in the net. He didn't look at Doria, Chad, or George, only the mesh. He hoped nobody had noticed how Doria's laugh had affected him. He was a fool. She found Chad's sense of humor hilarious obviously because she liked Chad. Maybe they were more than just friends, despite Chad's denial on that point.

They worked on the net for two hours. Chad watched and handed out twine or held up sections. George and Murray kept whipping the mesh together, but it seemed that Doria went twice as fast as they did. Murray stopped as he neared the end of one section and frowned at Doria. She had made such short work of the job; it couldn't have been done properly.

"Wait a minute, is that net bulging?" He stood and picked up the mesh that Doria had just completed.

She glared at him while he examined it. He could feel her eyes burning a hole right through him while he tugged at the net. He laid it out flat on the deck and studied the area she had pieced together. His fingers lingered over the junction. It had been pieced together almost seamlessly. It was, to a fisherman, beautiful.

"It's all right, I guess," he muttered. She gave him a smile that could have lit up the depths. His heart thundered in his chest.

"It's perfect," she said. "Better than any of the sections you and George have done."

"Hey," George protested. "I ain't sewing ruffles on curtains."

"He can't even sew a button on his shirt," Chad added.

"Look who's talking!" George shouted. He lunged at Chad.

Murray jumped between the two men. "Boys!" he bellowed.

Doria laughed again. The melody trilled along Murray's spine. He thought he could feel himself melting, a little; loosening up. Living.

His heart raced. No. He had to remember what lay ahead for him. The trial, sentencing, and perhaps death.

Then his gaze fell on the palms of Doria's hands and fury bubbled up inside him. Raw, red patches oozed from blisters that had burst. The rapid scraping of the twine and the net had mutilated her tender skin. He snatched her hands in his.

"Look at what you've done!" he roared. "I'm going to take care of this right now and I don't want to hear a single complaint."

He dragged her into the galley. She didn't mumble any protest, but her face had all the color of the belly on a flounder.

Chapter Eight

On the next tow, they caught so many porgies they had to use the splitting strap. Doria tightened the line with a rare amount of vengeance until Chad nudged her.

"Hey! Try not to bruise the meat," he teased.

"I can't help it," she muttered. "He yelled at me the entire time. He insisted on cleaning and bandaging my hands just so he could vent. I hate him."

"Love your enemies," Chad sang in a falsetto. Doria frowned at him. Once upon a time, way back in high school, he could use that high, squeaky voice and she would laugh. But not today.

"Do you know what he called me?" she asked.

"Careless?" Chad twittered.

"Well. Yeah," Doria admitted. "But-but he threatened me, too!"

"Oh, my." Chad put his hand on his chest and trilled in an opera-like tone. "Is that so?"

Doria ground her teeth together. "Stop it! Be serious!"

"Serious?" Chad tried a baritone and furrowed his brow.

Doria stamped her boot on the deck. "He threatened to give me a tetanus shot!"

"When was the last time you had one?" Chad rumbled in a deep bass.

"How should I know?" Doria threw up her hands. "But no way will I let that man get anywhere near me with a needle!"

George shouted from his post at the capstan beside the winch controls, "I ain't got all day, you know!"

"You heard the man," Chad chanted. "Got to get these fishies on ice."

Doria knew he was right on that point, at least. She flexed her fingers and winced, between the bandages and the gloves her movements had become markedly limited. Nevertheless, she grabbed the weighty net on one side while Chad heaved at it on the other side, but when he fell to his knees, she raced to help him up.

"Are you okay?" she asked, trying to lift him.

With what looked to be a supreme effort, he got to his feet and gave her a weak grin.

"I ate too much of your great eggs," he sang softly. "And now I can't stand on my heavy legs." He latched onto the net again.

"Race you!" he called out with a devilish sparkle in his eyes.

"Don't be ridiculous." Doria shook her head. "Be careful."

"Spoil sport." Chad stuck out his tongue at her.

Doria sighed and got back to work, struggling to position the net over the center of the deck. She thought of the great repair job she had done on the net and started to chastise herself. She really should have worn gloves when mending the net, but she knew she could work faster without them. She wanted to beat Murray at something and she did. She smiled a little. Maybe that's why he was so mad. But she should be more careful. She refused to give Murray the satisfaction of lacing into her again. And she didn't want him practicing medicine on her, either. Especially because whenever he touched her, her body reacted. She tried to fight it, but she found the battle impossible.

She gritted her teeth. The dreadful truth was that Murray knew exactly what he did to her. He had stopped his tirade when he had felt her pulse. Despite his verbal abuse, he had been gentle with her hands and the warm contact of his skin against hers had sent a surge of heat shimmering up her arm. Her heart had been hammering foolishly from his gentle caress. He frowned as he checked his watch and counted the beats. Then he gave her a puzzled gaze. He shifted in his seat, his thigh brushed hers, and she gasped.

At that point, she wanted to jump overboard. It had been embarrassing. Humiliating. Stupid.

She hated the guy. Detested him.

"Get the drawstring, already!" George called out.

Doria pulled at the drawstring and thousands of fish tumbled out of the cod end of the net. She grabbed the mesh to keep from falling on the deck where the slippery but desperate fish flopped hysterically, gasping in agony.

The porgies brought with them the rich smell of the ocean depths. Doria closed her eyes for a moment and breathed in a great lungful of the fish-laden air while her heart beat in exultation. An overwhelming feeling of belonging filled her with an innate sense of peace that years ago she had known in prayer. How odd that she should find tranquility here, working on the deck of the Merrichase.

Memories of all the happy times poured down on her with the rain of fish. The warmth of love and the hominess of fragrant stews simmering on the back burner in the galley. The gusty winds and the driving rain, all of it. Much of her young life had been lived out in the open ocean with freedom and danger ever a part of the scenery.

Suddenly, she understood why the city's glamour had worn thin in such a short time. A tear eked out of the corner of her eye as she realized that she had tossed this life away. There would be no coming back.

Doria felt the net shake.

"Open your eyes," Chad whispered as he tried to dislodge a few porgies that had gotten tangled in the mesh.

Doria sniffed. "I wasn't napping."

An accusing voice rumbled nearby, "Sure looked like a snooze to me."

Doria swung her head around and froze. Murray stood ankle deep in porgies. Then the most awful thing occurred. She held her breath as a delicious tingle shivered up her spine at the sight of him. She put her hand over her heart as it fluttered against her rib cage. It was horrible.

Fortunately, Chad bumped into her as he fumbled to tie up the drawstring, which distracted her a little.

"Doria, loosen up the splitting strap," Murray ordered. His words sparked the burning embers of anger still festering inside her.

"I know what to do." Doria glared at him. "You don't have to tell me."

"If you have to be roused -- "

"I wasn't sleeping!" Doria yelled as she reached up for the line. "I was just...just..." Unexpectedly, her lip started to tremble and that would not do. She bit down on it.

"Just what?" Murray questioned.

But she couldn't answer. If she did, she knew she would cry. She didn't want Murray to see that; it would support his theory that she didn't belong on the trawler.

"You were remembering," Chad suggested. "Right?"

Doria nodded while her clumsy fingers tripped over each other in an attempt to loosen the line.

Unexpectedly, Murray reached out and stilled her hands. "I'll take over. It's almost time for lunch."

His touch sent a swirl of emotions spinning inside her. Anger, infatuation, and grief warred with each other. She steeled herself to look up at him but the flicker of concern in his gaze nearly undid her. She turned quickly to plow her way through the porgies on the deck, but confused by the conflicting jumble of sensations rushing through her body, she staggered and fell, head first, into the slimy, dying fish. Close contact with the unfortunate porgies didn't bother her, they had, after all, broken her fall, but her own clumsiness made her furious.

As Murray rushed to her aid, she pushed herself up into a sitting position in the middle of all those poor creatures and screamed at Murray.

"Leave me alone!" she cried. "Stay away from me!" He backed off. An expression of pain appeared to be etched into the lines in his face. She swallowed hard for it felt like the tip of a knife stabbed at her own heart. She realized Murray was trying to be kind to her. He would have helped her but she refused his gesture. Still, if he came near her, all those silly yearnings would turn her into a helpless jellyfish.

Doria scrambled to her feet and somehow managed to stumble into the galley. She shed the yellow oilskin and the heavy-duty gloves, taking several deep breaths to try and calm herself at the same time. Her efforts made little difference. Still, she vowed that she would not cry. She went to the cabinet where she took out two of the largest pot lids. She closed her eyes and banged the two lids together several times until her ears rang.

"Okay," she said to herself. "That's better." She put the pot lids away.

George stuck his head in the door. "What was that all about?"

"Palliative therapy," she answered with a smile.

"Huh?" He stepped in and peered at her. "Isn't that for the bends or something?"

"Or something." She agreed and opened the refrigerator. "Is there one particular food that Murray can't stand to eat?"

"Meatloaf," George said. "Rich made it once. Never heard the end of it. But I like it, with horseradish on the side."

"Great." Doria had intended to make up a spicy batch of burritos, but meatloaf would be a wonderful alternative. "Today we'll have meatloaf, with horseradish on the side."

She thought she heard George chuckle as he went back out on the deck. For a moment, her conscience pricked her. Making meatloaf would be a deliberate, perverse- type of warfare aimed directly at Murray, specifically designed to make him mad.

She tossed her head and set to work, chopping up an onion. She would be happier if Murray glared at her, yelled at her, and even called her names. She wanted to continue to hate him, after all, he was an accused murderer, and the fact that her own father had changed his will while under Murray's care still seemed more than a little suspicious. Ed Hanrahan had left his daughter with hardly anything at all except a few mementos and a gun, which now lay at the bottom of the ocean.

The strong, yellow onion made her eyes water but she was all alone in the galley now so she let the tears fall.

Love your enemies. That was exactly the problem. She feared the very worst might occur. She was in danger of falling hopelessly in love with Murray Santoro. It made no sense at all.

Murray didn't like the smile on George's face.

"Well?" Murray asked.

George chuckled, "Everything's fine." He took up his post beside the capstan. "Ready?"

Murray glared. "No. What was all the racket about?"

George shrugged but the grin lingered on his face. "I forget what the technical term was."

"Technical?" Murray felt his blood pressure rise. He glanced at the tons of porgies still waiting to be freed from the net.

"What did she do?" he called out as he waded through the fish already on the deck until he reached George.

"Nothing," George reassured him. "Now let's get these guys on ice."

"It sounded like she took an ax to the stove!" Murray bellowed. "Is she all right?"

George rolled his eyes. "She is hunky dory but you should know better than to annoy the cook."

It felt like a cold band tightened around Murray's chest. He covered his eyes. "Okay. What did she break?"

"Zilch. Nada. Can't we take care of the fish?" George asked in exasperation.

"Yeah. Yeah." Murray dropped his hand and took a few slow breaths. Doria had already messed up his equilibrium and his hormones. What next -- cardiac arrest?

"You're sure?" he asked George one more time.

George put his hands on his hips. "Are we taking these fish home? Or are we going to give them a second chance?"

Murray clenched his fists and slogged his way back to the net. He had never met any young woman quite as irrational as Doria Hanrahan. Correction. He had never met any young woman as unpredictable or stubborn or --

"Why did you yell at her when you wrapped up her blisters?" Chad asked simply as they grabbed the net and positioned the cod end so it could be lowered back down the stern ramp. With the splitting strap freed, more porgies could slide into the cod end of the net.

"She should know better," Murray grumbled. "An injury like that can be easily avoided."

"And you didn't get any blisters when you first started working on the Merrichase?" Chad questioned.

Murray frowned. "It doesn't much matter what I do with my hands."

"Wrong," Chad corrected. "There's always the possibility you'll be acquitted."

"Unlikely," Murray said gruffly.

"Have you stopped praying?" Chad's black eyes bored into Murray.

Murray's shoulders slumped. "I don't seem to have the time lately. I keep worrying about what Doria will do next."

Murray noticed the sly grin that stole over Chad's face before he lowered his head to disguise the fact. What had happened to his crew? First they mutiny against him, and then they behave as if Doria is the best female comedian in the entertainment business. And she wasn't funny. Not at all.

Chad cleared his throat. "Jesus can handle all your worries," he reminded Murray. "Even the ones concerning Doria."

"Right," Murray agreed. He knew, theoretically at least, that the Lord could handle Doria. He knew, also theoretically, that even he could handle Doria with the Lord's assistance. It was all a matter of trust. Yet, whenever Doria stood within ten feet of him, he couldn't think straight. He felt like a teenager in the grip of puberty overload.

George started up the drum to lift the net up again as more porgies packed down into the cod end. As Murray and Chad wrestled the net to the center of the deck, Chad suddenly doubled over and moaned. Murray leaped to his side.

"Hey, I'm all right." Chad waved him off. "Had too much of Doria's fine food."

"Looks like a nasty virus to me." Murray patted Chad on the back.

"Nah." Chad straightened up. "Gee. All you ever think of is germs."

"There are more germs than people in this world," Murray commented as he studied Chad's face.

"People are bigger," Chad reminded him as he began to grapple with the net once more. Murray thought the young man's skin looked ashen, but with the leaden skies above, it was hard to tell.

"Let's get this job done," Chad urged.

Murray shrugged and put his shoulder to the chore. If Chad had contacted a viral infection, the crew would soon be seriously short-handed. Best to get as much as possible done now.

As soon as all the porgies lay on the deck, George and Chad started the arduous task of picking through the fish. Murray slid open the hatchway to the fishhold and went down below. There he stood in the alleyway between the stalls, breathing out a great cloud of mist. A glacial rime coated everything in the fishhold. The damp chill penetrated his bones. Though it had been cold on the deck, it always seemed colder in the bowels of the Merrichase. It gave Murray the feeling that he had been transported into the Arctic where perpetual winter reigned. He picked up a board and placed it across the front of each stall and spread a thick layer of ice.

Basket by basket, George and Chad dropped the fish through the deck plates. Murray tenderly blanketed the fish with ice, always mindful to keep the height of the fish and ice even on both sides of the ship. A slight difference in weight on one side of the trawler could cause it to list. Then it would take only one big wave to make the Merrichase roll over.

Murray had a lot of time to pray while he stored the thousands of porgies in their frosty bed. First, he thanked the Lord for the fish. They had certainly been lucky. If they had one more tow with as many fish, they could go home earlier than expected and, perhaps, even avoid the next storm.

Lord, have mercy on us. Guide us safely home.

Murray sighed and thought of his sister, his nephew, the new baby, and his brother- in-law, Rich. They needed his help now more than ever. What little time he had left before the trial, should be spent repairing the damage to his sister's home.

Lord, grant me the strength to fix Pam and Rich's house.

His fingers grew numb despite the thick gloves he wore. His arms became weary, his back ached, and his toes stung but he kept at his task, placing more boards across the stalls, packing the porgies with ice, careful to keep the fish away from the walls of the stall.

"The fish'll spoil if they touch the walls," Ed had said once when he explained the process of storing the fish to Murray. "Faith'll spoil, too, you know. Got to nurture it. Read the Bible, pray, and go to church regularly. You need the support of other Christians to buoy you up through the times when you're tested."

Yet, it seemed Ed had been all Murray needed to inspire him. Ed made being a Christian look easy. Now with Ed gone, Murray's faith had reached a low ebb. He had believed his true test of faith would come during his trial. However, he had learned that every day could be an ordeal, especially since Doria had stormed into his life and fast become his cross to bear.

Ed had been obviously proud of his daughter's success in the culinary world, though he often turned melancholy when speaking of her. Still, he had never once mentioned what a spitfire she could be.

Murray tossed another shovel full of ice over the fish. Lord, I always thought I could handle women but I don't have a clue when it comes to dealing with Doria. Please help me. I think I'm beginning to care for her and that's really bad.

Murray raised his eyes heavenward. His inept prayers made him cringe. He sometimes wondered if a bolt of lightning would be hurled his way after a particularly gauche plea. He held his breath. The electric jolt didn't appear. He picked up another shovel of ice and continued to spread it in the stall.

Then he heard the thud. Startled out of his musings, he jumped. Almost immediately, George called for him.

"Doc! Get up here! It's Chad!"

Murray scrambled up to the deck and found George hovering over Chad. Chad lay curled up on the deck, in a section already cleared of fish. The young man's face contorted with pain as he moaned and clutched his mid-section.

Murray ripped off his gloves, knelt and felt Chad's forehead. No surprise there. Chad's temperature had soared way above normal. Murray asked George to get the stretcher.

"Tell Doria to get out here, too," he said. "She'll have to help you store the rest of these porgies in the hold."

"I'm sorry, boss," Chad groaned. "I never get sick."

"Do you mean to tell me, Senor Pavarotti, that you won't give a performance tomorrow morning?" Murray asked.

"Figaro," Chad muttered.

"Where's the pain, big guy?" Murray asked.

"On my right side." Chad grimaced.

A cold tingle of fear zinged up Murray's spine. The right side. Appendicitis. Icy sweat beaded on his brow. How far were they from a hospital? Could they get there in time? From somewhere, Murray found the strength to put on his clinical mask, the polite professional demeanor he had used as a doctor -- until the night he had found Kelly Morris in the emergency room.

"I'd like to find out exactly where it hurts," he said to Chad. He pulled open Chad's oilskin and reached below the young man's navel. Then he pressed.

Chad howled. Murray felt the blood drain from his head. Chad's appendix was inflamed.

Doria came flying across the deck like a wild sea bird. She fell on her knees beside Chad.

"What have you done to him?" she screamed. "Chad, tell me you're okay."

Chad closed his eyes and shook his head.

"He has appendicitis," Murray answered with a calm he did not feel.

"No! It's just a stomach ache," Doria insisted. "He ate too much. He told me so."

"I was wrong," Chad mumbled through clenched teeth.

"We'll get a real doctor," Doria said as she smoothed back the hair from Chad's face.

Murray's heart sank. Despite the care he had taken with Doria's wounds, she still thought of him as a quack. The jury could consider him a quack, too.

George lumbered over with the stretcher. "Appendicitis. Gotta cut those out. Right?"

"Can you do that, boss? Can you do it here?" Chad grabbed Murray's arm.

"You know I have this thing about germs," Murray said lightly.

"Lots of them on a fishing boat." George nodded. He placed the stretcher down on the deck. "And I ain't no nurse."

"Doria?" Chad gripped her hand and begged.

"W-what?" she stammered. "Help with an operation? B-b-but, I'm a chef."

Murray watched Doria's face turn as white as the froth on a wave. She did her best to appear as tough as the steel hull of the Merrichase, but several cracks existed in her hard facade. He kept finding those weak spots and he knew that underneath breathed a soft, warm woman. That thought sent something like a southern breeze blowing into Murray's heart and he struggled to squelch the sensation.

"Doria would be liable to treat you like a side of beef," Murray said. "She'd season you too highly, and garnish you with parsley." He hoped his chuckle sounded sincere. Chad nodded and made a grimace. Doria's eyes lowered and she covered her mouth. She looked close to tears. Murray wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms but he knew he'd be in danger of getting clobbered if he made any advances toward her. She loved Chad.

"Let's get him in the cabin." Murray motioned to George and the two eased Chad onto the stretcher. Then they lifted him and carried him across the deck. Doria remained on her knees, rocking slightly.

"Yo, Doria," George called out. "Would ya get the door?"

She scrambled to her feet at George's summons. As they went through the door, Murray made a suggestion.

"Throw together a few sandwiches, we won't have time to eat."

"But I've got scalloped potatoes -- "

"Save it," he growled. "We'll eat later. And Chad is to have nothing at all."

"A little cola -- "

"Nothing!" Murray rumbled. "And that's an order."

Shock froze on her pale face and for a moment Murray feared she would dissolve into hysterics. But as he saw her set her mouth in a narrow line, he knew she had closed the crack in her steel hull again. She whirled and raced to the galley where she immediately ignited a cacophony of banging pots and pans.

George and Murray slid Chad onto his bunk.

"Whaddya think -- a helicopter ride out of here or we head for the nearest hospital?" George asked.

"No helicopter," Chad moaned. "No. Please."

"We're east of Cape Henry," Murray said. "I'll radio and see where we can dock. If the ambulance can meet us -- "

"Cape Henry -- Virginia?" Chad groaned.

"Ain't no other," George commented. "I'll go get this old ship ready to move. You can take care of the nursing business, doc."

"Thanks." Murray began to remove Chad's oilskin. "I hear Virginia's nice this time of year. A bit warmer than New Jersey," Murray chatted cheerfully. "Lucky stiff. You'll be getting a vacation."

"Virginia is for lovers," Chad mumbled.

Murray stopped tugging at the oilskin. His heart felt like it had been stabbed.

"Delirium," he whispered to himself. He liked Chad. He really did. Chad had been a great buddy, a hard-working fisherman, and a good religion instructor. Yet, the idea of a romantic involvement between Chad and Doria bothered him. It was a total mismatch, he told himself. Temperamental Doria would wear poor Chad to a frazzle.

You're jealous. The words popped into Murray's head and he ground his teeth together. He was not jealous. Maybe he cared for Doria a little too much -- which, considering her behavior, was insanity on his part, however he could never be envious of a relationship between the two. Anyway, it didn't matter. In just a few more weeks, Murray might be in jail or worse.

He continued removing Chad's outer gear while Chad muttered unintelligibly. Then Murray heard a knock at the cabin door.

"Come in," Murray called.

Doria entered the room with a tray. "I brought an ice bag for Chad and a sandwich for you."

"Ice." Murray blinked in surprise. "Good guess."

"I looked it up," Doria informed him. "We do have a first aid book on the shelf." She handed him the cold bag.

"Hey, Chad." Murray smiled. "Doria brought you a present. Hopefully, this will alleviate some of the pain." He nestled the ice bag against Chad's abdomen.

"Doria," Chad mumbled. "Doria."

"He's probably delirious," Murray whispered.

"Forgive me," Chad moaned. "Please."

"What are you supposed to forgive?" Murray furrowed his brow and glared at her.

"I don't know. He's delirious, remember?"

But Murray didn't like the way she twisted one of her curls around her index finger, over and over.

Murray slid off Chad's boots and covered him with a blanket.

"I guess I'll go and help George." Doria bit her lip and sighed. "Rest up, Chad."

Chad groaned, a little too loudly. Murray thought it was a rather extended groan even for a man suffering from appendicitis.

"Doria, don't go!" Chad called out with his eyes tightly shut and one hand groping in the air. Every curly hair on Doria's head trembled. She reached out and caught his wandering hand.

"If you want me to, I'll stay -- for a little while," she promised. "But we've got to get the porgies on ice." Her lips quivered.

Murray couldn't prevent a look of disgust from creeping upon his face. He could spot a faker a mile away and Chad didn't possess half the finesse of some of the better impostors. He definitely did have appendicitis but he had evidently decided to use his condition for some nefarious purpose. And Doria bought the act -- hook, line, and sinker.

"I was wrong," Chad whimpered. "The pregnancy -- "

"The what?" Murray burst out.

Chad tensed and groaned. This time it looked authentic. Murray realized all his calm objectivity had vanished. He took a few deep breaths.

"Um -- what pregnancy are you talking about?" Doria had a pained expression on her face as she rubbed Chad's hand.

"Do you mean there has been more than one?" Murray's jaw dropped open as he stared at Doria.

"He's not talking about me," she whispered in a high squeal to Murray. "I have never been pregnant."

"Yes, you were," Chad muttered. "In high school, remember?"

Murray wanted to pulverize something. He balled his hands into fists.

"That was a rumor someone started," Doria explained. "Some nasty idiot spread it all over the school -- but it wasn't true."

"I started it," Chad explained in a thick voice. "The rumor. Forgive me?"

Doria dropped his hand as if it had just stung her.

"You?" she cried.

"Yes," he moaned. "Say you'll forgive me before I die."

"No!" Her chest heaved. "No. I can't believe it." She raced out of the cabin.

"Gee." Chad grumbled. He opened his eyes and winced. "I thought I could get that off my chest before I meet St. Peter, but I guess not."

Murray slammed his hands on the top bunk and then leaned his head against it. "That was the lie you told for revenge because she wouldn't go out with you any of those two hundred and seventeen times she asked."

"Two hundred and fourteen," Chad corrected and hissed through his teeth.

"That was despicable," Murray pressed his mouth together.

"Yeah. I know." Chad sighed. "How was my delirium?"

"Don't wave the hand in the air next time," Murray stated in a clipped tone. "Too melodramatic."

"Gotcha." Chad stiffened as agony flickered across his face. "Would you talk to her for me?"

Murray pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't think that's a good idea. She abhors me."

"Boss, for all your education, you can be plenty naïve." Chad shook his head.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Murray growled.

Chad gasped through another sharp pain. "Just be nice to her, okay. Take her to a movie while we're in Virginia or something."

"She's your girlfriend," Murray grumbled.

"No, she isn't." Chad glared at him.

"She'll probably forgive you in a week or so." Murray shrugged.

Chad sighed. "Maybe. Do you think I'll make it?"

Murray blinked. He had forgotten his bedside manner completely. "No problem. You'll be fine in a few weeks."

"Weeks?" Chad squeaked. "But I've got interviews lined up."

"You'll have to change them." Murray snatched up the sandwich that Doria had left for him and bit into it. Then he paused as the flavor set off warning signals in his brain. He peered at the sandwich and lifted one slice of bread.

"This is meatloaf!" he roared. "She gave me meatloaf! I hate meatloaf!"

Chad chuckled and then shuddered.

"As I said before, 'Virginia is for lovers'." He clutched the ice bag closer to his stomach.

Murray threw the sandwich back down on the tray. "Who told her?"

"It wasn't me." Chad said raggedly. "Nasty sharks couldn't drag the truth from me. I have sworn to uphold my captain's right to eat everything but meatloaf."

Murray put his hands on his hips and glared at his patient. "Stop trying to be funny. Get some rest."

"Aye, aye, sir." Chad pulled the blanket closer around his shoulder.

Chapter Nine

Doria raced through the high school, knowing she had come in late. She had forgotten her schedule and didn't have any idea what classroom she was supposed to be in. Why couldn't she remember?

The halls seemed so empty. Where had everyone gone? Had she gotten there so late that the dismissal had already sounded hours ago?

Then she turned a corner and saw all of her friends. Claire, Katie, Lou, Joe, Jay, Brie, and Devon stood around a hospital gurney.

"It's Chad," Devon told Doria as she walked up next to the gurney. A white sheet covered the still form. Doria pulled the sheet away from his face.

"I'm dead," Chad said. "Don't touch me." Doria's heart began to thud loudly.

"Where's your baby?" asked Lou.

Doria glanced down and saw her swollen belly. "But I'm not pregnant," she cried.

Chad reached out to grab her. She screamed and ran to get away. Suddenly, she stood on the deck of the Merrichase. It listed to the starboard side. Water poured into the hold as huge waves broke over the ship. The trawler was sinking. Alone at the winch controls, Doria saw a wave cresting at thirty feet heading toward the ship. She screamed again, certain that she would drown.

Then, from somewhere above her she heard Murray's voice shouting.

"Wake up," he demanded.

With her heart still racing wildly, Doria opened her eyes and blinked against the bright white lights overhead.

"What was that nightmare all about?" Murray asked.

Groggy, she fought to focus her gaze. When it dawned on her that her head lay in his lap, she sat up in horror and slid quickly to the other side of the vinyl-covered sofa.

Murray had the audacity to laugh. "You were the one who snuggled up to me like I was a pillow."

Doria shoved her curls back. "What time is it?" Her voice came out sounding hoarse and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

He glanced casually at his watch. "About noon." The brows over his bloodshot eyes rose. "By the way, it's Tuesday, we're in a hospital in Virginia Beach, and Chad is in recovery. He'll be fine."

A small sigh of relief escaped her lips. She hated Chad, now; despised him for what he had done. But she hadn't wanted him to die. His appendix had ruptured before they docked, making the last hour of their journey a desperate race that had become a blur in Doria's mind. She tried to rub the sleep out of her eyes.

As soon as the Merrichase had been secured, they had taken a wild ride in the ambulance to the hospital. When Chad had lapsed into an unconscious state, she had become hysterical, believing that he had passed away. Murray's arm had come around her to soothe her and she had been so crazy with fear, she had allowed him to comfort her. She felt her cheeks blaze with embarrassment as she remembered her panic.

Murray told her that the paramedics had given Chad something to take away the pain and let him sleep. She could have guessed that herself if she'd been thinking properly, but she'd become so distraught.

"So are you going to forgive him for starting that rumor?" Murray asked as he scratched his chin and yawned.

"Never." She sat up straighter and tried to sweep the wrinkles out of her flannel shirt and her jeans. She cleared her throat. What she needed was a large cup of coffee.

"Why not?" His expression grew hard as granite as his lips thinned.

"Because I hate him." Despite the savagery of her reply, Murray didn't blink. His eyes stared at her, cold and remote, as dangerous as the deep fathoms of the ocean.

"I see," Murray commented mildly. "I assume he played a large part in your nightmare?"

Doria froze. Oh yes. He had heard her scream in her sleep. She ignored his question.

"I'm going back to the Merrichase," she said as she stood up. "I'm sorry for -- for falling asleep on your lap." She could feel the flush warming her cheeks.

He flashed a sudden, devastating smile. "My pleasure."

Her breath quickened. She turned her head away in shame. Why did this have to happen to her?

"Aren't you going to go in and say 'hi' to your former sweetheart?" he chided.

She whirled as hostility flashed through her. "He never was my sweetheart and I don't want to speak to him ever again. How could he do that to me? I have never been pregnant! I have never even -- " She stopped herself in time. She surprised herself with what she had been about to reveal and the silence in the room lengthened uncomfortably.

Murray's eyebrows lifted a fraction. "Never -- ?"

"That's none of your business," she blurted out.

He cleared his throat. "Right." Getting off the sofa, he headed to the door. "Come on. We'll check on Chad and then go back to the ship."

Doria narrowed her eyes. "There are nurses who can check on him."

His green eyes had a lethal quality that sent a shiver of fear racing through her. "We won't be long."

Doria decided on a counterattack. "You can't go walking through this hospital. You look terrible. You need a shave."

"Do I?" He drawled. "And you, my marsh mallow bloom, smell like a fishing boat."

That comment set off the sparks again as Doria seethed with fury. "What do you expect? George and I got stuck putting all those porgies on ice." Then she frowned. "Hey. Where is George?"

"Supporting the local phone company." The cynical twist to his smile marred his handsome profile. Her fingers itched to touch it and erase the cruel quirk that kept his features from perfection. It annoyed her that she should care.

"I think we'll have to take all those porgies to New York to get a decent price," he continued.

Doria's breath caught in her throat as the sight of that thirty-foot wave in her dream terrorized her thoughts.

"W-what's the forecast?" she asked, nearly choking on the question.

"The same," he responded roughly.

Doria swallowed hard. It had only been a dream after all. The Merrichase always made it back to Port Harbor. Always.

The tubes, the monitors, the scent of antiseptic lingering in the air, the squeak of the nurses' shoes on the tiled floor -- it all gave Murray a bad case of homesickness. He missed everything so badly that the ache nearly consumed him. Hospitals had been his world and despite the fact that he knew he couldn't make everyone well, he had saved enough people to make it all seem worthwhile to him. He had skill, he had been gifted with healing, but his career had come to an abrupt end due to Kelly Morris' death.

Yet, the profession went on very well without him. His former colleagues seemed oblivious to his absence. Nobody called or wrote. It was as if he had already vanished from the face of the earth, almost as though the funeral had been held but nobody had deigned to show up for the burial.

He gazed down at Chad's placid face. Remnants of fright remained knotted in Murray's gut. It had been a close call. But Chad lay safe now with an IV dripping antibiotics steadily into his veins. True, it would take a little longer for his recovery, but, barring any other complications, Chad would be back on his motorcycle in a couple months.

The thought came to Murray that by that time, he could be on death row. A crushing weight of gloom settled on his shoulders.

He sat down on a chair, hunched over, and rested his arms on his knees. Doria's voice infringed on his misery as she stood at the end of the gurney.

"Let's go," she urged. "He isn't going to wake up and I hate it here."

He caught the sound of the faint tremor in her voice.

"Not everyone dies in a hospital," he said. "Many go home well."

"He doesn't even know we're here."

Murray lifted his head and saw the pout on her lips. She had already completely demolished the Styrofoam cup left from the coffee he had bought her. She had made a white mountain of the broken pieces, which she placed on a table. In her fingers, she twisted the stirrer stick from the coffee into odd little triangles, over and over.

"He can probably hear every word you're saying," Murray said softly. "Tell him you forgive him for that rumor. It will ease his mind."

Her brown eyes suddenly snapped defiance. She tossed the stirrer stick into the trashcan with a vicious movement. Chad's vengeful act had hurt her badly. Still, he needed to be free of his guilt and a Christian had to forgive. Somewhere in Doria's heart, she must know that truth.

"Pardon and you shall be pardoned," Murray tried to keep his voice quiet and composed. But his apparent control did not help the situation. Doria's eyes flashed flints at him.

"'I do not say to thee seven times, but seventy times seven," she quoted. "I know that verse. I know them all, backwards and forwards, but it won't help. There's no magic in the words. They can't take away the -- "

He drew his brows together as he saw her lower lip quiver.

"The pain. That's what you meant to say, isn't it?" He rose from the chair and strode toward her with purposeful steps.

She had lowered her eyes. He could almost feel the tension radiating out from her.

"You're right," he spoke gently. "The words can't take away the pain because the magic is in the act. Not only do you set the sinner free, you set yourself free."

"You're preaching," she spat out. "And what do you know? You only decided to become a Christian because it might sway the jury's decision."

He recognized her dart as a defense mechanism. Her words didn't hurt him, and for some inexplicable reason, he wanted to ease her suffering.

He reached out to cup her chin in his hand. She flinched at his touch. He tilted her face upward but she kept her eyes tightly shut, and set her mouth in a grim line. Her skin, ivory with that ingenuous smattering of freckles, warmed his hand. His thumb pressed the area where her dimple had appeared so briefly.

Slowly, she stated between clenched teeth, "I will not forgive him. He did that after my mother died. After I refused to go to the prom with him. That rumor ruined my reputation. Boys would use vulgar language when I passed by, like I was a-a-"

Amazingly, a hot, crystal tear slid down onto Murray's thumb as she choked on her words.

He gathered her into his arms and held her close. He could feel her struggle against the sobs that wanted to burst free. She held her breath and swallowed hard. Still, a few more of her salty tears dampened his shirt. He began to understand some of the agonies Ed's daughter had suffered. He started to realize that there may have been other reasons for her to leave Port Harbor far behind.

"Doctor Santoro?" a male voice said quietly. "I see you're still using your famous bedside manner."

Murray froze and looked up at the broadly grinning face of his former college roommate.

"Bob, I -- " Murray eased Doria away and handed her his handkerchief. She blinked in confusion. He put his arm around her shoulders.

"Bob -- Dr. Ivins, this is Doria, one of my crew and -- "

"Your crew." His eyebrows rose in appreciation. "Business must be terrific in New Jersey, then."

"I don't have a yacht," Murray clarified. "It's a trawler."

"For fishing, right?" The former buddy shrugged as he studied his clipboard. "Funny. I never pegged you as a sportsman. And what about Chad, here?"

"He's another one of my crew," Murray explained.

"Ruptured appendix," the doctor mused. "Nasty situation. You were out on the water when it happened?"

"Yes," Murray answered. Obviously, Bob Ivins hadn't heard about Murray's misfortune. Funny. Why did he see accusation in everyone's eyes?

"Bit rough on the water for cruising, I'd say." Dr. Ivins lifted the blanket and peered at the incision and draining tube. "Supposedly, he came out of anesthesia a while ago."

Murray stiffened and glanced anxiously at Doria. Her eyes widened fearfully as she stared at Chad and took in a ragged breath.

"I'll send a nurse along to rouse him." The doctor tucked his clipboard under his arm and held out his hand to clasp Murray's callused paw in an anemic grip. "Nice seeing you again, and you, too, miss." He smiled and left.

"Chad isn't in a coma, is he?" Doria's face had as much color as the sheet on the gurney.

"Ah -- no, nothing like that," Murray tried to reassure her, but he didn't sound smooth enough. "Chad's resting. Deeply. He had a rough night. We all did. Why don't you run along to the ladies room and splash your face with some cold water. Then we'll head home."

Surprisingly, she didn't argue with him, for once. He watched her walk out of the room and allowed himself to think about how wonderful she felt in his arms. He had permitted himself to toy with her bouncy curls as she slept on his lap and he had tried to count all her freckles, too. He fantasized about taking her on a date and making her laugh so he could see her dimple again. It had been a wonderful morning.

"It didn't work," Chad muttered from the gurney, his voice thick and weary.

"Sorry, I did my best," Murray sighed.

"She's going to hate me forever." Chad slurred.

"You were a rat." Murray nodded.

"Yeah," Chad agreed, sounding tired. "But I still want to become a priest -- "

"What?" Murray asked, caught off guard by Chad's words. "Run that by me again."

"A priest." Chad stated simply. "That's what I'm interviewing for."

Shock hit Murray full force. "You? But why?"

"I sort of got the call, you know," he answered.

"Personally?" Murray's voice cracked.

"Well, indirectly." Chad gave a weak smile. "But the message came through loud and clear."

"You. A priest." Murray shook his head. "How about that?"

"Could you still try and get her to forgive me?" Chad begged.

"Sure," Murray said.

"Did you call my mom?" Chad asked.

"George did and he wired her money as well for a bus ticket so she can come and smother you," Murray explained.

"Thanks," Chad whispered with a smile.

Murray looked up and saw a large nurse heading toward them. "Uh-oh. You're about to be harassed."

Chad turned his head and winced. "Why do I always get the mean ones?"

"They can spot troublemakers a mile away," Murray laughed.

"But I'm a reformed prankster," Chad grumbled.

The nurse approached and glared at Chad. "I heard you were catching some Z's," she said

Chad seemed to shrivel up under her scrutiny. "I woke up."

"Good," the nurse said. "We'll check your vitals and then move you into your room." She whipped out the thermometer from its sheath.

"Don't leave me!" Chad begged before the nurse stuck the thermometer in his mouth.

Murray patted Chad's shoulder. "You'll do fine. Try charming the nurses with your silver tongue." Then he winked at the nurse who rewarded him with an appreciative nod.

He walked out of the recovery room feeling lighter for some reason, as if part of the burden he had been carrying around had been lifted from his shoulders. It almost felt like he was going to live, and though he knew his euphoria couldn't last he decided to enjoy it -- just

for today, he told himself. Only for today.

Doria, George, and Murray sat at the table in the galley of the Merrichase and devoured yesterday's leftovers. Doria didn't think any reheated food had ever tasted so marvelous. She dug into the bowl for another helping of her own scalloped potatoes. She couldn't believe how ravenous she was, but then she couldn't remember when she had eaten her last decent meal, either.

George and Murray seemed intent on the task of polishing off the rest of the meatloaf.

"You know, this is much better than Rich's meatloaf," Murray said between mouthfuls. "He has a heavy hand with the garlic. Overdoes it all the time. And he put carrots in the meatloaf, too."

"You couldn't taste the carrots," George commented.

"But you could see them," Murray growled. "Little bits of orange."

"They're good for you," George stated. He reached for another serving of potatoes. "Hey. Where'd all the spuds go?"

Doria stopped chewing and gave him a sheepish grin.

"You do pack it away, don't ya?" George frowned. "Got any dessert?"

Doria nodded as she swallowed the food in her mouth. "Apple pie."

"Homemade?" George asked with suspicion.

"From the bakery in Baytown, back home," she admitted.

"Good enough," George's face split into a wide grin.

"Do you want it with horseradish?" she asked, feeling mischievous.

"I tried it once, but it's better with vanilla ice cream," he confessed.

Murray threw back his head and let out a warm, throaty laugh. George chuckled.

Doria gaped at Murray. Since they had left the hospital, he had behaved in a manner that could almost be described as human. He hadn't been grouchy at all, and he had actually smiled at her a number of times -- which unnerved her. Every time she caught his gaze fixed on her, it felt as though someone shoved the throttle of her heart to full speed ahead.

Her hands trembled as she cleared the table and readied the dessert. George and Murray talked about business but she became so caught up in trying to steady herself, that she didn't pay any attention to what they said until she set the pie down on the table.

"So you think we can make a run for it?" Murray asked George.

"We've got a good chance if we head out soon," George glanced at his watch. "With only three of us, we can't do any more fishing. We might as well get the best price for what we've got -- and that's in New York, right now."

Doria could barely breathe. She kept seeing that thirty-foot wave in her dream. With her knees feeling limp, she sat down and clutched the edge of the table. "How are those pumps?"

"I got one working well." George dug into the pie. "There was a blockage in the line. But, the other one, maybe it's dying of old age." His mouth closed down on the pie. He looked as if he had finally reached nirvana.

She turned her gaze to Murray and found him staring at her with a wistful smile on his face.

"What are you staring at?" she blurted out.

"Your freckles." He sighed, reached for his pie and started eating.

Doria covered her nose. "What's the matter with my freckles?"

"I just wanted to make sure I counted them correctly," Murray said. "I did. There's forty-seven of them."

"Forty-seven?" George mumbled with pie in his mouth. "That's a lot."

"Yeah." Murray nodded. "Some are tiny, though."

Doria gulped and felt her face flash with heat. What was the matter with Murray? Maybe he'd been drinking? Maybe he had some happy pills he took now and then? Maybe he had lost his mind?

Maybe he actually liked her?

A little thrill shivered along her shoulders. He had been so comforting at the hospital. Even when she refused to forgive --

She drew her lips into a pout. All right. Now she had it figured out. Murray didn't give up. Ever. He wanted her to grant absolution to Chad. Since she refused, he had obviously decided to try a new tack. Sweeten her up and then lower the boom. Oh yes. She could see right through him.

But then she thought about Chad. The pain he had suffered and how terrible he had looked. The tubes. The gurney. The smell of the hospital. Her dream.

Her chest constricted. What if he had died?

Christ on the cross forgave everyone. She did believe that Christ had walked the earth. The principles delineated in the Bible had merit. But Christ had said, "Ask and you shall receive." And it didn't necessarily happen.

Still, what if Chad had died?

Her thoughts shattered as Murray tossed some gloves at her.

"I requisitioned these from the hospital," he smiled. "I can't help you with the dishes today since we've got to skedaddle. George is going to batten down the hatches and I have to pilot us out of here."

She sat up straight and challenged him sharply. "I know how to drive this boat."

"So does George, Chad, and Rich." A glint of humor twinkled in his sea-green eyes. "But I'm the one with the license."

George evidently thought Murray's comment quite funny. He laughed.

Doria felt annoyed by all the merriment. So far, this fishing trip had been nothing less than disastrous.

"So how much cash am I going to get from this fiasco?" she asked.

"I think we'll make up the price of the fuel." Murray's mouth curved into a captivating grin that had Doria mesmerized for a moment until his words sunk in.

"Y-you mean there won't be any profit!" she sputtered.

Murray's eyes seemed to soften as he gazed at her. Her skin prickled with goose bumps. "All things considered, I think we've been very lucky. Thanks for the meatloaf."

He and George left the table.

She sat alone in the gallery almost unable to breathe.

"I'm broke," she whispered to herself. "I'm going to become a bag lady and live in a cardboard box in Washington Square Park."

She pictured herself living in squalor and winced. She had never given a dime to any of the derelicts she passed everyday in the street on her way to the Plaza for work. She had been selfish. And unforgiving. If God really did keep accounts and the Merrichase sank, she would go straight to hell.

She clenched her hands into fists. No. What was the matter with her? The Merrichase would not sink. It always made it back to Port Harbor. Always.

Chapter Ten

The storm slammed into the Merrichase as the trawler passed east of Cape May. Doria stared out the small window in the door that opened onto the work deck. She watched as each mountainous wave sent white foam spilling over the deck until the ship floated free and the consuming sea fell away. Then another flood crashed violently down, pounding the Merrichase with a thunderous wall of water.

The height of the waves nearly matched the tall, double smokestacks of the ship. The unearthly screams of the wind sounded muted from inside the shelter of the watertight door. Still, as she saw the usually taut wires of the rigging buckle and shake, she could imagine the force of the gusts. Though the ship's lights glowed in the darkness, they could do nothing to illuminate the inky tempest surrounding the boat.

The turbulent water tossed the boat, making it seem as if the ocean wanted to swallow it whole. Doria closed her eyes and thought of her father, his faith, and his unfailing belief that the Lord would see him through the worst Nor'easter. And without fail, despite several close calls, Ed Hanrahan and the Merrichase had made it back to port every time.

Doria knew her father had prayed fervently when her mother became ill. Although when God didn't answer his prayers and his wife died, he had accepted it as God's will.

Doria shivered and opened her eyes. Why were some prayers answered and others ignored? What if God decided that tonight the Merrichase would sink? What if that was His will? After all, her godfather's boat, the Angelica, had disappeared with everyone on board. Had that been part of some grand design -- or simply fate? Was the loss of the Angelica supposed to teach everyone a lesson about what not to do? Or had God smote those fishermen with his wrath because they had been a wicked bunch?

Or maybe life amounted to a game of chance with God allowing the chips to fall where they may, until it came time for that giant tally in heaven.

Doria's thoughts went round and round as the trawler continually slammed down into one trough and then struggled to rise over the crest of another wave. She couldn't arrive at any conclusions. But her mind continued to dwell on the fate of the Angelica and her crew. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat as she recalled that the bodies were never found.

Examining her own life, she couldn't deny that she had lived selfishly. If God really did keep accounts, perhaps the time for her own retribution had come. Tonight she could pay for her greedy ways by drowning. That scenario made living as a derelict, begging for food or eating in soup kitchens, seem enviable.

Doria shook her head and went back into the galley. She couldn't rest; every nerve in her body was wound tight as a spring. She puttered around, checking to make sure that everything had been secured in the cabinets, even though she had done it twice already. Still, with the ship pitching and rolling in the sea, any loose item could fly across the room and clobber someone.

The terror-filled dream she had in the hospital haunted her. She kept waiting for the ship to list and then roll over. Though the galley shone bright and warm, her hands felt like ice. She rubbed them and slid them into her pockets. Then she took in a ragged breath. She decided if she made back to Port Harbor, she would call Chad and grant him forgiveness. Chad's conscience would be eased which might help him to recover quickly. She could never forget what Chad had done. He had made her unhappy situation more miserable, but it had happened eons ago and she had gone on to better things -- until now.

No doubt, when Uncle Walter heard about her change of heart, he would send a flare up to heaven in her favor. But most important of all, Murray would stop trying his new technique on her and return to his grouchy ways. The crazy way her body reacted to him confused her. He possessed the boat that should have belonged to her, he may have speeded along her father's death, and he would soon be standing trial for murder. Yet, whenever she stared into his strange eyes, a sense of anticipation spun through her, leaving her feeling breathless.

Suddenly a sharp surge of panic rushed through her as another macabre thought took hold of her. What if Murray died tonight?

No! She tried to convince herself that everything would work out fine. Still, she waited for a catastrophe to occur with her heart thudding ominously.

She hugged her arms tightly about her and realized that she couldn't stand being alone. Not tonight. She made another fresh pot of coffee and then filled up a mug. When she opened the door to the engine room, the roar of the diesel greeting her quelled some of her anxiety. The incessant blast of noise reassured her that the sturdy trawler had plenty of power. She breathed in the heavy odor of oil and felt calmer than she had in the galley.

George looked up at her when she came into sight. He had a wrench in one hand and several smears of grease on his clothing, his hands, and face. He pointed to the belt that connected the pump to the main engine.

"Put on a new belt," he mouthed the words. The usual pandemonium from the din of the engine made it nearly impossible to carry on a conversation. "Seems to help."

Nobody had to tell her that they were taking on water. Despite the watertight doors, hatches, and deck plates, the ocean splashed inside during rough weather. With the height of the waves, some even sloshed in through the vent pipe.

She passed George the mug. He saluted her with the wrench in his hand.

Leaving the engine room, she went back to the relative quiet of the galley. She rubbed her arms and glanced about her. She didn't want to be alone. Whenever she had endured a bad storm on the Merrichase, she had sat beside her father in the wheelhouse. But her father no longer held the helm -- and that made all the difference. Murray's hands piloted the boat through the angry ocean now and though she knew it would be better for her to keep her distance from him, what if this would be her last night alive? Or his?

For a moment she wondered what would happen if her father could be there to tell her that he was "holding fast to Jesus." Could he have restored her faith by getting the boat safely back to port? She shook her head in doubt. The Merrichase was one tiny boat in a gigantic ocean. To God, it probably resembled an atom -- too insignificant to bother with.

She poured another mug of coffee and added two teaspoons of sugar and a generous amount of milk. That's how Murray liked it. Then she climbed the steep ladder to the wheelhouse.

He didn't notice her at first as her head reached the level of the wheelhouse floor. Grim-lipped, he stared out into the darkness and held onto the wheel with white- knuckled fingers.

When warmth flowed through her at the sight of him, she didn't fight the luscious heat. She saw hope and courage in the determined set of his jaw. She realized as she studied him, that she had seen the same intense concentration in her father's face when he had been beset with storms. She bit her lip. Her mother's illness had been like another "storm" and her father had met it with the same resolute will. Had he done that with his own fatal disease? The familiar, keen edge of guilt stabbed at her. She should have been with her father in his final days.

Suddenly, Murray glanced at her and a small smile lightened the tension around his mouth.

"Hi," he said.

"How does it look out there?" She wanted her voice to sound nonchalant, but it didn't. She saw his eyebrow lift at the shakiness in her tone.

He gave a mirthless chuckle. "I think I know how Noah felt."

She climbed all the way up and nestled the mug into its special holder.

"Thanks," he nodded. "George okay?"

"He looks like he dove into an oil spill."

Murray laughed and Doria felt her heart expand.

"I need to stretch a little." Murray rolled his shoulders. "Want to take the helm while I guzzle down that brew?"

Doria blinked in surprise. She looked out at the gloom and then down at the radar screen. Could she really handle the Merrichase after all these years? In this storm? She took a deep breath.

"Sure," she replied with a strength in her tone that surprised her.

"Okay." He rose from his seat. "You slip in here and try to keep it on this line."

She ducked under his arm and sat down. She could feel his chest against her back. The contact sent her stomach tumbling. She clenched her jaw tightly and slid her hands onto the smooth wooden wheel, directly above Murray's strong, callused fingers. His grip held the wheel steady. Apprehension whipped through her. Could her slender hands steer the course?

"It's rough hanging on tonight," he muttered just above her right ear. A tingle shivered along her spine.

"She wants to go her own way," he added.

"Don't worry." She gulped hard and locked her fingers around the helm. Murray let it go. She felt it pull to the left, but she braced herself and maintained the course.

She heard Murray's satisfied sigh after he swallowed some of the coffee.

"The weatherman miscalculated on this storm," he said.

"No kidding," she ground out the words through her teeth as she fought to keep the trawler plowing ahead. Her muscles would be sore tomorrow.

"It's not an ill wind for us," he went on. "We'll probably get a higher price on the porgies."

Doria's hopes rose. "Do you think we might make a profit?"

"Hard to say." Murray took another swallow of the coffee. She glanced at his image in the dark glass surrounding them in the wheelhouse. She tried to picture him as a doctor wearing a white coat or hospital scrubs. She gave a wry smile. He would make the dreary scrubs look like haute couture with his broad shoulders and muscled arms.

Considering his thick, golden hair, she decided it lent him a wild and rakish appearance. With a neat, trim haircut he would look too pretty. A swirl of sadness stirred in her at the thought that she would probably never see him again. What was wrong with her? Sure, he would make most women's hearts go pitter-patter, but her heart pounded as thunderously as the waves crashing over the bow of the Merrichase.

She lifted her gaze to study him again and found him staring at her reflection as well.

Her mouth went dry as she shifted her eyes to the radar screen.

"W-we're almost home," she noted a little too breathlessly.

"True."

Did she hear a touch of melancholy in his tone? Did he fear his upcoming trial? Or could he be just a little sad that she would soon be out of his life forever?

Doria frowned. She knew so little about him. It seemed everyone else rated him a saint -- even Uncle Walter. Could Murray truly be innocent of the charges brought against him?

She didn't have time to mull the idea around in her mind.

"The gate broke loose!" Murray bellowed. His shout startled her enough to make her lose her grip on the wheel. She battled with the helm to get back on course.

"I can fix the gate," Doria offered as her muscles knotted in an effort to hold wheel steady. "I know how."

"In this weather!" he snorted. "You'll be blown overboard the minute you walk out the door."

"I'll use a tether," she explained between clenched teeth.

"Stay right where you are," he ordered. "It won't take me long."

He dashed down the ladder and disappeared from her sight. Doria clung to the wheel as a monstrous wave smothered the bow of the ship, but as the Merrichase bobbed out of the water once more, she glanced behind her at the stern. There, clad in his bright yellow oilskin, Murray leaned into the wind and made his way across the swaying deck, grabbing handholds where he could.

Doria turned back to her task, forcing the trawler to make some progress on the chart, bringing them closer to safety and home. She swung her head around again to check on Murray as he attempted to secure the gate. He stood thigh deep in the icy sea as the water poured in over the ramp.

Doria checked the radar and their course. She found her confidence returning as she guided the boat into the next trough and through another devouring wall of water. There were some things you didn't forget, and handling the Merrichase seemed as natural as breathing to her.

Still, worry gnawed at her. Murray would be drenched to the bone and frozen by the time he got back inside. She would insist that he take a hot shower before returning to the helm.

The Merrichase slid down into another trough only to be met by a towering wave that made Doria's blood pool in her feet. It wasn't the thirty-foot wave of her dream, but nevertheless it loomed like a nightmare over the valiant trawler.

Before the swell poured down, Doria looked behind her to see if Murray had managed to lock the gate. Her heart squeezed in panic when she saw him lying on his side with his body jammed between the gate and the corner of the stern ramp.

She pulled back on the throttle, allowing the boat to drift. She flew down the ladder and without bothering to throw on her oilskin, grabbed a rope before opening the door. The wind slapped her as she tried to stand up against the gale. Securing the watertight door to the work deck, she faced the length of the stern while the trawler tilted at a crazy angle in the powerful grasp of the wave. Terror numbed her for a moment.

"Murray!" she screamed. The tempest tore the name from her lips. Clutching the rope in her hand, a spurt of adrenaline surged through her and gave her courage. She whipped the sturdy line around her waist, tied the other end to the capstan, and sped across the deck to Murray. She reached him as the water slammed into them both. She clung to him as the sea tried to crush them beneath its weight and then suck them both out into its eternal depths. The rope around Doria's waist bit into her flesh.

The Merrichase bobbed up again and Doria gulped in a lung full of air.

"Murray!" she cried. He stirred in her arms. Sobs racked her as she pulled with every ounce of strength she possessed, though her hands had turned to ice and her body shook violently. The deck sloped sideways making Doria's head spin, but the dizzy angle made the gate swing inward, freeing Murray.

Hanging onto him with one hand, Doria found the end of the rope Murray must have been using and fastened the gate shut. Then she tightened her arms around him as the ocean tried to take them for its own. Still, Doria's tether proved worthy and saved them from the sea's hungry grasp.

As the water receded, Doria tried to move Murray but his sodden weight proved more than she had could manage.

"Please, get up," she pleaded. Drunkenly, he staggered onto all fours. Doria clung to him while the boat began to spin, caught in a mad dance with the wind and the undulating swells. She felt spasms shudder through his body. He retched, spewing up the brine he had swallowed and then collapsed once more.

"Come on!" she screamed. "Get up!" As another torrent washed over the deck, Doria held Murray's head out of the water.

George came swooping down on them like a yellow angel protected by his oilskin.

"What are you trying to do?" he shouted. "Give me a heart attack?" Together, he and Doria dragged Murray to the door where Murray tumbled onto the floor inside. Doria's fingers seemed paralyzed with the cold. She stood outside the door, unable to untie the rope at her waist. George pulled out his knife and sliced the line in two to free her.

Once inside, Doria sank onto the floor beside Murray. Her teeth chattered and her body quaked uncontrollably. George shut the door and draped blankets over them.

"Would you mind telling me what happened?" George asked.

Doria couldn't speak. She didn't know whether her tears were choking her or the salt water that dribbled down her face. She couldn't stop trembling. She wanted to be warm again.

"I...almost...drowned." Murray's guttural rasp seemed to tax what little strength remained in him. But Doria's anguish lifted a little at the sound of his gravelly answer. He was alive.

"Dandy, just dandy," George grumbled. "What were you trying to do, give the sharks a bellyache?"

"Yeah." Murray coughed. "Take us home, George."

Doria saw George's hand shake as he ran it across his brow.

"You gonna be okay?" George asked.

Murray nodded. Then he reached out and squeezed Doria's hand. "Throw Doria into the shower for me, will you?"

"Sure thing, doc." George brightened. "Clothes and all."

Murray sat beside Doria's bunk, watching her as she dreamed. Her eyelids fluttered lightly while she viewed the story in her mind and he hoped her fantasy was pleasant and sweet. She had slept long and deep. He couldn't bear to wake her.

Murray had showered and rested, but only briefly. Once he regained his wits, he had returned to the helm and headed straight for New York where they docked. They would soon unload the porgies.

He had thanked the Lord for saving the Merrichase and her crew. He had especially been grateful that the Lord had sent Doria to him. He reached out to lightly wind his finger around one of her tumbled curls. She looked so fragile and delicate as she lay on her bunk, her skin the color of cream with nutmeg-colored freckles sprinkled lightly across her nose. Beautiful and brave, she had saved his life. He pulled gently on a curl and saw it spring back into place.

He had grown so fond of her that it hurt him now to think of them each going their separate ways. Yet, it had to be that way. He had no future.

A hollow emptiness spread inside him. Doria had come into his life like a hurricane, but at her center he found strength, loyalty, and true courage.

She stirred. Her eyes opened slowly, vague from slumber.

"Hey," she said and lowered her eyelids again, fanning the dark brown lashes on her cheeks. She sighed and smiled.

"Hey," he echoed softly.

Two creases formed between her brows, marring her smooth complexion. Then her eyes flew open.

"What?" She ran her hand through her wild ringlets and moved to sit up.

"Everything's fine," Murray assured her. "We're docked in New York, waiting to unload the porgies. And the storm decided to move up to New England."

Doria flopped back down on the bunk. "You look good."

"So do you," Murray said. "How do you feel?"

"Like I could sleep for another decade," she replied.

Murray lifted up his digital thermometer. "Do you mind?"

Doria looked at him suspiciously. "I'm not sick."

"You were cold," he said.

"So were you." She pulled the covers up higher, under her chin. "And you nearly drowned."

"I already checked my own temperature." He grinned. "After a half dozen cups of hot coffee, I am almost normal."

"Too much coffee is bad for you." She glared.

"If you have hypothermia, it can work wonders," he countered. He turned on the thermometer. "This is not an invasive procedure. I put this in your ear and it gives a readout in seconds."

"I know how it works," she huffed.

"Your fingers are still blue," he mentioned.

When she looked down at her fingers, he placed the thermometer in her ear. She tensed.

"Can I talk?" she whispered.

"Yes," he whispered back.

"I-I'm glad you didn't drown," she said softly.

Regret weighed down on him. He had misjudged her at first, and hurt her.

"I'm glad you didn't let me drown." He found himself straining to keep his voice level. He took the thermometer out of her ear and glanced at the readout.

"We have got to get some hot drinks in you," he stated as he frowned at the numbers.

"What's with this 'we' stuff?" she asked.

"Nurses talk like that all the time." He shrugged. "I'm pretending I'm a nurse."

Doria laughed. "You look so much more like a pirate."

He bent his head and stared at the floor, letting her merriment warm him with waves of happiness. It felt good. Healing. He had wanted to see her smile, to make her laugh, and he finally had succeeded. But why did it leave him with a lump in his throat? With an effort, he lifted his head.

"You will always look like an angel to me, Doria Hanrahan." He could barely hide the emotion in his voice. "Thanks for saving my life."

She placed her hand on his. He tightened his fingers around hers.

"I would have saved anybody." Sincerity rang through every word. "Even George."

This time Murray had to laugh. "Should I let George know that?"

She gave him a puzzled expression and then pouted. "You know what I mean."

The delicate moue formed by her lips drew him. He dropped the thermometer on the blanket and reached out to cup her chin in his hand. Her eyes, the color of bittersweet chocolate, widened in surprise.

His lips came down on hers, slow and gentle. The tender fullness of her mouth had him drowning again, but this time from the forgiveness he found in her response.

He pulled away. Though brief, the kiss left his heart ramming against his rib cage.

"Why-why did you do that?" she asked, her lips still moist and rosy.

He shrugged and traced the generous curve of her mouth. "It's part of the prescription."

Her cheeks flushed even as she glared at him. "You made that up."

"I bet your temperature rose a few degrees." He lifted up the thermometer again. "Shall I check?"

"No!" She threw the blankets over her head.

Chapter Eleven

That evening, Doria stood at the bow while Murray eased the Merrichase up to the dock in Port Harbor. She held a rope in one hand, waiting for the right moment to throw it around a piling, while her other hand slid into her pocket. She felt for the small wad of cash she received as her share of the profit, hoping it hadn't vanished like some ethereal fog -- or like that brief but earth-shattering kiss. She needed to convince herself that both the money and the kiss were real. She hadn't dreamed up either of them.

The bills, jammed into the bottom of her pocket, held the warmth of her skin. The market price for the porgies surprised her. Though her portion of the split wouldn't be much help with her mounting debts, it would put gas in her car for a while so she could leave Port Harbor, if she wanted. She swallowed hard at the lump that rose in her throat as she thought of driving away from her hometown. Suddenly, the idea of never seeing Murray again left her with a hollow feeling in her heart.

The air had turned bitterly cold with a stinging westerly wind turning even the salt spray into ice. Doria's lips felt chapped and raw in the cruel weather but if she closed her eyes, she could almost taste the kiss Murray had bestowed on her. Real and warm, it had turned her all soft and hungry inside. She had never felt that way. All day long she thought about the way it had happened. Had he done it simply to thank her? Or could there possibly be more meaning behind the gesture? The questions clouded her mind with a dark mist and she feared the answers.

Fortunately, the roar of the engine as Murray jammed it into reverse snapped her to attention. The trawler edged closer to the dock and Doria threw the rope around the piling of the Merrichase's berth in Port Harbor. After she looped the line and tied it, she noticed a sizable crowd walking toward the boat despite the gathering darkness and the frigid drop in temperature.

"Why are they here?" Doria asked George as they secured the remaining lines.

"Doc's patients," George answered. "Better make another pot of coffee. Looks like it'll be a busy night."

"He takes care of them here?" she blurted out.

"Yeah." George lowered the gangplank. The people started trooping onto the ship immediately. Doria stood by gaping as an elderly couple swayed precariously, taking uncertain steps up the steep incline to reach the deck. George stepped down and patiently took their hands to guide them along. Three young mothers with a horde of children followed. The kids charged up the ramp and raced into the galley.

"This can't be legal." Doria's voice rose with indignation.

"He ain't charging," George stated calmly.

At the end of the little parade, Doria recognized the worn faces of several crewmembers of other fishing boats in Port Harbor.

"Doria Hanrahan!" One of the fishermen smiled at her. "The spitting image of Ed, you are, except prettier." He winked at her and then patted her on the shoulder. "His passing was a terrible loss." Shaking his head, he walked on into the galley.

"They don't have anyplace else to go," George explained to her. "No health insurance, no money -- besides, the doc is better than the clinic."

"I thought there were too many germs here." She laced her words with sarcasm.

"He's not doing any surgery," George snorted. "And he keeps telling them to go back to the clinic -- he just doesn't have the heart to turn them away. He talks to them, tells them how to take care of themselves, gives 'em vitamins 'cause they don't eat right, and writes out prescriptions, too."

Doria glanced back at the dock. It stood empty now as the early winter twilight settled down on them.

"How long has this been going on?" she asked.

"Since he came to Port Harbor." George walked over to the stern ramp and untied the rope holding the gate closed.

"What did my father think of this?" She knew the answer before the words passed her lips.

George sighed when he looked at her. "He was convinced Murray had been sent here as an answer to a lot of prayers."

Doria nodded. Yes. Her father would believe that God had a hand in Murray's arrival in the obscure, little town. Had her father prayed for help in dealing with his illness because his own daughter wouldn't come home? Doria felt the tears well up in her eyes and struggled to push the feelings of guilt to the back of her mind. She clenched her hands.

No. For the Lord to send Murray to Port Harbor, Kelly Morris had to die. And that didn't seem the act of a fair and loving God. The fate of everyone rested in the hands of chance.

"Guess I'll try and fix this," George mumbled as he turned back to the gate.

Doria cleared her throat. "Where's Nan?" she wondered.

"Helping to set up things in the church basement for the Christmas bazaar." George muttered as he studied the broken latch. "That was some storm. Snapped this right in half."

Doria peered at the useless metal fixture and felt her stomach lurch as the terror all came crowding back into her mind. What if she hadn't caught Murray in time? Suddenly, she felt weary to the bone.

"It'll take me half the night to fix this," George grumbled. "I'll have some of that coffee you're fixing."

Doria sighed. She could use a heavy dose of caffeine herself. Slowly, she walked into the galley. It disturbed her to see the usually comfortable space now cramped and noisy. Children raced around laughing while their mothers huddled together to chat with their babies on their hips, swaying with the gentle movement of the boat. The older people sat around the table.

Doria busied herself making the coffee. Some of the older children came up to her.

"Do you have any lollipops?" they asked.

Doria frowned at them. "I have apple pie," she said. "But only for kids who can be quiet. If you can sit still and not say a word for ten minutes, you can have a piece of pie."

Solemnly, the kids sat down at her feet.

"Like this?" they called out.

"You have to be quiet, too," she reminded them. She set one of her cooking timers on the stove. "When you hear the bell ring, the ten minutes will be up."

The children nodded and pressed their lips firmly together.

Murray appeared at her elbow. "I'm impressed," he whispered into her ear.

Doria's pulse developed a rhythm all its own. Murray poured himself a mug of coffee and went off to talk with his clientele. Doria hung onto the edge of the counter because her knees felt like overcooked spaghetti.

Murray asked the elderly couple to join him in the cabin he had shared with Chad and George.

"When's the bell going to ring?" one of the kids whined, a skinny little girl with bare legs and no socks.

"Soon -- so keep quiet," Doria warned. The little girl complied by holding her breath. Doria's gaze traveled over each of the children. None of them had been dressed properly for the severe cold. They didn't have mittens or gloves. No hats. The jackets they wore had broken zippers or no buttons.

Doria thought of all those clothes she had bought for herself. Some she had worn only once.

"Remember -- keep quiet." She tried to sound strict and severe but the kids nodded enthusiastically and smiled at her.

She hurried to her cabin and tore through the clothes she had brought for the trip. She had lots of socks. She counted out seven pairs. She had two, snug knitted caps and several ear warmers in various shades. Her sweaters would be miles too large for the skinny bodies. She bit her lip and dug in her duffel. She smiled as she drew out two woolen scarves.

Carrying her offerings, she went back to the kids.

"The bell rang," they sang. "When do we get the pie?"

Doria sat down on the floor with them and put her fingers to her lips to hush them. "First, since I was cleaning out my closets," she lied. "I wondered if your mothers would let you have any of this stuff."

"My mom won't mind," declared the little girl with the bare legs.

"It's okay for me, too," stated one boy.

Doria glanced at the mothers but they seemed very wrapped up in their conversations. "I've got one pair of socks for everyone." The kids eagerly held out their hands, begging for their favorite color, but Doria gave the longest pair to the child who obviously needed them most.

"Why don't you put them on right now?" she asked the girl.

"I don't know how." The girl shrugged her meager shoulders.

"I'll help you." As Doria slipped one sock over the icy, tiny toes, she heard the cabin door open. Looking up, she saw Murray staring at her. She found the questioning expression in his raised brows unnerving. She could hardly explain what she was doing in front of the children and their mothers. A furious blush rose to her cheeks and she went back to struggling with the tiny feet and the way-too-big socks.

Naturally, every other child demanded her personal assistance in putting on the socks, so by the time she finished, Murray had taken another patient into his makeshift examining room.

Doria finished handing out her small gifts and then sliced up two pies. After she offered everyone a slice, the galley became very quiet as the children and adults savored each morsel.

In the lull, Doria went back into her cabin to pack up her belongings, including the few odds and ends her father had left for her in the small cabinet. She winced as she thought of the gun resting on the ocean floor. Her dramatic gesture had been unnecessary for she now doubted that Murray would ever shoot anyone. And she probably could have sold the gun.

Her father had saved very little from his lifetime. She found some medals from his stint in the navy in a velvet-lined box. Blue tissue paper cradled the little bride and groom from the top of his wedding cake. In a white, satin-lined case, Doria found the string of pearls and matching earrings that her mother had worn only on special occasions. In addition to her parents' wedding portrait, there was a fat album with photos.

Doria sat down on her bunk with the album and ran her fingers over the embossed gold design on the cover. Her mother had been the photographer in the family, snapping pictures at every special event, making notations on the back of the photos, and then arranging them carefully into the album. Doria knew she would find very few snapshots of her mother.

She took in a ragged breath and opened the cover. On the first page she saw her father, young and handsome in his navy uniform. Next to his picture was her mother's high school graduation portrait. With a shy smile, her mother looked beautiful and innocent. Doria frowned at the photo. It looked like a stranger. She had nearly forgotten how lovely her mother had been. For years, she had been haunted by the ravaged face her mother wore as she suffered from the cruel disease that killed her.

But as Doria turned the pages of the album and saw all the happy times captured by her mother in the snapshots, the warmth of those years flooded her with memories. There had been laughter and joy in the Hanrahan household. Her father always said they had been truly blessed. Yet it seemed to Doria that they simply had luck on their side for a brief period of time. And then their luck ran out.

Toward the end of the album, another photo of her mother appeared. The disease had begun its fatal progression and eaten away at the once sweet face. Doria slammed the album shut. She took a deep breath and set her mouth firmly together. She would not cry.

Quickly, she stashed the album in the bottom of her duffel bag with the rest of her small legacy. She glanced around the austere cabin. The only ornament in the room was a plain crucifix affixed to one wall. She scowled at it and reached up, her hand slid along the surface of the smooth wood. For a moment, she considered taking it with her. She froze as a verse from Matthew filtered into her mind.

He who will not take up his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.

She let her hand drop. She had enough of taking up crosses. Nothing but heartache and misery awaited her on that road.

Then she thought of those young children in the galley with their icy feet and hands. Certainly, she should help out those in need. She had been guilty of selfishness. Now that she had come so close to financial ruin herself, she understood the plight of the less fortunate.

Still, she didn't need a talisman like the cross to take a vow of compassion. The ordinary piece of wood didn't have any power or magic in it.

She shouldered her duffel bag and took once last look at the spartan cabin. She realized that this would probably be the last time she would see the inside of the Merrichase. Suddenly, the tightness in her chest grew.

"You idiot," she chastised herself. "There's no glamour in being a fishermen. Being a chef is a much nicer job."

Her words couldn't take away the awful knowledge that a large part of her childhood was about to be ripped away from her forever. Regrets halted her steps. She couldn't face anyone with the weight dragging on her heart. She sat down on the bunk and fingered the worn, woolen blanket.

"You could be killed on a fishing boat," she mumbled to herself. "You could drown and be lost forever." She closed her eyes in an effort to erase the image of Murray caught in the gate, but she couldn't. The sheer terror of those minutes shook her still. What if he had been sucked away from her by the greedy ocean? What if he had died in her arms?

She whispered through her clenched teeth. "I saved him. We're home and we're safe." Of course, the hold had only been half full and the pumps had worked but that didn't matter now. The Merrichase's luck had held.

Doria took a deep breath and opened her eyes. She stared at the cross on the wall and a surge of guilt swept over her. Had she been her father's cross to bear? A pain stabbed at her heart.

"Hey, Dad," she whispered. "If you can hear me. I'm sorry. Okay. I know I was a brat."

She let out a sob and put her hands over her ears, shaking her head. "You can't hear me. You're dead."

Then she put her head down on her knees and poured out her agony in a stream of tears.

The knock at the door startled her. She dabbed at her face with a soggy, wadded-up tissue.

"Go away," she choked.

Murray came into the cabin anyway. He sat down on the bunk beside her and handed her a box of tissues. She glowered at him.

"Don't you listen?" she spat out, aware that her eyes were undoubtedly puffy and her face splotchy and red. "I don't want to see you. I'm off duty."

"So am I," he said. He pulled out a tissue and wiped her nose. "A couple ear infections, some arthritis, a few stitches removed. No gunshot wounds. No stabbings."

Doria's eyes widened. "You've had those in Port Harbor?"

He let out a mirthless laugh. "No. But in the emergency room at University hospital, it became a nightly ritual."

She saw the shadow of torment cross his face but it vanished so quickly it seemed as much a figment of her own imagination as that brief kiss that had tasted as much like heaven as any culinary creation she had ever whipped up.

"I'm going to help setting up the Christmas bazaar." He pulled out another tissue and patted her damp cheeks. She could barely swallow as his touch sent tingles racing through her. "After I check out your blisters and that burn, would you like to join me?"

Doria fixed her gaze on her hands. She had forgotten her injuries. In all the turmoil, she nearly succeeded in overlooking Christmas, too. She thought of the beautiful sweater she had ordered for her father and grief threatened to rip through her once more. She straightened and took in a ragged breath.

"No. I'm sorry," she answered. "I have some phone calls to make." She heard the snap of a lock opening and noticed that Murray had brought an old-fashioned doctor's bag into the room with him. She had only seen one before in a Norman Rockwell painting.

He picked up one of her hands. "Pam helped to plan the decorations. She's good at stuff like that. The theme is a country Christmas and you can be sure it will be stunning."

His gentle touch miraculously thawed the ache inside her. His nearness made the prospect of joining him at the bazaar seem enticing. But it would be foolish to consider that idea. The most sensible course would be to keep distance between them, though her heart felt differently.

Still, as he bent to his task, she memorized every strand of hair on his head. She could see how his hair had lightened from days spent in the sun. She breathed in the scent of him, a heady mixture of brine and antiseptic soap. She had saved him and she felt truly glad that she had succeeded.

"Last year, Pam made the church basement look like the North Pole. Everyone thought she should have won a prize for her idea," he spoke in a tender manner that did nothing to soothe Doria's speeding pulse. "She forced me to play Santa Claus. I needed four pillows -- according to her."

Doria chuckled at the thought of a well-padded Murray.

He lifted his head and his eyes drew her like a shiny lure. Her heart turned over and she knew that she loved him. Despite everything, he had captured her affection.

"You have a wonderful laugh," he commented. He had an earnest look on his face and Doria suspected he seriously meant what he said.

"Thanks." She felt the heat flame on her cheeks. Nobody had ever complimented her on the sound of her laughter. Ted, the cad, seemed to believe that the act of laughing was terribly unsophisticated.

"Do you have any pictures of yourself wearing the Santa suit?" she asked.

"Yes," he confessed. He lifted her other hand, snipped at the bandage covering the burn and began to unwind it. "Pam wasted a whole roll on me. Come to think of it, in two of the pictures your father is standing beside me."

Doria's breath caught. Naturally, her father would have shared his last Christmas with Murray and everyone at St. Raymond's. She felt sick as she remembered how she had ignored her father. She had worked last Christmas Eve, but she could have driven down the following day to share the holiday with her father and her uncle. Of course, that would have meant going to church, so instead she stayed in her apartment and cleaned it. And now her father was dead. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to keep her hands steady.

"I don't know if the pictures have survived the flooding," he said. "Pam begged me to play Santa again this year, but with the trial..." His voice trailed off and he didn't finish the sentence.

The silence seemed to echo in the room as Doria's emotions swept into a dangerous whirlpool that spun her around and pulled her downward.

With her mountain of debts, she needed a good job, which she would be unlikely to get anywhere near Port Harbor. She knew she could not remain in her hometown. Falling in love with Murray was pure folly. He could be spending the rest of his life in jail. The brief, sweet kiss they had shared had sparked a buoyant sense of hope in her but she realized now that while she had saved Murray from the sea, she would still lose him anyway.

She watched him finish winding a fresh, new bandage on her burn as a black pall settled over her heart.

"Promise me you won't play in any mud puddles?" He chucked her under the chin.

She lowered her eyes and shook her head, unable to manage a smile at his half- hearted attempt to tease her. Feeling like she had shoes filled with lead, she stood up and shouldered her duffel bag.

"Um. Thanks. For the bandage," she mumbled. "And the ride." Goodbye would be impossible to say.

He got to his feet and towered over her. Doria held her breath as she felt the tension crackle in the solemn hush.

"I wasn't fair to you," he began. He put his hands on his hips. "And I'm sorry. Forgive me?"

She looked up into his sea-green eyes and felt the ache in her throat. She merely nodded.

He swept both hands along the side of his head and then fumbled with the leather tie on the ponytail at the nape of his neck. "Let me walk you to the rectory."

The words had all the softness of a caress coming from his lips and Doria shivered. Something extraordinary had happened to her on this trip and she couldn't bear to end it abruptly, however wise that would be.

"Sure." She gave a slight shrug.

He slid the duffel bag off her shoulder and hefted up onto his own broad back.

"I can carry that myself," she objected.

"But there's nothing I enjoy more than carrying a ton of rocks."

There was no mistaking the jesting tone in his voice as he stepped out of the cabin. Doria hurried to catch up with him.

Chapter Twelve

Murray directed the beam of his flashlight along the darkened street. He gave Doria a sidelong glance as she trudged along beside him with her head lowered, her hands in her pockets, and her coat collar up against the icy wind. Though she always fought to appear tough and in control, during the course of their ill-fated journey she had revealed a host of fragile emotions to him. He had discovered a sensitivity in her that he would never have imagined.

He respected her now, and more than ever regretted his original gruff treatment of her. It pained him to think how wrong he had been in his opinion of her. Her ready forgiveness of his unchristian judgment filled him with a sense of remorse. He would like to make it up to her; get to know her better, spend more time staring at her freckles, smooth his hand along her silken cheek, toy with her curly hair, and listen to her tinkling laugh, but with his trial coming up he knew his brief interval of peace in Port Harbor had ended.

He could offer Doria nothing more than apologies and thanks. He had no future and permitting himself to bask in Doria's company wouldn't be fair to her.

Murray wondered if the trip had helped Doria at all. Had she come to terms with her father's death? Or had she sunk into despair? It had taken every ounce of control he possessed not to crush her to him when he discovered her sobbing in the cabin. As they turned the corner onto Port Harbor's main street, Murray stopped in his tracks at the sight that greeted him. The streetlights lining the road blazed cheerfully. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the glare and turned off his flashlight.

"Heat and lights and a hot bath." Reverential awe filled Doria's voice. "And I don't have to cook in the fireplace."

"But this is less than half of Port Harbor," he grumbled. "What about Pam and Rich and their neighbors?"

"That section was totally inundated." She gave a deep sigh.

He kicked at a stone in his path and sent it rolling halfway down the block.

"I'd like to help them repair the damage to their house before..." He stopped. He still hated to say it out loud.

He had so very little time left. St. Raymond's green spire, bathed in floodlights, glowed in the distance above the surrounding treetops. A headache lurked behind his eyes as he faced the fact that he and Doria had come to the end of their road together. From this point on, they would go their separate ways. It had to be, but he didn't like it. He had barely begun to appreciate her finer qualities and he didn't want to let her go, yet.

"So -- what are your plans?" he asked tentatively.

"I don't know." Her curt answer hardly satisfied him.

"Are you going back to New York City?" The thought of her alone and unprotected in that bulging metropolis sent a dull ache throbbing in his chest.

She surprised him with a bitter laugh. "I hate that place."

"Really?" Hope shot through him. "Because of Ted?"

"No." She stopped walking and turned towards him. "Do you want to know why I finally left?"

He nodded, though he felt the tension knot in his stomach. He shouldn't allow himself to dream, but he knew that's exactly what he wanted to do, that and plan for a future.

"One day when I went out shopping, on a crowded sidewalk, some nut singled me out of all those hordes of people, grabbed me, held a gun to my head and demanded my money, credit cards, necklace, watch...and whatever." She lifted her brows. "Actually, I don't remember exactly what he said. I saw my brief life flash before me and was positive that before he shot me, he fully intended to break every one of my ribs."

It felt like a cold knife stabbed at Murray's heart. Now he understood why she had to get rid of the gun on the Merrichase. He clenched his hands into hard fists.

She took a deep breath and let it out. A heavy cloud of vapor misted in the icy air. "A crowd of people gawked at the whole episode and did nothing. I swear some of them wanted him to shoot me." Her voice trembled slightly before she continued.

"One man threw his attaché case at the guy. Lucky for me, the gun did not go off. The maniac dropped the gun and took off." She bit down on her quivering lip.

"Did the police catch him?"

She shook her head and lowered her gaze. "From that point on, I saw him around every corner, coming out of every subway station -- "

Her voice broke and she swung around to walk quickly away from him.

Shocked at the story and its unhappy conclusion, Murray stood stunned for a moment before he went after her. He caught up to her just as she stumbled on an uneven piece of concrete. Grabbing her elbow to steady her, he noticed that she didn't have any gloves on her hands.

"It's twenty degrees out here with a wind-chill that makes it feel like twelve and you forgot your gloves?" he thundered.

She sniffed and yanked her elbow out of his grasp. "Thanks for the weather report." She shoved her hands into her pockets.

"Don't you know what can happen to your skin in this cold?" he growled.

She simply stared up at him, her eyes mournful chocolate velvet in the harsh light of the streetlights.

Suddenly, he knew what had happened to her gloves. She had given them away to those poverty-stricken kids. His headache bloomed into a blinding torment. He felt like a fool. He should have known that Ed Hanrahan's daughter must have inherited a great deal of her father's generosity.

If she had only told him in the beginning about the gun, he would have understood. He winced. But how could she, after the way he had treated her?

Oh, Lord, he prayed. Isn't there some way I can help her?

"I'm sorry," he began in a conciliatory tone. "But there are many injuries that can be prevented."

"I know when my fingers are cold."

He watched her teeth chatter as a blast of wind tore at her hair. Without a moment's hesitation, he pulled her up against his chest.

"You are an icicle." He rubbed her back. She sank against him.

"It's just that my face is frozen," she mumbled.

He pulled off his gloves and pressed his warm hands against her cheeks. "Better?"

She nodded. He stared at her lips, nearly blue from the cold, and knew that nothing could stop him from kissing her again. He smothered her mouth with his and found the same sweetness that had sent his senses reeling the first time. He could barely tear himself away.

"You shouldn't do that," she whispered in a shaky voice.

He hugged her and buried his face in her curls. "I wish -- " He stopped. What could he say? He wanted a life and he didn't have one.

They broke apart, but Murray couldn't stand to see her shiver so he put his arm around her until they reached St. Raymond's parking lot.

"Look at that classy car over there." Doria pointed to a sleek, black sedan. "Do you suppose Uncle Walter has important company?"

"It's not the typical Port Harbor resident's vehicle," he admitted. "But maybe some wealthy shopper decided to have a sneak preview of St. Raymond's bazaar."

Before Murray rang the doorbell, Pam swung open the door and flew at Murray with a whoop of joy.

"We can go back to the house tomorrow!" She pulled Murray's shoulders down so she could give him a noisy kiss on the cheek. In her exuberance, she whirled around and embraced Doria, as well.

"You both look wonderful! I had no idea that you, Doria -- " Tears glistened in Pam's eyes. "Well, of course, thanks isn't enough. But it's all we can say." She gave Doria a loud smack on the cheek. "You're frozen, poor thing!" Pam grabbed Doria and pulled her inside.

Murray followed them as a ripple of anger spread through him. Obviously somebody spread the word about the mishap with the gate. He clenched his jaw.

"Rich is here. They let him out today," Pam chattered, barely pausing for a breath. "We got a call from Chad and he's feeling better. His mom took a bus down to Virginia today. Theresa -- cross my heart -- is smiling already, and Jason really adores her. You've got to see this."

Father Zaleski came bustling out of his office at that moment and wrapped Doria in a bear hug.

"I knew Jesus would watch over you." The priest sniffed.

Murray slid Doria's duffel bag off his shoulder and set it on the floor. "Who called you?"

"Well, George called Nan, of course," Pam went on. "And I had to peek in and see how things were going at the bazaar. Naturally, I could hardly believe what Nan told me but here you are, safe and sound. If anything had happened -- "

She took in a ragged breath. "I thanked the Lord. It upset me so much. Even little Theresa starting fussing and that's not like her, she's such a good baby..."

Murray stopped listening to his sister's prattle when he saw Doria slip into her uncle's office. He started to follow her when he felt Pam tug at his arm.

"You'll help us with the house tomorrow, won't you?" she begged. "Rich still isn't quite himself."

"Sure, sis, but make me a promise," he scowled at her.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

Murray pressed his lips together, knowing he was about to risk Pam's ire.

"Nearly drowning on the Merrichase was bad, but having the news spread all over town that Doria heroically saved my life is a bit more than I can stand," he spoke softly, for her ears only.

"Chauvinist." Pam glared at him.

He put up his hands and nodded. "I admit it, but keep it under your hat, will you?"

"She deserves a ticker tape parade." Pam glowered.

"Ticker tape is a rare commodity in Port Harbor," he tossed back.

Pam flicked her hair over her shoulder. "She's the most wonderful woman -- "

A crash sounded from Father Zaleski's office. And then another, even louder as something shattered.

"Yep. Wonderful," Murray muttered. He and Pam rushed into the office where they saw Doria standing next to the fireplace holding a cardboard box.

Pam whispered in Murray's ear. "That's the box that Ted left for her."

Murray nodded and grinned wide. Obviously, Ted had not presented Doria with an engagement ring.

Doria reached in and took out a musical compact disk. Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at the title of the recording.

"I hate jazz -- and he knows it." She pitched the CD into the grate with as much force as she could. It melted in the fire.

"I don't think that's good for the environment," Father Zaleski stated calmly as he sat at his desk, watching her. "I believe plastic emits toxic fumes when it's burned."

Murray folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the bookcase. He enjoyed seeing the high color in Doria's cheeks and the fire in her eyes.

Pam tapped him on the shoulder and sighed. "This looks like it may take a while. I'll be with my gang if you need me. We've been camping out in the sun room."

Murray saluted her as she left the office.

Doria threw another plastic disk into the roaring flames. "I thought maybe he had a little decency. But no! He gives me polkas! I bet he got them from the blond in the upstairs apartment."

The office filled with an acrid stench. Murray watched Doria wrinkle up her nose. He opened the windows. "Your uncle is correct about the fumes," he said. "You could asphyxiate us all."

Doria stamped her foot. "All right. I'll smash them all with a hammer into little, bitty pieces."

"We'll be holding a rummage sale in March," Father Zaleski suggested as he made notations in his calendar. "I'm sure some of our parishioners would enjoy that music."

"I bet those kids you befriended today would be ecstatic if you gave them those CD's," Murray said.

Doria's brow clouded. "They probably do not have CD players." She slumped down in a chair by her uncle's desk with the box in her lap.

"I'll give them the one I have and they can share it," Murray offered. "May I look through the CD's?"

Doria shrugged and handed him the box. Murray riffled though the box. The music collection covered the entire spectrum.

"Hmmm. Beatles?" he noted.

"I bet that one belonged to Suzanne," Doria hissed. "A chamber maid."

"Bloodspill?" he blinked. "I never heard of that one."

"Nobody has. They come from the same tiny town as Willow, the well-endowed night desk clerk," Doria drawled. "She is so stupid."

"That's a rather uncharitable statement," the priest commented as he continued flipping through his calendar.

"Well, why did he give all of these CD's to me?" she asked.

Father Zaleski took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked infinitely older than he had only a few days ago, and Murray didn't like that. He knew that the priest would never admit to feeling under the weather.

Father Zaleski sighed. "He thought they belonged to you. He knew you lent him some CD's and he assumed that by returning them you wouldn't be mad at him anymore. He didn't seem to understand exactly what caused the rift between you."

"He knew very well!" Doria protested. "Besides, I loaned him good stuff; Bach, Mozart, and Chopin."

Murray raised his eyebrows. "Classical?" Every moment with Doria contained a surprise. He thumbed through the box. "Odd that he didn't include those."

"He probably kept them for romantic background music to accompany his sordid little trysts." She pounded her fist on the arm of the chair. "Go ahead and say it!"

"What?" Murray and Father Zaleski asked in unison.

Doria stood up. "Dad was right!" Then she rushed out of the room.

Murray put the box down on the desk and started after her but Father Zaleski stayed him with his hand.

"Let her go," the priest sighed. "I know it's difficult to understand but this is progress for her. I can see the change. I'm sure this last ride on the Merrichase made all the difference."

Murray shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at the floor. As far as he could tell, Doria appeared to be turning into an emotional disaster area. His shoulders drooped with the weight of his own guilt resting heavily upon him. He had contributed to her unhappy state by the callous way he had treated her at first.

"That was our worst trip out." The words tasted bitter in his mouth.

Father Zaleski nodded, his features tight with strain. "Jesus brought you home. Trust him." Then he lifted up a small case.

"I have a few rounds to make," the priest explained. "I probably won't be back until late."

Murray recalled all the crazy shifts he had worked as an intern. "I never saw the parallels between my profession and yours until now."

The priest's steps moved heavily to the door. "I heal souls; you heal bodies. We could make a great team." His face brightened suddenly and all the weariness faded away. "I'll ask Jesus if he could work that out."

Murray rubbed at the fatigue in his eyes. "If I'm acquitted."

"I've already prayed for that." The priest patted him on the back. "Give your worries to Jesus -- He'll be up all night anyway."

Murray stood in the doorway watching Father Zaleski hurry to his car in the bitter night. He wished he had as much faith as Doria's uncle or her father. Or even Chad. But he didn't.

Somehow, Murray could never simply hand over all his worries to the Lord. He felt compelled to hold onto his difficulties in life and try to fix them, even though, so far, he had been unable to repair anything on his own.

He couldn't prove he hadn't killed Kelly Morris. He couldn't save himself when he was caught in the gate. And he couldn't help Doria with her emotional pain. The blustery wind whistled through the doorway and seemed to whisper the words of St. Paul to him. Love never fails.

Yes, he could love her. The sting of the weather sent shivers up his spine. The cold slap of a frigid gust brought him to his senses. He shut the door.

No! He could never allow himself to love her. He was destined for jail or worse. Then what would happen to her? She had lost her mother, her father, the Merrichase...

He frowned. Did she really love that old boat? There had been several moments during their voyage when she seemed completely overcome by nostalgia. But she couldn't possibly want to keep the ship. Fishermen had a hard and dangerous life. Besides, she was a chef.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Then he opened them and noted the time on his watch. He had promised to help in setting up the bazaar. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door again and went outside. Striding across the parking lot, his feet slid on a section of black ice. Regaining his balance, he stopped and glanced back at the rectory for a moment. Someone had turned on the lights in the kitchen of the priest's home.

Could it be Doria or Pam fixing a late supper? He hesitated. What if it was Doria? Should he go to her? But what comfort could he give? The thought of her lips on his sent warmth flooding through his veins. Trying to offer solace to Doria would be as treacherous as skidding on a frozen puddle. In a few short days, he had begun to care for her. And nothing could be more perilous.

He turned and headed forward to the church, taking in a great breath of the frozen air that stung his nostrils like the sharp blade of a scalpel. It helped to remind him that he had very little time left.

Doria refused to compromise on the use of butter in her recipes. Nothing could ever replace the creamy flavor of the real thing and she didn't care at all what people said about cholesterol and calories. She adjusted the heat under the pan on the stove and thoughtfully stirred the butter and flour together.

She glanced around the kitchen of the rectory. The plain, wooden cabinets set off by the stainless steel of the stove and sink lent it an eclectic appearance. The almond dishwasher, the white refrigerator, and the Formica-topped table all came from different eras. Yet, the sight soothed her turbulent soul. It was cozy and familiar. Here, nothing ever changed. Everything stayed in the same place. Wearing her faded jeans and shabby slippers, she felt comforted by a deep sense of belonging.

She measured out the broth and poured it into the pan. Then she whisked the roux vigorously. When it appeared thickened, her fingers danced over the row of spices beside her. Basil? Curry? Sage? Yes, sage. To be wise. This particular meal was only an experiment anyway. Something to keep her mind off Ted, the cad.

She added the sage and whirled the spoon around the pan. Ted had never loved her and she had never loved him. They had worked together and had shared a few laughs. But they had disagreed on everything from their political persuasions to the best way to eat an ice cream cone. Whenever they went out together, Doria couldn't help noticing how every pretty head that went by caught his attention.

Ted didn't kiss her like Murray did. Murray kissed her like he meant it.

She swallowed hard and stared down blankly at the roux. Turning off the heat, she dipped the spoon into her concoction, tasted it and made a face. Too much sage, not enough salt. She lifted up the pan and placed it in the sink. Then she ran cold water on it. The satisfying hiss of the steam fogged up the window.

"Hey! Anything burning?"

Pam's voice calling from the hallway startled Doria.

"Uh, no." Doria grabbed the steel wool pad and scrubbed at the pan in the sink. "I wanted to try something different but I guess it won't work out."

Pam came up beside her carrying Theresa who sounded more like a kitten than a baby to Doria.

"Are you hungry?" Pam asked, while the baby continued with its odd mewing.

"I think what I really want is a grilled cheese sandwich," Doria decided.

"Comfort food?" Pam questioned.

Doria took in a ragged breath and shrugged. "Yes. It was my mother's specialty." She rinsed the pan and set it in the rack to dry.

Pam jostled the baby onto her shoulder. "My idea of comfort food is a big plate of pasta, but I'll just have a glass of milk now. It's feeding time again."

"I'll get it for you," Doria offered as she dried her hands.

"Thanks." Pam sat down at the table. "Do you mind if I nurse Theresa here? Rich and Jason are sound asleep."

Doria really didn't want to share the kitchen at that point when it seemed the only sanctuary she had left. Still, she reached into the cabinet for a glass. "Will you be comfortable?"

"This chair has arms," Pam pointed out. While Doria poured the milk, Pam settled back and pressed Theresa to her breast. The mewing, frantic, squirming bundle latched on and Pam let out a sigh. "We'll have peace for a few minutes, now."

Warning bells went off in Doria's mind. Why did they need peace unless Pam had something to say to her? Had her tantrum disturbed Pam's children and husband? Doria's heart sank. She hadn't meant to be so impulsive, but she had never, ever thought Ted would leave her a box of CD's that belonged to all his other girlfriends.

"I'm sorry about the way I carried on before..." Doria placed the glass of milk in front of Pam. "But I just couldn't believe Ted was so dense."

Pam laughed. "Men can be like that at times. They don't seem able to catch the nuances. You have to tell them straight out or they won't understand."

At that moment, the phone rang. Doria hurried to pick it up on the extension.

"St. Raymond's Rectory. May I help you?" Doria said. On the other end, she heard only silence. She tried again. "St. Raymond's. Do you need to speak with Father Zaleski? Would you like to leave a message?"

The steady, electric hum continued but nobody replied to her questions.

"I'm sorry I can't help you. Goodbye." Doria hung up and turned back to Pam but it appeared as if the young mother had the weight of the world upon her now. Her eyes stared darkly at the table and her brow had become creased with deep furrows.

"That happened three times a day while you were gone," Pam explained. "Your uncle doesn't seem to worry about it, but it's giving me the creeps. I picked up the phone twice when that particular call came in and I was sure I heard someone breathing on the other end."

That news sent a shiver along Doria's spine. Nobody had told her about any harassing phone calls, but then, she hadn't known about her father's illness, either. If only she had come home to visit...

"I told your uncle to have the calls traced, but he won't do it." Pam put her hand on her forehead. "These days you can never tell what some crazy guy is going to do."

Doria felt the catch in her throat. One insane man with a gun on the street in New York City had taught her that you can't be too careful. "I'll call the phone company."

"Thanks." Pam's worried look did not disappear. She smoothed the downy hair on Theresa's head. Then she cleared her throat. "By the way, tomorrow we're going back to the house -- but I'm supposed to be taking it easy -- "

Anxiety tightened all of Doria's nerves. A marked silence hung in the air as she gathered the fixings for her sandwich. She couldn't help Pam fix up her house. Aside from the fact that Murray would be there, Doria had to line up some interviews and send out resumes.

"I just need someone to watch Jason for a few hours.I thought maybe..."

"I don't know a thing about kids." Doria stated quickly as she slapped several slices of cheese down on some whole wheat bread. "Would you like a sandwich?"

Pam shook her head. Doria ripped one slice of cheese in half and bit into it. The familiar smooth, bland taste brought back a host of memories about simple suppers she and her mother had shared.

"If you could just walk around the block with him a few times and push him on the swings in the playground. He's a busy, little guy and I -- " Pam sniffed and lowered her head. Doria stopped chewing the creamy slice of cheese in her mouth. It didn't taste so wonderful anymore. She heard the despair in Pam's voice.

"The stitches are still bothering me and Theresa keeps me up all night -- " Pam broke down and sobbed. "Rich is still weak and who knows how bad the house is going to be but I want to go home."

Doria's own throat tightened as Pam's tears fell on her baby's tiny head. Really, what were a few hours? Surely, she could handle a little kid for a short while. Doria grabbed a box of tissues from the counter and handed them to Pam. Then she sat down beside Pam at the table.

"Could you write out some instructions about how to take care of Jason?" Doria asked. "Like step-by-step."

Pam nodded as she wiped her eyes. "You'll never know how much I appreciate this and Jason's really sweet -- honest. He gets along with everybody and he won't give you any trouble at all.

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning as Doria slid her bran muffins out of the oven, she closed her eyes for a moment to breathe in the rich aroma of the bread. Still, the sweet fragrance did little to lift her spirits, though baking was usually such a balm for her soul. Shrugging, she opened her eyes and set the muffin tin on a rack to cool. Perhaps when she slathered the muffins with butter and shared them with her uncle or Pam she would be cheered at the sight of everyone eating, right down to the last crumb.

No. Nothing would take the heaviness from her shoulders today. She found a worn tea towel and placed it in a basket. Then she tucked the muffins into the basket and covered them to keep them warm. She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 7:45 a.m. and her uncle should be walking through the kitchen door any minute. She couldn't see through the windows. Despite the way the heat from the oven had warmed up every corner of the kitchen, a thick, fancy coating of frost had etched the glass during the night.

Doria had stayed up late reading an old book on childcare she had found in her uncle's office. From what she had read, taking care of children didn't have to be difficult -- it apparently involved a lot of common sense, something Doria felt confident she possessed in abundant quantities. According to the author, if she could remain consistent and fair, handling Jason for a few hours might actually be fun -- sort of. Anyhow, she had committed herself to helping Pam, and she never backed out on a promise.

Later in the day, she intended to check out the consignment shop in Baytown and see if they had sold any of her clothes. Then, she would spend the rest of the day networking to see where she could get a job.

A sharp stab of pain pierced her at the idea of leaving Port Harbor. Despite everything, she had fallen hard for Murray and she knew that this time when she drove over the bridge, a large chunk of her heart would remain in her hometown.

Still, she needed money to pay her debts and she couldn't get a high-paying position anywhere in the area. Besides, Murray had to stand trial and would undoubtedly spend the rest of his life in jail. So it would be better for her to leave soon -- before Murray had another chance to kiss her and wrap her completely in his spell.

Sighing, she poured coffee into a mug and sat down. She picked up a pen and jotted down a list of well-known and highly rated restaurants, all in New York City. She swallowed hard as she thought of the gun pressed hard against her temple and the crazed, hate-filled words that spewed from the mouth of the man who had held her so tightly she could barely breathe.

Did she really want to go back there?

With vicious slashes, she crossed out every name on her list. Clenching her teeth, she wrote down the names of other restaurants, a few in Atlantic City, three in northern New Jersey, and one mentioned to her years ago that happened to be in the Catskills. Five star restaurants, all of them.

She stared at her list blindly as she realized that no matter where she wound up this time, she would never find peace. She would be expecting a maniac to jump out at her from behind every tree and jam a gun up against her head. She felt safe in Port Harbor because she knew almost everyone. And if she hadn't met somebody new in town, Uncle Walter certainly would have.

Idly, she added a heart at the bottom of the page. Inside the heart, she printed her initials with those of Murray. She swirled in a scalloped border around the heart. The ache inside her swelled and she drew an arrow piercing straight through the valentine.

The phone rang, ending her unhappy musings.

Doria picked up the receiver. "St. Raymond's rectory. May I help you?"

Nobody replied, but Doria heard the sound of somebody breathing heavily on the other end of the line. Goose bumps rose up on her skin. Who was this? Why was he targeting St. Raymond's church?

Then her blood chilled. Could this call be meant to frighten only her? That thought robbed her of breath and nearly immobilized her. But almost as quickly, a spark of anger flared up inside her. She couldn't let some lunatic ruin her life! She would not let him get away with it. He would be punished.

Strengthened with new resolve, she gently laid the phone on the counter and tiptoed into her uncle's office to get out the local directory. Flipping through the pages, she found the instructions for harassing calls. She lifted the receiver in the office and heard the raspy breathing of the caller. He had stayed on the line.

"I am going to have this call traced," Doria said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "We cannot have you annoying us anymore."

Unexpectedly, the man swore at her in language so shocking that she nearly dropped the phone. Recovering quickly, however, she got a firm grip on the receiver and slammed it back into its cradle.

Then, with her heart pounding, she raced back into the kitchen to hang up that phone as well. The experience had caused her hands to shake uncontrollably. She clasped them together and tried to rub the warmth back into her pale fingers. Inhaling deeply in an attempt to steady her nerves, she went back into the office and punched in the number to trace the call.

Still feeling unsteady, she walked toward the kitchen just as she heard the back door open. The rumble of voices announced the return of Uncle Walter, Murray, Nan, and George. Doria nearly groaned aloud. She wrapped her arms around herself to control her quaking limbs and drew in a ragged breath. She didn't want them to see her so shaken. Still, she had to convince Uncle Walter that action needed to be taken against the caller.

As she strolled into the kitchen, she saw Uncle Walter holding his scanner to his ear. "Did you hear that?" he asked the others. "Someone was doing seventy on Bay Avenue."

"They do that all the time," George commented while lifting the corner of the tea towel.

"What? Fly low?" Murray chuckled. Everyone laughed except Doria. She tried to lean nonchalantly against the counter.

George grabbed a muffin. "Hmmm. They're hot."

"They smell heavenly!" A look of wonder crossed Nan's face. "Are they from scratch?" Nan reached into the basket and took a muffin.

Doria nodded and tried to paste on a smile.

"Take more than three and you'll be in trouble," Murray teased. He shot Doria a melting look.

She watched the smile on his lips stiffen while furrows settled into his brow. Quickly, she averted her gaze to the floor. Could he read her emotions that easily? She knew it would be all too easy to lay her head against his chest until her fear faded away. But she would still have to leave him, and relying on him now would only make the parting more painful.

She had forgotten that her Uncle Walter had a knack for gauging misery, too. He turned off the scanner and laid it on the counter beside her.

"What's happened?" her uncle asked in a no-nonsense tone.

Doria steeled herself. "I-I had a call traced." Her voice wavered. "Pam told me an anonymous caller phoned three times a day while we were out at sea after I picked up one of his calls last night." She gripped the counter and lifted her head, making an effort to continue on in a more forceful manner. "It isn't right. He could be some kind of stalker or something. He just phoned again a few minutes ago. At first, I could only hear him breathing -- "

"A garden variety sicko," George mumbled with his mouth full of muffin. "They get their jollies frightening women."

"He didn't frighten me," Doria stated sharply.

"Of course not. Sit down, dear." Uncle Walter nudged her along toward a chair.

She pulled away from him. "You've got to understand -- "

"You're panic stricken," Murray broke in. "Sit." He pressed her firmly into the chair. Suddenly, all the starch holding her together seemed to dissolve and she felt as if she had turned into a rag doll. She didn't think she would be able to get up again.

"Those calls have been getting more frequent," Uncle Walter admitted. "It is annoying."

"It's more than that!" Doria blurted out. "What he's doing is illegal, Uncle Walter. You've got to press charges."

"Now, now dear. What did this anonymous caller say to you?" Uncle Walter asked as he patted her shoulder. Nan set a fresh mug of hot coffee in front of her.

Doria blinked. "I can't repeat what he said. It was all vile and disgusting."

"I must have gotten that same caller several times and he never said a word to me." Murray strode back and forth across the kitchen floor.

"He didn't say anything to me either until I told him I would have the call traced," Doria explained. "Then, he let loose with a verbal barrage -- "

"You can tell us," Nan reassured Doria as she sat down next to her and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "We've all heard that sort of thing."

Doria found a small reserve of strength and straightened her spine. "What he said doesn't matter. He has to be stopped. He has to be punished so he won't do the same thing to other people."

"Did he threaten you?" Murray asked with an icy edge in his tone.

Doria swallowed hard as she noticed the way he held his fists. She had seen the gentle, caring side of him and shoved her doubts about him to the back of her mind. But now, with fury clouding his eyes, fear swamped her. She stared at his clenched jaw and the thin, white line of his lips. Could he slip into another personality, a brutal one that let rage overwhelm him? Had Murray killed Kelly Morris? Had he coerced her father into giving up the Merrichase?

"Sip some coffee," Nan urged, holding the cup up to Doria's lips.

Doria slid her fingers around the cup. The heat from the cup seeped into her numb fingers. She managed to swallow a little of the brew but she felt as if her chest had constricted and she couldn't get enough air.

Murray slammed his fist down on the table and startled everyone. "What did he say?" he roared.

"You don't need to be inventive to figure it out," George grumbled and then proceeded to shock them all by rattling off a string of obscenities. "Right?" he asked.

Doria felt the hot stain on her cheeks and nodded slowly.

George grabbed another muffin. "Like I said, garden variety sicko. But you wouldn't want him to do that to some little kid."

"True." Uncle Walter took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I guess I should get to the bottom of this." He shuffled off toward his office.

Doria's shoulders sagged. She realized that some of the harassing caller's verbal darts had actually hit home; he had called her greedy and selfish. The ache in her throat grew as fright prickled along the back of her neck. Though the accusations had come from the filthy mouth of a stranger, she knew they were true.

Guided by greed and pride, she had committed innumerable foolish mistakes in her life. Abandoning her father. Thinking Ted loved her. Hoping to cash in on the Merrichase. Falling in love with a murderer. What was wrong with her?

She needed someone to guide her, someone who could help her choose the right course. She didn't want to deal with any more storms in her future.

Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of everlasting life. The words of Peter from the gospel of John rushed into her mind but she quickly dismissed them. She needed help right here and now from some logical person who had been through similar difficulties. The Lord hadn't given her a single answer to any of her problems and she didn't expect Him to do so -- ever.

"George and I are going to help fix up Pam and Rich's house." Nan swept the crumbs from the table. "Why don't you come along?"

"I've already promised to watch Jason," Doria said dully.

"Jason? You?" Murray rumbled.

Doria narrowed her eyes and glared at him. "Yes. For a few hours."

"That's wonderful!" Nan exclaimed. "Jason's precious. You'll enjoy every minute."

"No, she can't do it," Murray insisted. "She doesn't know how to change a diaper."

"I do, too!" Doria suddenly found the strength to stand up. "I read all about it."

"Managing the job on a squirmy little kid is a lot different than following a bulleted list on the topic," Murray boomed right in her face. "I saw you handle those kids on the boat, but Jason is a baby, and you don't know a thing about babies."

"She's only watching the kid for a few hours, maybe she'll be lucky and the kid's diaper will stay dry," George commented as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

"She saved your life," Nan reminded. "I'm sure you can trust her with Jason for a few hours."

"She left her post and nearly drowned herself!" Murray burst out.

"It's a good thing she disobeyed your orders." George sipped his coffee. "Otherwise, we'd be going to a wake this afternoon."

Doria felt the blood drain from her face. She looked at Murray and pictured him laid out in a coffin with his hands folded in perfect repose. She covered her eyes to try and wipe the ghastly idea away. Shuddering, she took her hand away from her eyes and watched as Murray stamped out of the kitchen.

"He's not quite himself," Nan offered with a sigh. "Perhaps, the lack of oxygen when he nearly drowned -- "

"Nah," George interrupted. "It's something even worse."

Doria frowned as she thought she detected a flicker of amusement pass between Nan and George. But it was gone so quickly that Doria questioned whether it had really happened. She shook her head. Ever since that lunatic had jammed a gun up against her head, she seemed to have a tendency to see phantoms that didn't exist.

She sat down again and picked up a muffin. "I know how to play 'Ring-around-the Rosie' and I can imitate all the voices for the 'Three Little Pigs'."

"Jason will be delighted," Nan reassured her.

"Forty-three!" Doria proclaimed as she put The Greatest Story Ever Told back on the shelf for the seventh time. She had begun to wonder if Jason's future included becoming an accountant or a book editor. She decided he was certainly prepared for either profession.

Doria hadn't yet played "Ring-Around-The Rosie" or tried out her rendition of the "Three Pigs" on the child. All Jason wanted to do was take the books off the shelf in her uncle's office, over and over. She had decided to count them as she put them back on the shelf. Hopefully, the kid could at least learn to say his numbers while continuing with his boring, repetitious activity.

"Da-da?" Jason looked up at Doria with his big round eyes and stuck his thumb in his mouth. Doria's heart twisted. The tyke looked so cute that she wanted to hug him.

"Your daddy's sleeping," Doria reminded the child. Rich hadn't conquered pneumonia yet. He remained in the sunroom with orders from Murray to rest. "Daddy's still sick."

"Thick," Jason agreed with his thumb in his mouth. He sniffed and for a panic- stricken moment, Doria thought he would cry.

"Hey -- how about a cookie?" Doria smiled brightly. "I know you like cookies."

"Cookie?" Jason took off at full speed toward the kitchen, leaving Doria to scurry after him. For such a small kid, he could move incredibly fast.

She caught up to him as he pushed a kitchen chair toward the counter. Obviously, he knew exactly where to find the cookies. When he climbed up on the seat of the chair, she scooped him into her arms.

"I'll get the cookies," she said. "I don't want you falling and hurting yourself while I'm watching you."

Jason started squirming frantically. "Cookies! Cookies!" he yelled.

"Okay, already." Doria struggled to hold him while she reached into the cabinet. The moment she pulled out the bag of cookies, Jason lurched toward it. Unprepared for his sudden lunge, Doria fumbled to prevent him from falling. She dropped the bag when Jason's very solid head slammed into her mouth.

Doria moaned as her teeth cut into her lip. She squeezed her eyes shut while she sank to the floor, still clinging to the wildly thrashing child. Dazed and tasting blood, she dared to open her eyes after a moment and saw that the bag of cookies lay on the floor. She released Jason. He grabbed the bag, ripped it open and snatched up two cookies -- one in each hand.

"Jason! You hurt Doria!" Rich's voice sounded from somewhere above Doria's head. She saw Jason twitch and turn his head up to look at his father. Then, before Doria realized what the kid had in mind, he took the cookie in his left hand and jammed it into her mouth.

"Cookie?" Jason said. Doria saw stars as a new shaft of pain shot through her lip. Rich went into a coughing spasm and collapsed on one of the kitchen chairs.

Doria spat out the cookie and hauled herself off the floor to check on Rich.

"All you all right?" she asked. But her words didn't come out quite right. Her lips felt thick and numb.

"Run cold water on your mouth," Rich wheezed.

Nodding, Doria went over to the sink. The amount of blood swirling down the drain shocked her. With shaky fingers, she felt for her teeth. Fortunately, she hadn't lost any of them.

"Maybe ice?" Rich suggested, after he had cleared his throat.

Doria nodded. She grabbed a paper towel, pressed it to her mouth, and pulled a few ice cubes from the freezer.

"Kid's getting spoiled by all the attention." Rich coughed.

"Maybe he's growing or something," Doria mumbled through her swollen lip. "He acted like he was starving."

"He's never hungry for peas or carrots," Rich noted.

"I bet he'd gobble up my honeyed carrots." Doria sat down at the table and eased the ice against her lips.

"I've heard more than enough already about your cooking," Rich grumbled. "I don't want to hear any more."

Doria winced. She had only just met Jason's father and already he hated her. "I don't want your job. I'm leaving town."

"Da-da, juice?" Jason interrupted. "Juuuuuuuice!" he bellowed.

Doria sighed. For a little kid, Jason had a magnificent pair of lungs.

"Hey, what's the magic word?" Rich's face turned into a stern mask.

Jason's lips turned down and began to tremble. Doria's heart squeezed at the fear she saw in the toddler's face. It didn't matter that he had hurt her. He really didn't understand.

"Say please," she prompted.

"Peas," Jason responded.

Rich rolled his eyes. "The kid's never going to learn with all you women hovering over him."

Doria got up to get the juice from the refrigerator. Pam had left it there in a special cup for Jason to use.

"Would ya get me some of that juice, too?" Rich asked.

Doria glared at him. Sick or not, he wasn't setting a shining example for his son. "What's the magic word?" she asked.

"Peas!" Jason called.

Rich scowled at Doria. "Please. Okay. You made your point."

Doria sighed. Rich had plenty of reasons to be in a foul mood, but he didn't have to take it out on her. She poured a glass of juice for him and handed Jason the special cup.

Jason grabbed the handles of the cup and guzzled his juice down in one long swallow. Rich opened up a vial, took out a few pills, and popped them in his mouth. Then, he took a big gulp of juice.

Doria pressed the ice to her fat lip again and sucked on the melting cubes. She glanced at the clock. She had at least another hour to go. Why did time always pass so painfully slow whenever she wanted it to fly by? She had a million things to do.

"Ya gotta understand." Rich hung his head. "I don't mean to chase you out of town. It's just that wherever I turn I hear about you. Everyone was happy with my cooking until you came along and then you go and save Murray's life

-- "

"Should I have let him drown?" Doria glared at him.

"You know that's not what I meant," he retorted. He went into another coughing spasm until his face reddened. Doria had no idea what she could do to help him. She set a box of tissues in front of him. He grabbed a handful and covered his mouth. Finally, his hacking subsided.

"That was the worst trip I have ever had on the Merrichase," Doria said. She stared at Rich, who sat with his shoulders slumped, and listened to his raspy, labored breathing. His eyes watered. The color had drained from his face, leaving it ashen in appearance.

"Truthfully, I would have traded places with you in a heartbeat," she commented.

"Yeah. Well. With that storm in the forecast, Murray should have stayed home," Rich groused.

"I warned him," Doria explained. "But his head is as hard as a deck plate."

Amusement lit up Rich's glazed eyes. "Yeah. I can remember your father saying once to Murray, 'Don't bother using the hammer on the winch controls, just bang it with your head!'"

Doria blinked. "Gee. Dad must have been awfully mad."

"Yeah." Rich chuckled and then winced, clutching at his chest, as if the effort to laugh had hurt him. "Murray's my brother-in-law, but I'd be the first to admit that if I had been the captain, I would never have chosen him to be a member of my crew."

"Why did Dad pick him then?" Doria asked. "Just as his private physician?"

"No," Rich answered. "That was before anybody knew of your father's illness."

"But he knew Murray was a doctor," Doria pressed.

"Sure." Rich's face sobered. "But at that point, Murray wasn't capable of taking care of anybody. He was still in shock, like some sort of zombie with all the blood drained out of him. I think your father felt sorry for him."

Doria shivered. She could not imagine Murray as a hollow-eyed shell of a man.

"Murray didn't know the first thing about fishing," Rich said. "But being out on the water helped him. Everyone could see the change, like it got the blood pumping through his heart again."

Doria couldn't picture Murray as anything but the vital, perpetual-motion man who softened her with unfailing kindness one minute and barked at her the next.

"Being out in the fresh air probably did him a lot of good." Rich's face soured. "I probably never would have gotten sick if I hadn't spent all that time at the job fair in the convention center. All those people coughing -- "

"You're going to quit fishing?" Doria interrupted.

"Murray's going to sell the Merrichase and Pam wants me to get a regular job so I can come home and eat supper every night with the family. Give the kids baths and read to them. Stuff like that."

It felt like a cold hand squeezed Doria's heart. The Merrichase would be sold off to some stranger. The trusty vessel might have to leave Port Harbor. And what if the person who bought the ship didn't take care of it? What if they didn't polish the brass? Or scrape the barnacles? What would happen if the ship got rusty? Would they sell it for scrap metal?

Doria twisted her finger around one of her curls and gnawed at her swollen lip. She loved that boat. Okay, that was dumb but it was the truth.

And she loved Murray, too. Another stupid move because he would soon go to jail.

Her throat tightened. She couldn't help her feelings. She hadn't made a conscious decision to love Murray. In fact, she had hated him. She should still hate him.

"Jason, you need a diaper change," Rich announced as he patted his son's bottom.

Doria tensed at Rich's words. "You sure?" she asked.

"I never lie about messy diapers." Rich shook his head.

"Messy." Doria swallowed the bile that rose in her throat.

"Yeah." Rich got up from the chair and ruffled the hair on his son's head. "Guess I'll go lie down again. Still feel sort of wiped out, you know." He shuffled out of the kitchen. Doria stood up and set her hands on her hip.

"Coward," she muttered beneath her breath. She took a deep breath and studied Jason. He had cookie crumbs coating his hands and his face. He had crumbs in his hair, too. His big, blue eyes looked up at her with a considerable amount of fear.

"Hey, kid. It's time to face the music," she warned. "I'm going to change your diaper."

Jason's face crumpled.

"No!" he yelled and took off, teetering on his chubby, little legs.

"I'll have you know I read about that," Doria called after him. "You've become a terrible two."

She ran after him. He disappeared into her uncle's office and closed the door. She could hear the thumps as the kid pulled books off the shelf.

"No!" he cried out.

"What a devil," Doria sighed as she pushed the door open.

Chapter Fourteen

Doria sat on the bottom step of the porch and watched as Jason pulled an icicle off the yew bush with his mittened hand.

"Thirty-seven," she yawned as he plopped the frozen spear into an old coffee can. Jason had walked out of the rectory with the can. Evidently, somebody had given it to him in place of a plastic bucket. He stared down at his collection.

"Ice," he stated solemnly.

"Icicles," Doria corrected.

"Cold," Jason added.

"Yep. Freezing." Doria confirmed.

Jason lifted his head and smiled at her. Doria's heart warmed. They seemed to be getting along well at the moment. He did find ways to amuse himself, Doria noted wryly, though she was immeasurably glad that he had forgotten about pulling books off the shelf. She preferred his current fascination for collecting icicles. The book on childcare had detailed various behaviors children exhibited at different age levels. Hoarding ice must be a stage Jason had to go through.

Jason turned back toward the yew bush to search for another icy dagger to add to the can. Doria shivered in the bitter wind as the toddler picked through the branches of the bush. The cold didn't seem to bother him one bit, despite the fact that his cheeks glowed bright red. She wondered how long he should stay outside. She considered going back inside to get that book to check on what it said about the length of time recommended for children to play outdoors in winter weather. But with Jason so calm and content, she didn't want to spoil his mood.

The diaper ordeal had been traumatic. She had survived well, probably because she had always had a strong stomach, but she suspected that Jason had actually been embarrassed. Poor kid. He had sobbed pitifully while she changed the diaper.

When she made the mistake of suggesting that he could start using the potty like his Daddy and Mommy, Jason's lower lip had trembled. Hoping to forestall an even longer crying jag, Doria had blurted out the first thing that came to her mind.

"Want to go outside?" she had asked brightly.

Without a moment's hesitation, Jason had agreed.

"Out! Out!" He had nodded his head enthusiastically. But they hadn't gotten very far. When Jason had seen the icicles on the bushes, he had decided he wanted to own every one of them. Doria wondered if he would be surprised when he took them into the house and they melted. Was he too young for a science lesson?

"Thirty-eight," Doria counted as she heard the brittle clink of another icicle in the can. She checked her watch. Pam should be back soon. Doria twirled one of her curls in her gloved hand and wondered where did she go from here? She realized now that she had come back to Port Harbor fully expecting her father to fix all her problems. She had behaved no better than a two-year old child, self-centeredly demanding that her needs be met without concern for the difficulties that those around her faced.

She glanced up at the sky. The sun shone brightly down, but it hadn't helped to warm up the air at all. The tops of the bare trees swayed in the wind, looking as if they were begging, earnestly crying out for assistance. God probably listened to the trees, but then, what did a tree need? Simply water?

The old poem by Joyce Kilmer came to Doria's mind. "A tree that looks at God all day, and lifts her leafy arms to pray." Her father had often recited the poem. It had been one of his favorites. The last line went something like, "But only God can make a tree."

True. He had done a wonderful job with the trees. Trees were great. A renewable source of fuel, furniture, shade, and air filtration. But why had God created germs? And Nor'easters? Why couldn't life be easier? Why didn't God give the human race a break?

He sent His only begotten Son.

The remembered quote sent a chill racing up Doria's spine. She drew her knees up closer to her body. His Son.

Doria turned to look at Jason. He was a cute kid with his round cheeks, his blond hair peeking out from under his hat, and his innocent joy at the small wonders of nature. He could easily pass for a cherub even without the wings. Doria wondered what Jason's Uncle Murray looked like at the same age. Adorable, too, no doubt. And just as precious.

"How many icicles do you have now?" she asked the child.

Another clink sounded against the metal.

"Thirty-nine?" she guessed. Jason toddled toward her with the coffee can in his hands.

"Ice," he said.

"Icicles," Doria explained again. Jason set the can on the bottom step beside her.

"Up," he said.

"You weigh a ton," Doria laughed. "Can't you walk?"

"Up," Jason insisted. He scrambled onto her lap and put his arms around her neck.

"Up, up." He bounced on her lap.

"I'm not a horse," Doria endured the abuse with a smile.

"Horsey?" Jason gave her a toothy grin and proceeded to bounce some more.

Doria held onto him. What a pint-sized tyrant he could be! It was then that she noticed the sleek black car that had pulled up in front of the rectory. Frowning, she stared at the car. It reminded her of the one she had seen in the parking lot last night -- too new and too expensive to be owned by anybody in Port Harbor.

As a figure, dressed all in black, emerged from the vehicle, Doria's heart slammed against her rib cage and her mouth went dry. Terror spiraled in her when she saw the ski mask covering his face. The silver gun in his hand caught the dazzling rays of the sun as he aimed it straight at her and Jason. She clutched the child against her.

"Scream and I'll blow you apart," the gunman warned as he rushed up the concrete walk.

Panic gripped her. She couldn't call out, she couldn't move, she couldn't even breathe. Within a heartbeat, he stood beside her and pressed the muzzle of the gun against her neck. Doria closed her eyes as her stomach rolled. She hugged Jason even tighter.

"Gimme the kid!" the man demanded.

Somewhere it registered in Doria's brain that the voice of this maniac was not the same as the one on the street in New York City. This criminal didn't want her necklace, her watch, or her ring. He wanted something much too dear to hand over to a lunatic.

Jason whimpered, "Mama?"

Doria felt the pressure of the weapon against her neck lessen. She dared to open her eyes only to learn that the man now held the gun against Jason's head.

"Let him go or I blow his brains out."

The world spun slightly out of focus for Doria but she fought against the weakness that threatened to overtake her senses. The trees seemed to be whirling around. God never failed those trees. The trees had only Him to help them. And she had only God to help her now. Maybe, just maybe, He would hear her this time. Especially because Jason was a little child. And didn't little children have guardian angels?

Lord, please don't let this man hurt Jason. Send someone to help us.

"I said let him go," the man growled as he yanked at her hair.

She gasped as he pulled so hard she thought he would rip the curls right out of her scalp. She struggled to speak.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked in a hoarse whisper.

He swore at her and Doria felt the pit of her stomach lurch. She didn't need to see his face to know who he was. She realized that she had heard his voice on the phone. Then he ripped Jason from her arms and before a scream could rise in her throat, he sent the butt of the gun smashing against her skull.

Murray frowned at Pam as he drove her and Theresa back to the rectory in his Jeep.

"You aren't supposed to be doing anything," he reminded her.

"But the place is such a mess!" Pam sighed wearily. "It will take weeks to make it livable again."

"Do you want to wind up in the hospital?" he asked.

"Oh stop it," Pam pouted. "I just need a little nap and I'll be good as new."

Murray doubted her words. The stress of the past week had etched itself deeply into the lines of her once smooth face. His kid sister was growing old right before his eyes and he had very little time left to help her. The seawater had come up a foot high in Rich and Pam's small house. The kitchen tiles had floated right off the floor. Murray had put those tiles down himself as an anniversary present for his sister and her husband. Now he would have to repeat the process all over again.

Lost in a making a mental list of all that had to be fixed, Murray barely glanced at the black sedan in front of the rectory as they pulled up behind it. But then Pam screamed.

"That man has Jason!" she shrieked.

Cold fright plunged through Murray as he saw the masked man rush toward the sedan holding a gun in one hand and trying to keep a grip on Jason with his other arm as the toddler squirmed and kicked. And then Murray saw Doria, still as death, lying at the bottom of the steps. Desolation poured over him like a frigid wave. A sudden hush swept into his soul as if his own heart had stopped beating.

"Call 911 on the cell phone." Murray told Pam before he got out of his Jeep. Feeling numb inside, he moved like a programmed robot. His long, deliberate strides brought him too close and the madman screamed at him.

"Stay away or I kill the kid." The crazed man shoved the gun against Jason's head.

Murray froze. He knew that voice. The man holding his nephew was Alex Kuhlman. Murray's gut churned and the pulse began to roar in his ears. It mattered little if he was shot but he couldn't risk Jason's life. He kept his gaze focused on the gun as it wobbled in the maniac's hand, but every second felt like an eternity. Grief ripped through him as his glance flickered back to Doria. What had happened to her? Was the life spilling out of her while he stood by helpless? He thought of her sweet kiss and fought to hold himself together.

The whine of sirens echoed in the distance, but Murray feared they would be too late. All along he had known who had really killed Kelly Morris. Alex Kuhlman. But Murray could never prove it. Alex had been so thorough, so complete, and so clever in setting up Murray as the murderer that the police assumed they had the case solved.

So why had Alex Kuhlman come here to Port Harbor? What did he have to gain? Hadn't he already caused enough pain? Murray closed his eyes for a moment as the agony pulled him down into the depths of despair. But then he heard the door of the Jeep open and Pam get out. Murray opened his eyes.

"Please let Jason go!" she pleaded.

"I'm warning you!" Kuhlman yelled. "The kid gets hurt if you come any closer."

When Jason saw his mother, he fought harder. One of his feet hit hard enough to make the brute curse. He shook Jason violently. Murray clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes.

"Stop it!" Kuhlman roared at the child. Jason wailed. Pam lunged forward but Murray grabbed her and pulled her back.

"That's Alex Kuhlman." His voice came out as a harsh croak.

Pam's face turned white with terror. "No...," she moaned as she sank down on the pavement and sobbed.

"Yeah!" The gunman called out. "Yeah! It's me. Alex. But you're still gonna spend time on death row, Dr. Santoro."

He spat out Murray's name like a curse and Murray flinched.

"Kelly loved you. Even after we'd been together for six months," Kuhlman swore. "She called me Murray one day. Murray. An accident -- she said. A slip of the tongue. But I knew she must have seen you. She comes back, you know. Every night she calls me Murray -- to get even. But I told her I was going to hurt you real bad. I told her I'd kill everything you love. And then you can sit on death row and think about it."

Murray stood rigid. Kuhlman must have completely snapped, and if he had there would be no way to reason with him.

"Mama! Mama!" Jason screeched.

"No, God," Pam cried. "Not my sweet, little boy. Not my angel."

Murray looked once more at Doria and a surge of red-hot rage ignited in his blood. He wanted to tear Kuhlman apart.

Kuhlman reached for the door on the passenger's side of the sedan with the hand that held the gun. Murray moved forward as Kuhlman fumbled with the handle on the car.

Suddenly the squeal of brakes rent the air, followed by the splintering crash of metal and glass. Murray lifted his gaze and realized that another car had struck the sedan. Murray blinked. The other car looked like the gray Ford that Father Zaleski drove.

Kuhlman, startled by the deafening sound, turned his head and Murray saw his chance. He leapt at the would-be kidnapper and smashed his fist into the man's jaw. Kuhlman reeled back, the gun dropped from his hand, and Murray snatched his nephew away from the maniac. Kuhlman collapsed on the sidewalk.

Murray's eyes filled with tears as he hugged Jason against his chest. The child had become hysterical, however, and wanted only one person -- Mama. Murray helped his sister to her feet. Pam's hands shook, but Murray saw relief in her face.

"It's okay, Jason." She sniffed and wiped away her tears. "Mama's here." She held out her arms and gathered her son to her. Murray suddenly felt cold.

Shock. He knew the symptoms.

Father Zaleski stumbled out of his small compact vehicle.

"I heard the call on my scanner," he huffed as he raced up to Murray. "Thank God I got here in time."

Murray turned toward Doria's motionless form as anguish clawed at his heart. Shuddering, he took a deep breath.

"Doria." He managed a rough whisper.

Father Zaleski turned to see his niece at the foot of the steps. His face drained of any color.

The scream of the sirens grew louder.

Fighting against the panic he felt, Murray knelt beside Doria. He leaned down near her face and felt her breath against his cheek. She was breathing!

"Doria." Murray's voice broke. "What did he do to you? But you're alive. Thank God. You're alive."

"Alive! Praise the Lord!" Uncle Walter sang out. "But what did he do to her? Did he shoot her?"

"I don't know," Murray admitted. He yanked off his coat and covered her. She felt cold but she had gone beyond shivering and that was very bad. Then he noticed her stretch out her hand to touch the concrete walk beneath her. He could see the movement of her eyes beneath the lids.

How long had she lain there? Gently he lifted her hair to peer at the bloody gash above her ear. With tender precision, his fingers traced around the sticky lump.

The pulsating wail of sirens grew in intensity. Murray saw her lips move as if she was trying to speak.

"The ambulance will be here soon," he said, hoping to calm her. "Jason is fine."

Father Zaleski patted her hand and mumbled a prayer. Murray could hear the quiet desperation in the priest's voice.

Dread weighed down on him as Murray continued to try and assess Doria's condition. He lifted open one of her eyes. She moaned and tried to shove his hand away.

Murray's throat ached and he drew his arm over his eyes. How could this have happened? Alex Kuhlman had already ruined his life. Why had he singled out Doria? Why did he have to destroy such a beautiful woman?

Rage began to replace grief and Murray began to shake with fury.

"What did he hit her with?" he yelled. "Look what he's done to her!"

Doria only shuddered slightly at Murray's roar.

The anger began to consume him as he stared helplessly at the pasty color of Doria's skin.

"I hate him." Murray got to his feet and glared at Alex Kuhlman who remained out cold beside his car. Narrowing his eyes, Murray clenched his fists before stalking over to where the fallen man lay. He rolled up his sleeves and smiled. He would pulverize Kuhlman. However, before his fist connected with Kuhlman's face, Father Zaleski pulled him back.

"Vengeance is the Lord's," the priest reminded.

Murray shrugged the priest's hand away. "An eye for an eye!"

Father Zaleski placed himself in front of the unconscious man. "I won't let you do this."

"Then why did you ram your car into his?" Murray shouted.

"It was merely a diversionary tactic," Father Zaleski replied. "I saw it on television."

"You totaled your car." Murray growled.

"Look! Look, she's moving," Father Zaleski shoved him so hard he nearly stumbled...

As Murray turned, he saw that the priest had not lied to him. Doria seemed to be struggling to creep along the ground. Hope shot through his veins and he rushed back to her side.

Ignoring all his training, he pulled her into his arms.

"Please sweetheart," he begged. "Please try to come back. Say something to me. Let me know you'll be okay." His voice cracked, and then heedless of the consequences, he covered her lips with his own, but her skin felt so cold and dry that it frightened him. He drew back, praying that she wouldn't slip away. He cradled her close to him, hoping to warm her with his own body heat. His ear nestled close to her lips when he heard a gentle whisper.

"I love you," she breathed softly.

Murray froze. Then suddenly the world of dreams took her for its own and she lay limp in his arms.

Chapter Fifteen

Murray stopped pacing in the waiting room long enough to stare at the doors that led to the emergency unit. Why was he outside those doors? He should be in there doing all he could to help Doria. He had treated more head traumas at University Hospital than most doctors saw in a lifetime. What experience did the young intern have who was treating Doria? What if there was internal bleeding -- or swelling?

What if she died?

An ache, like a vise, squeezed at his heart. Murray covered his eyes. The vision of Doria's pale, sleeping face lying against the white sheets on the gurney haunted him. Lord, forgive me and please heal her, he prayed.

Someone turned up the volume on the television set as the eleven o'clock news came on. Murray sighed and continued pacing.

"Hey, doc. Want a cup of coffee?"

Murray spun around and saw George heading his way with a steaming cup.

"Mocha cappuccino." George handed him the frothy concoction. "Thought maybe it has a little more nutrition in it than the regular stuff."

Murray swallowed the lump in his throat. He shrugged and stared down at the cinnamon-sprinkled cream. "More calories."

"A few extra won't hurt ya."

"How's Pam, Rich, and the kids?" Murray asked.

"Still shaken up but Nan's with them," George reported. "They've been praying for Doria and someone started up the prayer chain, too. The bishop called Father Zaleski -- they were friends in the seminary -- said he'd keep Doria in his prayers."

Murray closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "If I had done something about those phone calls earlier -- "

"Don't blame yourself," George advised. "How could you know that Alex Kuhlman was on the other end of the line? How could you know he had gone off the deep end?"

Murray blinked a few times against the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights. "But I should have kept tabs on him. I knew he killed Kelly. I should have guessed that he would try to hurt someone else."

"You can't read minds." George walked over to the vinyl-covered sofa farthest away from the television set and picked up a worn copy of the latest scandal sheet lying on an end table. He sat down and leafed through the pages.

Murray took a sip of the scalding cappuccino and grimaced. Had it only been two nights ago that Doria had brought coffee up to the wheelhouse for him? Only two nights ago that she had saved him from drowning?

Murray sat down beside George and touched the spot above his left ear that matched the area where Doria had been hit. He thought about the complex parts of the brain sheathed beneath the protecting skull. Anxiety built up in him as he considered how the destruction of that part of the brain might affect Doria. The tightness in Murray's chest grew. He covered his face.

Lord, what can I do to help?

George reached over and patted him on the back. "She's a wiry little thing. A lot tougher than she looks. And stubborn, too."

"Right." Murray sniffed and straightened up. Yes, Doria had a will of iron, but she also had a tender heart and a generosity of spirit that put him to shame.

Her parting words still sang through his heart.

"I love you," she had whispered with the hint of a smile on her pale lips. Could it be true?

Murray's shoulders slumped. No. She couldn't love him. Not now when everything in his life had been turned upside down.

Who was he kidding? She had suffered a severe blow on her head. She must have been dreaming when she said those words. Or having a nightmare.

That thought fostered a bleak sense of despair that nearly swamped him but he fought against the rising tide of fear. He had to be strong. Pam, Rich, and the kids needed him. He recalled the ashen look in Father Zaleski's face as the ambulance carried Doria away. Even Father Zaleski needed someone to lean on now.

He stared straight ahead at the flickering images on the television news, but he didn't really see or hear anything until suddenly, a photograph of Kelly Morris' face flashed on the screen.

For a moment, Murray felt paralyzed. He didn't see the lovely, flawless face filling the screen. He remembered Kelly as he had last seen her, battered and bruised almost beyond recognition. Latent anger roared into him and before he could stop himself, he sprang up and rushed at the set. He had to turn it off. He couldn't bear to hear the lies again. Just as he reached up to switch off the power, his own face appeared above the newscaster's shoulder. Several other people in the waiting room shouted at him.

"Cool it, doc," George warned as he yanked Murray's arm away from the button.

Murray lowered his head as heat fired through him. The television continued to blare out the news. When a reporter announced his location in Port Harbor, Murray glanced up in time to see the camera focus on a microphone being thrust in Pam's face. She stood outside the rectory, behind her the spire of St. Raymond's church glowed an eerie green in the night.

Shock hit Murray with a weight equal to the lethal trawl doors. He sank down on the nearest chair and watched as Pam related the day's traumatic event with tears streaming from her eyes. She held Jason in her arms and the child clung to her for all he was worth, his blond head nestled firmly against her cheek. Pam ended her tale by sobbing openly.

"...and he hit her with his gun and knocked her out."

The camera immediately zoomed in on the reporter's face. "We're told Ms. Hanrahan is in serious condition at Community Hospital."

Serious. Not critical. A spark of hope flared in Murray's heart.

The scene switched to the police station where Alex Kuhlman, wearing handcuffs, kept his head bowed as he walked toward a waiting squad car. He tried to shield his eyes from the blinding glare of lights before he ducked inside the car. Fury burned in Murray's gut as he noticed Kuhlman's arrogant sneer. He gripped the arms of the chair savagely. Otherwise, he might have punched a hole right through the television tube.

Vengeance is the Lord's. He reminded himself and tried to swallow his hatred. He loosened his hold on the chair and glanced at the knuckles on his right hand. Red, swollen, and cracked, they hurt every time he moved his fingers. But Jason would be safe in the arms of his mother tonight.

He pushed himself out of the chair and started pacing again. But what about Doria? What was happening in the emergency room? Why did the reporter know more than he did?

Murray saw a nurse appear in the doorway and ceased his restless action. The nurse wore green scrubs streaked with red and Murray held his breath wondering if that blood belonged to Doria.

"Dr. Santoro?" the nurse asked.

Murray nodded while his heart pounded loudly in his chest.

"Doria Hanrahan is being taken upstairs," the nurse explained. "We need to keep her under observation, but she insists that she must leave. Could you talk to her?"

"She's conscious?" Murray felt numb.

"Yes," the nurse answered. "But she's a bit agitated."

Murray's heart stopped. A trauma to the skull sometimes caused behavioral aberrations, including wild mood swings. And there were plenty of problems that a doctor's healing hands could never fix.

From somewhere way in the back of his mind, Ed Hanrahan's words whispered to him, "Put it in the Lord's hands and trust in Him."

"Okay," Murray muttered aloud. He stepped through the doors and followed the nurse, all the time wondering what he would he do if Doria told him she loved him again?

Doria lay on her right side on the uncomfortable gurney and bit her lip. The nurse had told her that she had been hit on the head, causing her to drift in and out of consciousness. The nurse had reassured her that her assailant had been apprehended, though she did not know his name. The nurse had also comforted her with the knowledge that Jason was safe with his mother and father. But Doria had absolutely no recollection of any stranger running up to her and slamming the butt of a gun against her head.

Another chill tingled along Doria's spine as she stared at the clock on the wall in the hospital emergency room. She had lost most of the day. She did remember Jason plucking icicles off the bush outside the rectory. She did remember thinking about God and trees. Then, suddenly, she found herself here, missing...hours. She watched the second hand tick off the moments, took in a ragged breath and closed her eyes. She tried to concentrate, she searched her mind for something -- anything, a brief snatch of memory that could fill in the blanks of the missing time, but the yawning gap remained. Why couldn't she recall any of it?

"This often happens with head traumas," the nurse had explained.

Doria opened her eyes and stared at the stainless steel table beside the narrow gurney. Some of her brown ringlets lay in a pile of paper litter. She lifted her hand and ran her fingers along the shaved area above her ear. She tried to count the stitches. Seven. Or maybe eight? It was hard to tell exactly. How much would this hospital stay cost? She didn't know if she had any medical coverage at all because she had quit her job. Since she was already in debt, the bill for the hospital's services could land her in court with a bankruptcy plea. She could not remain another minute in the emergency room.

Her head throbbed, she felt nearly overcome with dizziness and nausea. And she couldn't understand the lethargy that made even thinking an insurmountable task. Her suffering only accentuated her fear. The day had been snatched away from her. Being accosted on the street in New York City hadn't left her feeling so totally helpless, so frighteningly alone.

"You are never alone," her father had told her many times. "Jesus made that promise."

Doria's gaze roamed over the sterile, utilitarian room where she lay. Tears welled up in her eyes. Could she trust her father's words. Did she have any faith left after all these years? She decided she had no where else to turn.

Jesus, have mercy on me. I'm sorry. I guess losing Mom was sort of a trial and I failed miserably. Then losing Dad, and now I've even lost some of my memory. I'm scared, Lord. Okay. Terrified. Please, help me.

Doria swallowed the lump in her throat. There. She had said a prayer. She had handed her troubles to God. She took a deep breath.

"Hey."

At the sound of Murray's voice calling softly from the doorway, Doria glanced in that direction and met his sea-green gaze. Deep lines furrowed his brow.

"I hear you're giving everyone a bad time."

He leaned against the doorjamb in a casual fashion with his muscled arms folded across his chest. Doria's stomach swooped downward, but she knew the sensation couldn't be blamed on her head injury. The sight of Murray Santoro had a unique way of wreaking havoc with her insides. Why did she have to love him? She bit her lip.

"I want to know what happened, every little detail." The words sounded bland and simple but it took all of Doria's courage to say them.

Murray's scowl deepened, "You got clobbered -- "

"I know that!" Doria spat out. "The nurse told me. But who did it, and why?" Her lip trembled. "Why can't I remember it?" She swallowed hard as nausea rocked her fragile control.

She watched as Murray rubbed his hand over the haggard lines that cut deeply into his face and realized that he looked weary; more wretched, in fact, than after he had nearly drowned.

"The man who hit you was Alex Kuhlman," he rumbled. "He was the one who killed Kelly Morris and pinned the blame on me. But his guilt evidently haunted him and he finally snapped. I should have kept tabs on him. I should have made sure he wouldn't hurt anyone else."

A tremor of fear swept through Doria. She couldn't picture the man or the weapon he carried.

"What does he look like?" she asked with a quiver in her voice.

Murray's fist connected with the wall and made a resounding thud. "What does it matter? His face will be in all the newspapers tomorrow. He's smirking at the television cameras tonight!"

His anger startled Doria, she tried to curl up into a tighter ball on the narrow gurney.

"I'm sorry," Murray said, suddenly at her side. "It's all my fault, Doria. I can't forgive myself that this happened to you."

His nearness shot her pulse rate up, which didn't help the misery in her head. But when he took her hand in his and the electricity hummed between them, she nearly forgot about the pain.

"Get me out of here, please." She begged without trying to disguise the nervous tremolo in her tone.

"Sorry, you aren't my patient." He rubbed his thumb soothingly back and forth over her palm. "Besides, it wouldn't be a good idea. In your condition, observation is standard procedure."

"If someone would just hand me a few aspirin tablets I'd be fine," Doria insisted.

"It's only overnight," he reassured her. "They'll probably let you go tomorrow."

"What does it matter whether I am laying on this uncomfortable contraption or the bed in my room at the rectory?" she asked.

"The nurses can monitor your progress here all night."

He squeezed her hand and then released it.

"Do you mind if I check out the job the intern did?" he asked.

Doria gave a slight shrug. As Murray's fingers pushed back her hair to probe along her wound, she knew he could easily lull her into compliance with the hospital's procedures. His touch brought warmth and comfort and she had to force herself to think of the unpaid bills she had shoved into her suitcase. It would be so much easier to relax, recuperate, and bask in Murray's attention. Still, she could not. She needed a job.

"I promise that I will set my alarm clock to ring every hour so I can wake up to poke myself, take my temperature, and monitor my own progress."

The compassionate look in his eyes nearly undid her. For a moment she truly believed he felt her pain. She gripped his hand with the fervor of desperation.

"I will not stay here, and I mean it," she warned. "I am going to walk out of here, with or without the proper paperwork."

A sudden thundercloud formed on his brow and his jaw tightened. He pulled away from her grasp and Doria swallowed the lump in her throat. She wanted to snatch his hand back but the look in his eyes had changed. All at once, he seemed as deadly as an angry sea.

"Why would you want to risk permanent damage to your brain?" he asked. "There could be complications. At least here, you can be treated immediately."

Tears pricked at the back of her eyes, but she pasted a smile on her face. "Really, I'm okay. I'm all stitched up and ready to go." Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to sit up. Her false grin faded as the room started spinning and then she felt herself falling.

She let out a cry and Murray wrapped her in his arms. She closed her eyes, knowing she would be safe. Despite her own terror, she became aware of the powerful surging of Murray's heart.

"Why are you doing this?" His voice sounded strangled. "What are you trying to prove?"

"I can't afford to stay here," Doria admitted.

"Then I'll pick up the tab -- "

"No," she sighed. "I won't accept it."

"It's my fault you're here!" he growled. "If only I had gotten there a few minutes earlier."

The pain in his words cut right to Doria's heart. She couldn't mistake the note of genuine concern in his tone.

"I'll be fine," she reassured him. "I'm only dizzy because I sat up too fast."

"That's a lie," he stated quietly.

For several minutes, they both remained silent. Doria, gathered closely against Murray's chest, listened as his heart rate slowed. Cocooned in the warmth of his embrace, she found her strength returning. Tenderly, he massaged her back. Shock, fear, and the throbbing ache in her head subsided. She wanted to stay snuggled up with Murray forever.

She knew that she now trusted him. Completely. Every niggling doubt that she had harbored against him had vanished. She had been so blind. Murray would certainly have cared for her father with the same unfailing kindness he gave to all those who called upon his healing skills.

He deserved the Merrichase, and she did not. Her father must have suffered a considerable amount of anguish over the fact that his own daughter refused to visit him in Port Harbor. But Murray had been there during her father's suffering. Murray had kept a dedicated vigil, and her father had rewarded him. She did not question whether or not her father loved her -- for she knew he had. But she had deliberately hurt him, over and over. She could never forgive herself for that.

The familiar ache of guilt brought tears to her eyes. She sniffed but she could not hold back a wordless sob.

"Hush," Murray crooned.

"Well, I guess I should stay, at least overnight," she admitted.

"Good girl," he muttered into her hair. He rocked her back and forth, then he stopped. In a quiet voice he asked, "Do you remember when I found you?"

"No," Doria sighed.

"You don't remember the ambulance?" he continued.

"Nope." Doria sniffed again and fought to picture herself on the ground, with Murray beside her, and an ambulance whistle screaming in the background. But none of it seemed real.

"I suppose you don't remember what you said to me either."

Doria blinked. "I said something to you? But I thought I was unconscious."

"You weren't...completely unresponsive."

Doria felt him sigh deeply.

"So tell me what I said," she insisted.

"You were probably just talking in your sleep," he answered. "You mumbled. I couldn't really understand the words."

"I was dreaming?" she asked. "But I thought I was out cold."

"Look, why don't I stay with you for a while?" Murray suddenly seemed anxious to change the subject. "Just to hold your hand."

Doria tried to nod her assent and swallowed another hard lump in her throat. She had been feeling so alone, she had prayed, and God had sent Murray. How could she refuse his offer?

All the terrible scenes she had created came rushing at her; the wild, emotional displays of her willful behavior. She was little more than a grownup, spoiled brat. While she loved Murray with all her heart, she understood that it would be difficult for him to love someone as flawed as herself. And how could she remain in Port Harbor when he could never love her back? That was more agonizing than getting hit with the butt of a gun.

She steeled herself to face the truth. Her future could never be in Port Harbor. She needed a good job to pay off her debts and she could not find one here. Tomorrow would come and whether she felt well or not, she would have to leave. But for tonight, she would rest.

Ever so lightly, Murray kissed her forehead. She found it difficult to believe that such tenderness did not come from love. The moment had such beauty in it that she wanted to cry. But no, she would not ruin their last few hours together. She hoped to walk away from Port Harbor knowing that, at the very least, she could call Murray a friend.

Murray awoke with a start from a confused dream. It took a moment for him to get his bearings. He had to squint against the sunlight that poured down upon him from the window. Stumbling out of the chair where he had slept, he fumbled for the cord to pull the blinds shut.

The room darkened. He peered at his watch. Nine-fifteen. He had slept that long? He couldn't remember the last time he had dozed so soundly. Rubbing his neck to ease out the kinks, he cast his glance around the hospital room and his heart nearly stopped. The bed was empty.

He lunged at the blankets and patted the lumps. Nothing. He yanked back the sheets. No Doria. Where had she gone? Had she left? She had threatened to walk out of the hospital last night. And she was so stubborn, he didn't doubt she would do it.

He rushed out of the room and ran down the hall toward the nurse's station. But then he spotted Doria, ambling down the hall, arm in arm with her uncle. Relief flooded through him and he leaned up against the wall to catch his breath. He shook his head and marveled at how she could do that to him. She had the power to turn him into a crazed maniac.

As she and her uncle walked toward him, he pushed himself away from the wall and stood in the middle of the hall, blocking their progress.

"What are you doing out of bed?" he growled at her.

"Getting some exercise," she replied lightly.

"We didn't want to disturb you with our chatter," Father Zaleski added. "You looked done in."

"You slept like a log!" Doria giggled.

Murray shoved his hands into his pockets. "Sorry I wasn't much company."

Doria reached out and patted his arm. "That's okay. I know you tried to stay awake. Anyhow, Uncle Walter brought my nice, fuzzy robe and my slippers. I was so cold, but I feel much, much better bundled into this old thing."

Murray's gaze traveled down and took in the deep rose shade of the robe and matching slippers. The ensemble, made of a fuzzy, plush pile didn't look old. It looked like it came out of the window display at Saks Fifth Avenue. The color reflected the pretty blush on Doria's cheeks. She appeared to be doing quite well this morning.

"Who gave you permission to get up?" Murray asked.

"I feel fine." She shrugged. "Almost one hundred percent."

"Perky as ever," Father Zaleski agreed.

"Did you eat?" Murray continued directing his questions to Doria.

"I had some coffee and juice," she confessed. "I wouldn't touch the other stuff. This place should do a better job with food preparation."

"It's not a restaurant!" Murray found himself getting louder. "It's a hospital. You get back in bed and stay there until your attending physician takes a look at you."

Doria scrunched up all the freckles on her nose and winked at him. "You could take a look at me."

Murray felt his face grow hot. "N-no," he stammered. "I'm too -- "

"Tired, right?" Father Zaleski broke in, nodding in sympathy. "I can understand. It's been traumatic." He sighed and continued, "Come on, Doria. We'll get you back in that bed."

The two walked away from Murray and headed toward Doria's room. Murray stood in the hallway with such scrambled emotions he didn't know whether to punch the wall or wrap his arms around Doria and never let go.

If anything had happened to her, Murray wasn't quite sure he would have been able to follow his Christian principles. He glanced at his right hand and rubbed his swollen knuckles.

Forgive me, Lord. I should be thanking you over and over that everything turned out all right.

He scratched the beard on his chin. He couldn't stop thinking that his prayers needed some work in composition. He started to follow Doria and her uncle back to the room.

"You know, the Salisbury steak isn't bad," Father Zaleski commented to Doria.

"Is it as good as mine?" Doria asked.

"Of course not!" Father Zaleski assured her. "But -- it's edible."

As if on cue, Murray's stomach rumbled.

Chapter Sixteen

Doria sat in the last pew of St. Raymond's church and stared at the hymnal as if it had been written in a foreign language. The choir had sung two songs that she had never heard until now. The melodies sounded lively and modern. Doria wanted to rip the new pages out of the hymnal. She had come today for the comfort of old memories. Instead, she had discovered change.

She flipped through the pages of the heavy volume until she found some of the old standards that she had always loved. Thumbing through the book, she came to "Eternal Father, Strong To Save." She tuned out the rhythmic refrain of the new music that filled the church and ran a shaky finger along the lines of her father's favorite hymn.

Who badest its angry tumult cease, and gavest light and life and peace...

Peace. Doria lifted her hand to her head and felt for the stitches. The shock of being unable to recall even a fraction of the traumatic kidnapping attempt continued to unnerve her. Tears welled in her eyes. How had she behaved? Had she fought with the madman to prevent Jason's abduction? Or had she let Jason go without much of a struggle? Had the man come up behind her and whacked her before she knew he was even there?

Had she been a brave heroine or a lily-livered coward? What if Murray and Uncle Walter hadn't gotten there in time? What would have happened to little Jason? Doria's headache intensified. Striving to maintain her composure, she clutched at the worn volume of hymns so hard that her knuckles went white.

She decided to leave. Showing up at church today had been a big mistake. After all, she still didn't feel well and she certainly hadn't found any comfort. She couldn't dismiss the shock she had seen clearly written on the faces of a number of parishioners when they had seen her walk into the sanctuary. Though she had returned to the flock like a prodigal daughter, it seemed highly unlikely that anyone would welcome her with open arms. They seemed more inclined to glare at her with reproof.

Then she heard her uncle's voice speaking into the microphone. Tensing, she feared what he would say and whether he would mention her part in the foiled kidnapping. She had questioned him on his speech at dinner last night, but he had claimed that he had not finished it. Late into the night, he had sequestered himself in his office and had remained there.

Uncle Walter had a compelling note in his tone, a sincerity and a warmth that slowly settled down on Doria. She couldn't leave now, her uncle would be truly hurt if he saw her walk out. Despite her lagging stamina, she sat up a little straighter, but she did not take her gaze from her hymnal. She continued to stare at the title of the hymn her father had always sung with such confident fervor.

Uncle Walter repeated several phrases from the gospel of John. Then he paused. In a flash of memory, Doria remembered him telling her a long time ago about his brief pauses.

"A little silence is as important as the words," he had told her. Doria held her breath, waiting for what would come next.

He began to expound upon the gospel readings by talking about one facet of the kidnapping, but bless his heart, he did not make any mention of her own involvement. With Christmas just around the corner, he focused on Jason and the joy in Pam's heart when her child was handed to her, snatched from the arms of someone who might have harmed him.

"That was her gift, you see." He nodded sagely. "No gold or silver, no amount of money would ever be as precious as her son."

Then Uncle Walter reminded his congregation of the joy everyone should have in their hearts at the celebration of the birth of their Savior.

"Christmas is not about who gets the biggest and best toys," he whispered close into the microphone and then paused again. "It is about eternal life, God's great gift to us all," his voice grew in intensity. "And it is about forgiveness. You are saved by the grace of God who sent His Son to wash away your sins with His blood." Uncle Walter's words thundered through the speakers and filled the church.

For a moment, her uncle stopped speaking. Total silence reigned in the nave. Then, slowly, he drew in a great breath, an act made more dramatic by the amplification.

"Thank Him," Uncle Walter spoke softly. "Thank Him with all your heart."

Doria dared to glance up in time to see him turn and walk heavily back to his chair to sit. A hush gathered over the people as Uncle Walter's words sunk into their usually cluttered minds. With bowed heads they mulled over their pastor's message. The tightness grew in Doria's throat. Her uncle's words had touched everyone, even her.

How could she have stayed away from church for so long? How could she have ignored the truth? She needed the Lord in her life. He was her only hope. Especially now.

She took in a ragged breath. Idly, her gaze roamed over the parishioners. The flash of a pair of sea green eyes returned her glance. Murray! Doria's breath caught. Two aisles away, at the end of the pew, he raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner.

She dropped her gaze to the hymnal again. Her hands shook slightly while her heart thundered. She had assumed that Murray would sit way up in the front. She didn't think she would see him in the crowded church. But now, he would rush over after the service ended and start in with his solicitous questions again.

He would ask how she felt, if the dizziness had returned, if the headache still plagued her, and then would come the interrogation. In his polite and cool manner, he would ask if anything had changed, if she recalled anything more than she had the day before. Then he would reassure her that sometimes these things happen, that sometimes the memories never come back, and that's okay.

But it wasn't okay. Not to Doria. She knew she had a terrible fear of guns, ever since that incident in New York City. She couldn't stop imagining that she had quickly handed Jason over to the maniac. Of course, the only person who could give her an answer was Alex Kuhlman himself.

She shuddered. She had seen his photograph in the newspaper.

The choir began another unfamiliar hymn. Doria left her hymnal on the pew and slid out into the aisle. She felt a little lightheaded, so she walked slowly to the vestibule of the church.

"Are you all right?" Murray's voice came from behind her.

Doria halted and suppressed a groan. She forced a bright smile on her lips and turned carefully to face him.

"I'm fine," she lied.

"Uh-huh," he muttered. "If your skin gets any paler someone may mistake you for a ghost. Come on, I'm walking you home." He took her arm in his. "You shouldn't have come today. You should still be resting."

Doria sighed and leaned against him. His solid strength comforted her. She thought about the desperate prayer she had mumbled in the hospital emergency room. She had felt so alone, but then Murray had walked in the door.

Had God sent Murray? Or was it simply fate? Well, she had no reason to disagree with fate at the moment. Having Murray's steady arm to lean on proved to be a great help.

"You could use a little fun in your life, right about now, Doria Hanrahan." Murray smiled down at her.

"Fun?" She frowned up at Murray and wondered what happy pill he had prescribed for himself. They stepped out of the church into the bright, cold weather.

"Right now I need a well-paying job," she stated flatly. "I intend to find one starting tomorrow."

She glanced up at Murray again and noticed a funny gleam in his eyes. A little shiver crept up her spine.

"Wednesday is University Hospital's annual Christmas Charity Gala," he informed her. "And I'm taking you to it."

Doria pressed her lips together firmly. "Don't you think you should ask first whether I care to go or not?"

"There's a great band, ice sculptures, and an amazing array of food," Murray went on, seemingly undaunted. "It's all for a good cause."

If Doria didn't know better, she would have sworn that somebody had clobbered Murray in the head. She had never seen him so cheerful.

"I've arranged a cook's tour just for you -- a behind the scenes, in the kitchen thing," he beamed. "We'll go early so it won't be taxing for you."

Doria stopped right in her tracks.

"Didn't you hear me?" she said through clenched teeth. "I don't have time for a charity gala or a cook's tour. I am getting a job. By Wednesday I will be out of town, if all goes well."

"You have to relax and take it easy, remember? Doctor's orders." He winked.

She stared at him in bewilderment. What had happened to the gruff, sometimes hostile man she had grown to accept, and even love? Murray's relentlessly sunny disposition baffled her.

"Nan found a red velvet gown for you," he continued. "I've hired a limousine -- so we can leave the minute you feel weary."

"But-but-but that's two days before Christmas," she stuttered.

"Exactly," he agreed. "Think of it as my gift to you."

Doria sat on the floor beside the fireplace in her uncle's office and wrapped her cardigan more tightly about her shoulders. She pouted as she stared at the dying embers on the hearth. With the fire fading, a draft chilled her body. The fire needed fuel, but she didn't think she had the stamina to pick up a log. She wondered if her head injury had truly left her with this unusual lethargy, or if the stress of her emotions seesawing back and forth drained her energy. Being with Murray felt good, too good, because she couldn't see any future here in Port Harbor with him. Logic, and a stack of unpaid bills, demanded that she get on with her life.

"I absolutely refuse to go with him to that charity gala," she said aloud to her uncle.

"You'll feel better in a couple days." Uncle Walter shuffled through some papers on his desk. "It's been difficult for you with your father's death, that scary trip on the Merrichase, and that knock on the head -- but Murray is a doctor and if he thinks it would be good for you to get out -- "

"I don't think this has anything to do with my health," Doria interrupted and turned to look at her uncle. She watched him tap the papers into a neat stack and slide them into his desk drawer before closing it. Then he took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It's a thank you. You saved his life, you were injured trying to protect -- "

"I did not protect Jason," she argued.

"Then why did Mr. Kuhlman hit you?" Uncle Walter asked with a heavy sigh.

A shiver gripped Doria's shoulders as she tried to recall the merest flicker of memory about that fateful day, but the blank in her mind persisted. Trembling slightly, she forced herself to reach for another log and place it on the dying coals in the fireplace. She tried to keep her voice even. "If I had resisted handing over Jason, Alex Kuhlman would have shot me."

"If he had used his gun, he would have alerted a lot of people," Uncle Walter put his glasses back on. "I'm sure that despite his erratic behavior, Mr. Kuhlman took that into account."

Doria frowned and stretched her hands out to warm them as flames licked at the dry log. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Murray feels responsible for what happened to you."

"That's ridiculous!" Doria huffed. "Anyway, everything turned out all right. Sort of. Your car should be fixed up in a few more days. Right?"

"Yes. And after all, what's a little front end damage?" Uncle Walter picked up his scanner and stared at it intently. "God works in mysterious ways."

"I guess." Doria agreed absently. Then, as she watched, her uncle patted the black casing of the receiver gently, like it was an old friend.

"Sometimes, we have to accept gifts that we don't really want," Uncle Walter explained. "You know, I didn't want this scanner. I couldn't see why I should accept it, but who knows what would have happened if I hadn't heard that call and come to help Murray and Jason -- and you -- "

"No, please." Doria held her hands over her ears. "I don't want to hear about it anymore. I can't remember it. It's hopeless. I just want to get on with my life."

"Your life?" Uncle Walter asked in a louder voice. "And what are your plans this time?"

Doria took her hands from her ears. "A job, of course, with a good salary."

"Where?" He set the scanner down and drummed the desktop with his fingers.

"In eastern Pennsylvania," she answered.

"Don't you think it might be wise to pray about this decision first," he suggested. "To be sure the schedule you have so carefully arranged fits in with God's designs."

"God helps those who help themselves," Doria defended.

Uncle Walter rolled his eyes. "I don't like that phrase. You have come back to the Lord, you should give Him a chance to show you a better way."

"What has that got to do with going to a fancy, smancy dinner with Murray?" Doria blurted out.

"I believe we were talking about gifts that we sometimes have to accept even when we don't really want them," Uncle Walter stood up. "Murray wants to give you a gift. Accepting it will make him feel better."

Doria toyed with the hair covering the wound on her head. "And what about Pennsylvania?"

"First, pray, and then, listen," Uncle Walter advised. He walked to the door. "I'll see you later. I have a few rounds to make."

Doria nodded to him as he left. Then she edged a little closer to the fire. She glanced around as a shiver crept up her back. The eerie shadows cast by the firelight gave a gloomy air to the familiar office.

She sighed as she thought of the decisions she had to make. The daunting prospect of starting all over again somewhere else with her life weighed on her mind, starting a dull ache throbbing in her head once more. She didn't look forward to going out into that friendless world. Alone.

I am with you always.

The scripture verse floated into Doria's thoughts and she closed her eyes. Yes, she remembered the Lord's promise. But she still doubted it. Why couldn't faith be a simple matter?

She swallowed hard, opened her eyes and cast her gaze around the room once more. Then she shrugged. She had never gotten a personal answer from the Lord about anything. As a youngster, she kept hoping that the Lord would fix things quickly -- like heal her mother -- but that didn't happen. While there had been a number of times that she felt a special warmth and peace flood her when she prayed, she hadn't heard a thing from above.

Nevertheless, she had a strong urge to put her whole messed up life into somebody else's hands. For the past eight years, she had lived recklessly and willfully, almost as though she had hopped aboard a rubber raft and gone careening down the rapids, with little thought about what would happen when she came to shore again.

Only she hadn't come to shore, she had come to a dam in the river, and she was headed for the spillway. With no job and a number of major debts, she would soon be in a free fall before she crashed at the bottom.

And then, there was Murray. Had the Lord sent him to her? Had the Lord sent him to her father?

She covered her face. Have mercy on me, Lord. I don't know what to do. Forgive me for...

For what? For doubting? She couldn't deny that she was still skeptical. Yet, she wanted to believe, as she once did. She wanted to feel that special comfort. She needed it now.

...for my stubbornness, Lord, you know my needs. Lead me in the path I should take.

The phone rang, startling Doria. She got up and reached across the desk, cautiously picking up the receiver.

"St. Raymond's," she said.

"Doria?"

Relief sped through her when she recognized Chad's voice.

"How are you?" she asked.

"I'm flying home tomorrow, with Mom," he replied. "I've been told not to ride the motorcycle yet."

"You've got smart doctors," Doria smiled.

"I hear you were trying to play the heroine."

Doria's smile faded. "Who told you that?"

"Murray," Chad laughed. "He's going to pull some strings and get you a Purple Heart."

"I didn't do anything heroic," Doria stated sharply. "I got hit on the head and blacked out."

"Yeah, Murray said you don't remember telling him you love him."

Doria tightened her grip on the receiver and sank down in her uncle's chair.

"W-what did you say?" she asked.

"I guess you were on the ground or something and you told Murray you love him," Chad went on. "Of course, I knew it all along, but the two of you are both so pigheaded..."

He rambled on, telling her how he wished he had seen Murray smash his fist into Alex Kuhlman's jaw. He wanted her to know how sorry he felt about not being there to help out.

Doria sat there in shock. Murray knew! That explained his solicitous behavior, but why he hadn't told her he loved her, too?

She pressed her lips together as a spasm of pain stabbed at her heart. He probably never would tell her because the truth was that he didn't love her. How could he after all? She pressed her eyes tightly shut to hold back the tears. Oh, if only she hadn't behaved so foolishly.

"I'll be there to see you off in the limousine for the Charity Gala -- I promised to take pictures for everyone," Chad said.

"T-thanks," she sputtered.

A serious note crept into Chad's tone. "Oh, and about that forgiveness stuff. I understand how painful it must have been for you when I started that rumor. I know how

rotten -- "

"Forget it," Doria interrupted brusquely. "I forgive you. Okay. But don't mention it to me again. Ever."

"Sure." Silence, tinged with the steady hum of electricity, reigned for several moments until Chad added, "Well, thanks."

"Right. Bye." She hung up the phone. Clenching her fists, she stood up. She would start packing, no matter how much her head hurt and no matter how listless she felt. She did not have a future here in Port Harbor. She had to start over again someplace else. The sooner the better.

Chapter Seventeen

Murray stood in the entrance hall of the rectory and glanced at his watch for the tenth time. What was taking them so long? He knew his sister had volunteered to fix Doria's hair. He also knew that when it came to decorating anything, Pam was a perfectionist. But he thought Doria's hair looked nice enough already. How long could it take to run a comb through it?

He looked up the staircase. The faint sound of his sister's voice drifted down from above. The happy trill of her laugh made him sigh. At least, Pam was enjoying herself. Doria had been acting as if he were leading her off to a firing squad. He worried whether that knock on the head had caused more damage than he had originally thought. She hadn't been acting like herself at all. She still insisted on leaving Port Harbor. She had her car packed and claimed that tomorrow she would be driving out to Pennsylvania.

He sat down on the steps. Why couldn't she just get a job as a cook in Baytown? There were plenty of want ads in the newspaper for cooks. If only his life wasn't so messed up right now, he could help her out, but there didn't seem to be an end to his troubles.

Due to Alex Kuhlman's confession, Murray's life would apparently be spared, but he still had plenty of things to worry about. His professional behavior remained in question and the possibility existed that he could lose his license to practice medicine.

If he did lose his license, would he really want to spend the rest of his days fishing? Could he continue to toil for long hours in dangerous conditions simply to eke out a living?

He dug in his pocket for the keys to the Merrichase and stared at Ed Hanrahan's tidy printing labeling each key. Ed had never complained about being a fisherman. He loved the job. But the one thing Murray had learned from this year was that he wanted to continue to practice medicine. Forbidding him to work at his chosen profession would be the same as nailing him in a coffin.

Suddenly, it all seemed more than he could bear. He pitched the keys at the heavy oak door. Skidding along with a metallic jingle, they came to rest at the foot of the coat rack. Murray glared at the gleaming metal. He should have let Doria toss them into the churning ocean. So far, nobody had inquired about purchasing the trawler. Ed's generous gift had become more like an albatross tied to his neck.

At that thought, Murray's hand went up to scratch at the short hair along his collar. It itched after his trip to the barber. He felt almost naked without the long ponytail trailing down his back.

In annoyance, he tried to get comfortable in the rented tux by shrugging his shoulders, but it didn't do much good. He felt all trussed up. He had to keep reminding himself that the charity gala would benefit a lot of people. And if it brought only one small smile to Doria's face, it would be well worth it.

He felt his throat tighten as he remembered the soft, tender curve on her lips when he had found her lying on the ground with her head bleeding. The phrase she had whispered that day still haunted him, replaying over and over again in his mind. She couldn't have meant those words for him. Perhaps, she had been dreaming of her former boyfriend.

To date, she had failed to recall anything from her ordeal and the odds were that she might never retrieve a single minute of that one lost day in her life. He wished he could blank it out of his own mind. It had given him nothing but nightmares.

"Are you ready?" Pam's voice called from the top of the stairway.

"I've been ready for half an hour," Murray complained. He got off the step, stood, and turned to look up. On the landing above him, he saw Doria and his heart nearly stopped. She had been so completely transformed that he hardly recognized the feisty fisherman's daughter.

Pam's artful hair design and Nan's elegant, red gown had wrought a stunning change. Doria appeared regal, a woman who needed only an ermine-trimmed cape to complete her queenly ensemble. She glided lightly down the steps on glittery gold shoes.

Murray found himself speechless as she stood before him, swathed in a cloud of some heavenly floral scent.

"What did you do? Where's your hair?" She shot out the questions with a look of horror on her face.

Murray frowned and patted down the short strands. "I went to the barber."

"But -- but now you don't look like a pirate!"

He noticed the small pout form on her lips as she cast down her gaze. What difference did it make if he got a haircut?

"I never was a pirate," he informed her.

"Yes, you were," Pam laughed as she came down the stairs with Theresa in her arms. "You stole hearts left and right."

"Pam!"

He gave his sister a warning tone but, as usual, she ignored him completely.

"I'm only telling the truth," she retaliated.

"Don't argue. I want to get this over with," Doria begged. "Do I look all right?"

Murray swept his gaze from her head down to her toes and felt his heart thunder.

"Y-yeah. Sure," he stuttered.

"What is the matter with you?" Pam slapped her hand against her forehead. "She looks terrific!"

"Of course. Yes, stunning," Murray agreed. Then he noticed something that disturbed him. "But where are your freckles?"

Pam laughed. "We eliminated them with a ton of makeup."

"She put it on with a trowel," Doria grumbled.

"But I liked the freckles." Murray frowned. "Every one of them."

"Really?" Doria scrunched up her face in her endearing, quizzical way.

Murray caught the bright spark of hope in her eyes and he smiled.

"All forty-seven of them." Lightly, he lifted her chin and sighed. He knew his sister meant well, but he found Doria's natural beauty far more appealing than layer after layer of powder and cream.

"Are you sure there's that many?"

He heard the breathy softness linger in Doria's voice as her eyelids lowered and the lashes fanned out upon her cheeks. His fingers, resting gently against her skin, felt her pulse quicken and her temperature rise.

"I made a map," he replied. If they had been alone, he knew he would have kissed her.

"You did not!" Doria's eyes flew open and she laughed at him.

Murray wanted to wrap his arms around her. He wanted to share the joy he had gotten from her happiness with the whole world. He had wished for only a smile, but she had given him so much more. With an effort, he restrained himself. He dared not wrinkle her gown or muss her elaborate coiffure.

"She'll be so much more sophisticated without freckles," Pam insisted. His sister swayed back and forth trying to calm her little one, who was beginning wriggle frantically. "Most of the time she looks like a teenager. Without the makeup, the bartender is sure to ask for her ID."

"I'm going to drink ginger ale." Doria rolled her eyes.

"Oh, well. I didn't know," Pam giggled. "Too late now, though. Have a good time!" She embraced Doria awkwardly, due to Theresa's squirming little body.

Murray frowned. He heard his sister mutter something in Doria's ear, but he couldn't make out the words. He pressed his lips together. He knew his sister well enough, and he suspected she had something underhanded planned. It was one thing for Pam to arrange hair, but when she started trying to run his life with her machinations, it made him angry.

"What are you whispering?" he rumbled.

Pam's laugh tinkled merrily. "I simply told her to tell the princess I said, 'Hello.'"

"Um -- yes, the princess." Doria nodded. "I will."

"The princess is not coming." Murray narrowed his gaze at Pam.

"How dreadful!" Pam exclaimed. "It will be such a tedious affair without her. 'Bye, big brother." She punched him in the arm and then raced off, chuckling all the way down the hall, with Theresa now wailing hungrily.

Murray faced Doria. "What did she really say to you?"

Doria walked over to the coat rack and lifted a white cape off the hook. "Nothing important."

"I know Pam," Murray grumbled. "I can tell when she is trying to put one over on me." He watched as Doria took in a ragged breath, but evidently she had no intention of revealing his sister's little plot.

"She just wished me well," Doria said. "And she hopes I like the hairdo."

The pleasant, little white lie hardly satisfied Murray, but he did not want to ruin the prospect of a wonderful evening. He wanted to give something special to Doria, so he dashed his suspicions to the back of his mind and tentatively reached out to touch several of her

brown ringlets.

"Stiff, but it's nice -- the hair, I mean. The way it's combed or whatever." He fumbled with his words and felt his own face grow hot.

"Pam thought if she swept it all to one side, no one could see..." her voice trailed off and she shuddered.

Murray studied Pam's artistry. Yes, the wound was almost invisible. For a moment, he had a flashback of the horror of that one traumatic day. He could see Doria on the ground again, bleeding and cold. The memory acted like a steel band clamping around his heart. It took most of his strength to shove the thought away.

"Let me help you with that." Murray took the cape from Doria's hands.

She swirled gently around, stirring the air with her floral scent as she turned her back to him. Her long gown rustled, brushing the tips of his shoes. Murray knew he was in danger of being hypnotized.

Fumbling to open the cape, he found the soft wool snagging against his callused hands. Fisherman's hands, he reminded himself, scarred and gnarled from hard labor. Would he be doomed to that rugged life? A small measure of anger had him shaking out the cape vigorously. He frowned as he noticed the weight of it. Lined with heavy satin, the garment could only have come from the most exclusive store.

"This does not belong to Nan," he stated dryly.

"I bought it at a clearance sale last year," Doria told him.

He cleared his throat. "Does Saks have clearance sales?" He settled the cape gently down on her shoulders.

Unexpectedly, she laughed once more. The musical sound dazzled his senses.

"I didn't get it at Saks. I found it at a small boutique."

Reality slammed into him like a tidal wave. Doria had lived in New York City, she had wined and dined at the best restaurants. All her clothing came from designers. She had seen every major play on and off Broadway. How could he hope to impress her in one evening at a gala patched together by volunteers? His expectant fantasy for the night evaporated in an instant and his hands shook as he removed them from her shoulders.

She whirled to face him as she fastened the clasp at her neck. "Even so, I paid a ridiculous amount. I know now how selfish I've been -- extravagant, willful, yes -- even stubborn." Her voice sounded high and tight. "I plan to donate this cape after tonight's gala."

"No! Don't!" he burst out.

She blinked as if he had slapped her. Feeling ridiculous, he rubbed his forehead. "Look, I haven't been a saint either -- "

"Oh my," she interrupted. "Are you going to tell me you're human?"

He stared at her in shock. She wore a wide grin and her deep, brown eyes had a touch of merriment in them.

Warmth seeped into every pore of his being and he found himself returning her smile.

"You're beautiful." He took her hand and pressed it gently in his.

"Is it the makeup, the gown, or the hairdo? I don't believe you ever mentioned that I was beautiful before."

He heard the flippancy in her tone and it confused him. Surely, he must have told her how lovely -- okay, maybe he hadn't in so many words, but she had to know. Couldn't she see how she drove him crazy?

"You don't need anything to make you beautiful." He swallowed the lump in his throat where the words seemed to stick. "You are wonderful all by yourself."

"Oh?"

She looked up at him with those wide, brown eyes and he felt himself sinking into the depths of them.

"Are you serious?" she asked with a frown forming on her brow.

He could barely nod. He leaned toward her, drawn like a magnet. She stepped forward to meet him, but then he heard the metallic jingle as her foot nudged the keys he had tossed away.

She bent down and picked them up. He saw the furrows burrow down in her forehead. She closed the keys up tightly in her fist.

"You dropped these and you didn't even realize it!" she accused.

"Must be a hole in this suit." He shrugged and jammed his hand into the pocket of the tux.

"In that case, we'll leave these in Uncle Walter's office for safekeeping," she announced. Pivoting, she hurried through the office door, rustling as she went.

Murray followed in her wake.

"Here, right in this drawer." She dropped the keys into the drawer and shut it. "I can't believe you would be so careless." She glared at him.

What could he say? He couldn't tell her about the despair, about the fear he had of losing his license.

He heard the outer door open and turned, only to be blinded by a bright flash of light.

"Don't you know you're supposed to smile?" Chad's voice scolded.

"I would have, if you had asked," Murray growled, still seeing spots dancing in his vision.

But Chad ignored Murray and rushed over to Doria.

"Who is this stunning lady?" Chad took her hand. "Do I know her?"

Murray expected to hear Doria giggle, but instead she surprised him with a sad, little sigh.

"You look well, Chad," she said.

"Thanks." He peered through the viewfinder. "Mom's been pouring chicken soup down my throat. I had a tough time escaping tonight. Come on, put on that megawatt smile."

"No, Chad," she begged. "No pictures. Okay?"

"But I promised!" Chad argued. "Besides, you look gorgeous in that outfit."

Doria shook her head while her wan smile faded. "'Your adornment should not be an external one; braiding the hair, wearing gold jewelry, or dressing in fine clothes, but rather the hidden character of the heart, expressed in the imperishable beauty of a gentle and calm disposition, which is precious in the sight of God.'"

"The first letter of Peter." Chad sighed as he lowered the camera. "But this is for charity's sake! It's not like you do this everyday. Come on, just a little smile," he coaxed and lifted the viewfinder again to his eye.

Uncertainty swept through Murray. Perhaps he had asked too much of her. He rushed over and put his arm around her.

"I'm sorry," he soothed. "If you don't feel well -- "

"There's nothing wrong with my head," she interrupted, using a clipped tone.

He felt her stiffen and backed off.

"Let's go!" She stamped out.

"Hmmm." Chad nodded thoughtfully. "She's a bit testy tonight. What did you do?"

Murray threw up his hands. "I invited her to the gala. I thought she might have fun."

Chad zipped the camera into its case. "I suppose I shouldn't have made such a big deal of how wonderful she looks tonight. I guess I never mentioned that she looks great the rest of the time, too."

"She can look in the mirror and figure that one out all by herself," Murray grumbled.

"For a man who has a sister, you can be rather insensitive to women," Chad noted.

"My sister is not at all like Doria," Murray complained. "Pam is sensible -- most of the time."

"Right," Chad gave a mirthless chuckle. "Well, good luck, boss. You're going to need it." Chad slapped him on the shoulder and walked out.

Murray glowered at Chad's retreating back. Insensitive! Chad had a lot of nerve saying that! This whole evening had cost more than the profit on the last fishing trip! What with the rental of the tux, the limousine, the tickets, and a trip to the barber, this -- this fiasco --

Suddenly, the memory of a scripture verse fell on Murray's heart and the truth filled him with remorse.

And be not conformed to this world, but be transformed in the newness of your mind...

Murray covered his face. He expected Doria to be grateful because he was throwing his money around, conforming to the worldly way of things. He seemed to have completely forgotten all he had learned about living the way of Christ.

He had been called to be a servant. He should be grateful to Doria. And he was. She had tried to protect his nephew and come close to getting killed in the process.

How else could he have demonstrated his sincere thanks?

He slid open the drawer and looked at the keys to the Merrichase. The trawler should have been her inheritance, not his. So why had Ed Hanrahan bequeathed it to him? He fingered the keys and then quickly slammed the drawer quickly shut.

He would think about it tomorrow. Not tonight. Tonight, he would make an effort to be sensitive. To be a servant. To stop thinking about his own problems all the time. But he knew he couldn't do it without the Lord's help. So he said a quick prayer before he went outside to join Doria in the limousine.

Chapter Eighteen

Doria sat on a tufted brocade loveseat behind the sheltering fronds of several wilted potted palms. Trying to calm her racing heart, she gazed around her at the storage room cluttered with odd chairs, statues, and other decorations, the leftovers of former grand galas. The unheated room was chilly, but it made a perfect hiding place.

She drew her white cape tightly about her and stared at the card she held in her trembling fingers. By the dim light of the overhead bulb, she read the address of the Four Seasons Hotel in Philadelphia, one of the most prestigious establishments in that city of brotherly love. The card had been handed to her by the head chef of the Four Seasons restaurant. He had come to the charity gala, toured the kitchen, met her there, and offered her a job on the spot.

She drew in a deep breath, held it, and then let it out slowly. The whole deal sounded too good to be true. The head chef had been impressed with the fact that she had worked at the Plaza, but he didn't know anything else about her. Still...a bird in the hand...

She had three interviews set up at resort areas in Pennsylvania, but, of course, she had no idea whether any of those places would actually hire her. But this man had promised her the position.

"Can you arrive tomorrow?" he had asked.

She had nodded enthusiastically, shaken his hand, and sealed the agreement.

Only now, sitting in the cold, gloomy storage room, a legion of misgivings swarmed in her mind. The man had to be desperate to hire her so casually. And why? What were the working conditions in that restaurant? Was this their most hectic time of the year?

She took another long, deep breath. Well. What did it matter? She could handle it. He had offered her a generous salary with benefits. He had said that she could stay in a hotel room until she found a place to live, too.

Carefully, she tucked the card into her tiny, beaded evening bag. Her heart rate had slowed down, but she felt light-headed. She reached up to touch the hidden wound on her head. It still hurt. When would the soreness leave her? And the headaches? And the dizziness? She would need all her stamina to do her job.

Setting her lips together tightly, she decided to go back to the rectory immediately. A good night's sleep should help matters. Then, she would be on her way early tomorrow morning.

Unexpectedly, a loud knock sounded on the storage room door.

"Doria? Are you in there?"

Doria held her breath and didn't answer. The door opened and Murray's impressive form filled the doorway.

"Why didn't you answer me? Why are you hiding in here?" he asked.

"I-I'm going to go home," she announced. "Now."

He shoved aside the potted palms. "Tired?"

"No," she said defensively. "The music is too loud."

"I'll agree with you on that point," he acceded. He sat down beside her, rested his elbows on his knees, and lowered his head.

"So you're taking the job," he stated.

"It's a good offer," she tilted her chin up defiantly.

"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve."

"I intended to leave tomorrow, anyway."

"You still have episodes of dizziness and pain."

She couldn't miss the firmness in his tone, the quiet authority in his assessment of her condition.

"I have prescription medication," she replied smoothly. "I'll be fine."

He lifted his head, took her chin in his hand, and gave her his intense scrutiny. The heat rose in her cheeks and she lowered her eyes.

He took his hand away. "Healing takes time."

Doria's shoulders slumped. "I don't have time."

"You don't have to go." His hand came over hers and clasped it warmly.

"I need the money," she replied tightly. "I'm in debt."

"I'll help you out -- when I sell the Merrichase - "

She yanked her hand away from his. "The Merrichase is all yours. Besides, I don't need your help."

"You deserve to have some of the money from the sale of the boat," Murray explained. "I don't know why your father left it all to me. You should have part of it."

"You took care of him," Doria's voice started to sound squeaky, and that would not do. She cleared her throat, and stood up slowly, holding onto the arm of the loveseat.

"I'll call a cab." She forced the strength into her words. "There's no need for you to leave."

"No, please Doria, listen to me." He got to his feet. Towering over her, he put his hands on her shoulders.

"I care for you," he said. "A lot."

Doria froze. Would he say he loved her? Pam had whispered that he was absolutely crazy about her. But that meant nothing. Ted had been crazy about her, too. However, Murray knew she loved him.

Could he love her? Could he offer her something more than a cash payment from the Merrichase? More than one glittering night at a gala? Could he give her his heart? She held her breath.

"I don't want you to just walk out of my life." His voice echoed in the high-ceilinged room. "Can't you wait until -- "

He didn't finish the sentence.

Doria stared up into his face. He had closed his eyes and a pained expression creased his forehead. Silence reigned for what seemed like an eternity. Anguish tormented her with a desolate misery.

"Wait?" she whispered. "For what?"

He only shook his head. He didn't reply to her question.

Her fragile control snapped.

"For you to sell that old boat?" she blurted out. "For you to lose your license? For my own debts to ruin my credit rating? There's nothing in this town for me." Even as she said it, she hoped that he would convince her otherwise.

"Your uncle's here, your friends -- "

"Friends?" She let out a bitter laugh and swung away from him, a move that set her head spinning so that she stumbled against the potted plants. Murray caught her and wrapped her in his arms.

"You're going to hurt yourself," he warned.

To be there in his embrace but not loved by him was more than she could bear. She could feel the sob welling up in her throat but she would not cry. Desperately, she pushed herself away from him, and lunged for the door. She clung to it for a moment as she got her bearings.

"I'll be fine. I'm starting a new life."

"Haven't you come back to Christ?" he asked quietly. "Shouldn't you pray over this decision first?"

She caught the stricken look on his face. With all her heart, she wanted to believe that he felt more than simple concern about her welfare. But she couldn't trust that he would. Why should he? She did not think that she was a lovable person. She had, after all, nearly thrown the keys to the Merrichase into the seething ocean. No. He would never forgive her for that.

She drew herself up and tried to keep her voice calm and even.

"This job is the answer to my prayers." She tried to manage a tentative smile. "And actually, I should thank you, shouldn't I? I didn't want to come to this gala but Uncle Walter told me that sometimes we have to accept gifts that we don't really want."

She paused and took a deep breath. "I wasn't very gracious and I'm sorry. But thanks to you, I got a good job. I'll always be grateful."

She felt her lips start to quiver. Blinking away tears, she fled.

Chapter Nineteen

Murray pulled the file from the holder attached to the door of the examining room and glanced at the name of his next patient, Stacy Bowen. With a sigh, he scanned the young child's records. She had been in his office only last month for an ear infection and at that time she had been so poorly dressed for the winter weather that Murray questioned the mother.

The mother broke down relating her sad story to him. Stacy's father had left years ago, and so far the authorities couldn't locate him in order to collect child support. Even working two jobs, Stacy's mother had a tough time earning enough money to pay the mortgage, keep the car running, feed her three kids, and buy clothing.

Murray gave her the phone numbers of several organizations devoted to helping women. He also gave Stacy a bottle of vitamins in addition to the usual antibiotic.

The bells jangling over the outside door reminded him that he must move quickly. Another patient had entered the outer waiting room and ushered in the chilling draft of the March wind. Spring had not come yet and the little community of Port Harbor seemed to be in the grip of the flu.

Murray shook his head, put on his sunniest grin, and opened the door to enter the examining room.

"Hey, it's my good friend, Stacy," he greeted the child in a cheerful tone. "Have you been listening to your mom?"

Stacy lay on the examining table, flushed with fever. She gave a barely perceptible nod of her head. Murray noted that the little girl's clothing was much more appropriate for the weather than at her last visit.

"She's had a temperature for two days now." Stacy's mother hovered at the foot of the examining table. "And she's been coughing a lot."

Murray picked up his light and switched it on. "Well, I have to take a peek in those beautiful ears first," he crooned.

Stacy obediently moved her head from side to side.

"Oops. A double ear infection." Murray kept smiling, though he knew what the child must be suffering. "How did that happen?"

Stacy gave a meager shrug of her shoulders.

"Her brother had a cold," the mother said. "And I guess Stacy caught it."

Murray placed the stethoscope against the little girl's chest and listened. The sound of sibilant rales confirmed his suspicions. The child had bronchitis, too. Using his best bedside manner, he smiled down into the sad face of his small patient.

"You need some strong medicine."

"Is it pneumonia?" the child's anxious mother questioned.

"No, not yet." Murray removed the stethoscope from his ears. "I'll give you an antibiotic and something for her cough, but she must also be dressed warmly and kept in bed."

The mother nodded.

"Where's the pretty lady?" the child asked softly.

Murray shot a questioning glance at Stacy's mother.

"She means Ed Hanrahan's daughter," the mother answered. "She gave her those socks." She pointed to her youngster's feet.

Murray glanced at the overlarge socks covering the child's tiny feet. The intricate knitted pattern could only have come from one of the better designers. A pain squeezed at his heart as he remembered Doria giving away her socks to the children that day on the Merrichase.

Fighting against the memory, he struggled to smile again.

"Miss Hanrahan got a job in Philadelphia," he explained to Stacy. "It's far, far away."

It's two hours away. Not the end of the earth. You should call her. No, he couldn't call her. She had found the life she wanted. He now wondered if he had imagined her whispering of her love for him. He shook himself mentally and felt for the child's tiny toes.

"This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home..."

The sick little girl managed to grant him a half-hearted giggle when he tickled her under her chin. But then she went into a fit of coughing. When she finished, she lay back on the table, spent by the exertion.

By ten o'clock that evening, Murray had sent home the nurse and the receptionist. He leaned back in the chair in his office and pulled the stethoscope from his neck. It had been a long day, though not as long as a day on the Merrichase. He closed his eyes and thanked the Lord that he had been able to help so many people. He prayed for the ones that his own hands could not cure. They were the ones that stuck in his mind. Then there were the children, like Stacy, without a father.

He had grown up fatherless, too. And it hadn't been easy.

Exhaustion weighed down on him and he yawned.

The phone rang. Murray opened his eyes to glare at it. Then with a shrug, he picked up the receiver.

"Hi, big brother, I made some lasagna." Pam's voice sounded cheerful.

"I'm going to do some paperwork and then it's lights out."

"You need sustenance."

Murray could hear the insistence in his sister's voice.

"I need sleep," he admitted.

"I got a letter from Doria today."

Murray bolted upright in the chair.

"I sent her a letter a few weeks ago and I finally got a reply," Pam said. "I think you should read it."

"Oh." Murray tried to affect a casual tone, but he knew he would never succeed.

"It's on hotel stationary," Pam continued. "Classy stuff. How big a portion of the lasagna should I warm up?"

"Make it a double," Murray ordered. He grabbed his pager and left the office.

The poor in Philadelphia tended to be a motley crew. Doria had seen the mentally ill, the elderly, lots of strung-out druggies, and even whole families come for a free lunch at the soup kitchen. Nobody had the same tale of woe, but they all had the same problem. They were hungry. Just a few short blocks from the grandeur of the Four Seasons Hotel, people were barely subsisting. They could not make ends meet -- the Social Security check wouldn't stretch far enough -- or sometimes, despite working two jobs, many people found it impossible to scrape together enough for body and soul on the minimum wage.

Doria had volunteered in the soup kitchen one month after she had come to the city. January had turned into February, and now it was March. Still, the wind outside whistled through the streets and the people came in shivering, praying for spring to come soon. Then, perhaps, it would be warmer and they wouldn't have to heat their drafty apartments. Maybe then, without the heat bill, they would have enough money to put food on their own table. Maybe then, the kids wouldn't be so sick and always in need of expensive medication.

Doria listened to their troubles as she plopped a generous mound of mashed potatoes on their plates. After cooking for long hours in the kitchen at the Four Seasons, she did not want to prepare any more food. Instead, she dished it out and handed it to the hungry. Their eyes told her of their gratitude. To them, those mashed potatoes were as good as manna from heaven.

Sometimes, she saw faces that reminded her of the people in Port Harbor. Last week, she had seen a young woman who looked, in profile, exactly like Pam. For a moment, she had thought she really was Pam. She had to fight against an urge to go up and throw her arms around her. But then the woman turned around. She wasn't Pam.

At that point, Doria remembered the letter she had received from Murray's sister. When it had arrived at her apartment, she had shoved it in a drawer, unopened. However, she began to realize after the shock of seeing someone else who resembled Pam, that she must have been feeling guilty about that letter. She had behaved like a coward by refusing to read it.

That day she went back to her apartment, dug in her drawer, and opened the letter. Wryly she had noted that the three, neatly written pages were on letterhead stationary from Murray's new office and much of the news concerned Murray and his burgeoning medical practice. Only a few sentences told about her husband, Rich, and his new job. One whole paragraph had been devoted to the house, which was nearly all fixed up again. The last sentences lovingly doted on the children with a plea to come and visit them because Jason missed her.

The Merrichase had not been mentioned, though Doria knew, from her phone calls to Uncle Walter, that a serious buyer had put in a substantial bid.

Simply thinking of the letter while she dished out another dollop of potatoes had her eyes misting. It had taken Doria two days to work out a carefully worded reply. She had expressed her best wishes to Murray on his practice. She wrote about her friendly coworkers at the Four Seasons and how much she enjoyed being a chef again. She had explained that she was fine and for the most part, that was true.

She did not tell Pam that she hadn't bought much of anything and had made a substantial reduction in her debts. She didn't tell her that she'd found a church that sustained her and helped her regain more of the faith she had lost. She didn't tell her that she had joined the choir and a prayer group. She didn't tell her about the soup kitchen and how good it made her feel to volunteer there.

She didn't tell Pam that her heart still ached. The biggest problem with Philadelphia would always be that Murray wasn't there. She couldn't seem to forget him, no matter how busy she kept herself with her church or her job. She loved him. She would always love him. And time had only seemed to make her suffering worse.

Still, she had the sense that the Lord was working in her life and she had decided to include that thought in her letter.

The steady stream of hungry people ended before Doria came to the bottom of the mashed potatoes. It always surprised her that the soup kitchen seemed to have just the right amount of food. After all, the volunteers could never tell exactly how many hungry people would wander into their facility. Yet, the Lord did provide.

Doria scooped up the last of the potatoes. Enough remained in the pot for one more person. They had, amazingly, something left over, just as there had been after the miracle of the loaves and fishes.

Absorbed in her thoughts, Doria didn't notice one of the other volunteers come up alongside of her.

"Hey, Freckles, where's your smile?"

Doria turned to see Irma grinning at her. Irma had been helping out at the soup kitchen since it opened. Retired from her job as a school cafeteria worker, Irma had decided she was too young to sit home in a rocking chair.

"I guess I'm just a little bit homesick." Doria shrugged.

"Again!" Irma smacked her forehead emphatically. "Girl! You been homesick since you got here."

Doria sighed. "Only when I'm not busy enough."

"Dishing out spuds to one hundred and fifty people is not busy enough for you?" Irma touched Doria's cheek. "You feeling all right, Freckles? Hmmm. Cool as a cucumber." She let her hand drop. "So what's eatin' at you? Why don't you keep me company while I scrub out that pot?" Irma, a huge woman, lifted the pot effortlessly from the steam table and carried it to the sink.

Doria followed her. "I told you about that letter."

"From the sister?" Irma frowned.

Doria nodded. Irma had become like a grandmother to her; she had already explained much of her current predicament to the kind woman.

"Well, I did send her a letter back," Doria admitted.

"Good." Irma turned on the faucet and let the pot fill with hot water. She picked up a long-handled scrubbing brush and started swishing it in the pot.

Doria gulped and started to stammer. "I-I guess -- I was hoping -- that maybe -- "

"Girl, you got it bad," Irma sighed as she went up to her elbows in hot water to scrub the bottom of the pot. "You got to get this man out of your system."

Doria sniffed. "I've tried."

"Noooo, you haven't." Irma shook her head. "You have to go back there and see him. Talk to him. Familiarity breeds contempt, you know. A few days in his company and you'll be saying ciao for good."

Doria crossed her arms and stared down at the black and white tiled floor. Could that be possible? Had she been moping over some idealized version of Murray for the past few months? If she saw him again, would she finally see all his faults?

A sad, little ache stabbed at her heart. What faults? She couldn't think of a single one. However, she winced when she recalled that he had seen her at her worst! Sure, she had reformed, a bit, but he probably would be skeptical of the changes she had made in her life.

"You ain't working tomorrow." Irma dumped out the water from the pot. "Drive out there and say 'hello.' Kinda casual, you know. Visit your uncle with some of that paté stuff you're always mixing up."

Doria tried to smile but the small pain still plagued her.

"Well, I should go visit my uncle anyway," she admitted. "Even if I don't see Murray."

Irma scowled at her. "You'll be right in the neighborhood! He goes to church, right?"

Doria nodded.

"So what's to stop you from sitting right next to him?" Irma questioned with a wink.

"That sounds like flirting," Doria noted.

"So what if it is?" Irma grinned.

"But I don't want him to think -- "

"What?" Irma interrupted. "That you've missed him? Well, you have! If I knew the man's phone number, I'd be calling him up myself and telling him to get over here right now!"

Doria smiled. Irma would do it, too.

"I'll call Uncle Walter and see if he'd like some company tomorrow," Doria said.

Irma set the pot on a rack to dry. "Just make sure you visit that Murray, too. And dress up real pretty. Red, or maybe a nice teal." Irma drew her brows together and studied Doria. "No. Magenta would be better. It would put some roses in your cheeks."

Doria thanked Irma for her suggestions but she had no intention of listening to the older woman's advice. She would simply wear her worn-out jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. The March wind in Port Harbor could knock a man to the ground.

Besides, stunning clothes were a part of the old life that Doria had given up for good.

Doria walked back to her apartment mulling over her decision. Huge fluffy snowflakes fell softly to the ground and melted instantly on the warm sidewalk. Tomorrow might not be a good day for driving. The weatherman had said that they could have six inches of snow. Still, watching the big, white puffs turn to liquid, Doria doubted the prediction.

It would be nice to make a big meal for Uncle Walter. She didn't think he ate properly most of the time. He was the only relative she had left now. She shivered in the damp weather and thought of all the years she could have spent with her father. The guilt still plagued her. Sure, she knew that the Lord could forgive her. But would He? Honoring one's father and mother was a big issue to the Lord.

Her bland, cramped apartment had a dreary chill to it when she stepped inside. The landlord cheated on the heat whenever he could.

She put the kettle on the stove. After pouring a cup of tea, she left the kettle boiling. It would help to warm up the room.

She punched in the numbers to reach her uncle. He picked up the phone on the fourth ring.

"Hello?" His voice sounded muffled.

"Uncle Walter?" Doria asked. "It's me, Doria. Are you all right."

"Trouble -- breathing," he mumbled. "I thought -- heartburn -- indigestion -- -but my arm -- "

Doria felt a chill run down her back. Something was very wrong. She didn't know what to do!

"I'll call for help," she told him. "I'll send an ambulance! You stay calm. Don't worry. Don't panic!"

She hung up the phone and felt as though she could barely breathe herself. She didn't have a second to waste. If she called 911 in Philadelphia, would the alarm be routed to Port Harbor in time?

Her anxious gaze fell on the countertop in the apartment. There lay Pam's letter with Murray's office address and phone number listed.

Snatching up the paper, she quickly hit the buttons to reach Murray. The phone rang. And rang.

Jesus, please take care of Uncle Walter. Don't let him die. Get help to him fast. She prayed and trembled in the gloomy apartment, hoping that she was doing the right thing.

Chapter Twenty

"We might get four inches of snow," Pam reported as she filled up Murray's glass with grape juice. "I hope it's good for building a snowman. Jason would be delighted."

"It isn't sticking yet, but it sure is slippery out there." Murray closed his mouth over another forkful of his sister's lasagna. She had used the recipe for their mother's sauce, of course, and sadly it brought back memories of Doria's trip on the Merrichase. Would he never get past this aching for her?

Murray gulped down some juice and lifted up another bite of lasagna. Then he heard the pager's tones. Groaning, he yanked the pager off his belt and glared at the number.

"What's this?" He frowned. "Long distance?"

"Did any of your patients go on vacation?" Pam asked as she sliced up more Italian bread.

"My patients can't afford vacations." Murray sighed. "They can't even afford to see me."

Pam put down the knife. "Let me see that."

Murray shrugged and handed her the pager.

"Gee," Pam studied the number. "That looks like -- " She turned around, reached up to the top of the refrigerator, and grabbed a letter. "Yes. Look, it's Doria's phone number."

Murray yanked the letter away from her. His heart pounded as he scanned through it.

"Why would she be calling me?" he asked.

"To say hello?" Pam smiled.

"No." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "She wouldn't. Not after -- "

"Is there something you haven't told me?" Pam put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

Angrily, Murray pushed away his plate. "It's none of your business."

"When you mess things up, you do a terrific job." Pam clicked her tongue in disgust.

"Don't rub it in," he muttered.

"Hey, you could always listen to my advice," Pam suggested. "She's a wonderful, brave, lovely -- "

"I know." Murray interrupted.

"So hurry up and call her back. I'll make myself scarce." Pam walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to her bedroom.

When Murray heard the door close, he picked up the telephone to punch in the numbers. It didn't even finish ringing once. When he heard the hysteria in Doria's voice on the other end of the line, he felt as though the world had caved in on him. Once he understood what she was trying to tell him, adrenaline spurted into his bloodstream.

"I'll do everything I can," he tried to use a reassuring voice, despite the way his heart had started to pound.

He hung up the phone and grabbed his coat.

"Pam!" he barked. "Come out here! Call the First Aid Squad and the paramedics. Send them to the rectory. Suspected heart attack. Father Zaleski."

Pam rushed back into the kitchen. "No! I just saw him this afternoon!"

"Call Doria back and calm her down, too," he added.

"But what should I say?" Pam picked up the phone.

Murray didn't answer her. He couldn't. He had to wage a battle against time. He couldn't tell whether he would be too late, but every second counted. He knew the odds.

He ran outside and jumped into the Jeep. Grinding the gears, he bolted away. The snow fell ever thicker as he headed toward the rectory. Even with the four-wheel drive, the car fishtailed as he rounded a corner.

He prayed aloud, and for once he didn't think about how the words sounded; they came from his heart and that was what made them sincere.

Suddenly, as if in answer to his fervent plea, whistles pierced the stillness of the small town. Murray felt a small sense of relief. The call had gone out to the volunteers and they would soon be joining him.

Huge flakes of snow splattered on his windshield. The atmosphere had grown so dense that he couldn't see the familiar glow of St. Raymond's spire. He slid up to the curb in front of the rectory, grabbed his bag and hopped out of his vehicle. A police car, lights flashing, pulled up right behind him.

Murray bounded up the walk, nearly losing his footing twice. He rapped at the front door. He did not expect to hear a reply, so he turned the knob. The heavy wooden door opened. Father Zaleski never locked it anyhow.

Murray looked to the left and saw the priest slumped over on his desk in the office. Panic welled up in him and turned his blood to ice.

"Hey, doc!" the patrolman called as he entered the rectory. "I got oxygen and a defibrillator."

Murray straightened his shoulders. Father Zaleski couldn't die. He wouldn't let him -- for Doria's sake.

Doria pulled out underwear and socks from her drawer. She pitched them into her suitcase. She went to her closet and yanked clothes off the hangers mindlessly, without caring whether anything matched. Her hand touched the soft velvet of a black dress. She felt suffocated at the sight of the dark cloth. She had worn the color of mourning too many times. No. She wouldn't pack that outfit. She slammed the closet door shut.

For a moment, tears threatened. She took a deep breath. She couldn't cry. It would do no good and besides, how could she drive all the way home trying to peer through swollen lids?

Pam had called her back and told her that everyone would do their best to save Uncle Walter's life. But Doria had heard the tightness in Pam's voice as they had prayed together.

Doria zipped up the suitcase. She checked the apartment quickly, turned on her answering machine, and pulled on her coat.

Stepping outside, Doria noticed that the snow had started to coat the streets and sidewalks. In her haste, she slid on the stairs but caught herself before she fell by grabbing the railing. She swallowed hard. She would have to be cautious and drive a little slower, even though that would take more time.

She prayed that she would make it to Port Harbor before Uncle Walter died. Biting her lip and trying to rein in her emotions, she walked in a more prudent manner to her car. All the little things her uncle had done for her came back to her now -- incidents that she had forgotten over the years. Despite the passage of time, her mind replayed everything clearly, as if it had occurred only yesterday.

How odd that the blow to her head had not wiped away any of it! She could not account for a single moment of that one terrible day when Alex Kuhlman had slammed a gun against her skull. Yet, she could easily recall all that had come before and all that had followed.

She remembered the bright, shiny bicycle her uncle had given to her and the movies he had taken her to see. He had handed countless ice cream cones to her. Most of all, he had helped her in caring for her mother. He had always been there, as much a part of St. Raymond's church as the stones and the steeple. A light, always calling her home.

A tear rolled down her cheek as she threw the suitcase into the trunk of her car. Dashing away the salty tear with the back of her hand, she searched around in the dark trunk for the snow scraper but she couldn't locate it. Giving up, she slammed the lid shut and glowered at her snow-covered car. Then she swept off the snow with her ungloved hands.

It didn't take long for the cold to sting her fingers. Wincing from the pain she got into the car and switched the heater on full blast. Waiting for her skin to defrost so she could begin driving, she let out a sob. Leaning her forehead against the steering wheel, she cried out loud.

"Why, God? Why are you always taking away the people I love? I'm trying to get my life back on track, I'm trying to live unselfishly, and now this. It isn't fair!"

The moment she uttered those words, she realized how foolish she must sound to God -- how immature and petulant.

Why should she get any special favors?

A sharp pain stabbed at her heart. God had already given her the most precious gift of His Son.

She sniffed and lifted her head. She should be thanking God for all the time she had already enjoyed with Uncle Walter. Her uncle had taught her all about trust because he had never doubted her. She believed in God's forgiveness because Uncle Walter had always pardoned her. He had reminded her over and over that her stubbornness was a "gift." He never let her forget that God's grace would be there for her. Most of all, Uncle Walter never failed to remember her in his petitions. She had strayed from God's love, but not so far that she couldn't return. She felt sure that Uncle Walter's prayers on her behalf had pulled her back from the brink of hell.

She had never, ever thanked him.

Her hands still throbbed, nearly half-frozen from the snow, but she clasped the wheel, shifted into gear, and pulled out onto the white-covered road. She would get back to Port Harbor tonight.

The snow continued to get deeper through the long, dark night. Still, Doria's car crept along steadily. Even though her heart felt pierced with grief, she couldn't help noticing how the falling snow had turned the world into a fairytale of white.

"It's like heaven," she thought to herself. Heaven wasn't a bad place. Uncle Walter had always appeared cheerful at the idea of leaving this earthly plane.

"But he's the only relative I have left!" Her voice stuck in her throat.

Outside her windshield, in the glare of the car's headlights, she saw how the thick, heavy flakes clung to the branches of trees and weighed them down, causing them to droop gracefully. Hard, sharp edges had been softened into pillow-like shapes. The pristine, soft crystals hid the ugliness of the drab roadway. The dirty concrete appeared to have been wiped clean, like a new slate, Doria thought to herself. The land had been forgiven, by the hand of God, with a fresh coating of purity.

She sighed. Could anyone see her own new, clean heart? She wondered whether Murray would notice any difference in her?

Her throat grew tight. Could he love her now that she had turned her life around?

Suddenly, the wheels slipped and the car slid sideways for several feet before the tire tread grabbed some traction in the deepening snow. While the car had not left the road and though the danger had passed, Doria's knees shook and she had a dreadful sinking sensation in her stomach. She shifted into a lower gear.

She had forgotten how treacherous it could be driving in the snow. The road had become a lonely place. Anyone with any sense had decided to stay in.

But Uncle Walter might die. He could be dead even now.

Taking a deep breath, Doria gripped the wheel tighter and plowed onward. It became increasingly difficult to tell exactly where the road was. She traveled cautiously from one milepost marker to the next, hoping she wouldn't lose her way.

Struggling to stay alert and keep her mind on her driving, Doria switched on the radio. Restlessly, she searched through the stations until she heard the dear and familiar hymn that her father had always sung with such rousing fervor. The last verse seemed especially pertinent to her in the snowy night.

From rock and tempest, fire and foe,

Protect them where-so-e'er they go,

Thus ever let there rise to Thee

Glad hymns of praise from land and sea.

"This is worse than a storm on the ocean," she thought aloud. "On the Merrichase, there's radar and I could sure use some radar here. I don't even have a car phone anymore."

She berated herself for her shortsightedness in eliminating the one luxury item that might be a lifesaver on this snowy night. But in her new attempt at being thrifty, she had not counted on driving in such miserable conditions. As the car slipped and slid on the road that she could barely see, she prayed that she wouldn't make a fatal mistake.

Then she recalled one of Uncle Walter's many sayings.

"You always have a hotline to heaven," he had often told her. "Jesus is listening."

"Lord Jesus, please send something to guide me. I need more than protection right now. I need some real genuine, solid help," she begged.

She thought about turning back, but she was nearly halfway there. She struggled onward with an overwhelming sense of urgency. She must get to Uncle Walter. He must not die.

A large sign announced an upcoming exit in two miles. Doria could feel the weariness creeping up on her. Should she stop? Should she get a room in a motel and wait until the storm lifted?

Approaching the exit, she saw the headlights of a lone truck trudging along in the storm.

"At least I'll have some company," Doria shrugged. So she fell back a little and the truck barreled down the ramp to pull in front of her on the interstate highway. The truck had been painted a bright, bold yellow.

Doria frowned at the logo on the back of the truck. Written in vivid orange, the words "Angel Artichokes" curved around a huge, green image. The vegetable appeared to have white, feathery wings painted on it.

"That's too weird," Doria whispered as a cold shiver went up her spine. Uncle Walter had always told her to just ask Jesus and until her mother's death, she had done so. But why had none of those prayers worked? Not once had she gotten an answer to her desperate pleas for her mother's health.

Why couldn't she have had a miracle then? Why did she get a heavenly guide on this desolate stretch of highway? She bit her lip. The answer seemed obvious. Evidently, she was supposed to get back to Port Harbor.

God knew what was best -- for everybody. She realized she still had a lot to learn about trust.

Over the radio she heard a reading of the letter of James the Apostle.

"...for you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. And let perseverance be perfect, so that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing."

"I'm going through another test. Right, Lord?" she asked. "And I have to learn to persevere. I haven't been very good at that and I'm sorry. But I am trying."

As the reading went on, a gentle peace settled on Doria, the same sort of feeling she had often found in prayer as a youngster. She let go of her fears, allowing that God's decisions would be the right ones, even if they were difficult to accept or understand.

Her mind drifted onward. She had come to realize that working as a chef for somebody else would never make her wealthy, especially since she still had too many debts to pay. She knew now that she might have to give up her dream of ever owning a restaurant.

The snow turned to rain and the driving conditions became measurably worse. Doria trailed further behind the artichoke truck as Baytown came into view, at last. It had taken twice as long as it usually did to travel this far.

On her right, the river that separated Baytown from Port Harbor flowed like a black velvet ribbon in the inky night. The brightly-lit docks of the fishing boats glowed like welcoming beacons.

She saw the Merrichase rocking gently on the tide. The old trawler looked beautiful draped with a blanket of snow, like a scene from a picture postcard or a Christmas card.

"I love that old boat," she sniffed. She thought of the clean, spotless interior and tears started to trickle down her cheeks. Would anyone else keep it so neat? Would anyone else care that the sanitary conditions on that boat were better than many restaurants? She wiped the moisture away from her cheeks with the back of her hand as a new idea blossomed.

"If I had the money, I'd buy the Merrichase and turn it into a floating restaurant." Her mind filled with happy images of converting the trawler. But she knew it was only a dream. She would never be able to finance it.

The bridge loomed ahead and fear trailed up Doria's spine. The rain falling on the snow would make the roadway especially slick.

The artichoke truck barreled straight ahead, passing by the turnoff for the bridge but Doria turned on her indicator and eased gently around the corner to begin her ascent up the bridge. She slid on the slush-covered incline. Gripping the wheel tighter, she pressed the accelerator down and spun her tires.

Spitting up slush, the tires inched onward in spurts. Fortunately, there wasn't another soul around, so Doria didn't have to worry about sliding into another car. When she reached the top of the bridge, she breathed a sigh of relief. Her eyes misted with tears again as her gaze caught the inspiring green glow of St. Raymond's steeple.

What news awaited her there? Swallowing the lump in her throat, she headed down the other side of the bridge. Her car started to pick up speed but the road remained clear of other vehicles, so she simply coasted along.

Then something dark darted out from the side of the street into the path of her car. Doria knew it was a small animal, probably somebody's pet. She didn't want to hurt it. Without thinking, she slammed down on the brake. Immediately, her car spun out of control on the icy surface of the road. She screamed as she went careening toward the embankment of the cold, black river.

Chapter Twenty-One

Murray rubbed his forehead and blinked his eyes against the glare of his headlights reflecting in the snow. He felt totally exhausted after spending most of the night at the hospital in Baytown, but it had been worth it. Father Zaleski stood a good chance of recovering. With a little luck, the priest could be guiding and inspiring his flock as usual within a matter of weeks.

The sound of static crackled from the scanner on the passenger seat and startled Murray. He had almost forgotten it. Father Zaleski had insisted on giving it to him. He had finally taken it with him to appease the ailing priest, even though he didn't need another distraction in his life. His own pager kept him busy enough dealing with his patients' dilemmas.

Kneading out the tight knot of tension at the base of his neck, Murray's thoughts turned to Doria. Before leaving the hospital, he had tried to call her but he had only reached her answering machine. At first, he had assumed she had fallen asleep and would discover his news when she awoke. But as he drove along toward Port Harbor, a sense of unease settled on him. What if she had decided to drive home in the snow? Would she be so foolish?

He groaned aloud as he considered that possibility. He knew that if Doria made up her mind to see her uncle, nothing would stop her. While Murray had counted on Pam to calm Doria down, his sister may not have succeeded.

The snow turned to rain and even the Jeep had difficulty handling the slick road. Murray's nerves frayed as he pictured Doria's small car in his mind. Would it be able to plow through the heavy snowfall? Turning morbid, he considered what might be the crash-test rating on that particular model. Small, sporty, and low-slung, he feared it had been poorly designed, without adequate protection for passengers.

He pounded the steering wheel. It had taken him months to realize how much he loved her. Every passing day his longing for her grew. Yet, she had made it perfectly clear that she had the life she wanted now, and he wasn't a part of it.

Murray frowned as he heard a gravely voice call from the scanner. At first, he couldn't make out the muttered words, but then an icy shiver worked its way up his spine as he finally began to understand the garbled police messages.

A car had gone into the river on the Port Harbor side of the bridge. Saved from complete submersion by the remnants of an old bulkhead, the vehicle rested in about three feet of water. The door on the driver's side was open, the keys were in the ignition, but nobody was inside. The police decided to call out additional personnel to search the area. If they did not find a body by daylight, they would make a decision about requesting divers.

Murray knew he would be passing the scene in a few minutes. What if one of his patients had been in that car? Who else would be driving into Port Harbor at this hour except for someone who lived in the little town? Should he stop and help to search for the missing driver?

He had spent all night at the hospital. He needed some rest. Still, the driver of that car could be suffering terribly at the moment. Disoriented, injured, and wandering around with wet clothes in the nasty weather, he would need immediate attention.

But what if the unfortunate victim had drowned?

How could anyone drown in three feet of water?

Murray winced as he thought about the ways it could happen. The driver could have been drunk, or using mind-altering drugs. He could have gone into cardiac arrest or lapsed into a diabetic coma.

Murray's mental gyrations erased all the weariness from his body. He turned up the volume on the scanner and then gripped the steering wheel of his Jeep with as much force as if he were guiding the Merrichase through a hurricane. He made up his mind to assist in any way he could for the missing driver.

The police commands continued to sizzle over the airwaves, back and forth. Murray heard them relay the numbers of the vehicle's license plate. He heard the tones calling the volunteers for more help. Then, loud and clear, the black box on the passenger seat boomed out the one name he didn't ever want to hear on the scanner.

"Doria Hanrahan, female, age 24. Brown eyes. Five feet, six inches."

Murray panicked. He stepped on the accelerator and sped dangerously along the slippery roadway. He passed the Merrichase at its berth and didn't give it a second glance. Recklessly, he turned onto the bridge, gunning the motor to gain ground on the upward slope. From the height at the top, he saw the swirling blue lights of several volunteers' vehicles rushing up Ocean Avenue. To the right of the bridge, the pulsating lights of three patrol cars marked the accident scene.

Murray careened down the other side of the bridge and crashed through a snowdrift at the edge of the road. Pulling up alongside one of the patrol cars, he bounded out of his Jeep. A burly officer came up to him and motioned for him to stop.

"This area is cordoned off, sir. We're conducting a search," the policeman informed him.

"I know Doria Hanrahan," Murray explained.

The officer frowned at him. "If you'd like to help out, the volunteers will be organizing a search party -- "

"She'll freeze to death in the meantime!" Murray blurted out.

The officer's face seemed to take on the appearance of granite as another officer came up to stand beside his comrade.

Murray clenched his fists and tried to control the desperation in his voice. "Doria Hanrahan suffered a severe head injury only a few months ago -- this accident could have aggravated that trauma. She could be in critical condition."

"We've found some tracks going off into the woods," the other officer offered. "We should be able to locate her soon. Why don't you sit in your Jeep until we need your help?"

"Tracks?" Murray's voice faltered as his throat tightened with emotion. He glanced toward the wooded area, illuminated by the crazy flashing lights of the patrol cars. "She walked into the woods?"

"Yes, sir," the officer nodded.

"But -- that doesn't make sense. She should have walked to the rectory," Murray mumbled. His heart constricted with fear. Had she stumbled blindly into the trees? Had she collapsed in the snow?

Adrenaline surged into his system. Still, he nodded calmly at the officers, turned his back to them and acted as if he intended to go back to his Jeep. However, when he felt he was past their reach, he swung around and started at a run toward the woods.

The officers shouted after him, but he didn't stop. His lungs burned from the exertion of slogging through the deep, wet snow while icy rivulets of rain ran down into the collar of his coat.

He crashed into the dense, snow covered underbrush of the woods and started calling her name.

"Doria! Doria!" he yelled with all the strength he possessed. He plunged ahead into the woods, tripping over fallen tree trunks lying hidden beneath the snow. "Doria! Doria!" His voice grew hoarse.

He cast his gaze behind him and caught a glimpse of the hulking figures headed his way. They aimed powerful flashlights at him and he squinted in the glare of the bright beams. For a moment he stopped. He had not even attempted to find the footprints in the snow. He did not have any light to guide him. He had acted like a madman, and so he was. He loved her with the very fiber of his being and he could not lose her.

"Doria!" he croaked. "Doria, where are you?"

He lifted his face to the dark sky and felt the sting of the frozen droplets pelting his skin. He needed to get a grip on himself. Taking in an icy draught of air, he began to step more carefully, locating a clear path where no vines could catch at his feet. He found that his track paralleled the river.

"Doria!" He blew a long shrill whistle through his lips and waited. He heard only the patter of raindrops dripping from the branches overhead.

"Doria!" He shattered the stillness of the woods with two more piercing whistles that reverberated through the trees and returned as soft, sighing echoes.

Behind him, the gleaming rays of the police flashlights constantly swept along the snow, making the shadows move in an eerie dance that had Murray's head spinning. Beyond the blinding lights, he could barely make out the ominous figures of the police and a phalanx of volunteers who had spread themselves out along the tree line. Murray knew that each volunteer would be responsible for a small quadrant of the dense terrain in the wooded area. They would complete their search in a logical manner.

Murray gave a mirthless laugh. He had considered Doria's erratic emotions dangerous. He had tried to persuade himself that life with her would be like living on a seesaw. But here he was, behaving like a total lunatic because he couldn't bear the idea of life without her.

He tried to call out again but this time nothing except a strangled whisper could force itself from his throat. He leaned up against an oak and closed his eyes, totally spent from his frenzied outburst. He felt as if he was once more stuck in the gate on the Merrichase with a wall of water crushing the air out of his lungs. Like a man preparing to die, the events of his life flashed through his brain with the predictable plot of a bad movie. However, he knew this time he did not have a curly-haired, brown-eyed angel to save him and he had to face the very real possibility that he would never, ever see her again.

Staring at a future without her brought him to a stunning moment of clarity and he could not deny the truth about himself any longer. Despite everything, he really did not trust God.

A voiceless sob tore through him. He shook, cold and desolate, as the icy rain bore down on him. He didn't have Ed Hanrahan, Chad Fernandez, or Father Zaleski to feed him words of inspiration and he couldn't seem to remember a single line of scripture. Frozen and numb, he admitted that he didn't really have any faith. He had clung to the belief of others, like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver, but he had no convictions of his own.

Murray's own personal stumbling block hit him with a force that threatened to buckle his knees. He knew that if he prayed, nothing magical would happen. Doria wouldn't instantly appear before his eyes. Clamping his lips firmly together, he suddenly felt more alone that he had ever felt in his entire life.

Unexpectedly, the rain turned into a drenching deluge. The skies opened up and dumped everything down on Port Harbor. Murray heard several of the searchers swear. He watched them hesitate, shining their beams at each other and debating whether they should keep going while the water inundated everything.

Murray turned up the collar of his coat and walked away from the oak tree with his head bent. Shattered by his self-revelation, he could not face anyone. He decided that he would leave his Jeep and walk home, no matter how long it took going through to the other end of the woods.

Following the narrow track without light was not difficult. The small path lay several inches below the floor of the surrounding wood.

Ten minutes later the rain ended and the moon peeked out from behind the clouds. A fresh breeze whistled through the treetops, replacing the dank, chill air with the briny smell of the ocean. The scent brought with it memories of long days at sea. A yearning built up in Murray for the punishing labor of a hard day's work on the Merrichase. With his mind in turmoil, only total physical exhaustion would allow him to rest.

He frowned and turned to the right. He thought he could see the deck lights of the Merrichase as it floated in its berth. He stamped through the underbrush until he came to the river's edge. Across the water, he saw the trawler that had held his life together. How could he let it go?

He had almost believed in Ed Hanrahan's God on that boat. If he had stayed on the ship, could he recapture the trust that had allowed him to put his bleak future into God's hands?

Muttering an oath, Murray turned and tramped back toward the trail in the woods. Even if he did gain a measure of faith, what would it matter? Without Doria's freckled face smiling up at him, life had no sweetness at all.

Murray wandered through the woods feeling black and empty inside, with a hollow pain gnawing at his gut. Five minutes later, he realized with a start that he had strayed away from the trail and had no idea where he was. He bruised his knee on a fallen log and decided to sit down on it.

That's when he heard a soft keening coming from a bank of laurel ahead of him. He thought he saw a faint twinkle flickering in the ice-coated leaves. All his misery vanished as he raced toward the light.

Doria crouched in the small shelter, a slap-dash project obviously put together by some children with pieces of lumber foraged from a building site. A plastic drop cloth kept the rain and snow out, but not the penetrating cold. Doria shivered in her wet clothing, chilled to the bone. She smoothed her hand over the soggy, tan-colored coat of the cat. Though her fingers had long ago turned numb and could no longer feel the silky, damp fur, she nevertheless avoided touching the bloody gash on the animal's head. Despite the hideous wound, the cat had managed to walk a considerable distance, nearly losing Doria twice. When she realized the reason the cat had struggled so valiantly to return to the hut, Doria's heart ached.

She had discovered four kittens tumbling over each other, mewing piteously in the makeshift home. The tiny, wobbly creatures called for their mother over and over, but she lay dreadfully still.

"I'm sorry," Doria sobbed. "I didn't want this to happen. I tried to stop."

The mother cat suddenly twitched and shuddered. Then she stopped breathing. Doria tried to swallow, but her throat ached. The reality of death fell like a black shroud in the cheerless hovel. The spark of life had departed, leaving a blank desolation that nearly suffocated Doria. She wanted to escape, but as she tried to back out of the small doorway, one of the kittens, using its razor sharp claws, struggled to climb into her lap. In a moment, the rest followed their bold sibling and soon Doria had her hands full of squirming, howling babies.

"It was an accident," Doria explained in an attempt to console the innocent babies. She patted their soft, downy fur but the kittens continued to wail incessantly.

"I guess you all need some milk," she said. "I'm sure there's some in the refrigerator at the rectory."

Then she realized that she couldn't carry a bunch of wriggly kittens in her arms all the way back through the woods. She swung her gaze about the horrid little shed and noticed a ragged piece of fabric that someone had left in a corner. She picked it up and studied it for a moment. If she knotted a few corners...

She worked quickly, her fingers seeming to thaw as she whipped the soft rag into a kitten carrier. Putting the kittens into it posed some difficulties, but she somehow managed to get all the little creatures securely inside. They continued to lament the loss of their mother, however, and the sound of their cries sliced right through to Doria's heart. They were orphans now and she couldn't stop blaming herself for her part in the death of their mother. Perhaps, if she had been going slower it wouldn't have happened.

True, her car sat in several feet of water, but she had come out almost unscathed.

Doria stepped outside. Surprised that the rain had stopped without her even being aware of it, she now felt the bite of the wind. She knew she would have to hurry before she turned into a lump of ice.

The flashlight in her hand flickered. She shook it and it seemed to glow steadier for a moment, then it dimmed. Though it did not go out completely, the pale bulb could hardly cast a shadow. Panic welled up inside her. How would she find her way out of the woods without a light to guide her?

She gulped hard, closed her eyes, and prayed. When she opened her eyes she noticed the moonlight filtering down. A laugh bubbled up in her throat.

"Oh what a ninny I can be sometimes," she whispered to the mewing kittens "The moon sets in the west, the river is west of this woods and I know there's an old path that runs all along the river. We'll be out of here in no time."

Confidently, she strode ahead and pushed her way through a bank of laurel bushes.

Murray stopped running when he saw a dark form part the branches in front of him. His own heart pounded louder than the rustle of the leaves. Then a series of thin, tiny cries echoed through the woods, sounding like desolate spirits of the dead. Was he in the grip of a nightmare?

He closed his eyes as a weighty, cold stone settled in his stomach. Had he finally lost his mind? Had all the stress and all the sleepless nights crumbled his sense of reality?

He opened his eyes and squinted as the moonlight curled around ringlets of hair. This didn't look like a hallucination. Had he stumbled onto a miracle?

"Doria?" His voice had the whine of a buzz saw.

He heard her let out a startled gasp. Hesitating as she stepped from between the branches, she pointed a wan beam of light at him.

"Murray?" she asked.

He lunged forward and surrounded her with his arms. She felt real; solid though soggy, and shivering from the cold.

"Doria! I've found you." He didn't want to let her go. Burying his face in her damp curls, he fought valiantly to hold his wild emotions in check.

"W-why are you here?" she stammered. "Is Uncle W-walter...?"

The fear in her words checked him. Yes, he had frightened her. He took a deep breath, gathering his strength, and drew back, releasing her.

"He should be fine," Murray found his voice unsteady. "I didn't leave the hospital until he had been stabilized."

She lowered her head and muttered something that Murray didn't hear. Then her body sagged. Instantly, he slid an arm around her waist.

"You need to get out of those wet clothes and get warm, quickly," he ordered.

"Oh, I'll be all right," she sighed. "But the kittens are hungry."

"Kittens?" he repeated like an echo.

She lifted a sack that squirmed and writhed while piteous cries emanated from within. Murray stared in amazement. He had been willing to believe in anguished ghosts when he'd first heard those wails.

Kittens. Helpless little balls of fur. Murray sighed and pulled her closer. He loved this woman.

"I killed their mother." Doria's chest heaved as a great sob spilled from her quaking frame. "I didn't mean to -- I tried to stop but the car spun around and I hit her anyway -- and now she's dead and they need milk."

"It was an accident." Murray reminded her. "And you could have drowned."

"I'm perfectly fine," Doria cried. "But I've got to get them some milk."

She glanced up at him. That's when he noticed the small dark stain trailing down her chin in the silvery glow from the moon. He lifted her chin. Touching her soft skin brought all the longings back, but with a sweet tenderness tempered by time.

"You've split your lip." He turned her head to try and get a better look. "I know a plastic surgeon who can fix that up so you won't even -- "

"I don't need a plastic surgeon!" she interrupted, shoving him away. "I'm a chef, not a model. I need some milk!" She wiped away the stain with her sleeve.

She took big strides to tramp through the slush in the woods. Murray watched her walk away. He had expected to be overwhelmed with a bleak yawning emptiness, but instead, warmth filled him.

Could he trust God? Had God blessed him and listened to his prayers? Murray thought he would burst with joy. He muttered his thanks to God as he jogged through the sloppy snow to catch up to Doria again.

He dug in his pocket and found a clean handkerchief that had remained fairly dry. "This isn't sterile but it might help stop the bleeding."

She gave him an exasperated look, snatched the handkerchief from his hand, and dabbed at her lip.

Murray smiled. All the gold in Fort Knox couldn't equal the worth of a single brown ringlet of her hair. If God had given him another opportunity to win her heart, this time he would succeed.

"Any pain in your neck or your head?" he asked, tracing one finger along her scar.

"No," she sighed. "I think I'm numb."

Murray chuckled. "Yeah. So am I."

He lifted her chin once more. She was more than beautiful or good or brave. Something new shone in her eyes, an inner light that he had not seen there before.

"I love you, Doria Hanrahan, with all my heart," he whispered.

"L-love?" Her voice sounded small and afraid.

He gathered her to his chest. "I want to marry you, Doria. I don't think I can live without you."

Her reply was drowned out as shouts echoed through the woods. The searchers had found them both. Triumphantly bursting upon the scene, the rescuers sprang into action. Within seconds, they had trundled Doria away on a basket stretcher and handed the bag of kittens to Murray.

The kittens squirmed and cried in his arms, but he stood rooted to the spot. He hadn't really asked Doria properly if she would marry him. He'd bungled it. He'd ruined everything. Again.

One of the kittens stuck a paw out of the bag and slashed at Murray's wrist.

"Ouch! Okay! You want some milk." He started to stumble along, following in the tracks of the volunteers and feeling as though he'd left his heart back in the woods on the cold, frozen snow.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Strapped tightly into the basket stretcher, Doria stared up at a sky tinged with the glow of dawn. She closed her eyes for a moment and offered up her grateful thanks. Being carried along through the woods by the EMTs gave her the sensation of floating; or perhaps it was Murray's profession of love that caused her to feel so weightless.

Her heart beat with a staccato rhythm and the cold didn't bother her anymore, so she knew she couldn't be in shock. Murray loved her. He wanted to marry her! She fairly tingled with excitement. She wanted to jump, and cry, and laugh with the joy of it.

Then a sudden realization shot through her like a knife. She hadn't answered him.

She wriggled in her bonds and found she could barely move. The EMTs could have turned the contraption that held her upside down and she would have remained perfectly secure, as if she had been glued there. She couldn't move her head either. She strained her eyes to try and catch a glimpse of Murray.

"Murray!" she called out.

"I handed him the bag with your kittens," the female volunteer explained.

"He's behind us somewhere. He'll catch up," a second squad member offered.

Why am I going to the hospital? Doria asked herself. There's nothing really wrong with me and I've got to talk to Murray!

"I-I've changed my mind," Doria stammered. "I don't want to go to the hospital."

"You should have a doctor look at you." The woman patted her shoulder.

"I was standing right next to a doctor." Doria grimaced as she tried to yank herself free.

"In the hospital they can x-ray you to make sure nothing is broken," the other volunteer went on in a soothing tone.

Doria clenched one hand and fought to pull it out from underneath one strap. "There's not a thing wrong with me. I was just a little shaken when you guys came along." Actually, she believed now that she had been rendered speechless.

"Your lip is swollen and your body temperature is down," said the heftiest squad member. He had to weigh in at close to three hundred pounds and the sight of him did intimidate Doria a little, but that didn't matter. Her future with Murray hung in the balance.

Nevertheless, she reminded herself that these people had been roused from their beds to find her -- even though she wasn't lost. They had the best intentions. Besides, they didn't get any compensation for their good deed. The First Aid volunteers lived the parable of the Good Samaritan every day.

"I'm really sorry you went through all this trouble, but there's nothing wrong with me. Please, I'd like to sign a release form," she said.

"Your car is in the river, you are wet to the skin, and you really should go to the hospital," the woman urged. "They have heated blankets."

"I promise I'll take a hot bath right away." She smiled back at the woman hopefully. "That will warm me up quickly."

The squad members halted as they reached the ambulance.

"Are you sure you want to refuse medical treatment?" the hefty one asked.

"Yes," she said. "I do appreciate your concern and all your efforts."

"You know sometimes you don't realize how badly you're hurt after a car accident." The woman tried one more time to convince her.

Doria bit back her frustration and took a deep breath before stating again, "Honestly, I'm all right."

Reluctantly, they loosened all the straps and released her. She signed the form as the policemen witnessed the procedure.

Then she glanced up and saw Murray heading to his Jeep. She shoved the clipboard at one of the squad members.

"Thanks again -- for everything," she said. She started to run toward Murray, calling out and waving at him. He didn't appear to hear her. He opened the door to his Jeep and placed the bag of kittens inside.

"Murray!" she yelled while she struggled through the slushy snow. "Hey! Wait for me!"

His brow furrowed deeply as she came closer.

"Get back in the ambulance," he ordered. His brusque voice stopped her in her tracks.

"But I'm okay," she said. Her chest heaved as she gulped in air. Running, or the sight of Murray, had made her breathless. She leaned against the side of the Jeep and clutched at the stitch in her side.

"Doria," his voice softened and he covered her hand.

She warmed at his touch, savoring the moment.

"Look. What I said back there..." His words sounded barely above the scratch of sandpaper. "Well, I'm sorry. Okay."

Doria's eyes widened as her heart plummeted. "Sorry?"

He dropped her hand. "I mean, I was so relieved to find you. I thought I had lost you and then I just went nuts..."

"No!" Doria couldn't control herself. To have believed that she had finally found happiness and then have it crumble into nothing was too much for her fragile state.

"You told me you loved me!" she cried. "You said you wanted to marry me! And I've loved you for so long."

All the hours she had ached for him seemed to tumble down upon her. If she didn't have the Jeep to lean on, she would have surely sunk into the slushy snow.

His arms came around her. "Stop. Hush," he murmured tenderly. "I do love you. With all my heart. What I'm sorry for is the bumbling way I expressed myself. I was nearly insane at the thought that I had lost you forever."

It took several moments before Doria regained control of her emotions. At last, she sniffed.

"Oh." Taking in a ragged little breath, she brushed away her tears. "Well, I wasn't lost."

The image of the artichoke truck flashed through her mind and she felt the stirrings of her new, deeper trust in God.

"In fact, I will never be lost again. I think I understand now about faith -- about putting myself into God's hands."

He nodded and then hugged her with such affection that she fairly glowed inside.

"I was ready to stop believing," Murray confessed. "I didn't think prayer would help me find you. I knew you wouldn't magically appear even if I begged God."

Doria listened to his words rumble deep in his chest. He was a blessing to her and she gave thanks that she had finally realized it. She could feel the strength of his hardened muscles

beneath her fingertips but she knew that spiritually she had become stronger than him.

"But I'm here now and you're here, too." She smiled shyly. "I'm absolutely certain I had help in arriving."

He kissed her cheek tenderly. "Please, may I ask you out to dinner this evening? We could go to the fanciest restaurant in Baytown and -- "

"That would be Chez Louis." Doria sighed. "It's really rather banal. Why don't you come over to the rectory? I've got a new curried seafood recipe that I'd like to have you test out -- "

"I want to do something special for the woman I love," he interrupted. "I don't want you to slave over a hot stove for me, at least, not tonight."

Doria's heart lightened. If she had felt like she was floating in the basket stretcher, now she firmly believed that she had sprouted wings.

"Knowing you love me is the most precious gift of all." She meant every word.

Murray spun away from her. "But these things have to be done right! Hearts and flowers and all that romantic stuff!"

Doria chuckled. He seemed genuinely distraught. Then suddenly, he was down on his knees in the snow, fumbling in his pocket.

"What are you doing? You're going to get your pants all wet." She tugged at his arm, but she couldn't make him budge an inch.

He pulled something out of his pocket. It looked like the pop-top from an aluminum can.

"Here, pretend this is a diamond, I'll get a real one tomorrow, you can pick out the biggest, flashiest one in the jewelry store."

Doria laughed but Murray remained deadly serious.

"Now pay attention," he insisted.

He cradled her left hand in his. She felt the tremor in his fingers and the love in her heart brimmed over. He took a deep breath as he placed the pop-top close to the end of her ring finger.

"Doria Hanrahan, would you marry me? Please?"

A great rush of emotion overwhelmed her and she could not speak for fear that she would burst out sobbing. The silence around them grew.

Murray gaze stayed focused on her hand. He did not look up at her.

"While you are deciding, I should tell you that there are strings attached to this proposal," he stated quietly.

Already somewhere between panic and hysteria, Doria closed her eyes. She wanted to say something, anything, but her words stuck in her throat.

"I cannot sell the Merrichase," Murray said. "I think I still need it. So if you marry me, you'll have to live with the boat, as well."

Doria lowered her head. Had he only said that to entice her? She opened her eyes and found him staring at her with a hopeful expression. She gathered her strength.

"I-I. Y-y-yes," she stammered. "I mean, you don't have to give me the Merrichase. You're all I need."

He slipped the aluminum circle on her finger. She felt the weight of a large ring of keys dangling beneath the pop-top.

"I'm not trying to bribe you." Murray gave her a bemused grin. "But somehow I think that old boat is going to make us both happy."

Doria swallowed hard and clasped the ring of keys in her hand. Then she threw her arms around Murray and kissed him. She knew he was right.

Epilogue

Doria stood on a ladder and wound another string of miniature lights around the gallows of the Merrichase. Though she had sold the heavy trawl doors and had most of the other fishing machinery removed, the steel framework that spanned the width of the stern still remained. She decided that the mellow glow from the tiny lights could camouflage the gallows and add the proper, festive touch to the maiden voyage of her new floating restaurant.

The river lay calm on the steamy August night, which was a good thing for her because the ladder didn't wobble. However, as a trickle of perspiration slid down her forehead, she longed for a pleasant breeze. She had already spent hours listening to the weather report, hoping that tomorrow would be less humid.

"Don't you think you've overdoing it?"

Doria turned at the sound of Murray's voice and smiled down at him.

"No," she said. "I want everyone to notice us as we float around the bay."

"You are working too hard on this," Murray complained. "You've lost weight."

"I have not!" Doria laughed. "I've gained at least five pounds trying out all my new recipes."

"Five pounds?" His eyebrows rose. "Are you sure?"

Doria came to the end of the light string.

"Would you hand me that other string of lights?" she asked. "Please?"

She heard him mutter beneath his breath as he went to fetch another string for her.

"You come down from there and I'll finish the job," he ordered.

She stuck out her lip in a playful pout. "Meanie."

"What if you're pregnant?" he asked.

"We've only been married for a month!" she laughed, but she obediently climbed down the ladder.

"But you're getting fat!"

She knew from his worried frown that he didn't intend to hurt her feelings with his remark. She reached up to soothe away the cares from his anxious face.

"You've put on a few pounds yourself, man of mine."

"You feed me too well," he sighed. He took her hand in his and kissed it.

A tingle wound up her arm as her heart brimmed over with love for Murray. They had found so much happiness, that she could barely understand all the bitterness that had stood between them initially.

She watched as Murray repositioned the ladder and stepped up to finish winding the string of lights around the gallows.

The small stirring of a fresh breath of wind tousled Doria's curls and she drank it in while offering up her thanks to God. Glancing out over the deck, she noted that everything looked ready for tomorrow. Uncle Walter had blessed the ship with one of his longer prayers and Doria trusted that the voyage would run smoothly.

Her hand slid into her pocket and felt for the ring of keys. Drawing them out, she fingered the pop-top lovingly. She had thought of getting it fashioned into a piece of jewelry, but Murray had objected. He had purchased a diamond ring, as he had promised. She had come such a long way from the woman who had intended to throw the keys into the ocean. Sighing, she put the keys back into her pocket.

"Okay, all set," Murray pronounced. He came down the ladder and handed the end of the cord to Doria. "Want to see how it looks?"

Doria plugged it in and the old gallows was transformed into a beautiful arc of light. Doria's eyes misted with tears at the wonder of it.

"I like it," Murray said.

"Do you think it's too tacky?" Doria's voice wavered uncertainly.

Murray drew her close and chuckled. "I think it adds a special kind of ambiance."

Doria leaned against him and sighed. "Do you think my father would have approved of this venture?"

She could feel Murray's muscles tense. He remained silent for a few moments before he answered.

"Yes," he said slowly. "I've begun to realize that it wasn't the fishing Ed enjoyed so much. He craved the challenge of pitting himself against the ocean. And winning."

Doria nodded. Her father had always been restless on land where solid ground seemed to bore him. Yet, when his hands rested on the helm of the Merrichase, he appeared to have a fathomless well of energy. It was as if he had been born to be the captain of a ship. No other job would have suited him.

"I realize now that he had little choice but to keep fishing when Mom got ill," she shrugged. "But when she died, I was so angry, I couldn't stand hearing about God and love. I just wish I could have told Dad that before he died. I wish I could have asked him to forgive me..." She bit her lip to stop it from quivering.

Murray squeezed her shoulder comfortingly.

Suddenly, Snowball, one of the kittens, bounded across the deck, batting a shiny object between her paws. The glitter of yellow metal caught the beams from the tiny lights decorating the gallows.

Doria frowned. Could the kitten be playing with a fishhook? Doria had checked every inch of the Merrichase to be sure that any dangerous fishing paraphernalia had been removed. She bent down and carefully snatched the bright thing away. The kitten meowed loudly in protest.

It wasn't a fishhook. In the soft glow surrounding her from the overhead lights, Doria saw that she held a golden crucifix in her hand. Stunned, she could hardly believe what she had pulled away from Snowball.

"This is Dad's," she whispered. There couldn't be another one like it. Her father had gotten it in a distant port halfway around the world when he was in the Navy.

Murray's hand slid beneath her own. His touch melted away some of her shock, but as the memories came pouring down on her, Doria fought to hold back the emotions.

"I know," he said. "He always wore that."

"But when he died, I couldn't find it anywhere." She took in a ragged breath. She recalled believing at the time that Murray had taken it. How wrong she had been about so many things!

"I wonder where Snowball found it," Murray asked.

Doria closed her fingers around the cross and glanced down at the kitten who continued to whine for his lost plaything. He rubbed up against Doria's leg.

"How strange," Doria's voice came out high and tight. She thought of all the Merrichase had been through since her father's death. Aside from being tossed about in a wild storm, the ship had gone through extensive renovations; not a single inch of it remained untouched.

Murray enveloped her in a warm hug. "Hey, I'll get another chain for it -- a good sturdy one. It'll be as good as -- "

Doria interrupted him with a firm shake of her head. She looked up at him.

"I'm glad I have it back, but I think it belongs in the wheelhouse."

"Unless...do you think you'd feel better if it rested in the ocean that your father loved so much?" Murray suggested.

Doria sighed and studied the face of the man she had come to love so dearly.

"No, it belongs here on the Merrichase," she stated in a stronger tone. "Dad always trusted Jesus to bring this boat back to port. I believe, now, that Dad trusted Jesus to bring me home, too."

Murray kissed her then and joy filled her heart. She had found love but she had also found faith. All the storms in her life had led her to a trust in God that would always endure -- the very same trust that had sustained her father.

As the Merrichase rocked slowly on a ripple of the tide, safe at its berth, Doria clung to Murray and knew in her heart that her father was very, very happy. The sea that Ed Hanrahan had challenged for years had given his daughter back her hope and her future.

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