Three Fates

it, the hint of sea it carried. He lay as he was a moment, letting it wash over him until the bells faded to echoes.
    He’d arrived in Cobh too early to do anything more productive than admire the harbor and get the general lay of the land.
    What had once been a port that had given so many of the country’s immigrants their last look at their homeland was now more of a resort town. And pretty as a postcard. He had a strong view of the low street, the square and the water from his windows. On another trip he would have taken his time absorbing the place, acquainting himself with the rhythms of it, with the locals. He enjoyed that aspect of traveling, and traveling alone.
    But in this case there was only one local he had any interest in. Malachi Sullivan.
    He intended to find out what he needed to know, make his second stop, and be back in New York within three days. Anita Gaye needed watching, and he’d do a better job of it in New York.
    When he was finished here, he intended to contact Tia Marsh again as well. The woman might know more than she realized or more than she’d let on.
    Business aside, he’d make time for a pilgrimage before he left Cobh. He checked his watch and decided to order up coffee and a light breakfast before he showered.
    The room service waiter had a face full of freckles.
    “And isn’t it a fine, fresh day?” he said as he set up the meal. “You can’t do better for sightseeing. If you’d be needing any arrangements made for touring, Mr. Burdett sir, the hotel’s happy to see to it for you. We might have rain tomorrow, so you’ll want to take advantage of the weather while you have it. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”
    Jack took the little folder holding the bill. “Do you know a Malachi Sullivan?”
    “Ah, it’s a boat tour you’re wanting, then.”
    “Sorry?”
    “You want to tour around to the head of Kinsale, where the Lusitania was sunk. Fine views, even if it’s a sad place all in all. Tours run three times daily this time of year. You’ve missed the first boat, but the second leaves at noon, so you’ve plenty of time for that. Would you like us to book that for you?”
    “Thanks.” Jack added a generous tip. “Does Sullivan run the tour himself?”
    “One Sullivan or the other,” the boy said cheerfully. “Gideon’s away just now—that’s the second son—so it’s likely to be Mal or Becca, or one of the Curry crew, who are in the way of being cousins to the Sullivans. It’s a family enterprise, and a fine value for the money. We’ll see to the booking for you, and you’ve only to be down the dock by a quarter to noon.”
     
     
    SO HE HAD time to wander a bit after all.
    He picked up his tour voucher at the front desk, pocketed it while he headed out. He walked down the steeply sloped street to the square, where the angel of peace stood over the statues of the weeping fishermen who mourned the Lusitania ’s dead.
    It was a powerful choice in memorials, he thought, the rough-clad men, the shattered faces. Men who’d made their living from the sea and had cried for strangers taken by it.
    He supposed it was very Irish, and he found it very apt.
    A block over was a monument to the doomed Titanic, and her Irish dead. Around them were shops, and the shops were decked with barrels and baskets of flourishing flowers that turned the sad into the picturesque. That, he thought, was probably Irish as well.
    Along the streets, in and out of shops, people strolled or moved briskly about their business.
    The side streets climbed up very impressive hills and were lined with painted houses whose doors opened straight onto the narrow sidewalks or into tiny, tidy front gardens.
    Overhead the sky was a deep and pure blue with the waters of Cork Harbor mirroring it.
    Boats were being serviced at the quay, the same quay, his pamphlet told him, as had been in service during the era that White Star and Cunard ran their grand ships.
    He walked down to the dock and took his first study of Sullivan’s tour boat.
    It looked to seat about twenty, and resembled a party boat, with its bold red canopy stretched over the deck to protect passengers from the sun. Or around here, he assumed, the rain. The seats were red as well, and a cheerful contrast to the shiny white of the hull. The red script on the side identified it as The Maid of Cobh.
    There was a woman already on board, and Jack watched as she checked the number of life jackets, seat cushions, ticking