Sea of Hope

Sea of Hope

By Penelope Marzec

© Copyright Penelope Marzec 2018. All rights reserved.

Previously published by Awe-Struck Publishing 2001

Cover Image by Taria Reed Digital Artist (www.TariaReed.net)

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

But he should ask in faith, not doubting, for the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed about by the wind.

...James 1:6 NAB

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 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. The tempest tore her words away and answered her question with the wind’s shrill scream. A shower of salty spray 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. 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. Aware 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 imprisoning her except for 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, she 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 Santoro! Put me down!

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 timid woman but she had never been intimidated by anyone except the mugger in New York City and that was because he had a 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 her face. These are mine and don’t you forget it. Then he snapped them shut in his fist.

Pain stabbed at her heart and her throat tightened. She took in a ragged breath and studied the seething man beside her. In the flickering light of the porch lamp, the golden strands in his 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. Her dream of owning a restaurant would be postponed because he had stolen her future.

She 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. She 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 squeezing her arm and then glared at his face. He 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 her 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. 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 took a deep breath intending to spout off her fury, but paused as she watched him studying the keys in his hand. He rubbed his thumb over the ridges and peered at the worn writing with such concentration, she 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 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 there shouldn’t be thunder. Not in December. Fear chilled the blood in her veins as she stared in horror down the long 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 a 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 pervading 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.

Plus there are ten families who have been flooded out of their homes who are 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?

Sure, Murray agreed. Good idea.

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, check job sites, email resumes, and schedule interviews.

Throwing the blanket aside, she 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.

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.

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 meal 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.

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 her off guard.

Um, she faltered. You know Dad always said the city wasn’t a nice place to live. She hadn’t believed him, but she did now.

You broke up with the young man you worked with. Uncle Walter continued to observe her intently. Her cheeks burned with heat.

Well. Yes. She 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.

She bit her lip. She could never repeat the horrid things her boyfriend had said to her. He had taunted her and accused her of holding onto 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. She 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. 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.

She 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.

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 howling wind.

Uncle Walter’s voice thundered from inside his office. Put her on the couch in here, he directed.

The kid in Doria’s arms grabbed a fistful of her brown waves and pulled. Her 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. 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 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 might wrap around the baby’s neck, Pam might 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 his best. 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 as pretty as you are, 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 her 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 composed 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 the lightheadedness had affected her brain. Murray—a doctor? She rubbed her temples and tried to remember if