Chasing the Tides: The Plot Thickens

by Linda Harris Sittig

Because this is a dual timeline historical fiction, I felt it was only fair to introduce you to the second protagonist: Rory Sullivan.

The ebook is available now on Kindle and the printed book will debut on Nov. 1st, on Amazon.

CHAPTER 3
CONEY ISLAND, NEW YORK, JULY 1942

Rory stopped at the newsstand, fingered her cross necklace, and stared
at the front-page photo in the Daily News.
An American tanker engulfed in flames burned in the Atlantic.
Torpedoed by a German U-boat, the ship had become a raging infer
no, the gates of hell on an open sea. She thanked God that her father’s
crippled hand had prevented him from serving. Silently, she shook her
head and crossed over to her father’s saloon. Well, not his saloon; he
was only the bartender at O’Hara’s.
She pulled hard on the solid oak door. The dimly lit interior boasted
halos of pipe smoke that hung in the air. Several customers perched on
barstools, while a few tables and chairs waited patiently for the next
arrivals. The polished wooden bar looked forward to the men who
soon would drink and cheer loudly for Ireland as they banged on the
bar top.
Pints of beer were the potion of choice, although bottles of whiskey
stood like sentinels on back shelves, begging to be opened. The air,
perpetually thick with the sweet scent of pipe tobacco, mixed itself
with the sour odor of human sweat.
“Hi, Noreen.” Rory smiled at the other waitress on shift this
afternoon, then hung up her own small book bag and sweater she
had taken earlier to the library. She and Noreen worked well together,
although Noreen’s primary goal in life was to find a husband, and
Rory wanted more than that. Nevertheless, they were friends and
went to the movies together on occasion. But Rory had never been
to the apartment Noreen shared with her parents and three younger
brothers. They weren’t what one would call close friends.
“Hi, right back at you. Go on in the kitchen and see what Gus is
cooking.”
Rory pushed open the swinging door. In front of her stood Gus,
O’Hara’s cook, whose air of authority had no rivals.
“Hi, Gus, what’s the special today?”
“Fish and chips.”
Rory licked her lips. Gus might not be Irish and a man of few
words, but he cooked a mean plate of fish and chips.
As she donned her apron, the newspaper image crept back into
her mind. It made her want to escape the saloon and the war, like a
bird impatient to migrate before a storm. For now, Da seemed to be
content to stay in Coney Island. His left hand had been crippled over
twenty years ago in the Anglo-Irish War, but a one-handed bartender
could still make a good living. Pat Maguire could coax stories of love
or woe from his customers, but he rarely spoke of his own, not even
with his daughter.
They’d moved a lot—almost every two or three years—before finally
settling in Coney. Rory didn’t understand why. Da claimed he wanted
a better place for them to live, but Rory felt deep down there was more
to his story, a tale just out of reach that he wouldn’t share.
All the years of moving and the changes that came with that left
Rory feeling alone. Attractive, with porcelain Irish skin and soft moss
green eyes, she had dated some in the two high schools she attended.
Closely watched over by her father, the boyfriends never lasted.
Now they lived on Coney Island, and the spit of land drew her in
its arms because of the ocean. She loved the music of the waves that
changed with the tides and the weather. She loved the smells from the
briny sea and the seaweed that washed up on the shore. Most of all,
she loved the ocean’s rhythm, which gently seeped into her soul.
Water in its various forms—bays, rivers, seas, and lakes—had punc
tuated her childhood as they moved from state to state. And with all
the moves, she drew comfort from the water’s rhythm that bookended
her days. Water became her familiar companion. She vowed to herself
that wherever she might move as an adult, it would be near water and
the tides.
When she was young, and they lived near Boston, she asked her
father about the tides.
“Da, how do they know when to come and go?”
“They move with the moon.”
This answer perplexed her.
“What do you mean?”
“The moon has a force, the old ones said it came from Cliodna, that
pulls and releases the tides.”
“Who’s Cliodna?”
“The ancient goddess who controlled the tides.”
Rory wondered why the nuns in school never taught about this.
“Did Cliodna send us on the tides when we left Ireland?”
“Aye, she did.” He winked.
They had left Ireland when Rory was an infant, so she had no
memory of the land or the trip to America.
Sundays on Coney, she and Da would kick off their shoes and walk
the shoreline, often tossing bits of stale bread to the seagulls. Or they
would walk the boardwalk for exercise. At night, Rory would lie in bed
and listen to the tides.
On holidays, they’d visit some of the amusements and ride the
Wonder Wheel. At the top, her father would always turn his face east,
eyes scanning toward a distant shore.
“A penny for your thoughts, Da.”
He’d hum a tune and lightly sing in her ear, “‘But the sea is wide,
and I canna swim over.’”
She knew he still missed Ireland. Why had they left their homeland?
The only time she asked him that question, he had patted her hand
and uttered, “It was a long time ago. You needn’t worry about it.”
Last week, on their day off, as they ambled along the boardwalk, Da
turned to Rory. “Are you thirsty? Would you like a sarsaparilla?”
“No thanks.”
He remained quiet, but quizzical. “You seem restless. Did some
thing happen at O’Hara’s that I should know?”
Rory shook her head. “How long do you think we’ll live on Coney
Island?”
“Do you not like it here?”
“I do, but I’m also thinking about the future. I’m no longer a
schoolgirl. I have dreams.”
“And you’re still the precious light of my life.”
Rory smiled as a blush reached the roots of her dark copper-red
hair. Her father rarely verbalized any emotion. “Your precious light
wants to do more than waitress.”
They continued their walk, but a scrim of sadness passed over her
father’s face. “There are worse things.”
“I’m sure there are, but I’d like to take a business course. Maybe
two.”
“Bookkeeping?”
“No. The only people who make the real money, Da, are the owners
of places like O’Hara’s.”
“I’ve tried to do the best for us.”
“I know you have, and I appreciate all you’ve done. But I dream
about a different future. One where we don’t always live over Irish bars.
I want us to have our own home.”
In an uncharacteristically affectionate gesture, he put his arm
around her shoulder. “Maybe once the war ends. But Coney Island is
home for now.”
Rory looked out at the water. “Sometimes, Da, I feel like the tides
call my name.”
He stopped and turned so they were face-to-face. “That’s the Irish
in you. The tides, Rory, have a power all their own. They ebb and flow.
Sometimes they are powerful; other times, they are at peace. The ebb
and flow are their highs and lows. Just like our lives, we experience
both highs and lows. Be careful of the pull of the tides; you don’t want
them to lead you astray.”
Rory looked at him in wonderment. Rarely had he ever given such
a speech. She linked her arm through his. “All right, Da, I promise.”
But as they walked back, she gazed out to sea. The whitecaps danced
on the waves and seemed to beckon. “Follow us,” they whispered.

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Many thanks:)

Linda:)