“We had plenty of seafood in the Azores,” Jo proclaimed, voice sounding defensive. “Octopus, lampas, barnacles, grouper, cod, mackerel,” she listed off.

  “And yet you’d never had a clam,” Lizzy hummed.

  The spritz of the orange peel’s oils reminded Jo of home; the scent alone transported her across the Atlantic to her small island home and to watching her own father expertly peel away the orange’s rind before dividing its inner segments between her and Antonio. Her father had been able to peel the orange while leaving the outer rind entirely intact.

  Jo felt clumsy and out of practice in comparison to what her father had been able to accomplish. Eventually she’d peeled away the outer skin, leaving only the tender, juicy segments. She pulled the orange apart, dividing it to share with Lizzy.

  Lizzy accepted her half of the orange, but she didn’t immediately take a bite. She looked to Jo for instructions on how to eat the fruit. She didn’t want to mess it up. This wasn’t something she was reading about in one of her books; she felt solemn and special that Jo had thought to include her.

  Jo separated one of the segments from her half of the orange and popped it into her mouth. She smiled as she chewed and waited for Lizzy to have her first bite.

  Lizzy carefully separated a single segment as she’d watched Jo do. She treated the piece of fruit like a fragile, priceless object. Instead of eating the entire segment in one go as Jo had, she bit the orange piece in half, hoping to savor each bite.

  Lizzy made a surprised noise when the orange burst in her mouth. She quickly brought a hand up to her mouth to capture the escaping juices. Sweet liquid dribbled down her thumb and wrist and she made quick work to lick up the fruit juice.

  Jo swallowed hard at the sight of Lizzy’s pink tongue greedily lapping at her wrist and fingers.

  “It’s a little messy, isn’t it?” Lizzy laughed self-consciously at her messiness. Her fingers were sticky and sweet and she’d only just begun eating the fruit.

  Jo felt something raw and carnal flare inside of her. Thoughts fell back to a few years earlier when she’d inadvertently stumbled across a bundle of postcards and photographs from Antonio’s varied travels. She’d been alarmed at first to see the images of naked bodies in various poses and instinctively had returned the cards to their hidden place.

  She’d returned to that spot in later days when she knew neither her mother nor her older brother might catch her. She had known she shouldn’t be inspecting the images so closely—women with bared breasts and long skirts bunched up at their waists to expose bare bottoms and pubic hair—but she hadn’t been able to stay away or banish the memory of the sepia-toned photography.

  She’d first compared her own body to the women on the postcards and daguerreotypes. Her breasts were much smaller with darker nipples, and her body seemed to lack the joyful, fleshy curves of the nude female models.

  Jo became more brash, more reckless each time she returned to the bundle hidden beneath her brother’s mattress. She touched her own nipples, first through her chemise and then later beneath the linen material. She experimented with the softness of the surrounding, supple flesh in comparison to the spongy, rigid tissue of the hardened nubs. Her stomach would clench and tighten as she stared at the images of the women with their legs spread wide while she explored beneath her own skirt, fingers running through the coarse curly hair and the surprising dampness collecting on her fingertips.

  Those same unexpected feelings returned as she watched Lizzy make a mess of the orange. Jo observed a single, thin line of juice dribble down Lizzy’s chin. She had the strangest urge to wipe away the tangy liquid and then drink it from her own fingertips, tasting the juice primarily but then maybe something else that was all Lizzy.

  “There-there’s a festival on the west side this Sunday,” Jo remarked, voice as nonchalant as she could manage. “You should come.”

  Lizzy wiped at her chin with the back of her hand, removing the errant juices. “Is that allowed?”

  Jo cocked her head to one side. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  Lizzy tried not to blush. “I only mean because I’m …”

  “A girl?” Jo supplied.

  “No,” Lizzy laughed. “Because I’m native born. And Protestant.”

  “Oh,” Jo remarked, understanding. “And I’m Portuguese and Catholic.”

  “Right.”

  Jo gave Lizzy a crooked smile. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  Lizzy frowned, clearly not satisfied with the response.

  “It will be fine,” Jo insisted, this time with more confidence. “You Yankees come to our festivals all the time. We have the best parties in town.”

  Lizzy continued to hesitate with her rely. The invitation brought with it the memory of her friend Sonia’s poorly veiled attempt to play matchmaker earlier in the week. She had refused Peter Brown out of hand. She wasn’t ready for romance—not that Joana’s request was at all the same.

  “Please, Lizzy,” Jo implored. “You’ve shown me such kindness these past few weeks. Show me one more.”

  Lizzy didn’t necessarily think agreeing to attend a community festival was a particular kindness, but she wasn’t about to challenge Jo about it.

  “I’ll have work in the morning,” she warned.

  “As will I,” Jo confirmed. “I watch the lantern until midday. But the festival is early in the afternoon, and then I’ll be back to Wood End soon after.”

  Lizzy stared down at her hands and the remaining orange segments and then back up to Jo’s dark, pleading eyes. What other surprises might the young woman provide?

  “Yes,” she finally decided. “I’ll come.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Lizzy Darby stood at the edge of the sea-worn wharf and stared out at the harbor. Her attention rotated between the sunny horizon that seemed to go on forever and the townscape immediately behind her. She had told Jo that she would meet her at the dock that Saturday afternoon so they could walk to the west end festival together, but she hadn’t considered how exposed she might feel while she waited.

  There was nothing wrong, per say, about the two of them attending the neighborhood gathering together, but she didn’t know what she might say if either Sonia or Jane happened upon her—or her parents for that matter.

  Being seen together would be confusing and complicated. Lizzy couldn’t well claim that she was only friends with the young lighthouse keeper. Men and women were never just friends. She couldn’t say that they were courting, either. Her parents and friends would insist on meeting this person, and she had no idea if they’d actually approve of her romantically connected to someone who was Portuguese.

  Lizzy shook herself. She and Jo obviously weren’t courting, so it was a ridiculous thought to begin with.

  Lizzy spotted movement out on the sea. It appeared first as a dark speck on the horizon before it gradually increased in size. The dark figure grew larger the closer it came until Lizzy could just make out the shape of a small rowboat and its single passenger.

  Jo paused her rowing long enough to wave an arm high above her body. “Olá!”

  Unbidden, a smile found its way to Lizzy’s lips. “Olá!” she shouted back.

  Lizzy stepped closer to the edge of the dock and waited for the dory’s approach. The bow of the boat rose and fell as it crested small, choppy waves. Each time the front of the boat lifted, twin painted eyes stared out, unblinking, from the wooden bow.

  Lizzy’s own eyes narrowed as she focused on the superstitious boat art. She knew Jo had painted the eyes—an old Portuguese tradition—but had the irises always been blue? She couldn’t be sure.

  Jo navigated the two-person vessel closer to the pier. She set the oars in the belly of the boat and reached an outstretched arm to catch the closest piling. She looped the loose end of her mooring line through an available cleat on the raised dock so the dory wouldn’t float away.

  “Don’t you get tired of having to constantly row in and out of town?” Lizzy asked. She looked beyond Jo, back out to the vast sea. Wood End was barely within sight.

  “It could be worse,” Jo said as she finished tying up the dory. “If I was stationed at a lighthouse on an island, I’d be away for four weeks at a time with no other human contact except Mr. Howe.” She climbed up a small ladder attached to the pier until she stood on even footing with Lizzy. “The pay would be better,” she noted, “but I’d be no more useful than Antonio, gone to sea while my mother and Lazaro fend for themselves.”

  A crooked smile made its way onto Jo’s face. She tugged off the wool cap she typical wore low across her brow. “Hi.”

  Lizzy returned the grin as she took in the slender woman and her oversized men’s clothes. Jo wore the heavy wool sweater that seemed to be one of her favorites and wide legged trousers. “Hi.”

  Jo jerked her head in the direction of town. “Ready?”

  Lizzy felt a tightening in her stomach. “Are you sure it’s allowed? I don’t want to barge in or trespass.”

  “You’ll be with me,” Jo said. The confidence in her tone was reassuring. “No one will give you a hard time. I promise.”

  The day was bright and sunny despite the November date. As the two walked in companionable silence in the direction of the west side of town, a question took residency in Lizzy’s mind: “Do the people in your neighborhood know about Joana?”

  It was strange to refer to Jo in the third person, but she didn’t know how else to pose the question.

  Jo shook her head. “No. I came up with the idea when we were still living in Rhode Island. I’ve only ever been Jo in Provincetown.”

  “And your mother approves?” Lizzy asked.

  Jo nodded. “She’s the one who cut my hair.”

  Lizzy exhaled. She could never imagine her own mother supporting or even participating in such subterfuge. Her priority had always been for Lizzy to wed, not make money. But the Darbys had never led a hand-to-mouth existence.

  None of her mother’s etiquette books covered poverty and survival. Who cared what kind of refreshments should be served when a young couple was courting when food was at a premium, or if one’s home didn’t have a proper parlor from which to entertain a potential suitor? Survival, Lizzy supposed, was more important than worrying about what a proper girl could or couldn’t do.

  Even though Lizzy had lived her entire life in Provincetown, she had never ventured to the west side of town, which was largely populated by the Portuguese. Her parents had never explicitly forbade her from that section of their seaside community, but she’d never had a reason beyond simple curiosity to walk along its streets. With no sidewalks, the two walked on the right side of the road, careful to avoid a random mud puddle or other street debris.

  The houses were closer together, but just as upkept as other residential parts of town. A few storefronts were mixed in with the housing, small businesses that catered to the Portuguese community. Lizzy couldn’t be sure what kinds of goods or services they provided; all of the signage was in an unfamiliar language.

  Lizzy observed everything with wide, but anxious eyes, certain it was only a matter of time before someone yelled at her from an open window that she didn’t belong.

  Beside her, Jo’s steps were quick and light. She walked with purpose as if she had a destination in mind. Small touches to Lizzy’s elbow and a guiding hand in the small of her back reassured her that she was going in the right direction and that Jo would vouch for her if anyone confronted them.

  Their collective steps slowed when they reached a wide street filled with people. Lizzy held her breath as she took it all in. Doors and windows of the narrow houses that lined the street had been thrown open. It felt like everyone had spilled out of their homes to fill up the street. Vendors sold unfamiliar, but good smelling foods from little carts. Music and loud chatter filled Lizzy’s ears.

  A small band with guitars and fiddles played lively music. Couples had paired up and danced to the tune in a circle. The women were dressed in long, colorful skirts and brightly patterned shawls around their shoulders. Most of the men wore wide-brimmed hats covering their heads. A heavy-set man with a loud, booming voice shouted in an unfamiliar language. The pairs of dancers gathered in opposite rows and approached each other and then moved away as the music progressed.

  “They’re doing the Chamarrita,” Jo said, her voice close to Lizzy’s ear. “It’s a traditional dance. The caller sings out directions to the dancers.”

  Lizzy nodded, but found herself unable to speak. She knew they were still in her hometown, but it felt like another world.

  “Do you mind if we stop off at my mother’s house?” Jo asked. “She’ll be expecting me.”

  Lizzy finally found her voice. “Oh!” she squeaked. “I, um … that would be fine.”

  She hadn’t considered she might make the acquaintance of Jo’s family that day.

  Jo nodded once before seizing Lizzy’s hand. She pulled her down a little street, leaving the sights, sounds, and scents of the festival behind.

  A block away from the festivities, Jo stopped in front of a two-story house. Lizzy hadn’t given much thought to the house where Jo had lived with her family before she took the job at Wood End. It was a tall, but narrow structure with a sharply pitched roof. The wooden shingles were worn gray from the salty air. A single window on the second floor stared down onto the street.

  Jo walked up to the front door. She didn’t knock; she pushed on the door handle and walked inside. After an uncertain glance around her, Lizzy followed a few steps behind.

  “Mãe!” Jo called as she entered the house.

  Unlike the bright, open floor plan of the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, the layout of the Pascoal home was divided into multiple cramped spaces. The front room was small and dark. Lizzy felt the need to stoop despite not being overly tall herself. She registered furniture—short, narrow beds and wardrobes for storing clothing and linens, perhaps.

  Jo walked deeper into the home until she reached a brighter, larger room that seemed to serve as both kitchen, dining room, and parlor. Lizzy stayed close behind, nearly clipping the back of the other woman’s feet even though she was in no danger of getting lost.

  “Mãe!” Jo called out again.

  Lizzy looked around what seemed to be the home’s main room. The bare floorboards were clean and freshly swept. A little table was set for four; a clean white tablecloth covered its surface. An upholstered chair was positioned close to the potbelly stove and the room’s only window. The basket of knitting supplies on the chair reminded Lizzy of her own mother.

  Jo turned to face Lizzy. “Can I take your jacket?”

  It was warm inside, thanks to the small but efficient coal-burning stove. A covered pot quietly bubbled on top of the cast iron stove.

  Lizzy unbuttoned the oversized buttons of her wool jacket and shrugged out of the outerwear.

  Jo’s eyes perceptibly widened. “Is that a new dress? I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Old, actually.” Lizzy looked down at the calico frock and smoothed down the skirt. “But I thought the occasion might call for something gayer than my usual wardrobe.”

  Lizzy observed the sweep of Jo’s dark eyes and how they traveled the length of her body. Jo’s voice dropped: “It suits you.”

  Lizzy received compliments from other women from time to time. Sonia was particularly effusive with complimenting she and Jane about the smallest changes in their hair or wardrobe. But no compliment Sonia had ever paid had made her blush like Jo’s.

  “Do you ever wear dresses?” Lizzy asked.

  Jo snorted. “Thank goodness, no. And I have no plans to ever wear one again if I can help it,” she boldly proclaimed. “Ditching the corset freed me in more ways than one.”

  “What about when you wed?”

  “I’ll never marry,” Jo immediately refused. “I have my responsibilities. My mother. My brothers.”

  “But if you fell in love?” Lizzy found herself asking.

  Jo licked her lips. “Love isn’t for people like me. I don’t have the luxury.” She cleared her throat as if the conversation had become too serious for her liking. “I’ll leave the dresses to the pretty girls.”

  “You’re pretty,” Lizzy insisted.

  “That’s a good one,” Jo sniffed.

  “You are, Jo. I bet if you grew out your hair and took a comb to it.” Lizzy stretched out her hand as if she intended to touch the side of Jo’s face or the ends of her unruly hair. “You have a very pretty face.”

  Jo flinched and pulled away. “Right,” she scoffed. “A painted up assistant lighthouse keeper. Could sell tickets to that. One of P.T. Barnum’s freak shows.”

  Lizzy frowned but didn’t protest further.

  Footsteps on wooden stairs drew Lizzy’s attention away from Jo’s scowling face and focused instead on the sound. A small woman stopped a few steps from the bottom of the staircase. She wore a long, black dress, not unlike something Lizzy might find in her own closet. Her head was uncovered; a few white streaks colored an otherwise full head of jet black hair. The woman’s hair was pulled back in a tight knot fashioned low at the base of her head.

  “Mãe!” Jo greeted.

  The assistant lighthouse keeper spoke rapidly in a language Lizzy could never hope to understand. Jo spoke with great enthusiasm and waved her arms in Lizzy’s direction. Lizzy forced a smile to her lips, sensing Jo was probably introducing her and explaining to her mother who she was.

  Jo’s mother spent no more than a passing glance in Lizzy’s direction. She spoke a few curt words to her daughter before descending the final steps. She retrieved a wooden spoon from a hanging shelf and stopped in front of the cast iron stove.

  Jo spoke again, still in the unfamiliar language. She lifted the lid of the cooking pot, but her mother slapped her hands away and shook the wooden spoon in her direction.

  “The fava beans apparently aren’t ready yet,” Jo announced with a grin.

  Lizzy laughed tightly, not knowing what else to do.

  “I’ll be right back,” Jo said.