MICK SULLIVAN WAS FORTY-seven years old in 1928. The year before, he was forced from his job as the lighthouse keeper at Banshee Point because of the new regulation automation systems provided by the government. Mick had been crushed at first, but Roddy Larkin was a decent sort and he saw to it that Mick had a job to go to.

    Roddy opened the Larkin Harbor Tour Company shortly after the lighthouse automation was in place. He hired Mick to guide tours on the harbor as well as a leisurely route around the lighthouse area and the Larkin's private beach. Mick was not a boat-pro, but he quickly adapted to the 65-foot wooden schooner known as Lady Banshee. The vessel was constructed at the Shipbuilders Station on the harbor, and was made with traditional two-inch carved cedar planks over white oak frames. The schooner had a roomy fifty-six feet on deck, with cushioned edge seats and grip rails. The beam was fourteen feet with a draft of six feet six inches. Lady Banshee had 18,000 pounds of ballast and carried 1,600 square feet of sail.

    Mick was plenty busy during the summer tourist season, but winter brought a lull to his activity. Apart from general maintenance around the lighthouse once a month, which Roddy paid him for, Mick was left to his own devices from October to April each year.

    It wasn't that Mick needed the money. He rarely touched the $450,000 John Larkin willed to him. He spent bits here and there, but Mick was determined to provide his own income. He heartily disliked being idle. His wife, the former Layla Barton-Brooks, often begged him to relax. "You could retire right now," she told him. "There's no need for all this restlessness. Enjoy life, my darling. Find an interesting hobby, or just simply retire."

    But Mick loved the Banshee Point Lighthouse. He didn't care if he had enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life - he yearned to work in his beloved lighthouse. Since that was no longer possible, he made do with the harbor tours. Yet it was a poor replacement for his true calling.

    Instead of the blissful quiet of the keeper's cottage, Mick and Layla now lived in a two-story house on the waterfront of Larkin Harbor. Mick dipped into his inheritance to buy the house outright for $10,000, and he allowed Layla a generous $2,000 to furnish the home.

    The house was painted white with beige trim. It included a deck that wound its way around the back of the house, which faced the water. There were tall windows on the first and second floors, with boxed flower planters under many of them. Mick attached framed gas lights over the front and back doors, and built deck chairs and a table for him and Layla.

    The inside of the house contained four bedrooms, an attic loft, a large kitchen overlooking the harbor and a parlor that faced the front of the house on Harbor Street Pier. Most mornings Mick and Layla awoke to the gently lapping tide in the harbor, a peaceful beginning to any day. Mick built a shed when they first moved in, where he fiddled with woodwork or fixed household appliances. He was also only a half-mile away from the Larkin Harbor Tour Company, so he never had far to go.

    Mick loved the house, although he still secretly yearned for the keeper's cottage. In the evenings, he liked nothing better than to sit on the deck of his harbor home with a pint of ale to watch the sun set. Layla often joined him, sipping white wine to his ale.

    Mick and Layla had been married for twenty-three years. Their relationship was affectionate and comfortable. He remained enchanted by his wife's head of dark curls, her pale skin and delicate physique. Despite her apparent outer frailty, Layla was a strong woman with many opinions of her own. She did not view Mick as her lord and master, and he admired her independence.

    One evening in late May, Mick and Layla settled on the deck. Each had their favorite libation in hand as they watched the sun set together in silence. Their time was quiet, apart from the sounds of harbor bell buoys.

    Finally, Layla spoke. "I talked to Jean-Claude this morning. Jennifer miscarried last night."

    Mick was dismayed. "Oh, God no. Is she all right?"

    "Yes, but very depressed."

    He felt a twinge of sadness, the loss of an unknown grandchild bringing a tear to his eye. "The poor dear. Should we go and see her? Is she still at the hospital?"

    "Jean-Claude said she's going home from the hospital in the morning," Layla told him. "Maybe we should stop by tomorrow afternoon."

    Jean-Claude and his wife, Jennifer O'Connor, had married the year before. Jean-Claude worked at the offices of the Larkin Gazette, where he edited articles for the daily publication. He had fallen into the job after graduating from Larkin City University with degrees in English and American history. He started at the Gazette as a part-time clerical worker, but the editor soon recognized his talents and promoted him to assistant editor.

    Mick shook his head. "I don't want to intrude. You should call first. You know how Jennifer is about her privacy."

    "You're right," Layla agreed. "I'll telephone Jean-Claude before we go over."

    Jean-Claude Sullivan, named after the uncle Johnny he never met and the effervescent Claude Mondoux, was parsimonious with money. The $100,000 John Larkin left him sat in the bank earning interest. Even Jennifer wasn't aware of the fortune, but Jean-Claude had his own reasons for keeping the knowledge from her. He was meticulous, careful and organized. Jennifer was an unknown quantity so early in their marriage, and Jean-Claude wanted to be certain she would be with him for the long haul before he let her in on his bounty. It was unromantic and calculating, but he planned for the future with exacting detail, viewing the inheritance as his retirement nest egg.

    Mick drained his glass of ale. "I have this funny feeling Jennifer doesn't like us."

    Layla sighed. "I get the same feeling, but I don't understand it. We've been nothing but kind to her."

    "Jennifer is different," Mick admitted. "She seems obsessed about her privacy, and almost paranoid about outside interference."

    "Jean-Claude appears to be happy enough with her."

    "That's all that matters," Mick said. "As long as he is happy in his marriage, we can't complain."

    JENNIFER O'CONNOR SULLIVAN GLARED at her husband Jean-Claude as he tucked her into their bed carefully.

    "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

    Jean-Claude ignored her and continued to see to her comfort. He resembled his father to a remarkable degree, and thusly like his grandfather Colm.

    "You are a bastard," Jennifer sneered. "You think you're handsome and smart and debonair because you work at the paper, but you're nothing more than the son of an unemployed lighthouse keeper."

    Jean-Claude ignored her again. She glanced at the water vase on her night stand. Without hesitating, she grabbed the vase and smashed it down viciously on her husband's head.

    He staggered and then stumbled to his knees. He clutched at his head, feeling the wet mixture of blood and water. His own blood.

    He stood to his feet, looking down at his wife. She appeared pleased with herself, returning his stare with a small smile.

    "You're a crazy bitch," he muttered.

    "Oh grow up! Don't start bleating about how I abuse you," she taunted him. "Who in this town could believe a man - a real man - would let his wife intimidate him?"

    Jean-Claude still held his hands to his head. "You need help, Jen."

    "What I need is peace and quiet," she exclaimed. "You're no help at all. Leave me alone, for the love of God."

    Jean-Claude left the room gladly. He walked down the narrow hallway to the small kitchen, where he found a tea towel and pressed it to the wound on his head. Then he went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Removing the tea towel, he inspected the damage. There was a thin cut on his left temple, but he didn't think it was worth a trip to the doctor. Not this time, anyway.

    He had known Jennifer since they were young children. She was the granddaughter of Patrick O'Connor, one of the four men John Larkin hired in New York off the boat from Ireland in 1881. In high school, Jennifer and Jean-Claude became good friends, although by the time they graduated their relationship took a romantic turn.

    She had been sweet and lovely then, with long blonde hair and large blue eyes. She was a happy person, full of humor and kind deeds. After their wedding a year ago, Jennifer seemed content to throw herself into their marriage with enthusiasm. She enjoyed fixing up their small cottage on Curry Street while Jean-Claude worked at the Gazette. Although their home was small and fairly bland, she kept the two bedrooms clean and cheerful with flowered wallpaper, fresh linens and small bowls of chopped cinnamon and vanilla. The kitchen was spotless, even down to the drab olive color of the walls. Jennifer added little touches here and there - frilly white lace curtains and decorative place mats on the table - and she was a superb cook. Their living room window faced the tiny front yard and Curry Street. Most evenings they would sit and read after dinner, or talk about their respective days.

    Jennifer suffered her first miscarriage four months after their wedding. Afterward, she developed extreme mood swings. She would strike out at Jean-Claude with no warning but with increasing regularity, once breaking his finger when she tried to pull his wedding ring off. He had gone to the hospital then, explaining to the attending doctor he had caught his finger in a cupboard door.

    She became pregnant again, and her moods seemed to settle. But she miscarried a second time, and the hostility began anew. When Jean-Claude tried to talk to her about her hysteria, Jennifer refused to acknowledge she had a problem, instead blaming him for her reactions. Jean-Claude was too embarrassed to ask her doctor about the circumstances he found himself in, so he continued to live in shameful fear of his wife. The idea of divorcing her never entered his mind. They were married for life, whether the union was miserable or not.

    Now she had miscarried a third time within a year. Jean-Claude dreaded what the coming months would bring.

    The telephone rang, startling Jean-Claude. Leaving the towel on the bathroom sink, he returned to the kitchen and picked up the wall receiver.

    "Jean-Claude, it's mother," Layla said. "How is Jennifer doing?"

    Jean-Claude tried to keep the frustration from his voice. "She's very depressed, as you can imagine. I just got her settled into bed."

    "Your father and I would like to come and see her," Layla continued. "Would tomorrow morning be convenient?"

    Jean-Claude hesitated. He couldn't allow his parents to see his injury. "Why don't you give her a couple of days before coming over? She needs to rest so she can recover fully."

    "Very well," Layla said, sounding surprised. "Please give her our love, and tell her we'll stop by in a few days for a visit."

    "Thank you, mother."

    Jean-Claude sat at the kitchen table after replacing the telephone receiver. He looked around the room and frowned at the mess. There were dirty dishes in the sink, crumbs on the floor and newspapers strewn all over the table. In her right mind, Jennifer would be horrified by the disarray.

    He stood from the table. He was going to clean up before going to bed. He wanted a good night's sleep before returning to work at the Gazette tomorrow. When Jennifer was out of sorts, he usually slept on the lumpy couch in the living room.

    Before he could move, a blood-curdling scream rent the air. Jean-Claude froze, recognizing Jennifer's wail. "Oh God, what is it now?" he thought in a panic.

    He raced into the hallway, and then heard a second scream. He stopped short near the bathroom, seeing his wife standing at the sink. He came to the doorway. She looked at him, her head moving with a twitching motion.

    "What is it, Jen?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

    There were tears streaming down her face. She had the bloody tea towel in her hand, holding it out to him. "What have I done?" she sobbed. "The blood . . . it's like the color of roses. Is it mine? Is it the baby's? Or is it yours?"

    Jean-Claude wanted to go to her, but he was uncertain. If he held her in his arms, would she turn on him as she had so many times before? He kept his distance. "It's my blood," he said quickly.

    She threw her head back and let out another slow-building squall. She took the tea towel and began rubbing it over her face, her chest, her belly.

    He was shocked by the display. Jennifer had lost her mind, he realized with devastating clarity. She was completely barmy.

    He went to her then, and she collapsed in his arms, dropping the bloodied towel to the floor.

    JENNIFER WAS ADMITTED TO the Bangor Mental Hospital later that evening. Jean-Claude was beside himself with worry, but his wife was virtually mindless by the time a doctor sedated her.

    "We need to observe her for a couple of days," the doctor told Jean-Claude. "It appears your wife had some sort of breakdown. We need to monitor her behavior before we can determine treatment for recovery."

    So Jean-Claude left Jennifer at the hospital in Bangor and returned to Larkin City. There was little he could do to help her at this point. He was still reeling from the memory of her extreme displays of emotional pique as he parked in front of his parents' house on Larkin Harbor.

    Mick and Layla were sitting on the porch. Jean-Claude looked at them from his Ford Model-T, suddenly overwhelmed by sensations of comfort and security. No matter what happened, he knew he could rely on his parent's unconditional love and support. After the day he had just experienced, he was grateful for the safe haven.

    Layla knew something was wrong when her son walked toward the porch. Even Mick seemed taken aback by Jean-Claude's appearance.

    "He looks like hell," Mick said bluntly. "Like he hasn't slept in days. And where on earth did he get that cut on his forehead? Do you think he's been brawling? That's like not him."

    Jean-Claude stepped onto the porch and took a chair between his parents. Then his flow of emotions came to the surface, as if he could finally allow them to, and he started to sob, leaning over and placing his head in his hands.

    Layla was alarmed. She touched Jean-Claude on the shoulder, feeling the cries rack his body. "My God, darling, what happened?"

    "I had to . . ."

    "It's all right, son," Mick spoke up. "Take your time. Here, have a sip of ale. It will help settle your nerves."

    Jean-Claude took the glass of ale with shaking hands and drained the amber liquid. He handed the glass back to his father and then leaned back in the chair. His parents waited expectantly.

    "Jen had a nervous breakdown," Jean-Claude finally said, his voice dry and cracked. "She was depressed after the miscarriage, and started screaming and throwing things. I took her to Larkin Hospital, but the doctor in the emergency room suggested I go to the Bangor Mental Hospital. So I did. The doctor at the mental hospital sedated her, and told me he wants to observe her for a few days before offering a diagnosis and treatment." He left out that his wife had been abusing him since her first miscarriage. He was somehow ashamed to admit it, and did not want to worry his parents further.

    "The poor dear," Layla exclaimed, reaching over to hug her son. "Her miscarriage was bad enough, but then to fall apart on top of it all . . ."

    "Is there anything we can do?" Mick asked, stunned by his son's revelations but feeling he was leaving select details from his narrative.

    Jean-Claude shook his head. "I'm supposed to go back to Bangor in a few days to talk to the doctor, if not sooner. I'm returning to work tomorrow. I want to try and be as normal as possible to keep my own head, you know? Maybe if I can keep busy I won't worry about poor Jen so much."

    "Do you need help at home?" Layla questioned.

    "I'm okay, truly. I need to go home and get some sleep."

    "I insist you come in and eat something," Layla said firmly. "You can always sleep in the guest room. There's no need to go home to an empty and dark house. Stay here tonight, darling."

    Jean-Claude accepted gratefully. "Thank you. I was hoping you'd say that."

    After a hot meal of beef steak, boiled potatoes, sweet peas, thick Irish soda bread with butter and sliced cheese and apples, Jean-Claude felt replenished but completely exhausted. He went to the guest room and fell asleep almost instantly. The emotional tumult from the past few days left his mind and body as he rested in the secure comfort of his parent's home.