Author's Notes Anyone familiar with Boston, Dorchester, South Boston, Quincy, and the Quincy Quarry Reserve and the Blue Mountain Reserve will understand that I have over-indulged in my descriptions of geography and topographical features.This is entirely deliberate.While these towns and regions do exist, they have been altered for the needs of the story and my own whims, and should therefore be considered entirely fictional.Furthermore, any similarities between characters and events in the book and actual people, living or deceased, are purely coincidental. preamble Texas, Port Mesa October 1998

* Before the sun illuminated the bay, the fishing boats sailed into darkness.Most of them were shrimp boats, with the occasional sailfish or tarpon fishing boat mixed in, and the boats were almost entirely loaded with men.The few women who work on the shrimping boats are largely unsocial.This is the Texas coast, and over the past two centuries many men have lost their lives at sea, and because of this, their children, grandchildren, and surviving friends feel rightly prejudiced and hated for their Vietnamese rivals, and for anyone engaged in this task. Hateful profession, groping for heavy cables in the dark, women with hooks cutting their knuckles expressing distrust.

As the captain switched the trawler's engine to a low hum and the gray water churned, a fisherman said in the dark eve of dawn: Woman, just be like Rachel, that's a woman. That's a woman, yes, said the other fisherman, damn it, man. Compared with others, Rachel has not been in Mesa Port for a long time.She showed up in July with her little boy and a battered Dodge pick-up, rented a cabin north of town, and took down the job listings from the windows of the Crocodile Terminal, an old Above the pilings, a pier bar. It was months before anyone learned her last name: Smith. Port Mesa attracts many Smiths; there are also a few Does.Half of the shrimp boat operators are men who avoid something.They sleep when most of the world is awake, work when those people are asleep, drink in bars where only a few outsiders can safely enter, follow the catch and fishing season, as far west as the Mexican peninsula, as far south as Key West, and receive cash.

Dalton Dalton, owner of Crockett's Terminus pub.Foy paid cash to Rachel.smith.Even if she asked for a gold nugget, he would give it right.Since she took her place behind the bar, sales have grown by 20 percent.Oddly enough, fighting has similarly decreased.Often the direct sunlight that burns the skin into the blood as men step off fishing boats can make these men irascible and quick to swing a bottle of wine or snap a pool cue to end a discussion.In Dalton's own experience, the presence of beautiful women, uh, only makes things worse for men.Laugh faster, get angry sooner. However, there was something about Rachel that comforted a man.

Also warn them. There was something chilling in her eyes every time someone crossed a line, touched her wrist for too long, made an unfunny dirty joke.In her face, there are carved lines, weathered beauty, and an insight that knows dark dawns and hard facts better than most lobstermen before they came to Port Mesa. Rachel carried a gun in her purse.Dalton saw it occasionally, and the only thing that surprised him was that he wasn't surprised at all.For some unknown reason, he already knew, and so did everyone else.After work, no one ever approached Rachel in the parking lot, trying to convince her to get into their car.No one ever followed her home.

But, when there is no sternness in her eyes, when there is no indifference and alienation on her face, God, she makes the scorpion shine.She moves like a dancer back and forth across the bar; every turn, every round of drink is so fluid.Her smile parted her lips, lit her eyes, and everyone in the bar wanted to squeeze in a new joke, a funnier one, to feel the thrill of her laugh running down their spines. And her little boy.Handsome blond boy.He doesn't look like her at all, but when he smiles, you know he's Rachel's.Maybe as moody as she is.Sometimes there was warning in his eyes, which was unusual for such a young child.At the age of just being able to walk, I already have an expression of don't force me to the world.

When Rachel was working, old Granny Hailey helped her watch the little boy, and she told Dalton.There couldn't have been a better boy, Foy, who loved his mother more openly.Children become special people, presidents or something, or war heroes, she said.You take my word, Dalton, you take it. One day at sunset in Bourneton Bay, Dalton came across the mother and son while taking a routine walk.Rachel stood in the waist-deep warm water of the bay, hugging the child's armpit, letting him soak in the water up and down.Under the smudge of the setting sun, there was a piece of satin-like golden sea water, which was performing some ancient ritual, covering his skin, making him invulnerable.

The two laughed in the amber water, the sunset behind them was fiery red.Rachel kissed her son's neck and propped his calf on her hip.He leaned back on her hands and they looked at each other. Dalton thought that perhaps he had never seen such a beautiful sight. Rachel didn't see him, and Dalton didn't even wave.In fact, he felt like an intruder.He lowered his head and walked back to the time. When you encounter such pure love, something happens to you.This makes you feel small, ashamed of yourself, and ashamed of yourself. Dalton.Foy watched the mother and son play in the amber water, and learned one coldly simple truth: Never in his life had he been so loved, not even for a second.

love like this?Damn it.Seems so innocent it fucking borders on criminal.