“It’s been a while,” Chloe said. “You remember Shelly, I guess?” She looked at her sister.
“Very well,” he said. “Although I can’t say I would have recognized her.”
“I’ll get Daria,” Chloe said, heading for the door to the porch. “She’s down in the workshop. Shelly, why don’t you get Rory something to drink?”
“We have lemonade or iced tea or soda pop,” Shelly said once Chloe had left the room. “Orange, ginger ale or Coke.”
“Orange sounds good,” he said.
“Be right back. Don’t go away!”
He watched her disappear into the kitchen. It was strange to be in this cottage again. The furniture was different—of course it would be, after all these years. Poll-Rory’s furniture, purchased for him by the real estate agency, was the boxy wood and nubby upholstery type that would hold up to the abuse of renters. The Catos’ furniture, with its blues and yellows and traditional lines, had a homier feel to it. The walls were lighter, and he noticed that the wood paneling had been painted a soft cream color. Were Mr. and Mrs. Cato still living? he wondered once again. Daria was in the workshop, Chloe had said. Was she with her father down there? He remembered that workshop. It was on the ground floor, built into a space among the stilts, and it smelled of wood and metal. He recalled that every time a major storm came through, the Catos would have to pack up the tools and carry them up to the first or second story of the cottage to get them out of harm’s way.
“Rory!” Daria strode into the living room and over to him, wrapping him in a welcome hug. “I can’t believe you’re in Kill Devil Hills.”
He drew away to look at her. She’d probably been about fourteen the last time he’d seen her. He guessed she’d been pretty back then, but now she possessed the rare, exotic sort of beauty that had once attracted him to Chloe, with those dark eyes and long, thick, unruly black hair. Unlike Chloe, though, she still had the body of a tomboy—tight, small-breasted, compact and tan in her shorts and T-shirt. Her hair was barely contained in a ponytail and there was something pale and feathery scattered through it. Sawdust?
“I’m happy to see that you guys are here,” he said, glancing at Chloe, who stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, a small smile on her lips. “I was hoping you would be.”
Shelly walked into the room and handed him a glass of orange soda. “We’re always here,” she said.
“How long are you staying?” Daria asked.
“All summer,” he answered. “My son is with me.”
“Well, sit down,” Daria said, motioning toward one of the chairs.
He took a seat. Chloe and Daria sat at opposite ends of the sofa, while Shelly sat on the floor, her back against one of the other chairs in the room. She was wearing a deep purple sundress, and her long, slender legs looked very tan against the pale carpet.
“So, bring me up to date,” he said. “Your parents? Are they…?”
“Mom died fourteen years ago,” Daria said. “And Dad, just last year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rory said. “I guess you know I lost my parents.”
“Yes,” Daria said. “The real estate agent who handles your cottage told us. What about Polly? How is she doing?”
“She died two years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Rory,” Daria said.
“Me, too,” Chloe added. “Polly was truly special.”
“Mmm, very,” he said.
“I read about your divorce,” Daria said.
He laughed. His life was open to the public. “I guess I have no secrets,” he said.
“That must be strange,” Daria said. She sounded sympathetic. “But the news just reports the facts about a celebrity. So and so got divorced. So and so landed in a mental hospital. They don’t say how so and so feels about what happened to him.”
“Good point,” Rory said. “Well, I can sum up my feelings about those events pretty quickly. Losing my parents was the pits—they were too young. Losing Polly was even worse, as you can imagine.”
“I bet,” Daria said.
“My divorce was…difficult, but a relief in the long run. And my son is the best thing that ever happened to me, although he hasn’t figured that out yet.”
“Who is Polly?” Shelly asked.
“My sister,” he said.
“Why did she die?” Shelly asked.
“She had Down’s syndrome,” Rory said. “It affected her heart.”
“She was so fair,” Daria said. “I remember she’d always burn, every summer, no matter how much lotion your mom put on her.”
“That was Polly,” Rory agreed. “She wasn’t much of a beach person.” He looked at Chloe. “So,” he said, “now all of you know what I’ve been up to. How about the three of you? Chloe? You were so smart. You were in college before I could even spell the word. I remember you were studying history, right? You wanted to be a teacher. Is that what you are?”
The three women laughed, and he raised his eyebrows, surprised. “I’m wrong, I take it?” he asked.
“Well, no, you’re not wrong,” Chloe said slowly, coyly. “I teach history and English at a Catholic school in Georgia during the year.”
Shelly giggled. “Chloe is really Sister Chloe,” she said.
“Sister Chloe?” he repeated, confused.
“I’m a nun,” Chloe said.
“Oh!” He knew he couldn’t prevent the shock from showing in his face. Chloe Cato was a nun? He suddenly remembered that the Cato family had been very religious. Mr. Cato had gone to church early every morning, and he and his wife had been very strict, requiring Daria and Chloe and their cousin, Ellen, to come inside as soon as it got dark, while the other kids were still playing on the beach. Still, this was hard to believe. Chloe’s head might be telling her she was a nun, but her body and beauty were doing their best to deny it. He still remembered how she looked in a bikini: those large breasts, tiny waist and narrow hips. The boys on the beach had followed her around with their tongues hanging out. He remembered everyone ruling Chloe out as a suspect in the deserted-baby incident because, except for those breasts, she had been notoriously thin. Anorectic, almost. Yet that body was hidden now beneath long, loose shorts and a baggy T-shirt.
“I think you’ve rendered him speechless,” Daria said to Chloe with a laugh.
“I just…hadn’t expected that.” He laughed himself. That explained Chloe’s reserve in greeting him. “So, do nuns get the summer off? Is that why you’re here?”
“I’m working at St. Esther’s, the Catholic church in Nag’s Head, for the summer,” Chloe said. “I’ve been doing that the past few summers, running a day camp for kids.”
“Well, I’m almost afraid to ask what you’re doing, Daria,” he said.
“I’m a carpenter,” she said.
Rory laughed. “I should have guessed,” he said. “For real?”
“For real,” she said. “I probably have sawdust in my hair right now.”
“I was wondering what that was,” he said. “I thought maybe it was a new Outer Banks trend.”
“It’s just a Daria Cato trend.” Shelly grinned.
“I was working on a bookshelf for a cottage in Duck when Chloe told me you were here. There’s always a lot of building going on in the Outer Banks.”
“Are you living here year-round?” he asked. Despite the fact that Shelly’s letter bore the Kill Devil Hills return address, it was hard for him to imagine anyone living here year-round. For him, the Outer Banks had always meant summer and the beach.
“Uh-huh,” Daria said. “Shelly and I have lived here for the past ten years.”
“Wow.” He wondered what it would be like to live smack on the beach during the winter.
“Daria’s also an EMT,” Shelly said. There was pride in her voice.
“An EMT?” he asked. “Emergency medical technician?”
“Well, I was,” Daria said. “I’m taking some time off.”
“A lifesaver.” R
ory studied her with admiration. “You started that avocation early, didn’t you?” He looked at Shelly. “She was only ten years old when she saved your life.”
“Eleven,” Daria corrected.
“I know,” said Shelly. “People around here call her Supergirl.”
“I remember!” he said, flashing back to the newspaper articles that followed Shelly’s discovery on the beach. “They still call you that after all this time?”
“’Fraid so,” Daria said. “I’ll be sixty and they’ll still call me Supergirl.”
“It’s because she’s kept on saving people,” Shelly said. “She’s the local hero.”
“I’ll never forget that day.” He wondered if he should tell them now that Shelly’s letter had prompted his visit to Kill Devil Hills this summer, but he had more catching up to do first. He set his empty glass on the coffee table. “Is there anybody else left on the cul-de-sac from the old days?” he asked. “I noticed Cindy Trump’s cottage is gone.”
“There was a bad storm more than a decade ago,” Daria said. “The ocean swallowed their cottage in one gulp. It did a lot of damage to the Sea Shanty, too, but your cottage was spared.”
“The Wheelers are still around,” Chloe said. “Do you remember them? They live next door.”
“Still?” He remembered a quiet older couple who often strolled on the beach in the evening, hand in hand. “They’re still living?”
“They’re only in their seventies,” Daria said. “Their cottage is filled with their grandchildren all summer long.”
“Did he know Linda and her dogs?” Shelly asked.
“Yeah, you knew Linda, right?” Daria asked.
He narrowed his eyes in concentration, picturing a mousy young girl lying on the beach with her nose in a book. “I think so,” he said.
“She lives in that same cottage with her partner, Jackie,” Chloe said. “They raise golden retrievers. Linda is a lesbian.”
Chloe revealed that fact as easily as if she’d said that Linda was a teacher or a swim coach. Rory had had little experience with nuns, but he’d assumed that Chloe had become moralistic and judgmental. He hoped her matter-of-fact description of Linda meant that she had not.
“Well, you never can tell how people are going to turn out, can you,” Rory said. “What about your cousin? Ellen? What’s she doing?”
“She’s married,” Chloe said. “She comes down every few weeks or so with her husband and kids.”
“Not this summer,” Daria said. “I mean, Ellen and Ted will be here, I guess, but not her daughters. They’re traveling in Europe as part of a high-school exchange program,” she explained to Rory. “Ellen’s a medical technician. She does mammograms all day.” Daria and Chloe laughed at that. “I don’t know if you remember what she was like, but that job suits her perfectly.”
Rory smiled. “She had a bit of a…sadistic streak, if I recall,” he said.
“You’ve got it,” Chloe said.
“What about the twins who lived next door to me?” Rory asked. “Jill and…her brother. I can’t remember his name.”
“Jill and Brian Fletcher,” Daria said. “Jill is still around.”
“The bonfire lady,” Shelly said.
“Yes.” Daria looked at Rory. “Remember the annual bonfire we had on the beach near the end of each summer?”
He had forgotten, but the memory slipped back easily. The huge, roaring fire. Great food. The sound of the ocean. Willing girls and the sheltering darkness. He nodded.
“Well, Jill has kept that tradition going,” Daria said. “She has to get special permission each year, because bonfires are no longer allowed on the beach. She has to make the fire closer to the water, but she’s fanatical about it. She’s got a couple of teenagers, and her husband comes down on the weekends. I don’t know what happened to Brian, her brother.” Daria looked at Chloe, who shrugged.
“Haven’t seen him in years,” Chloe said.
Rory was pleased to hear that some of the old residents were still around, although he was disappointed that Cindy Trump was not one of them. He’d always thought that Cindy somehow held the key to the mystery of the foundling.
He looked at Shelly. She was a striking young woman, with large, light brown eyes, that long blond hair, a willowy body and perfect tan. Sitting there on the floor of the living room, she was all legs and arms and gossamer hair. She’d been wearing the same ingenuous smile since his arrival, and he realized that she had a childlike way of speaking, a simplicity about her. He’d lived with Polly long enough to recognize it, and he wondered if Shelly’s rude introduction to the world had left her with some brain damage.
“How about you, Shelly?” he asked. “What are you up to?”
“I work at St. Esther’s Church as a housekeeper,” she said proudly. “And I design shell jewelry.”
“Shell jewelry?” he repeated.
“Uh-huh.” She stood up and walked out to the porch for a moment. Back inside, she handed him a choker, a small, gold-plated starfish set in the center of a strand of tiny shells. He was impressed. He’d expected shell jewelry to be a bit on the tacky side, but this was certainly not.
He looked up at Shelly. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “Was this a real starfish?”
“Yes,” she said, taking the choker back from him. “I collect the shells on the beach. It’s hard to find a starfish that size, though.”
“It’s wonderful, Shelly,” he said. “What do you do with the jewelry after you’ve finished it?”
“I sell it at the gift shop on…” She looked to Daria for help.
“Consignment,” Daria said.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Shelly said, grinning at him.
“Yeah, it is.” He felt the broad smile on his face. Something about Shelly touched him. Reminders of Polly, perhaps, or maybe it was just the simple joy that emanated from her.
“Tell us about your son,” Chloe said.
“Oh.” Rory looked out the window at the darkening sky and wondered if Zack had made any friends on the beach. “He’s a California kid,” he said. “He doesn’t want to be here. But—” he stretched and sighed “—I’m hoping he’ll adjust to it. He’s a good kid, just screwed up a little from the divorce.” He wondered what Chloe thought about divorce—or the phrase “screwed up,” for that matter. Did he have to watch his language around her?
He leaned forward abruptly. “Well,” he said, getting down to business, “I received Shelly’s letter a few months ago, and I’ve decided to follow up on her request to find out who left her on the beach twenty-two years ago. I plan to make it an episode on True Life Stories.”
Dead silence filled the room. Chloe and Daria looked at each other, and Rory didn’t miss the disapproval in their faces. Shelly wore a sheepish smile, and Rory suddenly realized she had written the letter without her sisters’ knowledge.
“That is so cool!” Shelly said finally. “Thanks, Rory.”
Daria looked at her younger sister. “You wrote to Rory?” she asked.
Shelly nodded.
“I wish you’d told me that, honey.” Daria’s voice was disapproving, but not unkind. Even so, he instantly felt sorry for Shelly.
“I thought it was a wonderful letter,” Rory said quickly. “A wonderful idea. And if I can’t uncover the answer during my research, Shelly, maybe someone watching the show will know what really happened and contact me.”
Chloe tucked her legs beneath her on the sofa. “I don’t think this is such a good idea, Rory,” she said. “Why dredge up something that happened twenty-two years ago?”
“Chloe’s right,” Daria said. “I’m sorry to put a damper on your idea, but Shelly’s a Cato, Rory. She has been, right from the start. Of course, she’s always known what happened to her, but she’s one of us, an integral part of us. Who her birth mother was doesn’t matter.”
For the first time since his arrival, Shelly lost her smile. “I know I’m a Cato,” she said to Daria. “But I’m also someth
ing else. I’ve always wanted to know what that something else is.”
Daria looked surprised. “You never said anything about it, Shelly. Nothing at all.”
“Because I figured there was no way to ever find out,” Shelly said. “But I was watching True Life Stories one night, and I knew Rory lived here when I was found, and he always can figure out those mysteries, so…if he wants to try—” she shrugged “—I want him to.”
He had not expected resistance. It was understandable, though, that Chloe and Daria would find his plan unsettling if they hadn’t known about Shelly’s letter. Was he being intrusive? Was Shelly’s plea enough reason for him to tamper with their lives?
“Well,” he said, standing up. “I guess I’ll have to give this some more thought.” He saw Shelly bite her lip. A crease formed between her eyebrows. “And right now, I’d better go home and see what my son is up to.”
“Good seeing you, Rory,” Chloe said. She did not stand up, but Daria did. She walked him to the porch door.
“Don’t be a stranger, Rory,” she said.
“Thanks,” he said. “I won’t be.”
“I’m sorry Shelly bothered you about…”
“It’s not a bother at all,” he said.
Daria brushed a few flakes of sawdust from her hair, and in the porch light, Rory saw a world of worry in her eyes. “I think it would be a mistake to pursue the story,” she said.
“Well,” he said, touching her arm, “we’ll talk about it again, all right?”
He left the Sea Shanty and was halfway across the cul-de-sac when Shelly caught up to him.
“Rory, wait a second,” she said.
He stopped walking and turned around. Poll-Rory’s porch light lit her face.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Please, Rory. I still want you to try and find out who my real mother was,” she pleaded. “I really want to know.”
He hesitated. “Your sisters have some genuine concerns,” he said.
“Yes, but I’m the one who counts, right?” Shelly asked.
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