The Chilling Tide

by T M Bashford

  “T.M. Bashford teases us through a story that will leave you questioning what we think is real.” BookBub Reviewer

  Three’s a crowd, especially when one is a stalker…

  Sienna Chase is having the worst day of her life—kicked out of her nursing program, dumped by her boyfriend, and to top it off, followed home by creepy Dr. Charles Allerton.

  Flying back to her parents’ home in Cape Cod to take stock of her life only serves to trigger the trauma of her sister’s death twenty years earlier. Thank goodness for Blue Rafter, the boy she gave her first kiss to at the age of eight. He’s all grown up and their chemistry is instant.

  Except Dr. Allerton turns up, scaring her with frightening gifts and messages… but Sienna needs to figure out why she’s hiding evidence to protect him.

  The police don’t take her seriously. Her parents think she’s drinking too much to numb her memories. Her only ally is Blue... and he’s trying to save her from herself. Until Dr. Allerton’s final gift…

  Extract From Becoming Sienna

  “What makes you think nursing is a good career choice for someone who faints at the sight of blood?” Arthur’s thick brows furrow, reminding me of an owl.

  I shift positions in the armchair opposite him, pressing myself deeper into the cushions. His tutorial room is flanked by three bookshelves that tower over us. Part of me wouldn’t mind if one of them toppled and crushed me right then and there.

  Silence tramples over a few more seconds.

  “This is the third time, Sienna. I’m not sure we can find you any more work placements. I believe it’s time for you to consider a different path.”

  “I’m already five years older than most of the others. Now you expect me to start again?”

  “Not entirely. You’ve earned a year’s worth of credits. You can talk to careers about how to transfer . . .”

  No. I shut him out. The thought of deciding on another career choice is too stressful. What if I make the wrong decision again? I have a sneaky suspicion I’m not suited to the life of a student, either. Mom won’t want to hear it, but I’m more of a free spirit; I should be good at art or drawing or music. Except I’m not.

  “Thanks, Arthur.” I stand, ready to dart out of his sunny office. The dust motes choke me when I add, “But I need to reflect on my next steps.”

  “Please, Sienna. Don’t rush into anything. And I’m always here to talk.”

  I give him a stiff smile and jerked wave, yank open the heavy wooden door, and try not to slam it behind me. Oddly, I experience a flashback to the dog I loved as a girl. She died the day after my sixteenth birthday. She was white and fluffy and despite being a mongrel we rescued from the animal shelter, she always walked with her chin in the air. Which is why I named her Duchess. I used to find her when I needed a good cry. A sudden urge to go home—not to my student accommodation, but to my parents’ home—tugs at me. It’s funny how I couldn’t wait to leave when I turned eighteen. After leaving school, I spent some years traveling and took odd jobs—temp admin work, bar work, retail roles, because I hadn’t a clue what I wanted to do with my life. Mom and Dad prodded me every six months, and then came up with the nursing option. I had no idea that the sight of blood—lots of it, not just a cut finger—could make me faint.

  To relieve an oncoming headache, I yank my ponytail out of its elastic and march down the corridor, afraid I’m going to cry and Arthur might come out and see me. Outside, I head for the bench under the English oaks. It’s off the main path and doesn’t attract passers-by. On the way across the neatly clipped lawn, I pull out my cell and call my boyfriend, David. When it goes to voicemail, I wonder about calling Mom and Dad but they moved back to America last year. With the time zone differences between there and England, they’ll be asleep. There’s no one else I want to talk to. Moving around from place to place and job to job tends to sever friendships, and the students I share accommodations with are younger than me. I’m more of a mother hen to them than a friend. Instead, I let the tears come, my face in my hands.

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  I brush at my cheeks before looking up and into the gaze of Dr. Allerton. He works at the medical clinic where I’ve completed the nursing placements. Despite being a doctor, he’s a little socially awkward, but sweet. The kind of guy my parents would like.

  “Dr. Allerton. What are you doing here?” I ask. “A bit out of your way?”

  He brushes his long fingers through his dark auburn hair. “Please, call me Charles. I was visiting Professor Langton. He was one of my tutors a long time ago—and I saw you. You appeared upset.” He indicates to the bench as if to ask for permission to sit beside me, but then he sits anyway, his butt perched on the edge. He stares straight ahead rather than at me when he adds, “This is a great spot for—” He doesn’t finish. Instead, he clears his throat, strident.

  I peek at his profile. If he wasn’t so shy, he’d be a catch. His cheeks and jaw are deftly carved, his shoulders broad under a navy Ralph Lauren sweater. And I recall how his blue eyes are psychedelic.

  “Not been a good day,” I say. “Looks like I won’t be back to the clinic.”

  “Did you faint again?”

  “How did you know?”

  His sideways glance is furtive, embarrassed. “Someone at the clinic mentioned it. I remember it happened before when you helped dress a wound. Not an easy thing to cure.” On that occasion, Dr. Allerton—Charles—caught me before I fell to the floor.

  “Not curable then?” Tears form a wad in my throat. “I didn’t think so. That’s the end of it then.” I fold myself in two and can’t stop myself from blubbering again. The heat of his hand on my back is enough for me to lean into him for a comfort hug. He lets me sob, then gradually embraces me until I’m crushed against his chest. He smells like coconut, which is odd considering we’re in the city.

  I keep saying, ‘sorry,’ but I can’t stop crying. He rocks me, makes shushing noises, and assures me I can be cured. At least he’s a doctor and has good bed-side manners.

  “At times like this you need your parents,” he says. It sounds a bit weird coming from a man who must be thirty-something. Maybe he lives with his mom. But in that moment, I miss my parents.

  “They’re back in America,” I say, calming down. I extract myself from his bear hug. He shuffles a little farther from me. “Dad’s job brought us to England thirteen years ago, but they missed Cape Cod and once I settled in at Portsmouth, they moved back.”

  “That’s the east coast isn’t it?”

  My nose becomes runny. I sniff and search my pockets for tissues, even though I’ve never carried them with me. “A peninsula off Massachusetts. It is beautiful. I can’t blame them.”

  “Why didn’t you go with them?”

  “I feel more English than American. I’ve lived here since I turned ten. And college is more accessible here, financially speaking.” I certainly didn’t stay because of my friends—they graduated and were busy with careers in London, Manchester, and overseas, leaving me behind in what they believe is the backward port city of Portsmouth.

  “What will you do now?” he asks.

  My sigh seems to come from the bottom of my soul and I sob-laugh. “I have no idea. The thought of a different degree . . . changing direction yet again . . .”

  “Why not? I’m changing directions. I’m qualifying to be a surgeon.”

  I catch his gaze for a moment before he hides it by looking up into the oak tree.

  “That’s impressive.” I slump against the back of the bench like a deflating pool toy. “But I’m anything but impressive.”

  He puts out a hand as if to touch me, but then changes his mind and withdraws it.

  “Don’t ever say that,” he says. “Nursing isn’t everything. You’ll find something better. You possess amazing qualities.”

  To stop myself from asking him what qualities he believes I possess, I check my vibrating phone. David has texted me back.

  Sorry
I missed your call. In meetings today. Can we meet at Beckett’s at 7? We need to talk.

  I struggle to take a breath. We need to talk. I stuff the phone back into my handbag.

  Cuffing at my tears, I mumble, “Looks like this day is going to get worse.” Unfortunately, Charles still hears me.

  “Everything happens for a reason.” He passes me a pristine white handkerchief, similar to the one my grandfather always carried in his pocket. It’s ironed and monogrammed with the letters CWA. I almost ask what the W stands for, but I can’t chat anymore. I need to go home and let myself ugly cry as hard as I want to in the shower.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I might not see you again to give it back. But thanks . . . for listening.”

  My refusal is like a slap. He jerks his face away and searches the distant buildings.

  Chapter 2

  “I’m sorry it’s come to this. But you must’ve realized we weren’t working out.” David’s fringe flops over his eyes. I had once believed our matching dark brown hair would look great in wedding photos. He loads another forkful of fish into his mouth.

  How can he eat at a time like this?

  “Did you ever love me?” As soon as the words are out, I consider how pathetic I sound.

  “It might be the age gap.” He takes a sip of wine. I pick up my glass and gulp down half of it. “We’re at different stages of our careers. I’m moving into management, and you’re studying. You still live in student facilities . . .”

  I’ll take that as a no then.

  Part of me wants to say he could’ve asked me to move in with him, but there’s no point anymore. Clearly, he would’ve if he wanted me to. Clearly, he doesn’t feel for me the same way I feel about him. Another wasted two years. Another tear in my heart.

  He hadn’t even given me the chance to tell him about fainting today and the subsequent pressure for me to quit my degree.

  I drain my wine glass, screw up the white napkin from my lap, and dump it on my untouched spinach and feta ravioli. Angry words crowd my mouth, but I can’t say even one of them. I reach down to pull off my high heels and curse the short skirt I put on to impress my now ex-boyfriend. It’s safer to storm out of a public place in bare feet so I don’t trip and further embarrass myself. I walk away and out of the restaurant, ignoring his unconvincing calls for me to wait.

  Back in my bedroom, the sound of my flatmates laughing at re-runs of The Inbetweeners comes through the paper-thin walls. The only company I want is the bottle of wine I bought on the way home. Home? This place, living with people I didn’t choose to live with, is not home. I inspect my messy, miniscule room—a single bed pushed up against the wall to make room for a desk and chair. I’m twenty-four and lost.

  I turn up my playlist on Spotify to drown out the TV and laughter, and pick every breakup song I can find, sob-singing to Adele’s “Someone Like You”. The whole time I imagine the woman who will end up with David. How she’ll take my place in his bed, at his breakfast bar, in the passenger seat of his car. How he’ll forget about me and how these last two years will mean nothing to him. It’s delicious self-torture and I cry myself dry.

  And of course, that’s when Mom decides to make her monthly call.

  Except even though I know she’ll be disappointed, I want to talk to her.

  “Hey,” I say, fake-cheerful.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The concern in her voice sets me off again. I open my mouth to reply but a snuffle drops out instead. “Bad day.”

  “Honey, I’m sorry. What happened?”

  I give her a quick summary, interspersed with hiccups and sniffles.

  “Come visit us, honey. I’ll transfer the money for a flight. You can be back here in twelve hours. Take some time to consider the idea. The house we’ve bought has a granny flat at the bottom of the garden. They call it an in-law suite here. You can stay there. We’re right by the beach. It’ll be good for you.”

  The idea of going back to my childhood home settles in my mind like an old dog curling up by the fire. I don’t recall much about my life before we moved to England. There were Cape Cod beaches and ice cream. A school where I didn’t wear a uniform. A quaint town and some friends I lost touch with. Annie, Blue, Natalie . . . it’s hard to remember their names. Suddenly, the idea of being there fits. To set the clock to zero. To start again somewhere fresh. The thought makes me want to bawl again. “I’m wasting my life going around in circles.”

  My phone beeps to signal my battery’s about to run out. I reach for my handbag.

  “That’s called living, honey,” Mom says. She ignores the beeps. “But we’ll get together, the three of us, and help you onto the right path. Everything will be fine.”

  As I pull out the phone charger, a white cotton square with the monogram CWA drops onto my lap.

  The next morning, Jasmine delightedly informs me how a friend of mine popped over after I went out last night. “He said he was a doctor and you were good friends. Did you cheat on David?” Her question is accompanied by a giggle rather than accusation. “He’s hot. I wouldn’t blame you.”

  Prickles of ice trip up and down my spine.

  Charles came to where I live? He must’ve followed me. Or retrieved my address from the clinic. That’s not right. Or maybe I’m paranoid and he simply likes me and spotted me coming home once. I’ve always quite liked him—from a distance. Maybe he’s a total romantic and hopelessly sweet. Except I’m not ready for another relationship. And I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. It’s for that reason I pick up the phone and book a flight to Boston.

  Chapter 3

  My flight arrives on a day Mom can’t get out of a work meeting and Dad is on a week-long medical conference. Just before the plane pulls into the gate, she sends a text. I’ve sent an old friend to pick you up. He’ll be holding a name-board. I guess I had dropped my visit on her at the last moment.

  I wish I’d cleaned my teeth, brushed my plane-sleep hair, and washed my makeup-smudged panda eyes because the guy grasping the cardboard with my name on it is a Chris Hemsworth younger brother lookalike. How is he an old friend of my mother’s? He spots me and salute-waves. Mom probably showed him my photo. Too late to pop into the bathroom for a make-over, I run my tongue over fur-lined teeth before pressing on a big smile.

  “Hi. I’m Sienna Chase.” I put out my hand for a shake.

  “I know who you are. You obviously don’t recognize me.” And with that, the guy scoops me into a hug.

  When I pull back, I squint up at him, try to figure out how I’m meant to know him. There’s something familiar there, but I can’t place him.

  “Don’t tell me you forgot about me?” he says.

  “It has been about fifteen years since I left Cape Cod.”

  He takes one of my cases and points at the door we’re headed for. “I’m not sure if I want to tell you now. Might keep you guessing.”

  “Oh, come on. Would you have recognized me if my mom—”

  “For sure.” He glances down at me, and I mean down. I’m five-foot-four and he must be over six-foot. His eyes sparkle—yes, sparkle—with mischief.

  I stare back and thumb through all the boys I knew before the age of ten. And it hits me like a gust of warm summer sea breeze.

  “Blue.”

  “Thank God. This could’ve been awkward otherwise.”

  But if anything, the realization makes everything more awkward. Blue. My first kiss. In the sand dunes at the beach. He’d held both my hands and kissed me firmly on the lips. We were eight. His family moved to California a month later.

  “You’re back then,” I say. Lame. “Didn’t you get tall?” And gorgeous. The boy I remember was cute but bony, his hair more white-blond and his smile too big for his small face.

  He uses the clicker to unlock a black truck. “Yep. Back. Same as you. And you didn’t get tall. Still with the same dark long hair though. You always were like a little perfect doll. Okay to put both suitcases in the cargo bed
? It’s sunny.”

  I nod, wondering if that was a compliment or not. He lifts both cases into the back of the truck as if they’re bean bags instead of the heavy cases filled with everything I own. Being in the cabin with him seems strange—as if this is a dream. Maybe I’m still asleep on the uncomfortable airline seat.

  Blue grins at me and play-punches my arm. “This is great,” he says.

  Nope. Not a dream.

  I take in the mini whirlwind of flutters inside my chest. I’m not sure if this is embarrassment or childish re-imaginings—he made my heart skip even back then. I hunt for something to say. “How is it my mom knows you well enough to send you to fetch me?”

  “Apart from the fact that we live three houses apart, we work at the same place.”

  “At The Seeing Eye?”

  “Yep. I’m one of the dog trainers. I started there soon after your mom received the el presidente position last year.” I’ve worked there soon after your mom received the El Presidente position last year.”

  As he drives us toward my parents’ new house, we catch up on where he went to college, what I’ve done to date, and laugh at the coincidence that we were both in Amsterdam at the same time three years ago. He was on holiday with mates, while I worked for an office temping agency. We even frequented the same bar, which became a fast favorite for the both of us.

  “You’re back for good?” he asks. We pull into a driveway with a Cape Cod-style home at the end of it. He turns off the engine.

  “I’m not sure.” I get out of the car and appraise my parents’ new home with its steep gabled roof, dormers, multi-paned windows, and shutters. Very different to the Tudor house I spent my formative years in. The sound of the ocean is nearby, though I can’t decide in which direction.