In Dark Water (Rarity Cove Book 3)

by Leslie Tentler

  In Dark Water

  A Rarity Cove Novel

  leslie tentler

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Works by Leslie Tentler

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  In Dark Water

  Copyright ©2019 by Leslie Tentler

  Published by Left Field Press

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without express written permission from the author.

  * * *

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  978-1-7335726-2-0 (paperback)

  978-1-7335726-0-6 (mobi)

  978-1-7335726-1-3 (epub)

  All the art of living lies in a fine

  mingling of letting go and holding on.

  – Havelock Ellis

  Chapter One

  He had been gone a year to the day.

  Mercer Leighton stood at the shoreline, the sun setting in front of her, dappling the water with orange and gold. The mild fall breeze whipped her shoulder-length, honey-blond hair. Twelve months had passed, but she could still hear Jonathan’s voice, his laugh. Briefly, she closed her eyes, picturing him as he had once been. Not the thin, fragile shell of a man he had become.

  He had been nearly two decades older than her. Still, she had thought they would have more time.

  She held the silver urn against her chest, her throat tight. They’d had only five years together, the last one marred by illness. The prostate cancer had returned, more aggressive this time, spreading to Jonathan’s bones and leaving Mercer a widow at just thirty-three.

  Drawing strength from the family who stood on the beach behind her, she removed the urn’s lid and laid it on the sand among brown streamers of seaweed. Mercer stepped forward. The tide’s cool, white foam licked her bare feet, the water lapping at her ankles and wetting the hem of her dress as she walked knee-deep into the breaking waves. Her eyes misted, but it was time.

  “Goodbye, my love,” she whispered and poured Jonathan’s ashes out. What didn’t disappear into the water lifted in the breeze, swirling in an iron-gray mist before vanishing, too. Head bowed, she said a silent prayer before turning back to the beach. Her eyes met those of her family—Mark and Samantha, Carter and Quinn, her mother and Anders. As she left the water, Mark and Carter came forward, both barefoot and in black pants and white dress shirts.

  “It’s done,” she said.

  Carter hugged her. He and Quinn and their little daughter, Lily, now almost three, had flown in from Hawaii where Carter was filming an action movie. Jonathan had wanted his ashes scattered on the water in Rarity Cove, a place he had grown to love as much as any St. Clair.

  “Jonathan would be proud of you, Merce,” Carter murmured as he held her. “You’ve been so strong.”

  As she stepped back from his embrace, Mark laid his hand on her shoulder. The family had gone to a more remote area of the beach to scatter the ashes, and he looked back to the hotel in the distance. “The room is ready for us. It’s closed to guests tonight. We can go up whenever you want.”

  He was referring to the hotel’s open-air loggia on its top floor. Another request of Jonathan’s. One year from the day of his death, once they had given his ashes to the sea, they were to all have dinner together. They were to toast his memory a final time. After that, Jonathan had decreed that there would be no more sadness. He had told Mercer he would allow her to mourn him for just one year. And then he wanted her to dispose of his ashes—you can’t get on with your life with me sitting on the fireplace mantel—he’d said, still trying to keep some sense of humor despite his failing health and terminal diagnosis.

  “I know you still miss him. Every day, every week, gets a little easier,” Mark promised. Both he and their mother knew what it was like to lose a spouse. But unlike their unexpected losses, she’d had time to try to prepare for Jonathan’s death. She had been with him through the surgery, the chemo and radiation treatments, and their grueling side effects. Helpless, she had watched as he wasted away. Her guilt flared as she recalled the temporary relief that had at first mingled with her grief at his death. There had been some comfort in the knowledge that Jonathan was no longer in pain. He was free. But then the choking loss and loneliness settled over her. There had been a memorial service in Atlanta with the St. Clair family, Jonathon’s son, friends, and members of the university faculty where he had taught in attendance.

  You’re young, Mercer. You can still have a life with someone else.

  She hadn’t taken kindly to Jonathan’s words.

  Mercer pulled herself from her thoughts as the others came down to the shoreline. Her mother smiled softly at her, sadness in her eyes. Both Samantha and Quinn stepped forward in turn to hug her. The small mound of Quinn’s belly pressed against Mercer. She was pregnant again, four months along.

  “Are you okay?” Samantha asked, concern on her pretty features.

  Mercer nodded and tucked several strands of wind-whipped hair behind her ear. “I’m fine. But I’ve been dreading this,” she admitted with a sigh.

  Samantha touched her arm. A short time later, Mercer glanced back to the ocean. The sun had dropped lower, appearing half sunken in the plane of jewel-like sea, and the sky was streaked with purple and mauve. Seagulls screeched high in the air overhead. She reclaimed the urn’s lid from the sand. Her heart filled as she looked at her family.

  “I appreciate all of you being here. You mean the world to me. I couldn’t have gotten through the last year without you.” Doing her best to push aside her melancholy, she thought of Lily, Ethan, and Emily, who were waiting at the hotel with one of the on-staff au pairs. Ethan was now six, Emily eleven. Time moved so fast. “The kids are probably hungry. We should get back.”

  “You’re flying back to Hawaii tomorrow?” Mercer asked, still seated at the long, rectangular table with Quinn. The dinner over, Mark and Carter had moved to the far end of the open-air space, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. Olivia and Anders had already departed for their residence in Charleston. On their way, they had dropped off Samantha, Emily, and Ethan at the Big House, the white-columned estate home on the edge of the St. Clair property where Mark had moved with his family a few years earlier. Ethan hadn’t been feeling well, so Samantha had taken the children
home.

  “We’re leaving for the airport after we have lunch with everyone at Anders and Olivia’s.” Quinn held Lily on her lap. She was a beautiful child, with Quinn’s russet curls and Carter’s midnight-blue eyes. “There’re still another few weeks of filming, and it starts up again on Monday. Once Lily’s old enough for kindergarten, we won’t be traveling with Carter as often, so we’re taking advantage now.”

  “Do you like flying on planes, Lily?” Mercer leaned closer and ran her finger over her niece’s soft cheek. Lily nodded with enthusiasm, her dimples deepening, then gave a wide yawn.

  “It’s late. You guys should get going.” Mercer thought of the sprawling beach home on the north side of town. “I’m sure it’ll be nice to sleep in your own beds.”

  “With us out of town, we haven’t had a chance to talk much. How’re you doing, Mercer? Really?”

  At the question, Mercer looked briefly away, taking solace in the hotel’s rustling palms and briny sea air. It had cooled with nightfall, and the pleasant ocean breeze stirred the leaves of the pink Noisette roses, native to the Lowcountry, that climbed the loggia’s wall. They were a last holdout from summer.

  “I’ve sold the house in Atlanta—the closing’s next month. Jonathan’s estate should be closed by then, too. All that’s left is to have the furniture put into storage.”

  Mercer knew that she hadn’t answered Quinn’s question, not really. She didn’t know what to say anymore. In many ways, she had begun to heal. Some days, she was fine. But then some memory of Jonathan would resurface and so would the ache inside her.

  “Atlanta’s loss is our gain,” Mark said, apparently overhearing as he and Carter returned to stand by the table. “The staff is thrilled to have you.”

  Mercer had moved back to Rarity Cove a month earlier. She had returned to her former position as the St. Clair’s marketing director. She’d loved her job in Atlanta doing public relations for a downtown artists’ collective, but in his last months, Jonathan had grown too weak and required constant care. Mercer had resigned, and the position had been filled in her absence. But it didn’t matter. She needed a break from Atlanta and Jonathan’s ghost that seemed to lurk inside the rambling old Victorian where they’d lived. Mercer had warned Mark that she might not stay with the hotel permanently, but she would stay until she figured out what she wanted to do. For now, she was living in one of the St. Clair’s furnished, oceanfront bungalows.

  “Daddy!” Lily had climbed down from Quinn’s lap. She stood in front of Carter and raised her arms insistently. At the adoration on Carter’s face as he lifted Lily into his arms, Mercer felt a bittersweet pang. Fatherhood suited him so well, had matured him even more. She wished for not the first time that she and Jonathan had had a child. He had initially been against it, citing their age gap and the grown son he had already raised. Eventually, he had relented, but by then it was too late. The two bouts of cancer had taken away that option.

  As Quinn stood from the table, Mercer did, as well.

  “Thank you both again,” she said to Carter and Quinn. “You traveled halfway around the world for me.”

  “We love you, Merce, and we loved Jonathan. Of course, we’re here.” Carter shifted Lily in his arms. Clearly ready for bed, her head lay in the crook of his shoulder, and she sucked her thumb. “Are you sure you don’t want to come to Hawaii with us?”

  Mercer shook her head. “But thanks.”

  “We’ll see you tomorrow at Olivia and Anders’s.” Quinn picked up her purse and slid its strap over her shoulder, then touched Carter’s back. The two said good night to Mark and Mercer and departed.

  “Maybe you should go with them,” Mark suggested once they were alone. “You might have fun. And don’t worry about things here. The hotel has done without you for the past six years. We’ll survive another few weeks.”

  “I don’t need a vacation. I already feel like I’ve been doing nothing for months. I actually prefer the distraction of work.” Mercer was telling the truth. Since Jonathan’s death, other than some volunteer work, she’d mostly hung around the house, getting it ready to be put on the market. She had also made several extended visits here to be with family until Mark finally convinced her to move back home. Mercer picked up the now-empty urn from where it sat on a nearby table. A single, long-stemmed red rose lay in front of it, but she left it there. “Besides, I may need to go to Atlanta soon. Between the house closing and Jonathan’s estate—”

  “Mercer.” Mark’s voice was low. “I understand how you feel better than anyone. But it’s okay to have a good time. If anyone deserves to, it’s you.”

  “If you try to remind me about Jonathan’s one year to grieve rule, I might have to hurt you,” she joked weakly.

  His eyes were soft. “All I’m saying is that you don’t have to feel guilty. You were there for Jonathan when he needed you. You gave up everything to take care of him, just like you did for Emily and me.”

  Mercer merely frowned.

  “C’mon.” He touched her shoulder and guided her toward the hotel’s interior. “The wait staff wants to clean up out here. I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “You’re not going home?”

  “Soon. I got a text a few minutes ago. There’s a situation with the night staff that I need to referee.”

  They took the elevator down to the lobby and Mark escorted her to her car, a black Audi A8 sedan that had belonged to Jonathan. She could have taken one of the hotel’s golf carts, but she’d had the urn with her and didn’t want to risk it turning over.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sis.” Mark hugged her. Unlocking the car, she got in, started the engine, and pulled from the parking lot, aware of her brother still standing there, watching her departure. She glanced to the urn, which sat on the passenger seat.

  “I followed your instructions to the letter. Happy now?” she asked as if somehow Jonathan could hear her. As if she hadn’t lost even his ashes to the sea. She understood that the ritual was both literal and symbolic, an act of letting go. A release. What Jonathan wanted for her.

  But as she entered the darkened bungalow a short time later, all she felt was adrift and alone.

  Chapter Two

  Compared to the previous evening, the lunch at Olivia and Anders’s had been a much less solemn affair. They had dined, picnic-style, in the verdant courtyard of the stately antebellum mansion on Charleston’s East Battery Street, taking advantage of the family being together and the beautiful, early October day. Once Carter, Quinn, and Lily had departed for the airport, Mercer had left, as well. Although he had offered, she hadn’t ridden with Mark and his family to Charleston, instead taking her own car since she planned to while away the remainder of the Sunday afternoon in the French Quarter. Mercer had strolled the district’s quiet, narrow streets, past the historic churches and the old Dock Street Theatre. She’d even had a glass of chardonnay at a cafe that she and Jonathan had frequented on their visits to the city. A pair of young Citadel cadets had tried to flirt with her, but she politely deflected their attempts.

  “May I help you?” A well-dressed, African-American woman inquired as Mercer entered The Bluth Studio, one of the Quarter’s many fine art galleries. Mercer knew her to be Alexa Rice, the gallery’s owner.

  “I’d like to just browse, if that’s all right?”

  “Of course. We close in a half-hour. I’m the only one here and I have a private appointment scheduled, but you’re welcome to look around.” The woman peered at her. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

  Mercer hesitated. “I’m Mercer Leighton. My husband and I purchased a painting from you a few years ago. Lowcountry Repose by Eric Bledsoe?”

  Her face lit in acknowledgment. “Of course. A lovely piece. I hope you’re both enjoying it.”

  At the comment, Mercer felt a familiar void. Jonathan had bought the painting for her as a gift for their third anniversary, since it reminded her of home. “We are,” she managed, not wanting to say more.

  The
woman smiled. “Maybe you’ll find something else here today.”

  A phone rang at an antique desk, and she excused herself to answer it. Mercer went farther inside the large main gallery, which had polished hardwood floors and high ceilings. Paintings and sculptures were illuminated by the natural lighting that flowed in through a skylight overhead. Outside the centuries-old building, she heard the clopping of hooves against pavement, the sound of one of the many horse-drawn carriages that took tourists around the city. She was aware that the afternoon had been a nostalgic excursion to the places she and Jonathan had gone. Not the best activity for someone who was supposed to be getting on with her life. The owner remained on the phone, so after several minutes in the main gallery, Mercer wandered down the long hall that led to several smaller rooms where more art was displayed. It was in the first room, in fact, where they had found the Bledsoe watercolor. Entering the space, she noticed there were several more paintings by the artist among the ones displayed there. As she studied them, she heard the gallery’s front door open. Mercer glanced back into the main area through a large glass window encased in an exposed-brick wall. A distinguished looking, older male with silver hair at his temples, wearing a tweed sport coat, entered. The owner was now off the phone, and although her words were muffled through the glass pane, Mercer heard her welcoming tone as she greeted him. He was apparently the private appointment she had mentioned. Not wanting to intrude, Mercer started to return to the main gallery so she could exit, but through the glass she saw the front door open again. Another man wearing a leather jacket stepped inside, closing the door behind him.