by Lisa Jackson
Now the ferry was churning away from the island, gliding across the sun-spangled water effortlessly. A few recreational boats were chugging their way from the marina to the open sea.
Instinctively she looked back at the dock, listing in the water, its weathered boards drying in the sun. Nothing looked out of place today; there wasn’t a hint of anything amiss, no physical reminders of her boy in his little red sweatshirt and jeans. No one standing at the misty dock’s edge.
“You’re losing it,” she whispered. Just like they think.
She turned to try to catch a glimpse of the stable and the apartment where Austin Dern now resided, but of course she couldn’t see it from this angle.
Get a move on.
Turning, she spied her morning meds, three cherry-colored pills placed in a cut glass holder the size of an espresso cup sitting next to a glass of water.
Someone, Wyatt probably, had brought them in this morning while she slept. She hadn’t heard the person arrive. A chill slid down her spine as she thought of what anyone could do while she slept so soundly. She didn’t want to swallow anything that might dull her mind, but Wyatt and McPherson insisted she needed the meds.
“Bull,” she muttered under her breath, carrying the glass into the bathroom, tossing the brightly colored pills into the toilet, and flushing them away.
The water was still running in the old pipes when she returned to the room and replaced the medication glass on the nightstand.
Throwing on a pair of jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, she rummaged in her closet for a pair of beat-up tennis shoes and a green fleece pullover, the pullover something she’d worn for years that now was at least a size too big.
Spying the sweater she’d worn the night before, she scrounged around in the right pocket and slipped out the key that had been left inside.
“Where do you fit?” she wondered aloud, staring at the jagged, worn notches in the blade of the key. There were no identifiable markings on it, nothing to indicate what it unlocked, but she slipped the slim bit of metal into the front pocket of her jeans, just in case she figured it out.
Walking out of her room, she thought she might trip over Jewel-Anne, but her cousin was far too clever to be caught spying and had whizzed away. If she’d really been outside Ava’s door at all.
In the kitchen, Ava found the coffeepot and poured herself a dose of whatever blend Virginia had brewed, then grabbed a napkin and a slice of some apple coffee cake that was already cut and left to cool on the counter. The house was quiet for once, not even Graciela’s off-key humming or Jewel-Anne’s wheelchair disturbing the silence.
Odd, she thought, but then what wasn’t? Her entire life seemed surreal these days. She walked through the back door and across the porch to the outside where the autumn air was brisk, a few dry leaves skittering over the lawn, the smell of the sea ever present. Today, in the sunlight, the island seemed peaceful and serene, no hint of the evil that seemed to ooze over the hillsides and seep through the walls of Neptune’s Gate at night.
All in your mind, sweetie. All in your mind.
Looking over the bay, she sat on the porch swing and slowly rocked.
The coffee was strong and hot, burning a path down her throat and taking the edge off her headache. Virginia’s coffee cake was still slightly warm and filled with cinnamon and cooked apples, probably from the twisted trees in the orchard that still bore fruit.
So what the hell are you doing? Waiting for something to happen? That’s not you, Ava. Never has been. You were—make that are—a take-charge woman. Remember? Didn’t you graduate from college in a little over three years? Weren’t you an entrepreneur who started her own advertising business, making a fortune on e-marketing before you sold the company? Didn’t you parlay a nice inheritance into a fortune that allowed you to buy out your cousins and siblings so that you would eventually own most of this island? If it weren’t for Jewel-Anne holding out, Neptune’s Gate would be yours alone and wasn’t that your dream? She bit the edge of her lip and thought. What had become of the woman she’d once been, the one who had set her sights on Wyatt Garrison and never let go? Where was the athlete who’d once run marathons? What had happened to the person who had shrewdly bought out most of her relatives so that she could own Neptune’s Gate herself, a woman who had planned to restore this old house to its former grandeur?
She’s gone . . . lost when her only child disappeared. A tear rolled from Ava’s eye, and she angrily brushed it away. No more moping around grieving! No more letting others push you around! No more playing the damned victim! Toughen up, Ava. And if the past bothers you so much, then figure it out. Find out what happened to your boy and move the hell on.
“Oh, God,” she whispered, suddenly afraid to let go.
Come on, Ava! For the love of Christ, do something!
Downing the remainder of her coffee, she nearly cracked the glass-topped table as she slammed her mug down onto its dusty top. She crumpled her napkin, stuffed it into her jeans pocket, then walked down to the dock and boathouse. Inside she discovered only the dingy was still there, but the powerboat was missing, its slip empty, the lift down. She’d always been fascinated with the boathouse as a child, how it smelled brackish from the sea, the way the water was always restless, the hidden attic above where the mechanism for the boat lift was hidden along with a few abandoned mud wasps’ nests and a multitude of sticky cobwebs that, filled with the bodies of desiccated insects, dangled and draped over the single dirty window.
She and Kelvin had hidden there as children, away from parents whose fights were as volatile as their passionate affection.
Kelvin. Her heart twisted when she thought of her brother, and she walked swiftly from the boathouse, refusing to let the memories of her only sibling draw her back to that dark place that forever seemed to call her. First Kelvin, then Noah.
Maybe all the members of her family who thought she was crazy were right. There was a good chance that she was certifiable.
Then again . . .
From the boathouse, she made her way up a series of rock steps to the garden, where, in the summer, roses, hydrangea, and heather flourished. Today the garden was weed-choked and neglected, grass growing over the stones. She stopped at the marker, a rock carved with Noah’s name. There was no birth date, nor was the day he disappeared etched onto the uneven stone. It contained only his name. She bent and rested on one knee, leaning forward and touching the letters, then kissing her fingers and brushing them over the hard surface. “I miss you,” she whispered, then felt as if she were being watched, studied by unseen eyes.
She glanced over her shoulder at the house but saw no one in the dark windows that reflected the sea.
Wyatt was right. She couldn’t go on this way. Living in the past. Not knowing what happened to her boy. You have to find out what happened to him. You. You know you can’t rely on anyone else.
Straightening, she looked down at the dock and scowled. Why was it that she always saw him there? It wasn’t as if he’d been playing near the boathouse when he’d disappeared, and yet in her dreams or in her waking visions of him, she always viewed his little backside at the edge of the dock, so dangerously close to the water.
Why did her nightmares always take her there?
Through a rusting gate, she walked to the rear of the house where she eyed the stable, barn, and outbuildings. The horses and a few head of cattle were grazing in a pasture, sunlight burnishing their shaggy coats. Curious, Ava eyed the area, searching for Dern, but he wasn’t anywhere outside. When she explored the stable and barn and even climbed the stairs to his apartment, she found it locked and no one answered her knock. Dern, like everyone else in the household, appeared to be MIA this morning, which was too bad because she wanted to talk to him, find out more about the man who had pulled her from the bay.
From the stable, she walked to the front of the house and let herself in the front door. No longer was she alone. Virginia was rattling around in the kitchen. Also,
Ava heard footsteps on the floor above, then the smooth hum of Jewel-Anne’s wheelchair.
No, she was no longer alone.
And she didn’t know if that was a good thing.
Or bad.
She wandered to the kitchen where Virginia, balanced on a step stool, was straightening cans in the pantry, every tin label facing out, the larger cans in the back, smaller in the front. Boxes of pasta, too, were visible, along with an array of spices and the basics of rice, beans, flour, and sugar in square glass jars, all labeled precisely. Glancing over her shoulder, Virginia asked, “You get something to eat?” She righted a crooked carton of chicken stock.
“I pilfered a slice of your coffee cake. It was good.”
“That’s not much. You want something more?”
“No, thanks.”
A stack of tuna cans was twisted to perfection. Virginia glanced at her watch. “Lunch won’t be for another couple of hours.”
“I think I’ll make it. So . . . where was everyone this morning?”
Beneath the shoulders of her housedress, Virginia’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly and the tins of canned fish suddenly threatened to topple.
“Hey, there!” Wyatt’s voice rang through the outer hallway. Ava turned to find him striding toward her. The worry she’d seen etched across his face last night had evaporated, and he even managed a smile. “How’re you feeling?”
She shrugged. “Not bad.”
“Good.” He hooked her elbow with a hand and admitted, “I was worried.”
“I’ll be okay.”
One corner of his mouth twisted upward. “I’m counting on it.” But there were still doubts in his eyes, doubts he tried to hide. “So what do you say? Want to go into town?”
“With you?”
“Of course with me. Maybe get some lunch.”
“I thought you had to work.”
“I’m leaving later this afternoon, but I thought we could get off this island for a while, pick up some groceries or whatever, just hang out.”
“Just hang out,” she repeated.
“I know, I know.” He dropped her elbow and held up a hand as if in surrender. “We haven’t done it in a long time, but I was thinking it might be time to, you know”—he lifted one shoulder and his smile stretched a bit—“reconnect.”
She glanced upward, toward the landing on the second floor, to make certain no one was listening. Lowering her voice, she said, “So why didn’t you come to bed last night?”
“I was there.”
“No . . . Really? But . . .” She shook her head and stepped back from him, remembering their cold bed, how the pillow had shown no impression of his head, that the sheets and covers on his side had been neat and unmussed. He couldn’t have been there. She would have known, would have felt him. “You weren’t there.”
“I got up early.”
“Wyatt.” She lowered her voice further, trying to hang on to her patience. “What is this?”
“You tell me.”
“Why are you lying?”
“Good question,” he said, his smile fading. “Why would I?”
“You weren’t there when I went to sleep or when I woke up.”
“That’s not exactly news, Ava. Happens all the time . . .” Then he looked away from her and let out a long-suffering sigh. “I was there, Ava. Right next to you. For most of the night. I came in and you were asleep, so I didn’t disturb you, and then later, when you were so restless, I got up and spent the rest of the night from about four a.m. on down here, in the den.” He hooked a finger toward the room on the far side of the staircase, the place he’d claimed when they’d moved in years before and the room to which he’d often retreated, closing the French doors and drawing the curtains whenever he was working from home, which over the past two years had happened less and less.
“Your side of the bed hadn’t been slept in,” she insisted.
“Much,” he corrected, holding up one finger as his face flushed a bit. “It hadn’t been slept in much.” Scowling, he said, “Okay, forget about coming into town with me. Maybe it’s not such a good idea. I guess we both need our space.” Shooting her a final look somewhere between disappointment and anger, he walked back the way he’d come, his footsteps ringing hollowly on the marble floor of the foyer.
She ground her teeth together. It’s your fault, Ava. He was offering an olive branch and you snapped it in half.
“Uh-oh.” Ian’s voice whispered through the foyer, and she turned to find him leaning on the wall near the elevator. “Trouble in paradise?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“Touchy, aren’t we today, cuz? What’s wrong? Off your meds?”
What was this all about? She thought of the pills she’d flushed down the toilet and refused to feel guilty about it. No way, no how.
“You know, it’s really not smart to piss Wyatt off,” he said idly.
“I don’t mean to.”
“Sure you do.”
Ian was staring at her, and she said, “Don’t you have a job or something?”
“Not much of one now. Not since your hubby decided to hire that ex-marine or Navy Seal or whatever he is.”
“Dern? I thought he was a rancher.”
“That too.”
“What do you know about him?”
“That he’s trouble. I don’t get it. Why Wyatt has to have his spies around . . .” Ian made a face.
Ava felt her paranoia ratchet up a notch. “Why do you think he’s a spy?”
“Isn’t everyone? Isn’t that what you think? You’re not the only one who can play the paranoid card, Ava.”
She glared at him.
“I don’t know a whole lot, okay. Only what I found out on the Internet. Dern’s had a couple of scrapes with the law. Arrested twice, never even arraigned or convicted.”
“Arrested for what?”
“The Internet only gave up so much info, but you might want to ask him.”
“Wyatt would never hire anyone with a record.”
Ian gave her a look. “I said he was never charged. That doesn’t mean he’s lily-white, though, does it?” A grin stretched over his teeth. “Then again, who is?” His cell phone jangled and he punched the CONNECT button and strolled away.
As he spoke in hushed tones, Ava hurried up the stairs and walked to her room, but Graciela was already inside, the bed made, the room freshened. “Good morning,” she said as she tweaked the recently plumped pillows, then ran a hand over the coverlet, smoothing it.
“Morning . . . but . . . you know you don’t have to make my bed.” Ava had always taken care of straightening up her own room all of her life and preferred it that way.
“Oh, I know.” Graciela nodded as she swung into the adjoining bath. “But since your . . . um . . . your accident last night, I thought I would help out.”
Ava walked to the doorway and caught the maid yanking down her towel from a hook near the shower. “I can take care of it myself.”
“I know.” Graciela’s smile was pinned neatly on her pretty face as she gathered a wet washcloth from the counter near the sink, then bent down and snagged a bath mat from the floor. “But Mr. Wyatt, he asked me to.” She started to straighten, glanced into the toilet bowl, and stopped.
“Why?”
The girl lifted a shoulder, then flushed the toilet, and Ava realized at least part of the pills she’d tried to flush away had lingered.
Graciela knows you’re dumping your meds. . . .
“I didn’t ask,” Graciela said, and for a second Ava was lost, then realized the maid was answering her question about Wyatt’s request.
“When?” she managed as if nothing were wrong. “When did he ask you?”
“Last night.” Her dark eyebrows nearly collided, and her smile fell from her lips. “Is there a problem? Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no,” Ava was quick to assure her. “It’s just that from now on, I’d like to do it myself.”
/> Graciela blinked, appearing a little crestfallen, and Ava felt like a heel.
“I’m sorry,” the maid said softly.
“Don’t be. It’s all right. The room . . . looks great.” Ava backed into her bedroom, allowing Graciela to pass. “It’s fine. Just . . . in the future, check with me, okay?”
“Whatever you want, Miss Ava.” Graciela, towels bunched under her arm, swept past.
“It’s just Ava,” she reminded her, but Graciela, her back stiff, was already walking out of the room.
“Yes, Miss—” Graciela said, then snapped her mouth shut and made her way quickly to the elevator.
For the love of God, Ava, don’t pick fights. Don’t make mountains out of molehills!
But she returned to the bathroom and peeked into the toilet. If there had been any trace of her medication disintegrating against the porcelain, it had been washed away in Graciela’s final flush.
“Not a big deal,” she said aloud, as if the maid being onto her wasn’t worth the time of thinking about it.
But deep down, Ava knew she was lying to herself.
Again.
CHAPTER 5
Ava was hurrying down the main stairs of the house when the phone started ringing. One ring. Two. She was almost in the front hallway when she heard Virginia’s voice as she answered. “Hello . . . oh, yes . . . hello, Mrs. Church . . .
Mrs. Church? Uh-oh. Ava cringed inside as she ran through the possibilities of who the caller might be: her uncle Crispin’s wife, Piper, mother of Jewel-Anne and Jacob? It certainly wasn’t Crispin’s first wife, Regina, the bitter woman who had borne him his first three children: Ian, Trent, and Zinnia. Regina was long dead, the result of an automobile accident in which Uncle Crispin had been at the wheel. He’d survived and shortly thereafter had taken up with Piper. Ava wanted no part of the conversation with Piper.
“. . . of course,” Virginia was saying, and glanced down the hallway where she spied Ava gathering her purse. Shaking her head and waving her off, Ava hoped that the cook would get the message. Of course she didn’t. “She’s right here,” Virginia said brightly. “Just a second.”
