Wind Chime Summer: A Wind Chime Novel

by Sophie Moss

  “Because I need help,” Kade said. “When I came home after my fifth tour overseas, I started drinking. I turned my back on my family. I treated my wife and kids like shit. My wife kicked me out of the house and filed for divorce. I’m here because I lost everything. I’d been thinking about putting a gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger for weeks before I saw Colin and his father announce this program on TV. It gave me hope. I want to deal with the demons inside me and win my wife back. I want to win my kids back. I can’t do that alone.”

  Izzy stared up at this massive, muscular infantryman covered in tattoos, floored by his honesty and vulnerability. She looked at the hand he was holding out to her, and she took it. He helped her up until they stood eye to eye. They looked at each other for a long time, two broken, battle weary souls, with so much more to say. But in the end, only one question popped out of her mouth. It was so simple, so small, but maybe that was all they could handle right now—the smallest of steps. “Does your wife like flowers?”

  Kade nodded slowly, as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Um, yeah,” he said. “She does. She loves them.”

  “When was the last time you sent her some?”

  “I can’t remember,” he admitted.

  “Maybe you should start there.”

  Seven

  Ryan knew he shouldn’t be here. He should be at home, in bed, pretending to sleep. Not wandering through the marshes at midnight like a crazy person. But the story Paul had asked him about earlier that day had woken something inside him, something he’d buried long ago. And he knew he wouldn’t sleep at all tonight, even if he tried. The moment he closed his eyes, the questions would haunt him—the same questions that had haunted him since he was a ten-year-old child.

  There was a reason he’d chosen a career in science, and marine biology, in particular. He’d needed something to help him make sense of the mysteries that lay beneath these waters. His studies had been his anchor; his research the only tether he could trust to ground him in reality. He’d sought comfort in numbers and data, in conducting experiments based on hypotheses that could be validated and proved.

  He’d spent most of his life looking for answers, searching for the truth. And while he’d built a hell of a name for himself in the process, he was still no closer to finding them now than he had been when he’d first started out.

  The spongy earth tugged at his feet, suctioning to his waders. He could feel the pull of the cove, as strong as it had been that night, so many years ago. Resisting the urge to walk any further, he paused just long enough for Zoey to catch up. He reached down, stroking her wet fur. She was covered in mud, and he’d have to give her a bath before letting her in the house tonight. But he’d known better than to leave her behind. She would have started howling the moment his truck pulled away.

  She always stayed close during a full moon.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he looked at the farm, all sharp angles and dark shadows under a wash of silver light. The tide had peeled back, exposing the slick muddy shoreline, the spray of oyster shells, the roots of the marsh grasses. He could hear the water pumping through the tanks on the pier, feeding his latest experiment—an experiment that would be linked, now, to the one night from his childhood he wanted to forget.

  But what could he do?

  He had seen the way Paul and the others had reacted to the story. He had seen how excited they’d been, how eager they were to run with it. He couldn’t ask them to stop without telling them what had happened. And he’d never told anyone. Not even his twin sister.

  Looking back at Pearl Cove, at the curve of water shimmering in the moonlight, he wished he hadn’t taken his father’s rowboat out that night, twenty-three years ago. He wished he could erase what he’d seen and heard while the rest of the islanders had been asleep. But, most of all, he wished he hadn’t woken up his mother when he’d returned and told her everything.

  Because he knew, now, that he was the reason she’d left. He was the reason she’d vanished the next morning, never to be seen or heard from again. He was the reason his sister had grown up without a mother, and his father had lost his wife.

  And he would never forgive himself for that.

  Across the channel, a heron squawked, its prehistoric cry echoing through the night. A set of footprints, probably belonging to a fox, circled back toward the marshes. By his feet, a minnow flopped in a small puddle of water, abandoned by the ebbing tide. He bent slowly, holding Zoey back, and scooped up the small fish, tossing it gently into the deeper waters, where it shot out of sight.

  No. He wouldn’t ask them to stop using the story. He’d have to find a way to get used to it. He needed this farm to succeed. Their mission was too important. And he would never put his own interests ahead of that.

  Besides, he thought, looking up at the moon, he was a man of science now. He didn’t believe in fairy tales anymore.

  And, yet…

  He sensed the subtle shift in the water almost before it began—the way the reflection broke, dancing over the surface. The way the light melted, each drop clasping onto the next until the reflection reformed into a single strand of pearls.

  He heard the voice, the woman’s voice, the same voice he had heard all those years ago, as clearly as if she were standing right beside him, and in the distance, the sound of seashells clinking together on a windless night.

  * * *

  Izzy woke to the sound of wind chimes, of seashells suspended from strings. The faint, faraway clinking lured her from the deepest sleep she could remember having in months. Groggily, she reached out and switched on the lamp. The blankets shifted as she turned toward the window, toward the source of the sound. But it had already faded. And then there was nothing but darkness and silence and the occasional creak of the old house settling into its bones.

  Convinced she’d imagined it, or dreamed it, or both, she breathed in—a deep restful breath—and looked down at her hands. Her knuckles were still swollen and bruised from hitting the bag so hard the night before, but the peace it had brought her inside was worth every painful band of color on the outside. She flexed her fingers, forcing the circulation to return to them, and started to peel back the sweaty sheets.

  But they weren’t sweaty.

  They were dry.

  Floored, she ran her hands over the pillows, every inch of them, just to make sure, then sat up slowly, almost afraid to believe it. She took in the clothes strewn over the floor, the empty water bottles caked in mud, the crinkled granola bar wrappers that had fallen out of the pockets of her gym shorts. Everything looked the same way it had when she’d turned out the lights the night before. But for the first time in nine months, she hadn’t woken up from a nightmare. She hadn’t dreamed about her attacker at all.

  Feeling light, almost buoyant, she rose to retrieve her laptop. Relishing in the idea of crawling back under the covers, of being able to get back in bed without having to strip the sheets, she opened the screen of her computer and immediately sobered when she spotted the spreadsheet of female soldiers. She might have eluded her attacker for a night in her dreams, but he was still out there. He was still a threat. And she refused to be lured into a false sense of security just because she hadn’t found anything suspicious yet.

  Today was Sunday, her first full day off, and she planned to spend it catching up on her research. She had over a dozen new names to look into, and she wanted to do a quick follow-up search on the women currently stationed under his command.

  They were the ones she was worried about the most.

  She had already typed the first name into the search engine when she heard a faint scratching at the door. Figuring it was probably Kade on his way down to the laundry room, she stood to answer it, but frowned when she heard a low whine, like the sound a dog made when it wanted to come in. Crossing the room, she cracked the door and a wiggling ball of fur squeezed through the opening.

  “Well, hello there,” she said softly as the dog licked her hands a
nd wagged her tail. It was Riley, the yellow lab that belonged to Annie and Will’s daughter, Taylor. Looking out into the hallway, Izzy expected to find the child bounding up the stairs after her, but there was no one there. “Your owner’s probably looking for you,” she said, reaching for the dog’s collar to guide her back down the stairs.

  Riley dodged her playfully, then ran around the room, sniffing every corner, before grabbing a dirty sock off the floor and jumping on the bed.

  Izzy raised a brow. “I have a feeling you’re not supposed to do that.”

  Riley wagged her tail, plopped herself down on the blankets, and started chewing on the sock.

  Izzy walked over to the bed and tried to pry the sock from the dog’s mouth, but Riley wasn’t having it, so she gave up. Not sure what to do, because she didn’t have any treats to tempt the dog with and she had a feeling Riley wouldn’t listen to her without them, she decided to leave the door open and wait for Taylor to come find her. Sitting down beside the animal, she pulled her computer into her lap, and sure enough, a few minutes later, she heard footsteps on the stairs.

  “Riley!” a child’s voice whispered from the hallway.

  At the sound of her name, Riley’s tail thumped against the blankets.

  A moment later, Taylor stepped into the doorway. She took one look at her dog on the bed and narrowed her eyes. “Riley, come here.”

  Riley wagged her tail, but she wouldn’t move.

  “Riley,” the child said more firmly. “Come.”

  Riley lifted the sock proudly, chewing it, blatantly ignoring her owner.

  Taylor glanced over at Izzy. “Sorry,” she said, taking a cautious step into the room. “Did she wake you up?”

  “No,” Izzy said, surprised the dog hadn’t bounded off the bed when her owner had called her. Every other time she’d seen them together, Riley had been glued to Taylor’s side.

  Taylor walked over to her dog, wrestled the slobbery sock out of her mouth, and gave her collar a gentle tug to encourage her to jump off the bed.

  Riley rolled over, demanding a belly rub.

  Annoyed, Taylor took a step back and put her hands on her hips.

  A smile tugged at Izzy’s lips. “How old is she?”

  “A year and a half.”

  “So she’s still a puppy.”

  “I guess,” Taylor said, looking a little hurt. “But she always comes when I call her.”

  “Maybe she’s tired,” Izzy said, not wanting the child’s feelings to be hurt. “Do you always get up this early?”

  Taylor shook her head, looking pointedly at the dog. “We were supposed to go crabbing.”

  Riley’s tail thumped against the blankets. She was still on her back, her paws in the air. Resigned, Taylor sighed and gave her a belly rub. She was rewarded with a sloppy kiss on the face. “What are you doing up so early?” she asked Izzy. “Isn’t it your day off?”

  Izzy closed her computer, set it aside. She wasn’t about to tell an eight-year-old that she woke up most days around this time covered in a cold sweat. Or that she’d planned to spend the morning searching for clues that might reveal if her rapist had attacked someone else. “I like to watch the sun rise.”

  “Me too,” Taylor said. “Especially out on a boat.”

  Izzy took in the child’s outfit—jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt, and a faded Navy ball cap pulled over her wispy red hair. “Who are you going crabbing with?”

  “Mr. Haddaway,” Taylor answered. “He’s my teacher’s dad. Ms. Haddaway usually comes with us, but she can’t today, so it’ll just be Ryan and me.”

  “Ryan’s going?” Izzy asked, her thoughts immediately shifting to the story he had told them the day before, and the way he had withdrawn afterwards, retreating into himself.

  Taylor nodded. “He’s coming to pick me up. He’s probably here now. Do you want to come?”

  Izzy blinked, taken aback by the invitation. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because…” Izzy glanced at her computer. She had things to do—important things.

  Taylor bit her lip.

  “What?” Izzy asked.

  “I think Riley wants you to come.”

  Izzy started to laugh, then stopped when she realized that Taylor wasn’t joking. “You’re serious?”

  Taylor nodded. “I don’t think she’s going to leave this room without you.”

  “Of course she will,” Izzy assured her.

  To prove her point, Taylor walked out to the hallway, turned around, and called her dog’s name. Riley wagged her tail, but wouldn’t move from the bed. Taylor looked over at Izzy. “See? I told you. She wants you to come.”

  “She’s not going to come for me either,” Izzy said, standing and walking over to join Taylor in the doorway. “Riley,” Izzy said, patting her legs. “Come.”

  The dog jumped off the bed and ran to her side.

  Izzy stared at the dog, then looked slowly back up at Taylor. “That was…strange.”

  Taylor’s big green eyes held hers. “I can’t go out on the boat without Riley.”

  And I’m not going out on the boat, Izzy thought, looking fleetingly at her computer. But she didn’t want to hurt Taylor’s feelings. “How about I walk you to the car? Make sure Riley goes with you?”

  Taylor brightened. “Okay.”

  Relieved that it was only the dog she cared about, Izzy glanced down at what she was wearing. “Hang on,” she said, grabbing some clothes from the dresser. She slipped into the bathroom, changed, and slid her bare feet into a pair of flip-flops. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  They headed downstairs, with the dog trotting alongside them, and walked out onto the front porch.

  “Wow,” Taylor breathed, pausing mid-step.

  The screen door slipped from Izzy’s hand, slapping back into the frame. The moon, bone-white and twice its normal size, hung suspended over the marshes. The tide had risen to meet it, creeping into the yard, blurring the boundary between earth and water. A silvery haze of heat and humidity clung to the air, beckoning them down to the curved oyster shell driveway, where a man stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the bed of a pickup truck.

  As soon as Riley caught sight of Ryan’s chocolate lab, Zoey, she raced to the bed of the truck to jump in beside her. Taylor trailed slowly after her dog, her eyes fixed on the moon. But Izzy only had eyes for the man. Dressed in a pair of faded jeans, a gray T-shirt, and white boots, he looked so much a part of this place, so eerily perfect silhouetted in the moonlight and marsh grasses, it was almost like she was seeing him for the first time.

  She felt suddenly lightheaded, dazed, as she walked down the steps and made her way over to the truck. He opened the passenger door for Taylor, and when the child hopped in and scooted over to the middle seat, Izzy climbed in beside her.

  Ryan held her gaze, saying nothing as he closed the door gently behind them—like he’d known all along she’d be coming. This was a mistake, Izzy thought. She was only supposed to make sure Riley got in the truck, not go with them. But as Ryan rounded the front of the vehicle and slid behind the wheel, filling the cabin with the scent of salt and marsh and man, she realized there was nowhere else she wanted to be.

  Eight

  Ryan felt the tension he’d been holding onto all night begin to dissolve as they motored out of the harbor. He always felt more relaxed when he was out on the water, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. All the expectations, the frantic need to prove himself, the obsessive drive to succeed—none of it seemed to matter anymore.

  All that mattered was catching enough seafood to fill the day’s quota.

  It was a simple life, a romantic life, a life he would have wanted for himself if the Bay was still healthy enough to produce an endless supply of fish, crabs, and oysters—the way it had been over a hundred years ago when it had first put this region on the map as one of the seafood capitals of the world.

  But that wasn’t the reality a
nymore.

  So he stole these nostalgic Sundays with Jake Haddaway as a reminder of what he was fighting for. The fact that Taylor wanted to join them, almost every weekend, fueled his optimism for the future. It meant a lot to him that she cared, that she wanted to learn about the traditions he’d grown up with as a child. One day, if he ever had a daughter of his own, he hoped to be able to do the same thing with her.

  Looking over his shoulder, at where Taylor and Izzy sat huddled together on one of the coolers, he saw that Taylor was explaining the difference between the crab pots and bushel baskets piled up in the stern. Izzy was nodding and appeared to be listening, her free hand absently stroking Riley’s soft fur. She’d had a hand on the dog almost from the moment she’d stepped on the boat, and he was glad to see that she didn’t mind touching the animal or sitting so close to Taylor.

  Apparently, it was only men she shied away from.

  Determined to bridge that gap, to get her to trust him and not see him as some kind of a threat, he grabbed a spare hat out of one of the compartments and walked it over to her. “Here,” he said. “You’re going to need this when the sun comes up.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  She twisted her hair up and tucked it into the hat. Ryan couldn’t help feeling a little sad to see it go. It was the first time he’d ever seen her with her hair down, and nothing could have prepared him for the picture she made with those wild, unruly curls tumbling down around her bare shoulders.

  In a white tank top and cutoff shorts, she looked different today, more approachable. Her skin had a glow to it that he’d never seen before. And when she lifted those striking tawny eyes to his, he saw, for the first time, a glimmer of the same heat and passion that he kept so carefully hidden from everyone else.

  “Looks good on you,” he said, nodding toward the camouflage trucker hat she’d just put on.

  The slightest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth before she turned away, focusing her attention on Taylor again.