Sailing out of Darkness
Normandie Fischer
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
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Afterword
Also by Normandie Fischer
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously.
SAILING OUT OF DARKNESS
Copyright © 2013, 2017 Normandie Fischer
2nd Edition
All rights reserved. Reproduction in part or in whole is strictly forbidden without the express written consent of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-0-9971855-2-2
To my darling mama, Ella Meadows Giesey, who always listens and whose love is unconditional. And to the next Ella, Mama’s first great-grandchild, my daughter’s daughter, Ella Cosette Meadows Scoville, who made her appearance on August 21, 2013.
I have been blessed and surrounded by the love of family and friends. But I’ve met others who weren’t so fortunate. I also dedicate this story to those who feel overwhelmed by loss and by guilt. Who imagine themselves friendless or condemned, some of whom have chosen a final solution that offers no true peace.
May we who know love be the ones to listen when someone cries in the wilderness of their pain. May we reach out to those who have followed their heart into an unhealthy place that has left them feeling lost and alone and desperate. May we who know Love, offer it unconditionally.
1
Samantha
Black night’s emptiness, the bed reeks of nothing.
Cuckoo sings the melody, but no one hears.
Samantha Ransom smoothed her palm across the silky sheet, stopping when she touched a feathered mass of pillow. Just that movement roused a whiff of Jack’s aftershave, along with traces of sweat and man, and memories flashed—of his touch, of his fingers, oh, and of his kisses. They danced in her head, unbidden. Unwanted.
On a moan, she tossed the pillow to the floor and pressed a fist against the wrench in her gut. The sound oozed from her belly, growing louder as it hit the air.
Long minutes passed before her cries quieted to ragged breaths. She kicked free of the tangled top sheet and waited for a sleep that would not come. The minutes became hours as the cuckoo in her old clock intoned their loss.
Something crunched on the gravel outside her open window, sending her heartbeat’s thurump to double time. She balled her fists. An intruder would give her something to fight against instead of this self she couldn’t control.
But no one came.
The silence echoed off the walls, reminding her of childhood nights when she’d bit her lip and squeezed shut her eyes to keep the bad away. “Let it go,” she whispered now.
At the first gray of dawn, she eased out of bed, snatched at the sheets, and let them lie in a heap on the floor as she took her used body into the bathroom. Climbing in the shower, she tried to scour away the night and her misery with a lavender body wash.
The unscrubbable followed her to the laundry room, where she stuffed the sheets in the washer and turned the water temperature to hot. It settled on her as she ground coffee beans and placed the kettle on to boil.
Samantha’s, her coffee/kitchen shop, was closed today. Church would happen all up and down the Neuse, but she wouldn’t be there. Not today. Not this week. Not when her chest blazed its scarlet A, and God seemed un-found. Silent.
She wandered the downstairs rooms, waiting for inspiration, for something that would occupy her hands and perhaps her thoughts. She’d vacuumed, dusted, and polished during yesterday’s storm. She didn’t want to cook. Or pull weeds.
Perhaps she’d tackle her little boat’s brightwork. The rain had kept her from sanding the mahogany on the centerboard trunk or touching up those peeling spots of varnish on the bowsprit. Besides, working on the Alice II always calmed her.
Leaving the coffee untouched, she donned her grubbies and headed toward the river. The wind lay still. The sky shimmered a light blue as the sun rose higher in a day that ought to hold some joy.
With one hand on the rail that led down the bank, she glanced at the dock. And squinted as she looked again, because it couldn’t be.
Her boat’s mast listed a good thirty-degrees to port. Dashing down the short flight of steps, Sam tried to grasp the hows, let alone the whys. She always left enough slack in the lines to compensate for the rise and fall of the tide—unless she’d been careless when she’d last secured the boat. Because of those other things on her mind.
Alice strained against the dock. Thank heaven Sam had tied off the boom so it wasn’t dipping over the left side, adding its weight to the rest. The bailing bucket, lines, and a sponge slopped around in a cockpit half-filled with water.
Her pulse beat a jitterbug as she knelt and leaned out and over. Nothing there. Perhaps forward?
Lying on her belly on the hard wooden dock, she stretched to check under the raised gunwale near her.
And there they were, a series of small holes just below what would normally have been the waterline. At each indentation, starburst cracks in the boat’s interior gelcoat radiated outward.
She pushed herself up, studying the outside of the hull to be certain Alice hadn’t hit barnacles or rubbed against a piling. But that wouldn’t explain the starburst cracks. Those meant someone had stabbed from inside the cockpit.
Thank God, she’d messed up the dock lines, tightening them instead of leaving them loose enough for tidal changes. If she’d cleated them properly, any holes below the waterline would have sunk Alice. Whoever had poked those holes hadn’t expected the short lines and the very low tide to keep the boat lopsided instead of at the bottom of the river.
Sam wanted to weep, but no tears came. She felt like retching, but what good would that do? About as much as railing aloud to an empty river.
The name flashed: India Monroe.
It must have been India.
She saw again India’s face, the binoculars dangling from her neck as Sam and Jack sailed back to the dock. She felt again the hurt when Jack leapt from the boat and went to India’s side to escort his old girlfriend away from his new girlfriend’s boat.
He’d phoned Sam after he’d settled India at home, after he’d soothed—or somethinged—India. What was it, only days ago? It felt like years.
“We’re through,” Sam had told him then, her voice full of the tears that streamed down her cheeks. “This isn’t working. I can’t see you anymore.”
�
�You don’t mean that.” Jack hadn’t even pretended to believe her. Instead, he’d smiled behind his words, hadn’t he, resurrecting a half-forgotten image of Jack-the-boy not taking her seriously and of herself, two years younger, stamping her feet at him.
She’d curled her toes and banked her frustration. “I do. This time, I do.”
“We’ve been through this, Sam honey. I’m not with India any more. You know that. I don’t live there. It’s you I love. It’s you I need.”
Why couldn’t he see? “I can’t be the person who makes another woman hurt like that. Imagine what she saw through those binoculars.” Sam bit back a moan that wanted to climb right out of her belly. Memories of what they’d done, of what India might have witnessed…
“It’s wrong,” she finally said. “We’re wrong.”
India’s pain was only half of it. The smaller half. Still, it was obviously the half that had holed Sam’s boat. But neither India’s pain nor her own disgust at herself had stopped Sam from opening the door to Jack. She always opened to him.
A gull squawked and waddled at the end of the dock. With the tide coming in, she had to do something about those holes before the rising water loosened the lines and let the river sink her precious boat.
Sam found another bucket and line in the shed and prepared to bail. But no, she needed to fill the holes first, because an emptied Alice would bob upright, putting those holes under water. Into the bucket went epoxy, hardener, filler, and fiberglass cloth, along with sandpaper, thick gloves, solvent, tape, and a roll of paper towels.
From her awkward position on the dock, stretching out and leaning over to sand and clean the area, the prep work took hours. By the time she’d mixed and slathered on thickened epoxy and added a layer of fiberglass cloth for strength, patches of her skin were rubbed raw, and a few seldom-used muscles screamed for relief.
The repair job wasn’t pretty, but at least it would keep the water out. If only she could patch her own self as easily.
Jack’s words when she phoned to tell him about Alice set her teeth on edge. “It’s got to be kids, though I admit this is getting way out of hand.”
Why wouldn’t he admit it might be about him? About them?
“Jack, really? You know it’s not kids. Besides the fact that none live nearby, why would anyone randomly pick me as a target—again?” She waited for him to get it and finally spoke into the silent phone. “What about calling the sheriff?”
“Sure. Maybe he can figure this out. In the meantime, you want me to send someone over to mend the boat?”
“Like you did when my tires were flat and my screens slashed?”
“I’d come myself,” he said, “but I told you, I’m heading out of town in about an hour. All goes well, I should be back next Sunday.”
“I’ve already patched Alice’s holes.” She kept her tone flat instead of the round and mad that stayed just out of reach.
“Well, good.”
“Jack.” Her voice had pancaked to the point that the stupidest person should have been able to see she was on the brink, and Jack wasn’t stupid.
“What?”
What did he mean, what? “You need to speak to India,” she said. “She’s the only one with a motive.”
“Honey, she wouldn’t. Look, I’ve known India Monroe for ten years. She’s got issues, but I can’t imagine her hurting you or anyone else.”
“Then you’re naïve.”
His loud sigh made her want to kick something. She’d have used his shins if he’d been nearby.
“Fine, I’ll call her. Hold off on the sheriff.”
“I will for now, but you need to tell her that won’t last. And don’t forget to assure her we won’t be seeing each other anymore. Maybe that’ll get her to leave me alone.”
“I can’t say that, because you know it’s not true.”
“It has to be. This time, it has to be.”
Three strikes, and you’re out. She’d had her three—and more.
“I’ll talk to her, but I’ll also see you when I get back.” He didn’t wait for her answer.
Sam stared at the silent phone and slowly set it down. How had this disconnect happened? She said the words. He talked right over her and then walked right in. But could she blame him? Even the mess with her screens hadn’t stiffened her spine enough for her to bar the door.
She glanced over her shoulder at the back porch. It had been another morning like this one, sun-drenched and clear. She’d padded into the kitchen to the scent of fresh brew and filled her mug before heading to the porch to welcome the day. She could still feel the burn from the sloshed coffee on her wrist and fingers.
Someone had ripped down her screens.
No, not ripped. Sliced. Knifed.
She’d set her mug on an inside table, dabbed her hand on her bathrobe to dry it, and stepped out.
Boards had creaked under her feet, but she’d focused on one particular section of screen where the red letters of half a word still hung straight, leaving a B and an I. Flopped toward the floor had been three more, their shapes distorted by the folds of dangling mesh, but still guessable. She hadn’t wanted to touch them, or touch anything at all.
The corner of a chair had hit her thigh as she’d backed away. Stumbling, she’d grabbed the wall, turned, and fled, locking the door behind her.
Now, on this morning of regret, she pictured blond hair surrounding a face contorted with anger. The sting of tears replaced the slamming of heart against ribs. Because she’d known, then and now.
Only one person hated her enough to wreck such damage.
Gray obscured the room when she woke the next morning, as if cataracts fogged her lenses. She rubbed her eyes to clear them and climbed from bed. The cuckoo in the hall reminded her it was time to get a move on. Work waited. The world waited.
She showered, dressed, and applied armor before she faced town: a dab of concealer under her eyes, a heavy application of blush, and a flick of waterproof mascara. She pulled a turquoise silk shirt off a hanger, slipped into black slacks and black flats, and added a pair of small gold hoops.
She packed a salad for lunch. Samantha’s offered baked goodies for those who came in looking for a tall cup, or who wanted new knives or blenders or a cookbook so they could stir-fry in their new wok. Maybe she needed fattening, but not with espresso brownies, because she couldn’t help thinking that once she got started, she wouldn’t be able to quit. And today was not the day to get started.
Not unless she wanted to turn into her daddy’s cousin Lulu, who’d blimped to 368 pounds when her husband ran off with his boyfriend. One brownie at a time had segued into one cake at a time and then into two cakes plus a gallon of ice cream. Lulu had died of heart failure before she hit forty-nine.
Maybe Sam’s heart hadn’t yet been completely shattered like Lulu’s, but it surely had fissures big enough to leak the life right out. And she’d carved a slew of them herself.
Still, she had both of her shops, the first of which she’d built from nothing before the coffeehouse craze hit Raleigh, the second, post-Greg, a little closer to home. And she had her beautiful little sailboat, along with her newly restored cottage. And, of course, the twins plus one and a half. Lulu’d had no one. Not even her cousin.
That one-and-a-half still took some getting used to. She liked her daughter-in-law and the prospect of that new life Cindy carried. But it wasn’t so very long ago that Daniel and his twin sister, Stefi, had been children on top of each other and her, their voices echoing, the thump-thump of their music swelling until it almost burst the walls of the house they’d all shared in Raleigh. Sometimes, when fixing breakfast for herself, she imagined the twins sitting behind her, begging for waffles: “Please, Mom, just one more?”
Her once-upon-a-time babies had morphed overnight, one into a husband and soon a father, the other, her sweet girl, into a design student in Florence, Italy. They were barely twenty-two.
Sam could feel wrinkles sagging her arms, her
neck, her world. She was almost a grandmother. Soon, she’d need bifocals. A walker. A wheelchair.
That image provoked a bark of laughter.
“Get over yourself,” she said, scrubbing harder at a splatter of oil on the counter.
Clouds darkened the sky as she finished putting away her lunch fixings, and the first spatters of rain hit the gravel as she headed out of her driveway and into Sussex. Good thing she’d fixed Alice’s holes before the rains returned.
Sam beat a tattoo on the steering wheel in time to the slosh of her wipers. She ought to get the radio fixed. Or put in a CD player.
She’d scheduled another training session for her Beaufort assistant, Tootie, on some of the software both shops used, and Rhea was supposed to call with a report from the Raleigh Samantha’s at ten. Her morning would be busy. Busy was good.
Busy might keep her from...what? Calling the sheriff? Banging her head against the wall?
By closing time, Sam barely had energy to get herself home, like a horse that had been ridden hard and put away wet. “Yeah, right,” she told her Toyota. “I’m more like wrung out and hung up wet, and I’ll be wetter if this rain doesn’t slow.”
She picked up a ready-made spinach salad and an already roasted chicken at the grocery store, along with a loaf of freshly baked multigrain, and headed home. Where she found a voicemail from Jack.
“Missing you. I’ll be back Sunday, if all goes well. I love you.”
He loved her, but he hadn’t mentioned speaking to India. He loved her, but he wouldn’t stay away when she begged him to.
Well, of course not. Why should he believe she meant it?
She stabbed at her salad and tried to chew a bite that included greens and a chunk of goat cheese. It needed more salt. Pepper. Something.
She sipped her wine, which should have mellowed her, shouldn’t it? When the phone rang, she jumped but let it go to voicemail.
Another sip, another stab, and curiosity propelled her to check the message. It was Rhea’s voice this time, saying, “We need to talk.”
Sailing out of Darkness (Carolina Coast Book 4) Page 1
