Sailing out of Darkness (Carolina Coast Book 4)

by Normandie Fischer

  Sam hit the Call button. “You rang?”

  “I did,” Rhea said. “Honey, you didn’t sound so good today. Oh, I know you didn’t mean to let me hear it. But this is me, remember?”

  Sam picked up her glass and carried it to the couch. Sliding down against a fluffy pillow, she sighed. “Oh, Rhea. It’s bad.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I found holes in Alice yesterday. Looked like an ice pick had made them.”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking? That it’s the old girlfriend up to her tricks?”

  “Who else?”

  “So, why’d she come after you this time? I thought you’d shuffled that man all the way out of your life.”

  Sam twirled the wine in her glass, but she couldn’t bring herself to drink. Or to speak.

  “You didn’t? Oh, honey. I told you what you gotta do.”

  Rhea had. Rhea’d been steadfast when Sam’s Raleigh church friends had sent worried looks and cold shoulders, as if her divorce were catching. So, of course, Sam had clung to Rhea’s friendship. And big-mouth Sam had told Rhea all about meeting up with her childhood best friend, Jack. About him working on her house. About how fun it was to play on Alice with Jack.

  It hadn’t taken Rhea long to jab her finger on the tabletop when Sam had visited Raleigh. “Honey, you gotta flee.” Then those fingers had fluttered in a little wave as if to shoo Sam out the door. “The Lord’s really clear on this. You hear? Temptation like that? You gotta run fast as those legs of yours will carry you.” She’d said it more than once since she’d learned the truth.

  But in the beginning of the mess, the voice in Sam’s head had whispered contrary messages. You can do it. You’re strong. Just say no.

  Who’d ever come up with that platitude? Just say no.

  Sure. Right. Great idea, and workable for a saint, which Sam obviously wasn’t.

  No, Rhea’s had been the better advice: “Hightail it out of Dodge.”

  “I know,” Sam said. “I wish I’d listened.”

  “So, now what?”

  “What do you mean, now what? I’ve made a mess of things.” Her voice quavered. She didn’t want to cry again. That’s all she seemed to do these days when Rhea called to check on her. Rhea was the One Who Knew All.

  “Girl, are you closing off again?”

  Sam didn’t answer.

  “You stop that. Right now.”

  “It’s so hard. I want to be good. I do.”

  “Well, honey, you tell me how you’re gonna do that, right there in that town with him? A man you trusted ’cause he was your buddy way back when? And after all that mess with Greg?”

  “I know. I know.”

  “So, now what?”

  “You already asked that.”

  “I did. But you didn’t answer.”

  How could she? She hadn’t a clue. “You said flee. But that’s not an option. I mean, I’ve got two shops and a house and a boat. And now I’m a grandmother-to-be.”

  Rhea hooted.

  Sam pulled the phone away and stared at it. “What’s so funny about that?”

  “That baby’s not coming for a long time. And you think you’re indispensable at the shops? You think you haven’t trained me and that girl, Tootie, to do just fine without you hanging over our shoulders? What’s got into you? You’ve got Stefi studying in Italy, right there in that beautiful country. And don’t you try to tell me you can’t afford to go visit her.”

  Sam pulled up her knees and hugged them to her chest. She hadn’t even considered traveling. And to Italy? Oh, my. “I always wanted to see Rome, Florence,” and on a whisper, “Venice.”

  “You think I don’t know that? How many times did you tell me that fool husband of yours promised to take you? You think I wasn’t counting? That I didn’t see your face time and again when he disappointed you?”

  Dropping her feet to the floor and letting out a breath from deep in her gut, Sam nodded to the room and to her glass of wine, which she tilted to her lips. The dark liquid slid down her throat. Maybe it would help her decide what to do.

  “You think it’s really possible?” she asked, her voice smaller than she’d heard it in a while. “That I could leave everything?”

  “Honey, it’s not just possible. It’s a got-to-do.”

  “And you think Tootie could manage without me?”

  “Why not? I’ll only be an hour away. I can help her with the bookkeeping and payroll. Didn’t you say you’d hired a part-timer?”

  “Her fiancé’s older sister. I told you about Holland, the banker.”

  “And how’s that working out?”

  Sam laughed. “We’ll see, won’t we? At least Holland’s a good foot taller than his sister. He can stand at Tootie’s back if she needs him.”

  This time, Rhea’s laugh loosed humor. “So, you go on and buy yourself a ticket. Get healed and free.”

  The idea settled, took hold, and started to bud. “I’ll try.”

  “Good. Now you call me with the details soon as you make them, hear?”

  “Thank you.”

  “No need to thank me. You just come back whole enough not to need some man to fill in the gaps.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sam disconnected and wandered outside to the top of the cliff. The rain had stopped, and the sun eased below the horizon, throwing everything in shadow. Alice bobbed below, salvaged, but not yet beautiful. If she left, someone else would have to take care of finishing that job. Or maybe she’d just haul her boat in for the season.

  Was leaving really possible?

  She turned on her heel and headed inside to her computer. She’d just check on fares and schedules. Find out how much she had in her savings account. How much she could spare.

  For healing.

  Did ex-wives and ex-lovers attend some sort of twelve-step program? Or did they just evolve and explore until they found new ways to cope? New words to define themselves after all the old ones failed.

  Maybe this could be her Betty Ford Clinic Abroad.

  2

  Teo

  Lonely isn’t lonely if one looks from outside in;

  It’s just the inside out that makes a person feel so thin.

  Theodore Anderson clawed his way up the bank, grabbing handholds and pressing against rock with his bare feet. Why wouldn’t his legs work? Come on, move, move.

  Kicking only tightened the bindings around his ankles, at his thighs. What was wrong with him?

  The hulk skidded along the asphalt. Tires shrieked and air brakes hissed as the engine howled in protest. Teo turned. The massive silver grille reflected oncoming headlights, blinding him, and all he could do was raise his arms to protect his face, because he was too late. He’d never escape.

  And, dying, he woke.

  He inhaled slowly, letting the breath whoosh out between pursed lips. He was in his room, wrapped in a sheet. No demons roamed, and, while that truck may have jackknifed years ago and thousands of miles away, it was not here in Reggio sul Mare, on the Italian Riviera.

  So, why the dream now and in this place?

  He tossed off the covers, slipped on a pair of jeans and a shirt, and slid his feet into loafers. He couldn’t run off the tension, but he could walk. The tap of his cane on the sidewalk echoed in the pre-dawn.

  Like eyelids closed against the night, metal shutters hid the shop windows. He could picture the butcher’s just there, slabs of meat hanging from hooks, fowl complete with head and feet, prices by the kilo. He passed the greengrocer’s, two stores down. Next, the tabaccaio, which reminded him that he needed to buy stamps when they opened. He knew the shopkeepers by sight after five years of walking these streets, even if he didn’t know all by name.

  In the distance, an engine revved. Most in town would stretch and yawn as they slowly woke. The bakers, though, were even now sliding dough into ovens, yeasty morsels he could buy in a few hours to nibble with a strong espresso. But not yet.

  His tap-tap continued dow
n the hill to the shore where he stepped onto the rocky sand and rebalanced. Waves crested and broke, hidden by the fog, though lights from the nearby hotel illuminated enough beach to keep him from falling. He kicked off his shoes and moved to the water’s edge, then whispered, “Sono qui.”

  That elicited a smile. “I am here,” he repeated.

  Not there. No longer there.

  “Okay, I’m up and out.” He aimed this message skyward. “I assume that’s what you—or someone—wanted.”

  The sea wrapped his ankles and splashed the tip of his cane. The walk had cleared his soggy brain, and the eerie quiet of a mist-clad sea sat well with him. He stood still and listened to the soft slosh as the waves hit sand. But no one spoke, neither God nor man.

  He’d begun to turn away when she stepped out of the fog, white on white with a touch of gray, followed by a flash of light skin and dark hair. Puzzled, he stared.

  Slowly, her form emerged, and a bright smile bridged the dimensions. She beckoned. Did she wave at him? Teo peered over his shoulder and down the beach, but he was alone with only the sand and the sea and this vision before him. He expected to hear witchy moans next—or see a bubbling cauldron. Surely, this wasn’t an angel.

  “Che succede?” he called, wanting to know what was up, along with a why or two, but she didn’t speak. Perhaps she couldn’t.

  The sea sucked the wave, as if the sand inhaled then exhaled, breathing in water and filtering it out like a fish’s gills. He backed away, sliding damp feet into his shoes.

  Lights from the new hotel, the Albergo dei Romantici, illuminated the froth, showing off upturned rowboats that lined the sand like an army slumbering till day. Teo rarely ventured close to the developed boardwalk, but at this hour it seemed appropriate. No one else stirred. He was free to explore.

  This stranger’s appearance wouldn’t seem so odd if she had flesh and form that he could touch. Instead, she shape-shifted in the half light, one moment showing no more than a wispy outline, in the next, substance.

  There, now: a three-dimensional image. She didn’t possess Sophrina’s soft curves or that long, wavy hair. Her lips eased without seduction, an art she didn’t seem to know. Her lashes lowered, but not to shadow Sophrina’s penetrating stare. They dropped to hide her pain.

  How could he know that? He shook his head, puzzled when the understanding dropped into his mind with no prompting from either of them. His eyes snapped closed, then opened to scan the area. Perhaps he was merely dreaming.

  A pleasant dream to make him forget the nightmare? His mind playing tricks?

  He kicked the sand, then scored a trench with his cane. The effect seemed too real for a dream. Besides, a dreamscape normally stopped and rewound before either repeating the sequence or adding some new element.

  Why did his sleep-deprived brain conjure this woman, whose image he didn’t recognize? He’d left his bed, full of the need to walk. He should return and hope for rest.

  Right. As long as this haunting didn’t follow him into sleep.

  Someone laughed from around a corner. A second hushed the first. These two may have been the only others yet abroad this night, their voices echoing in streets silent except for Teo’s tap-tap-shuffle as he headed home. He leaned heavily on his cane. The damp had crept in, knife-like to his bones.

  Unlocking and pushing open the heavy outside door took energy, but the elevator to the penthouse floor chugged on its own, gears squeaking, to drop him in the small foyer. He used a second key, and he was home, wishing his eyelids felt as heavy as his body did.

  His computer beckoned from across the room. Perhaps writing a line or two would make him drowsy enough for bed. He eased onto his desk chair, flipped the switch, and waited as the system booted up. His fingers dashed across the keyboard, trying to capture and keep the image. He ignored the grit in his eyes and the fatigue that hunched his shoulders as letters grew into words.

  He saw her long before he met her.

  Gag. He hit the backspace key, tried again.

  He dreamt her into being years before he saw her smile.

  Jab, jab, jab. His index finger shot the words off the screen. She had seemed so real. Why couldn’t he find the words to begin?

  Surely, she’d shown herself so he could create her. Fit her into a story.

  He rolled his chair away from the keyboard, flicked up on the three-way switch, and squinted at the screen. With a sigh, he backed the brilliance down again. It wasn’t the light.

  Just because he made a career of recording Sophrina’s antics, did that mean he couldn’t branch out? Add a new heroine? Or a hero this time? What was wrong with having a hero?

  Fine, he couldn’t sell his first hero-laden story, but that was years ago.

  He closed his eyes and waited. And there she was, again showing herself, this new her with dark hair windblown and stabbing out behind her head from one of those silly things women wore to make a stubby ponytail. Why was she even out in the wind? Was she running? From whom?

  Her eyes hid behind dark glasses until she doffed the tortoise-shell frames and smiled. They were deep brown eyes, reflecting hints of yellow. She was more striking than pretty, but that may have been her age. She was older than he, of course.

  Why of course?

  He longed for a drink. A tumbler of lovely amber liquid that would slide down the throat and spread its warmth, its relaxing warmth, through his limbs.

  Right. And straight to his brain, making it soggy and useless.

  No. He wouldn’t touch anything more potent than a few sips of wine. A humorless laugh was all he could manage as he imagined life in Reggio without at least that half-full glass of red near his plate, obviating the need to explain his past when someone tried to offer him more. The Italians either didn’t have an alcohol problem, or it didn’t worry them. His sigh as he remembered how the liquor had dulled more than his physical pain sounded loud in the room, because quitting didn’t automatically erase the memories or the occasional—all right, sometimes more than occasional—longing for oblivion.

  Hunger and the need to escape again assailed him, making him restless, fidgety. Shutting down his computer, he wandered to the window. The sky had brightened perceptibly. He slid his bare feet into shoes, grabbed his windbreaker and cane, and lumbered down the stairs and out the front door. The neighboring tabaccaio remained shuttered, but he heard noises from the bakery, smelled yeasty bread from the forno as he limped past. His cane clacked along the sidewalk. He picked up his pace, wanting to get to the sea before the sun slid up over the horizon.

  A Vespa scooted to a halt as he reached the corner.

  “Buongiorno, Teo! Cosa fai stamattina?” A grin revealed Nicco’s gleaming new teeth.

  Teo smiled back. What exactly was he doing? “Heading to the beach,” he said, because at least that was a destination. “You off to work?”

  “Sì. Adele wishes to see you. You come soon? We make a feast, mangiamo insieme.”

  “I will. You thank her. Tell her to pick a day.”

  “Va bene. Ciao!” And the scooter zoomed off toward the hills.

  Teo watched until Nicco vanished around a corner. Their chance encounter boded well for the day.

  So what if he had a bit of writer’s block? He’d get over it.

  Without wind, the glassy surface of the Mediterranean caught the sun’s flames and bounced them skyward. Teo watched the colors ease from purples to reds and yellows and oranges, blending shades of each in both the sky and sea. A few masts bobbed on a swell. Gulls squawked and cawed overhead.

  The sand kicked up under his loafers and cane as he wandered toward the town landing. An espresso called. An espresso and a bit of fresh bread.

  Perhaps the words hadn’t formed yet, but hazy snapshots flicked into his mind, pieces of her image blinking behind the veil. Perhaps she would remain a mirage, but he certainly hoped not.

  He’d like to have something new to show his editor when he visited the States. Val prodded him to wri
te another Sophrina mystery, but perhaps he could convince her to take on someone different, his illusive vision. Especially if he didn’t completely toss Sophrina to the wolves, but merely added a new twist, a new persona to his repertoire.

  He’d like to savor something new, a fresh taste on his lips, a different world.

  After all, he was a writer. He should be able to create worlds to inhabit, shouldn’t he? Even if only for himself.

  3

  Samantha

  Pilings chafe and barnacles rip

  At a body tossed on a word of truth.

  An owl hooted. Sam stopped packing and listened, knowing what would follow. At the mournful response and quick riposte, she sent up a prayer for wandering barn cats. She didn’t want to imagine talons swooping to capture the unwary. The two birds of prey spoke in the night stillness, while she stood, a fistful of underwear clutched to her chest.

  Would she hear owls in Italy? Or be able to watch shore birds plunge after fish? How could she just up and leave it all?

  Again.

  What had it been? Eighteen months since she’d packed, changed homes, and started another shop, another life, two hours east and a lifetime away from Raleigh? No, more than that. It was the end of summer now. It hadn’t even been winter then.

  Divorce was such a harsh word. She’d purposefully left it out of her vocabulary, hoping it might never happen. Twenty-three years made creases in a life that didn’t just iron out when someone said, “So long, good-bye, I never loved you.” Amazing that after years of words, those would be the last ones in a marriage. At the very end, Greg’s eyes had said, I hate you.

  And here she was, no better off. What had she told herself when he left? That most men were creeps, interested in only one thing. She’d asked God or her own self or something to show her if her thinking were skewed, to show her a man who wasn’t a clone of Greg. She’d declared to whatever wall happened to be listening that if a single man of good character existed, one who had enough gray cells to make decent conversation and who wasn’t buying Jags and lacing fingers with teeny boppers, she wanted to meet him. She could still hear her own voice say, “Maybe not anytime soon, but surely before all longings drain out and I become a stick tossed about by the wind.”