Maybe he could catch a ride on someone’s boat when he went to Greece. Two birds and all that.
Did he know anyone who owned a sailboat?
Yes, he did. But Tonio hadn’t been well in recent months, so he’d best get a charter, either in Greece or back in Reggio.
Still, maybe he was wrong about the sailing. After all, he was on shaky ground with the whole knowing thing. Maybe her hair was messy because she was a biker. He could do biker. Or maybe she just didn’t use a comb.
Not likely. Who wanted to read about a hygiene-challenged female? Or to know one? Only Napoleon, and that story was enough to make a modern man gag.
In Italian, the word was pazzo. Crazy. Too much time alone.
At the thought, some old song flicked on in his head, something about being alone in a crowded place.
Yep. That was his life. People all around, friends, sort of, to dine and chat with. But no soul-searching conversations. No touch of intimacy. No skin on skin or mind to mind.
Not a healthy train of thought when it brought a stirring in his flesh, the sort that made him yearn for lips and breasts and...
Enough.
He could turn off the hot water, cool himself down, but the idea didn’t have enough appeal. He wasn’t masochistic—at least in the physical sense. Maybe he was a mental masochist.
But, as he couldn’t wash away this or any of his other issues, he flipped the lever to off, wrapped himself in a big, fluffy hotel towel, and climbed out of the glassed-in shower. Steam clouded the mirror, hiding his scarred form from the judgment of his eyes.
They didn’t snap shut soon enough as he lowered the towel to dry his legs, and he remembered why he was still celibate. He pulled on a robe and spread his hands on the basin, leaning forward. Heaven help him, he would not make himself vulnerable again. Ever. No other woman would have the chance to cringe from him, from even the thought of him, as Janet had.
Deep breath. Let it out.
He picked up a comb and ran it through his hair, trying to look at himself dispassionately. He was wealthy. He had a moderate following among readers. And like all wealthy, reasonably successful, reasonably personable men, he attracted interest from the opposite sex. Many of those women were beautiful, but none knew him. None looked beyond the romantic distinction of a brass-handled cane to the reality of those broken legs.
Who would, could, want a cripple with skin mottled in colorful lumps and ridges? No, he would not undress in front of a woman anytime soon.
His laptop kept him company on the flight to Richmond, Virginia, the closest airport to his parents’ place on the Rappahannock. His laptop and thoughts of mysteries, Sophrina’s very predictable ones and this new blip in his viewfinder.
He rented a shiny black Mustang at the airport, put his bag in the trunk, and headed out of the parking lot. Because it wasn’t rush hour or a summer Friday when sand huggers clogged the freeway, he picked up the pace. Speed felt good.
Maybe spending time with his family would put things into perspective. Shake up his brain and let the pieces settle back into place. He’d been doing so well before she showed up and started roaming around in there.
Traveling began to take its toll, and his vision blurred the highway lines. He looked for somewhere to eat, turning off when he spotted a big pig and a neon sign advertising barbecue. The plastic tablecloths and country music sent him back to the Mustang to eat his take-out under a tree. The sweet tea tasted so good, it might have been worth braving the local ambiance just to have a free refill, but he could spring for another one after a nap. With the seat pushed all the way back and reclined as far as it would go, he closed his eyes.
And there she was, waving as she cut across the street and hurried around a corner. He woke slowly, the image stuck in memory. A perfume, barely there and unfamiliar, lingered in his nostrils.
“Who are you?” he asked.
But no one answered.
The only thing that marred the visit with his parents was a nagging guilt because he so rarely went this far out of his way to spend time with them. They seemed happy interacting in their busy community and bird watching from their aluminum jon boat. But when they spoke of visiting Deb and her family in North Carolina last spring, his dad’s expression grew wistful. “Would have been great if you and David could have been there, too.”
So, he promised Christmas—at least for himself. Who knew what David would do.
And then he waved good-bye and headed south on Route 17. He had hours to cogitate, which was usually a diverting experience. Because he usually thought about writing.
Not this time.
He loved his life in Reggio, but had he been selfish in making the choice to move that far away?
Say he lived in North Carolina, as his sister did. He’d still have to travel for his writing, and he’d still be busy at his computer when home. Would he get up to Saluda any more often?
Did Deb? He loosed a pent-up breath. No, she didn’t.
The truth was, his parents liked to see him, and he liked to see them. He’d work on the logistics and be back for Christmas. Maybe bribe his son to join him.
Trying to focus on a feisty radio talk program, he finally crossed into Beaufort and found a parking space down the street from the store where Tootie worked. He straightened his sport coat, pulled out his cane, and added a spring to his lopsided gait.
Tootie handed a cup of something to a customer as he pushed open the door at Samantha’s. He eased up to the counter. “An espresso, please.”
She whipped around, cried, “Uncle Teddy!” and came flying toward him. He braced himself, holding out an arm to catch her.
She smelled of lavender, subtle enough to be from soap or shampoo, but unlike her usual. Did she use her boss’s? That thought made him wonder about the boss and how she fared in Italy. It was amusing that Tootie wanted them to meet, but he was here, where the boss normally worked, while the boss was over on his turf.
“I didn’t think you’d get here so soon.” Her grin, that wonderful, wide grin she’d inherited from her dad, lit her face.
He ran a finger down her short nose. “Stopped to see my favorite girl.”
“You mean first?” She reached up to give him a quick peck on the cheek and headed back around the counter.
“It sounded like a good idea.” He rested an elbow on the polished surface as Tootie tamped down the grounds for his espresso. “Maybe you can help me figure out where to take you all to dinner.”
“Woohoo! I’d love to go out, and Mom’s been canning all morning. Putting up the last of the tomatoes and spaghetti sauce.”
The image of his sister in an apron, manning a ladle and stuffing canning jars, surprised him. So, Deb canned her own food, the perfect farm wife. Amazing how different their lives were, his and his sister’s.
He remembered the older sister who’d spent her gangly teen years holed up in her room with books, then her college vacations hobbling across the country in her beat-up VW camper that sort of ran, sometimes. Deb had wanted to see the world. When she’d fallen for a boy from North Carolina whose family farmed, she’d dumped the leggings and baggy sweaters for jeans and work shirts.
But it was easy to see where Tootie got her pizzazz.
The dark liquid spit into the small cup. Tootie passed it across to him. “Did Sam call you yet? Is she with Stefi still?”
His niece with the one-track mind. “I haven’t heard a thing, but did you expect I would, really?”
“I guess not. It wouldn’t do any good, would it, not with you traveling so much.”
The other customer approached and slid his empty cup toward Tootie, but he directed his words to both of them. “You’re discussing Stefi? And Sam?”
“Jack,” Tootie said, without a particle of enthusiasm. “Uncle Teddy, this is Jack Waters, an old friend of Sam’s. He fixed up her house.”
“Theo Anderson.” Teo extended his hand.
The other man’s lips stretched in what woul
d have passed for a smile if the eyes had reflected something more than a stare. Teo felt the calluses as they shook hands, but not much strength. Rough hands and a weak grasp seemed contradictory. He checked out the face again, the skin pasty, as if the man had been ill. Dark circles shadowed even darker eyes. Illness would account for the seeming weakness in hands that obviously knew manual labor.
“Sam?” the man repeated. “You know her?”
“No,” Teo said, bringing his attention back to the man’s obvious anxiety. “I’m afraid I haven’t had that pleasure.”
“Oh. I thought...”
“I’m hoping he’ll get to see Sam. And Stefi.” Tootie rinsed the dirty cup and set it aside. Her tone again bright and friendly, she continued, “Uncle Teddy lives in Italy. He can be someone for Stefi to call on when Sam comes home.”
“Ah, yes, well.” Jack Waters set a couple of bills on the counter, nodded at Teo and turned toward the door, pausing to ask casually, as if it were an afterthought, “Do you happen to know when that will be?” At the shake of Tootie’s head, he flicked them a wave, turning on these words. “Tell her I asked, will you?”
“Sure, but how’s India doing?” Tootie picked up the bills and added them to the cash drawer, not looking at Jack.
Teo caught the raised eyebrow as the other man said, “Fine. She seems to be fine,” and left.
“Odd fellow,” Teo said, one eye on Jack’s retreating back as he carried his untouched coffee to a nearby table. “Come sit with me.”
Another customer got ready to leave, and Tootie called out, “See you later, Clay. Say hey to Annie Mac for me, will you?”
“Will do.”
When the shop had emptied, Tootie joined him. “That was our local detective. Good man.”
“Ah, the police frequent here, do they?”
“Everyone has started coming in.” She splayed her fingers on the surface in front of her.
Teo grinned and nodded at her diamond. “Nice ring. Good taste.”
“Holland’s mother’s.” Her smile blazed. “I can’t wait for you to meet him.”
“How about dinner tonight?”
“I’ll ask. I’m sure he’d love to.”
“Good. So what was that all about, that thing with Jack?”
“Oh, him.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s an odd situation. Jack used to live with India Monroe, a flight attendant. She grew up in Morehead City, so she’s considered local.”
“The one you asked about.”
“Yes.”
“But you used the past tense. He ‘used to’ live with her.”
She began to draw invisible circles. “Jack and Sam were friends back when they were kids—they’re both from Beaufort—so it wasn’t all that surprising that they spent time together when they met up again here, mostly sailing on Sam’s boat. Jack moved back to Beaufort about a dozen years ago,, but Sam just returned a year or so ago. After her divorce. Anyway, they had the sailing thing in common. Plus their past.”
Okay. So old friends got to know each other. Obviously, there was more.
“I don’t think it made Ms. Monroe, India, very happy, especially when Jack moved out of her house. She has a place over on Emerald Isle.”
“Ah.” Ah, yes. That would explain Tootie’s discomfort. She was, in many ways, an innocent. A very conservative innocent.
Her gaze wandered to the street and then back again. “After Jack left Ms. Monroe’s, some strange things started to happen to Sam’s house and boat.”
He perked up at that. “What sort of things?”
“Vandalism. Jack says kids did it, and that’s what Sam pretends to think. At least with me. But I’m pretty sure she believes Ms. Monroe did it, only it’s one of those things we don’t talk about.” Tootie slid his empty cup across the table and stood to carry it behind the counter.
He expected another comment. When none came, he asked, “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” she said, her back to him as she turned on the water. He had to strain to hear. “Probably because there’s no proof, and Sam’s too nice to go gossiping.”
“But not too nice to break up their relationship?”
She swiveled around and shot him an angry glance. “Uncle Teddy. You don’t know anything about it. That was mean.”
It was. “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
“The whole thing makes for an interesting mystery. And I can’t blame Jack for preferring Sam to India, but it must have gotten out of hand, or else Sam wouldn’t have left so quickly.” Setting the clean cup to dry on a rack, Tootie wiped down the counter. “I’ve tried to warm up to Ms. Monroe, but she’s just plain strange. Sometimes really friendly, like when she sent flowers to the shop soon after we opened, but other times, she’s weird. I remember once I got here just as she flew out of the store, flapping her arms and cursing. Really ugly curses, too.”
“I take it that wasn’t her normal behavior?”
“Not from what I’d seen before. She ordered two pounds of coffee, then just up and ran out. Sam retreated to the office. Didn’t say a thing.”
“Jack doesn’t look like a healthy man,” Teo said.
Tootie’s gaze returned to the street. “I saw that. He used to be really tan and fit. Maybe he’s worried.”
“Because Sam is gone?”
“I don’t know. It came as a shock to him when he found me at her house.”
That’s right. Tootie said she was taking care of the place. What if this mess spilled over onto her?
“Nothing has happened at the house since you’ve been there, has it?”
She shook her head. “No. And I don’t think it will now that Sam’s in Europe.”
“You can’t be sure.”
“No. But you remember Pete? Aunt Ruth’s son?”
“Tall, lanky kid?”
“Yeah. He’s a deputy now. He said he’d drive by every so often.”
“That’s good.” But Teo would let her take him out to see the place. After all, who better to look at the scene of a crime than a mystery writer?
9
Samantha
She stares in the mirror, empty eyed,
At worlds she made and lies she told.
The mountains around Bologna fit Sam’s mood—green here, gray-brown rock there, tunnels and curves and cars speeding past. She drove into the old city, found a place to stay and a small ristorante at which to sup, and curled up on a lumpy mattress as she awaited daylight.
When had the world stopped being fun? And when had she lost the ability to see beauty all around her—to enjoy the moment?
She tried to recapture these the next day by pausing at a sidewalk café to watch the passersby. If only the faces didn’t blur, the voices, lilting or harsh, didn’t slide past her eardrums without connecting neurons. At the Basilica San Petronio, her chair had a view of a magnificent altar, all gilded and glorious art. She squinted at it, hoping the squint would help her concentrate and allow the beauty to touch her core.
Disgusted with herself, she hit the north-bound highway. She should have eaten something before she left, but Modena wasn’t far. Perhaps it would have something to offer, something that would awaken more than her exhausted self.
She pulled off the toll road as images began to blur. The last thing she wanted was to fall asleep at the wheel. No matter how depressed she felt, suicide wasn’t an option—it couldn’t be.
And didn’t that drive her thoughts to new convolutions? She was still believer enough to think murder wrong, even if she were the intended victim. And with a wreck, there could be more than one hurt. Not a pretty thought.
Besides, showing up at the pearly gates with so much on her conscience would be foolish in the extreme.
She’d done the I’m-sorry bit so many times she ought to feel forgiven. She knew self-flagellation wouldn’t get her to the other side of here. But it sure would be great to move forward, from here to some sort of peace, without raking up all those scars from the cat-
o-nine tails that were her thoughts.
Sighing, she searched for a parking lot that would take her car. And then for a small restaurant that would feed her. She found both, ordered, and then merely stared at the spaghetti alla bolognese when it arrived. She forced herself to eat a few bites, to drink a small glass of the local red, and then wandered the town in search of an affordable hotel.
As she lay on the very comfortable bed, on what felt like a down mattress pad, she stared at the ceiling and the intermittent light that shone from a flashing sign outside. Her stomach hurt. And her eyes. Yes, definitely her eyes, dribbling tears down her temples, past her hair. She turned on her side, and the tears fell toward the pillow.
Why was she crying? It didn’t make any sense.
She’d broken free. She’d never let herself be in that position again. And she was, after all, in Italy.
She brought a tissue to her nose and blew hard. Who cared that she was a walking disaster?
Finally, sleep came. And when the morning sun filtered through the slats in the blinds, she got out of bed, dressed, and went downstairs to the next-door coffee bar. Armed with a croissant, an espresso, and a little box of orange juice, she returned to the room to get ready for a new day.
She was going to conquer this thing, this business of being alone and full of self-pity. While she ate, she studied the map. A day or two here—where was here, exactly?
Oh, right, Modena. Lots to see in Modena.
So, she saw the lots: the Romanesque cathedral, the Ducal Palace. And in between these and the hotel were shops and restaurants and people.
She stayed two days. And then picked out her next stop, Piacenza, slightly to the north. She ducked off the toll road, found a hotel, and settled in for overdue phone calls before she went after food. If she ate first, she’d become too lethargic to bother. Oh, the responsibilities of being a grown-up.
Sailing out of Darkness (Carolina Coast Book 4) Page 7
