One bite of her pizza and she moaned. Chewing, she decided that the world felt rather perfect at that moment in time. Her children were well and happy. Her shops were thriving. And she was here, taking the time she needed. Tucking into a place like Reggio seemed to be just what Dr. Rhea had ordered.
For now.
She sniffed the sea, the salt and seaweed. People wandered the boardwalk, and sounds happened behind her, but she felt isolated, alone yet not lonely. A sip of water washed down another bite. She might want to finish lunch with a cappuccino or even an espresso.
Perhaps she’d stop again at the local coffee bar for a pane al cioccolato and coffee. She grinned, remembering the two men from this morning. They’d started chattering about something. A third had joined in, and then there’d been four, voices raised, hands jabbing the air. The show had been fun.
A wave splashed up and onto her rolled pants. Looking out, she saw the boat that had raised the wake and hiked her feet just in time to miss the second, less virile crash.
Oh, well. Back to the hotel for dry clothes. At least she’d had time to finish her pizza.
By her second Tuesday in Reggio, Sam woke bloated and premenstrual. It was another glorious, sun-drenched day, but it might as well have been clouded and dripping. Signora Garibaldi’s happy “Buon giorno!” irked her. A woman’s laughter as she passed the fruit vendor’s sounded harsh, rasping. The barkeeper’s smile became a grimace. Sam sipped a cappuccino and ate, without relish, a brioche at the local bar, then returned to her room.
Perhaps she should go back to bed and start over. Her stomach felt lined with acid, her hips arthritic. She washed her face and brushed her teeth at the small basin in her room, then padded down the hall to use the communal toilet. Zia Francesca and her niece cleaned the bathroom daily, which made sharing it tolerable. Besides, after the German couple left two days ago, she was, at least temporarily, the only guest on the third floor.
She looked longingly at the tub. A good soak might ease this tension. But no, it would take too much effort to cope with that minuscule water heater—turning on the water to wet down, turning it off to wash, and turning it back on again to rinse, because the turn-on bit always meant temperature adjustments. Instead, she used the bidet and the basin and then climbed back in bed.
But sleep eluded her, replaced by images of Jack that hovered almost close enough to touch. She imagined his lips, his caresses. Oh, how she longed to hear his laughter.
Stop it.
She scowled at the ceiling. Anger had propelled her here. Anger and shame, which meant she’d better stop romanticizing their encounters. She flipped onto her side, closed her eyes against all of it, good and bad, and finally slept.
And she was there again, with him. Alice danced on the waves as they laughed and told stories, remembering all the days of their childhood, the years in high school. And when Sam woke, she was still in that moment. The sounds of encroaching afternoon filtered through the window, but in her bed, under the covers, she was back on Alice. Back with Jack.
How many times had they sailed together, starting when she was what? Nine? Ten? And when they hadn’t been sailing in the old boat he’d resurrected, they’d been fishing. How many fish had they caught and cleaned and eaten together?
She remembered the flounder and croakers and spot, the Saturday they’d thrown their lines in the shallows near an old wreck. They’d used their smallest hooks because the fish weren’t very big, but they’d hauled their catch home, thinking dinner and wouldn’t everyone be thrilled? Sam’s mom had had a pot roast already in the oven and told them to take them to Jack’s. Jack’s dad had looked in their buckets and said he wasn’t going to have anything to do with cleaning such sorry fish.
Jack had put his arm around Sam and whispered, “Come on, we’ll do it.”
They had gone to the outside sink by the back door and cleaned those fish, then taken them in to Jack’s mama, who’d cooked and served them. Jack’s daddy had eaten three all by himself, but never once did he tell Jack or Sam thanks or say he’d been wrong. Jack’s brother, Jerome, wolfed his down, ignored them, and then didn’t even excuse himself before he hightailed it out of there. Jack’s mama only said there sure was a mess of them.
What good was that? The sting wasn’t so bad, though, because Sam and Jack had each other. They could sail and fish and not give a hoot about fathers and mothers. On the water they didn’t have to talk, though they did that, and they didn’t have to go anywhere or catch anything, though they did that, too. They just had to be.
Feeling the salt spray, hearing the slap of the sail, she slept again, but barely.
This time, India waited at the dock with her shouts and her stormy tantrum, and Sam woke to a cry of, “No!”
Damp covers stuck to her bare shoulder. Thank God, she was here in Reggio, not in Beaufort. She deserved every curse India sent her way.
Splashes of cold water freshened her skin. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and set off toward the beach. The vastness of the sea, the pungent smells, the caw of birds, the teeming life: these had become her haven. A hideout from the self she didn’t much like.
Waves swelled against the pebbly sand, rolled over rocks and touched the rim of her sneakers. She left prints, voids that filled once she had passed.
Her own empty spaces didn’t fill. They echoed and wailed like specters near a grave.
10
Jack
A rock-strewn landscape, an unkempt sea,
A sky in tatters, dripping on me.
Jack stared at the drink in his hand. The liquor slipped smoothly down his throat, but that’s all it did. Fix his pain? His thirst? Not a whit. India’d brought it, what, a month ago? Sometime after she’d shown up at the dock.
No. It was after she’d found him at Sam’s house close on midnight. Her rage and her tears had needed cajoling, but he’d managed to quiet her down.
He held the glass toward the light. Its contents didn’t do squat for the sledgehammer banging in his skull or the fire behind his red-rimmed lids. And, no, he wasn’t drunk. Or hung over.
He shut his eyes and held the icy glass to his temple. Smart move, bringing along his recliner when he moved out. India hadn’t liked that much, but it was his.
Why on earth had she come on to him again? “Jacky,” she’d said, her lips doing that little curvy thing. Made her look wistful, needy, with her blonde hair cascading down her back instead of caught up the way she wore it when she worked. She’d stood right there in the doorway, her feet in those high heels she liked so she’d be taller, holding out that bottle like a peace offering. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I just wanted you to know I don’t harbor ill feelings because you chose Sam over me. Really.”
A peace offering? Better than a repeat of the yelling she’d poured in his ears last time he’d seen her. “I appreciate it, India.”
“Marty, he’s the co-pilot who flies with me a lot, he got it from his brother. I thought of you.” She’d looked shyly down at the carpet. “I love you, you know.”
He’d reached out. A touch to her hand and the words, “I know. I’m sorry.”
She’d nodded her good-bye, almost like the old India. Almost pretty again. No more sputtering and arm waving. No more ugly words.
He blinked, willing silence. He’d been a jerk, seducing Sam that way. He’d known how she felt about sex without marriage. That she was vulnerable. What had he been thinking?
Ah, but...
Hadn’t it been worth it? Those minutes with her, the water lapping, the sails stilled? Her soft skin...
And then India’d been waiting with her field glasses.
Maybe his worst sin had been leaving Sam with the afternoon’s shambles as he went off to placate India. He should have stuck with Sam. His soothing noises hadn’t made it right with India, had they?
Not that he owed her anything. Not really.
Except for the years they’d shared. That imposed a certain emotional debt.
And Sam? Sam had finally packed up and run.
She’d threatened to. Each time. He should have paid more attention. He could have gotten her to stay if he’d only paid more heed.
But she had let him in. She had always let him in.
Until she hadn’t.
Yeah. He should have married her.
Not that he’d wanted to get married. He’d said no to India enough times, hadn’t he? But he had wanted, still did want, Sam. Seemed she had some fool notions of morality that got her all riled when she broke them.
See. He knew there was a good reason he hated religion. Look at how it had messed things up for him and Sam.
Now all he had was a bottle, a headache, and a sack-load of nothing.
He topped off his drink. He hadn’t seen much of India after she’d shown up that evening, though she’d called a few times to see how he was feeling. Evenings were so lame, he almost missed her. When she’d appeared at his door that day, she’d seemed much more the woman he’d lived with for those years, instead of the crazy one from whom he’d fled.
Maybe if he picked up some Vitamin C and Echinacea, that would do the trick. Because if these symptoms didn’t ease up soon, he’d be forced to see a doctor. His business wasn’t going to sustain itself for long if he wasn’t there to run it.
India waved as Jack climbed out of his truck in front of the pharmacy. Almost as if he’d conjured her. She sidled up, touched his arm. “Jacky, you don’t look so good. What’s happening?”
He shrugged with the barest movement of his shoulders. “I don’t know. I haven’t been feeling well.”
She squinted into his face, and her hand slid down his arm. “Why don’t you come over, let me fix you something to eat.”
“Not much of an appetite, India.”
She sighed. “I’ll make you some soup, something you can digest easily. Come on. You’ll feel better with some of my homemade soup.”
Maybe soup would be good. India was a great cook. Maybe he’d let her take care of him tonight.
He nodded. “I’ve got to stop at a job site. Six o’clock be okay?”
Her smile dimpled her cheeks. “That would be great. I’ll see you then.”
11
Teo
Yesterday, he sat on the pencil point,
His days pressing against lead.
Today, he’s scribbled between blue lines,
And the yellow background matches his skin.
Teo eyed a plate of fusilli with fennel and sausage. Adjusting the linen napkin on his lap, he pondered the wine, still untouched in his glass, before forking the fresh pasta and a bite of sweet sausage. The flavors broke on his tongue. “Ahh...”
Was there anything better?
His eyelids dropped. That wasn’t a question he particularly wanted to ponder while he dined alone. Again.
He swirled his wine, sipped. An earlier call to David had merely exacerbated his feeling of tethers unclipped and dangling. David’s, “Glad you got back safely, Dad. So sorry, but I’ve got to run,” had left Teo staring at his cell phone.
Wasn’t California supposed to be a laid-back state? Teo thought of the minutes he’d spent in his son’s presence on that quick California trip, David claiming business—or was it merely busyness—when he’d apologized for not having time.
Teo hadn’t felt this level of disquiet since those months after the accident when his future had drifted into the unknown. Unease at this stage seemed absurd, but like a chess game, his work required linear thinking. A mystery writer hunted for answers and didn’t rest until he saw the line open, the next move that would bring ultimate victory. So why didn’t this business of his mystery woman work the same way?
The waiter cleared il primo piatto. Teo touched the napkin to his lips, sipped again. Il secondo appeared, a plate of veal, vitello, with a hint of lemon. Ah, and garlic. “Grazie, ” he said, sniffing as he leaned closer. The tiniest potatoes edged out slivers of carrot.
A man should rejoice with food like this. Not sit around stewing because he had lingering writer’s block.
Yes, he had finally made arrangements for his stay in Greece. A little travel among the islands by boat. A zip over to Crete. And he’d found a broker offering a charter by sail. He’d made a reservation.
He raked fingers through his hair, sipped lemon water, and forked another bite. “Savor it,” he whispered before he popped a potato into his mouth.
He tried, but between the veal and the salad that followed, his stomach began to churn its contents.
The waiter refilled his water glass.
“Il conto, per favore?” Teo asked, ready to bolt as soon as he paid.
It was too hot to wander far, so he ambled back to his apartment, limp-tap, limp-tap. Instead of working, he brewed a cup of coffee. The mug Tootie had slipped in his suitcase sat on his small counter. It was black with a gold Samantha’s emblazoned across the front. It remained sterile, still unused.
As he rinsed it, his phone rang.
“My dear Tootie,” he answered, amazed that the thought of her had conjured her voice. “What are you up to?”
“Just wondering how you’re doing, Unc. And to tell you that Sam, my boss, is in Reggio.”
“Here?” His gaze traveled to the drying mug with its lettering now upside down.
He heard a delighted laugh. “Isn’t that wonderful? She drove north and stopped in Reggio because of a woman she met in Rome. Someone who lives in Portofino. You have friends there, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“I told her you’d be on the lookout for her. Shall I send you a photo? I’ve got one from Daniel’s wedding. One of her and Stefi together.”
“I’ll be leaving for Greece tomorrow, but send it on if you think she’ll still be here next week.” Why did he say that? He drew a deep breath and scowled. The last thing he wanted was to have to entertain anyone. If Tootie’s boss were here, you can bet it was because Tootie had mentioned him and, in the same breath, had said he was single and available.
“I think so. I’m not sure, but I hope so.”
He sighed and turned on his computer. “I’m logged on. Send the picture when you will.”
“Oh, I don’t have it with me. But I’ll get it to you in a bit.” She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Unc, are you okay? You seem a little down. I thought so when you were here.”
“What makes you say that?”
“It seemed like something was bothering you. Is your writing going well?”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s just, it was so unlike you.”
“I was probably thinking of all the new changes in your life. Holland, your job, the place you’re staying. Have there been any new developments there?”
“Are you trying to throw me off? You do that in your books, you know.”
“What? Ask questions?”
“See. You haven’t told me a single thing.”
“Ah.”
“That must mean there is something, but you just don’t want to say.”
“And you, my girl, are just too smart for your own good.”
“So?”
“So, what?”
“Uncle! You know what. Has something upset you?”
“No, honey. Nothing’s upset me.” If he weren’t careful, she’d wear him down so he’d slip. He did not want to mention the apparition and have her think him crazy, too. “How are things at home? At the shop?”
“Fine at home. Dad’s busy with tilling, and Mom’s still canning. Making jam this time.”
“Industrious pair, those parents of yours.”
“I know.”
“And at the shop?”
Again, he heard a pause and a deeper sigh. “Yes?”
“Things are going great as far as sales,” she said. “I mean, more people are coming in all the time. I love the challenge. I’m learning so much. But when I talk to Sam, I worry. Which is why I want you to meet her. Help her over this hump.”
/>
“Me? What can I do?”
“Well, you’ve been there. Divorced and all.”
He wondered if Tootie had been reading too many romance novels. “Honey, how? Everyone’s divorce is different. If she needs help, she should find a counselor. And if you’re trying to play matchmaker, don’t.”
“Oh, I’m not. Really.”
Right. He’d heard that before.
“It’s just,” she said, “you’re such a good listener.”
“Here’s what I’ll do. If I run into her, I promise I’ll let her pour her troubles in my ear. Once. Over a cup of espresso. But that’s all.”
She giggled. “I’m being pushy again, aren’t I?”
“Interfering might be a better word.”
“Okay. I’ll leave you alone.”
“I don’t want you to leave me alone. Just realize that I’m not interested in having a relationship with anyone. Not even if she’s gorgeous and brilliant and all the rest of it. And, look, if what you say about your boss is true, I don’t imagine she’s looking for another one either.”
“So leave it alone?”
“Yes. Please.”
But Tootie’s mention of Portofino reminded him that he hadn’t checked on Antonio and Martine in a while. He’d chatted with Tonio just before he’d flown to New York. Something about Martine visiting friends in Capri and going with them to Rome. She was to rent a car for the drive home because she had a few stops to make on the way.
Was it possible?
Nah.
He flipped through his address book, then punched in their number. The housekeeper answered. Yes, Signora Paoletti was in.
“Teo, is that really you?” Martine’s melodious voice asked. “Tonio said you’d called while I was away.”
“How are things with you both?”
“Oh, Teo, it’s been so hard. Tonio had another episode. He has been in the hospital for the past week. I just got him home.”
Sailing out of Darkness (Carolina Coast Book 4) Page 9
