by Karen White
I somehow managed to negotiate a traffic circle without colliding with a minivan from Ohio in the wrong lane. The driver waved an apology to me and I waved back, wanting to tell him that I was a tourist, too. I spotted a Dairy Queen nestled under a live oak tree and slowed my bike to a stop, belatedly realizing that I had forgotten my wallet—which made me crave something wet and cold even more.
My calf was cramping, so I dismounted from the bike and began stretching, noticing as I did so a couple emerging from a building with a yellow-and-green-striped awning next to the Dairy Queen. The name Murphy’s Tavern was written on the windows and on a sign hanging over the door, in addition to being painted on the dark green bricks near the roof just in case you missed the first two. A small cluster of people stood with cameras focused on the bottom of the trunk of a large oak tree next to the tavern. Curious, I walked my bike closer to find out what had captured their attention.
Carved into the stump of a giant limb of the enormous tree was a man’s face in repose, his eyes closed as if in sleep. It reminded me of the death masks of famous people I’d seen in history books. It was extraordinary in its detail, but what really astonished me was that for the first time since I’d arrived on the island, I didn’t have the feeling of familiarity that had assailed me from the moment I’d crossed the Torres Causeway and remembered the scent of an ocean I’d never seen.
“What is it?” I asked the man next to me as he began to take his camera out of its case.
“It’s one of the tree spirits,” he said, as if that should be enough of an explanation.
The woman, presumably his wife, frowned at him before refocusing her attention on me. “There are about seventeen of them on the island—most on public property—carved by local artist Keith Jennings. They represent sailors lost at sea on ships made from St. Simons oak trees.”
A soft rush of liquid air chilled me as if I’d suddenly been submerged in a pool. I stared at the face again, seeing it now as a drowned man, imagining his open eyes staring at the water’s surface as he sank farther and farther away.
The woman was staring at me oddly, and I forced a smile. “Thank you,” I said, my voice weak. “How interesting.”
I nodded to both of them, then began to walk away, my palms sweaty against the handlebars. I mounted the bicycle again, unsure of which direction to head. My original plan had been to visit the village and the historic St. Simons lighthouse. The pier and the St. Simons Sound lay behind it, both beacons for the island’s visitors and residents. I had thought to make a short visit to the water, to view it from a distance from the safety of my bike.
A cold sweat erupted on the back of my neck, almost forcing me to turn my bike around and head back home. But then I recalled Matthew’s face when he talked about his time spent on the water since he was a boy, of his great love of the smell and feel of the waves beneath his boat, and my promise to myself to try to love it as much as he did.
Squaring my shoulders, I turned my bike in the direction I’d been traveling and began pedaling as fast as I could before I changed my mind.
When I reached the intersection of Mallery and Kings Way, I spotted the restaurant where Matthew and I had eaten, the 4th of May, and got off the bike so I could walk it on the sidewalk to look in all the shop windows.
The village was an area of eclectic tourist shops and galleries in addition to restaurants where even the locals liked to dine. I kept my eyes focused in the windows and not in the distance, where I knew the St. Simons Sound pulsed, and beyond that the Atlantic Ocean. I remounted my bike when I reached Beachview Drive, pedaling slowly past the Casino—an event hall and visitors’ center—then took a right onto 12th Street, where the St. Simons lighthouse stood sentry over the town and the sound.
Again, I considered returning home, although I still had almost eight long hours until Matthew returned. I had a brief flash of my mother telling me to listen to my fears, that they were there to keep me safe. But if I’d always listened to her I’d still be in Antioch, Georgia, married to Phil Autry, and dogged by a restlessness I’d given up trying to understand. With renewed determination, I set my jaw in what my mother always called my “belligerent Belinda” look, and walked quickly toward the din of screaming birds.
A cement sidewalk wound from the lighthouse toward the fishing pier that jutted out into the sound. I’d seen it on the map and knew what lay beyond the bend in the walkway, but continued to push my bike forward, afraid to pause even for a moment, afraid that I’d stop and be unable to move.
The first tremors of panic began with the sound of waves breaking over the large rocks that edged the beach, curtailing the water’s encroachment. I stopped for a moment to take a few deep, calming breaths like Matthew had taught me, realizing as I did so that I’d chosen this spot well, that the brute force of the ocean’s waves would be softened here, protected by the St. Simons Sound. Still, the cool, dark water seemed to taunt me with each slap of a wave against the silent rocks.
It was early enough in the season that there weren’t too many people around, but enough to ground me in the present, to force me to smile at passersby, to feel the hard plastic of the bike’s handle grips and the gritty rub of sand against cement beneath my sneakers.
I paused on the walkway near a gazebo, staring past the grassy patch of dirt that sloped down to the rocks and then to the sandy beach. Past the shore, the water seemed almost placid and still. But I could feel the pull and suck of the wet sand, and knew how the strength of the ocean was a deceptive thing, revealed only to unlucky sailors and swimmers who discovered firsthand the power of a wave and the unrelenting weight of water.
A rhythmic pounding on the sidewalk forced my attention away. A man, his arms and bare chest glistening with sweat, was jogging, his pace slowing as he neared me. When he was about twenty feet away from me, he stopped and bent to put his hands on his knees as he breathed heavily. It was hard not to stare at him. He appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties, with hair that was nearly white from the sun. He was well built and had cheekbones a model would kill for.
When he straightened, his eyes met mine and he smiled. I looked away quickly, ashamed to have been staring. I was happily married, but I wasn’t dead. Still, it was no excuse to have been openly ogling a stranger.
I began to turn my bike around when the man spoke.
“Are you lost?”
I blinked at him, the sun hitting me in the face. “No. Why?”
He shrugged. “I ran by you about ten minutes ago and you looked—I don’t know—lost. You didn’t seem to be aware of what was going on around you.”
When I didn’t respond, he said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“No. I’m sorry. I was just…thinking.” I looked back at the water. “Do you know how deep it is here?”
He shook his head. “I probably should, but I haven’t a clue.” He stared closely at me, and I could see his eyes were a startling aqua—not quite green and not quite blue. “Why?”
“I don’t know, really. Just wondering.” I hesitated a moment, then smiled. “Are you a local?”
“Pretty much. I live on Jekyll Island now, but I grew up here and my parents still live here. I’m spending a couple of days with them, helping with a few house projects.” He jutted his chin at me. “What about you?”
“I’ve just moved here. Thought I’d explore a little bit on my own.”
He nodded in the direction of Matthew’s bike. “And biking is a great way to explore—just watch out for the tourists.” His smile was warm and inviting, and the fear that had gripped me in a stranglehold loosened enough for me to wiggle free.
“Yeah, I already discovered that. Whoever thought those roundabouts would be a good idea in a place that’s a major tourist destination?”
He laughed, and I found myself relaxing even more. Grateful, I reached out my hand. “I’m Ava Frazier, by the way.”
His smile dimmed slightly as he extended his hand before shaking mine.
“John McMahon,” he said. “Are you related to any of the Fraziers on the island?”
“I’m married to Matthew Frazier. Do you know him?”
Although he kept smiling, his eyes suddenly appeared almost frosty. “Yes, actually. I do. We went to high school together.” He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he clenched his teeth together in a visible effort not to say anything else.
“Oh,” I said, wanting him to continue, yet somehow knowing I shouldn’t ask. His eyes had gone flat when I mentioned my last name, and I could tell he was eager to leave.
He stepped back, looking apologetic. “And here I am without a shirt and sweating all over you—my mother would be so ashamed.” He grinned again and the warmth in his eyes was back, and I wondered whether what I thought I’d seen in them had been only a trick of the light.
“It was nice meeting you, John,” I said. “I hope to see you around.”
“Most likely. I’m here all the time, and I’m bound to run into you at the grocery store—there’re only two big ones.”
I smiled and waved. “Good. I’ll look forward to it.”
He started to walk away before he paused and turned back to me, an odd look in his eyes I couldn’t place. “Tell Matthew I said hello.”
“I will,” I said, then stood and watched him for a moment as he jogged away. I felt a sudden coolness and looked up to find that heavy gray clouds had scrubbed away the blue sky and obliterated the sun. I stared at the water, mesmerized by its transformation from gray to black, and with a dry mouth I wondered whether the view from below would be different.
Gripping my handlebars, I began retracing my footsteps and avoided looking at the water at all, wanting to make sure it was out of my sight before the first raindrops began to fall.
CHAPTER SIX
Ava
ST. SIMONS ISLAND, GEORGIA
MAY 2011
I stood in front of the antique cheval mirror in the corner of our bedroom as Matthew stood behind me to zip up my little black dress. He lowered his lips to my neck and I sighed, wondering when it had happened that his scent had become as familiar as my own.
“Do we have to go?” he murmured close to my ear.
I turned in his arms, lifting mine around his neck. “Since we’re the guests of honor, I would say yes. And Tish would be very disappointed if we don’t show up. She might refuse to help me learn how to cook.”
Matthew’s eyebrows rose in mock horror. “By all means, then, we should go. But nothing says we have to be the last to leave.”
My response stilled on my lips as Matthew lifted my left hand from his shoulder and regarded it closely.
“Sorry,” I said, pulling away and walking toward my dressing table and jewelry box. “I’ll wear it tonight.” Before he could say anything, I lifted the diamond ring from the velvet and slipped it on. Wiggling my fingers, I said, “You know I love it, Matthew. I’m just not…used to it.” I didn’t add that it felt superfluous, that the solid gold band by itself was perfect, and that the diamond ring felt like it belonged to someone else.
Matthew took my hand and kissed it. “It doesn’t matter to me whether or not you wear it. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t hate it, because then I’d go back to the jeweler and exchange it for something you’d like better.”
I touched his freshly shaven jaw and smiled. “I know.”
Without releasing my hand, he began walking toward the bedroom door, pulling me with him. “Come on. I have a surprise for you.”
Belatedly, I remembered the papers I’d stashed in the chest in the living room and had promptly forgotten. I wondered whether he’d found them, and whether I should tell him the truth of how they’d gotten there or think up a story that didn’t involve my almost destroying Adrienne’s artwork.
To my relief, he pulled me toward the front door. “Close your eyes,” he said.
I obeyed and then felt his hands on my bare shoulders as he led me gently down the steps. “You can open them now.”
My eyes shot open, then blinked in surprise. A bright, shiny red woman’s bicycle, complete with basket and bell, sat parked in the drive next to my car. Like a little boy, Matthew picked up the bike and brought it closer, turning it around so I could see the small Georgia license plate on the back with AVA written on it.
“I had to have that special-ordered, since none of the stock ones have your name.”
I grimaced. Having an old-fashioned name had meant I’d never had stickers or any of the childhood paraphernalia sold at fairs or drugstores, like my friends did. I once asked my mother why she’d done that to me. Her explanation had been that it derived from the Hebrew word meaning “life,” and then she’d returned to her gardening as if that had told me all I needed to know.
“How…?” I had a million questions for him, but couldn’t sort them in proper order to say anything.
“I knew you’d want a bike, so I ordered it the day we got married. The license plate, too. It was delivered while you were in the shower.”
He smiled, my heart remembering the first time I’d seen that smile across a crowded room, the smile that fit his tall, athletic body and tanned face. The smile of a man who would walk on a beach during a hurricane or sail a ship into a storm. It had entranced me then, and I found it no less devastating now.
“Oh, Matthew,” I said, throwing my arms around him and kissing him before I turned back to the bike. “It’s perfect! How did you know red is my favorite color?”
He looked startled for a moment. “Didn’t you tell me? You must have at some point.” Grinning again, he added, “Glad I got it right. I’d hate to have to ship it back.”
“Don’t you dare,” I said, grasping the handles. I looked down at my black dress and high heels. “If I take these off I can go for spin.” I looked at him hopefully.
“If you take those off you won’t be going for a bike ride,” he said suggestively. “Why don’t I stick it inside the garage for now and you can ride it tomorrow.”
Reluctantly, I handed the bike over to Matthew, admiring the view as he walked it to the detached garage behind the house before I slid into the passenger seat of Matthew’s car.
Still trying to learn the geography of the island, I paid close attention to the roads this time as Matthew drove. We took a left onto Demere from Frederica Road, passing a small airport with what looked like toy planes sitting on the field, but which Matthew assured me could actually take off and land without a battery or remote controls. After we passed the airport, I spotted a historical marker indicating we were at the Bloody Marsh battlefield.
“Sounds ominous,” I commented.
“That’s where Oglethorpe’s troops finally defeated the Spanish in Georgia.” He took my hand in his and rested our clasped hands in my lap. “We’ll come back and explore on our bikes. And Fort Frederica, too—that’s the old British fort that was built as a lookout against Spanish attacks. It’s nothing but ruins now, but it’s pretty interesting.”
I must have seen pictures of the fort before, because in my mind’s eye I could picture it clearly: its tabby walls and crenellated towers. I could even see the old cannons facing the marsh, aimed at invisible enemies. Smiling, I turned to Matthew. “I’d like that.”
My gaze focused outside my window again, watching the light fade. Dusk seemed to come earlier under the sweeping oak trees, their heavy arms embracing the approaching night. We crossed a causeway over more marsh, passing a sign that read EAST BEACH. “Does Tish live on the water?” I asked calmly, although I could hear my blood beginning to move faster in my veins.
“Just a block away, although the lot between them and the beach is empty, so it’s almost as if they’re beachfront. Her husband—second husband—is an architect, and he built their house about fifteen years ago. It’s pretty amazing—if you like new construction.”
Reassured, I smiled at my reflection in the window, understanding what he’d meant. My parents’ house where I’d grown up was a midcentury
modern, all pointed angles, short ceilings, and man-made materials. But now uneven floors, creaking joists, and ancient heart-of-pine planks meant home to me, as if the generations who’d spent their lives within the walls of Matthew’s old house still lived in every creak and dent. It wasn’t the same as living with ghosts. It was more like living with one foot in the past, and I found it agreed with me.
Facing him again, I said, “My mother doesn’t think I should be here on St. Simons, so near the water. She said that’s why they left, that she didn’t want to live in a place that could take away everything she loved.”
His face tightened in a way I’d learned to recognize as his psychologist’s face, thinking hard while still trying to appear as if he readily knew all the answers. “Sometimes a parent’s fear can be transferred to their children. That could be the source of your own fear of the ocean.”
I looked at him hopefully. “Do you really think so? That would make me ‘curable,’ right?”
“Without further analysis, it’s hard to say. But we’ll work on it.” He squeezed my hand before returning his to the steering wheel.
I thought of telling him then about my excursion to the pier, but I stopped, another thought pressing against my tongue.
“Was Adrienne afraid of anything?” I felt foolish for mentioning her name, and turned my head to stare out the window again so I couldn’t read his expression.
For a moment he was silent, and I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Finally, he said, “Ghosts.”
My head jerked back to him. “Ghosts?”
He nodded, his face closed to me. “She told me once that sometimes when I looked at her it was like I was seeing a ghost instead.”
A chill like a cold breath wrapped my spine with ice. “What did she mean?”
He shrugged, but it was stiff, and I could tell he was forcing himself to remain aloof. “I never knew. She couldn’t explain it.”
