by Sophie Moss
At the clap of running footsteps, Glenna tore her eyes from Tara’s sheet-white face and looked over as the door swung open. Kelsey burst into the room, grinning. “Uncle Liam’s here! Uncle Liam’s here!”
Kelsey grabbed Tara’s hand and dragged her toward the door. “Come meet Uncle Liam!”
Tara glanced back, meeting Glenna’s gaze one last time before she was pulled around the corner. And the fear in Tara’s eyes made Glenna’s heart sink. She’d known she was right. She’d known from the moment she laid eyes on those roses.
Dumping the rest of her wine into the sink, Glenna watched the red liquid slide down the drain and then strode out the back door, into the fresh air. She inhaled deeply, trying to shake the image of Tara lying beaten and bloody on that hard marble floor, trying to shake the image of that horrible man standing over her.
If the man in her vision was the man Tara was running from, she was going to need more than her strength. She was going to need more than protection.
When he came for her, she was going to need all of them.
But if she was going to ask for their help, she was going to have to be straight with them. She was going to have to come out with the truth. No matter how hard it was. No matter how much it hurt.
***
At the soft knock on her door, Glenna set down her brush, giving her most recent painting a final cursory glance. She’d been waiting for the knock, listening for the footsteps, knowing it was only a matter of time before Tara came to her.
Crossing the room, Glenna opened the door and gazed at the woman standing outside her door. Tara’s eyes were flat. Her lips were set in a thin line. Her face was still pale, like a lake frozen in ice.
Glenna stepped back, held open the door. “Would you like to come in?”
Tara stood in the doorway, her voice hollow, emotionless. “How did you know?”
“Come in, Tara.”
She hesitated for a moment in the doorway, like she knew it was a threshold, the next step she wouldn’t be able to take back, the truth she didn’t want to face. But she walked inside anyway.
A fire crackled in the hearth. Real wood, not peat, snapped under the flames and sent sparks shooting up into the chimney. Red pillar candles dripped wax onto glass plates, their flames flickering under the draft let in from the open door. When Glenna brought her a glass of wine, she took it and sipped. It should have tasted like blackberries, cherries, and faintly of chocolate.
It tasted like sandpaper on her tongue.
Glenna sat in the chair next to the fire, motioned for Tara to sit on the sofa.
Tara sat with her spine straight, her legs tensed, her expression guarded. “How much do you know?”
Glenna settled back into the chair with her wine. “I was in the States last month, attending a gallery opening of a friend in Texas. An Irishman I met at a party once in Dublin. He remembered me and wanted to show off the art of his homeland. He invited me to place a few paintings in the exhibit. The opening was supposed to lure a party of wealthy businessmen and their wives. I went to break into a new market, to network, to spread my work and my name.”
Glenna sipped, gazing at Tara over the glass. “I was getting ready for the evening in my hotel room and watching the news when I saw your picture flash across the screen as a missing person. I remember listening to the story and thinking how sad it was that your body was never recovered after the flood.”
Tara’s hands went white on the glass
“Your hair was longer then.”
Tara said nothing. She stared into her wine. If Glenna had recognized her, then so would someone else. What if a tourist came to the island and recognized her? What if one of the tourists on the island right now was from Texas?
Tara started to stand.
“I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Tara paused, lifted her eyes to Glenna’s.
“But you need to promise me something in return.”
“What?” Tara’s voice was strained.
“If you’re going to take this thing any further with Dominic and Kelsey, you have to come clean with him. You have to be honest with him and stop letting fear dictate your life.”
Tara dropped her gaze to the fire, watched the sparks shoot up from the flames. “It’s not that easy.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No!” Tara said, her eyes flashing. “It’s not easy waking up in the middle of the night to find your sheets wet from your own cold sweat. It’s not easy waking up and wondering if he’s still next to you. Or groping in the dark to remember where you are, never knowing if your escape was just a dream, if your hands will touch his leg and wake him and how angry he’ll be, how long the punishment will last.”
“Tara—”
“What do you know about being beaten for knocking over a vase, or breaking a glass, or smiling too long at the doorman? What do you know about being so afraid you’d rather drown yourself in the bathtub than say the wrong thing in front of his friends?” Tara’s voice was like ice. “Don’t you dare tell me how easy it is, while you sit there sipping your wine in front of your fire, in your perfect cottage with your perfect paintings. You know nothing of what I’ve been through!”
Unfolding her legs from the chair, Glenna stood. She gazed at the fire shooting out of Tara’s cold, green eyes. There it was, she thought. The passion. The courage. The rage. She was going to need more of it. All of it, before the end.
“You’re right,” Glenna said. “I don’t. There’s only one person on this island who could understand what you’ve been through. But you’re too blind to see it.”
***
What did she know, Tara thought, striding out of the cottage and slamming the door behind her? What did she know about fear, about abuse, about being slowly stripped and broken until there was nothing left but a shattered shadow of your former self?
What did she know about slowly clawing your way out, about being dragged back and punished and then finding the courage to haul yourself back to your knees and try again?
The sky was stone gray. The rain that was only a mist earlier sleeted down from the sky, sheets of it pouring onto the island. When she broke into a run, she let the pent up rage pour out of her, sprinting across the fields, tripping and skidding over rocks, and she kept running, her black hair streaming out behind her. Like the wind. Like the rain. Like the shadow of the man that still haunted her.
She ran, possessed, across the island, past her cottage, skidding down the path to the beach, grasping onto hand holes in the cliff wall to keep from falling.
When her feet dug into the sand, she kicked off her sneakers, sprinted across the beach until the cool water sprayed up to her knees and, sinking down to the surf, her hands wrapped around her stomach, rocking. Rocking. Searching for her sanity with the crest and fall of each wave. When a group of seals slid down from a rock on the other side of the beach, and started shuffling toward her, she turned away from them.
Why did they do that? Why did they gather whenever she came to the beach, like they were waiting for her to do something?
What were they waiting for her to do?
Rain dripped from her hair, the tip of her nose and her eyelashes as she stared out at the dark ocean, the miles of rain clouds and slate gray sky. A dozen more seals were bobbing their heads up out of the water, floating, watching her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, jerking when one of the seals from the beach snorted saltwater out of its nose. Her eyes blinked open. She saw how close the seal was and she started to back away, her palms digging into the wet sand.
But when it stopped, she sucked in a breath.
It was so close, she could reach out and touch it. It was so close she could count the wrinkles of extra skin on its side. It looked so soft, so velvety. She longed to run her fingers over that silky skin.
The seal snorted, pulling its heavy body closer and Tara’s
mouth fell open when it lifted its head, lifted its big black chest, water rolling off its skin, dripping into the waves, until it was eye to eye with her, staring at her. And gazing into those liquid eyes, she shuddered at the reflection she saw in them.
Her face was pale. Her eyes haunted. Her head was tucked down into her chest, her wet hair clinging to her cheeks. Fear surrounded her, clung to her like a black cloud. She could see its shadow behind her, blotting out her own reflection until there was only blackness, only sorrow in those deep dark pools.
The air smelled of heartache, tasted of poison. She could feel the fear cutting through her bones, chipping away at them, latching its fangs onto her soul, dragging her down, farther. Farther. Tempting her to give in, to run again. To hide. Forever.
Hide forever, Tara, and no one will find you. No one will ever know the truth.
Cold tears slid down her cheeks, falling like icicles into the choppy sea. All she had to do was run. All she had to do was walk onto the ferry and never come back. All she had to do was turn her back on this place and no one would ever find her.
She would die one day just as she was now. With no one to hold her, no one to cry for her, no one to miss her when she was gone.
Her shoulders shook, her body raked with the tears she’d been holding back, holding so deep inside her. The rain poured down on her back, soaking her clothes, plastering them wet and cold to her empty body.
What would Philip do if he found her here? What would he do if he found her with Kelsey? With Dominic? She’d allowed herself this extra time on the island. She’d allowed herself this cottage, this garden, these arms-length friendships, but she was still guarding that part of her that she could never share with anyone. There was still that part that she could never offer anyone.
And was that really living?
Was that really freedom?
If she couldn’t even let one person get close to her, let one person back into her heart, then what was she running for?
What was she living for?
She’d been so afraid of someone finding out the truth, she’d denied herself the one thing she truly wanted, the one thing she truly needed.
Instead, she was pushing Dominic away, so she could spend the rest of her life running. Hiding. Always looking over her shoulder, and being paralyzed by her own shadow.
She sank deeper into the wet sand, putting her head in her hands, and when she felt the seal’s whiskers brush the tops of her feet, she opened her eyes. Slowly, blinking through the curtain of rain, she watched the seal rest its head on her feet.
The seal looked up at her, watching her. Its whiskers brushed against her toes. Slowly, ever so slowly, she reached out and brushed the tips of her fingers over its silky head.
The seal closed its eyes and let out a soft sigh.
Tara lifted her head, and gazed, barely breathing, at the crowd of seals forming around her. They dragged their heavy bodies closer, their breath coming out in puffy clouds of steam. The rain poured down, splashing into their sad eyes, sleeting over their sleek seal-skin as they formed a circle around her.
And one-by-one, they rested their chins on the sand by her feet, and closed their heavy eyes.
Chapter 11
It was 3AM in Houston when Philip’s cell began to ring. He’d been lying awake for hours, staring at the ceiling. As he did every night, he was picturing what he would do to his wife when he found her.
He glanced at the screen, recognizing the now-familiar string of numbers. “Where is she?”
“I’m still working on locating your wife.”
Philip switched on the lamp. “This is taking longer than I expected.”
“I’m getting closer. I ran the name you sent me—Carol Johnson, the nurse in the ICU at St. Joseph’s?”
“Did you find anything?”
“I found several interesting things.”
Philip’s hand tightened around the phone as he pictured the nurse who’d been assigned to his wife the last time he brought Sydney into the hospital. The last time his wife had tried to run from him. He could still picture the nurse’s sharp hazel eyes, the searching look that lasted just a little too long. “What did you find?”
“She has connections to a number of shelters and battered women’s homes in the surrounding area.”
“That is interesting,” Philip said slowly, unfolding his legs from the sheets and dropping his feet onto the plush carpet.
“I think she might have been the one who slipped your wife Cohen’s papers.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I’m working on it. But there’s more.” Sam paused. “She may have been connected to Cohen in a deeper way—a romantic way.”
“Then why haven’t the police pulled her into the investigation?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve read the interviews from his neighbors and the two spent a lot of time together. She stayed at his house most nights. But that’s not all. I’ve been doing some digging into her past. And I found a ten year spread where there was no home documented, no work documented, just a big missing piece.”
“Which means… what?” Philip pushed to his feet, frustrated that this conversation had strayed so far off the main topic—finding his wife.
“I think Carol Johnson might have lived in one of those shelters.”
Philip paused, his gaze landing on the antique dresser where Sydney’s perfume—perfume he had chosen for her—sat untouched by two pearl encrusted combs.
“I think,” Sam’s voice cut through the line, “that Carol might be making it her life’s purpose to help others escape, just as she did.”
Philip walked to the dresser, picked up the perfume and closed his eyes as he inhaled the scent—Sydney’s scent.
“Dr. Carter?” Sam asked. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” Philip said quietly, his fingers closing around the frosted glass of the miniature bottle.
“If you’re interested in pursuing this lead, I still have connections in the Houston P.D. I can probably pull her into the investigation as an accomplice.”
“No,” Philip said, slowly, setting the perfume back down on the dresser. “Not yet, anyway.”
“Do you have any other names you want me to run?”
“No.” Philip turned his back to the dresser. “I want you to find my wife.”
***
Tara stood in a hot shower for thirty minutes just to get the feeling back in her toes. She’d left the beach when the tide came in, when the wind picked up and the skin on her fingers started to prune. And by the time she let herself back into the pub’s kitchen an hour later, she felt a little better, but still not quite herself.
Looping the hood of her rain slicker over the hook by the door, she spied the cake pan in front of Kelsey and crossed the room to peer over the child’s shoulder. “What’s this?”
“It’s for Uncle Liam,” Kelsey explained, adding powdered sugar to the icing and mixing it in. “We’re throwing him a party.”
Tara reached for her apron, tying it around her waist. “What are we celebrating?”
“He got his first book published.”
“Really?”
Kelsey nodded.
Tara finished tying the apron and stole a glance out the window connecting the kitchen to the pub, glimpsing Dominic’s younger brother behind the bar. “I’m impressed.”
Kelsey nodded again, still stirring. “He’s going to tell everybody tonight.”
Picking up a spoon, Tara went to the stove to see if she could salvage any of the dishes she’d abandoned earlier. “What’s the book about?”
“Irish legends.”
Tara glanced over her shoulder. “Which legends?”
“The legends of the islands,” Kelsey explained. “Every island has its own legend. Uncle Liam’s the first person to put them all together.”
Tara thought of the man she’d met briefly this afternoon. She knew he was a professor, from what Caitlin and Dominic told her. But
she hadn’t expected a professor of myths and legends. She’d expected math, or science, or psychology. Something practical. Something ordinary.
But it seemed like everyone who grew up here had a hand in the spinning of this island’s legend. She hadn’t met a single islander who didn’t believe it, who didn’t take pride in it, who didn’t have faith that one day the selkie’s descendant would come to the island to set her free. Even when they’d created the festival, sensationalizing the story to create a tourist draw out of it, complete with a fake pelt and treasure hunt, they still believed in the truth of it, in the legitimacy of the underlying story.
What would it be like, Tara wondered, to have that faith, that unwavering belief in something you couldn’t even see?
“Kelsey?”
“Yes?”
“Remember a few weeks ago, when you were cutting my hair, and told me you believe in the legend of Seal Island?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen her?”
The little girl looked at Tara, her eyes serious. “The selkie?”
Tara nodded, holding her breath.
“No. I don’t think anyone on the island’s ever seen her.”
“Then how do you know that she’s real?”
Kelsey stopped icing the cake and turned to face Tara. “How do you know anything’s real?”
“Proof?”
“Sometimes you don’t get proof. Sometimes you just have to believe.”
When Kelsey turned back to the cake, spreading vanilla icing over the layers of rich dark chocolate, Tara wondered if Kelsey was just young and naive, or if she was onto something. If she knew something Tara didn’t.
What if there were things in life that couldn’t be proved? What if there were things in life that couldn’t be tested? That couldn’t be rationalized? What if there were some things in life you just had to believe in?
Is that what the seals were trying to tell her? That they had faith in her? That they believed in her? That they were going to be there for her, protecting her if anything happened? Wasn’t that madness, to think such things? Weren’t they just animals? Wasn’t that strange woman who kept appearing just a figment of her imagination?
