The rain that had begun during Vera’s burial had settled in like an uninvited relative. Jason ducked his head into his collar as he hurried to the detached garage, thinking that Lucy was having enough trouble with her grief without dreary weather compounding it. She’d seemed to fold in on herself as Bryce had helped her to the family car at the cemetery.
Jason put up the garage door, but before he started his car he dialed Bryce’s cell phone.
“Hey, Jason.” The “Dad” vulnerability of earlier in the day had apparently departed. The tinny sound of iPod earbuds filled the background. Jason could picture Bryce sitting there with one of them plucked from his ear and dangling on his chest.
“You really need to turn that thing down; you’re going to ruin your hearing.”
Bryce sighed loudly, but the music disappeared.
“I was just calling to see how everyone is,” Jason said.
“Fine.”
“Are you still at Grandmother’s?” As with her name, Constance refused anything short of proper. She was the only person in the world to call Lucy Lucinda.
“No.”
“Been home long?”
“A while.”
Jason could hear the shrug in his son’s voice. He longed for the day when Bryce would emerge from his teen years and participate in more than monosyllabic conversation again.
Jason asked, “Mom holding up okay?”
There was the slightest beat of a pause. “Yeah.”
“Can you expand on that?” Jason prompted.
“She laid down for a nap after we got home.”
“She’s still sleeping?”
“Um, I’m not sure.”
“What’s your sister doing?”
“Watching a Disney DVD.”
“I was just headed out to get some dinner. You and Brenna want to come?” And while I’m picking you up, I can check on your mother’s sobriety.
“No.” The answer was unusually curt, even for Bryce.
Before Jason could say anything else, Bryce added in a tone that bordered on apologetic, “I really think we should stay with Mom. Besides, we already ate. Grandmother sent home a bunch of food people carried in to her house.”
“All right, then. Tell Brenna I’ll call her at bedtime.” He paused. “And Bryce… call if you need me.”
“Right. Bye.”
Jason ended the call feeling more disconnected and isolated than he had in a long while.
The sand and gravel parking lot at Jeter’s Restaurant was jammed with haphazardly parked cars. It looked like a junkyard jigsaw puzzle with ill-fitting pieces. Not for the first time, Abby thought that a little organization might help. She knew that Sam Jeter didn’t want to risk losing the mature trees that grew at random both in and around the lot by paving it, but it seemed he could somehow define the parking spaces. At the very least, he could reserve a spot for carry-out orders.
She wove through the maze of bumpers and taillights and finally found a place to squeeze in her van. One of these days she’d be able to afford a second vehicle, something small and fast, easy to park; she wouldn’t have to drive this logo-branded beast everywhere. Of course, her sister—who designed said logo—was quick to point out that the van was inexpensive advertising, a mobile billboard, which was necessary since Abby’s business was run out of the old carriage house on the family property and not where anyone could see it. Truth was if folks wanted flowers in Preston, it was Abby or the Internet. Courtney just liked the idea of her artwork on constant display.
The rain had stopped. As Abby gathered her purse, drips from the trees hit the top of the van, echoing like a drum. It was a lonely sound that served to remind her she’d be eating by herself again tonight.
Jeter’s was a jack-of-all-trades eatery, family dining mixed with a small arcade, a pool room, and a bar. There was a wide porch on the side with wooden picnic tables; empty tonight because of the weather. The place was Lowcountry through and through, complete with rough-sawn wood, corrugated galvanized steel, and buckets built into the tables for the crab and shrimp shells. Out back was the big smoker for the pulled pork and ribs.
When Abby entered, she was pinned against the door by the crowd of people waiting for tables. The din of dozens of conversations was punctuated by the occasional child’s squeal and clack of balls in the pool room. Everything was overshadowed by too-loud music.
She was in no mood for chaos. Today had been filled with too many unsettling events. Dad. Father Kevin. Worst of all, those damn muddy footprints. With the distraction of her work day over, these things had become a toxin invading her thoughts. The festering splinter of her sleepwalking was throbbing with each heartbeat. It whispered a cadence of condemnation that matched the rhythm of her pulse.
And beneath that, reaching across time, was the echo of her sister’s screams—
“Are you all right?”
Abby blinked; the cries of pain and terror faded back into the past, sliding beneath the lively sounds of Jeter’s. The hostess stood in front of her with a concerned look on her face.
While Abby had been lost in thought, the path to the bar had cleared.
“Fine.” Abby forced a smile and moved toward the bar. “Just picking up a carry-out order.”
The barstools were nearly all taken. A knot of people were having an animated conversation in front of where she normally picked up her order.
As she stepped up behind an open barstool, she made an effort to avoid making eye contact with anyone. The problem with small towns was when you wanted to grab and dash with your dinner someone invariably sucked you into an unwanted conversation.
Sam noticed her from behind the bar and nodded. He finished mixing a drink and then grabbed a brown paper bag from near the register. Before he reached her with it, a voice on her left said, “Did you and Maggie get all of the flowers delivered?”
Even with a simple question, Jason Coble’s voice soothed her ruffled nerve endings and all thoughts of avoiding conversation evaporated.
“We did,” she said, turning to him. “Thanks to your help, Maggie had time for an extra game of checkers with Mr. Deveraux.”
Sam set the bag with her dinner on the bar and Abby paid her bill.
Jason eyed the bag. “Dinner for one?”
He was wearing an oxford shirt with rolled-up sleeves and jeans; looking less like Indiana Jones and more like the kind of professor college girls fell wildly in love with. Quiet. Confident. Hot.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” she admitted.
He gestured to the empty barstool next to him. “Join me? I’ll buy you a beer to go with whatever’s in that bag.”
His semi-sad smile tugged at her heart. She imagined the loneliness in his eyes was reflected in her own.
The appeal of eating in her empty house was diminishing by the second; the whole idea suddenly felt more like exile than sanctuary.
It bothered her a little that his presence could change her once-set mind so quickly. Even so, she sat down next to him. “Thanks, I believe I will.”
Sam came back and handed Abby real silverware and a napkin. She ordered a beer; Jason made certain it went on his tab.
As Sam walked away, he shot Abby a wink. She responded with a perturbed stare. Damn busybody. This was why she ate at home.
Jason, seemingly oblivious to her eye war with Sam, reached over and pulled the top of her bag open. He peeked inside. “Maybe you have something better than boiled shrimp in there.”
Abby drew the bag to her. “I do.” She looked at him sternly. “And I don’t share.”
He leaned close when she opened the Styrofoam container, breathing deeply as the steam rose from her pecan-honey-glazed fried chicken. “Didn’t expect a skinny girl like you—”
She thumped the top of his head with the back of her spoon.
He jerked upright, surprise in his eyes.
“You get over there and peel your low-fat shrimp.” She shooed him away with a flip of her fingers.
/> He laughed and the shadow of sadness seemed to lift from him. It felt nice to have boosted his spirits, and she realized he’d improved hers as well.
They talked of inconsequential things for a while. Jason’s dry humor engaged her completely, keeping her thoughts away from dark places. He finished his beer and ordered another. Abby declined a second, but ordered coffee, just to have a reason to stay.
There was a lull in their conversation as she stirred cream into her coffee. She toyed with the idea of quizzing him about her father’s lapses—who better to let her know if she had reason to worry than a psychiatrist. But tonight he wasn’t a psychiatrist. He was just a guy in a bar; a charming guy who made her laugh and forget her own worries. Why drag things down? Besides, it would be like asking for free professional advice. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked.
She lifted her coffee cup. “About how many sit-ups I’m going to have to do to keep that fried chicken from being the straw that popped the button on my jeans.”
“Liar.”
The sip of coffee she’d just taken made a U-turn. After she dabbed her mouth with a napkin, trying to recover ladylike composure after nearly spewing coffee out of her nose, she turned to him with a raised brow. “I beg your pardon?”
His teasing hazel eyes held hers. “Liar.” He said it slowly and distinctly.
“Well, I heard what you said. I was giving you a chance to save yourself.”
“Am I on dangerous ground?”
“Let’s just say that the last boy who called me a liar got a black eye, and I got a trip to the principal’s office.”
He pulled a frightened face and held up his palms. “Let me restate. Something’s on your mind and it’s not fried chicken.”
“Ooooh, Doctor Coble, I didn’t know you were psychic, too.”
He laughed and shook his head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. I guess it’s a hazard of the profession.” He paused and his gaze grew softer, concerned. “It’s just that you looked so sad.” His hand came close to her face, as if he was going to touch her cheek. He hesitated, then withdrew and wrapped his hand around his beer.
She sighed and buried the tingle of anticipation she’d felt when she thought he was going to touch her.
“It’s been a long day is all.”
“Yeah, it has.” He sounded as tired as she felt. And she hated the fact that she’d dragged down both of their moods.
Jason paid his bill. Then he picked her jacket up off the back of her bar stool and held it for her. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
She almost told him there was no need, but she wasn’t ready to part with his company just yet. So she slipped into her coat with a nod of thanks.
He held the door for her and they stepped out into the dim light of the parking area. The moon was overhead, its light muted in the gauze of breaking clouds.
She said, “Looks like the rain’s finished with us tonight.”
He looked up. “Looks like it. Which way is your car?”
“Over there.” It was nearly blocked from sight on the far side of a large bush where the parking lot merged with the woods.
Jason took her elbow and started that way. “I want to thank you,” he said as they walked.
“Thank me?”
“For staying to have dinner with me. Next time I’ll buy more than just your beer.”
“Next time?” She stopped, tilted her head, and looked at him.
“Yeah, I’d like there to be a next time.”
“Me, too.” They stood there like a couple of teenagers for a long moment.
A car horn honked, making them both jump. Someone was trying to back out of a space; Abby and Jason were in the way.
When Jason’s gaze broke from hers, she was relieved from the unexpected, and unsettling, intensity of the moment.
With a hand raised in apology to the driver, Jason moved them along toward her van. It was getting darker with each step away from the building.
“Don’t you know a lady shouldn’t park in a dark and hidden spot like this? What if I wasn’t here to walk you out?”
“I take care of my own self.”
“Seems I heard Maggie say the same thing to her uncle today.”
“Ah, but I can back it up—remember the kid with a black eye.”
A hand went to his chest in feigned shock. “What kind of Southern belle are you?”
“The cast iron kind that’s used to ringing solo.”
His laugh echoed off the trees as he opened the door to her van. The sound crawled deep inside her and nested near her heart, humming inside all the way home. She felt its presence as she went through her nightly routine. And when she crawled into bed a short while later, she placed her hand on her chest and swore that residual laughter was radiating a heat of its own.
CHAPTER 3
Awareness crept close, wielding a club which it used to pound the inside of Abby’s skull.
A frog croaked incessantly, its voice like sandpaper on her brain. And it was close. So close. Under her bed?
She shifted and heard gravel raining from her ceiling.
Then she realized she was sitting—and listing to the right. Her feet were wet.
She opened her eyes—or eye; the left one refused. Raising her left brow to elevate the upper lid, she managed a useless slit. Her right eye began to focus. There was a greenish glow in front of her. A dashboard. Her dashboard.
The white deflated balloon of the airbag hung from the steering wheel.
A cool, damp breeze moved past, sending a clammy shiver down the back of her neck.
She lifted her hand to her head. With her movement, gravel ticked as it hit the interior of the van. Not gravel, she realized. Broken glass.
The windshield was intact. Dead ahead, the illumination from one headlight, the right one, glowed just beneath the surface of the brown water. Tendrils of mist curled from the water’s surface, twining through clumps of tall marsh grass. The world beyond was wrapped in impenetrable darkness.
The window in the driver’s door was missing, which accounted for the glass bits.
Her head throbbed with each sluggish heartbeat.
She touched her temple, then held her fingers close to the meager light from the dash. They were dark. Blood.
That frog continued to croak, louder.
“Shut up!” She was rewarded with a slice of fresh pain in her head, much worse than what the frog had caused. Nevertheless, she felt better for having yelled at it.
The clock on the dash said three-fifteen. The last thing she could remember was Jason Coble walking her to the van in Jeter’s parking lot. Hours ago.
She tried to lean forward but the seat belt held tight.
With trembling fingers, she fumbled to release the seat belt buckle. It came undone, but did not retract. She slid it off her left shoulder and the metal plate on the belt clanked against the door panel, startling the frog into temporary silence.
With effort, she pushed open the driver’s door. It moved cumbrously, not because of the pressure of water on the outside—it wasn’t deep—but because she was fighting gravity. The van’s right side was at least two feet lower than the left.
For a moment, she sat there, putting off getting into the water. She hated swimming in anything where she couldn’t see what was swimming with her. She never got more than ankle deep at the beach. The marsh looked like something from a horror film, dark, misty, and endless.
But it couldn’t be endless. She’d driven her van into it. The road couldn’t be very far.
She slid off the seat, her pencil skirt riding up her thighs. She eased lower, until her feet met with solid ground—solid being an overstatement. What was underfoot had the consistency of tapioca pudding. The cold water was deeper than she’d expected, up to her thighs.
Common sense said the road had to be on the left. Unless she’d been spun around. There were no visible lights in any direction.
She liste
ned. Nothing but crickets and frogs. No traffic noise to orient herself.
The shock of the cold water began to clear her head. Her cell phone!
She turned around and boosted herself back into the tilted van by grabbing the door frame.
Her purse wasn’t on the passenger seat. Reaching toward the passenger floorboard, she hit water almost immediately.
“Crap.”
She started to shiver.
Groping blindly in the water, she located her purse.
Not much chance the cell would work. She dug through the soggy contents of her bag anyway and located the phone. She pressed several buttons before she gave up on there being a glimmer of life in it. She threw it back in her purse, opened the glove box, and retrieved a flashlight.
“Please let these batteries be good.”
When her trembling fingers flipped the switch, the light came on. “Thank you, God.”
With flashlight in hand and her purse on her shoulder, she once again lowered herself into the water. She swept the flashlight three hundred and sixty degrees. Nothing but tall grasses on the far side of the van. There was a fairly dense woods to the left, hulking trees draped with Spanish moss beneath which grew a tangle of undergrowth. That had to be the direction of the road.
Steadying herself with one hand on the open van door, she pulled her left foot out of the muck and her shoe was sucked off her foot.
Don’t think of the snakes.
Slowly, she put her bare foot on the marsh bottom again.
She took another step that cost her right shoe. One more step and she wouldn’t be able to steady herself with the van’s door any longer.
No choice but to go forward.
Fighting the drag of the water and the pull of the mud, it was slow going. The more she tried to not think of all the things that lived in marshes and ponds, the more snakes and gators dominated her mind.
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