Most of Brett’s anger was defensive. Harriet was right. He was too late. The last time they spoke, Alan had been tense, disinterested in the shop talk of the stock market that normally riveted him so. For over a month Brett tried to reach him, only to find that Alan had disappeared from everyone’s life. But Brett felt he should have tried harder.
Bottom line, he should have called Serena.
All that he knew now was that Alan returned to Victory Cove to take his fishing boat out in the middle of a storm, and was never seen again.
He just didn’t buy it.
"Harriet," Brett reached up to rub a pain in his forehead. "May I call you Harriet?"
"No."
"Ms. Morgan," he corrected. "He was my brother. I’m being told I will never see him again. No matter what he’s done to hurt you, to hurt Serena, to hurt himself—he’s still my brother. Please, can you remember anything about the afternoon he got on his boat?"
Harriett fidgeted in her seat, brushing lint off her corduroys.
"It was a shock to see him stroll into the shop," she started. "Serena told me he was away on business, but we all had our doubts."
In other words you all sat around and gossiped over beer at O’Flanagans.
"He wanted netting which was odd," Harriet continued, "and he bought a Gorilla Big Game hook, which was very odd. Alan wasn’t really an angler. He had that boat for sport, more for show."
"Whoa, you’re losing me here," Brett interrupted. "Gorilla hook?"
Harriet’s chapped hand motioned towards a series of black chrome hooks mounted on the wall behind the counter, out of the consumer’s reach. "Those are for catching the meanest fish you can find—usually used for shaahks."
"Sharks?" Brett echoed. "So my brother shows up after disappearing for two months and decides he wants to go fishing for sharks right in the middle of a raging storm?"
"When he set off, the storm wasn’t here yet. Maybe he thought he was going to beat it?"
It was odd that she didn’t even react to his synopsis of that fateful afternoon. "And the police don’t find any of this suspicious?"
"No offense, Mr. Murphy, but your brother was a bit eccentric. He was very cagey about his work." Harriet arched a graying brow. "I mean he was into landholdings or something like that, right?"
"Something like that." Brett’s ambiguous answer stemmed from his ignorance. "Where did he keep his boat?"
Harriet hefted off the bench to approach a large bay window dissected by wooden grids. It overlooked the marina where tarpaulin-swathed vessels bobbed up and down in the surf.
"On the end theah. Serena saw him pulling out that day and ran after him down the pier. She was yelling, trying to wave him back, but I don’t think Alan even looked at her. He knew she was there, though."
Shaking her head, Harriet withdrew from the window and glanced at Brett.
"If you’re looking for answers, Mr. Murphy, that’s where you’re going to find them."
Riveted by the sea, Brett did not answer.
"But," Harriet added, "She’s less apt to give up information than I am."
He slanted a look at the woman. "Somehow I find that hard to believe."
He reached for the door and heard the merriment of the overhead bells.
"Thank you for your time, Ms. Morgan."
CHAPTER III
Rooted outside the door to the loft, Serena steamed the glass with her breath. Inside, the solitary lamp held the dark at bay. It was cold—in the twenties, with a wind chill considerably lower. She couldn’t stand out here any longer. Unlocking the door she watched as the drapes billowed from the invasion.
Across the floor, the bedroom was dark. Light from the dining room penetrated enough that she could discern the foot of her quilted bed−but after that, a barrier of shadows concealed all the horrors of night. Sprinting into that abyss, Serena clipped her knee against the wooden footboard and tumbled across the bed. With an unsteady hand she reached for the brass lamp as her childish behavior was suddenly mocked by the light.
Weary to the point of being comatose, the comfort of the plush quilt and feathered pillows lulled her eyes shut. As if not allowed this simple indulgence, clamoring footsteps began to resonate from the living room.
Jolted up onto her elbows, Serena cast an anxious glance through her open door and found it impossible that the sinister stride should return when confronted by this battalion of lamps. Yet, the sound was undeniable. Steady, persistent, doleful steps that progressed across the floor.
Crawling to the foot of her bed and then sliding off to clutch the doorframe, she peered into the living room.
It was empty.
The footfalls paced back and forth, recalling times when Alan would be deep in thought, plotting some job he would inevitably choose to keep private.
Despite all rational thought, Serena called out.
"Alan?"
The footfalls stopped.
Had they ever really been there, or were they simply echoes of her beating heart? Muddled thoughts were curtailed by the muffled cries of a child, a baby whose mournful peals now resonated all around her.
"No," Serena moaned, holding her hands to her ears. "Go away."
The child’s cries persisted until Serena slid down the jamb onto her knees. She clutched her stomach and crooned to the infant.
"Shhh," she whispered, rocking back and forth.
Someone was at the door again. On trembling arms, Serena propped herself up off the floor.
Blazing sunlight streamed through the kitchen windows. Disoriented, she used a three-foot tall statue of a fisherman to assist her off hardwood planks. The Grandfather clock read eight-thirty. She blinked several times and then recalled what had woken her in the first place.
Someone was at the door.
The shadow outside was not the familiar petite silhouette of Rebecca. It was tall, formidable, and Serena instinctively shied away from it.
"Serena, I know you’re in there."
Brett.
She couldn’t tell if he was any less threatening than a ghost.
Brett pounded the door again. This was a stupid idea, he thought as he turned away, but a click behind him made him stop.
The weary figure inside the doorway staggered him. Serena’s silky, fawn hair was tousled around her face. Soft bruises circled beneath her eyes, and her eyelids were swollen as if she had been crying.
Wary, she watched him. "What do you want, Brett?"
My God, his first thought was that he wanted to hold her. She looked so desperate, so forlorn, and still with a beauty that tugged at something inside him.
"You look like hell," he managed.
Serena grunted and stepped back from the door, not so much to let him in, but to get away from the sun. "I’ve been hearing a lot of that lately."
Brett followed her into the living room where she flung an arm towards the loveseat, motioning him to sit.
"Coffee?" She didn’t seem to care about his response as she hastened into the kitchen.
"Yes, please."
Brett studied the quaint abode, all wood and windows, with a flare of maritime.
Outside, the Atlantic glowed with innocence−but inside, he frowned when he noticed that all the lights in the loft were still on. His observations were interrupted when a mug was thrust in his face. He watched Serena retreat to a wooden chair and fold her leg beneath her before she sat.
"Having trouble sleeping?" he remarked.
Serena reached up to run her fingers through her hair. She sat up straighter and sipped at her steaming coffee. "You might say that."
"Maybe you’d sleep better if you didn’t keep so many lights on."
Uneasy, she glanced at all the lamps still illuminated. "Maybe you should mind your own business."
"Cranky this morning, Serena?"
In an odd way, he was pleased to see some life in the inert figure slumped in her seat, clutching her coffee like a shield of the Order of Knights.
"What do you want, Brett?"
"Did Alan like to fish for sharks?"
"What?" Serena rubbed her shoulder, taken aback by the question.
Serena continued to massage her shoulder, which ached from the night on the floor. She flinched when she heard Brett call her name.
"Serena, are you okay?"
Her head snapped up because she swore she detected a note of concern in his husky voice. But when she looked, his gaze was still set in a cynical frown.
"I’m fine," she stated. "No. No, Alan did not like to fish for sharks. Alan didn’t like fishing period."
"Then why the boat?"
It was a question she had addressed with her husband several years ago, only to be met with a rhetorical reply that concluded the discussion. The truth was that she had no idea what Alan did while he was out on that boat. Her only endeavor with Alan out to sea had turned into a disaster. Just the recollection made her clasp her stomach.
To conceal her pain, she continued. "Escape? An excuse to get away from it all."
Whatever it all was.
Brett seemed skeptical. He crossed his arms and Serena tried not to focus on how the motion evidenced the strength in his biceps. Surrendering any discipline, her eyes dusted across the sculpted outline beneath his flannel shirt. The masculine terrain tempted her to recall what it had felt like so long ago to be in his embrace. Daring her gaze to climb higher, she found herself trapped by gray storm clouds.
"I just don’t buy it." He challenged.
"I don’t know, Brett," she blinked. "I’ve tried to think of what might be going through his head, why he would go off like that—"
"Did you two have a fight?"
“No,” she sighed. "After awhile, I didn’t have the energy to fight with him anymore."
Brett watched Serena’s profile. Eclipsed by the sun, her hair shimmered. A graceful neck emerged from the thick knit sweater, her petite nose red from the repeated motion of wiping her sleeve against it. Feathery eyelashes glistened in the sunlight as she lifted a knee to hug it close to her chest.
Every troubled nuance of Serena tugged at him.
What had Alan done to her?
Brett massaged a hand over his face to channel his thoughts. Alan was family. This enchanting creature was a virtual stranger. His brother’s death was a mystery no one seemed intent on solving, and he wanted to know why. As dejected as his stunning sister in-law may appear, he believed that she was the key to unlocking the truth.
"Do you have access to a boat?"
Serena’s head shifted as she gaped at him. "Why?"
"I want to go out there."
"You know the police have already searched,” she said. “Again and again."
Brett stood up. "I want to see where Alan, where he—"
Frustrated with lack of expression, he paced back and forth. He listened to the protesting squeak of the floorboards, which revealed the age of this establishment.
Lost in his mechanical stride, Brett drew to a halt, surprised by the sudden stiffening of Serena’s body. In slow motion, her hands released her knee as her leg sank to the floor and her head cocked to the side, listening to—him.
Serena’s eyes were locked on his boots as he resumed his gait. Puzzled by the desolation in her glance, he halted directly before her and stooped down to look into her bleary gaze.
"Are you okay?"
Eyes flecked with gold starbursts blinked twice, and then focused. "Uh huh."
He scowled at the unconvincing reply. "Do you want some more coffee?"
"I’m fine, thank you." She smiled as though she found his question droll. "Harriet can get us a boat."
"Can you operate it?"
Her look of affront amused him.
"Of course,” she quipped. “My father taught me. Lately though," any semblance of color drained from her face, "lately the ocean hasn’t been too kind."
Still forcing himself to be cynical, Brett was convinced that Serena was playing him, looking for sympathy he was not about to extend. He had learned to suppress his attraction to his sister in-law ten years ago, and he damn well would do it again.
"Great," he stated with forced enthusiasm. "Then I’ll be back around one. Is that enough time?"
"Yes."
"You should try to get some rest before then, you look like you need it."
Serena’s eyes flicked over him. Judging from her suspicious glance, she probably thought he was only interested in keeping her lucid when she commandeered the boat.
Maybe she was right.
"I don’t like this idea one bit.
"I’ll be fine, Harriet."
Serena stood on the pier, eyeing the thirty-foot hull of the Mighty Morgan. "You know I’ve done this before."
Harriet looked like a puffed up bird, expressing its indignation. Her short grayish-blonde hair was ruffled by the wind and her cheeks were bright red from the sun and the sea, and perhaps a little too much beer. She glanced at the burgundy and white striped hull, then towards Serena.
"It’s been awhile," Harriet pointed out. "And besides, it’s not you I’m worried about—I don’t trust him."
Serena smiled in resignation. "Why, because he’s a Murphy? Brett’s different, Harriet. Don’t ask me why, but I believe I can trust him."
With an eyebrow arched in disapproval, the tackle shop owner reminded her, "You trusted Alan at one point too."
No. Not really. I might have loved him once. But I never trusted him.
"Regardless, I’ll be fine. I need to do this. I haven’t been out there since," Serena hesitated, "since it all happened. I think this will be good for me."
Their attention shifted from the bobbing vessel to the tall figure advancing down the pier with a stride that held no moderation−a stride that was focused on its destination, and not the picturesque pier. Serena drew in a quick breath as she watched the dark intensity on Brett’s face.
"Oh, Rena honey, what have you gotten yourself into?"
"Shhh, I can handle him."
"I don’t think you can." Harriet drew upon her most menacing expression as Brett joined them.
"Ladies." He acknowledged the blatant hostility, and just grinned.
Harriet ignored him and stooped to unwind the heavy coiled rope. She addressed Serena. "You’ll radio in?"
"Every half hour. Seriously Harriet, we won’t be out that long."
Serena glanced at the pervasive black line along the horizon, a grim reminder of what loomed far out on the Atlantic. It caused neither Harriet nor her alarm. The coast was enjoying rare sunshine today, with minimal winds.
"I’ll have her back soon." Brett assured prying the rope from Harriet’s calloused hands.
With his free arm, he assisted Serena on the short jump to the deck, although she did not rely on his grip. Tossing the sodden cord onto the vessel, Brett leaped across the increasing gap as the gentle waves lulled the craft out to sea.
Harriet raised her wrist in the air, pointing at her watch.
"A half hour, Rena."
With a smile and a salute, Serena turned around to make her way into the hutch. She seized the controls with the familiarity of bike handlebars.
Brett stood by Serena’s side, gripping the frame of the cabin, watching her hands maneuver. He marveled at the adept moves and his gaze drifted up to catch vitality in her features that he had not witnessed on land. Wind from the increasing pace of the boat whipped through her hair, adding a flush to her cheeks and a spark in her eyes, making her appear more spirited than the despondent vision that greeted him this morning.
In time, he drew away from that absorbing sight to search the green-gray ocean through the water-streaked windshield.
"Do you know where you’re going?" he asked.
"No."
As it picked up speed, the hull thrust against a series of choppy waves. Brett reached up with both hands to clutch the rim of the roof for support. Over his shoulder he located O’Flanagans, a small silhouette on top of the craggy
coast. The only other discernable outline was that of a solitary lighthouse projecting into the cove from its lofty perch above the cliffs.
A lone sentry. This head light was a spectator during the events of the fateful storm that claimed his brother.
"I mean, I have no idea which way he set out that afternoon." Serena explained. "No one really leaves word. Only Coop tells Harriet which direction he’s going before he sets out in the morning. He was lost out there once before, drifted for days before they found him."
"Was he okay?"
"Came back more ornery than ever."
Brett grinned, but his face was averted from her, so she didn’t notice. His glance did skew in her direction when he sensed their speed decreasing.
"If I was taking someone out fishing," Serena answered his silent inquiry, "this is the area I’d throw the anchor."
How she determined that, he could not tell. The ocean was docile, milky green in the spots touched by the sun. The Mighty Morgan rolled gently enough that he could release the frame and stand on balance alone.
"Could you catch sharks here?"
Serena seemed surprised by the question, but mulled it over. "I’d go a bit further out."
He tipped his head. "Then let’s go a bit further out."
Curious, Serena obliged and urged the lever forward, kicking up the Morgan’s speed. They traveled in silence, each scouring the water for signs of debris until Brett’s hand settled on her arm.
"Slow down, I think I saw something."
The clamor of the motor diminished to a drone. Above this, she could perceive only the wind brushing against her ears, and the seagulls that circled above, scavenging the boat as a potential source of food. She craned her neck to look around Brett’s soaring frame, trying to catch a glimpse of what he had discovered, but the ocean was vacant.
"What did you see?"
Dejected, he turned to her. "Nothing, I guess."
She recognized that helpless expression.
"I want answers as much as you do." she empathized. "This past month, all I’ve managed to do is go through the motions of my life, uncertain what news the next day will hold," she glanced at the sea. "Every time a police car pulls up in front of the tavern, my body goes cold and I think, today, they’ll tell me today. But no one tells me, Brett. They—they just shelter me. I don’t want to be sheltered. I want answers. I want to know what happened."
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