Refuge Cove

by Janet Dailey

  The sturdy wooden door was latched from the inside, but opening it was easy enough. Slowly and cautiously, Emma pulled the door open far enough to step through. She’d expected to walk outside. Instead, she found herself in a shedlike structure built like a lean-to on the rear of the cabin.

  The enclosed space was almost dark, the air damp and smelling of old wood. As Emma’s eyes adjusted, she could see a massively long, pale shape laid out on sawhorses like a coffin for a giant.

  Trembling a little, she walked forward and laid a hand on the object. Her fingertips brushed a surface of intricately carved wood, the contours slightly rough to the touch.

  “Emma?” John stood in the open doorway, his hair tied back now. “I was wondering where you’d gone to. What are you doing out here?”

  “Just exploring.” She turned back to face him. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Why would you think that? Here, I’ll give you a better look.” Crouching in the darkness, he plugged something into the wall. A naked bulb, rigged on a long cord, came on above her head. Bathed in its harsh light, raw and unfinished but still beautiful, lay a twelve-foot totem pole carved from a massive log of red cedar.

  Emma’s breath caught as she realized what it was. There’d been totem poles in the park where her so-called wedding had taken place. But in size, design, and sheer magnificence, they couldn’t hold a candle to the one she was seeing now.

  “This is amazing,” she said. “Did you do this?”

  John shook his head. “My grandfather was a master carver. He passed away years ago. This was his last piece of work.”

  “It seems a shame to leave it like this. Isn’t there anyone who could finish it?” She gazed at him, the realization dawning. “Could you?”

  He glanced away, as if avoiding her eyes. “The old man taught me to carve. When I was a boy, I used to help him out here in the carving shed. One of his last wishes was that I finish this totem for him.”

  “But you haven’t. Why not?”

  His face assumed its stoic expression, shutting her out. “Your breakfast is getting cold,” he said. “Come on, we’ve got a long day ahead.”

  On the way to town John talked about totem carving. Emma had come to recognize what she called his tour-guide mode. It was like a mask, or a role in a play, a means to hide whatever he was feeling.

  “In the old days, my people, the Tlingit, had no written language,” he said. “Our totems were our stories, our messages, our history. But about a hundred years ago, with the coming of so-called white civilization, the totems began to disappear. The old ones lay fallen and rotting. And the carvers, the few that still lived, were old men. In the late 1930s, the WPA started a movement to bring back totem poles. Young artists were trained by the elders—my grandfather was one of them. He was still a boy when he learned to carve.

  “They went to the old places, recovered the rotting totem poles, and copied them, down to the last detail. Many of the totems you see now are copies from that time. There’s a place I’ll show you, called Totem Bight, that has some of the best ones on display. Since then, the art of carving has been passed down from fathers to sons and grandsons. I always hoped that my son would help me finish my grandfather’s totem. . . .” His voice trailed off. “But my son is half-white, and that’s a story for another time.”

  “Was your father a carver?”

  “He might have become a great one. He had the talent. But it wasn’t to be.”

  Now Emma recalled the story of how John’s father had killed a man in a protest over the Trans-Alaska pipeline and died in prison. John’s tragic family history was still painful. If she wanted a pleasant day, she would be wise to stop prying into his past.

  * * *

  They reached town in time for Emma’s appointment with Judge Falconi. John drove her up a winding road to the foot of a wooden stairway. At the top was a blue-gray frame home with a Prairie-style roof and a broad, covered porch overlooking the town and the water.

  “I’m sure the judge won’t mind if you come with me,” Emma said.

  John’s displeasure showed in his face. “I’ve got things to do,” he said. “Call when you’re done. I’ll pick you up right here.”

  As Emma watched him drive away, she remembered yesterday’s reaction to the judge’s name. John Wolf was a man of raw nerves and dark secrets. Trying to understand him was like walking through a labyrinth, with something new and unexpected at every turn.

  She climbed the stairs to the house, which was small but so pleasing to the eye that Emma had to pause near the top of the steps to study it. The side that faced the water was mostly glass. Sliding doors opened onto a sheltered porch, furnished with white Adirondack chairs, bright-colored cushions, and lush potted plants. At the top of the stairs, rhododendrons, past blooming but still green, framed the winding stone pathway that led to the front door.

  She hesitated, her finger hovering over the doorbell. It was so early in the day. Maybe she should have called first to remind the judge that she was coming. But it was too late for that now.

  Judge Vera Falconi answered the door on the first ring. Not much taller than Emma herself, she was in her sixties, with olive skin, hawkish features, striking black eyes, and a wealth of elegantly coiffed iron gray hair. The black pants ensemble that draped her lean body was accented with a Navajo-style turquoise necklace that looked like the real thing.

  “Come in, dear. I was just making tea.” She ushered Emma indoors with a welcoming smile. “We can drink it in the kitchen.”

  The inside of the house was immaculate and as elegant as its owner. Emma followed the judge to the kitchen. “Thank you so much for offering to help me, Judge Falconi,” she said, “especially since I’m not able to pay you right now.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m happy to help. And please call me Vera. I hope you like chai.” After seating Emma, she poured the spicy red tea into cups as delicate as eggshells, and passed Emma a plate of homemade hazelnut cookies. “Detective Traverton told me your story, so you won’t have to go through the ordeal of repeating it. My goodness, dear, what an awful time you’ve been through. Boone Swenson’s always had a lawless streak, but even I can’t believe he’d go this far.”

  “You know Boone?”

  “Ketchikan’s a small town. I was a judge here for almost twenty-five years.” Vera offered Emma cream and sugar for her tea, then added it to her own. “Sam mentioned that it was John Wolf who rescued you.”

  The sound of John’s spoken name had touched off a surprising quiver beneath her ribs. She stirred her tea before answering. “Yes. He’s taken me under his wing, so to speak, until I decide what to do next. I think he’ll be glad to see the last of me.”

  Vera smiled. “John’s a good-hearted man. But I suspect he’s never forgiven me for what happened fifteen years ago. Did he tell you about it?”

  “No, but I’ve wondered.”

  “You know about his divorce?” Vera nibbled a cookie. Her nails were neatly trimmed. She wore a plain gold band on the third finger of her right hand. Emma guessed that she must be a widow.

  “I know he was married to Boone’s sister, and that they had a little boy,” she said.

  “Yes. David.” Vera sipped her tea. “I was the family court judge who ruled in their custody hearing. It was a heartbreaking case. For John, the sun rose and set with that little boy. He adored David. But he was an alcoholic, and he’d gotten worse, to the point of recklessness, since the separation. He’d even been arrested for DUI. Marlena was about to get remarried to a stable man with a nice home. She’d asked for full custody with no visitation rights.”

  “And that’s what you gave her?” Emma asked.

  “I did what any responsible judge would do. I put the child’s welfare first. And I don’t think John will ever forgive me for that.”

  “But he’s been sober for years—that’s what he told me. And I have no reason to doubt him.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Vera s
aid. “John’s done an admirable job of turning his life around. A few years ago, after he’d stopped drinking, he petitioned the court again for the right to see David. I might have ruled in his favor that time. But I’d moved on by then. Another judge heard the case.”

  “And John lost again.”

  “Marlena showed up. She convinced the judge that her son was at a vulnerable age, and being forced to spend time with a man he barely knew, a man known to act rashly, would cause the boy undue distress and possible harm. As far as I know, John hasn’t tried again.”

  So that explained it—the empty bedroom, the photo on John’s bureau, the unfinished totem pole, and the melancholy nature of the man who’d taken her in. Little by little, Emma was beginning to understand.

  “What do you say we get started with your problem?” Vera opened the laptop she’d set on the table and brought up a file. On the screen, Emma saw a list of government agencies, banks, airlines, insurance companies, and credit card companies, all with their contact information.

  “Take this.” She passed Emma a yellow pad and a pen. “Write down everything you remember having in your purse—the credit card companies, any part of the numbers you might know, and as much about your driver’s license and passport as you can remember. When you’re ready we’ll start making calls.”

  * * *

  John picked Emma up at the bottom of the stairs, where he’d let her off two hours earlier. He could tell she was tired, but relief was written all over her face.

  “How did it go?” he asked as she buckled herself into the passenger seat.

  “Oh, the judge was fantastic! We managed to call the passport office and all four of my credit card companies. They’ll be sending me new cards. It’ll take a couple of weeks. Since I don’t know where I’ll be, Vera—the judge—said they could mail them to her address.” She gave him a hesitant glance. “I guess that argues for my staying here in Ketchikan, at least until the cards arrive.”

  “I see.” John had made it clear that he wanted Emma to leave. He had to admit the idea of her staying didn’t sound all that unpleasant, but above all, he needed to keep her safe. “I can always pick up the cards from the judge and fly them to you in Sitka on the next mail run,” he said.

  “Thanks, but I’ve made up my mind. I already know I can’t stay in the cabin with you. Vera offered me her spare room until the cards arrive, but I turned her down. I can’t impose on her—or you—any longer. I need my own safe place to stay, and I need a job.”

  Good luck with that. But before John could voice the thought, a possibility struck him. “You might try the Gateway Hotel,” he said. “It’s right there on Front Street, across from the docks. Ninety-year-old hotel, rock solid, no elevators, and you need a key to get in at night, so you’d be safe from Boone. There’s a good restaurant right downstairs. They even give you free breakfast. Now that the season’s over, you should be able to negotiate a good discount. They might even give you a job.”

  “That’s what Vera suggested, too—and I’m going to need a job, even if it’s just scrubbing and cleaning. I put myself through college waitressing. Maybe they need somebody to fill in. Can we check it out while we’re in town?”

  “Sure.” Maybe he’d said too much. It would be cruel to get her hopes up, only to have them dashed if things didn’t work out.

  “She also suggested that I check in with the school district about substitute teaching. But for that, I’d need transportation.”

  “And you’d be unprotected coming and going. As long as Boone’s on the loose, that might not be such a good idea.”

  “Oh, you’re probably right.” She was silent a moment. Then she pulled a folded paper out of the shopping bag that served as her purse. “I almost forgot. We need to go to the driver’s license office. Vera gave me this note, asking them to give me a temporary license. I’ll need some kind of photo ID to apply for a job—and to get on the plane when I leave.”

  “No problem. That judge is a useful person to know. In this town, all she has to do is say the word.”

  An edge had crept into John’s voice. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but the bitterness over Vera Falconi’s decision to bar him from David had never gone away.

  “Vera told me about the divorce and your son,” Emma said. “If it’s any comfort, she said that if she’d been on the bench the second time you went to court, she would have ruled in your favor.”

  “For whatever that’s worth.”

  “If I understand right, David will be eighteen on his next birthday. Won’t he be able to spend time with you then?”

  “Maybe. But that doesn’t matter. Marlena’s done a number on him over the years. My son doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

  “Oh, John . . .” With a murmur of dismay, she laid a hand on his shoulder. John fought the urge to shake off the contact. Emma meant well, but he didn’t need her pity. Damn it, he didn’t need anything from her.

  Still, her touch triggered a memory—holding her in his arms last night, while she clung to him, seeking his strength and comfort. Even after she slept, he had cradled her for a time, feeling her soft, womanly warmth and breathing in the subtle fragrance of her hair. She’d needed him, and it had felt good to be needed by a woman.

  But that was all, John told himself. He was a man, and that brief intimacy had put a few ideas into his head. But it meant nothing. If he had any sense, he would forget the whole episode.

  It was a relief to pull up to the county building and let Emma out of the Jeep. “I’ll wait out here,” he said. “You won’t have any trouble finding the right room.”

  “I’ll try not to be too long,” she said. “Wish me luck with the long lines.”

  “This is Ketchikan. You won’t have to worry about long lines.”

  As she hurried into the building, he found a shaded spot near the entrance, parked, and levered back the seat. He’d been awake all night and hadn’t slept much the night before. What he needed right now was a nap.

  He was just getting comfortable when the front door of the county building opened and three people came out together. John felt the familiar pain, like acid burning his gut, as Marlena, her husband, Carl, and David came down the walk, laughing and talking. Clearly, they hadn’t seen him where he was parked under an overhanging tree.

  Sinking lower in the seat, John willed himself not to look at them. But he couldn’t help noticing the piece of paper David was waving as if it were a trophy. It was his new driver’s license, John realized, a rite of passage for any young man. And his family was sharing in the celebration.

  John hadn’t seen them in a while. Marlena looked good—her tawny hair beauty-parlor fresh, her nails manicured and painted black, her pricy jeans skin tight on her gym-toned body. Even Carl, who’d be into his fifties by now and was putting on weight, looked prosperous and happy.

  And David. John’s jaw tightened against a pain that was almost physical. Lord, his son had become a man overnight. His still-gangly body had some filling out to do, but he was getting there. Soon he’d be full-grown, out of school, and on his own.

  And John would have missed it all.

  Marlena and Carl had been decent parents to the boy. But the fact that he’d been barred from sharing those precious, growing-up years would haunt John forever.

  The name on his son’s new driver’s license would read David McKenzie. The boy had been using his stepfather’s name since he started school. Years ago, Marlena’s lawyer had approached John about allowing Carl to adopt him. John had refused. He was still David’s legal father. That, and blood, were the only ties he had left.

  The three had turned away now. They were headed across the parking lot, toward Carl’s big, shiny Cadillac Escalade. John tore his gaze away as David climbed into the driver’s side and, grinning, took his place behind the wheel. It was too late to change the past, he reminded himself. And he had no power to change the present.

  * * *

  Getting a temporary licens
e had taken Emma a little over an hour. There’d been no long lines, but the counter had been short-staffed, with only one clerk. John was waiting when she came out. He started the Jeep without comment.

  “Sorry it took me so long,” she said.

  “It’s fine.”

  “You’ve been awfully nice about waiting around for me,” she said, making conversation. “What did you do while I was at the judge’s this morning?”

  “Not much.” He turned the Jeep back toward Front Street. “I had some coffee. Then I made a call to the state troopers to see if anybody had checked out the burned trailer. They said they’d flown over it in the chopper, but since there wasn’t enough open space to land, they’d have to send somebody in by road—when they could spare a team and a vehicle.”

  “Which means they might not ever get around to it. This is so frustrating, John. If they’d only look, there’s no telling what kind of evidence they could find against Boone.” Emma leaned forward and slipped the new temporary license into the hip pocket of her jeans. “I asked the judge whether I might be in trouble for setting the trailer on fire.”

  He pulled into the parking lot by the docks and stopped the Jeep. “I didn’t know you were worried about it. What did she say?”

  “She said that would depend on whether I truly believed I was in danger.”

  “You did, right?”

  “Of course I did. You saw me. I was terrified. But she said that a sharp lawyer might argue that I was just a new bride who got cold feet about the wedding night—or maybe, when I discovered Boone had lied about his home, I was so angry that I set the place on fire to get even.” Her interlaced hands tightened in her lap. “I’m scared, John. I could be in as much trouble as Boone is.”

  “I’m no legal expert, but it’s not too late to leave.”

  She shook her head. “You’re wrong. It’s too late now. I need to wait for my credit cards and follow through in case Boone is actually caught. Besides, how would it look to the police if I ran away? They might think I had something to be afraid of.”