But those drives ended when the accident shattered his life.
South of town he took the winding road fifty feet above the beach. Micah slowed his car to a crawl as he watched seagulls pirouette in the cobalt sky above Haystack Rock. A few minutes later he pulled back onto 101 and swallowed hard. Then again. There was no reason to be nervous. The thought didn’t help.
His GPS showed the house would be just south of Arcadia Beach State Park. As the park came into view, he slowed to five miles per hour, pulled onto the shoulder, and studied the numbers on little posts till he found 34140. He tapped on his brakes and took furtive glances up and down the highway.
Micah’s heart quickened as he turned right and his tires crunched slowly over the gravel driveway. It curved to the right, enough to block a view of where the house might be. A faint briny smell seeped into the car, and as he lowered his window, the roar of a thousand waves filled his ears. He stopped his car before the view in front of him could answer the question pounding through his mind.
“C’mon, God, let something be there. And let it be more than an outhouse.”
The words spilled out before he could stop them. Where did they come from? Prayer wasn’t part of his to-do list. Or at least it hadn’t been for eons. Opening his eyes Micah looked up at the sky and let the prayer linger, watching the thought of it float up into nothingness. Then again, maybe God was still up there, even after all these years.
The pace of his breathing increased. Couldn’t put it off any longer. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead into his eye. He wiped it away and pressed the gas pedal, as if it were a feather.
His car scrunched forward, and a corner of the house appeared. He let out a long, low whistle as more came into view. First glance said it could compete easily with any of the mansions the Vanderbilts had ever constructed. He leaned forward over his dashboard. Whew. Top of the slate roof had to be twenty-five, maybe thirty feet high.
He got out of his car and walked under the awning that led to the front door, pausing to marvel at the flowering gardens on his right and left. They smelled like sunrise. A reflecting pool to his left showed the image of a stone chimney rising up along the east side of the house. The pool flowed out the far end in a cascade of water that rained down on mossy boulders before it settled into a pond dotted with lily pads. Probably filled with koi. Micah shook his head and chuckled.
Two magnificent stone columns ran up on either side of a solid fir door highlighted by a bronze knob that looked ancient and new at the same time. Two nineteenth-century gas lamps framed the polished limestone entrance.
As he slid the key into the lock, a severe case of déjà vu splashed over him. He’d seen this before. In a dream? A picture of a house just like this? Micah shivered as he turned the key.
The feeling intensified as he walked through the front door. He had been here, hadn’t he? No. Not possible. The thing had just been finished. Get a grip.
As he wandered forward, a puff of laughter escaped his lips and he grinned. Amazing. Four towering mahogany windows framed a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean. Huge cedar beams held up a ceiling at least twenty feet high. A fireplace made of river rock dominated the wall to the left. Along the right wall were built-in mahogany bookshelves, ten feet tall.
In front of the windows sat an oversized, overstuffed chair. A lamp next to it would no doubt cast a warm, golden light. An ideal spot to watch the waves.
Archie might have been a loon, but whoever built this place for him nailed it. Micah felt like he’d been coming here his entire life. How did Archie know? He and his great-uncle must have had identical tastes in style.
Micah studied a massive painting of Haystack Rock hanging over the maple fireplace mantle. Influenced by Monet, no question, with maybe a splash of van Gogh. Micah tilted his head back and closed his eyes. Peace seemed to flit about him like a barn swallow. An unexpected emotion. But very welcome.
His cell phone screamed at him, shattering the moment. He grabbed the phone. “What?”
“Wow, excuse me,” Julie said. “I just wanted to see if you were there yet. See if the place is real.”
“Sorry, deep in thought. You startled me. I got here two minutes ago. You should see it, Jules.” Micah spun on his heel. A spiral staircase wound up to what looked like a long upstairs hallway. Of course the staircase would be spiral. He’d always loved them. “It’s stunning and bizarre at the same time. It feels . . . familiar.”
“How can a place you’ve never been to before feel familiar?”
“No idea.” Micah turned and walked back to the picture windows to watch the surf. Could he kayak in it?
“But you like it.”
“Impressive, so far. I’ll take some shots, show it to you next week.”
“You mean day after tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah.” Micah hesitated. “Monday.”
After hanging up, he padded past the overstuffed chair that faced the window and thumped the armrest. “I’ll be back to you in a moment.”
French doors led to a massive deck above the beach. He swung them open, and the pungent ocean air rushed at him. He watched the waves pound out their mesmerizing pattern, and amid the roar of the water he listened to the solitude.
If only the waves could heal instead of stir up the past.
Yin and yang. He loved being here. He hated being here.
He closed his eyes and let the wind—which couldn’t figure out which way it wanted to blow—joust his face and hair before he stepped back inside and kept his date with the leather chair.
He propped his feet up on the ottoman and did nothing. Forced himself to think nothing. Looked at nothing but what was straight ahead. When the horizon faded to black, he was still in the same position. He believed people called this relaxing. He used to do it, eons ago, before RimSoft started sucking every minute of his time.
A few more minutes and he’d get up and explore the house, at least find the master bedroom. But that intent sank into the chair along with his last moments of conscious thought.
||||||||
Micah woke the next morning still in the leather chair. Remembering where he was took a few seconds, but the stunning ocean view that greeted his half-open eyes did wonders for his memory. He spent the night in the chair? How could he fall asleep before seeing the rest of the house? Time for a self-guided tour.
The rest of house didn’t disappoint with its fully stocked kitchen, complete with an indoor grill and subzero freezer and granite countertops.
Game room with foosball, pool table, and darts.
Colossal media room with maroon movie theater chairs and a screen at least eight feet by five.
A study with dark built-in bookshelves, wireless router, and a teak desk.
The guest bedrooms were themed, one with sports, one for thrill seekers, and one for history buffs. This place just kept getting better. Just like the living room, the home was how Micah would have built it.
He reached the master bedroom, and his palms started sweating. The entire house was exactly as he would have done it. It was laid out as if someone had been inside his head and picked his favorite colors and styles and dropped them perfectly into place.
His dream home, straight out of his dreams.
He didn’t like the idea of someone he had never met knowing his tastes with this much precision. His mind spun. The construction had to cost millions, let alone the cost of the land. Add the home’s contents and it was probably one of the more expensive homes on the Oregon Coast.
Why spend that kind of money? And build it for anyone, let alone him? It didn’t compute. Micah returned to the main floor, walked out on the deck, and looked up at the house. Rough guess, it was nine thousand square feet. And it was his. Unbelievable.
That was the problem. The home was not believable. There had
to be strings. They had to be attached somewhere.
Good thing he wouldn’t be around to find out.
Micah glanced out over the ocean. He was going to sell the place. As soon as possible.
His stomach growled and he glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. He walked back inside and grabbed his keys off the granite countertop with the intention of heading to town. Just before stepping outside, he stopped himself. A door at the end of one of the ground-floor hallways was slightly open, a shaft of bright light spilling out of the room onto the carpet.
A feeling washed over him. The feeling of a string about to be pulled.
CHAPTER 4
The door hadn’t been there the day before. Had it? Micah pushed his front door closed with a soft click, never taking his eyes off the one at the end of the hall.
He’d done a full tour of this part of the home the day before and didn’t remember a room even being there, let alone leaving a light on. He hung his leather coat on an oak peg near the staircase, then eased down the hall toward the open door.
He pushed it open the rest of the way with two fingers and peeked inside. It was well lit. Too well lit; so bright he had to squint. At least twenty spotlights drilled down on a variety of magazine covers sitting on glass pedestals. Other pedestals held plaques; still others had laminated newspaper articles on top of them. Even before Micah’s eyes adjusted enough to see clearly, he knew what the room was.
How could—? He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, he half expected the room to be gone.
It was a shrine to his meteoric rise in the world of software. Micah and Julie were on the cover of each magazine displayed: Forbes, BusinessWeek, Wired, Fast Company, and more, as well as newspaper articles from The Wall Street Journal, USA Today, and The New York Times.
The plaques were awards RimSoft had won, from their first up to an award from last month. Whoever collected them hadn’t missed a thing. Micah shook his head.
Wow.
Weird.
He gazed at the walls filled with photos of Julie and himself, pictures from the earliest days of the company up to the present, just the two of them along with movie stars, athletes, and leaders in the world of software.
It must have taken months to dig all this up.
As Micah contemplated how they’d done it, he noticed a small door at the back of the room, only open an inch or two. He walked over to it and pushed, but it scraped to a halt after a foot and a half. He leaned his shoulder into it, and the hinges squealed in protest but opened enough for him to enter. For a new house this door was decidedly out of place.
The room was dim, and Micah couldn’t find a light switch, but his eyes slowly adjusted from the glare of the room he’d just left. The only light came from an oil lamp sitting on an oak nightstand in a corner.
More oil lamps circled the room, all sitting on oak stands, all unlit. Their charred wicks were evidence they’d burned once, but all were now out of oil. He turned back to the still-burning lamp. Next to it rested a Bible covered in a fine layer of dust. Beside the Bible were two pictures. Micah was in both of them.
In the first picture five kids and he handed out egg salad sandwiches at Seattle’s Union Gospel Mission. In the second his arm was around his best friend from high school youth group. Micah smirked. He was really into religion back then.
Almost against his will, he approached another lamp stand. On it was a sheet of paper. He held it up and squinted at it in the dim light.
Micah gasped. Impossible. Where would Archie have found it? It was a flyer for a concert—the concert—the one he’d gone to on a whim. The one where he’d decided to follow God.
Sweat covered his palms. This was beyond strange. It was bizarre.
There’s no way Archie’s builders could have gotten that flyer.
The pulse in his neck beat double time. He’d never understood people who had panic attacks. How could they go from feeling normal to expecting their body would explode any second? Now he knew.
He slowed his breathing. No help. Goose bumps broke out on his skin.
Archie wanted to highlight his career? Fine. Nice display. But the other room? Why dig so deep into his past? Who cares?
Archie. The words in his letter rang in Micah’s head. “Time to face your past. It is time to deal with it.”
He rubbed the scar on his hand and made himself breathe slower. Pulling up long-dead memories that were none of anyone’s business. Why go to this much trouble to weird him out?
His body yelled run, and his mind joined the chorus. But where? Out onto the beach? The highway? Nothing was attacking him. Nothing was after him. So why was he trembling?
Get control!
He ground his teeth as he forced himself out into the hallway. He closed the door, and Micah stared at the knob as if the door might open and suck him back in. Make him face—no!
His breathing calmed but his hands still shook. He shoved them into his pockets. It helped. Slightly.
What was wrong with him?
Micah jogged into his living room and burst through the French doors onto the deck. As the ocean wind whipped through his hair, his dad’s comment about the precarious condition of Archie’s sanity came back to him. Which meant one of two things to his father—either Archie was consumed with God, or he had never made any money. The building of the house ruled out the latter, so Micah assumed Archie was, in his dad’s words, a Jesus-freak.
His dad believed all Christians had a serious crack in their psyche. He wasn’t vindictive about it. To Daniel Taylor it was fact. When Micah started following Jesus during his sophomore year of high school, his dad wanted to send him to a psychiatrist. In the end they agreed to make it a taboo subject, which pushed them even further apart if that was possible.
During college the world of software captured him, and the whole God-thing had faded. It wasn’t overt, just a slow slide onto the back burner of his life and then off the back of the stove to sit with the dust and grease spots where Micah didn’t miss it.
But obviously not missed by everyone. Archie had built two shrines. One to Micah’s worldly success, one to his God-stuff past. God was fine at one time. But that time was over. Whoever pulled off this stunt for Archie had stepped over the line. Micah grabbed one of the Adirondack chairs on his deck and tossed it against the railing. The idea of someone digging up his ancient history felt like someone had broken into his mind.
Micah stumbled down his deck stairs till his feet thudded onto the wet sand. He plopped down on a battered rain-soaked log, not caring about the dampness seeping through his pants.
In his mind he slapped a roll of crime-scene tape across the door of the shrine room. He’d slaved to create his software empire. He wasn’t going to let some crazy great-uncle slam him for it.
That night he had a double bacon cheeseburger at Bill’s Tavern & Brewhouse. Afterward he drove up to Astoria and plunked down money for a raunchy comedy he almost walked out on. Just like he’d done in Seattle the week before.
Why did he watch those things? He always felt like he wanted to take a shower afterward. Simple answer. They were the best way he’d found to keep from thinking—about the past, about the ever-pressurized world of software, and at the moment, the two rooms in Archie’s house. Both screaming at him. One screaming louder than the other.
He woke Monday morning as gray gave over to the light of day. Only a few lazy clouds hung over the ocean. Micah walked out to sit on his deck but his feet kept moving, and shortly the waves sent ice pricks into his feet and ankles. He stared at the ocean, and it stared back with no expectations, no pressure, no stress from frantic employees or clients pounding on his brain. Heaven.
So what if Archie was a little eccentric and had given him a blatant message from beyond the grave? He’d junk the stuff in both rooms, keep the door shut, and let the qu
estions they asked die a quick death.
He turned back to Archie’s gift. A thread of light pushed over the mountain ridge to the east and lit up the top of his roof like gold. He faced the ocean and drew in its pungent smell. This had been his favorite place in the world before his mom died. Before his sand-castle world was washed away with one massive wave.
Maybe part of him did belong here.
No, it didn’t. Sorry, Archie. The past will stay there.
No question. He’d sell the place.
He strode through saltwater swirling around his ankles back toward the stunning house.
But maybe not right away.
After breakfast Micah pulled onto Highway 101 and headed for Seattle. Traffic was light and he made good time, even with the rain that pelted down as soon as he hit Olympia. In less than four hours he crossed the Seattle city limits; twenty-two minutes later his tires squealed as he pulled into his parking spot in his condo garage. He’d take a quick shower, then head for the office.
Micah pulled out his cell phone to record his mileage, a habit held over from the early days of RimSoft. Eat Top Ramen six days a week, never turn on a light unless forced to, and record everything possible for write-offs on the ol’ tax return.
He squinted at his odometer and looked back at the file on his cell. Strange. Didn’t seem right. Micah did a quick calculation in his head. It couldn’t be. Again he looked at the odometer and the total on his cell phone. Too weird. One of the two machines was wrong. Had to be.
Or he’d just driven 16,341 miles in the past two days.
CHAPTER 5
Isn’t this energizing?” Micah asked Shannon on Tuesday morning. “Seeing all these people streaming through the doors, ready to conquer new worlds?”
Jim Rubart Trilogy Page 3
