“The path begins at the end of the dock. It’ll take you to the house. If I remember right, it gets a bit steep, but a young, pretty woman like you should have no trouble at all.”
Again Adele noticed how Will would sometimes use a word or expression that didn’t quite fit with how a man his age would normally talk.
Not sure what his thinking I’m pretty has anything to do with my being able to get up the hill.
Adele readjusted her backpack. Then she offered her right hand, which Will quickly took in his much larger and calloused appendage.
“Thank you for helping to get me here, Mr. Speaks. I hope to have a chance to speak with you again soon.”
Will gave Adele a forced smile and shrugged.
“I can’t make any promises about that. I don’t want to cause any trouble with Mr. Stone. He pays me good to bring him his supplies and jobs like this aren’t exactly easy to come by around here. Oh, when you call me to say you’re ready to be picked up, you might have to use Mr. Stone’s regular, uh, the old kind of phone. Cell phones don’t always work out here.”
Adele smiled and then readjusted her backpack again, realizing she was doing so more out of nervousness than necessity.
“OK, I’ll do that. It shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”
After she took several steps on the dock toward the awaiting trail to Decklan Stone’s home overlooking the waters that surrounded his private island, Adele heard Will call out to her.
“You be careful, Ms. Plank.”
Adele tried to reassure him with a smile.
“I’ll take my time getting up there. Don’t worry. I won’t slip.”
The smile normally affixed to Will’s face vanished. His eyes narrowed as he gave Adele a long, hard stare.
“I’m not talking about you getting up to the house. I’m talking about you getting back.”
It was at that moment Adele wondered why the seemingly affable, albeit childlike, Will Speaks wasn’t escorting her to the writer’s home that was almost entirely hidden behind a wall of trees.
“Have you been to the house, Mr. Speaks?”
Will shook his head.
“No, not for a long time.”
“Why not?”
Will peered up at the faint outline of the Stone residence through a gap in the tree line.
“Mr. Stone doesn’t allow it. He’s made that clear. I drop off the supplies on the dock, and then leave. At the end of the month a check is mailed to my dad from a place in New York with a list of supplies to be delivered the next month. That’s what my dad tells me to do and so, uh, so that’s what I do.”
“And why do you think I need to be careful when I get up there?”
Will looked down as he shuffled his feet, appearing even more like a nervous child than a grown man. He felt as if he was being watched from above.
“It’s just that I think people who meet someone who they think they know are kind of let down. And you’re not the first fan of the writer to come around here hoping to get a peek. I figure everyone just needs to let things be. Let him live up there alone because that’s what he seems to want and I think people should get what they want.”
Adele readjusted her backpack for a third time.
“Yeah, but I’m the first one who he actually invited, right?”
Will gave Adele a slow nod as he kept his eyes locked onto hers.
“Yeah, I guess so. Unless I hear different, expect me back here in three hours like you said.”
Adele was both fascinated and just a bit uncomfortable at Will’s sudden concern for her well-being. She quickly pushed aside her discomfort when she remembered she was about to meet the reclusive Decklan Stone – in person.
“OK, Mr. Speaks, and thank you again.”
She gave Will a quick wave as he hopped back onto the Whaler, restarted its motor, and began to move away from the dock.
He didn’t wave back.
2.
The path at the end of the dock consisted of a narrow trail of compacted gravel that led upward and then through a dense area of trees. After several steps, Adele paused to look behind her at the glistening, glasslike waters below. She could see Will Speaks navigating the Whaler back to the Deer Harbor marina and then moved her eyes upward to follow the slow, circling path of a bald eagle. Between a gap in the trees, she saw a small cove almost entirely hidden from the main body of water by a dark, circular outcrop of rock. Behind that was a small, red-hulled fiberglass runabout tied by a long rope around the trunk of a tree that hung over a sand and pebble beach.
Adele took a deep breath and relished the intoxicating mixture of saltwater and trees.
It was certainly a beautiful place, the kind of place she could easily imagine a writer like Decklan Stone living out his days in quiet solitude.
I would love to live here.
Adele Plank was a student at the nearby university in Bellingham, some twenty-six nautical miles from Deer Harbor, but she had grown up in Washington State’s interior. She was born and raised in the small town of Concrete in Skagit County. She had never been to the San Juan Islands; though, she knew of people who summered there and spoke glowingly of its enchanting and mysterious nature. Over four hundred smaller, but no less beautiful, islands, accompanied the primary islands of San Juan, Orcas and Lopez. It was a boater’s paradise, a place that had long attracted visitors from all over the world.
“Hello there.”
Adele whirled around and found herself staring up at Decklan Stone. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell partly open as she tried in vain to think of something to say.
“Can I take your backpack? The trail gets a bit steep, though it does make for a nice workout.”
Oh, my. He’s gorgeous!
Decklan Stone appeared remarkably well-preserved. Though Adele knew him to be fifty-seven years of age, he could easily have passed for a man in his early forties. His lightly bearded face was nearly devoid of lines, his blue eyes bright and clear, and his dark hair nearly as thick and unruly as the black-and-white photo of him that accompanied Adele’s copy of Manitoba, taken thirty years ago.
Adele was horrified to find her mouth barely able to form words.
“Oh, yes, uh, thank you. Hello, my name is Adele, Adele Plank.”
The author easily dissected the distance between himself and Adele in a few quick and confident steps down the trail, bringing with him the subtle scent of cologne and tobacco smoke. His voice was low, smooth, and dangerously enticing. He was just over six-feet tall, with wide shoulders, narrow hips, and especially long, athletic legs housed in tan khakis that accompanied a thick, cream-colored wool sweater. A pair of dark gray, loafer-style boating shoes adorned his feet.
“Yes, I know who you are, Ms. Plank. I invited you.”
Adele tried not to blush, but failed as she placed her backpack into Decklan’s long-fingered, outstretched hands. She made note of the gold flash of a classic Rolex watch as it peeked out from underneath the left sleeve of his sweater.
“How was the journey here?”
Adele cleared her throat and smiled.
“Oh, it was great. It’s such a beautiful place. And this island! It’s just…it’s just perfect!”
Decklan stood staring down at Adele for a few uncomfortable seconds, and then he looked up at the trees as his voice took on a contemplative tone.
“Perfect? I don’t know about that, but it is home.”
The author shook off whatever memories had suddenly taken him away and he smiled again, flashing a row of brilliant white and perfectly aligned teeth.
“Just follow me then, and we’ll be to the house in no time.”
Adele did as she was told, struggling just a bit to keep up with the longer-legged writer as he easily made his way up the narrow, steepening path.
With her lungs stinging their angry discontent, Adele looked across a small, grass and flower clearing at a log-framed structure that loomed on the other side and was stunned to find that it appe
ared exactly as it did from the news clippings of decades ago. The two-story home had a covered, wrap-around front porch that dominated the entrance, and a large balcony that led out via a pair of French doors from what was the second floor master bedroom above.
It was the house Manitoba’s long-ago success had built.
“Wow.”
Decklan turned around and looked at the visibly awe-struck college newspaper reporter behind him.
“It’s just wood and concrete with an old, washed up writer hiding out inside of it.”
Adele snorted far louder than she would have liked.
“I think it’s a lot more than that, Mr. Stone.”
“Please, just call me Decklan. Mr. Stone sounds so…old.”
Adele shook her head with enough force that it made her cheeks jiggle.
“You don’t look old! You don’t look old at all!”
Adele was mortified at her behavior. She had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in her head and yet she was doing exactly what she had promised she wouldn’t – come off as some star-struck, half-psycho fan.
The author chuckled, both surprised and grateful for Adele’s overly enthusiastic defense of his allegedly not-yet-old, appearance.
“Well thank you, Ms. Plank. I’m more than vain enough to admit I enjoy knowing someone your age sees me as something other than a decrepit relic of some bygone era. Let’s go inside. Would you like some tea?”
Adele nodded while silently reminding herself to calm the hell down; though, inwardly she was screaming that she was about to have tea with Decklan Stone inside his home.
Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!
Decklan stepped up onto the expansive porch and then pushed open the custom-made, dark-wood-stained front door. He looked down at Adele and gave her a reassuring wink.
“Here we are, Ms. Plank. Welcome to my home, and thank you for coming.”
The interior of the Stone residence was as tasteful as its exterior. The handcrafted furnishings were sparse, simple, and yet they exuded quality and class. The floors were wide, reddish planks that softly creaked and groaned when walked upon. Decklan tapped his right foot lightly against the wood.
“The floors came from a decommissioned wood-hulled trans-Pacific sailboat from the late-eighteenth century, shipped here from Taiwan when the house was first built. I’ve always appreciated the idea of something old finding a new purpose, a kind of immortality.”
Adele wanted to sigh, but made certain she didn’t. She had never heard anyone say anything quite like that, and it left her feeling like the luckiest person alive to have heard it spoken in the wonderfully low, soft, yet masculine voice of Decklan Stone.
“Can I use that quote?”
Decklan’s head tilted to the left as his right brow arched upward.
“I’m sorry?”
“Uh, for the story, I’d like to use what you just said.”
The author paused, and then his eyes widened as he seemingly remembered why Adele was there in the first place.
“Oh, of course! Yes, feel free to use what you want. I don’t have any preconditions, Ms. Plank, though my publicist has demanded approval of the final piece prior to publication.”
Adele nodded quickly, not wanting to ruin the time with her literary-hero host with the more mundane, real-world talk of business.
“Yes, Mr. Stone…Decklan.”
Decklan flashed his brilliant smile again and motioned for Adele to follow him into the A-framed great room. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows offered up sweeping views of the San Juan Islands and the surrounding waters.
“Have a seat, Ms. Plank and I’ll be out with some tea in just a moment.”
Adele stared through the windows and then scanned the room. A wood-framed couch and two matching chairs faced the windows with a coffee table made entirely of driftwood. A large bookshelf dominated the left wall. On the right was a massive stone fireplace, and next to it, a hallway into which Decklan disappeared. Adele assumed it led to the kitchen; she could hear water running. Aside from the couch and chairs, there were no other furnishings. Even the walls were absent of any artwork.
Everything about the room is intended to focus you on the view, and what a view it is!
Adele took out her phone and snapped a couple pictures of the postcard-like scenery outside. She felt a slight breeze and looked up to see a large ceiling fan repeating a slow, circular path directly above her. The home smelled of Decklan Stone, his woodsy-leather cologne with just a trace of tobacco.
I’d love to wake up to that scent every morning.
“Oh, you’re still standing! Please, have a seat, some tea, and let’s see about getting this little interview of yours started, shall we? I hope you like white tea. My mother introduced it to me years ago and it has become something of a daily ritual.”
Adele lowered herself into the chair to the left of the couch while Decklan, after handing her a teacup, did the same on the right. He took a slow sip, savored it, and then lifted his eyes to his guest. Adele willed her hands to stop trembling as she brought the teacup to her lips.
The tea had a light, floral scent with an almost undetectable hint of honey.
“Mmmm, it’s good. Thank you.”
The author appeared genuinely pleased at the compliment. He took another sip from his own cup and then cleared his throat and shrugged.
“Well, shall we begin?”
Adele reached into her backpack and withdrew a small tape recorder, a gift from her mother when she was a little girl who dreamed of being a reporter. She preferred it instead to the more modern digital options because of its sentimental value. Decklan pointed to the device.
“It appears you value old things as well. I haven’t seen one of those in years!”
Adele responded with a sheepish grin.
“Is it OK I record our conversations?”
Decklan nodded while he swirled the contents of his cup.
“Of course, that’s what reporters do, right?”
Adele opened her mouth to say something, but momentarily lost her train of thought. Her hands trembled again when she finally replied.
“To be honest, I don’t really know, Mr. Stone. I’ve done a few stories for the newspaper, but this is really something way beyond my experience. And the fact is I’m a big-big fan of yours.”
Decklan folded his hands and placed them against his stubbly, salt-and-pepper chin.
“I’m confident you’ll do just fine, Ms. Plank. Please proceed. Perhaps we should start with the proverbial elephant in the room. Ask the question everyone wants to ask of me, the question that has been my primary reason for my retreating from the all-too-superficial world of literary celebrity.”
Adele felt her eyes blinking rapidly as she fought a terrible panic rising up from within her. She had planned to avoid the subject of Calista Stone’s death, at least initially.
But now he’s demanding I start with it. Is he testing me? Could I end up being thrown out of here without an interview?
Adele took a slow, deep breath and stared into the author’s eyes. She found them reassuring, willing her to do what, just seconds earlier, she had no intention of doing. The words came out rushed, sounding pathetically amateurish to Adele’s ears. She was left instantly horrified at having spoken them.
“Did you kill your wife?”
Outside, the prehistoric squawk of a great blue heron flying over the island reverberated off the home’s interior walls. Decklan Stone’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward with his tightly folded hands resting against his chin. From somewhere else in the home, Adele could hear the faint ticking of a clock. Though the author only paused for a few seconds, that brief span of time felt like an eternity to the young reporter. Decklan’s voice was sad and distant; its tone wrapped tightly around the pain of some terrible regret.
“Yes, Ms. Plank, I believe I did.”
3.
Sunlight broke through the massive great room windows and washed over a suddenly
still and silent, Decklan Stone. It was then Adele saw the hints of age illuminated on his face, the lines that extended beyond the corners of his eyes, and the strands of gray that ran through the otherwise dark and unkempt hair atop his head. The author might have been remarkably well preserved, but he was not entirely immune to the toll of time.
Adele was surprised by how much she had expected the author to say what he did. She didn’t believe she had just been witness to an admission of outright murder, but rather a man’s belief in his responsibility for his wife’s tragic demise. The two sat staring at one another for a half moment that felt much longer before Decklan held up his right hand and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, that was too much. I know now we should not have started there. I apologize, Ms. Plank. I hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable, but if you are, I certainly understand.”
Adele straightened in her chair, determined to expand the parameters of the interview to include that which remained unspoken.
“Just the opposite, Mr. Stone…Decklan, your instincts are right. It’s the issue that has pretty much defined how people think of you and maybe then, it’s the issue that defines how you think of yourself. We should talk about it, though if you want to wait until later, I’m ok with that.”
The author’s mouth extended into a thin, almost-smile, while his eyes moved out toward the expansive view beyond the windows.
“Yes, I think perhaps it is best we wait to cross that rather unstable bridge. I promise to speak with you about it, just not right now.”
Decklan continued to look at the waters and islands beyond his home as Adele proceeded with another question that was just slightly less pressing to her than the first.
“Why me?”
“I’m sorry?”
Adele waited for the author’s gaze to return to her before answering. His head turned and he again regarded her with a slightly arched right eyebrow.
The Writer Page 2
