“Do you know him?” Alex asked.
“My son.” Grinning, Meg ran toward him. “Jon! I thought you were going to call. I didn’t get any shrimp.”
Meg hugged her only child as he looked over her shoulder at the stranger with the tripod.
“Jon Stanford.” Jon held out his hand to Alex. “I’m Meg’s son.”
“Alex Wallace, Meg’s friend.”
“And rabbit hunter,” Meg giggled. “I have a rabbit in the garden that Alex is going to help me trap. We just finished dinner, have you eaten? There’s plenty left.”
“I might be hungry.” Jon smiled at his mother.
“Well, I was just on my way back to town. Need to get back to the studio. Meg, thanks again for dinner and the photos. I’ll talk to you later. Pleasure to meet you, Jon.”
“Likewise,” Jon said, warily eyeing the strange man at his mother’s house.
Seated at the kitchen table, Jon sipped the tea as he scooped a spoonful of soup. The bread lay buttered on the plate.
“Lord, I miss this.” He took a bite of the bread. “You could sell this at some of the fancy restaurants in Corpus Christi for a mint. It’s always so wonderful.”
“Well, that was what I was telling Alex. It’s the fact that it is homemade with love. That’s what makes it good. Besides, if I started making it in bulk and marketing it, it wouldn’t be nearly as good. It is the small, personal batches that are the best.”
“Tell me about Alex. Are you two an item?”
“Jon! Really! I just met him. He is a friend who has a studio next door to me at the produce stand. I was telling him about the rabbit and he is going to help me get rid of the little critter. Then he came out here and fell in love with the view. He is an artist, and he asked if he could paint this place and the sea. He was taking pictures to use for his initial drawings.”
“You’re a big girl and can take care of yourself, but I just want to be sure you’re okay out here all alone. Really, I’m glad you have a friend.”
“Evidently, I’ve got two. Sam at Le Chez in town keeps buying all the produce. He wants to buy almost everything I’ve got. He says it is much better than what his suppliers have. He came over the other day because he was desperate for veggies with a large crowd coming and then he has been coming back. He even said he would pick up if he needed to. I consider that a compliment.”
“Well, like you said, there is nothing like homegrown. You might just be starting up a business. Mariam would be proud.”
“Well, I hope so.”
“But, I came out here to tell you something and invite you to dinner on the mainland sometime soon.” He took a deep breath. “I’m getting married.”
“Jon!”
“Her name is Victoria Chung, and I know you will love her as much as I do.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Her family is from Corpus Christi and she’s a fashion designer. I want you to meet her and take my two leading ladies to dinner sometime soon.”
“I’d love to. When do you want to do this?”
“I’ll have to check my schedule, but in a couple of weeks, if possible. We are talking about a fall wedding when the weather is a little cooler. Her parents want a big wedding at the country club with the reception outdoors, and in Corpus Christi that needs to be later in the year.”
“Country Club. It’s been a long time. I may have to go shopping.”
“That would be good for you.” He stood. “I hate to eat and run, but I have an early meeting in the morning. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself and I’ll get back with you on the time for dinner.”
“I always take care of myself and I’m looking forward to meeting the lovely Victoria.” Meg cleared the table and walked Jon out the back door. In the light of the full moon the path was visible through the garden and up the sand dunes to his car. Her thoughts swirled at the latest news—her son was getting married. And then she thought about the last time she was at the country club. She had hoped to never have to go back there again.
Chapter 7
Meg pulled her wagon to the dock where the shrimp boat captain tied his boat. Paul looked up and over the edge of the boat and smiled.
“Veggies!” he shouted to his crew and they all stopped what they were doing.
“Afternoon, Paul. How are the shrimp today?”
“Not as many as yesterday, but still good. What have you got to trade?”
“The cucumbers are taking over as well as the squash. They’re both good, but the best thing is the blackberries. I can get you some in the morning. They’re all gone today.”
“Credit, huh? Do we deal in credit boys?” Paul smiled. “Do they come already baked in a cobbler?”
“They could.” Meg returned the smile.
“How many shrimp do you need?”
“Two pounds should be plenty.”
“Two pounds it is and that cobbler while it’s still warm.”
“Deal. How about some lilies for that lovely wife of yours?”
“My lovely wife? My lovely wife ran off last month with some guy from Corpus Christi—and good riddance!”
Meg’s mouth dropped open and she stammered. “Paul, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Please forgive me.”
A grin began at the corners of his mouth and then spread into a hardy laugh. “I couldn’t run that woman off if I tried. She loves shrimp too much!” He laughed even harder at his own joke.
“Oh Paul, you’re terrible. Here, take the poor woman some flowers. After all, she has to put up with you.” She gave him the lilies as the bag of shrimp was handed over the side of the boat.
“You gentlemen have a good evening.” Meg walked away down the dock she had known all her life.
The old man they called Poppy lounged in the chair that might, or might not, have belonged to him. Sometimes he had a fishing pole and caught his dinner. Today he was sitting in the late afternoon sun smiling with the fishing pole in the water. Whether or not he caught something was anyone’s guess.
Meg stopped the wagon in front of him and smiled. Poppy was a fixture on Sandhill Island. He had been around as long as anyone could remember. No one knew how old he was or how he arrived at the island. He had just always been there. He watched the world go by, but never got involved.
Meg knew he ran errands for her dad sometimes when she was a child and Graham paid him cash—probably not much—but at least he was paid for his trouble. She picked a few vegetables and handed them to the fisherman. “To go with your catch.” She smiled as she walked away.
“Thankee,” he said, never looking up.
Walking past, she saw the man leaning against the boathouse with his hat pushed down over his eyes. He tried not to look at her. He was there most days when she came down to the dock. He always made her nervous the way he stood around, but never talked to anyone. She thought he owned a tugboat, but when he wasn’t working he just stood around on the dock and watched the people come and go.
“Nice veggies you got there, ma’am.”
Meg looked back, startled. He spoke to her.
“Thank you. Would you like some?”
“No thanks, just making a comment.” He looked at her from under the hat. “I see you all the time and you never speak.”
“Well, you’ve never spoken to me either.” What was with this guy?
“You don’t remember me, do you?” He pushed the hat back. His vaguely familiar eyes bored into her.
She stared at him. “Should I?”
“Mike Fitzgerald.” He gazed intently at her. “I was Rowdy’s son. You remember Rowdy, Evan’s fishing partner?”
Meg jumped just hearing Evan’s name. It had been such a long time. And no one on the island knew about her past. She immediately looked around to see if anyone was listening.
“You must have me mistaken for someone else.” She quickly began to walk away once more.
“I’m not mistaken. I know who you are.” He grabbed her arm.
“W
hat do you want?” She pulled away, rubbing the place where he’d gripped her.
“I don’t want anything. I just thought you should know that someone around here has guessed who the hermit lady with the vegetable patch really is. I mean, what are you hiding from? I see that kid of yours in his shiny Mercedes coming to visit his momma now and then. It took a while, but then I remembered he was raised in Corpus Christi by his mom and probably still lived there.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have to go.” She raced down the dock.
Once on the beach, she ran as fast as the wagon would pull through the sand. Back in her garden, she dropped the handle at the back door and ran in, slamming the back door and leaning against it. She didn’t empty the wagon. The rabbit could have the produce.
How could this happen? She thought she could get away from her past, from her family, and just live out her life doing what she loved best. She didn’t need to be a Stanford anymore. Those days were gone. If it weren’t for Jon, she would have left Corpus Christi and never looked back. But, he was her life. He was at least the good part of her life. He belonged to her and Evan. He was all that was left of his father.
Her cell phone rang. The screen said simply “Jon.”
“Hello, Jon.” She took a deep breath to try and make her voice sound normal.
“Hey, Mom. You okay?”
“Yes, why?”
“Well, you just sounded a little rattled. Your rabbit’s not back is it?”
“Well, I haven’t seen it, but you never know.”
He chuckled. “Well, I called because I’d like for you to come to Corpus this weekend and meet Victoria. I can have the car pick you up at the ferry and you can spend the day, and then it can take you back later. You could even spend the night with me and go back the next day.”
“Oh, Jon. I didn’t realize it would be so soon. I haven’t got a thing to wear and my hair is a mess. I’m just not prepared.”
“Well, let’s get you prepared. You take the early ferry and I’ll have Joan make an appointment for you at your old stylist for the works. And then shopping. That way you’ll be ready for dinner that evening. You can spend the whole day. It would be good for you. Then like I said, you can spend the night with me and go back on the ferry the next morning.”
Meg thought about her old life. Her old stylist. What would he think of her now with her stringy hair and skin unprotected from the elements? Did she want to go back to that? She knew they would make fun of her behind her back. She wished she had a friend to talk to about all of it. But, that was what she left behind in Corpus Christi. Friends that weren’t so friendly anymore.
“Mom? Are you still there?” Jon asked.
“I’m here, I was just thinking.”
“Well, you want to meet her, don’t you?”
“Of course!” Meg said. “Of course I want to meet her, it is just so soon and so unexpected.”
“It’s just a little shopping and dinner. You can do it.”
“Yes, of course you’re right.” Meg stood a little taller and thought about her son. She would do anything for him—she always would, and he felt the same about her. Of course she could—would—do this. “I’ll take the eight o’clock ferry.”
“Great. Greg will be waiting with the car.”
“Okay, see you Saturday.” She clicked off the phone without even saying I love you and felt apprehensive about the day to come. What was she thinking going back to Corpus Christi?
Chapter 8
The eight-by-ten photos of Meg’s property tacked on the rough paneled wall; Alex picked up the brush and stared at the canvas. He would start with the sea. After all, that was what he came here to paint—the ocean in all its colors and moods. Placid blue to angry black, it was all beautiful to Alex. The sea had a personality like a person. One day it was up and the next day it was down, depending upon internal and external factors.
He painted for hours, standing in his studio that doubled as a sales room. No customers came in or wanted to see the paintings that were displayed in his window. Just as well. He didn’t want to be disturbed today, even though he could use the money.
The grant he secured was to take care of him for a year. But, it was going to be a short year with the price of materials and rent. He was frugal, but he still had to eat.
As a professor, he helped his students find funding all the time and had access to grants for starving artists, but never applied for one himself. Then after the fiasco at the university, Alex felt it was time for a change. He called it the Chauncey Factor. The change in his academic life that caused the change in his personal life.
She was a beautiful young woman—no one would disagree with that. She had everything in life she could ever want or need. That kind of wealth could make a spirit poor. She had never wanted for anything and was not used to being turned down. When she decided what she wanted was an older professor for a plaything, she expected that it would be given freely as usual. Alex surprised her. He knew her father was on the board of regents for the university—people talk. And he was careful in her grading. His boss had mentioned that at the beginning of the semester. Don’t upset the apple cart, he had said. But, as it turned out, he didn’t need to grade her carefully. She was a talented artist. Talented, beautiful, and spoiled.
She often found reasons to stay after class when he needed to prepare for the next one. Then she began showing up at his office after hours as he was trying to shut down after a long day. His office hours were posted on the door, and he made sure his students retained a copy at the beginning of each semester. But, she came late anyway—after everyone left.
At first she wanted to talk about art, the kind she painted. Then she delved into art in general to get him into the discussion. He tried to tell her kindly that he needed to go, but she pretended not to hear. Then the day came. The storm blew in as forecast. Evening was going to come much earlier than normal that fall day. He closed the blinds and picked up his briefcase when the door opened without a knock.
“Professor Wallace,” she said as she came in the door. She was dressed in heels and a straight skirt with a silk blouse tucked in. Alex looked her over. She didn’t look like the traditional student in jeans and a tee shirt. She looked much older, and he was certain that was the plan.
“Chauncey, I was just leaving. You’ll need to come back at another time. Maybe make an appointment next time. Besides, the storm outside is getting worse.” He didn’t know the storm inside was just beginning.
“No, I think I’ll stay.” She unbuttoned her blouse as she walked toward him, revealing a pink lace bra. Somehow he imagined it would be black. She took the briefcase from his hand and placed it carefully on the desk. Then reaching up, she began loosening his tie.
Alex felt he was watching from afar. He had heard of other professors in this same predicament, but it had never happened to him. He knew the rules about fraternizing with students. He was a single man and he knew that made him even more vulnerable. He reached for the knot in the tie and stepped back, but she held on to his hand and placed it on her breast.
“Chauncey!” Alex said, jerking his hand back. “We can’t do this. I’m your teacher and there are rules.”
“Rules are made to be broken.” She laughed and leaned in to kiss him.
“Not with me. It could mean my job and I’m not going down that road.”
“You can find another job.”
Alex laughed. “You have no idea what finding a job is all about. You’ve never worked a day in your life and probably never will.” He was surprised how easily it came out of his mouth. His supervisor’s words rang in his ears. Don’t upset the apple cart. He knew he could be in trouble.
“Don’t you want me, Professor?” she crooned.
“That’s not the point, Chauncey. You have to leave.” He opened the door to usher her out, but she stood her ground.
“No,” was all she said.
“Please, it’s for the best.”
“Really? For whom?”
“For both of us.”
“I really don’t see the problem—two consenting adults...”
“I’m not consenting. Now go.” He tried to sound stern.
She looked him in the eye, her hand running down the front of her open blouse. She stared at him a moment longer and then huffed. Not used to being refused, she turned and stormed out the door. That was the last he saw of her until the campus police knocked on his door the next day, followed by the local police detective. She was charging him with attempted rape. They had photos of her torn blouse. She had run away in the storm to the police station and shown up wet and bedraggled with a story ready for the papers. He would pay for his treatment of her.
****
Alex stared at the painting as he rolled Meg’s blackberry back and forth between his fingers and then squashed it in frustration. The colors weren’t right, it was too artificial looking. He grabbed the canvas and tossed it across the room. Sweat trickled down his neck and he ran his hands through his hair.
“Well, that was a little childish,” he said out loud. The frustration welling up inside him like a tumor, he decided maybe he had painted for the masses too long instead of himself. It looked like a sofa painting at a starving artist show. You couldn’t feel the intensity of the sea—it looked like a pastel still-life—the kind that made him a meager living. Rubbing his eyes, he walked to the tiny kitchen for a drink and caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Blackberry juice smeared across his eye made him look like he had been in a bar fight. His thumb and forefinger were covered with the black/blue berry juice and it was smeared across the canvas that was thrown across the room as well. He walked to the canvas that lay on the floor, and there on the corner of what was to be a painting, was a smear of the color he had been looking for. The dark blue color of the sea that was in nature, not his paints. It was in the berry. He could never mix that color the way he wanted it, only nature itself could do that.
What if he used the berries for the color of the sea? And the other vegetables that were in his kitchen, like the tomatoes, might be useable too. He would give the pigment a good sealing afterward, but maybe it was the idea he had been looking for. Organic paints made from nature might be his new medium. He grabbed a fresh canvas, crushed the berries into a container as he wiped off his brush, and began to paint again. The berry stain was more the consistency of watercolor. And the effect was mesmerizing.
Secrets of Sandhill Island Page 4
