by Marta Perry
Sarah watched the gates to Land’s End slide closed behind her in her rearview mirror. She was free of the place for a short time, at least. She hadn’t realized how much Trent’s guarded enclave had affected her until she was outside. She could breathe now.
She drove down the narrow road, her gaze flickering to the rearview mirror again. The drapery of Spanish moss seemed to stir at her passing and then swing down, hiding Land’s End from view, like Brigadoon vanishing into the mist. She was alone and back in her car. Outside those walls she might be free, but she was also vulnerable. The danger had probably been banished from the island with Farrell, but it made sense to be on her guard.
Like Melissa? That poor child was certainly guarded enough—all wrapped up into a prickly bundle ready to repel anyone who got too close. She’d always felt sympathy for Melissa, caught as she’d been between her beautiful, erratic mother and her overprotective, powerful father.
Her own childhood circumstances had been entirely different, but still, she’d known what it was like to try to live up to overachieving parents.
Lord, please show me how to help that child. I can’t help but feel You’ve put her in my life again for a reason.
Trent wouldn’t welcome her help for Melissa. His quick rebuff of her comment about a counselor showed that. As always, he thought he could control everything and everyone.
Or maybe not. That expression of his when Melissa had stormed out of the breakfast room had been just like that of any baffled, befuddled father of a twelve-year-old daughter. Girls turned into different creatures at that age, even if they hadn’t suffered the traumatic loss of a parent.
The private lane that led only to Land’s End opened out onto the main road. Main, and only. Everything on St. James was off this two-lane stretch of macadam. At this end were the gracious houses of the wealthy.
She passed Jonathan and Adriana’s gate. She should call and thank them again. Trent had ushered her out so quickly the previous night that she hadn’t done a good job of that. Still, she’d sensed relief under Jonathan’s protestations. He’d been happy to be relieved of so troublesome a guest.
The road swung through the small commercial district. She wouldn’t find much to replenish her wardrobe here—she’d probably have to run to Savannah to do that. Her reluctance to leave the island now that she’d gotten here was surely irrational. Trent couldn’t very well close the bridge to keep her off.
A wide, shallow curve appeared ahead of her and she slowed, putting on the turn signal. Straight ahead the road crossed the bridge to the mainland, but the moment she turned onto the side road, she was in a different world.
Live oaks, crepe myrtles and the dense stands of loblolly pines crowded in on either side. Silvery swags of Spanish moss draped the road, sometimes low enough to brush the top of the car. The maritime forest edged onto the roadway, as if it would eat up the intrusive strip of concrete.
The small houses that appeared now and then, tucked into their quilt-size gardens, looked ramshackle in comparison to the mansions at the opposite end of the island, but they’d been here longer, blending into their surroundings like the wild deer disappearing into the forest.
A neat sign marked the turnoff to the clinic, and the sight reassured her. At least the clinic had survived her departure. It had been barely up and running when she’d left, with a fulltime Gullah nurse, a handful of volunteer retired doctors and a building Trent had grudgingly donated.
Guilty feelings descended. She’d left them in the lurch when she’d run from the island, but surely they’d understood. She’d written to Esther Johnson, the nurse who’d been their only paid employee, but Esther’s reply had been brief to the point of curtness. The clinic was fine; that was all she’d said.
Now she’d see for herself. She pulled into the shell-encrusted parking lot and stopped, blinking, hardly able to believe her eyes.
The building had nearly doubled in size. What had been an uncompromising square of concrete block with peeling paint and a rusted tin roof was now a long, low rectangle. The new roof was red tile, and the building itself had been painted a mossy gray-green that blended into its surroundings.
The clinic hadn’t survived her leaving. It had thrived.
She got out of the car slowly, still hardly able to believe what her eyes were telling her. She’d had to fight and scrape every inch of the way to get the clinic off the ground, but it apparently soared without her.
The tan door had St. James Free Clinic lettered on it in gold. She pushed the door open and stepped from harsh sunlight to a cool, quiet room lined with chairs.
“I’m sorry. The clinic doesn’t open for another half hour. Would you like to wait?” The young woman behind the counter, wearing a colorful head scarf and dangling gold earrings with her lab coat, was a stranger to Sarah.
“I’m not a patient.” It was oddly disconcerting to be unknown in a place where just a year ago she’d been an important part. “I’m Dr. Wainwright. Is Esther Johnson in?”
“I’ll see.” No expression crossed the woman’s face, but she had the sense that recognition had flickered briefly in her dark eyes. She picked up a phone, pressed a button and spoke softly, turning away from Sarah.
Not quite the welcome she’d been looking for, but what could she expect? Life had moved on without her. Only she and Trent remained trapped in the lingering memories of their shared past.
A door behind the counter opened, and Esther Johnson swept through, moving with that quick grace that had always reminded Sarah of a bird on the wing. If Sarah hadn’t known she was sixty, she’d have put Esther’s age at anywhere between thirty and forty. That smooth brown skin didn’t age, and her eyes were bright with intelligence and interest in everyone.
Except, it seemed, Sarah Wainwright. Esther stopped at the counter, looking at Sarah without expression. “You’re back.”
What was she to say to that? “It’s good to see you again, Esther. You’re looking well.”
We were friends once, Esther. Did I lose that completely when I ran away?
The woman inclined her head, accepting the words as a queen might accept the praise of her subjects. Well, Esther was the queen here, she supposed. If anyone was responsible for the growth of the clinic, it would be Esther.
The silence was becoming unnerving. “The clinic looks wonderful. You’re obviously doing well.”
“Yes.”
She forced a smile. “I knew you’d do a wonderful job. Do you have a minute to show me the new addition?”
Esther didn’t bother consulting her watch. “I’m afraid not. I have new volunteers coming in for an orientation.”
The rebuff was like a slap in the face. She had to take a breath before she could speak calmly.
“I know how scarce good volunteers are. I could work a few shifts while I’m on the island, if you’re shorthanded.” And perhaps find her place again, if she got back in the comfortable professional role she knew how to fill.
“Thank you, but we don’t need any additional help at the moment.” If Esther had held up a sign saying, You’re Not Wanted Here, she couldn’t have been any clearer.
She had let them down, leaving the way she had. Obviously Esther, at least, didn’t intend to forgive her easily for that. Guilt reared its head. She’d cut and run without a thought for the trouble she’d left behind on St. James. How did she begin to apologize for that?
“Esther—”
The outside door burst open, and a teenaged boy shouldered his way in, supporting another boy whose arm hung limply at his side. His face was terrified and tear-stained.
“You gotta help Joey. He run his bike right into a car.”
Sarah started for the injured boy, but before she could take a step, Esther had rounded the counter and moved in front of her, issuing crisp orders to the other woman.
“I’ll help—” Sarah began, but already someone pushed a gurney into the hallway, a doctor loping along behind it.
She recogniz
ed Sam Drake’s lean, bony frame and shock of snow-white hair. Sam had been one of her first recruits, admitting under pressure that spending every moment of his retirement on the golf course had begun to pall.
“Hey, Sarah. Nice to see you, stranger.” He gave her a quick wave before turning to the patient. The rest of the team rolled into action, just as she’d trained them. With a minimum of fuss the patient was whisked off to an exam room, his friend taken care of and she was left standing uselessly in place.
Nice to see you, stranger. Sam hadn’t meant anything offensive. Not like Esther, with her coldness. But his attitude had shown her the truth nonetheless.
She wasn’t needed here. Maybe she’d once been an important cog in the machinery, but now she just observed, ghostlike, with no part to play. She didn’t belong.
Dinner at Land’s End was, apparently, a command performance. Sarah sat across from Melissa at the linen-covered table, uneasily aware that the simple skirt and top she’d found in one of the island shops that afternoon didn’t measure up.
Across from her, Joanna Larson, Trent’s secretary, wore the neutral beige suit that seemed to be her uniform for day or evening. She had barely nodded when Sarah spoke to her, turning instead to Trent with a question about some correspondence. If her suit was no more suited to the atmosphere than Sarah’s attire, it apparently didn’t bother her.
Candlelight shone on white linen, reflected in crystal, made tiny flame points on the heavy silver. The mahogany furniture of the formal dining room was hand-carved in a rice pattern—a reminder of the rice culture that had once ruled the vast plantations of the sea islands.
Rice, indigo, sea island cotton had taken their turns as the favored cash crop for the plantation owners, and they’d all had one great need—the slave laborers who’d come from West Africa to produce the crops and build their own culture and their own language.
That culture still existed in uneasy partnership with the encroachment of the outside world, and the man seated next to Melissa exemplified that. Robert Butler was an MIT-educated, gifted engineer. Butler could be a success anywhere, but Trent had brought him back to his roots.
That could be a problem for some people, but Robert seemed unaffected. He switched easily from joking with Geneva in Gullah to a technical discussion with Trent that was equally incomprehensible to Sarah.
Trent sat at the end of the table, more at ease than she’d seen him since her return. His gray eyes lit with amusement as he responded to something Robert Butler said. Perhaps Trent enjoyed playing the role of patriarch. Everyone at the dinner table depended on him. Except her.
Perhaps it wasn’t fair to think of Robert Butler as a dependent. He could probably name his own price to work for one of Trent’s competitors, if he wanted to do so. Derek, on the other hand, didn’t have that luxury. As Trent’s half brother, he filled a nominal role as vice president. What his actual duties were, no one seemed to know.
With his brown, curly hair and round blue eyes, Derek didn’t look anything like Trent, but they’d had different fathers. Local gossip had it that Trent, once he’d achieved success, had rescued his young half brother from a squalid life, sending him to university and making a place for him in the company. How much was true she didn’t know, but Derek was loyal to Trent.
Would that loyalty keep him from being honest with her? She wasn’t sure. It should be simple to have a private conversation with Derek now that she was living in the house, but so far he’d evaded her.
As if he knew she was thinking of him, Derek met her gaze. He gave her an understanding look, and his eyelid drooped in a slight wink. Hope rose. She’d find some way of talking with him away from Trent’s dampening presence.
Melissa was more animated than Sarah had yet seen her. She leaned over to touch Robert’s sleeve.
“Please, Robert. Tell us a Gullah ghost story.” She shivered in anticipation. “Everyone wants to hear one.”
Robert glanced at Trent, as if to ask permission. Trent nodded with an indulgent glance at his daughter.
“Well, now, there is one story about two haints that frequent an old burying ground on the island. Mind now, Melissa—” he bent a serious glance on the girl “—I’m a good Christian, and I don’t believe in ghosts, but I know folks like the old stories. Just so you understand it’s not real.”
She nodded, eyes sparkling. “It’s fun to hear a scary story when you know you’re safe.”
“Well, then,” Robert said, “there once were two young people who lived on the island.” His voice took on a singsong quality, deepening to a rich baritone rumble. “They loved each other, but their folks had been feuding for more years than anyone could remember.”
It was a classic Romeo and Juliet tale, Sarah realized, transported to a Gullah setting by a skilled storyteller. Maybe it was the setting that made the tale so effective, with the candle flames flickering and the dark salt marsh pressing against the windows. Or maybe it was the quality of Robert’s voice. He held his audience spellbound.
Was she the only one who felt uneasy as the tale proceeded toward its inevitable tragic end? Surely Robert could have found a story that didn’t so closely parallel that of Miles and Lynette. Melissa didn’t seem to notice, wrapped up as she was in the tale.
A slight movement from across the table drew her gaze. Joanna’s fingers clutched her silver dessert spoon with such strength, it seemed she’d bend it. So Joanna wasn’t as impervious to the situation as Sarah would have thought.
Sarah glanced at Trent to find his face impassive. The urge to shout at him, to blast his emotions free, startled her with its strength. She couldn’t do anything for Trent. If he’d decided to deal with the tragedy by suppressing it, that was his choice.
In any event, Robert’s tale took a slightly different turn, with the errant lovers killed by some unknown person, perhaps a jealous boyfriend or angry father, and destined to haunt the burying ground until their murderer was discovered.
Robert’s voice dropped to a low, musical end, and everyone clapped. Trent rose.
“No one can top your storytelling, Robert. Let’s take our coffee into the other room, shall we?”
She could take advantage of the movement to slip away. Joanna, apparently thinking the same, went quickly out the back door toward the patio. Because she preferred to be alone, or because she hadn’t liked Robert’s story, with its echoes of recent tragedy?
She’d find an opportunity to talk with Joanna, but if she hung around now, Derek’s look had suggested he, at least, felt some friendship for her. She followed the others into the formal living room. Derek drifted to the grand piano and sat down, letting his fingers drift over the keys.
Before she could move in his direction, Robert appeared at her side, his face grave. “My little story upset you. I’m sorry.”
Perhaps she should cultivate that mask Trent wore so well. “I thought perhaps the topic was a bit insensitive.”
“Are you a Christian, Dr. Wainwright?” His dark gaze touched the gold cross she wore at her throat.
“Yes.” She raised a startled gaze to his.
“Then you remember the approach the prophet Nathan had to take when God told him to confront King David with his sin. Sometimes the only way to tell the king an unpleasant truth is with a story.”
Before she could ask any of the questions that jumbled together in her mind, he turned and walked away. She should talk to Derek, but all she wanted to do was be alone so she could sort this out.
SEVEN
Trent frowned, his head beginning to throb from his brother’s endless tinkling on the piano. Or was it because he didn’t want to let himself think about Robert’s story?
The telling of it had been singularly tactless on Robert’s part, and he was ordinarily not a tactless person. So what was behind that?
He watched Sarah and Robert in conversation. Robert moved away, leaving a distressed look on her face.
Poor Sarah—she probably considered herself a tough
, no-nonsense professional who had her feelings under control. Unfortunately she couldn’t do anything about that sensitive, vulnerable face of hers. As he watched she straightened her shoulders, assumed a smile and headed toward him.
Sarah stopped a few feet away. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll say good night.”
“I’ll walk you to your room.”
“That’s not necessary.” Her face revealed her reluctance to be alone with him. “It’s just a step.”
He took her arm. “I could use some air.” He piloted her out through the French doors to the quiet patio.
She went with him willingly enough, but once the door had closed behind them, she pulled her arm free of his hand. “Thank you, but I’m perfectly capable of walking to the room alone.”
“You mean you don’t want to be alone with me.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Liar.”
Sarah’s lips quirked. “Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s impolite to call a lady a liar?”
His mother had been too drunk to teach him anything except how to avoid her fist. “Actually it was my grandmother who taught me manners.” He took her arm again. “And she said a gentleman always escorts a lady to her door.”
This time she did smile. “All right, I give up. Escort me the all of twenty steps to my door.”
He matched his stride to hers as they crossed the pebbled patio. The lights of the pool glowed turquoise, but he hadn’t bothered to turn the other patio lights on. The nearly full moon was bright enough, and the stars clustered more thickly without the competition.
As if she followed his thoughts, Sarah tilted her head back to look up. “I’d forgotten how bright the stars are here.”
“They prefer shining on the island. Hadn’t you noticed?”
“You may be right.”
They reached the door to the guest suite. Sarah still looked up, the moonlight silvering her face. Strange, that the face he’d never considered beautiful should be so lovely now. Moonlight suited her, bringing out her delicate bone structure.
