Secrets of Harmony Grove

by Mindy Starns Clark

  I told him no, that I had been here all week, spending my days on the beach and my nights with a good book.

  “Lucky book!” he teased, laughing.

  With all his compliments, Damien smelled of beer, and I could tell by the look in his eyes that the bottle in his hand wasn’t his first of the evening. But he was cute and he made me feel like the prettiest girl not just in the room but in all of Virginia, and on that night I was trying very hard to act my age.

  We ended up dancing together for more than an hour, at one point the dance floor so full that even when we wanted to take a break and sit down, we couldn’t get through the crowd to do so. I had started my evening with soda, and when we finally managed to squeeze our way off the floor and grab a table along the side, Damien offered to get me another. Back from the bar, he handed me an open cup of what I thought was cola. It smelled like cola. It tasted like cola. But soon the room started spinning, and Damien’s face, which had been looming close all night, began to go in and out of focus.

  Later, much later, lab tests would show that the drink he brought me had indeed been cola. But somewhere between the bar and our table it had been modified with some Rohypnols, more commonly known as roofies. This stranger had roofied me.

  At the time, all I knew was that if I didn’t lie down soon, I just might fall on the floor. Ignoring the cigarette butts and the sticky goo on the table’s surface, I simply folded my arms and laid them on the table, and then I put my head down. Damien’s arm was around me in an instant, and I was so relieved that he understood how badly I needed a little support and some fresh air. Practically carrying me from the bar, Damien moved more quickly than I would have thought possible, given the crowd, until we were outside.

  The thing was, he kept going. Not only did he keep going but suddenly we weren’t alone. Others were coming with us too. Other guys, some of them very big and very drunk, all of them moving in step in a way that to my drugged brain almost felt choreographed.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice was telling me to run. I felt weak and confused, but finally I obeyed, breaking away and heading back down the pier toward the open-air restaurant. A number of people saw me; in fact, most of the diners that sat along the outside row of tables had a very clear view of a girl who was stumbling and running toward them. Some stared. One woman gaped, first in surprise and then disdain.

  But not one person did a thing.

  Later, one woman told police that she and her husband wanted to stop those boys from what they were doing, but they were afraid. Another said sure, she saw those boys heading out of there with that girl; she had thought about telling the manager or trying to stop them, but then she “saw that girl’s face and how absolutely plastered she was and figured she was getting just about what she deserved.” In the end, no one tried to help me at all.

  When Damien and his friends caught up with me, they laughed and grabbed me and pulled me away, and soon the restaurant’s patrons were back to their meals, their chatter fading into the background behind us.

  I must have passed out completely after that, because the next thing I knew, I was in a different place and time: not inside but out, not sitting on a chair in a bar but lying on my back on a gnarled old wooden pier, no longer surrounded by my friends but instead by a circle of Damien’s friends, drunken young men on every side, who seemed to be forming a human privacy wall around us. About the only constant between the before and after was Damien’s face. It was still looming too close, but now it was over me, looking down at me.

  I screamed, a scream so loud and bloodcurdling that I couldn’t believe it had come out of my own mouth. He was struggling with my pants, which he couldn’t quite get undone or torn off, especially once I started fighting back. All I could do was scream louder and louder in the hopes that I would be saved, in the hopes that someone would hear me and rescue me.

  But Damien had a plan for drowning out my screams. Later there would be testimony that said, essentially, he and his buddies had been trying to accomplish this very scenario several times during the week, but that something had gone wrong each time. In this their last try, they had covered every contingency. If the girl woke up too soon, and if she started hollering, they would simply holler louder, and hoot and laugh and cover the sound of their victim’s screams with the simple noise of a rowdy group of drinking buddies on a Friday night at the beach.

  Though I clawed and scratched and fought as hard as I could, I was no match for the muscular Damien. I even heard myself growing hoarse, but it didn’t matter. When I could no longer scream, Damien’s buddies were louder still, chanting amid the yelling, hopping up and down on the old wooden dock, stomping in a rhythm to match their chant.

  Had they attempted to pull this off anywhere else that night, it would have ended differently. But because they chose to rape me on an older part of the pier that wasn’t used anymore, way out on the section that was dark and chained off and closed to the public, there were other factors at play.

  Of course, I didn’t know that then. All I knew was that one moment I was pinned to the ground and fighting for my life, and the next moment that ground had dropped out from under me and I was falling.

  Later, just to explain the complexities of that collapsing pier would take two days of testimony during the trial. But beyond the experts and their charts and the buck-passing city officials lay the truth: In the end, I was saved because of a lazy code inspector, rotting wood, and a crumbling underwater foundation.

  My salvation wasn’t without a price. As the floor disappeared from under me, and screams erupted all around me, I felt the whoosh of flight and then the slam of water against my back as I struck the surface. Plunging into the depths, my arm was speared by a cluster of razor-sharp steel rods mounted in cement on the seafloor, pointing skyward just under the surface.

  Bodies rained down all around me, many of them speared as well, the shower of rotted planks and other detritus hitting the water with splintering, thundering crashes.

  I don’t know how I got loose. I don’t know how I got away from the shrieking, tumbling boys who in their panic were only managing to push each other under the water. I don’t know how I ended up half a block away, floating free in the Atlantic Ocean with my toes just touching the sand, the blood-red waves gently pushing me toward the shore, my arm a mangled pulp.

  Somehow I made it all the way to the beach. Cradling my shredded and broken and bleeding appendage against me, I felt almost no pain. That would come later. All I knew then was that I had to get to safety, I had to get help, I had to get to a doctor before it was too late. Cursing the sand that kept shifting under my feet and slowing me down, I finally reached more solid ground, the sidewalk and then the street where a patrol cop on a bicycle just happened to be passing by. Already, someone had reported screams and crashing sounds from the closed part of the pier. First responders were already on their way. But when that man saw me, saw my torn clothes, saw my bleeding arm, he immediately called for help.

  Everything after that had been handled very well: police, ambulance, hospital, doctors, lawyers, counselors. Every step of the way, through every part of my ordeal, it seemed as if God was sending me the very people that could help me best, starting with a team of brilliant doctors at the nearest hospital who managed to reattach my arm and hand.

  Eventually, I was released and sent back home, my care transferred to the hospital there. Of course, throughout everything, my family rallied around me like never before. My school deferred my classes for as long as I needed. My mother found me one of the very best Christian counselors in the country, who just happened to have an opening at her office in Bryn Mawr for three afternoons a week.

  More surgeries followed, more pain than I could ever have imagined, but with the healing on the outside came healing on the inside as well. Even my three friends, who struggled mightily with their own guilt about that night, finally came around and understood that I blamed them no more than I blamed myself.


  Everyone expected me to hate my attacker, to feel vindicated when we learned he had not survived his injuries and had died from internal bleeding. How could I explain that, dead or alive, Damien hadn’t been the only villain that night?

  For starters, his buddies were more than complicit. At least most of them got their just desserts: All were hurt when the pier fell apart, several quite badly. Down the line, those who survived were charged and tried and convicted almost to a man.

  Beyond that, though, were the others, those who didn’t facilitate or encourage what was happening but who saw it when it could have been stopped and chose to look the other way. How, I would rail in my darkest moments, how could someone stand by and do nothing even as a girl is being dragged from a bar, nearly unconscious, by a group of drunken, rowdy guys? Even if others in the bar hadn’t realized what was happening, what about the people in the restaurant? I knew they had seen us.

  Those were the ones who never had to pay, who weren’t charged with any crime, whose only punishment for looking the other way once all was said and done was to endure a lifelong sense of shame that surely clung to them like the stench of bar smoke. They were all to blame for what happened to me, for what could have happened. If not for the collapse of the pier, I would have been raped, perhaps by the entire gang.

  Seven operations later, though I had worked through the crisis, emotionally speaking, there were still many scars that lingered, both inside and out. My mangled arm was a constant reminder of the one night I decided to loosen up, abandon my standards, and act my age. The night that changed my life forever.

  Now, standing at the window of my little room at the inn and looking up at a thousand stars, I remembered one session with my counselor, how angry she had become when I had referred to this hideous arm as my mark of shame. She kept insisting that it was not a mark of shame but one of survival.

  Once I got into self-defense, shooting, and boxing, and I was strong and knowledgeable and better understood how to defend myself in any situation, I finally began to believe it. Eventually I decided to take it a step even further, telling myself that my scar wasn’t a mark of shame or of survival but in fact a secret mark of power. I wanted to get to the point where I could wear these scars under my sleeve as strongly and surely as Clark Kent wore an “S” hidden on his chest. I told myself that this was my best proof that in the end I wasn’t a victim but victorious.

  Someday, surely, if I told myself that enough times I would finally come to believe it. Taking a deep breath, I took in as much air as I could, held it for a long moment, and then slowly blew it out.

  Better.

  I felt better.

  As always, my counselor was right. I could move through the discomfort to the other side. I could trust God to be here with me as I did, to carry this burden for me.

  But that didn’t mean this beast called up from the depths was going to stay back down. For the past ten years I had done everything humanly possible to keep myself from feeling powerless. And then along came today, in which crisis after crisis managed to strip away any illusion of power and control that I had ever had. In a single day, my whole world had begun to crumble, not like the instant plunge of the pier, but more like the shifting of sands under my feet as I tried to get to shore.

  I reached up and smoothed the curtains, the trembling gone, certain that I would do whatever it took to protect myself, protect my inn, clear my name, and find the answers to all the questions that had suddenly appeared.

  I wouldn’t do it just for me but also for Troy. Yes, he had had his issues, and yes, in many ways I wished he and I had never met. But he had still been a friend to me. He didn’t deserve to die this way. Most of all, if foul play was involved, he surely didn’t deserve to go to his grave at the hands of someone else before his time.

  I knew what it felt like to be someone’s victim. That might have happened to me in the past, but not anymore. Not for me. Not for Troy.

  Not on my watch.

  FIFTEEN

  When I woke, it took a moment to get my bearings. Where was I? Watching sunbeams dance across the mahogany armoire in the corner, for a blessed moment I realized I was in my favorite room at Harmony Grove Bed & Breakfast and all was right with the world. Then memories came rushing back: the scene at Buzz, the visit with Liz, the call from Troy, the bodies at the pool, the endless questions. I was at Harmony Grove Bed & Breakfast all right, but all was definitely not right with the world. Not with this world, anyway.

  I could have done with a few more hours of sleep—the clock on the bedside table said 8:02 a.m.—but there was much to do and I was awake, so I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Thinking of my middle of the night panic attack, I felt much better now and in a way almost relieved that it had happened. I was glad to know I had been able to push through it. Today I felt stronger and more determined than ever to get this entire situation straightened out.

  My stomach rumbled, and I realized that except for that piece of corn bread my father had insisted I take for last night’s drive out here, I hadn’t eaten since breakfast the morning before—not even a bag of pretzels on the plane. I dug out a protein bar from my suitcase and ate it quickly, hoping I could get something more substantial later.

  But before I dressed for the day, I needed to call my father and Heath to let them both know what was going on. I also had to give Liz the whole truth, which wasn’t going to be easy. I wasn’t eager for any of these calls, but they needed to be made. As it turned out, no one answered, so I left messages for all that didn’t include details but just a simple request to call me back as soon as they could.

  My cell phone rang as I finished getting dressed. It was Heath.

  For some reason, the sound of his voice brought tears to my eyes. If he were here with me now, I would simply lean into his arms and hold on for a while. He must have been able to hear some of that longing in my voice, because before I could even tell him what was going on, he asked me what was wrong and if my trip to Boston hadn’t gone as well as I had expected.

  “No, things in Boston went beautifully.”

  “What is it, then? You don’t sound like yourself.”

  Trying not to cry, I began by making the bed as I spoke.

  “You’re right. Things aren’t good, Heath. In fact, I’m in the midst of a major crisis. Several, actually. I would have called and told you about everything last night, but I was tied up with the police until well after midnight.”

  “Police? Sienna, what’s going on?”

  Tucking in the sheets, I explained everything that had happened from the moment I arrived at Buzz to the moment I went to bed. He listened intently, his outrage growing as I spoke. Unlike Troy, whose reaction to the news that I had been suspended was “What did you do?” Heath’s immediate response was, “Are you kidding? What could those idiots be thinking?”

  That vote of confidence was sorely needed and caused fresh tears to spring into my eyes. Smoothing the bedspread, I continued my tale, though when I got to the part where I left my parents’ house to come to Lancaster County, I was afraid Heath might not be so generous. But again he surprised me, saying simply that he hoped that weasel Troy ’fessed up once I was able to confront him face-to-face.

  “Well, no. That’s where things took a major turn for the worse.”

  Propping the pillows against the headboard, I took him step-by-step through my entire horrific night. When I was done, I held my breath, waiting for his response.

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Heath, no. Wait. You can’t just come out here. That’s not fair to you.”

  “I certainly can and I will. Do you want me to run over to your place and get anything for you first? Some clothes or whatever?”

  “No, but thank you. I’m fine. You can come this weekend if I’m still here, but don’t take time off work for this.”

  Even as I tried to convince him not to come, I wasn’t sure if my motivation was purely selfless (I knew how hard it was t
o get time off from the hospital, and I hated him having to do that for my sake) or not (that small part of me that wanted to be free to defend myself however I saw fit). Perhaps it was an equal mix of both. We debated back and forth for a few minutes, and in the end I convinced him to finish out the workweek and come tomorrow night. As we talked, I made my way to the office downstairs, turned on the computer, and sat down at the desk.

  “If you want to help, there is something you could do from there,” I told him. “You’re good with money and with math. Would you be willing to look at the books from the B and B to see if you spot anything fishy?”

  “Of course,” he answered, sounding almost disappointed that I hadn’t asked for more than that.

  “I hate to sound callous and self-centered, but what happens if Floyd doesn’t get better, Heath?” I asked as I waited for the machine to boot up. “He’s the inn’s sole employee. What about the day-to-day mechanics of running this place? I don’t know how to do that, not to mention I don’t have the time or desire. I’ll have to cancel pending reservations and eventually hire someone else.” The more concerns I voiced, the more new ones that popped into my mind. “And that’s not even thinking about the PR ramifications of all of this. Can the B and B recover from the taint of death? What am I going to do? And what about my job? I’ve only been there a few weeks. They don’t know me or my character. After all I’ve done to get this far, if I end up losing my position at Buzz I’ll lose my home, my car—”

  “Shhh, Sienna. Shhh. Calm down. Take one step at a time. Things might be much better today. The police could have made all sorts of progress last night.”