Kestrel (Hart Briothers #3) (7 page)

Glancing
at the terrace behind the house, I fondly recall the many parties Mom and Dad
used to throw. They were such socialites, always having some kind of a
gathering either here or at the beach house. Now, this huge place sits empty
most of the time, with only their ghosts to remind me of the happier times.
Maybe it’s best that I pass this place on to someone who can fill it up again
with laughter and sunshine.

I
hop to my feet and walk to the heavy wrought iron gate that bars the entrance
to the property. As I look down the driveway, I can see the water, for the
house sits on the Charleston battery. Craning my neck, I look up toward the
widow’s walk. That’s my favorite place, particularly on cold, clear nights
during winter. The stars are amazing. If I listen closely enough, I can almost
hear the patter of Ells’ feet running up and down the driveway. Every time I
think of leaving, I worry that memories of her will fade into nothing. And my
little baby ghost will disappear forever.

“Oh,
Ells, what am I gonna do? I tried to keep it. I really did. But it looks like
it’s not going to work out for us anymore.”

Guzzling
the remainder of my wine, I walk back inside and refill my glass. Then I go
back to my seat by the pool. The water seems a fitting place for me tonight.

The anniversary of Ells’ death.
Four years.
Four long,
horrible years without her.
Has it gotten any better? I can’t answer
that because I don’t really know. I live in a state of perpetual numbness now.
The only thing that drives me, that allows me to
feel
is my work.
Everything else is plain emptiness.

“Well,
Ells, I did it. I’m sorry I wasn’t at the beach yesterday, sitting in our usual
place, but I was too upset about the house. And tonight … well, I worked late
and time got away from me. Anyway, I got the contract and the funds for our
research, baby. All the hard work is paying off. Of course, nothing is the same
without you. But at least I will have something to show for it. And it will all
be named after you someday.
The Ells Project—Death Code
for Cancer.
It will all be for you, baby. God, I miss you. I lied to
Uncle Foster today. It never gets better, only worse. Every day I wake up, I
wonder what you’d look like. How tall would you be? How long would your hair
be? Would it still be blonde and curly? Would your eyes still be as blue? Would
your laugh still be the same? Every day I ask myself those questions. And I
carry your pictures with me everywhere. And wonder over and over why I ever
left you. Why did I go to that seminar? I’m so sorry, baby. So goddamn sorry.”

It’s
like this every time. I never realize how hard I cry until I wake up several
hours later with swollen, wet eyes, and a stuffy nose. I drag myself up to bed.
At least this time I’m home instead of the lot at Sullivan’s Island, and don’t
have to get in a car and drive. I don’t bother changing into pajamas. There’s
no one here anyway. Pulling the covers up, I let sleep claim me. Sleep is the
only place where I can find solace because that’s where I see Ells. That’s
where Ells waits for me with open arms, laughing, with her long curly locks all
tangled and salty from the sea. It’s there she tells me how happy she is and
not to worry about her anymore. And it’s there I know she’s safe.

Chapter
Six

Kestrel

It’s
seven o’clock when I ring the doorbell. About thirty seconds later, she answers
the door. Whoever picks out her clothes needs to be shot. She’s wearing mom
jeans. I swear to God. They look like they’re from the early nineties. My
mother, who is in her sixties, wouldn’t even wear these things. And don’t even
get me started on her shirt. It has
ruffles
on it. Up to the neck.
Puritan style. Who the fuck wears ruffles? They’re so
hideous,
it’s hard to tear my eyes off of the damn things. She’s a sex
repellant
.
And she notices me staring.

Her
hand hovers over her neck. “Okay, so I don’t have the latest in fashionable
clothing,” she huffs.

I’m
not even sure how to respond to her. Her hair isn’t bad, if she’d only brush
it. Unfortunately, the tangled mess looks more like an osprey’s nest than
anything else. I wonder what would happen if it escaped from its elasticized
prison of a ponytail? It might be a danger to society.
And
the glasses.
I get it. She needs them. But choose a stylish pair for
fuck’s sake.

“Right.
Do you have any wine by any chance?” I really need to divert the subject here.
Hell would freeze over before I could ever sleep with her. Getting a boner
would be like resurrecting the dead.

“Oh,
sorry. Come in the kitchen.”

I
follow her through the house and take a seat at the counter.

“White
or red?”

“Your
choice.” This is a test. I want to find out what her taste in wine is. And I’m
pleasantly surprised as she pours me a fine glass of Shiraz. “Very nice.”

A
smile momentarily brightens her face and I’m struck at how it alters her
appearance. But it’s gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

“What’s
for dinner?”

“I
thought I’d grill up some freshly caught seafood. I hope you’re a fan?”

“Yeah,
absolutely.”

“Great.
When I went to the local seafood market, they just got some wahoo in. So we’ll
have that, along with some stir fried vegetables and a side of pasta. How does
that sound?”

“Excellent.
Do you cook much?”

She
grimaces and her tone flattens. “No. I, uh, enjoy it, but don’t bother
much.”
 

“At
least you know how. I’m hopelessly lost in a kitchen.” There is a bowl of
chopped vegetables on the island, which I assume she’ll stir-fry later. A pot
is already on the stove and she has the fish on the island, seasoned and ready
to be cooked.

“Let
me stick the fish back in the fridge and I can show you the furnishings so you
can start assessing what you may or may not be interested in.” She walks to a
drawer and pulls out a pad and pen.

We
meander through each room and she flags what she wants. Then she tells me
everything else is open season for me. Her daughter’s room is off limits. I
wouldn’t want anything in there anyway; it’s all furniture for a little kid.
What the hell would I do with that?

“Jot
down what you’re interested in. Everything else will have to be sold at
auction.” Her hand massages her forehead and I can’t help but notice her long,
graceful fingers. She’s tall for a woman. My guess is she’s close to six
feet—maybe five feet ten. I’m about six three and she can almost look me
in the eye. Almost. And I hadn’t noticed before because of those damn frumpy
clothes of hers, but she’s elegant. It’s the way she glides, and her long, lean
lines. It piques my curiosity. I wonder what she would look like made over. Her
dark blond hair is long and frizzy, but perhaps with some brushing and styling
it could actually look halfway decent. Gray eyes stare at me. They are clear
and pale. She’s caught me sizing her up.

“I’ll
let you know exactly what I want.”

She
leaves the room and I watch her go. God, that outfit. Could it possibly be any
uglier? I need to clear my mind and decide what, if anything, I want to buy
here. There are a lot of things to choose from. It takes longer than I expect,
and I only make it through half of the house when she calls me to eat.

She’s
set the table in the kitchen and I seat her.

“I
hope this is to your liking.”

“Carter,
I’m not picky and it looks delicious.” And it does. The fish is grilled with a
dusting of seasonings on it and the vegetables look crisp and fresh. The pasta
is served with a basil pesto; my stomach growls in response to the aroma of it
all. She laughs a little and when she does, she looks passably attractive. Or
maybe it’s only wishful thinking on my part.

My
fork pierces the fish and I taste it. “Oh, hell. This is excellent. What did
you call this?”

She
laughs again and it brightens her whole face. I wasn’t imagining it earlier.
There is a hidden gem beneath her distasteful attire and taste in eye glasses.
“It’s wahoo. It’s caught locally.”

“I’ve
never had it before but this won’t be my last time.”

“It’s
one of my favorites.”

Mine
too, obviously, as I inhale it.

“Had
I known you were going to like it this much, I would’ve bought more.”

I
look at my plate and then hers. And I laugh. “Carter, you must think I am deprived
of food, the way I wolfed that down.”

“Actually,
no. Maybe it’s my exquisite culinary talent that has you so smitten.”

“I’m
sure that’s it.” The rest of the meal is equally as good, everything cooked to
perfection. Carter knows her way around the kitchen. That’s more than I can say
for myself.

“So,
Mr. Hart, did you see anything you’re interested in buying?”

“Kestrel.
And yes.
Quite a lot.
There are a few pieces of
furniture I don’t need, only because I have a lot of things of my own coming
in, such as couches and chairs. Unfortunately, I have some antiques as well so
I have to decide if I want to keep those or buy the ones in here. What I may do
is use one of the bedrooms as storage since I don’t need a six-bedroom house.”

Her
already pale face becomes even more ghostly. The few freckles that are
scattered across the bridge of her nose and cheeks stand out in stark contrast.
Her tongue darts out and moistens her lips as she stammers, “U-use one of the
b-bedrooms?”

“Yes.
As I said, I don’t need all the space right now. It would only be temporary.”

She
jumps in and rapidly says, “But did you see all the storage space in the attic?
Why, there’s tons of it up there. I’m sure it could house your things with
plenty of room to spare.”

“I
still haven’t made my decision on the room.”

Her posture folds.
It’s like watching someone get punched
by an invisible fist. Everything in her deflates, like a tire with a slow leak.

“What
happened to your daughter?”

Her
hand trembles as she raises her wine glass to her lips and downs the rest of
her glass. She doesn’t answer, but stands and clears the plates, her movements
wooden.

After
several minutes of uncomfortable silence, I return to look at some more of the
furnishings. They really are perfect in here. I’ve taken pictures of the pieces
that I’m on the fence over so I can inspect them again later. I probably ought
to buy the whole lot of it, but I’ll make up my mind in a few days. When I get
back to the kitchen, she’s gone. As I glance out the window, I notice her
sitting out by the pool on a chaise. She’s gazing out in the distance at some
invisible entity, lost in her own thoughts. It’s dark and chilly out with only
one dim light on.

I
walk out and say, “I’m finished looking so I’ll be on my way. I’ve made a list,
but I want to think about it. I’ll give you my final decision in a couple of
days, if that’s okay.”

She
stands and latches onto my hand. “Please. What can I do to change your mind?”
Her ironclad grasp surprises me and I flinch.

Tearing
my hand away, I say, “My mind isn’t made up yet.”

“I
know, but I have a pretty good notion of what it’s going to be.”

“Help
me understand about the room, Carter. Why?”

She
half-screams. “It’s the only thing of hers I have left.”

“But
it won’t bring her back.”

“It
preserves her memory. When I walk in there, it’s like she still lives.”

“Don’t
you think that makes it harder on you?”

“It
makes losing her more tolerable.”

This
whole thing is so fucked up to me. She needs to talk about this so I do
something that I know she’ll hate.

“Okay,
here’s the deal. You have to tell me some things. Where’s the rest of your
family, Carter?”

It’s
too dark to see the intricacies of her facial expressions, but I can get the
gist of them. She recoils when I ask the question.

“They
… they’re all gone.”

“What
the hell happened? Please, tell me the whole story.”

She
turns away from me and walks back to the house, head bowed. I follow. When we
get inside, she heads to the bar this time and fixes a vodka and water on the
rocks. She asks if I want one but I decline. Her drink doesn’t stand a chance
against her. She slugs it down in several gulps.

She
faces me and in a steady voice says, “My family perished in the hurricane four
years ago. I was away at a seminar at Duke. Ells was with my mom and dad.”

“Jesus
Christ. And your husband?”

“Never
had one.”

“Fuck.
I’m so sorry.” And I am. I can’t imagine having my entire family wiped out at
one time.

“Not
as sorry as I am.”

No
wonder she’s a
fucknut
. And I thought I had it bad
with my abusive SOB of a father.

“Right.
I don’t suppose I am. Tell me about her.”

“No.”

My
hand automatically reaches for my neck and massages the back of it. Then I
shove my sleeves up past my elbows. I make a bit of a growling noise in the
back of my throat. “Uh, yeah, so, bottling all this shit up inside of you has
worked so well, I see.”

Her
head jerks up and pale gray eyes land on my own. I didn’t notice before, but I
guess when she was outside, she must’ve been crying. Her cheeks have taken on a
sheen that wasn’t there before. Using the back of her hand, she swipes them
dry.

“Stop
judging me.”

“I’m
not judging; only stating the obvious. Take a look for yourself, Carter.”

She’s
silent and I am too.

Finally
I say, “If you won’t tell me about her, show me her room again.”

She
wants to run. It’s in her eyes, on her face. She’s afraid.

“Listen.
I want this house. I know your secret. You’ve come this far, you may as well go
the rest of the way.”

Suddenly,
she stomps out of the room. I guess she’s had enough. Then, to my surprise, she
returns, carrying the keys. I follow her up the steps. When we get to the door,
she looks at me, blinking rapidly. Sweat beads her upper lip. I know what fear
looks like. I’ve lived it for years.

“There’s
nothing in there that can hurt you.”

Her
features quickly morph into a mask of pain. “You don’t get it, do you?
Everything in there hurts me. It shreds me to pieces. She should still be alive
today.”

She
dangles the keys from one finger and I take them. Unlocking the door, I open it
and take Carter’s hand.

“Tell
me about her. I want to know about Ells.”

Through
a wall of tears, she tells me in a broken voice, “Her name was Ellsworth Carter
Simon Drayton. She was born on a sultry day in August—the fourteenth, to
be exact. She would be seven now. And she was amazing, beautiful, funny,
spirited, happy … everything I’m not. And she was mine. And if I had only
stayed home and not gone to that seminar that week, she’d most likely be alive
today.”

She
moves to the bed, sits, grabs a pillow, and brings it to her face. “She loved
pink and purple. Ghastly colors, but she was a little girl, so that’s how we
decorated her room. We did it for her birthday that year. Put all this crap up.
I found all these pictures with everything that matched at Pottery Barn. It was
so much fun and my parents were awesome. When we showed it to her, she said,
‘It’s a
woom
for a
pwincess
.’
She couldn’t pronounce her ‘R’s. And I told her that she was a princess, my
princess. She was so precocious. Talked way before kids usually do and had an
extensive vocabulary, too, for her age. She would pat my back for me when I was
studying and I always felt guilty about being away so much.” She threads her
hands in her hair and tugs on it. “God, what I wouldn’t do to get back those
precious hours I missed with her. Do you have any idea what the half life is of
the grief a mother feels for the loss of her child?”

I
shake my head, letting her know I do not.