Land's End (8 page)

Hostility flashed in Melissa's eyes. “What would you know
about it? You—you've got something to give. You're a doctor. Everybody respects you.”

Not lately, but she wouldn't tell Melissa that. “Maybe so, but my mother is the head of pediatrics at a university hospital. And my father is chief of surgery at that same hospital. They're both the very best in their fields. When I was growing up, I felt as if I could never live up to what they were. Sometimes I still feel that way.”

And that was more than she'd told anyone about her relationship with her loving, overpowering parents in a long time.

Melissa just stared at her, her face as masked, in its own way, as her father's was. Then she slid off the swing. “You don't understand,” she said, with the irrefutable logic of a twelve-year-old. “You're not like me at all. You're a grown-up.”

She spun and walked away. Sarah watched. Was Melissa's step a bit lighter? She couldn't be sure. But at least the child wasn't crying any longer.

You're a doctor, she'd said. You've got something to give.

She leaned back, feeling somehow better than she had. Maybe she hadn't helped Melissa, but Melissa had helped her. She'd reminded her of something she'd been in danger of forgetting. She was a doctor. She was a grown-up. She'd better start acting like one, and get on with what she'd come here to do.

 

“There it is. Number 340.” The man who ran the storage facility pointed out the obvious, his gaze avidly curious. Obviously he knew who she was. “Nothing's been touched in a year. You need any help?”

“No. Thank you.” She fitted the key into the lock of the wide door of the storage locker. “I'll take it from here.”

He lingered, probably hoping for more of a reaction. “You'd best prop that door open. It'll be awful hot in there.”

“I will.” She stood, staring at him, until he took the hint. He shrugged, turning back toward the air-conditioned cubbyhole where she'd found him.

“I'm off in an hour. You want any help before that, you call me.”

She glanced at her watch. Nearly three. The day had slipped away while she'd tried to track down a few of Miles's coworkers and stopped at the clinic. She waited until he'd disappeared before grasping the handle of the garage-style door and yanking it up. She didn't need an audience while she went through the remnants of her life with Miles.

The door creaked open, letting out a blast of air as hot as an oven. Furniture, boxes, packing crates had been crammed into the storage compartment willy-nilly—everything that had been in the small cottage she and Miles had rented on the island. She wasn't even sure who'd done it. She'd just received a note and the key from their landlord, along with a bill for the storage.

She stared, eyes stinging. There was Miles's desk—an elegant old rolltop she'd found in an antique shop in Savannah. She'd paid the earth for it, but it had been an anniversary present. And the rocking chair her grandmother had given her—she should have taken that with her, but she'd been too shocked to think things through.

No longer. Thanks to Melissa's reminder, she was back on track. She'd already stopped by the clinic, faced down Esther and insisted on being put on the physician's rotation for the coming week. Now she would go through the remnants of her marriage, looking for any clue, however faint, to what had happened to them.

She stepped inside, letting go of the door. It slid down, and she grabbed it just in time. Holding the door with one hand,
she groped for something to prop it. Obviously she'd have to keep the door open—she'd pass out from the heat if she didn't. Her fingers touched a broom that leaned against the wall, and she shoved it into place.

She wiggled the handle, but the broom held firm, wedged into the track of the door. The outside air was warm and moist, but at least it moved. She could tolerate this.

After fifteen minutes of work she wasn't so sure. She was already drenched with sweat. Maybe she'd better pack up any papers to take with her, then come back later to sort out what she wanted shipped back to Boston and what could be sold.

Grabbing a couple of boxes, she began emptying the contents of the desk drawers and file cabinet. Miles had been meticulous about keeping records—he'd saved every scrap of paper that might possibly be needed at tax time.

She hauled two boxes of papers to the door, pausing long enough to drink from her water bottle, and began going through the stacked boxes in search of anything else that might be personal.

Boxes of dishes. She dug in her pocket for the pen she'd brought and marked them. No point in doing this all over again. She yanked open another box, expecting to see pots and pans, and found instead items that had once been on Miles's dresser.

Her heart lurched. There was the paperweight they'd brought back from their honeymoon in Venice. And the small pewter tray he'd dropped change into each night. Her heart twisted at the image of him talking over his day as he went through the nighttime routine. That had been a comfortable part of the day—a time of conversation, laughter, intimacy. How could that have been a lie? She'd known him so well, first as a teenager in Boston, then connecting with him when they'd both been working in Atlanta. She'd known him as well as anyone could.

Trying to swallow the lump in her throat, she closed the box. Maybe she was being a coward, but she'd deal with those things later.

A hot and trying twenty minutes later, she had all the papers she could find packed into two more boxes. She carted one to the door, inhaled a breath of fresh air and started back for the other one. As she bent to pick it up, she heard an ominous rattling sound. She swung around, scrambling frantically toward the door, even as she saw that she'd never make it in time. The door slid inexorably closed.

For a moment she just stood, staring at it in disbelief. How could it possibly be closed? She grabbed the bar at the bottom and yanked, and the truth settled in. The door wasn't just closed. It was locked.

She pulled again, feeling panic rise. She searched the door with eyes and fingers, trying to find a latch to open it from the inside. Nothing. She was trapped. She didn't even have her cell phone with her—it lay on the front seat of the car. Just a few yards away from the door, but it might as well be on the moon for all the good it would do her.

She banged on the door with her fist, shouting. Surely the attendant would hear her. Or he'd come and check on her, wouldn't he? She glanced at her watch, heart sinking. Twenty after four. He'd said he was leaving at four. The chance that anyone else would come by the storage facility at this hour was slim.

She sank into the rocking chair, fighting down panic. At least she wasn't in the dark. Sunlight seeped through the translucent panels under the roof. Think—she had to think, but her mind seemed oddly fogged. She pressed her hand against her forehead, professional instincts clicking into gear. She couldn't sit here hoping to be rescued, like Rapunzel in
her tower. If she didn't get out soon, heat exhaustion would take over and she wouldn't be able to think rationally at all.

Her fingers tightened on the arms of the chair.
Please, Father. Help me
.

Maybe it was the effect of the rocking chair, with its reminder of her grandmother. That formidable lady would not have sat around. Pray as if it all depends on God, she'd always said. Work as if it all depends on you.

Work
. The word launched a train of thought. Miles's workbench stood against the wall, his tools packed into the red tool box he'd always kept in such meticulous order. She scrambled over intervening boxes to reach the work bench and grabbed the toolbox.
Thank You. Thank You.

Back over the boxes—they seemed to have gotten higher. It was more of a struggle just to get to the door, to fumble the box open.

She dragged in a breath. Stop. Think. Don't go at it aimlessly. She forced herself to study the door. The mechanism that moved it was powered by a spring. She'd never be able to dislodge the heavy metal of the spring, but she might be able to release the bolt that held it. She scrabbled through the tools, her fingers closing on a wrench. That should do it.

Any hope that it would be a moment's work vanished when she applied the wrench to the nut that held the bolt. It was wedged into the panel in such a way that she could only move it half a turn at a time.

Easy, she reminded herself. Don't panic. Just keep working steadily.

Turn the nut, release the wrench, reattach it, turn again. The movement became rote, freeing her mind. She would not let herself think of Miles using the tools, Miles with his pride in fixing anything that happened to go wrong at the cottage.

Concentrate. Why had the door slammed shut anyway? She must have dislodged the broom when she'd put down that last box, though she'd been sure she wasn't that close to it. She frowned. The broom wasn't here. It must have fallen outside.

Turn, turn, stop for a swallow of water. Rub the bottle against your forehead. Try to keep your mind focused. Don't close your eyes, or you might not open them again.

Panic shot through her. She couldn't tolerate this much longer. She had to get out. Now.

She yanked on the spring frantically. It creaked, groaned and pulled free. She dragged at the door. With a moan that sounded almost human, it rolled slowly up, the spring dangling uselessly. She stumbled out into the air.

For a long moment she could only lean against the car, gasping in air. Her head cleared slowly, and she opened the door to grab another bottle of water and drain half of it, then dumped the rest unceremoniously over her head. She couldn't have been trapped for more than half an hour, but it had felt like an eternity.

She pushed wet strands of hair back from her face. She was okay. A cool shower, several long cold drinks and she'd be fine, but she didn't like to think what would have happened if Miles's toolbox hadn't been there. She shouldn't have been so careless with that last box.

She forced herself away from the car. Get the boxes, go back to Land's End. She thought longingly of the air-conditioned comfort of the guest suite. She would—

She stopped dead, staring. The broom lay outside the locker, as she'd assumed. But not near the door. It was a full ten feet away. It couldn't have gotten there on its own. Someone must have thrown it.

S
arah arrived back at Land's End fueled by a fierce need to confront Trent. If he hadn't personally trapped her in the storage locker, someone working for him must have. Surely he was the only one who wanted to be rid of her enough to do that.

It was anticlimactic to arrive at the house and learn he wasn't there. He'd gone out, Joanna Larson had said when Sarah stormed toward his office. Joanna had eyed Sarah's sweaty and disheveled appearance with a certain disdain. She declined to say when he would return, showing a flare of protectiveness toward her boss that made Sarah wonder about her feelings for him.

By the time Sarah had showered, dressed and taken a couple of aspirin for the headache that was the only aftereffect, she'd begun to question her assumptions. Trent might be the logical person to blame, but he wasn't the only possibility.

Farrell could still be on the island, ready to get even with her for having him fired. Or someone else, someone she hadn't even guessed at, might harbor ill will toward her. She thought again of Robert Butler's story, with its unknown killer, and pictured a knife slashing at her sweater, just where her heart would have been if she'd been wearing it. A faintly queasy feeling touched her stomach.

Enough. She'd have it out with Trent when he returned. That would either clear the air or make it murkier, but she had to do it.

Maybe Geneva could give her something light for supper. It was nearly six, but she definitely didn't want a big meal.

When she entered the main part of the house, she found Geneva and Melissa engaged in a lively argument. Melissa held a small cooler bag in one hand and a kayak paddle in the other.

“But my dad said we'd go today. I've got the sandwiches and drinks all ready. We were going to have a picnic supper.” She waved the cooler. “If he's too busy, I'll go by myself.”

Obviously Trent had forgotten a commitment to his daughter. She tried not to judge his actions.

“You know you can't go by yourself.” Geneva sounded as if she'd said the same thing several times.

“Then you go with me.”

Geneva's warm, rich laugh sounded. “Child, I'll no more put myself into that kayak than launch myself into space. Why don't you ask Dr. Wainwright? Maybe she'd like to go.”

Melissa sliced a sideways glance at Sarah. “Would you?”

“That's no way to ask somebody,” Geneva said. “Mind your manners.”

Melissa gave an elaborate sigh, but the look she gave the older woman was affectionate. Geneva was probably as close to a mother as the child had.

“Sarah, would you like to take a kayak into the salt marsh with me? The tide is perfect, and if we don't go soon, it'll be too late.”

It was the first time Melissa had referred to her by name. That, combined with the tentative peace offering, was too much to resist.

“Sure, I'd like to, if Geneva says it's all right.”

“Go, go.” Geneva made shooing motions with her hands.
“You've got a good hour and a half before sunset. And put some repellent on. Those mosquitoes will eat you alive if you're not careful.”

“I've got some. Let's just go.” Melissa scurried impatiently to the back door Sarah had just entered.

Sarah followed, wondering what Trent would make of this excursion when he found out. On second thought, she didn't need to wonder. She could figure that out with no trouble at all.

Melissa skirted the pool and strode down a wooden walkway behind the house, toward the creek that ran through the salt marsh. Downstream, toward the sound, lay Cat Isle and the cottage. To their right, the salt marsh stretched—waving fields of spartina grass, its roots in the water, cut by the winding creek.

Several kayaks were pulled up on the dock where the walkway ended. Melissa grabbed a two-person one, lowering it easily to the water, and then took life jackets from a metal locker on the dock, tossing one to Sarah.

“You could stand up anywhere in the marsh, but Dad insists on life jackets anyway. You'd think I was a baby.”

“He loves you.” Sarah thrust her arms into the lightweight jacket and fastened it. “He wants to keep you safe.”

Melissa, climbing into the kayak, didn't answer. She steadied the craft while Sarah climbed in. The kayak scraped bottom as she settled herself, but Melissa quickly pushed them into deeper water, wielding the paddle as if she'd been doing it all her life.

Obviously she didn't intend to let Sarah paddle, although she could have. She'd been out with Miles several times. She seemed to see him, blond hair glinting in the sunlight, smiling at her, and her heart clenched.

“If I were a boy, it would be different,” Melissa said over her shoulder, picking up the conversation again. “My dad wishes I were a boy.”

Careful, careful. Father, give me the right words.

“Lots of men would like to have a son,” she said. “Probably my dad would have, too, but it wasn't to be. That doesn't mean they love their daughters any the less.” At least, she hoped that was true.

Melissa's only response was a grunt that might have meant anything. For a few minutes she paddled in silence. Sarah leaned back, ready to let the child take the lead. She wouldn't try to force her opinions.

Melissa raised her paddle, water sheeting from it in a glistening spray. “That's a night heron.”

“He's beautiful.” The elegant dark bird lifted its head to stare at them, unafraid.

“Sometimes we see dolphins. They come into the marsh to feed.” She smiled suddenly. “Maybe we should, too. Feed, I mean. You want a sandwich?”

That was the first genuine smile she'd seen from Melissa. It lit the heart-shaped, too-solemn face with life and grace, reminding her suddenly of Lynette. Lynette had had that grace, too, but it had been brittle, always on the verge of snapping. In Melissa, it seemed tempered by a strain of her father's solidity, which was probably a good thing.

They ate in silence, but it was a companionable silence. Perhaps one of the reasons she'd been drawn back to the island was to be a friend to Melissa. The girl certainly seemed to need one. Did Trent realize how lonely his daughter was? Or was he too caught up in his own troubles to see?

When they'd finished, Melissa scattered the crumbs, watching as a flock of gulls arrived to scoop them up as if they'd heard a dinner bell.

Sarah laughed. “You've made their day. Chicken salad sandwiches and cookie crumbs.”

“Greedy things.” Melissa threw a last handful and studied the gulls as if they were the most interesting things she'd ever seen. “I wanted to say I'm sorry. For how I acted this morning. Geneva says it's stupid to be mean to somebody who wants to be your friend.”

Her throat tightened. “Geneva's a wise woman.” She tried to say it lightly. “I'd like to be your friend.”

The girl shrugged, her shoulders thin and vulnerable under the striped T-shirt she wore. “Some of the kids at school act like they want to be friends, but they just want to find out about when my mother died.”

Poor child. “I would never ask you to talk about that. I'd just like to be your friend, no strings attached.”

Melissa seemed to assess that for a moment. Then she picked up the paddle. “We'd better start back. Looks like rain coming.”

Sarah glanced behind her. Dark clouds massed, low in the sky. She'd been on the island long enough to know how fast a rainstorm could blow up. She should have been more alert.

Melissa paddled along smoothly. Apparently the conversation was over, as far as she was concerned. Then she shot a look over her shoulder at Sarah.

“People think if you're a kid you don't know anything. I know lots of things Dad doesn't think I do.”

That sounded like a challenge. “Kids usually do know more than their parents think.”

Melissa dug the paddle in so deeply that the kayak veered sharply. “I know lots,” she repeated. “Like, my mother was sad. One time I heard her crying.”

Her heart twisted. Children often felt they were to blame for their parents' problems. If Trent would take her advice about taking Melissa to a qualified counselor—but she suspected he wouldn't.

“Grown-ups need to cry sometimes. That doesn't mean anything serious.”

Melissa's shoulders moved defensively. Sarah couldn't see her face, and she was afraid the child was crying, too.

The dock came into view, and Melissa drove the kayak toward it with swift strokes, as if she couldn't wait to be rid of Sarah. The child was like quicksilver, unable to grasp for more than an instant at a time.

Someone waited on the dock. As they neared, it didn't take any special insight to see that anger tightened every line of Trent's body. She felt herself stiffening in turn. Maybe he had reason to be angry, but she did, too.

Melissa skipped a stroke, resting the paddle across the boat and turning to look at Sarah. “She was sad,” she said again, and Sarah knew she was talking about her mother. “She was sad, but that doesn't mean she'd do anything wrong. I don't care what anyone says. I don't believe it.”

Trent was naive to think he could keep his daughter from hearing the rumors. And she was probably assuring his permanent enmity, but she couldn't help responding.

“I don't believe it either, Melissa. I just don't.”

 

Trent watched the kayak come closer, and it seemed to him that it raced the dark clouds. Ridiculous, to be so keyed up now that they were in sight and he knew they were safe, but anger and fear still drove him.

When he'd come home and found that Melissa and Sarah had gone kayaking, apprehension had gripped his heart in a vise. Lynette's daughter. Miles's wife. Out on the water together. It was superstitious, but the idea filled him with dread. When they weren't back by the time he'd exchanged his suit for jeans and a T-shirt, he'd come down to the dock to wait.

They were close enough now that he could read their expressions—Melissa's defiant, ready for a fight. Sarah's apprehensive, no doubt knowing that a fight was coming. His stomach churned. What had they been saying to each other, out there in the quiet marsh?

The kayak's prow bumped the dock, and he reached down to grab it. Melissa hopped onto the dock lightly.

“You don't need to be mad. I didn't go out by myself, and we wore life jackets, see?”

He took a breath, trying for calm. “I'm glad you remembered that. But didn't you realize a storm's coming up?”

“Sure I did.” She slid out of the life jacket and let it drop to the dock. “That's why we came back.” Her voice lilted with a sassiness he hadn't heard from her in a while. “I timed it perfectly, didn't I?”

The first fat drops hit the weathered boards as she spoke. He could hardly argue. “Go on up to the house before you get soaked. Sarah will help me put the boat away.”

He didn't need Sarah's help with the boat. He did need a few private moments with her.

Melissa's gaze darted toward Sarah. Then she nodded and ran toward the house, leaping up the steps like a deer.

Sarah grasped the pylon as she started to get out, and the kayak rocked. He grabbed her and lifted her bodily to the dock. She seemed to weigh barely more than Melissa. She clutched his arm for an instant, getting her balance, and then stepped quickly away. She probably wanted to run after Melissa to the house, but he pinned her to the spot with a glare.

“I thought we agreed you'd stay away from my daughter.”

“I wouldn't have gone, if you'd kept your promise to her.” A gust of rain-wet wind tore the words away, and she shivered.

He gritted his teeth. Unfortunately she was right. He not
only hadn't kept his word, he'd forgotten about it. He bent to grasp the kayak and heft it, dripping, to the dock.

“I'll make it up to Melissa,” he said evenly. “But what about your promise not to talk to Melissa about her mother?”

“I didn't.” She slid the life jacket off. “I didn't say anything to her about Lynette.”

But he saw the struggle behind the words. Those clear green eyes had to be a hindrance when she wanted to evade the truth. He waited.

“Melissa brought it up.” Her eyes seemed to cloud with concern. “Trent, please. I know she shouldn't talk to me. But she should talk to someone.”

He knew what she was saying. She thought Melissa needed a counselor. He wanted to shove the idea away. It would be an admission that he was a failure as a father. But didn't he already know that?

“Maybe.” He hated the grudging sound of the word. “But you were still wrong—”

The rain hit, coming down in a deluge, as if heaven had dumped a bucketful right on them. Sarah gasped, and in an instant her shirt clung to her like a second skin.

“Come on.” He grabbed her hand. “Run for it.”

Half helping, half dragging, he led her up the steps. By the time they reached the top she was running beside him. He could let go of her wet hand, but he didn't want to.