Raquel Byrnes (8 page)

I crunched down on the hard cereal, smothering a smart retort, and sat down opposite him.

“I was thinking of going down to the village,” I said between spoonfuls. “How would I get there?”

“You’ll need to take the golf cart.” He sipped his tea and frowned. “On second thought, we need it in good working order. It’s not too far to walk.”

I kept my eyes on my cereal so I didn’t scowl.

“I don’t crash every vehicle I climb into, Mr. O’Shay.”

He cleared his throat, and I looked up.

“I apologize, Ms. Ryan,” he said. “I can show you if you like. I need to get some packages from the post anyway.”

“That would be lovely,” I said and forced a smile. “I’ll get my things.”

I met him five minutes later outside the front of the house. He pulled up in a weathered green cart. I was happy to see that it was enclosed with tiny plastic windows and a canvas door. He pulled to a stop, and his breath sent vapor clouds rising into the foggy morning air. I’d donned Simon’s sweater over a T-shirt and a pair of slacks. O’Shay started moving before I’d fully climbed in, and I jumped aboard before I was thrown.

Morning mist flew in through the gaps in the canvas and I shivered.

“No heat,” O’Shay said. “You own a coat?”

“I…no,” I said and clamped my teeth down to stop their chattering. “In southern California, T-shirts and flip-flops are a year-round thing. A jacket is a waste of closet space. Especially in San Diego, where I come from.”

“Maybe Simon can lend you his,” he said, and his gaze slid sideways to look at me.

I bit my lip and nodded.

We took the driveway to the front gate and turned left, opposite how I arrived that first night, and puttered down the road along the shoulder. Strange cawing and high-pitched trills from the forest birds punctuated our silence. Ten minutes later, we crested a hill and the forest opened to a seaside village. The fog hovered low over the white clapboard buildings that lined a cobbled street. Arching black lampposts extended gracefully over walkways. Sea air, ripe with salt and brine, whooshed past me as I stepped out of the golf cart.

“This is out of a painting,” I said. “I didn’t see this on my way in.”

“I leave in an hour.” O’Shay walked past. “Don’t be late.”

Walking along the small shops, I reveled in the smells of the village. Spices and coffee mingled with the faint scent of roasting meat. My flip-flops slapped against the wood slats of the boardwalk as I passed boutiques with flowers and beautiful long scarves. One sold all sorts of candy from hand-pulled taffy to colorful rock candy clinging to sticks. I passed another doorway and paused, inspecting the strange blown glass offerings. Stooping to look at a purple curl of glass being used as a business card holder, I thought of Simon. The ancient bottle nestled in his strong hands seemed all the more delicate. I sighed heavily and a twinge tugged, but I caught myself.

How could I miss a man I’d only just met? Remembering his gaze, how it felt like I was warmed from within, I cleared the thought of him from my mind.

“You like?” An old woman behind the counter called to me. “We have more.”

Head swathed in a colorful babushka, her mocha complexion and dark eyes looked exotic—a gypsy woman. I looked for the crystal ball and tarot cards. I noticed that a great many of the people milling on the walkway had a similar old world style. Men in baggy coarse pants, vests, and long knit shirts walked with women in flowing skirts and gauzy blouses. I did a double take. They looked like a clan of wandering carnival performers. How had I not noticed before?

“I, uh, no thank you,” I managed. “I’m looking for something warm. A coat?”

She eyed me and then pointed out the door with a long withered arm. Gold bangles jangled from her thin wrist.

“Across the way,” she said. “You will find something over there. Tell Yasmine I sent you.”

I thanked her and headed to the shop.

An old woman, who could be the cousin of the glassware woman, they looked so similar, sat on a stool by the front counter. She wore a babushka over her gray hair as well. A gold tooth peeked out from her painted lips when she smiled.

“Help you?”

“Yes, uh, the glass lady across the way sent me,” I said. “I need a coat.”

Yasmine toddled around the counter, leaning on a carved wood cane as she came to me. Her head barely reached my shoulders. She reached out, took the hem of Simon’s sweater in her wrinkled fingers, and rubbed the material between them, muttering.

“This will not do,
copil
,” she said and led me towards a wooden rack. “How do you not have a coat out here?”

“I’m new,” I said. “Just moved here from California.”

And apparently unable to dress properly.

“California?” She helped me try on a pea coat. “You are the new companion for Mr. Hale?”

“Companion?” The coat was warm, but scratchy. “I’m his caregiver, yes. How did you know?”

“This island is very small.” A frown pulled as she helped me out of the coat. “No secret stays hidden here for long.”

“Well, I don’t think I was meant to be a secret,” I said and turned to slip into another proffered coat. Shrugging into it, I felt the coarse collar irritate my neck and shook my head.

“A beautiful woman once again living at Shadow Bay Hall?” Yasmine clicked her tongue, pulled the coat off. “I was told Tuttle hired a male nurse.”

“Who told you?”

“This will not do for you,” she muttered, ignoring my question. “Your frame is so…”

She took a knitted shawl from the wooden hangar and pulled it onto my shoulders. The thick, blood-red yarn felt wonderful on my neck. I looked in the mirror on the wall and smiled.

“It’s beautiful.” I took a swath of it in my hand and rubbed it against my cheek. “So soft.”

“Hand knit,” Yasmine said. “For you, I give it to you for sale.”

“For sale?” I looked for a tag and found none. “Really?”

“The wind off the Sound is very cold up in that big house, no?” She walked around the counter, punched on the ivory keys of an old brass register and it dinged. “Too many things up there that are cold.”

“Pardon?” I looked up from digging in my purse.

She slipped a receipt across the counter, a strange look on her face. “What is your name?”

“Uh, Rosetta.” I glanced at the price and handed her some money. “Rosetta Ryan.”

She nodded, took a pencil from the cup near the register, and wrote my name down on a piece of paper. She folded the paper, closed her eyes, and muttered something under her breath. She slipped the paper in the pocket of her skirt and looked at me as if it was normal to do such a thing.

“You need another shawl?”

“I—I.” I shook my head and smiled. “No, thank you.”

Sensing I’d been dismissed, I left the shop feeling a little thrown by her odd behavior. Tiny brass bells jangled over a door a few yards down catching my attention. A wooden shingle hung from the roof on black chains, the word
Apothecary
painted in sweeping script across the surface.

I pushed through the door, and a wave of sweet and spicy scents greeted me. I smiled, breathing it in, and took a turn around the small shop. Countless glass jars lined wooden shelves filled with dried herbs and teas of every color. Over my head, bunches of flowers hung from the ceiling on lengths of twine. Sheaves of lavender, chamomile, and other grasses, dried and arranged in a large basket, sat on a nearby counter. I wandered to a table set with brass bowls. They held flower petals and shells. I ran my fingertips through the potpourri feeling the soft rustle of delicate dry flowers.

“Looking for something in particular?”

I turned towards the velvety voice. A woman with long raven locks, ruby lips, and dark almond eyes leaned on her elbows over the counter.

“I’m not sure,” I said and walked over. “It’s just so wonderful in here.”

“Well, I thank you.” Her gorgeous features lit up with a smile.

She wore the same type of shawl that I did, but black with small silver beads hanging off the fringe. Her page-boy blouse skimmed a shapely figure. A silver butterfly dangled on a chain around her slender neck.

My hand went to the bun at the nape of my neck. Where I was fair haired and light despite my tan, she was dark and exotic. She extended her hand.

“I’m Nalla,” she said.

“Rosetta,” I answered and shook her hand. Every finger had a ring on it, even her thumb. “I’m working up at Shadow Bay Hall. I’m the caregiver for Mr. Hale.”

Compared to the relative anonymity of California culture, this felt like an invasion of privacy.

“What ails you, Rosetta?” Nalla asked. “You look tired.”

“I’m having trouble sleeping, actually. Do you have anything that might help me with that? Something stronger than chamomile?”

“Yes, of course.” She came around the counter, and I heard a faint tinkling when she walked. A long skirt floated over her bare feet. A wreath of tiny bells encircled her ankle. “Follow me.”

We made our way to the back of the shop past baskets on the floor filled with long-stemmed branches and loofahs. She stopped at a wooden counter set against the far wall. Glass jars with silver lids, pots corked with metal stoppers, and slender colored bottles sat on crocheted doilies. She reached up to a shelf on the wall and pulled down a small clear jar with a rubber gasket lid. She undid the metal fastener, breathed in slowly with her eyes closed, and then handed me the jar with a smile.

“What is it?” I sniffed and smiled. “Goldenseal.”

“You know your tea.” She raised a thin brow. “Are you a student of nature?”

“A botanist,” I said. “So…sure.”

She chuckled, a tinkling laugh that lightened the unsettled feeling that weighed down my stomach.

“Goldenseal tea.” She reached under the counter, pulled out a small scoop and wiggled it in front of me. “I’ll put some in a sachet for you. Some of this at bedtime will help you sleep.”

She pulled a brass scale over and set a small bowl on one end. Then she opened a wooden box, chose a small metal weight, and set it on the opposite side. I handed her the jar and watched her work.

“Thank you for your help.”

She nodded, scooped some tea onto the bowl, and squinted at the scale.

“Why are you having trouble sleeping?” she asked. “Are you troubled?”

I thought about lying but didn’t.

“Yes,” I said. “I am troubled.”

“Well, it’s no wonder, considering where you sleep.” She took the weight off, pulled the bowl off the scale, and tipped the tea leaves into an organza satchet.

I blinked, surprised she knew so much about me. “Does Shadow Bay Hall creep out everybody in this town?” I looked at her over the scale. “Because you’re the third person to say something like that.”

Nalla’s smile faded. She handed me the sachet and let her hand drop to the countertop. She bit her lip, glanced to the front of the shop, and then back at me.

“Tragedy and death, Rosetta,” she murmured and her face fell with sorrow. “That is all that dwells there for long.”

I looked at her, perplexed. “Are you talking about the accident a couple of years ago?”

“Accident?” Nalla’s face contorted with sudden anger. “
Minciună
…lie!”

Her voice sounded through the shop, and I stepped back, looking around. There was no one else in the shop to witness her outburst.

“I’m sorry,” I said with surprise. “I don’t understand—”

“Amanna didn’t die of an accident, Rosetta,” she hissed, her eyes slits of pain. “She was killed.”

“OK, I’m sorry. I just heard it was an accident. All I know is that Simon’s wife—”

“Don’t speak his name in this place,” Nalla said and banged her fist on the counter upsetting the bottles and jars. A few rolled off and burst on the floor, but Nalla didn’t notice. She heaved and glared at me. “Not here.”

Fear surged through me, and I stepped backwards. How could someone go from friendly to furious so quickly? Why was everything and everyone on this island so strange?

“I’m sorry,” I said, backing up further.

“Take my words with you,” Nalla yelled after me. “Nothing but tragedy and death ever comes from that cursed place!”

I turned and pushed through the door, my heart ramming into my throat. I hurried up the road, tripping on the cobblestones, nearly falling down.

O’Shay wasn’t by the golf cart.

Curious faces turned and I struggled to catch my breath. I kept walking past the golf cart to the road. Shaken, I struggled to quell the tears. I didn’t want to cry again. I was tired of crying.

“Just ignore it,” I said to myself. “Ignore all of them.”

Taking the way we’d come on the golf cart, I stuck to the shoulder. A mile back to Shadow Bay Hall the sun that struggled to poke through the morning haze had given way to clouds of angry slate. Frigid drops hit my face and I stopped short, worried about getting caught in the rain. I eyed a faint path that veered from the edge of the road into the woods.

Wind laced with shards of rain tossed hair across my face, and I pulled the shawl tighter around my shoulders, debating. The canopy of trees would afford protection from the light drizzle, yet the thought of traipsing along the dark floor of the forest didn’t seem inviting.

“Wander in the dark woods or get wet.” I blew out a breath, scowled at the sky, and stepped onto the path. “This is just a walk through the woods, Rose.”

I picked my way along the pine needles and fallen twigs littering the path, careful to protect my practically bare feet. Flip-flops weren’t hiking equipment, and here I was so proud for taking care of the whole, “dress warmer” situation. I let out a wry chuckle. A week ago, I was on the warm beach just outside my house.

“Leaping without looking,” I muttered. “How many times have I been accused of that?”

Too many to count. And yet, given what had happened, I’d had no other option than to flee.

Voices, low and male, wafted across my path, and I squinted through the trees. A hundred yards away, I saw Simon speaking with another man. Worry replaced the momentary ripple of pleasure at seeing him when I saw his angry gestures and heard the timbre of his voice. Something was wrong.