Sanctuary (2 page)

  
Part One
  

God is our refuge and strength,

a very present help in trouble.

Psalm 46:1

  
Chapter One
  

SHE HAD HOPED THIS DAY would never come.

Trembling, Melissa James returned the phone to its cradle and hurried to the stairs. She grasped the railing, nearly stumbling as she made her way to the second-floor bedroom. Her heart caught in her throat as she considered the next move. Her only option.

You can do this
, she told herself, stifling a sob.
You must
. …

Quickly, she located an overnight case. The piece of luggage had been packed years before—in the event of such an emergency—wedged between other travel paraphernalia, high on the top shelf of their closet.

Melissa’s mind reeled with the memory—the flat, yet familiar voice on the phone just now. The restrained urgency in his words. Her breath quickened, heart faltering.

Tossing a few items of makeup and hair accessories into the overnight case, she grabbed her stationery and pen. Frantic as she was, she would never be able to forgive herself if she did not take time to write a quick note.
That
much, at least, she owed her husband.

Weeping softly, Melissa penned the saddest words she’d ever written. How does a young bride bid farewell to the man she has loved for three perfect years? The man who had altered the course of her life for better. He’d softened the blow of her past, brought purpose to her future. Ryan James, whom she loved above all others.

She stared at the note, caught between life and love, wishing … longing for a resolve far different from the one she must choose. Signing the note, she placed it on his oak dresser, propped up against the brass lamp. Ryan was sure to find it there.

Snatching up her overnight case and purse, she rushed into the hallway. Her head whirled with unanswered questions:
What to do? Where to go?

On the stairway landing, tall windows overlooked the backyard and the cove beyond. Melissa caught sight of the rose garden—
their
glorious garden, now in full bloom—bordered by the stone walkway and blue hydrangea bushes. Each delicate rose petal and leaf was bathed in sunbeams, their beauty mocking her, adding to her sorrow.

Downstairs, she peered tentatively through a tiny window in the entryway. Hand on the doorknob, her breath caught in her throat.
Don’t panic!
she told herself.

No time to waste … still, she couldn’t leave. Heart pounding, Melissa turned, facing the living room one last time. Was it essential to keep Ryan in the dark about her desperate need to flee? Shouldn’t she run to his office, tell him the truth, and urge him to go with her?

Squaring her shoulders, Melissa walked to the back of the house. She paused to take in the enclosed sun porch, deliberately memorizing each detail—the fragrance of roses, the pillowed loveseat, the hanging ferns in two opposite corners, and the various knickknacks, souvenirs of their stateside travels. She recalled the intimate, loving words shared, the soothing backdrop of ocean waves lapping against the wide shoreline. This sun-drenched room where Ryan often held her in his strong arms, tenderly stroking her hair as they stared at the wide expanse of sea and sky. Where the dreamy music of Debussy lulled them into a world of serenity and joy—that place where evil cannot harm those who love.

The lump in her throat threatened to choke her. What precious memories! Too many to rehearse, in light of her present peril. Yet she lingered, refusing the urgency that threatened to overwhelm her. She allowed her gaze to wander to the gray-weathered dock, where impatient sea gulls perched on posts, waiting for handouts. To the sailboat,
Mellie
, christened with her own nickname, wrestling with low waves. To the cove and out to Block Island Sound, Fishers Island, and the wide blue of the Atlantic Ocean beyond.

Stricken, she turned toward the living room, where rays of light shimmered on Daisy’s satiny coat, their sleeping golden retriever. “Good-bye, sweet girl,” she whispered. “I’m going to miss you.”

Opposite the sofa, a red-brick fireplace with rustic wooden mantel boasted numerous framed memories. Hand trembling, Melissa reached for a recent photo, recalling Ryan’s pose in front of the historic Stonington Lighthouse. He was a slender, yet muscular man, twenty-seven years old, with sun-bleached brown hair and cinnamon eyes. Distinguished cheekbones shaped his tanned face, forming his warm and compassionate expression. Anyone, upon first meeting him, was drawn to his disarming manner. Just as she had been.

Good-bye, my darling… .

Shuddering anew, she pondered his response to her note. How grieved his dear, handsome face, his tender eyes. Undoubtedly, he would be shocked.

Resisting the impulse to take the photo with her, she returned it to the mantel, glimpsing the wall prints of Monet’s
Water Lilies
nearby. Then her eye caught yet another piece of art. Seemingly out of place in a room dominated by French design, the picture depicted Christ holding a lamb. Printed below the image, the tender phrase:
“Come to me all ye who labor, and I will give ye rest….”

Melissa had never attended church as a young girl, yet she had felt compelled to purchase the print in New London last year. The picture had offered a strange respite from the underlying dread that defined her life, even these recent wonderful years with Ryan.

If only someone were able to push her backward in time to that childhood place of innocence where good, kind people ruled. Folk like dear Mr. and Mrs. Browning—her nurturing neighbors—and Grandpa and Nana Clark, her beloved maternal grandparents. Snap a finger, and there’d she be.

Time to go!
She caught herself, the urgency returning. Melissa made her way back to the kitchen and peered cautiously through the window. After a time, she determined that it was safe to emerge. She opened the back door and dashed across the breezeway to the garage.

Inside, she locked the outer door and quickly slipped into her white Toyota Camry. Her hand shook as she reached for the remote, attached to the sun visor. She pressed the button, and the garage door rumbled open. For a split second she wondered what she might do if she were suddenly approached, made a prisoner in her own car.

Dismissing the terrifying prospect, she started the engine and backed the car into the driveway, glancing over at the splendid home, second thoughts haunting her.

It was then that she noticed Daisy shuffling onto the breezeway, mournful eyes watching her—almost pleading. Poor thing must’ve heard her leaving and followed her out through the doggie door. She resisted the urge to rush to Daisy’s side, reassuring her that everything was all right. “I’m so … sorry,” she murmured.

Melissa adjusted the mirror, then looked over her shoulder out of both habit and necessity. All clear … so far. Without delay, she pulled into the narrow street, past the gray-weathered waterfront homes and spacious front yards of her neighbors. Dozens of familiar landmarks—private piers and yachts, and Latimer Reef Light in the distance—all linked to her brief fairy-tale life.

Too good to be true
, she thought as she sped down the street.

All she had ever dreamed of—the fulfillment of her lifelong hopes and wishes—grew more distant with each passing mile, then vanished into the moist sea air.

  
Chapter Two
  

FIVE MINUTES TO CLOSING.

Ryan leaned back in his leather chair, hands laced behind his head, watching the markets close. No less than six computer screens lined the table along the right wall of his office, monitoring live information on stocks, bonds, options, and futures. He had a stake in all kinds of speculative vehicles, but he was
not
a jack-of-all-trades-master-of-none. As an investment manager for New England Asset Management, specializing in stock options and financial futures, Ryan’s aggressive portfolio had more than doubled his clients’ money during the past year.

He transmitted his orders for the market open tomorrow, then shut down the system. Drained of emotion, he rubbed his bleary eyes. He was not so much spent from watching monitors all day as he was weary of life, of the endless pursuit of the American Dream. Were it not for Melissa, his wife, living might have seemed nearly pointless. She was the one and only reason he wanted to get up in the morning, the reason to struggle through each day, the incentive to return home at night. Making money—loads of it—had become, for him, immensely overrated. Having someone like Melissa in his life was the true reward for his labors.

His spirits brightened when he considered the evening stretching out before them. Tonight he planned to surprise Mellie with lavender Damask roses, heavy with the fragrant aroma of spicy fruit. His wife appreciated the fine art of communicating with flower colors and arrangements. She, an avid reader of such English novelists as Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters, had enjoyed introducing him to the obscure customs of Victorian courtship.

He had debated between yellow and coral, ultimately deciding on the color that represented their marriage: lavender, which meant “love at first sight,” Mellie had explained. And how true for them. The first time he’d laid eyes on her, he was finished.

Typically on Friday evenings they dined at Noah’s in Stonington Borough. After a rich dessert, they often walked past the old lighthouse to Stonington Point, overlooking the harbor. Holding hands, they would revel in the sunset from their spot on Dubois Beach, sometimes prolonging the moment by sitting awhile on the massive boulders jutting out into the breakers.

But tonight, for a nice change, Ryan would take her to the Fisherman Restaurant, in the nearby village of Groton Long Point. Following dinner, when they were satiated with superb seafood cuisine, he planned to present a small white box with the words
Northern Light Gems
engraved in gold lettering. He could scarcely wait to see the look on her face. He would place the pearls around her neck, then happily kiss away the tears. The smallest expressions of love always seemed to take her by surprise.

He smiled at the thought and gazed at the silver-framed 4 6 desk photo of Mellie. He never tired of this picture of his young wife. Only twenty-four at the time, she was wearing a light blue T-shirt and tan shorts, her golden brown hair flowing unfettered about her shoulders, complementing her creamy-smooth complexion. He’d snapped the photo on their first anniversary a little over two years ago.

To celebrate that first milestone, they’d returned late in the day to the Watch Hill, where they had exchanged wedding vows. The sunset mingled purple with pink, and she had been mesmerized by the ocean’s reflection of the scene. In the midst of her wonderment, she glanced back at him to share the moment. And Ryan had caught her pose, just as she smiled, capturing the perfect blend of her personality: her eager embrace of nature and her gentle spirit with a little twinkle in her eye.

Closing the necklace case, he slipped it into his coat pocket, taking care to lock his executive desk in the middle of a spacious office. The office, located on the second floor of a large converted Victorian house, stood a mere block from the Mystic River Bridge on Route 1.

In the reception area, Margaret Dyson, a plump fifty-five-year-old woman with gray-peppered brown hair, rapidly clicked the keys of her computer. Bernie Stanton, the boss, was sheltered in the confines of his own office on the other side of the lobby. A grim man who barked military-style instructions at the beginning of the day, Bernie often beat a hasty retreat to his own lavishly decorated domain. Only occasionally did he emerge to welcome clients, usually those of renowned affluence.

Marge tolerated Bernie’s sour behavior because, as she succinctly put it, “He pays well. If it wasn’t for your fresh and friendly face, Ryan, I’d be looking for a cheerful boss.”

Ryan, on the other hand, didn’t mind Bernie’s temperament. He clearly remembered a time, not so long ago, when Bernie was known to smile, long before pressures of work had consumed him, destroying Bernie’s marriage of thirty-five years in the process. More significantly, Bernie appreciated Ryan’s investment savvy, delegating most of the important investment decisions to him.

“That’s it for me,” Ryan announced to Marge, closing the door to his office. “Any plans for the weekend?”

“My grandson Brandon’s visiting from New Haven,” she replied without looking up. “We’re headed for the seaport … again.” She grimaced.

“Why don’t you talk him into going to the beach instead?”

“What, and lose most-favored-grandma status? No thanks.” Marge smiled and turned to Ryan, a knowing look on her face. “Hey, it’s tonight, eh?”

“Got it right here.” Ryan tapped the necklace case in his pocket.

“Expensive enough, I’ll bet?”

“Would’ve paid more.”

“My, my. Aren’t we still in love.” Marge winked. “By the way, isn’t your college friend coming out this weekend?”

“Denny flies in tomorrow. Providence airport.”

Marge nodded, obviously remembering his friend. “Still talks a lot about church?”

“Denny’s a good man, just a little overboard about religion.”

“Sees a goblin in every closet?” Marge chuckled.

“More like a devil in every heart.”

“One of those extreme types.”

“Yeah. Hellfire and brimstone and all that.”

“You could use a little church yourself,” Marge said, making an impish face.

Ryan forced a smile. “Don’t start.”

“By the way,” she replied, changing the subject, “now that you’re in the habit of buying jewelry, let me remind you—Secretary’s Day is coming up.”

“You mean the usual paperweight won’t do?” Ryan gave a smirk.

Marge laughed heartily at that, and they continued their banter. Ryan was anything but stingy, and Marge knew it. Last year, to celebrate Secretary’s Day, Ryan had convinced Bernie to send Marge, her daughter, and grandson to the Bahamas for a five-day reprieve. Overwhelmed with gratitude, Marge had sent daily postcards to the office until she returned bearing souvenirs and gifts. Tanned and refreshed, she had taken one look at the pile of work on her desk and frowned mischievously. “Miss me?”

“Does a fish miss the sea?” Ryan had replied.

He smiled at the memory and reached for the doorknob. “Don’t get any ideas about another vacation. We almost fell apart here without you.”

Marge nodded. “Takes a man of character to admit how much he needs his secretary.”

“An honest man,” he said softly, waving good-bye. He was glad to hear Marge chuckle, basking, no doubt, in the pride of indispensability.

Ryan parallel parked in front of Mystic Florist. There he picked up Melissa’s rose bouquet, hurried back to the car, hoping to miss the traffic jam at the drawbridge, and headed east on Route 1. But his timing was off. The light changed to red and he heard the loud whistle as the Mystic River drawbridge began to rise. He was sure to be stuck in traffic for a good ten minutes, at least. Tapping the steering wheel, he thought ahead to Denny’s scheduled arrival tomorrow.

Dennis Franklin was an unusual specimen. A bachelor, Denny had played college football and
nearly
made the pros. Had it not been for a minor knee problem, his best friend might have wound up playing for the Denver Broncos. Instead, Denny had worked for a while in security before landing a teaching job in a Denver high school. Quite a comedown for some guys, but not for Denny.

His thing was religion now. He attended church three times a week, even conducted street meetings on the weekend in Denver ghettos. A big man—six feet five—Denny commanded respect wherever and whenever he opened his mouth.

Melissa liked Denny. During his last visit, she’d peppered him with questions. Naturally, the preacher-man was happy to oblige. Though Ryan had never admitted it, Melissa’s obvious interest in religion made him uncomfortable. Much to his relief, she’d dropped the discussion once Denny left for home, and things soon returned to normal.

Waiting for the boat traffic to pass and the drawbridge to be lowered, Ryan thought about the weekend ahead. In the past, he’d enjoyed discussing philosophy and religion with Denny. But lately, Denny’s incessantly exuberant, sometimes obnoxious, attitude had finally gotten to him. Not in a bad way. In fact, Denny’s arguments had become … more intriguing. Perhaps it was time to settle whether or not Christianity had merit. To let Denny make his case, then dismiss it once and for all.

The drawbridge settled into place, and cars began to move slowly across in both directions. Ryan drove less than a mile to Lord’s Point—their home—in silence. Built along the beach, the house was a cedar-shingled two-story cape. Thanks to Melissa, the yard boasted a smorgasbord of flowers—pansies lining the walkway, marigolds against the house. Fuchsia baskets hung from the eaves. A paradise of color.

Ryan parked his SUV beside the small one-car garage, reached over to the passenger side, and seized the bouquet for Mellie. Daisy, her usual eager self, met him at the kitchen door. “Hey, girl!” He stooped to pet the oscillating dog with his free hand.

Daisy barked her welcome, panting as she followed Ryan to the kitchen.

Placing the flowers on the counter, Ryan reached for the large vase in the cupboard and set about arranging the bouquet. When he finished, he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

Satisfied, he called to Melissa. “Sweetheart, I’m home.” He poured water into Daisy’s bowl and scooped dog food into her dish, waiting for Melissa to emerge from one room or another. Daisy scrambled over, nudged Ryan aside, and began gulping the food with loud chomping sounds, the sides of her golden body contracting with each voracious swallow.

“Easy girl. There’s more where that came from.”

Ryan headed for the sun porch where Melissa often curled up with a book or her diary. On occasion, she set up her easel, creating lifelike paintings of flowers and ocean scenery, as well. The room, graced by plump-cushioned wicker chairs, was dominated by a wall of windows facing the ocean. Melissa, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Ryan checked the downstairs basement. The pool table, centered in the room, was surrounded by Melissa’s framed floral paintings. Despite his frequent encouragement, she refused to hang them upstairs on the main level, claiming she wasn’t ready for “prime-time” exposure.

Calling to her again, he strolled to the laundry room, expecting to hear his lovely wife humming to herself as she folded clothes. Instead, the room was deserted, the laundry appliances silent, empty.

Back upstairs, he wandered through the house to the backyard, where Melissa often tended her garden. The smell of salt and seaweed mingled with the wail of a distant sea gull. Across the yard to the south, George, their retired neighbor, puffed on a cigar and raked his own small portion of the sandy beach, obviously frustrated with the recent storm deposit of fresh seaweed. George nodded casually, then went back to work.