Sanctuary (10 page)

Now, Nathan thought, he was the only one left. Somehow he had grown up into his father's body, had gone from sturdy boy to a man with long legs and narrow hips. He could look in a mirror and see reflections of his father's face in the hollow cheeks and dark gray eyes. But he had his mother's mouth, firmly ridged, and her deep brown hair with hints of gold and red. His father had said it was like aged mahogany.

Nathan wondered if children were really just montages of their parents. And he shuddered.

Without the binoculars he watched the island take shape. He could see the wash of color from wildflowers—pinks and violets from lupine and wood sorrel. A scatter of houses was visible, a few straight or winding roads, the flash of a creek that disappeared into the trees. Mystery was added by the dark shadows of the forest where feral pigs and horses had once lived, the gleam of the marshes and the blades of waving grasses gold and green in the streaming morning sunlight.

It was all hazed with distance, like a dream.

Then he saw the gleam of white on a rise, the quick wink that was sun shooting off glass. Sanctuary, he thought, and kept it in his sights until the ferry turned toward the dock and the house was lost from view.

Nathan turned from the rail and walked back to his Jeep. When he was settled inside with only the hum of the ferry's engines for company, he wondered if he was crazy coming back here, exploring the past, in some ways repeating it.

He'd left New York, packed everything that mattered into the Jeep. It was surprisingly little. Then again, he'd never had a deepseated need for things. That had made his life simpler through the divorce two years before. Maureen had been the collector, and it saved them both a great deal of time and temper when he offered to let her strip the West Side apartment.

Christ knew she'd taken him up on it and had left him with little more than his own clothes and a mattress.

That chapter of his life was over, and for nearly two years now he'd devoted himself to his work. Designing buildings was as much a passion as a career for him, and with New York as no more than a home base, he had traveled, studying sites, working wherever he could set up his drawing board and computer. He'd given himself the gift of time to study other buildings, explore the art of them, from the great cathedrals in Italy and France to the streamlined desert homes in the American Southwest.

He'd been free, his work the only demand on his time and on his heart.

Then he had lost his parents, suddenly, irrevocably. And had lost himself. He wondered why he felt he could find the pieces on Desire.

But he was committed to staying at least six months. Nathan took it as a good sign that he'd been able to book the same cottage his family had lived in during that summer. He knew he would listen for the echo of their voices and would hear them with a man's ear. He would see their ghosts with a man's eyes.

And he would return to Sanctuary with a man's purpose.

Would they remember him? The children of Annabelle?

He would soon find out, he decided, when the ferry bumped up to the dock.

He waited his turn, watching as the blocks were removed from the tires of the pickup ahead of him. A family of five, he noted, and from the gear he could see that they would be camping at the facility the island provided. Nathan shook his head, wondering why anyone would choose to sleep in a tent on the ground and consider it a vacation.

The light dimmed as clouds rolled over the sun. Frowning, he noted that they were coming in fast, flying in from the east. Rain could come quickly to barrier islands, he knew. He remembered it falling in torrents for three endless days when he'd been there before. By day two he and Kyle had been at each other's throats like young wolves.

It made him smile now and wonder how in God's name his mother had tolerated it.

He drove slowly off the ferry, then up the bumpy, pitted road leading away from the dock. With his windows open he could hear the cheerfully blaring rock and roll screaming out of the truck's radio. Camper Family, he thought, was already having a great time, impending rain or not. He was determined to follow their example and enjoy the morning.

He would have to face Sanctuary, of course, but he would approach it as an architect. He remembered that its heart was a glorious example of the Colonial style—wide verandas, stately columns, tall, narrow windows. Even as a child he'd been interested enough to note some of the details.

Gargoyle rainspouts, he recalled, that personalized rather than detracted from the grand style. He'd scared the piss out of Kyle by telling him they came alive at night and prowled.

There was a turret, with a widow's walk circling it. Balconies jutting out with ornate railings of stone or iron. The chimneys were softhued stones mined from the mainland, the house itself fashioned of local cypress and oak.

There was a smokehouse that had still been in use, and slave quarters that had been falling to ruin, where he and Brian and Kyle had found a rattler curled in a dark corner.

There were deer in the forest and alligators in the marshes. Whispers of pirates and ghosts filled the air. It was a fine place for young boys and grand adventures. And for dark and dangerous secrets.

He passed the western marshlands with their busy mud and thin islands of trees. The wind had picked up, sending the cordgrass rippling. Along the edge two egrets were on patrol, their long legs like stilts in the shallow water.

Then the forest took over, lush and exotic. Nathan slowed, letting the truck ahead of him rattle out of sight. Here was stillness, and those dark secrets. His heart began to pound uncomfortably, and his hands tightened on the wheel. This was something he'd come to face, to dissect, and eventually to understand.

The shadows were thick, and the moss dripped from the trees like webs of monstrous spiders. To test himself he turned off the engine. He could hear nothing but his own heartbeat and the voice of the wind.

Ghosts, he thought. He would have to look for them there. And when he found them, what then? Would he leave them where they drifted, night after night, or would they continue to haunt him, muttering to him in his sleep?

Would he see his mother's face, or Annabelle's? And which one would cry out the loudest?

He let out a long breath, caught himself reaching for the cigarettes he'd given up over a year before. Annoyed, he turned the ignition key but got only a straining rumble in return. He pumped the gas, tried it again with the same results.

“Well, shit,” he muttered. “That's perfect.”

Sitting back, he tapped his fingers restlessly on the wheel. The thing to do, of course, was to get out and look under the hood. He knew what he would see. An engine. Wires and tubes and belts. Nathan figured he knew as much about engines and wires and tubes as he did about brain surgery. And being broken down on a deserted road was exactly what he deserved for letting himself be talked into buying a friend's secondhand Jeep.

Resigned, he climbed out and popped the hood. Yep, he thought, just as he'd suspected. An engine. He leaned in, poked at it, and felt the first fat drop of rain hit his back.

“Now it's even more perfect.” He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and scowled, continued to scowl while the rain pattered on his head.

He should have known something was up when his friend had cheerfully tossed in a box of tools along with the Jeep. Nathan considered hauling them out and beating on the engine with a wrench. It was unlikely to work, but it would at least be satisfying.

He stepped back, then froze as the ghost stepped out of the forest shadows and watched him.

Annabelle.

The name swam through his mind, and his gut clenched in defense. She stood in the rain, still as a doe, her smoky red hair damp and tangled, those big blue eyes quiet and sad. His knees threatened to give way, and he braced a hand on the fender.

Then she moved, pushed back her wet hair. And started toward him. He saw then that it was no ghost, but a woman. It was not Annabelle, but, he was sure, it was Annabelle's daughter.

He let out the breath he'd been holding until his heart settled again.

“Car trouble?” Jo tried to keep her voice light. The way he was staring at her made her wish she'd stayed in the trees and let him fend for himself. “I take it you're not standing here in the rain taking in the sights.”

“No.” It pleased him that his voice was normal. If there was an edge to it, the situation was cause enough to explain it. “It won't start.”

“Well, that's a problem.” He looked vaguely familiar, she thought. A good face, strong and bony and male. Interesting eyes as well, she mused, pure gray and very direct. If she were inclined to portrait photography, he'd have been a fine subject. “Did you find the trouble?”

Her voice was honey over cream, gorgeously southern. It helped him relax. “I found the engine,” he said and smiled. “Just where I suspected it would be.”

“Uh-huh. And now?”

“I'm deciding how long I should look at it and pretend I know what I'm looking at before I get back in out of the rain.”

“You don't know how to fix your car?” she asked, with such obvious surprise that he bristled.

“No, I don't. I also own shoes and don't have a clue how to tan leather.” He started to yank down the hood, but she raised a hand to hold it open.

“I'll take a look.”

“What are you, a mechanic?”

“No, but I know the basics.” Elbowing him aside, she checked the battery connections first. “These look all right, but you're going to want to keep an eye on them for corrosion if you're spending any time on Desire.”

“Six months or so.” He leaned in with her. “What am I keeping my eye on?”

“These. Moisture can play hell with engines around here. You're crowding me.”

“Sorry.” He shifted his position. Obviously she didn't remember him, and he decided to pretend he didn't remember her. “You live on the island?”

“Not anymore.” To keep from bumping it on the Jeep, Jo moved the camera slung around her neck to her back.

Nate stared at it, felt the low jolt. It was a high-end Nikon. Compact, quieter and more rugged than other designs, it was often a professional's choice. His father had had one. He had one himself.

“Been out taking pictures in the rain?”

“Wasn't raining when I left,” she said absently. “Your fan belt's going to need replacing before long, but that's not your problem now.” She straightened, and though the skies had opened wide, seemed oblivious to the downpour. “Get in and try it so I can hear what she sounds like.”

“You're the boss.”

Her lips twitched as he turned and climbed back into the Jeep. No doubt his male ego was dented, she decided. She cocked her head as the engine groaned. Lips pursed, she leaned back under the hood. “Again!” she called out to him, muttering to herself. “Carburetor.”

“What?”

“Carburetor,” she repeated and opened the little metal door with her thumb. “Turn her over again.”

This time the engine roared to life. With a satisfied nod, she shut the hood and walked around to the driver's side window. “It's sticking closed, that's all. You're going to want to have it looked at. From the sound of it, you need a tune-up anyway. When's the last time you had it in?”

“I just bought it a couple of weeks ago. From a former friend.”

“Ah. Always a mistake. Well, it should get you where you're going now.”

When she started to step back, he reached through the window for her hand. It was narrow, he noted, long, both elegant and competent. “Listen, let me give you a lift. It's pouring, and it's the least I can do.”

“It's not necessary. I can—”

“I could break down again.” He shot her a smile, charming, easy, persuasive. “Who'll fix my carburetor?”

It was foolish to refuse, she knew. More foolish to feel trapped just because he had her hand. She shrugged. “All right, then.” She gave her hand a little tug, was relieved when he immediately released it. She jogged around the Jeep and climbed dripping into the passenger seat.

“Well, the interior's in good shape.”

“My former friend knows me too well.” Nathan turned on the wipers and looked at Jo. “Where to?”

“Up this road, then bear right at the first fork. Sanctuary isn't far—but then nothing is on Desire.”

“That's handy. I'm heading to Sanctuary myself.”

“Oh?” The air in the cab was thick and heavy. The driving rain seemed to cut them off from everything, misting out the trees, muffling all the sound. Reason enough to be uncomfortable, she told herself, but she was sufficiently annoyed with her reaction to angle her head and meet his eyes directly. “Are you staying at the big house?”

“No, just picking up keys for the cottage I'm renting.”

“For six months, you said?” It relieved her when he began to drive, turned those intense gray eyes away from her face and focused on the road. “That's a long vacation.”

“I brought work with me. I wanted a change of scene for a while.”

“Desire's a long way from home,” she said, then smiled a little when he glanced at her. “Anyone from Georgia can spot a Yankee. Even if you keep your mouth shut, you move differently.” She pushed her wet hair back. If she'd walked, Jo thought, she'd have been spared making conversation. But talk was better than the heavy, raindrenched silence. “You've got Little Desire Cottage, by the river.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, everybody knows everything around here. But my family rents the cottages, runs them and the inn, the restaurant. As it happens I was assigned Little Desire, stocked the linens and so forth just yesterday for the Yankee who's coming to stay for six months.”