Sanctuary (11 page)

“So you're my mechanic, landlord, and housekeeper. I'm a lucky man. Who exactly do I call if my sink backs up?”

“You open the closet and take out the plunger. If you need instructions for use, I'll write them down for you. Here's the fork.”

Nathan bore right and climbed. “Let's try that again. If I wanted to grill a couple of steaks, chill a bottle of wine, and invite you to dinner, who would I call?”

Jo turned her head and gave him a cool look. “You'd have better luck with my sister. Her name is Alexa.”

“Does she fix carburetors?”

With a half laugh, Jo shook her head. “No, but she's very decorative and enjoys invitations from men.”

“And you don't?”

“Let's just say I'm more selective than Lexy.”

“Ouch.” Whistling, Nathan rubbed a hand over his heart. “Direct hit.”

“Just saving us both some time. There's Sanctuary,” she murmured.

He watched it appear through the curtain of rain, swim out of the thin mists that curled at its base. It was old and grand, as elegant as a Southern Belle dressed for company. Definitely feminine, Nate thought, with those fluid lines all in virginal white. Tall windows were softened by arched trim, and pretty ironwork adorned balconies where flowers bloomed out of clay pots of soft red.

Her gardens glowed, the blooms heavy-headed with rain, like bowing fairies at her feet.

“Stunning,” Nathan said, half to himself. “The more recent additions blend perfectly with the original structure. Accent rather than modernize. It's a masterful harmony of styles, classically southern without being typical. It couldn't be more perfect if the island had been designed for it rather than it being designed for the island.”

Nathan stopped at the end of the drive before he noticed that Jo was staring at him. For the first time there was curiosity in her eyes.

“I'm an architect,” he explained. “Buildings like this grab me right by the throat.”

“Well, then, you'll probably want a tour of the inside.”

“I'd love one, and I'd owe you at least one steak dinner for that.”

“You'll want my cousin Kate to show you around. She's a Pendleton,” Jo added as she opened her door. “Sanctuary came down through the Pendletons. She knows it best. Come inside. You can dry off some and pick up the keys.”

She hurried up the steps, paused on the veranda to shake her head and scatter rain from her hair. She waited until he stepped up beside her.

“Jesus, look at this door.” Reverently, Nathan ran his fingertips over the rich, carved wood. Odd that he'd forgotten it, he thought. But then, he had usually raced in through the screened porch and through the kitchen.

“Honduran mahogany,” Jo told him. “Imported in the early eighteen-hundreds, long before anyone worried about depleting the rain forests. But it is beautiful.” She turned the heavy brass handle and stepped with him into Sanctuary.

“The floors are heart of pine,” she began and blocked out an unbidden image of her mother patiently paste-waxing them. “As are the main stairs, and the banister is oak carved and constructed here on Desire when it was a plantation, dealing mostly in Sea Island cotton. The chandelier is more recent, an addition purchased in France by the wife of Stewart Pendleton, the shipping tycoon who rebuilt the main house and added the wings. A great deal of the furniture was lost during the War Between the States, but Stewart and his wife traveled extensively and selected antiques that suited them and Sanctuary.”

“He had a good eye,” Nathan commented, scanning the wide, high-ceilinged foyer with its fluid sweep of glossy stairs, its glittering fountain of crystal light.

“And a deep pocket,” Jo put in. Telling herself to be patient, she stood where she was and let him wander.

The walls were a soft, pale yellow that would give the illusion of cool during those viciously hot summer afternoons. They were trimmed in dark wood that added richness with carved moldings framing the high plaster ceiling.

The furnishings here were heavy and large in scale, as befitted a grand entranceway. A pair of George II armchairs with shell-shaped backs flanked a hexagonal credence table that held a towering brass urn filled with sweetly scented lilies and wild grasses.

Though he didn't collect antiques himself—or anything else, for that matter—he was a man who studied all aspects of buildings, including what went inside them. He recognized the Flemish cabinet-on-stand in carved oak, the giltwood pier mirror over a marquetry candle stand, the delicacy of Queen Anne and the flash of Louis XIV. And he found the mix of periods and styles inspired.

“Incredible.” His hands tucked in his back pockets, he turned back to Jo. “Hell of a place to live, I'd say.”

“In more ways than one.” Her voice was dry, and just a little bitter. It had him lifting a brow in question, but she added nothing more. “We do registration in the front parlor.”

She turned down the hallway, stepped into the first room on the right. Someone had started a fire, she observed, probably in anticipation of the Yankee, and to keep the guests at the inn cheerful on a rainy day if they wandered through.

She went to the huge old Chippendale writing desk and opened the top side drawer, flipped through the paperwork for the rental cottages. Upstairs in the family wing was an office with a workaday file cabinet and a computer Kate was still struggling to learn about. But guests were never subjected to such drearily ordinary details.

“Little Desire Cottage,” Jo announced, sliding the contract free. She noted it had already been stamped to indicate receipt of the deposit and signed by both Kate and one Nathan Delaney.

Jo laid the paperwork aside and opened another drawer to take out the keys jingling from a metal clip that held the cottage name. “This one is for both the front and the rear doors, and the smaller one is for the storage room under the cottage. I wouldn't store anything important in there if I were you. Flooding is a hazard that near the river.”

“I'll remember that.”

“I took care of setting up the telephone yesterday. All calls will be billed directly to the cottage and added to your bill monthly.” She opened another drawer and took out a slim folder. “You'll find the usual information and answers in this packet. The ferry schedule, tide information, how to rent fishing or boating gear if you want it. There's a pamphlet that describes the island—history, flora and fauna—Why are you staring at me like that?” she demanded.

“You've got gorgeous eyes. It's hard not to look at them.”

She shoved the folder into his hands. “You'd be better off looking at what's in here.”

“All right.” Nathan opened it, began to page through. “Are you always this jittery, or do I bring that out in you?”

“I'm not jittery, I'm impatient. Not all of us are on vacation. Do you have any questions—that pertain to the cottage or the island?”

“I'll let you know.”

“Directions to your cottage are in the folder. If you'd just initial the contract here, to confirm receipt of the keys and information, you can be on your way.”

He smiled again, intrigued at how rapidly her southern hospitality was thinning. “I wouldn't want to wear out my welcome,” he said, taking the pen she offered him. “Since I intend to come back.”

“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are served in the inn's dining room. The service hours are also listed in your folder. Box lunches are available for picnics.”

The more she talked, the more he enjoyed hearing her voice. She smelled of rain and nothing else and looked—when you looked into those lovely blue eyes—as sad as a bird with a broken wing.

“Do you like picnics?” he asked her.

She let out a long sigh, snatched the pen back from him, and scrawled her initials under his. “You're wasting your time flirting with me, Mr. Delaney. I'm just not interested.”

“Any sensible woman knows that a statement like that only presents a challenge.” He bent down to read her initials, “J.E.H.”

“Jo Ellen Hathaway,” she told him in hopes of hurrying him along.

“It's been a pleasure being rescued by you, Jo Ellen.” He offered a hand, amused when she hesitated before clasping it with hers.

“Try Zeke Fitzsimmons about that tune-up. He'll get the Jeep running smoothly for you. Enjoy your stay on Desire.”

“It's already started on a higher note than I'd expected.”

“Then your expectations must have been very low.” She slid her hand free and led the way back to the front door. “The rain's let up,” she commented, as she opened the door to moist air and mist. “You shouldn't have any trouble finding the cottage.”

“No.” He remembered the way perfectly. “I'm sure I won't. I'll see you again, Jo Ellen.” Will have to, he thought, for a number of reasons.

She inclined her head, shut the door quietly, and left him standing on the veranda wondering what to do next.

O
N his third day on Desire, Nathan woke in a panic. His heart was booming, his breath short and strangled, his skin iced with sweat. He shot up in bed with fists clenched, his eyes searching the murky shadows of the room.

Weak sunlight filtered through the slats of the blinds and built a cage on the thin gray carpet.

His mind stayed blank for an agonizing moment, trapped behind the images that crowded it. Moonlit trees, fingers of fog, a woman's naked body, her fanning dark hair, wide, glassy eyes.

Ghosts, he told himself as he rubbed his face hard with his hands. He'd expected them, and they hadn't disappointed him. They clung to Desire like the moss clung to the live oaks.

He swung out of bed and deliberately—like a child daring sidewalk cracks—walked through the sun bars. In the narrow bathroom he stepped into the white tub, yanked the cheerfully striped curtain closed, and ran the shower hot. He washed the sweat away, imagined the panic as a dark red haze that circled and slid down the drain.

The room was thick with steam when he dried off. But his mind was clear again.

He dressed in a tattered short-sleeved sweatshirt and ancient gym shorts, then with his face unshaven and his hair dripping headed into the kitchen to heat water for instant coffee. He looked around, scowled again at the carafe and drip cone the owners had provided. Even if he could have figured out the proper measuring formula, he hadn't thought to bring coffee filters.

At that moment he would have paid a thousand dollars for a coffeemaker. He set the kettle on the front burner of a stove that was older than he was, then walked over to the living room section of the large multipurpose room to flip on the early news. The reception was miserable, and the pickings slim.

No coffeemaker, no pay-per-view, Nathan mused as he tuned in the sunrise news on one of the three available channels. He remembered how he and Kyle had whined over the lack of televised entertainment.

How are we supposed to watch
The Six Million Dollar Man
on this stupid thing? It's a gyp
.

It seemed to him the color scheme was different now. He had a vague recollection of soft pastels on the wide, deep chairs and straightbacked sofa. Now they were covered in bold geometric prints, deep greens and blues, sunny yellows.

The fan that dropped from the center pitch of the ceiling had squeaked. He knew, because he'd been compelled to tug on the cord, that it ran now with only a quiet hiss of blades.

But it was the same long yellow-pine dining table separating the rooms—the table he and his family had gathered around to eat, to play board games, to put together eye-crossingly complex jigsaw puzzles during that summer.

The same table he and Kyle had been assigned to clear after dinner. The table where his father had lingered some mornings over coffee.

He remembered when their father had shown him and Kyle how to punch holes in the lid of a jar and catch lightning bugs. The evening had been warm and soft, the hunt and chase giddy. Nathan remembered watching the jar he'd put beside his bed wink and glow, wink and glow, lulling him to sleep.

But in the morning all the lightning bugs in his jar had been dead, smothered, as the book atop the lid had plugged all the holes. He still couldn't remember putting it there, that battered copy of
Johnny Tremain
. The dark corpses in the bottom of the jar had left him feeling sick and guilty. He'd snuck out of the house and dumped them in the river.

He chased no more lightning bugs that summer.

Irritated at the memory, Nathan turned away from the TV, went back to the stove to pour the steaming water over a spoonful of coffee. He carried the mug out onto the screened porch to look at the river.

Memories were bound to surface now that he was here, he reminded himself. That was why he'd come. To remember that summer, step by step, day by day. And to figure out what to do about the Hathaways.

He sipped coffee, winced a little at its false and bitter taste. He'd discovered that a great deal of life was false and bitter, so he drank again.

Jo Ellen Hathaway. He remembered her as a skinny, sharp-elbowed girl with a sloppy ponytail and a lightning temper. He hadn't had much use for girls at ten, so he'd paid her little attention. She'd simply been one of Brian's little sisters.

Still was, Nathan thought. And she was still skinny. Apparently her temper was still in place as well. The streaming ponytail was gone. The shorter, choppy cut suited her personality if not her face, he decided. The carelessness of it, the nod to fashion. The color of it was like the pelt of a wild deer.