The Sitter (18 page)

42

S
unday morning, the storm had passed and the sky was sunny and blue, marred only by a few puffy clouds. Gazing out my bedroom window, the whole world appeared glittery and green and fresh, the tree leaves, the shrubs and grass, even the sandy ground sparkling from the rain.

Abby and Chip were having their breakfast on the deck. I grabbed a plain bagel and gulped down a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Then I herded the kids to the beach as early as I could.

No way I wanted to hang around the house and run into Chip.

As I led the kids down the stairs, Abby and Chip were reading the Sunday
Times
, laughing together about something they’d read.

Abby’s doing a good job of acting normal, I thought. Better than I could ever do. No way Chip could guess that she’s on to him.

From my first day in their house, I thought they had an odd relationship. She treated him like a naughty kid. She was always scolding him about his drinking and his general laziness, lounging around on the deck, never doing anything.

He’d just grin and act as if it were all a joke.

Sometimes it seemed to me that she didn’t care enough about Chip to take him seriously. She wasn’t very affectionate—at least, not that I could see. He was in the city most of the time, and she never commented that she missed him.

It was like when he was away, she only had
two
kids to deal with, not three. Whenever he left, she went off to the spas and had her massages, and her manicures, and her facials—sort of like a celebration. She was definitely happier.

Of course, I had no way of knowing all that she had gone through with Chip earlier. How she had stuck with him when he had gone psycho before. How she had somehow managed to live a normal life, knowing he could explode again at any time.

Of course, everything I’m saying is probably total bullshit. How can you ever really know anything about a couple? There are always so many secrets between them.

The ocean waves were high and frothy, still wild from the storm last night. They crashed like thunder against the beach. Heather grabbed my hand. “Don’t be scared,” I said. “We’ll find a nice place high up on the beach.”

Brandon lingered behind as usual, dragging a slender tree branch, making a long line behind him in the wet sand like a snail’s trail. He seemed even more glum than usual. When I asked him a question, he refused to raise his head.

We were approaching the public beach when my cell phone rang. I pulled it from the beach bag and read the caller ID.

Clay?

I clicked it on. “Listen, Clay,” I snapped. “We said good-bye, remember? I want you to delete this number from your phone. Do you—?”

“Ellie, I just called to apologize,” he said softly. “Give me two seconds. I want to apologize. Then I’ll never bother you again. Promise.”

“Clay, I’m on the beach with the kids. I can’t talk.”

“But, Ellie—”

“I can barely hear you. The ocean—”

“I’ll make it quick, Ellie. I’m so sorry. That’s all I want to say. I’ve been a total asshole—I admit it. I don’t know what happened. I just snapped or something. It’s not like me. Really. So before I go back to the city, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I’d like to come over and we could say good-bye in person. You know. As friends.”

“I don’t think so, Clay. But thanks for the apology. And have a nice life, okay? I—”

“What did you say? It cut off. Ellie? I can’t hear you. Should I come see you? I can’t hear.”

“Clay? Can you hear me?”

Now it cut the connection completely. I clicked the phone off with a sigh and dropped it back in the bag.

Clay had sounded sincere, and I guess it was decent of him to call. I felt a little guilty for accusing him now that I knew the truth. But why couldn’t he just go away and disappear? How many times did we have to say good-bye?

“Courtney! Dee Dee!” Heather saw her friends, the Lewis girls down the beach, walking with pails, collecting shells that had washed up in the storm. She let go of my hand and took off, waving to them, her bare feet kicking up clods of wet sand.

Maggie was struggling with a beach umbrella. I hurried to help her. The powerful waves crashing onto shore sent up a fine spray of cold mist over the beach. The sun felt strong, but the wet air off the ocean carried a chill.

“That was a whale of a storm last night,” Maggie greeted me. “I had both girls in my lap, don’t you know.”

“My two slept right through it,” I said. We forced the umbrella into the hard sand and managed to push it open. “Did your power go out?”

Maggie nodded. Her red hair blew behind her like a pennant in the wind. “For nearly an hour. The girls liked walking around with candles. Now they want to do it every night.”

I watched Heather walking with the two little girls, bending to find shells for them. And Brandon? Where was Brandon? Sitting by himself high on the beach, in the shade of a low dune, poking his stick into the sand and pulling it out, again and again.

How much fun can that be? I asked myself. Poor guy. What is his problem? If only he would speak to me.

And then I reminded myself that I was leaving tomorrow. I would never find out what troubled Brandon Harper. I would never hear him speak.

I watched him for a moment, shielding my eyes from sand blown up by the wind. And then I saw a young guy jog past Brandon. I saw legs at first, then black bike shorts, a white, sleeveless T-shirt, and then blond hair over pale skin.

I watched the slender young man as he passed behind Brandon, jogging slowly, hands swinging at his sides. And when he turned, and I glimpsed his face through the mistlike sand, it took me a few seconds to recognize him.

Will.

I heard Maggie gasp as I took off running. I think I kicked sand on her. But I didn’t turn back to see.

I had my eyes on Will, who jogged past the volleyball net, tilted from the storm, and kept trotting past the parking lot. And I knew this time I would catch him.

This time I would stop him. Turn him around. Make him look at me.

After seven years, make him look at me. And say, “You’re alive! Oh, Will, how are you alive and jogging on this beach when I killed you seven years ago?”

I grabbed the wheel, and I killed you. And you have lived only in my mind for seven long years.

But now here you are.

How did you come back? And why are you always running from me? Don’t you see me? Don’t you remember me?

Here you are, Will.

And I’m catching up to you. This time, you won’t outrun me. You won’t vanish into thin air.

This time, I’m going to catch you and make you look at me and talk to me. And tell me how you came back.

“Hey!” I came up behind him, running hard, and grabbed his shoulder.

He let out a startled cry. His shoulders flinched. He stumbled to a stop. Then, breathing hard, sweat rolling down his face and hair, he turned to me.

“Hi, it’s me,” I said in a breathless whisper.

43

H
e squinted at me, his mouth open, still breathing hard. He wiped a thick strand of blond hair off his forehead.

“Omigod.”

My mouth dropped open. I wanted to scream, but I felt too weak.

Too stupid and fucked up.

Too crazy.

It wasn’t Will.

He looked a lot like Will. He
could
have been Will.

But he wasn’t Will.

“Do I know you?” His eyes—not Will’s eyes at all—studied me. I could see him struggle to remember me.

“No, I’m sorry,” I choked out. I took a step back, retreating, retreating from my stupid dream. “I saw you jogging. I . . . thought you were someone else.”

He shook his head. “You nearly tackled me. I thought maybe you were in trouble or something.”

I
am
in trouble, I thought. After seven years, I’m still chasing after someone who is dead.

Dead. Will is dead, Ellie.

You didn’t see him after Teresa’s party on the beach with Jackson that night. And you didn’t see him walk out of the hardware store in Sag Harbor.

You saw
other
blond-haired boys. Because Will is dead.

Maybe this will convince you once and for all.

“I’m really sorry,” I said. “You’re not hurt or anything, are you? I shouldn’t have grabbed you. I just thought—I thought you were this other guy.”

“No problem,” he said. But he didn’t smile or anything. He still stared at me as if I were crazy.

“Well—have a nice day,” I said. So fucking lame.

“Yeah. Have a nice day.” He turned and trotted away.

“You’re not eating,” Jackson said, gazing down at my plate. “Your omelet is getting cold.”

“I’m not hungry,” I said, pushing the plate away. “My stomach is all knotted up. I feel like a big rubber band—all twisted and ready to snap.”

He raised his fork and began eating the home fries off my plate. “Well, I’m pretty hungry,” he said. “You know. Tough day at the bike store.”

He grinned at me. He was trying to make me laugh, trying to cheer me up. Not an easy job.

We were in a small booth at the Driver’s Seat, a popular restaurant-bar in Southampton. It was a warm, clear evening and most people were eating out back on the patio. But I had pulled Jackson into the darkness of the tall wooden booths inside, where we could talk more privately.

I’d called him at the bike store that afternoon and practically begged him to meet me for dinner. I wanted to spend as little time at the Harpers’ house as I could.

When he picked me up in the red Passat, I was so glad to see him, I kissed him and thanked him a dozen times. He got a wry, lopsided grin on his face and said, “Hey, seeing you isn’t exactly a hardship, you know.”

But his grin faded as I began to tell him why I was leaving the Hamptons, what had been happening to me since I arrived. He kept shaking his head, his eyes on the road, muttering, “I don’t believe it,” under his breath.

“I don’t believe it, either,” I said, my voice breaking. “But it’s all true. And I can’t wait to get away from here. Tomorrow is my last day.”

We drove in silence for a few minutes. I could see he was thinking hard. “How are you getting back to the city?” he asked. “Can I give you a lift?”

“Huh? You want to drive me to the city? No, I couldn’t—”

“There are some friends there I’ve been meaning to visit,” he said, turning into the parking lot behind the restaurant. “This would be a good excuse.”

I’d stared at him. “Do you mean it? That would be great!”

Now, he hungrily finished my home fries and half my omelet. He reached across the table and held my hand. “Sorry you’ve been living through such a nightmare, Ellie. I wish there was something I could do.”

“You already are,” I told him. “You’re taking me away from here.”

The waitress brought our coffee, and she set down a slice of cheesecake for Jackson. “We can still see each other in the city, right?” he asked. “I mean, I got my orientation materials in the mail from Cardozo today. You know. It’s in the Village. I’ll be in the city full-time, so—”

I squeezed his hand. “I’m really happy about that,” I whispered.

He drove me back to the Harpers’. It was only ten o’clock when we pulled up the driveway. Through the front window, I could see Chip pacing back and forth, alone in the living room.

“I—I don’t want to go in yet,” I said.

We climbed out of the car. I pulled Jackson up the driveway and around the side of the house. Did Chip see us? I glanced into the window as we passed. He was still pacing, a drink in one hand.

I tugged Jackson into the deep shadow of the house, and we made our way across the backyard, up the dune that led to the guest house, hidden in a pool of darkness behind the line of pine trees, and to the ocean.

Clouds covered the moon. No stars in the sky. The air felt heavy and wet. We pulled off our sneakers and walked barefoot along the shore, hand in hand, leaning against one another as frothy, cold water washed over our feet.

I stopped and leaned against Jackson to pull away a clump of seaweed that had tangled around my ankle. And as I stood up, he pulled me close and kissed me. I didn’t pull away. He tightened his arms around me. The kiss didn’t end—I wouldn’t let it end. I opened my mouth to him, and we pressed against each other and kissed and kissed.

And I found myself thinking, This is so romantic.

And that’s all it was. It wasn’t about anything else. It wasn’t about him trying to prove something to me or me trying to find something in him.

It was just romantic.

And when I finally ended the kiss, so breathless, so wonderfully fluttery and breathless, and I whispered in his ear, “Let’s make love—right here on the beach,” it was just romantic, not anything else.

“Yes,” he whispered, and kissed me again. And, still kissing, we were on our knees on the cool, damp sand. He pulled me tight and pressed me against him. I could barely breathe.

I wanted him. I wanted him so badly. I lowered my hands to his waist.

And felt a tap on my shoulder.

And then another. And then a cold, wet tap on my forehead.

“Rain,” I whispered, gazing up.

Without warning, it started to pour. Large raindrops pattered the sand.

Jackson laughed. “Talk about poor timing.” He pulled me up, and holding hands, we started to run.

Gusts of wind slapped the rain at our backs as we hurried up the dune. We were both drenched by the time we reached the top.

I pulled Jackson to the guest house door. “It’s dry in there,” I shouted over the roar of rain.

He squinted at me. “You sure you want to go in there?”

I didn’t even think about it. I wanted to make love to him so badly. I grabbed the knob, twisted it, and pulled open the door. I put aside the curse and Mrs. Bricker’s ghosts and her stupid warnings, and I pulled Jackson into the guest house.

Holding on to him, I glanced around, startled, disoriented because I had never been inside. And now here I was, clinging to Jackson, kissing his cheek, kissing his neck, his skin so salty from the ocean winds, gazing over his shoulder around the front room in the ghostly gray light, everything black and gray as if we’d stepped into an old movie.

I glimpsed a deer’s head mounted on the wall. A low stack of firewood in front of the narrow fireplace. And yes, a long harpoon—
the
harpoon?—leaning against the mantel.

I didn’t care about that now. I cared only that I had hold of Jackson, and we were so close, so close, our bodies pressed together, and we were kissing . . . kissing . . . Staggering over the floor together, bumping an armchair, then a couch.

And in the back room, a bed. An old quilt tossed over it, and even two or three pillows against the headboard. And I pulled Jackson’s T-shirt over his head, still kissing him, kissing his chest now, wanting him so badly.

My skirt dropped to the floor, and he was tugging off my T-shirt. Kissing my shoulder, my breasts, and I felt I couldn’t breathe. And then, still holding each other, we were on the bed, and I lowered my lips down his body and took him into my mouth, and he let out a soft cry of surprise, and a few moments later, we were making love, rocking up and down so gently on the old, abandoned bed, so gently, but the ancient springs creaked anyway, creaked with each loving move.

This is the first time
I
wanted it, I thought.

The first time it wasn’t because the guy wanted it, the guy needed it.

The first time . . . the first time . . .

I pressed my mouth against his neck as he moved above me. He tasted so salty and sweet.

“Yes . . . oh, please . . .” The first time . . .

I raised myself to him, raised myself.

I froze when I heard the cough. Muffled. Across the room.

“Oh, my god! Jackson—someone’s in here!”