The Storm and the Darkness (13 page)

“You usually have plenty of reasons to
stay away
.”

Oz turned back toward him, shocking Nicolas into a sudden realization of how long it had been since they’d seen each other. Oz’s shiny black hair was somehow duller; his brilliant green eyes looked more like the fading shade of aging moss. His skin was drained of color and life, as if he hadn’t eaten or slept in some time. Nicolas opened his mouth to say something, but then decided not to.

“What do you have for liquor around here?” Oz had walked into the large kitchen, and Nicolas heard him flipping through the cupboards.

“You know that’s not where I keep it. I mean, it’s not like we’ve been sneaking liquor since we were thirteen or anything,” he chided Oz, and led him out into the study. Nicolas opened the sliding doors to a large, oak bar built into the wall. “Where is your brain, Ozzy? Did you leave it with your balls at home?”

But Oz didn’t react to his teasing as he normally would. His eyes were wild, and he bore the exhausted look of someone who hadn’t slept properly in weeks. He took the drink that Nicolas held out to him, quaffed it down, and handed it back for a refill. Nicolas stared at him in astonishment, then made him a second one.

“How is Ana?” Oz asked, in an offhand way.

Nicolas cocked his head. “Are we making small talk? How’s your mother, then?”

“Quite well,” Oz responded, clearly missing Nicolas’ sarcasm. “So Ana’s faring well in Maine?”

“‘Faring’ better than you I hope.” Nicolas continued to watch his friend closely: the odd, wild look in his eyes, the complete disengagement from his words, the way he kept flinching and brushing his hair from his eyes...hair that was not even
in
his eyes.

“Hah,” Oz choked out, without emotion. “I’m fine. Just thought we could have some guy time.”

“‘Guy time?’ Really, Oz? What the fuck?” Nicolas was not interested in hearing about the complexities of Oz Sullivan’s mind, but he was utterly bewildered at his bizarre behavior. “I doubt we’ll be doing anything, with you on the verge of a complete nervous breakdown.”

But Oz was hardly listening, instead stirring his drink with a finger, seemingly fascinated with the swirling ice cubes.

Nicolas, never fond of mysterious behavior, was not sure what to make of any of this. It was unnerving to see his friend minutes from going off the deep end.

He leaned over Oz and waved his hands obnoxiously in his face. Oz looked up and met his eyes with the same glazed, wild look he had since he arrived. “Sorry, what?”

“You know it would have been quicker to drink at home, instead of driving almost an hour out here, right?”

Oz set his drink down. When he looked at Nicolas this time, Oz appeared slightly less dazed, though it seemed to take great effort. “I’m sorry. I just...things have been kinda stressful at home lately. I just needed to get away.”

“Stressful,” Nicolas repeated, eyeing him skeptically. He was waiting for him to do something desperate, like jump out the window. “Well, marriage and brats would be the end of any man, but how is this different from normal?”

“It isn’t...I mean...it’s just...I don’t...” Oz stood up suddenly, bumping the table so that his drink sloshed over the sides of the glass. “I should go.”

Nicolas shook his head in disbelief, smacking his cheeks. “You just got here! Ozzy!
ARE YOU ON DRUGS
?”

But Oz was already on his way to the door, and if Nicolas knew anything about his brooding friend, it was the impossibility of getting him to speak when he was in one his darker moods.

“Sorry again,” Oz said, pulling the door behind him. He stopped briefly, and then said, “Tell Ana...”

“Tell her
what
?” Nicolas snapped.

“Nothing,” Oz said. “Nothing. We will...I promise we will get together soon. Sorry for just dropping in on you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Nicolas waved distractedly, feeling like he had just been hit by a small hurricane.

Nicolas was genuinely perplexed at Oz’s behavior. He had always known that Oz was a brooder, and he often accused him of being as moody as a woman, but he couldn’t remember ever seeing him act like this.

It had been so unexpected and bizarre that it was enough to distract him from his thoughts about Ana. Even when Oz asked about Ana–multiple times–which was weird enough on its own.

Finally, Nicolas shrugged it off, deciding that if Oz wanted to talk to him, he would. Figuring out how to contact Ana was a more pressing concern.

He did not want to call her father. Augustus was a busy man, and if Nicolas bothered him with this, and then nothing was amiss, Augustus would be highly annoyed. On the other hand, if something was wrong, and it was something Ana did not want her father involved in, then Nicolas would feel her wrath.

There were no other Deschanels on the island, but there was that overseer. Whitman. He only knew the name because it was written on a piece of paper, folded inside his Family Bible–a book he really should give to Adrienne, the more he thought of it, since she was the only Deschanel bothering to further the family line–listed as
emergency contact for Ana
. It was in her handwriting. She would not have a cell phone out there, and with no one other than overseer who even knew her, she felt safer knowing that Nicolas had the information. Under the number she had written:
Peace out, sucka!

He put down his bourbon, and picked up the phone in the study. Putting the receiver down again, he walked over and closed the double doors as an afterthought. He only lived alone if you didn’t count the four people on staff, and he preferred this conversation be private.

Nicolas lifted the receiver again and dialed.

Incompetence. Why did it feel as if Augustus Deschanel was constantly surrounded by it? People did not understand the value of quality, going the extra mile, taking the requisite time to ensure deliver was in line with expectations.
His
expectations. An old boss, in another life, had told him once that the only way to ever be really successful was to hire five hundred versions of yourself. But then, you would never change, never innovate. Augustus embraced innovation, but not at the cost of doing things right.

The next best thing to hiring yourself? Hiring your progeny. Years before Ana was born, when the business was just a single magazine, he had visions of grandeur. He pictured building a conglomeration of magazines, an empire founded on the highest quality publications, built leveraging the creative acumen of the best and brightest minds. He proudly envisioned his three, or four, children beside him. At first teaching them as children about the business, then slowly folding them in, with internships in high school, and jobs after college. They would work their way up until they knew the corporation’s ins and outs just as he did. But Catherine had died and Augustus’ current wife, Barbara, could not have children. His dream stopped with Ana.

Ana did have skills that suited the family business, but they were on the other end of the spectrum. While she understood business, Ana had an artist’s heart. So had he, once upon a time, but it was that love of the craft that made him want this career to begin with. He had hoped she might see the connection and embrace it the way he had, but so far her involvement had felt more obligatory than passionate. He would never force her. Augustus’ ability as a Deschanel was the power of persuasion, and he had used it ruthlessly, and without remorse, countless times. But he had never, and would never, use it on his daughter.

He didn’t really understand Ana. It was a terrible thing for a father to admit. She had a brilliant mind. She tested at a genius IQ level as a child and graduated high school at sixteen; had won awards and national recognition for her writing and school projects; full scholarship to Tulane. But she had the dark mind of an artist. He should know, he had seen plenty of them come through their doors looking for freelance work. Her mind was never at rest; her darkness shone through strongest when she was lost in her thoughts and unaware of herself.

He thought it might be genetic, if that was a trait that could even be passed genetically. Augustus’ own sister Evangeline had been the same. Evangeline was part of a team that had earned a spot on the Novel prize shortlist for physics. The entire family was talented, but there were the few dark horses as well, like Ana and Evangeline, who operated on a completely different plane. Augustus could only theorize on their motives and abilities, because he couldn’t understand them.

Ana once said that it felt like there was more than one of her, and that the two parts were always in conflict. Augustus had sent her to counseling after that. The first counselor had diagnosed her with Asperger’s, and the second had said she most certainly did not have anything actually
wrong
with her, per se, just that children with higher IQ’s sometimes had more challenges adapting to social situations. So neither diagnosis was useful in the end, because Ana’s trouble was not with social situations at all. She never had trouble making friends; she was involved in sports and clubs, and was even in a sorority in college. Her trouble was with herself.

It had been his idea to send her to Maine, when she said she needed to leave for a while. While Ana was generally restless, just before she decided to leave she had grown exceedingly agitated and even more withdrawn than usual. When he broached the idea, she simply smiled and said thanks. What she would get out of it, he could hardly guess. He had come to a point where he had stopped hoping for her to be something he wished, and just hoped for her personal happiness.

Their conversations had not changed much over thirty years.

“How are you doing sweetheart?”

“Good.”

“Anything new going on?”

“Not really.”

He made her call him every week from Maine. He would have preferred more often, but he knew she hated small talk, and he was consumed by things at the office anyway. Even as a child, she had only engaged in conversation when there was a point. She could never understand the value in ‘bullshitting about the weather.’ Another sign that business management was not in her future.

Augustus checked the clock: 9:50. Barbara was only patient until ten or so and then the calls would start. He couldn’t fault her for it; he did work incredibly long hours, seeming to disregard her needs. Ana hadn’t called yet, and probably wouldn’t at this rate. She was supposed to call several days ago, but hadn’t. He presumed she had lost track of time, so he called her instead, but she didn’t pick up. He was disappointed, even knowing Ana thought talking on the phone was the worst torture. However, he hoped that she would put her misgivings aside for their weekly ritual, because she loved him.

He did wish she would stop being so obstinate. Sometimes he considered her difficulties a misunderstanding, and then moments like these, he thought she was simply a brat.

As if on cue, Barbara called. His secretary went home hours ago, so he answered it himself. “Turkey sounds lovely,” he said, shutting down his computer as his wife told him with hopeful excitement about how she had first brined, and then injected sauces into the bird, continuing to describe the rest of her evening with the same detail. She had taken to making dinner later now, since the last time he came home before eight was when Ana was still living at home.

“On my way home now dear,” Augustus said, as he slipped his arms through his trench coat. He would just have to try Ana again tomorrow.

Worthless overseer. What do we even pay him for
? Nicolas wondered.

He had called Alex, who was just short of unhelpful. “The roads are closed,” he said. “And most of the phone lines have been unreliable.”

“Don’t you guys have snowplows and shit?” Nicolas was incredulous. Shouldn’t they be used to this stuff by now?

Heavy sigh.
Clearly thinks I’m a complete idiot
, Nicolas thought. “Ya, Mr. Deschanel. We do have snow plows, but ya have to understand that when God decides he is goin’ to play his games, man’s machines can only do s’much.”

“Master of the metaphors I see, but I fail to understand how your island can completely shut down in a storm, when storms are pretty much the only thing you have up there, no?”

Another sigh, possibly annoyance this time. “No’sir, ya forgot moose, and Stephen King.”

Nicolas smiled.
Oh, he has jokes now
. “Look. You may think I am being difficult but I haven’t spoken with my cousin in a week. It is unlike her. She isn’t answering her phone when I call, and-“

“Her phone is prolly down,” Alex interjected.

“Yes, or she isn’t answering because something is wrong.” When Alex didn’t respond, he added, “Isn’t there someone who can check on her? Surely you have emergency vehicles?”

“We do, but only fer emergencies.”

Nicolas was growing angry, but tried to keep his voice level. As unhelpful as he was, Alex was also the only person Nicolas had contact with on the island, and who might be still able to help him figure this out. “Would a missing person in a storm not be an emergency, Mr. Whitman?”

“We dunno know that she’s missing. It’s not uncommon a’tall for people to go dark when the big storms hit. We only have s’much equipment to clear the roads, and the island doesn’t have the power and phone resources that the cities do. We can sometimes be without power, or phones, for weeks. Heck, we even had a winter where we were dark almost the entire season. People here are used to this, and they have expensive generators, and solid planning, and we get through it.”

“But Ana is not used to this. This is her first Maine winter…well, hell, it’s her first difficult winter ever. All we ever get is a drop in humidity here. She has no idea what she is doing,” Nicolas reminded him.

“I went over there barely a week ago and helped her winter-proof the house. I showed her how t’use the generator, and where the food storage went. With all due respect, I went out of m’way to make sure she
did
know what she was doing ‘fore the storm hit.” Alex sounded more proud than defensive.