B000FC1MHI EBOK (20 page)

That quickly, she was reassured. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

He smiled. “Any time.” He hitched his head toward the bed of the truck. “There are three traps back there. I’ll take the bait first and come back for two of the traps. Can you get the third?”

She certainly could. The traps were four-footers, not so much heavy as bulky in size, but she managed to carry one without any trouble. When everything had been stashed on the
Leila Sue,
they returned to the truck.

“Time for more?” he asked.

“Sure,” Julia said without so much as a glance at her watch. She guessed it was close to six, but Molly was working, Zoe was helping a friend assemble a floor loom, and Julia had no reason to run home. “What’s next?”

“Out back under the tarp? There’s wood to deliver and a leak to fix.”

“Where?”

“Hawks Hill.”

She fastened her seat belt and they were off, heading out of town in the opposite direction this time. Hawks Hill was the southernmost of the island’s hills. There were no meadows here; it was an ascent through pure forest. That meant the roads were heavily shaded this late in the day.
Dark,
Julia thought, and felt a chill. “So what about Kim?” she asked.

Noah drove on.

“I keep imagining,” she said, self-mockingly enough to keep the accusation light, “that maybe she wasn’t on the
Amelia Celeste
at all.” She looked at Noah and saw no reaction. “If she was having an affair with Artie, wouldn’t it be more likely that she was with him on
The Beast
?”

Noah took a breath. “That would mean she was likely the one who shot him.”

“Oh no, there could be—”
Another explanation,
she would have said if he hadn’t squelched the thought with a meaningful look. The road might have been dark and his face shadowed, but the weight of that look wasn’t lost. “So you think she did?”

His eyes returned to the road. “I don’t want to.”

“But you’re leaning that way.”

“It’s hard not to,” he said in a voice that held a touch of desperation, “but if they were involved, it couldn’t have gone anywhere good. That means she’d have motive.”

“Anger?”

“That, or disillusionment. If they were involved, he may have promised to divorce his wife. Married men do that all the time.”

Julia couldn’t argue. “Has she ever been in trouble before?”

“No.”

“Would she have access to a gun?”

“Probably.”

Letting that reality sink in, Julia watched the road. Paved, it reflected the forest green of the woods on each side, with the spill of lavender where bits of late-day light filtered through. Every few minutes, a gap in the trees marked a narrow drive on the left or the right. Some were marked by mailboxes, others by name signs. The occasional tree limb dipped low enough to brush the top of the truck, but Noah drove with confidence, as familiar with this road as he was the ones below.

“Who lives up here?” Julia asked, spotting another mailbox.

“Transplants.”

“Artists?”

“No. Most of them prefer Dobbs Hill. It has meadows and is more open and varied—flowers, wood, and stone. Here we have trees. Bringing up services is harder. It’s like most things, though. The harder the work, the greater the reward.”

Julia didn’t have long to wait to see what he meant. They hadn’t climbed much farther when he turned right onto a dirt road. There was neither a mailbox nor a sign with a name, and the road dipped and rose, but it was groomed with sand and was surprisingly smooth. What was at its end couldn’t rightly be called a clearing, because many trees remained, but where several might have stood once, there now stood a house.

It was an A-frame, small with clean lines. Roofed in dark slate, its siding was of cedar shakes that had weathered a natural silver. There were blinds on the windows, square light fixtures flanking the door, and a wraparound porch with an Adirondack chair here and there.

A carport, absent a car, was tucked under the trees, a depleted wood bin against its side. Noah backed up the truck to unload the supply under his tarp, but before starting the task, gestured her toward the house.

The air here was dry, lighter, more… happy. It was a minute before Julia connected the last with balsams in the woods, whose sweet smell conjured holiday images. They crossed a small patch of packed dirt and pine needles. He had a key out by the time they reached the door.

And suddenly it struck her. “Is this yours?” she asked with a curious smile. It wasn’t only the key. It was the feel of the place—appropriate for the setting, yet somehow different. Noah was that way—appropriate, yet different.

He opened the door and stood aside for her to enter. “I built it when I left New York. I figured a thirty-two-year-old guy with an ex-wife and a seven-year-old son couldn’t move back in with his parents. I lived here until my mother died. Then my dad needed tending. I never formally moved back in with him. I just seemed to end up there more than here.”

The house was as simple inside as Julia would imagine a man leaving the rat race would want. Living room, dining room, kitchen—there were no walls between them, just a comfortable collection of leather chairs, built-in appliances, and a round oak table with ladder-back chairs. A single large rug covered slatted wood floors; she guessed it to be Tibetan, knew it to be expensive. There were windows aplenty and a door leading to the back part of the wraparound porch. Above, on both side, were lofts. One had a pair of beds, the other a desk, replete with computer.

“There’s more downstairs,” he said.

“There’s another floor?” she asked in surprise.

“It’s built into the hill. You can’t see it from the front.” He pointed to a spot behind two of the leather chairs. “The stairs are back there. Take a look while I get my tools.”

A burgundy runner cushioned the stairs. Holding a wide railing, she started down. Halfway there, the flight turned left, and there was suddenly more light than she would have expected. There was suddenly more
room
than she had expected. There was a bathroom here, and a walk-in closet. Primarily, though, this lower floor built into the hillside was a bedroom.

A large bed rested against a wall. Sitting on an even larger rug hooked in a myriad shades of blue, it had a simple white spread and, in lieu of a headboard, enough pillows to prop more than one person up for the view. And that view? No large-screen TV here, but a wall of French doors with a view of the world.

Immediately drawn there, she looked out on an expanse of sky and sea so seamlessly merged that, save the long lean shadow of the mainland far to the west, the horizon was lost. Like the rug underfoot, this view of the world held more shades of blue than she could name. Variations of blue spruce, blue sky, blue sea, blue land—one delineated the other. The only exception to blue was the spill of gold as sunset skimmed in over the waves from the west, and the weathered gray of the deck beyond the doors.

Her view had borders on three sides—trees left and right and, beneath, the spikes of spruce tips on the hillside—but the sky had no limit. There was possibility here.

She looked back at the bed, so neatly made, so clean. Quiet, confident, modest. And different. Yes, different. Like him.

Hearing footsteps above, she waited. When the sound stopped at a place far from the stairs, she went up herself. It was a minute before she spotted his bottom half protruding from under the sink.

She crouched down by his hips and peered into the dark cabinet. He had a wrench, but it wasn’t quite attached to anything.

“How can you see?” she asked.

“I can’t,” he remarked wryly and lifted his head to meet her gaze. “There’s a flashlight two cabinets down. Want to get it?”

She found it easily and trained it on the spot where he was working. “This is a fabulous place,” she remarked. “How often do you stay here?”

“Not often enough,” he said as he tightened the wrench around a section of pipe. “I drop by to use the computer.”

“Will you stay here more now that your dad’s gone?”

He grunted with the effort of pushing the wrench. “Not yet. I want Ian to know the other place. That’s his heritage, y’know?”

“Will he be your sternman?”

“If he can hack it.” He pushed himself out, holding a U-shaped piece of pipe, and spent a minute coating the threads with sealant. Then he was back inside, reconnecting the piece, adding putty to the outer edges of the fitting, before emerging for good.

Julia was on her haunches. “He could hack it more easily if I helped.”

Noah sat up. Eye to eye, they were barely an arm’s length apart. “He could. But he won’t.”

“Why not? I’m still available.”

“You’re still slim. And soft. Go lobstering, and you get hard. You don’t want that.”

She frowned. “Everyone seems to know what I want. Don’t I have a say?”

He gave her a smug smile. “Not about this. It’s my boat.” He pushed himself up and put his tools away.

Julia wanted to be annoyed. It was the kind of statement Monte would make, laced with sexism and superiority.
Do this for me, like a good girl,
or the more outrageously chauvinistic,
Treat yourself to a new dress; I want you looking pretty for me.

Noah’s remark about her being slim and soft might have been chauvinistic, but he delivered it differently—as if it wasn’t a put-down at all, but rather his protecting her from what was clearly hard physical work.

And that was nice. She still wanted to go lobstering, but his protectiveness made the refusal more palatable.

Leaving the house, Julia perched on the running board of the truck. Lucas came out of the woods, approached only so near, and stopped. Wary, he stared at her. She held out a hand. He took one step, paused, took another step. Then he sat and looked at her, which left Julia with nothing to do but look back at him and think about hard physical work. She told herself that Noah was right, that it was his boat, and lobstering was rough. If she was looking for adventure, she could go whitewater rafting, parasailing, or bungee jumping. If she was looking to tempt fate, there were dangerous activities aplenty that wouldn’t require anyone’s permission.

But she wasn’t looking for danger, or even for adventure for adventure’s sake. She wanted to do something interesting. Looking back, she saw her life framed—like Noah’s bedroom window, only with no opening at all. Her horizons were defined and finite. In contrast to this island, where life followed weather and tides and the vista was open, that seemed stifling.

It struck her then that she had been singled out to make more of her life. It was an exciting thought; it was a
terrifying
thought. Where to head? What to do? Most people faced their life decisions on the cusp of adulthood, but she was well beyond that. Where to
begin
?

Noah emerged, went to the back of the truck, and tossed in his tools. Then he loaded his arms with wood, carried it to the bin, stacked it, and returned for more. As soon as he left with the second load, Julia went to the back of the truck and loaded up her own arms. This was a place to begin. It was simple, practical, helpful.

“What are you doing?” he asked when he straightened from the bin.

She didn’t answer, just smiled and passed him by.

“You’ll mess up your nice new T-shirt,” he called.

“It’ll wash,” she called back. Her arms didn’t hold half as much as his could, but if she made four trips, she would save him two, which she did.

Soon enough, they were back on the road. And for a little while, Julia was satisfied. She glanced at Noah. His face was darker than ever; the sun was far too low now to do anything more than gild the very tips of the spruces. He seemed preoccupied, focused almost absently on the narrow road as they descended Hawks Hill and headed toward Dobbs and her car. His headlights were on. Dusk was heavy and low.

“About Kim?” she asked softly. “Do you think I ought to do something?”

With a deep breath, he returned from wherever he’d been. “You? It’s not just your worry. It’s mine, too.”

“We, then. Do we go to the police?”

He was slow in answering, clearly reluctant. “I hate to do that before Kim starts talking again. Think she will?”

“Eventually. At least, that’s what my friend the psych professor says. She likens what Kim is experiencing to having surgery. Right now, the incision is so raw that the nerve endings aren’t functioning, and everything’s numb. In Kim’s case, the numbness is emotional. It manifests itself in her inability to speak. When the nerve endings start to regenerate, the numbness wears off.”

“How long does that take?”

“It depends on the case. So I guess you have to decide. You lost your dad. How fast do you need to learn the cause of the accident?”

“Very. But I don’t want it to be Kim.”

Neither did Julia. “If we say nothing, are we obstructing justice?”

“Not unless we know something for sure. Do you?”

“Know it for sure? No.”