Dark Water (7 page)

 

Sarah sat in the tub until the water cooled and her fingertips were starting to pucker. Reluctantly she got out of the tub, then dried quickly and pulled a clean pair of jeans and a sweater from the dresser, along with a fresh set of lingerie. After dressing quickly, she ran her fingers through her hair in lieu of a comb and moved to the table where she'd left the little green box. When she picked it up, the box left a small residue of mud behind. Frowning, she went into the bathroom and cleaned it completely before taking it back to the table.

Her hands were shaking as she set the box down. Compared to the discovery of her father's body, this was a very insignificant thing, but the little girl in her needed to reclaim this part of her life. She said a small prayer, pulled the green box into her lap and lifted the lid.

The picture she'd glimpsed earlier was still on top. She touched it with the tip of her finger, testing the fragility of the old paper, then carefully lifted it out. It was of her and her father, kneeling in the sand beside a half-built sand castle. She had a vague memory of the couple who'd stopped that day and taken the picture for them, and then the image blurred. Oh God, she wanted that back—the innocence and naiveté of believing she was safe and loved.

She looked again, remembering the photo had been taken on the day of her sixth birthday. Her mother had awakened with a sick headache, but rather than disappoint Sarah, her daddy had taken her to the shore by himself. They'd played in the surf, picking up seashells and making sand castles until the tide had come in and washed them away. Afterward, they'd eaten fish and chips wrapped in newspaper and then started the long journey home. Sarah remembered being overwhelmed with exhaustion as she curled up in the front seat, and the security of her father's hand upon her shoulder as she closed her eyes and slept.

She laid the picture aside and peered back into the box. She palmed a small, convoluted seashell, a keepsake of that day, and set it by the picture, then tilted the box into the light. The bluebird egg she'd found about a month before her father had disappeared had long since crumbled into bits, as had her lucky four-leaf clover. There was a small key that had belonged to a diary she'd never written in, and an ID bracelet with the name Sarah Jane engraved on the band. She fingered the chunk of iron pyrite that a friend of her father's had given her one day. He'd called it fool's gold and told her it was worthless, but the glittering spider veins running through the rock had looked real enough to her.

One by one, she removed the bits and pieces of what had once been her treasures until the little green box was empty. Then she set it aside and inhaled slowly, waiting for some kind of closure. It never came. Finally she got up, went into the bathroom and picked up her brush. Without really looking at herself, she brushed her hair and clipped the sides up and away from her face.

She was pulling on clean socks when Tony knocked on her door.

“Sarah?”

“Come in,” she called, and reached for her loafers.

He opened the door but didn't come inside.

“I heated some soup.”

“Sounds good. I'll be right there.”

His gaze slid to the little green box and the odd assortment of items on the table beside it.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

Sarah looked toward the table. “I found the box, but what I was looking for wasn't there.”

The sadness was still on her face. Tony stuffed his hands in his pockets in frustration.

“Is there any way I can help?”

She stood, meeting his gaze full on.

“No, but thank you just the same.”

“Are you sure?”

“You can't help. No one can.”

“What is it you're looking for, Sarah?”

“It sounds stupid.”

“Nothing is stupid if it matters to you.”

Sarah sighed, and then moved to the table and traced the curve of the seashell.

“Sarah…?”

She pushed the shell aside and touched the shape of her father's face. When she looked up, she was crying.

“These were once the most important things in my life. When Aunt Lorett came and took me away, I forgot to take them with me. Now, it's too late.”

Tony couldn't keep his distance any longer. He moved to her, then slid a hand across her back.

“As long as we live, it's never too late for change,” he said.

“It's not about change,” Sarah said. “It's just too late. I waited too long to come back, and now it's gone.”

“What's gone, honey? What were you looking for?”

There was a catch in her breath, and then she answered.

“The love…but it isn't there. It'll never be there again. They killed it, I think, just like they killed my parents.”

He couldn't bear to hear the hurt in her voice any longer.

“Come here,” he said, and pulled her into his arms.

She resisted, but only briefly. Just for a moment, she needed to lean on someone else's strength. When his arms tightened around her, she started to cry, softly at first, then harder until her shoulders were shaking.

Tony winced as the sounds of her sobs tore through him, but he'd known the breakdown was inevitable. No one could harbor this much anger without eventually coming undone. He pulled her closer, holding her tighter as he laid his cheek against the crown of her head, and knew that this was what he'd been waiting to do since the day of her mother's funeral. She'd been white-faced and shaking as tears rolled down her cheeks, and he'd wanted, with everything there was in him, to have the guts to go to her. But he hadn't. Instead, he'd walked away, thinking there would be another day when he could express his sympathies. He hadn't known until days later that little Sarah Whitman had been taken away, and so he had carried that picture and the guilt in his mind all these years. Although she was finally here in his arms, he felt as helpless now as he had that day so long ago. He wanted to make her feel better and didn't have the faintest idea how to go about it.

Finally it was Sarah who began to pull away. Tony handed her his handkerchief and reluctantly gave her the space she needed to regain her composure.

“I can't believe I did that,” she mumbled as she wiped at the tears on her face. “I'm so sorry.”

“God, Sarah…do not, the hell, apologize, all right?”

She flinched, startled by the anger in Tony's voice. Then she saw the pain on his face and sighed. “Anthony James DeMarco…”

“Yeah?”

“I'm thinking it's way past time to thank you. Thank you for caring enough to leave your home and work. Thank you for offering me your time and your home, and, most of all, thank you for loving my father.”

All the anger slid out of him as quickly as it had come. He touched the side of her face with the back of his hand and then let his hand fall back to his side.

“You're welcome.”

“About that soup…” Sarah said.

She wanted to get past the awkwardness of the moment. He needed to put some space between them.

“Yeah, about that soup,” he echoed, and grinned. “Since you own your own restaurant, I'm sure you'll recognize quality food when you taste it. Come with me. You'll find out I'm damn good at opening cans.”

“I'm thinking you're damn good at a lot of things,” Sarah said.

Before he could ask her to elaborate, she was out the door and on her way downstairs, following the scent of warm tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.

B
y late evening, the rain that had been falling all day began to turn to snow. Although Tony predicted it wouldn't stick, Sarah was still entranced by the sight. The flakes were huge and wet, melting almost as soon as they hit the ground.

Misreading her fascination for concern, Tony came up behind her as she stood at the window.

“Don't worry, it's not going to accumulate.”

“Oh, I don't care about that,” she said. “It's just that it's been years since I've seen snow.”

“Really? Why?”

“Aunt Lorett doesn't like to leave New Orleans, and I didn't want to leave Aunt Lorett.” Then she shrugged. “Probably a case of insecurity. She's all I have to call family.”

When her emotions shut down, Tony knew there was something she wasn't saying. Then it dawned on him that, not once during their whole time together, had she mentioned a boyfriend or significant other. Part of that pleased him, because it meant there was no one standing between him and the chance to know her in a more personal way, but he was also curious. He reached for her, casually fingering the third finger on her left hand.

“I see you're not wearing a ring.”

“Not now,” Sarah said.

“You were married?”

“I came close,” she said briefly.

“How close?”

“Close enough to find my fiancé in bed with another woman I thought was my friend.”

“Ouch,” Tony said softly. “That's tough to deal with. What did you do?”

“Well…I didn't kill him—or her, for that matter—but I cut my losses and never looked back. It's just as well. It left me free to put most of my energy into Ma Chère…that's the name of my restaurant. I suppose I have them to thank for my success.”

“And there's been no one else?” Tony asked.

Sarah shook her head and then looked away, ignoring the thoughts that were swirling in her head. No, there had been no one else she'd even considered, until now.

It didn't seem particularly polite to be happy about someone's misfortune, but that was exactly the way he felt. And while he was glad she wasn't in a serious relationship, he didn't want her to get antsy and pull too far away from him before he had time to build up her trust, so he quickly changed the subject.

“It's a blessing you've had your aunt, then, isn't it? Sounds as if she was the answer to your prayers.”

“Oh yes…more than that. She treated me as though I was her true daughter.”

Something about the way she said that told him it hadn't all been clear sailing between them.

“But it wasn't the same, was it?”

Sarah frowned. “When everything happened and she came to get me, I barely remembered her from our few visits to New Orleans. Maybe if I hadn't ever known my real mother…maybe if I hadn't gone to Aunt Lorett under such a cloud of despair…but it took years for me to trust the fact that she would be there when I got home from school. Then it was a matter of being the outsider within her circle of family and friends.” Sarah smiled briefly. “It wasn't easy being a white girl living within the black community in the South. There's been so much injustice and prejudice against them, even today. They didn't want me there, but they loved Lorett, so they tolerated me. It took quite a while for them to accept me.”

“And now?” Tony asked.

“I'm still the white girl who Lorett Boudreaux took to raise, but they've come to know and like me, as I do them. It hasn't been easy for any of us.” Then she added, “However, when I opened my restaurant, I raised myself up a notch in their estimation.”

“Why's that?” he asked.

“Because I make damned good gumbo, and my jalapeño corn bread is nothing to ignore.” Then she added, “And they know my aunt Lorett would hex them all if they were ever mean to me.”

Tony laughed, but when Sarah didn't, he looked at her in disbelief.

“You were kidding about the hex stuff…right?”

“No way,” Sarah said. “Back when Aunt Lorett was younger, she was into voodoo. She will swear that she's long since given up the practice, but still has the third eye.”

“What's that?” Tony asked.

“In New Orleans, it's what some call psychic abilities.”

Tony eyed her with new respect. “I'll bet it was hell keeping secrets from her.”

“You have no idea.” Then she shivered suddenly and wrapped her arms around herself. “Excuse me a minute, will you? I'm going to my room to get a sweater. I'm getting chilly.”

“Wait.” Tony hurried to the entryway closet and took a cardigan from the shelf. “Here, put this on, and I'll add a log to the fire.”

Sarah took the sweater gratefully, then followed him toward the fireplace. While she made herself comfortable in a large, overstuffed chair, he moved the fire screen aside and laid a new log on the fire. Sparks flew up the chimney as the new log displaced burning embers, and the popping and cracking sounds made Sarah think of popping corn. Tony stepped back and pulled the screen in place, then turned around.

“How about some hot chocolate?”

“Sounds good. I'll help,” she said, and started to get up.

Tony shook his head. “You stay here and get warm. I won't be long.” Then he handed her a remote. “Maybe you can find something interesting to watch on TV.”

Sarah took it, grateful not to have to move. “Thanks, but I'm not used to being waited on.”

Tony brushed the top of her head, as he would have a child's, making sure there was no misunderstanding that it was done in friendship.

“So enjoy it. I won't always be around.”

Sarah watched him leave, reluctantly admiring his masculine swagger and toned body. Her head felt warm where he'd touched it, and, impulsively, she ran her fingers across the place where his hand had been, but it felt no different. She sighed, then leaned back and closed her eyes, but that didn't help. The scent of him was on the sweater, and she imagined him in it, holding her in an embrace.

At that point she shook off the mood. She was tired and overwrought, that was all. Just because a handsome man was being kind, it didn't mean anything. After all, he'd admitted he'd come to her aid because of a debt he felt he owed her father, not because of any personal connection to her.

A few minutes later he was back. When she heard his footsteps in the hallway, she reluctantly opened her eyes. He was carrying a tray with mugs of hot chocolate and a plateful of cookies, and still walking with the same sexy swagger. She wondered if he knew how appealing he was, and discarded the thought as foolish. Of course he knew. How could he not? She also wondered if he had a special woman back in Chicago but decided against asking. That was a question a woman might ask if she was interested in getting to know a man on a deeper level, but she wasn't interested in anything except finding out who had murdered her father and laying him to rest, which meant she was definitely, positively, not interested.

Tony set the tray down on the coffee table.

“I hope you like ginger snaps. They're all I had.”

“Yes, actually, they're one of my favorites,” she said.

He grinned. “Me, too. What are the odds of that?”

Sarah watched as he handed her a mug and a couple of cookies on a napkin. Friendly. He was just being friendly. She could handle that, as long as it didn't go any further.

 

That night, when Sarah finally went to bed, it was with a feeling of security. She'd come back to Marmet alone, but she didn't feel so alone anymore. Tony DeMarco had been the last person she would have expected to see, yet regardless of his reasons for being here, he was turning out to be a blessing.

She curled up on her side and pulled the covers over her shoulders, feeling thankful for the shelter and warmth of Tony's home. Outside, the snow flurries and wind still buffeted the house. Every now and then a branch would scrape against a window, but Sarah neither heard nor cared.

Just before dawn, she woke with a start, gasping for air. She'd been dreaming that she was underwater and trying to get to the surface, yet no matter which way she swam, there was nothing but dark water. Just as she had started to give in to the inevitable and take the first breath, which would mean death, she'd awakened.

“God,” Sarah muttered, and flung back the covers.

The floor was cold beneath her bare feet, and she quickly pulled on a pair of woolly socks before going to the bathroom. A few minutes later she emerged, looked longingly back at her bed and then shuddered. No way could she sleep anymore with that dream still so fresh in her mind. Instead, she reached for her robe and then went to the window, curious to see if there was any snow. Although it was still dark outside, she could see enough to know that Tony had been right. It was no longer snowing or raining, and the snow that had fallen had not accumulated. She couldn't see it right now, but the lake was out there in the darkness, ringed by trees and available to the public by a number of roads. She thought of all the years her father had lain in the trunk at the bottom of the lake while people had boated and played on his grave.

Just as she was about to turn away, something moved between the window and her line of vision. Startled by the motion, she leaned closer to the glass, her gaze fixed on the place where movement had been, but she saw nothing.

Finally she convinced herself that it was nothing of consequence and turned away. After dressing quickly, she exited her bedroom, pausing in the hall to listen, but the house was silent. Satisfied that Tony was still asleep, she headed for the kitchen. If he had the fixings, she was going to make them a proper breakfast, New Orleans style.

 

Tony woke slowly, stretching his long body in lazy increments, just as a cat would wake. Then he pillowed his head on his hands and lay staring at the ceiling as the first light of morning slid through a part in the curtains. He closed his eyes momentarily, and as he did, his thoughts went straight to the woman who slept in the bed just down the hall.

Sarah Jane Whitman.

A plain and proper name for a New Englander, and yet there was nothing plain, prim or proper about her. She was lithe and sexy, with a go-to-hell look in her eyes. And the thick fall of dark hair that framed her face swayed in an enticing manner in direct opposition to the sway of her hips. It was a trick nature had unwittingly given her that kept causing him to lose focus around her. He never knew where to look first, at her face or her body, and either way, he kept getting lost in thoughts he couldn't pursue.

His body hardened and pulsed, eliciting a groan that drew him out of bed and sent him stumbling to the shower. Sometime later, he emerged from his room only to realize that he was not the first one up after all. The scent of cooking food wafted down the hall, and the faint but familiar sounds of lids banging on pans told him that breakfast was about to be served.

 

Sarah was taking a pan of biscuits from the oven when she realized she was no longer alone. She turned around. Tony was leaning against the doorway, with his arms folded across his chest.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked.

Tony grinned. He was beginning to learn that Sarah Whitman did not like surprises.

“Good morning to you, too,” he said, and sniffed the air appreciatively. “Something smells wonderful.”

Sarah sighed and reached for a hand towel, then wiped her hands.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to sound like such a shrew, and I hope you don't mind that I cooked.”

Tony's grin widened as he made a beeline for the pot of coffee.

“Mind that you cooked? Woman…have you gone crazy? There isn't a man standing who minds if someone's about to feed him.”

Sarah laughed before she thought, and when she did, Tony turned abruptly, his gaze fixed hard and fast on her face. Breath caught in her throat as she watched his expression change from humor to something she couldn't name. But she knew what it meant. Her belly knotted as heat fired and spiraled downward. Stifling a groan, she looked away and began breaking eggs into a bowl while wondering what she would do if he decided to act on what he was thinking.

The moment she turned away, Tony realized she'd seen the wanting in his eyes. He frowned, frustrated with the situation in general. He wasn't used to denying himself a woman when the mood struck, but Sarah wasn't just any woman, and the circumstances under which they were sharing a roof were certainly less than conducive toward any kind of romantic moment.

But it had been that laugh. Unexpected. Exuberant, and so full of life. He wanted to hear it again, when she was in his arms with her head thrown back and her long, slender throat exposed to his mouth. In that moment, he realized that what he was feeling for her was not typical of him, nor was it going to go away.

“How hungry are you?” Sarah asked.

Hungry enough to eat you up.
He didn't say what he was thinking. Instead, he made himself concentrate on the egg in her hands. “I'm thinking it's a three-egg morning.”