Stargazey Nights (15 page)

“I'll come over and take a look for you tomorrow.”

“That would be great. Thanks.”

Beau nodded. Reached into his pocket for his piece of wood.

“So,” Cabot began. “Your visitor seems nice enough.”

“Pretty girl,” Beau said as he fumbled in his shirt pocket for his knife. “I was always partial to blue-­eyed blondes.”

Cab groaned inwardly. It wouldn't take much for Abbie Sinclair to have Beau wound around her little finger.

“She's a friend of your niece's?”

“Celeste.”

“Right. What did Celeste tell you about her?”

Beau stopped and peered at Cabot. “You interested in her, son?”

“If you mean are we gonna have to fight over her, no.”

Beau chuckled.

“She hardly said a word at dinner. I was just curious why she would choose Stargazey Point for a vacation. She looks like an Aruba kind of woman.”

“Huh,” Beau said. “Don't strike me that way. Something int'resting about her though.”

“What?”

“Don't know. But you can feel it.”

The only thing Cab felt was trepidation that this was another developer's ploy to cheat the Crispins out of their property. She wouldn't be the first. They'd been circling like buzzards since Cab had been back and probably before then. Silas and a handful of others had sold their property for way below what it was worth, but that was before Cab's return. These days, pretty much everybody came to him for advice. Most of the time he'd tell them not to sell.

It was selfish he knew. Many of them were barely getting by. Hell, he even had to take on some local design jobs, but most of the offers were way below the value of the property.

They reached the old pier and Beau stopped. “You're mighty quiet tonight, boy.”

“Got a lot on my mind, I guess.”

“Nothin' bad, I hope.”

“No, nothing bad.” He'd make sure it wasn't. It was a good thing after all that Millie had coerced him into taking Ms. Sinclair sightseeing. The best thing he could do was to trap her into giving herself away while he was showing her around on Tuesday. And if she did, he'd have her on her way to the airport before she could whistle “Dixie,” if she even knew the tune.

“Well, I'll be seeing you tomorrow then.” Beau wandered off toward the pier. Cabot watched him climb down the rotting pylons to sit on the cement seawall below. It was still just light enough to see the blade of his knife as it sliced into the unformed block of wood.

Cabot turned toward home thinking about Beau and what it must be like to live surrounded by those two strong-­willed women. It would drive Cab mad, but Beau took everything in stride, wandering off to carve beautiful, mysterious forms. Mysterious because Cab had never seen a finished product, not even in all the summers he'd spent here. Maybe Beau never finished them, just carved and whittled until he carved the wood away.

Cab couldn't imagine the Point without Beau and his block of wood.

And he couldn't imagine himself anywhere else.

Instead of going home, he walked the half block to his reason for being in Stargazey. Riffled through his keys until he found the one that opened the padlock that secured the double plywood door. The original doors had been blown off in Hurricane Hugo in 1989, then again in '99 and '04. After the last time, Ned hadn't opened up again. Tourism was off, the beaches had eroded, and with the opening of the big theme parks, there wasn't much call for his kind of business.

Cab pulled at one side of the door. It scraped against the dirt as it arced outward. He'd have to put proper doors on soon—­these were too unwieldy and probably not that safe—­but he had some time still. He wanted new windows installed, the place painted, the electricity working.  . . .

He stepped into the dark cavernous space, thinking he could smell the freshly laid sawdust, hear the distant echo of music, the whirl of lights and mirrors, the delighted squeals of children, the laughter of adults.

Peter Pan? Maybe. He just knew that even with a promising future, a beautiful fiancée, and a substantial stock portfolio, his life had been sterile and bleak. Until he'd come back to Stargazey Point to settle Ned's estate. He'd returned to Atlanta seemingly the same, but he had changed in the space of a few short days and the discovery of Ned's legacy.

He looked into the dark at the strange machinery and half-­finished structures and felt happy. He'd given up everything for this, and he'd be damned if he'd let anyone, including Abbie Sinclair, take it away.

Abbie scrambles on her hands and knees. Past the donkey, eyes rolling in terror. She thrusts a rigid arm toward the small hand that stretches open-­fingered from the mud. She can't reach it. The harder she tries, the farther it slides away. Only the donkey stays, his head thrashing in the mud. But she can't reach the boy. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

Werner yells at her, she turns. His lips move, but she can't hear him. “What?” she screams. His eyes widen, his arms fly out as his body recoils and blood splatters the air. He falls, slowly, slowly to the ground, calling to her, but she can't hear.

Abbie thrashed against the covers. Sat up. Gasping for breath. It was a dream. The dream. She clutched the sheet as the bed began to shake, move across the floor, the tall posts wavering in the dark, until they disintegrated like ashes around her. She rolled off the bed and crawled toward the French doors across an undulating floor.

Not real, not awake, not real.
She grabbed at the door handles, flung the doors wide, and stumbled onto the veranda. She pulled herself up to the balcony rail and peered out to sea. The wind hit her damp skin, and she shivered uncontrollably.

She was in South Carolina with Celeste's family. She was standing on firm wood.

It was dark. Only a lighter aura marked the northern shore where the lights from civilization broke through the night. But straight out to sea was black. And though the stars blinked erratically above her, their light didn't shine on the land.

Abbie crossed her arms over her chest. Closed her eyes and opened them again. She looked up and down the porch, making sure she hadn't wakened the others, not knowing if she'd talked or screamed or cried in her sleep. She heard nothing but the whisper of the waves touching the sand.

This had to stop. She might have awakened one of the Crispins, scared any of the three into a heart attack.

Something creaked in the dark. She whirled around and peered into the shadows. One of the rocking chairs moved slowly back and forth. Abbie backed against the balcony rail. The chair ceased rocking. Hopefully, it was over for tonight.

Just as she began to relax, the chair lurched forward and something clunked to the ground. She froze, felt something rub against her ankles. And then a low rumbling.

It seemed to take forever for her brain to kick into gear. Not a hallucination, not a nightmare. A cat was purring at her feet.

She exhaled so sharply she nearly fell backward.

She knelt down, and the cat bumped against her knee. He, or she, was big and seemed in no hurry to leave. She reached out her hand, and the cat stretched his neck to be stroked.

“Now where did you come from? You're not feral, you're too friendly to be a scavenger, so I'm guessing you're a resident, too.”

The cat made a rusty sound that Abbie took as a meow, made a final pass under her hand, and turned to walk slowly and stately, tail twitching, down the veranda. He was swallowed by the darkness long before he reached the end.

Abbie shivered. Her nightshirt was clammy with sweat. She looked quickly around, assuring herself that she was indeed awake. She took a deep breath of salt air, a long last look at the dark, heaving waves, and went back to her room.

She hurried across the carpet and jumped onto the high four-­poster, pulled the covers up to her neck. Okay. No one had seen or heard her. And she couldn't be too crazy; the cat liked her. But this couldn't go on. She had to pull herself together.

She'd done her best. She couldn't have done more. She knew that. And yet somehow that wasn't enough.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Prologue

A
lden wasn't supposed to take the dinghy out today. That's the last thing his dad said when he left for work that morning. “Don't go on the water. There's a bad storm brewing.”

He'd only meant to be out long enough to catch something for dinner, but the storm had come in too fast. Now the water boiled black around him. Already he could hardly tell the difference between the black clouds overhead and the black rocks of the breakwater. Knives of rain slashed at his eyes and slapped his windbreaker against his skin. The shore looked so far away. He knew where the tide would pull him before he got there.

He was scared. His dad would kill him if he wrecked the dinghy. A huge wave crashed over the boat, throwing him to the floor. One oar was snatched from his hand and he barely managed to grab it before it slipped from the lock. And he forgot all about what punishment he would get and prayed he could stay alive to receive it.

He pulled himself onto the bench and started rowing as hard as he could.

And then he saw her. A dark form. Standing on the rocks. At first he thought she must be a witch conjured from the storm. He tried to wipe his eyes on his sleeve, but he couldn't let go of the oars.

She waved her hands and began to scramble down the rocks. And then she slipped and disappeared.

He stopped trying to save himself and let the breakwater draw the boat in. He knew just when to stick out the oar to keep from crashing. Held on with all his strength. The dinghy crunched as it hit, and he flung the rope over the spike his dad had hammered into the rock years before.

He couldn't see her now. He clambered from the boat, slipped on the rocks. Called out, but the wind snatched his voice away.

And suddenly there she was, lying not three feet away. Motionless.

He crawled over the slimy rocks, grabbing whatever would keep him from sliding back into the sea, and knelt beside her; he shook her. “Lady? Lady, you gotta get up.”

She didn't move.

“Lady. Please. You gotta get up.” He pulled on her arm, but she only turned over. She wasn't a lady. She was just a girl. Wearing jeans. Not that much older than him.

He grabbed under her shoulders and tried to drag her toward the boat. She was heavy, heavier than she looked, and she wouldn't help.

And he just kept thinking,
Please don't be dead.

Then she moved. Her eyes opened, and they were wide and scared. She grabbed hold of him, nearly knocking him over, but together they crawled to where the dinghy bucked like a bronco in the waves.

He didn't know how he got her into the boat, or how he rowed to shore, or pushed the dinghy to safety on the rocky beach. He was so cold he couldn't feel his fingers or his feet. And she'd closed her eyes again. This time he didn't try to wake her; he ran, not home, but across the dunes to Calder Farm, burst into the kitchen, and fell to his knees.

“The beach. Help her.” And everything went black.

 

W
hen he awoke, he was lying in a bed, covered in heavy quilts. “Go back to sleep. Everything's all right.”

Gran Calder.

“Is she dead?”

She patted the quilt by his shoulder. “No, no. You saved her life. You were very brave.”

His lip began to tremble. He couldn't stop it.

Then somebody screamed, and she hurried out of the room. He pulled the covers over his head so he wouldn't hear, but he couldn't breathe. Another scream worse than before. What were they doing to her?

He slid out from the covers but he wasn't wearing anything. Someone had taken his clothes. He pulled the quilt from the bed, wrapped it around himself, and dragged it out into the hallway.

Only one light was on, but a door was ajar at the end of the hall. He crept toward it, trailing the quilt behind him.

The girl screamed again. Then stopped.

He stopped too, frightened even more by that sudden silence.

Then a new, smaller cry filled the air.

Chapter 1

M
eri Hollis dropped the paint chip into a manila envelope and rolled from her back to sit upright on the scaffolding.

She stretched her legs along the rough wood and cracked her neck. It had been a long day, first standing, then sitting, then lying on her back. Every muscle protested as she leaned forward to touch her toes, but she knew better than to start the descent before her circulation was going again.

While she waited she labeled the newest sample, added it to the file box, and placed it in a bucket that she lowered thirty feet to the floor. She flipped off her head lamp, pulled it from her head, and took a last look at her little corner of the world, which in the dim light looked just as sooty and faded as it had twenty hours, two hundred paint samples, and several gallons of vinegar and water ago.

It had been slow going. The meticulous cleaning of paint layers was never fast even on a flat ceiling, but when you added plaster ornamentation, extreme care was needed. But Meri had finally reached enough of the original ceiling that she was sure it had been painted in the mid-1800s.

It was exciting—especially if what she suspected turned out to be true.

She'd discovered the first fleck of gold that afternoon. Surely there would be more. But further study would have to wait until Monday. She was calling it a day.

Meri stored her tools and slowly lowered one foot to the first rung of the pipe ladder that would take her to the ground floor. Work had stopped in the grand foyer a half hour ago, but she'd been determined to finish that one test section today.

She reached the bottom on creaky ankles and knees, grabbed hold of the ladder and stretched her calves and thighs. When she felt steady she picked up her file box and tools and carried them to the workroom.

Carlyn Anderson looked up from where she was logging in data from the day's work. “You're the last one.”

Meri deposited her file on the table and arched her back. “Now I know how Michelangelo felt. Only he ended up with the Sistine Chapel and I got a sooty ceiling in a minor mansion with two hundred plus chips from twenty layers of ancient paint in various hues of ick.”

“Yeah, but just imagine what it will look like when it's back in its original state.”

“Actually I got a glimpse of it today. If I'm not mistaken, there's gold in them thar hills.”

“Gilt?”

“Maybe. It might be a composite. In the state the ceiling's in, it's impossible to tell without the microscope.” Meri pulled a stool over to the table and sat down. “Why the hell would anyone paint over a decorative ceiling from the nineteenth century?”

“The same reason they painted over the Owen Jones wallpaper with psychedelic orange.”

“Oh well, someone's bad taste is our job security,” Meri said. “Is there someone left who can take this over to the lab tonight?” She handed Carlyn the manila envelope of samples.

“I will, but you owe me, since you've blown off karaoke tomorrow night. And it's Sixties Night.” Carlyn went through several doo-wop moves they'd been practicing on their lunch hour.

“Sorry, but I promised Gran I'd come out for my birthday dinner tonight. I'm not looking forward to a forty-minute drive but I couldn't say no. And tomorrow I'm having my birthday dinner with Peter.” She yawned.

“You don't sound too excited.”

“Well, I did turn thirty today somewhere between layer four—baby poop brown—and layer three—seventies kitchen green.”

“You're in your prime.”

“I'm slipping into middle age and instead of proposing, Peter decides to go back to law school.” Meri slid off the stool.

“Maybe he'll propose before then. Maybe tomorrow night.”

“Maybe, but I'm not holding my breath. Don't listen to me. I'm just tired. I've got a great job, great friends, a family who loves me, and . . .” Meri grinned at Carlyn. “Karaoke. Now, I'd better get going if I want to get a shower in before I hit the road.”

“Well, happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, Doug wants to see you in his office before you go.”

Meri winced. “We can guess he's not giving me a raise?”

“No, but he should kiss your butt for the extra hours you're putting in gratis.” Meri yawned. “I'd rather have a raise.” “I'll walk you down.”

Meri picked up her coat and bag from her locker, and the two of them headed back to the kitchen, also known as Doug's office, to see what the project manager could possibly want on a Friday night.

The door swung inward, but the kitchen was dark.

“Are you sure he's still here?” Meri asked, groping for the light switch.

The lights came on. “Surprise!”

Beside her, Carlyn guffawed. “I can't believe you didn't know what was going on.”

Meri laughed. “You guys.”

Carlyn pushed her into the center of the room where at least twelve architectural restoration workers stood around the kitchen table and a large sheet cake with a huge amount of candles.

Doug Paxton came over to give Meri a hug. He was a big, brawny guy who had been relegated to ground work after falling through the floor of an abandoned house and breaking both legs and a hip five years before. He'd grown a little soft around the middle, but he still exuded power and good taste. And he knew his way around a restoration better than anybody she knew.

“Happy birthday. Now come blow out your candles.”

Someone had lit the candles during the hug, and the cake was ablaze.

“I may need help,” Meri said. “And these better not be trick candles.” Though she didn't really know what to wish for. She had everything she wanted—a good job, great friends, a loving family, everything else except a fiancé. She was in no hurry, even if she
was
thirty. So she wished that life would stay good and that things would eventually work out for Peter and her and that the project would find the funding it would need for a complete restoration.

“What are you waiting for? Hurry up. The candles are about to gut.”

Meri took a deep breath, motioned to everybody to help, and the candles were extinguished. Cake was cut, seltzer was brought out, since Doug didn't allow any alcohol on a site, and a good time was had by all, for nearly a half hour until Meri made her apologies and headed for her apartment, a shower, and a long drive out to the farm.

 

T
raffic was heavy as Meri drove north out of Newport. Gran lived about a fifteen-minute stone's throw across the bay. But to drive there she had to go up to Portsmouth, across the bridge, then south again. So she hunkered down to endure the cars, the dark, and the rain.

It must have been raining all day, not that she'd noticed, because the streets and sidewalks were slick and puddles had formed in the uneven asphalt. She never did notice things when she was deep into a project. She had great powers of concentration and could spend hours lost in the zone.

Even as a child, Meri would look up from reading, or weeding, or just lying in the sea grass thinking, to find her three brothers standing over her. “We've been calling you for hours,” they'd complain. “Dinner's ready.” And they'd drag her to her feet and race her across the dunes to the house they shared with Gran. When Meri was fifteen, her father was granted a research position at Yale and the family moved to New Haven, only seeing Gran on long weekends and holidays.

Meri sighed. Thirty must be the age when you started reminiscing about life. She was definitely feeling nostalgic tonight. Maybe it was because her future was suddenly looking a little hazy, though she had to admit, Peter's change of plans hadn't thrown her into depths of despair. After her initial shock and dismay, her first thought was she would have more time to concentrate on her work without feeling guilty about neglecting him.

Obviously, neither of them was ready for total commitment. This would give them some time to really figure things out.

As she crossed the bridge at Tiverton, the drizzle became a deluge, and her little hatchback was buffeted by gusts of wind that didn't let up until she turned south again toward Calder Farm. She could see the house across the dunes long before she got there. Every window was lit, and the clapboard and stone farmhouse shone like a lighthouse out of the dark. Way to the left of it, Alden Corrigan's monstrous old house appeared as an ominous shadow.

Meri smiled. Looks could be deceiving. Alden's house was merely untended. It had seen its share of unhappiness like most of the old houses in the area, but it had also had its share of good times.

She turned into the car path and bumped slowly toward the house. Most of the menagerie of animals that found their way to the farm had probably taken shelter in the barn at the first sign of rain. Still, Meri peered through the dark for moving forms and gleaming eyes until she came to a stop at the front of the house.

A silver Mercedes was parked outside. Meri grabbed her overnight bag from the backseat, ducked into the rain, and dashed toward the kitchen door, which opened just as she got there, casting a bright spotlight on her as she rushed inside.

“Hi, Gran.” Meri kissed her grandmother's cheek and shrugged out of her dripping jacket. “What smells so good?”

Gran took her coat. “Your favorite, as if you didn't know. Now come inside.”

Meri stepped into the kitchen, shaking off the rain. A man got up from the table. He was tall with hair combed back from a high forehead, and smile lines creasing his eyes and mouth.

“Dad!” Meri said. She dropped her case and purse and gave him a wet hug. “I can't believe you're here. Why didn't you tell me you were coming? Is that a new car?”

He laughed and pushed her gently to arm's length, then planted a kiss on her forehead. “I wasn't sure I could get away. Happy birthday.”

Gran gave her a pat. “Go wash up and we'll eat.”

Meri hurried to the powder room, followed by several cats that appeared from nowhere for the sole purpose of trying to trip her up on her way down the hall.

Daniel Hollis had married Meri's mother when Meri was three; three sons came at regular intervals after that, and every spare space was put to use as the Hollis family grew.

Now Gran lived mostly downstairs. She was only seventy-five, or so she told everyone, but since she lived alone, they'd all made her promise not to go up and down the stairs, a promise that she promptly broke. When Meri caught her vacuuming the bedroom carpets, she merely said, “I can't live comfortably knowing all that dust is gathering above my head.”

When Meri returned to the kitchen, there were bowls of steaming cioppino set at three places, and the aroma of the rich seafood stew filled the air. They'd just sat down when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in, Alden,” Gran called from the table. “That man could smell cioppino from the next county.”

The door opened and “that man,” a tall, ridiculously thin, broodingly handsome forty-two-year-old man ducked in the low door and stood dripping on the flagstone floor.

“Get yourself a bowl and sit down,” Gran said.

“Thanks, but I can't stay. I just came to say happy birthday.”

Gran gave him a look that Meri didn't understand and Alden chose to ignore. He walked over to Meri and before she could even stand, he dropped a flat gift-wrapped package on the table. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks. Can't you stay? I haven't seen you in forever.”

“I know, but I have a bunch of work to get finished and I'm way behind. You staying for the weekend?”

“Just till tomorrow.”

“Then I'll see you before you leave.”

“At least wait until I open your present.”

She pulled at the string that was tied around the package; the bow released and with it the paper.

“I couldn't find the tape,” he said.

“Why am I not surprised?” She lifted out a piece of card-board, where a pen-and-ink drawing had been mounted. It was a girl, her hair curling down her back, sitting on the rocks gazing out to sea. The rocks were those of the breakwater on the beach between the two houses. The girl looked like her.

“It's beautiful, Alden. Thank you. Is it Ondine?” she asked, teasing him. Taciturn and reclusive, he was best known for his illustrations of children's books.

“Good God, no.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised at his reaction. “Who then?”

“Just someone sitting on the rocks.”

“Ah. Well, I love it. Thank you. I'm going to have it framed and put it on my living room wall in Newport.”

“I'd better be going; your dinner is getting cold.”

“You're sure you don't want—”

“Can't,” Alden said. “But happy birthday. Dan. Gran.”

Gran shook her finger at him. But he was gone.

“Well, that was weird,” Meri said.

His leaving seemed to cast a pall over the room.

“Let's eat,” Gran said.

Meri dug in, but she noticed that Gran merely picked at her food. Dan seemed to have lost his appetite, too. Meri didn't understand. The stew was heavenly, but their lack of enthusiasm was catching, and she pushed her bowl away before it was empty. “Delicious,” she said with a satisfied sigh, though it was a little forced.

The atmosphere had definitely taken a plunge since Alden's visit. She wanted to know why. “Is something happening with Alden? Why didn't he stay for dinner?”

“Oh, you know Alden,” Gran said and began clearing the table.

She
did
know Alden. They'd grown up together, sort of. He was already a teenager when she was born, and by the time she was old enough to pester him and follow him around, he was in high school.

Gran refused help with the dishes, and Meri and her father traded work stories until Gran returned with a homemade carrot raisin cake and one big candle. “I always keep a box of birthday candles,” Gran explained. “But I guess they melted in last summer's heat wave. So you only get one.”