Summer's Child (21 page)

T
HE DAY WAS BLISTERING HOT AS
D
ARIA DROVE SOUTH TO
Rodanthe, and the heat rose from the road in shimmering waves. She’d barely slept the night before, rehearsing what she would say to the pilot’s parents, but with the meeting looming in front of her, she found she couldn’t think about it. Instead, her mind slipped back to the evening before, when she’d played volleyball with Rory, when he’d touched her on the court. The last thing she’d needed was his help; she was now and always had been a superior volleyball player to him. But she
had
needed that touch. She’d hoped for it, even moving herself into positions where she thought she might find his hands on her body. And he had read her need and touched her. It had felt like a dance, but she had to remind herself she was dancing alone.

So, he and Grace still were not lovers. She kept him at arm’s length. A smile formed on her lips at the thought. He was most likely right about Grace: she’d probably had breast cancer, maybe a mastectomy. She always wore those high-necked bathing suits. Naturally, she was struggling with intimacy, and Daria was a grade-A bitch for taking any pleasure in that fact.

She drove across the bridge above the Oregon Inlet and
through the green, undeveloped stretch of land that formed the Pea Island Wildlife Refuge. A short time later, she was in Rodanthe, the northernmost town on Hatteras Island. The houses were fewer here on this narrow strip of land, and the sense of commercialism that permeated Kill Devil Hills was missing.

Rodanthe was so small that she found the street she was looking for with little trouble. She turned onto it, toward Pamlico Sound, and parked in front of the address she’d been given. The house was older, small and yellow, fronted by a tidy landscaped yard. There were no cars in the driveway, but there might have been one in the small garage at the rear of the property. She hadn’t thought about what she would do if no one was home. Maybe she
should
have called first.

She knocked on the door and waited.

“They’re not home.”

She turned to see a woman getting out of a car in front of the house next door, grocery bags in her arms.

“Do you know where I can find them?” Daria asked.

“Probably at their store,” the woman said. “It’s called Beachside Café and Sundries. It’s straight down that way.” She pointed toward the sound. “Make a left at the fork.”

Back in her car, Daria followed the woman’s directions to the Beachside Café. She parked on the street and sat in her car for a moment, debating what she should do. She didn’t want to interrupt them at work with something this weighty. Maybe she could just tell them who she was and ask if there would be a more convenient time for her to speak with them.

With that plan in mind, she got out of the car and walked inside the café.

The café was small and crowded and smelled strongly of coffee. All the tables by the windows overlooking the sound were full, and a couple of women stood near the counter,
waiting for their orders, Daria supposed. A very young woman—too young to be the pilot’s mother—carried a tray of sandwiches to the diners at one of the tables. Standing behind the counter, a dark-haired man worked the espresso machine. He glanced up as Daria approached.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, his attention already back on the coffee machine.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, “I’m looking for Edward Fuller.”

He dried his hands on a towel. “I’m Eddie,” he said. He handed two cups of coffee to the women waiting at the counter, and they carried them over to the crowded tables.

“I’m so sorry to disturb you at work, Mr. Fuller,” she said again.

“Eddie,” he repeated.

“Eddie. My name is Daria Cato. I was one of the EMTs on the scene of the plane accident where your daughter, Pamela, was—” she glanced toward the tables by the windows and lowered her voice “—where your daughter was killed. I was wondering if there was a time I might be able to talk with you and your wife.”

He stared at her for a moment, then nodded. “Sally?” he called to the waitress.

The young woman turned from the table she was serving to look at him.

“Can you handle things out here for a few minutes?” he asked.

“No problem,” Sally said, and Eddie Fuller led Daria into a room at the back of the café. The room was minuscule and made smaller by two large desks set against adjacent walls.

“Please—” the man pointed toward one of the desk chairs “—have a seat.”

Daria sat down. “Is your wife here?” she asked. “I was hoping to talk with both of you.”

“No, I’m afraid she’s not here right now. But I’d really like to hear what you have to say. You were there, on the scene?”

“Yes, I was. And although it’s been months, I still think about her—your daughter. I just needed to make contact with you and your wife to be sure you’re doing okay and to belatedly convey my condolences.”

With a heavy sigh, Eddie sat down himself, and Daria was distressed by the tears in his eyes. “Well, to be truthful, we’re not doing okay at all. It’s hell to bury a child,” he said, his gaze out the window. “It’s even worse when you blame yourself for her death.”

“Why would you do that?” Daria asked, surprised. “How could you possibly be at fault?”

He waved away the question. “Can you tell me what it was like?” he asked. “The accident, I mean? They told us she died almost instantly. She didn’t suffer much, did she?”

Daria chose her words carefully. “It all happened very quickly,” she said. “And I guess you know that the passengers reported she’d lost consciousness before the accident, so I don’t think she was all that aware of what was going on.” The lie slipped awkwardly from her mouth, but the look of relief on Eddie Fuller’s face made her glad she had told it.

“The autopsy said she’d had a seizure,” Eddie said. “That’s why the plane went down. I’m just thankful the two passengers were all right.”

“A seizure?” Daria hadn’t known that. “Did she have a history of seizures?” She thought of Shelly. Shelly was not even allowed to drive, much less fly a plane.

“No, that was her first, as far as I know. I never would’ve let her fly if I’d known she was prone to them. She had a condition called Marfan’s syndrome, although she never really had any symptoms of it. But apparently one of the symptoms is seizures.” He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again,
it seemed to take great effort. “I always wanted to fly,” he said. “It was a dream of mine from the time I was very small. But I couldn’t, because of high blood pressure. So, I pushed my daughter to be a pilot. I gave her model planes when she was little. A friend had a Cessna, and he took us up and would let her operate the controls.” Eddie played with the corner of his apron, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “Pam was bitten by the bug. I’d made sure that she was. She got her license the day she turned seventeen. She loved it, and I loved that she loved it.”

“Is that why you blame yourself?” Daria asked.

His nod was almost imperceptible.

“You could never have predicted what happened.” She hurt for the man. “You and she probably had a special relationship because of your shared love of flying. That sounds wonderful to me.”

“I was selfish, living vicariously through Pam,” he said. “My wife never wanted her to fly. She was always afraid something awful would happen. And she was right. She still hasn’t forgiven me for it, either.” He looked down at the apron, smoothed it across the denim covering his thigh. “She and I…We’re not doing too well.”

“I don’t mean to be intrusive,” Daria said, “but it sounds to me like both you and your wife loved your daughter deeply, and that maybe you haven’t really been able to grieve together because…because your wife is spending her energy being angry with you, and you’re spending your energy being angry with yourself, and so neither one of you is able to heal.”

“You hit the nail right on the head,” he said.

“What about counseling?” Daria said. “Maybe that would help the two of you.”

“We went once, but then my wife had to have surgery and she was…” His voice trailed off as he looked out the window
again. He shook his head. “She’s just had too much to deal with. So, we haven’t been back to the counselor, and Grace wouldn’t go, anyhow. She’s too angry with me.”

Daria caught her breath.
Grace?
From Rodanthe? But Rory’s Grace was named Grace Martin, and Grace was not all that rare a name. Besides, Rory’s Grace was separated from her husband. Surely this couldn’t be…She looked around the room and found exactly what she was searching for on one of the cluttered desks: a photograph of Eddie, Pamela—and Grace Martin. Her mind raced as she tried to put two and two together.

“Um…” Her voice had a tremor in it. “Your wife. Grace? How is she coping?”

“You’d have to ask her that question,” Eddie said. He did not sound bitter, only confused. “I don’t know where she is half the time,” he said. “She won’t talk to me. She won’t tell me what she’s thinking or feeling. We’re both pretty alone in this…not grieving together, like you said.”

He hadn’t mentioned a thing about a separation, and she needed to know. “Have you and your wife…separated over this?” she asked.

He looked surprised, as well he should, since he had said nothing to make her think that. “No, and I sure hope it doesn’t come to that. Though right now we may as well be. She’s staying in an apartment above our garage. I’m just hoping some time to herself is going to make a difference.”

“I hope so,” she said absently. No wonder Grace never wanted Rory to come to Rodanthe to see her.

Daria stood up. “I’d better let you get back to work,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“I’m glad you came,” Eddie said, standing himself. “It makes me feel like Pamela had the best chance possible, knowing somebody like you was there. Somebody who really cared.”

Daria wrote her phone number on a pad lying on the desk.
“Please call me if you need to talk again.”
Or if your wife needs to talk
, she should add. But of course, she could not.

Outside the café, Daria sat in her car, turning on the ignition only long enough to lower all the windows, not yet ready to drive. What the hell was going on with Grace? Was that why she was so pathologically attentive to Shelly? Was she trying to replace the daughter she’d lost? With a horrified jolt, she wondered if Grace might somehow know about Shelly’s role in Pamela’s death. She tried to follow that thought to its logical conclusion: Grace had somehow found out what Shelly had done at the scene of the accident. Then she plotted to meet Shelly, and now, perhaps, was planning to harm her in some way as retribution. “That’s crazy,” she said out loud. Her imagination was running away with her. But what else was she to think? One thing she knew for certain was that Grace Martin—Grace
Fuller—
was a liar. Should she tell Rory? She had to. She couldn’t keep this from him. For all she knew, Grace was simply using Rory to get close to Shelly.

Driving home in a daze, glad the route was a straight shot and required little of her attention, she tried to puzzle out, not only what Grace was up to, but what she could do about it.

She pulled into the driveway of the Sea Shanty just as Shelly walked into the yard from the beach, and all of Daria’s protective instincts kicked into gear at the sight of her.
Grace better not harm a hair on her head,
she thought.

“Hi, Shell,” she said as she got out of the car.

Shelly mumbled a greeting and reached for the door, and Daria could see that her face was red.

“Shelly?” Daria started walking toward the house. “What’s wrong?”

Shelly froze, her hand on the knob of the screen door. “Nothing,” she said.

Daria caught up to her. Shelly had definitely been crying. “Oh, sweetie.” She put an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “What’s got you so upset?”

Shelly hesitated, then sat down heavily on the front steps. Daria sat down with her, her arm still around her shoulders.

“I’m afraid,” Shelly said.

“Of what?” Daria asked.

Shelly frowned. She looked down in her lap, where she was pressing her fingers together so firmly that the knuckles were white. “That Father Sean is going to kill himself.”

Daria almost laughed. Where had Shelly come up with this one? “Why would you think that, honey?” she asked.

Shelly shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I know it sounds silly. I just started thinking it while I was out walking.”

“Well, sometimes our imaginations can run away with us, huh?” she asked.

“Yeah. I guess.”

It was unlike Shelly to be this distressed unless she was facing a trip away from the Outer Banks. “You know Father Macy would never do anything like that, don’t you?” Daria asked.

Shelly shrugged, her gaze still glued to her fingers.

“He’s a Catholic priest, for heaven’s sake, Shelly. He’s the last person you would expect to commit suicide.”

Shelly pressed her lips together. She looked up at Daria and forced a weak smile. “I guess you’re right,” she said.

Daria studied her sister’s face. Her eyes were truly red, her nose a bit swollen. “You don’t usually have unpleasant fantasies like that,” she said.

“I know,” Shelly said. “But I think I’m over it now.”

Daria laughed. “That was quick,” she said. This was just another of Shelly’s peculiar, wayward thoughts. “Tomorrow, we’ll go watch the hang-gliding competition, and maybe Father Macy will win. Wouldn’t that be great?”

The weak smile again. “Yeah,” Shelly agreed, and Daria was not at all certain her sister was “over it,” as she’d said.

She looked across the street at Poll-Rory. “I need to go have a chat with Rory.”

“He’s not home,” Shelly said, and Daria realized the blue SUV was not in the driveway.

“Do you know where he is?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Shelly said. “I talked to Jill earlier today, and she said that she and Rory were taking Zack and Jason out to dinner and a movie.”

Dinner and a movie. What time would he be home? She was anxious to tell him what she’d learned in Rodanthe.