Summer's Child (8 page)

“What?”

“I have chronic pain, too.”

“You do? Where?”

“No one knows about it,” she said.

“Can you tell me about it?” He felt some alarm. Was she ill?

“Only if you promise not to tell Daria or Chloe. It would upset them to know.”

“I promise,” he said.

“Well, it’s not an arm or a leg that hurts,” she said. “It’s actually all of me. My body and my head and my heart. They all hurt from not knowing who my real mother is.”

Rory looked at her, at those beautiful brown eyes, filled with hope and sadness, and this time he did put his arm around her and gave her a hug. He truly had her permission now.

T
HE HEAT IN THE CAR WAS ALMOST INTOLERABLE
. T
HE DAY WAS
not all that warm, and Grace had the windows open, but after sitting in the parked car for nearly two hours, she was beginning to wilt. She’d parked the car at the end of the cul-de-sac, close to the beach road and just two lots away from the cottage she’d learned belonged to Rory Taylor. She’d driven past the cottage before parking and saw the sign: Poll-Rory. Who or what did the “Poll” stand for? she wondered.

She was nervous. She’d been nervous since leaving her tiny apartment in Rodanthe that morning. It had taken her half an hour to drive from Rodanthe to Kill Devil Hills, yet it had seemed an eternity. She knew she was doing something crazy; she almost felt as if she was doing something illegal.
Grace just isn’t herself
.

Suddenly, the front door to Rory Taylor’s cottage opened, and her heart kicked into high gear, skipping a beat or two, alarming her. Had she taken her medication that morning? She couldn’t remember, and now there was no time to worry about it. The man emerging from the front door was almost certainly Rory Taylor. She knew what he looked like; everyone did. He was carrying a beach chair, and she grimaced as he headed
toward the beach.
Damn.
She’d been hoping he would get in his car and drive out of the cul-de-sac so that she could follow him. She’d pictured him driving to the nearest grocery store, where she could “accidentally” bump into him in one of the aisles. But things were not going her way. Nevertheless, she’d prepared for this possibility as well. She wasn’t supposed to be in the sun, but what did a rash or a sunburn matter at this point? Grabbing the beach blanket from the back seat, she got out of her car.

Rory had just finished the first chapter of the paperback he was reading, when a woman spread her blanket on the sand near his chair. He tried to keep his attention on his book, but he couldn’t help staring at her, and he hoped his dark glasses would prevent her from noticing. The woman was very attractive, tall and slender, with light brown hair that reflected the sunlight. Her one-piece, high-necked navy blue bathing suit made her shoulders look sexy. She was very pale, though, as if she hadn’t spent much time on the beach so far this summer. She lay facedown on her blanket, took off her sunglasses and closed her eyes.

She’s going to burn to a crisp,
he thought.

It was a weekday, and the beach was strewn with sunbathers, but not really crowded. He could see Zack sitting close to the water, sharing a blanket with a few other kids his age. Zack already had the sort of tan it took most people a summer to acquire, and his hair was several shades lighter than it had been when they’d first arrived. Had Rory tanned that quickly, looked that good when he was Zack’s age? If he had, he’d never known it.

He returned his attention to his book and was in the middle of chapter three when the woman lying near him suddenly let out a yelp and jumped up from her blanket.

Startled, Rory looked up at her. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

The woman laughed, her cheeks coloring. “I think something bit me,” she said, brushing her hand over her arm. “Probably just a horsefly.” She had deep bangs that framed her face and accentuated her chiseled features, and she was older than he had first guessed. Late thirties, or maybe even early forties.

“Oh, yeah, there are a few of them around,” he said, although to be honest, he hadn’t seen any yet this summer.

The woman suddenly stood perfectly still, staring at him, and he knew that he’d been recognized.

“You’re Rory Taylor!” she said.

“Guilty.” He rested his book facedown in the sand, glad to have an entrée to talk with her. “And you’re…?”

“Grace Martin,” she said. She sat down again, brushing her hand over the invisible bite on her arm as she smiled at him. She had one of those wide, straight smiles that was impossible to observe without smiling back.

“I live down in Rodanthe,” she said, lifting her sunglasses from the blanket and slipping them on. “I was visiting a friend up here in Kill Devil Hills, and the day was so beautiful that I decided to relax on the beach awhile before heading back.” Her hands were still shaking from her run-in with the fly, and even her voice sounded a bit tremulous, but the flush remaining in her cheeks made her look very pretty. Her sunglasses were see-through blue, and he could still make out her brown eyes behind them. There was something needy about her, and he felt an unexpected desire to comfort her by taking one of those pale hands in his own.

“What’s the beach like in Rodanthe?” he asked, although he didn’t particularly care about the answer. He just wanted to keep her talking.

“Oh, about the same as this. Not as many people, though.”

“Must be nice,” he said.

“So, why are you here?” she asked. “We don’t usually get movie stars in the Outer Banks.”

He laughed. “I’ve never been in a movie,” he said. People made that mistake all the time. “But to answer your question, my family has had a cottage here ever since I was a kid, right behind us on that cul-de-sac.” He pointed behind him. “I haven’t been back to it in a long time, but recently I’ve been thinking about an incident that happened here many years ago that might make a good episode on the show I produce.”

“True Life Stories,”
she said.

“Right.”

“What is the incident?” She cocked her head, and he wondered if she was coquettish or merely curious.

“Well, a long time ago, a newborn baby was found on this beach,” he said, “right about where we’re sitting. A little closer down to the water.” Right where Zack was sitting, actually, he realized.

Grace leaned forward, eyes wide behind the glasses. “You’re kidding?” she said. “
How
long ago?”

It was genuine curiosity, he thought now, and it was gratifying. He’d wondered if the story would capture the interest of the general public. “Over twenty years ago,” he said. “I was fourteen the summer it happened. My neighbor, a little girl who lived across the street from our cottage, found the baby early one morning.”

“Who’d left it there?” Grace asked.

“No one knew,” he said. “They never found out. So I thought, even after all this time, it would be interesting to try to find out who that might have been. Who did it, what prompted her to do it, how has she lived with herself since then. That sort of thing. And I thought that her answers might
lend some insight into the reasons for the rash of abandoned newborns we’re seeing these days.”

“It must have been terrible for the little girl who found the baby,” Grace said.

“Oh, I don’t know. She was a pretty tough little kid,” he said. And a tough grown-up as well. “Her name is Daria, and she was considered a hero. There were articles in all the papers about her. Were you living in the Outer Banks at that time? Maybe you remember reading about it?”

“I was living in Charlottesville twenty years ago,” she said. She looked perplexed. “Why was the girl considered a hero if the baby died?” she asked.

“Oh, the baby didn’t die,” he said. “That’s the exciting part of the story. She—the baby was a girl—would have certainly died if Daria hadn’t found her, but she survived, and Daria’s family adopted her. She suffered some mild brain damage, but she’s beautiful and—” he searched for a word “—charming.”

Grace looked astonished, and he knew the story was even more captivating than he had thought.

“So…where is…I guess the baby would be a young woman by now…” Grace seemed to have trouble putting her thoughts into words. “Where does she live?” she asked finally.

Rory turned and pointed behind them at the Sea Shanty. From where they sat, only the white widow’s walk was visible above the sea oats. “Right there,” he said. “She and Daria live together in that cottage.”

“Right there,” Grace repeated. She stared at the widow’s walk as if lost in a daydream.

Rory spotted Zack walking toward him across the beach. “Here comes my son,” he said with some pride, and Grace slipped out of her daydream to turn toward the boy.

“Hey, Dad,” Zack said as he neared him. “Can I have some money?”

Rory should have guessed Zack was not coming over to him for some father-son conversation.

“Zack, this is Grace,” he said. “Grace, meet my son.”

“Hi, Zack,” Grace said.

“Hi,” Zack said without really looking at her. He was waiting for Rory to answer his request.

“I don’t have any money on me,” Rory said. “My wallet’s in the cottage if you want to help yourself to a five.”

“A five? Don’t want to leave you broke or anything, Dad.” Zack grinned, glancing to his left, and Rory noticed that a teenage girl was waiting for him a few yards away. She was as tan and blond as Zack, and wore a skimpy green tankini and some glittery thing in her navel.

“Make it ten,” Rory said.

“Thanks.” Zack nodded to the girl, and both kids headed up the beach toward Poll-Rory.

“He looks a lot like you,” Grace said once Zack and the girl had disappeared over the dunes.

“He’s too much like me for his own good,” Rory said. “Do you have any children?”

“No.” She looked down at her arms, and he wondered if she realized that she was starting to burn. Should he tell her? She spoke before he had a chance to decide.

“I read about your divorce a couple of years ago,” she said. “I’m recently separated. I guess I’ll be divorced myself soon.”

“I’m sorry,” Rory said, feeling instant sympathy for her. “It’s hell to go through, isn’t it?”

“Just kind of…hard to get back on my feet again,” she said.

He remembered what that was like all too well. The loneliness, the roller-coaster of emotions. He could almost see the pain of starting over etched on Grace’s face. He wanted to know if her husband had been the one to leave. Had there been an affair? Had she, too, suffered that agony?

“Well, I had my work to keep me active and prevent me from thinking too much about it,” he said. “Are you working?”

She nodded. “I own a little shop in Rodanthe. I’m usually there, but my partner is handling things while I’m away today.” She glanced at her watch. “I didn’t realize it was so late,” she said. “I really should call my partner and tell him I got delayed. Is there a pay phone nearby?”

“My cottage is right next to the beach,” he said. “You’re welcome to use the phone there.” Her partner was a
he
. It was crazy, but that disappointed him.

“I hate to put you out,” she said.

He got to his feet. “No problem. Come on. I should check on my son and his friend, anyhow. Probably shouldn’t leave them alone in the cottage for too long.” He held out his hand to help her up from the blanket, and it seemed to take some effort for her to stand. Her shakiness had to be due to more than a fly bite.

“Are you all right?” he asked, not wanting to embarrass her, but her unsteadiness begged the question.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said, brushing the sand from the rear of her bathing suit. “I’ve been ill recently, but I’m okay now.” She lifted her blanket from the sand, and he helped her fold it. Her shoulders were quite pink; she would suffer later.

As they walked over the dune to the cul-de-sac, he wondered what illness had left her so tremulous, weak and pale. She walked smoothly across the sand, though, with a fluid ease. Her eyes were on the Sea Shanty.

“You said you’ve met…the woman who was found on the beach?” she asked.

“Yes. She’s a very sweet person.”

“What about the brain damage you said she has?”

“It’s mild. Just makes her seem more childlike than someone her age.” He stepped into his front yard. “This is my cottage,” he said.

“How cute!” Grace said as they neared the front steps. Zack and the girl were just coming out of the door.

“Were you coming to chaperon us?” Zack grinned. The girl punched his arm, obviously embarrassed. “Maybe we’d better stay to chaperon
you
,” Zack added.

“Very funny,” Rory said. “Grace just needs to use our phone.”

Inside the cottage, Grace made a quick phone call, while Rory put on his shirt and busied himself emptying the dishwasher. It relieved him to hear nothing intimate in her voice when she spoke to her partner. She hung up and turned to him.

“Well, I’d better get on the road,” she said. “Thanks so much for the use of the phone.”

“Where are you parked?” he asked.

“Just at the end of the street.”

“I’ll walk you.” He closed the dishwasher and left the cottage with her.

“So,” she said, glancing toward the Sea Shanty, “will you take…what do you call it? Footage? Will you take footage of the Sea Shanty? Will you have the grown-up abandoned baby on the show?”

They walked side by side down the cul-de-sac toward her car. “I don’t know what shape the story will take yet,” he said. “But I’m pleased that you seem intrigued by the idea. I want to make sure it’s a story that will appeal to the masses.”

Grace laughed, and he realized it was the first time he’d seen true levity in her face. “Well,” she said, “I’m not sure I’m representative of the masses, but I certainly think the story of a foundling is interesting.” She pointed to the sedan parked on the side of the road. “This is my car,” she said.

He couldn’t let her drive away without knowing if he might get to see her again. “Do you visit your friend in Kill Devil Hills often?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “She was just down for the week. She’s leaving tomorrow.”

“Well, now you have a new friend to visit in Kill Devil Hills.” It felt strange to be that forward, yet she looked pleased.

“Why, thanks,” she said, smiling that wide, engaging smile again.

“May I have your phone number?” he asked.

“Sure.” She rattled off the number. Neither of them had anything to write on, or with, but he memorized it. As she drove away, he saw her turn her head to look again at the Sea Shanty, and he knew he had a winner of a story on his hands.