The Last Word (34 page)

She did not drive home to Oyster Bay but sped down the quiet highway, her air-conditioning blasting cold air onto the cooler on the floor of the passenger seat. Knowing that its contents were at risk of melting before she reached Beaufort, Olivia drove well over the speed limit, the black asphalt slipping beneath her tires as Haviland dozed in the backseat.

Luckily, the cemetery wasn’t gated and a caretaker had given Olivia excellent directions on how to find Evelyn White’s grave. Holding a battery-powered flashlight in one hand and the cooler in the other, Olivia knelt down on the grass before an unremarkable marble marker.

“This is from your Henry,” she whispered into the still air and removed the cooler lid. Inside were the gallon-sized plastic bags of snow she and Michel had made using dry ice in The Boot Top’s kitchen the day before.

Now, with Haviland watching at a safe distance, his head cocked to the side in curiosity, Olivia opened the first bag and carefully sprinkled the chilled flakes over Evelyn’s grave.

“This is snow, Evelyn,” Olivia said. “He promised that one day, he’d give you snow. Here it is.”

The thin coating of pure white twinkled in the light of the moon, shimmering briefly before the thirsty ground began to absorb it.

Olivia dusted the gravestone and grass with all that she had left inside the cooler. She only paused for a moment to look at the magical glint of the white crystals, but their beauty was not for her. They were Evelyn’s gift, so Olivia turned away before she could see them melt.

She never looked back. All she wanted was to return to Oyster Bay feeling as she did at this moment. Her heart was full of hope, of promise. It was as if some of the pain and grief of the past month had been washed clean by another woman’s dreams of snow.

 

 

It was nearly midnight when Olivia parked the Range Rover in front of the chief’s house. This was what Jeannie, Sawyer’s sister, had meant by doing something big to show him how she felt. For her to come here, to the house Rawlings and his wife had shared, took every ounce of courage Olivia possessed.

She had no idea what would be inside. Photographs of the Rawlings’ life together, her favorite chair facing his in front of the fireplace, a collection of porcelain tea cups, a bureau covered by an array of perfume jars. Her monogram on the guest towels. Her portrait on the mantel.

None of that mattered.
He
was inside.
He
was what mattered.

Olivia rang the bell and then backed off the stoop. She wanted Rawlings to see her aglow in her floor-length silver dress. She wanted him to wonder if a moonbeam had transformed into a woman, the woman who’d come to claim him.

He opened the door wearing a T-shirt and shorts, sleep lingering in his eyes. The flickering light from a television screen danced behind him.

“Olivia? What are you . . . ?” The rest of the question died on his lips. He only had to look at her for the answer.

He took a step forward, his hand outstretched. “Come in,” he whispered, his voice thick with longing.

She smiled, reveling in the yearning that propelled her into his arms.

And then his mouth was on hers, warm and wet, his hands sliding up the skin of her bare back. Deftly, he peeled off the straps of her gown before she had even crossed the threshold. She dug her fingertips into his hair and pressed her hips against him, surrendering to her desire.

Just before Rawlings closed the door against the night, Haviland shot inside and went off to explore. Olivia barely noticed. Every cell in her body was tuned in to Rawlings. She knew nothing except for his breath in her ear, the feel of his lips on her neck, his wide, rough hands cupping her breasts.

He carried her like a bride into the bedroom and laid her down, easing off her heels and running his fingers up her smooth calves. She sat up only to pull off his shirt and then tugged him downward by the arms, inviting him to crush her under his weight.

They made love as if they’d known each other for decades. To Olivia, the feel of Sawyer Rawlings’ body, his smell, even the sound of his groans, was intrinsically familiar.

The world beyond the bedroom slid away. Olivia felt as if she were drowning in heat, enveloped in a happiness far deeper than mere physical pleasure.

Sometime before dawn, with Rawlings sleeping soundly beside her, one of her hands captured in his own, she remained awake, drowsily studying his face.

Olivia felt as though she had entered the woods of Heinrich Kamler’s painting. She had crossed the ice-crusted stream and maneuvered through the bare trees and the shadows on the snow. She’d seen the smoke curling from the chimney and the light radiating from the window and had climbed the gentle slope leading to the cabin. To this man. To love.

It had been a long and lonely journey.

But at last, Olivia Limoges was home.

 

The Last Word
sprang to life after I ran across an article about World War II POW camps in North Carolina. Stunned to learn that Germans, Italians, Poles, Czechs, Dutchmen, Austrians, and men from several other nations had been held prisoner in camps throughout the Tar Heel State, I began to research the subject in earnest.

From New Bern to Butner to Greensboro, North Carolina became home to thousands of POWs, including Nazis. What I found amazing is how quickly some of these men, foreigners to our land, adopted the American way of life. I was also awed by how well they were treated. Not only did these men work the vacant jobs at area farms and mills, but they also attended baseball games, went to the movies, and even dined out at local restaurants. And yet these camps were so secretive that the average North Carolinian had no idea that the men harvesting their peanut crops, for example, were prisoners of war.

As mentioned in
The Last Word
, many POWs were taught the principles of capitalism and democracy and were encouraged to produce their own wares with which they could barter with the guards or townsfolk. One of my primary sources was a book called
Nazi POWs in the Tar Heel State
by Dr. Robert D. Billinger Jr. While reading this book I came across a photograph of a German POW painting a landscape. It was from this single image that the central mystery of
The Last Word
was born.

Some of the dates and details have been altered in the name of good storytelling, but most of the Bayside Book Writers’ discoveries about the POW camp in New Bern could have taken place.

—WASHINGTON IRVING

 

 

 

“There’s a witch in Oyster Bay,” Dixie, the rollerskating dwarf and diner proprietor, announced. She set a breakfast strata made of eggs, tomato, basil, and mozzarella on the table and slid a plate of bacon onto the floor.

Immediately, the black nose belonging to the standard poodle sleeping on the booth’s vinyl cushion began to quiver. Flashing Dixie a brief look of gratitude, Captain Haviland lowered his paws to the checkered tiles and began to eat his breakfast with the delicacy and restraint of an English aristrocrat.

Olivia Limoges, oak barrel heiress, restaurateur, and aspiring author, reached for the pepper shaker and gave her eggs a quick dusting. “A witch? Does she lure small children into her house with candy bars and then lock them inside cages until they’re plump enough to eat?”

Dixie put a hand on her hip and scowled, her false eyelashes leaving thin stripes of electric blue mascara on the skin above her lids. “I’m not pullin’ your leg. Folks have talked about her for years. The stories have gotten wilder and wilder because only a handful of people have actually been brave or stupid enough to pay her a visit.”

Watching as Dixie topped off her coffee, Olivia cocked her head to the side and asked, “Where does this supposed witch live?”

“In the swamp,” Dixie said distastefully. “Word is you can only reach her house by boat, and she’s not shy about greetin’ unwelcome visitors with a few shotgun blasts.”

Olivia, who owned a rifle and was an excellent shot thanks to regular visits to the shooting range, approved. “Perhaps she values her privacy. People always talk about those who don’t abide by societal norms. I know plenty of locals who believe there’s something wrong with me because Haviland is my constant companion. They disapprove of my refusal to attend every street fair, regatta, shop opening, and ribbon-cutting ceremony. When I don’t buy a dozen boxes of stale Girl Scout cookies or chemically laced Boy Scout popcorn every time I leave the Stop ’n’ Shop, the troop parents fold their arms and shake their heads at me.” She paused to glance out the large picture window at the end of her booth. “Things were getting better, Dixie. I felt anchored here again, like a boat fastened to its moorings. For so long I was drifting, and that finally stopped. But after the events of the past few months, I feel like my tether is frayed . . .”

Dixie heard the pain in her friend’s voice. “None of that was your fault, ’Livia. You’re givin’ yourself a bit too much credit, don’t you think?” Dixie turned, slapped the coffee carafe on the counter, and faced Olivia again. “Chief Rawlings arrived at the same conclusion before you did.”

A flush of pink spread across Olivia’s cheeks. She hurriedly cut into her strata with the edge of her fork and filled her mouth with a bite of warm eggs, fresh tomatoes, and melted cheese.

“I see what you’re doin’,” Dixie said, shaking her pointer finger. “Stuffin’ your face so you don’t have to tell me what’s goin’ on between you and Sawyer Rawlings. The whole town knows you’re an item, so don’t bother denyin’ it. One of the chief’s neighbors saw you doin’ the walk of shame.
She
said Haviland spent the night too. Must be serious.”

Olivia bristled. “There wasn’t the slightest trace of shame on my part, but I’m not foolish enough to discuss intimate details with the biggest gossip in all of Oyster Bay. Meaning you.” The barb was softened by a smile, which was quickly hidden behind the rim of Olivia’s coffee cup. “Get back to the witch. That’s a far more interesting topic.”

“No, it is not, but I’ll play along. Hold on.” Dixie skated over to the
Cats
booth and slapped a check on the table. She spent a moment chitchatting with an elderly couple clad in matching lighthouse T-shirts and was undoubtedly explaining for the millionth time why she’d decorated the diner using Andrew Lloyd Webber paraphernalia.

Next, she pivoted and moved on to the
Phantom of the Opera
table. A jowly man in his late fifties dug around in the pocket of his madras shorts in search of his wallet. Ignoring Dixie’s question as to whether he enjoyed his food, he tossed bills on top of the check in dismissive little flicks of the wrist. His breakfast partner, a skeletally thin blonde in her early thirties clad in a miniskirt and a white tank top stretched taut over a pair of cartoonishly large implants, jabbed at the porcelain phantom mask with a long, curving fingernail.

From where she sat enjoying her meal, Olivia watched Dixie straighten to her full height. After donning her skates and teasing her hair a vertical inch into the air, she was barely five feet tall, but what Dixie lacked in stature she made up for in fearlessness.

“Y’all have a nice day,” she said tightly, her farewell clearly meant as a command.

The top-heavy blonde grabbed her takeout coffee cup and shimmied across the vinyl seat, granting the diners in the opposite booths a clear view of her leopard-print panties.

“Hurry up, babe.” The man in madras shorts began to walk away without waiting for his companion. He popped a toothpick in his mouth with one hand and jiggled a set of keys with the other. Using his elbow to push open the door, he let it go without bothering to see if his lady friend was behind him. She wasn’t. The door slammed in her face, and she jumped back with a little shriek. Jutting her lower lip into a collagen-enhanced pout, she followed her man out of the diner.

“High-caliber clientele,” Olivia teased Dixie after she’d cleared the couple’s table.

Dixie wasn’t happy. “Cheap bastard. Doctors are the worst tippers.”

“How did you know he’s a physician?”

“The caduceus on his key ring.” Dixie pointed out the window. “And the vanity plate on his I-am-not-well-hung-mobile.”

Olivia had been too absorbed rereading the latest chapter of her novel to notice the atomic-orange Corvette parked outside Grumpy’s Diner. She peered at the showy convertible as the man settled into his seat and revved the engine. The vanity plate read NIPTUCK.

“Having seen the missus, perhaps the plate should say ‘I Inflate You,’ ” Olivia said. “You could use the number eight and the letter
U
to save space.”

“Lady Watermelons is
not
the missus,” Dixie corrected. “I saw a picture of the missus and the doc’s three kids when he opened his wallet. Such a cliché. Why do they come here anyway? Why not go to Vegas or Cancun?”

Olivia shrugged. “He wants to show off his car. See?”

The object of their derision was donning sunglasses as the Corvette’s soft top folded back. The doctor glanced around, making sure he’d captured the interest of a few passersby before turning on the radio. The plate-glass window above Olivia’s booth began to vibrate as the Corvette’s speakers pounded out a thundering bass.

Dixie shook her head in disgust. “Pathetic.” And then her eyes narrowed angrily. “She’d better not do what I think she’s going to do.”