The Spyglass Portal: A Lighthouse Novel (8 page)

Aidan thought back to the moment they’d met. It was on the beach. He’d been painting at his easel and had heard a woman scream. When he ran to her, she was soaked to the skin. An old man had fished her out of the ocean. Aidan didn’t know if she’d nearly drowned on purpose or by accident. But she’d almost fainted when she looked into his face. He’d thought it’d been from shock, and he’d walked her back to his easel and offered her water from his cooler. Racking his brains, for the life of him, he couldn’t recall a conversation where she’d asked if he had a relative in Portland, and specifically a twin brother.

She nervously cracked her knuckles and added, “I was in the light tower when I swear I saw a little girl wade into the ocean and vanish under the waves. The next thing I knew, I was looking into that old man’s face. He insinuated I’d tried to drown myself, but I hadn’t. I don’t know how I got down to the beach. Then the same little girl reappeared and ran down the shore to disappear into your painting.”

An icy shudder moved through him, despite the warmth of the morning.
She thinks a little girl disappeared into my painting?
Maybe she’d suffered sunstroke. Or she was delusional.

Her direct gaze never wavered from his as she continued with her story. “Yesterday, shortly after we’d met, you brought your dog, Paddy, over to meet me. You apologized for being a jerk earlier, and you also invited me to have dinner with you at The Catch. You said you go there so often you know the hostess’s first name—Marianne. Only, you didn’t show up and Marianne told me she’d never heard of you.”

Her voice faded into the background as flashes of Remy smiling and laughing suddenly raced through his mind as if they were scenes from a movie. He gazed into Samantha’s face and the two faces intermingled. What had brought Remy to mind? His heart hammered inside his chest as time and space blended, and the body of Samantha merged with the body of Remy. Were these memories from the past or foreshadows of the future? When Aidan squeezed his eyes shut, the flashes stopped.

“Yesterday Jason Murphy had a limp,” Samantha went on. “Last night he didn’t walk with a limp, and he acted like I was off my rocker when I asked him about it. And today I received a phone call from my mother who’s been dead for five years. You were there.” Stopping to take a breath, she placed her hand on his knee and adrenaline shot through his body like liquid fire. “Can you help me, Aidan?” she implored with misty eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m scared. I must be sick.”

He had no idea why she trusted him, a virtual stranger. Most people in his position would be dialing 911 right now and requesting the men in white jackets to come pronto. She must have known that, yet she’d bravely opened herself up to him and asked for help. He stared into her blue eyes, round with dread. At least she knew she had a problem. Wasn’t that the first step to recovery, as the professionals would say? His hand covered hers. “Tell me what I can do.”

“Try to believe me,” she replied.

* * * *

Aidan walked her back to the lighthouse, with neither of them speaking. He noticed her fingers trembled as she unlocked the door. “Why don’t I come by again this evening? We can walk the beach and talk more if you’d like. I find the water to be cathartic.”

Her longing gaze searched his face. “You’ve been quiet until now. I presumed you wouldn’t want to see me anymore after what I told you on the pier.”

“I said I’d try to help you figure this out. I mean that. I know you’re alone here and everyone needs a friend. Would seven o’clock be okay for me to stop by?” 

She stared, probably debating on whether to take the chance of getting stood up again. Of course, he
hadn’t
stood her up last night anyway. He hadn’t even asked her out to begin with. None of what she claimed to have taken place yesterday with regard to him really happened, except for the two of them meeting. And for some odd reason, he could barely remember the details of that, despite his excellent memory. It was true he’d been quiet while they walked back from town. He’d been trying to wrap his head around everything she’d told him, with not much success. None of it made sense.

He wasn’t a shrink and didn’t know how he could help Samantha, but something implied he must try. There was a solid possibility that she was insane. But the sense of needing to protect her also lodged deep in his gut. It overrode whatever questions he had regarding her mental state.

“All right,” she agreed. “Seven o’clock.”

“Good. See you tonight.” He crossed his heart with a finger. “Promise.” That same heart almost broke at seeing her lower lip quiver before closing the door on him.

His cottage was a fifteen-minute hike from the lighthouse. After he unlocked the back door and strode through the kitchen, he entered the studio and gathered together his painting supplies to haul to the beach. Hearing nothing but the pounding of the waves outside the open windows made him acutely aware of how quiet the inside of the house was. A glance around at the many canvases of seascapes hanging on the walls was clear evidence that work had become his best friend, his lover and his confidant, all wrapped into one.

He’d been alone far too long. A roommate was out of the question, but perhaps it was time to consider a girlfriend again.

When Samantha’s face entered his mind, the reaction was physical and impossible to control. She was a beautiful woman. Any red-blooded man would react the same way.

“No, Aidan,” he groaned, shoving an easel under his arm. “She’s only in Pavee Cove temporarily. And she might very well be nuts.”

But something unexplainable drew him to her like a bee to honey. That sense of connection washed over him again.

With his arms full, he kicked open the back door and maneuvered through the little patch of trees and down a narrow path that led to the shore where he would set up. Hopefully, painting for the next four hours would take his mind off her.

Twenty minutes passed with him staring into space before he finally put brush to canvas. Then all he could do was splatter strokes of yellow across it. Yellow, like Samantha’s hair.

Why couldn’t he get the woman out of his head? Wild imaginings of whisking her into his arms and carrying her into his bed sent his heart pounding to distraction. He sent the paintbrush rocketing into the Mason jar on the ground and began to pace with his fingers making trails through his hair that flowed freely that day.

Although he’d purposefully secluded himself after his last disastrous relationship, the life of a monk did not suit him. Everyone needed someone to love—that person who would always be there in good times and in bad. Someone who actually gave a damn when you walked through the door. The one you believed was your soul mate.

Could Samantha be that person? The thought had occurred to him the moment they met, and it had haunted him since.

Aidan flicked the paintbrush back into his hand and dipped the tip into a fuchsia glob on his palette, but it was no use. His mind was not on painting. It shouldn’t be on Sam either, he groused inwardly.

Why did he assume she was different from any other woman? Women, with the exception of his dear, deceased mother, had given him enough trouble to last a lifetime. Besides, it was obvious Samantha had a screw or two loose. Didn’t she?

The one lie he’d definitely caught her in was the one about mixing him up with another guy who had a dog. She wasn’t good at fudging the truth, because he’d seen right through that one. But it made him think. Maybe a dog wasn’t such a bad idea. Dogs loved you unconditionally. They’d never leave. And they’d jump on you and wag their tail when you walked through the door. That was more attention than he’d gotten from most of the women he’d been with in the past.

Then again, Samantha Landers sure didn’t seem like most women.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 Samantha flattened her back against the door and closed her eyes. Aidan claimed to not have a dog, said he didn’t ask her out, didn’t know the hostess at the restaurant, and didn’t remember her telling him about Chad. How could it be possible? Was he lying? If so, why?

She opened her eyes and glanced at the cell phone on the coffee table, not caring if she bothered Linda at work. She needed to talk to her. Grasping the phone carefully, as if it were hot metal, she flipped it open and punched Linda’s number. A man’s voice answered.

“Hello.”

Her chest tightened. She thought she’d only misdialed yesterday when she’d reached the voice mail of someone called Antonio. “Can I speak to Linda Callison please?” she asked with hesitance.

“No Linda here, lady.”

If this was one of Linda’s new boyfriends, Sam already didn’t like him. “I don’t have time for games. Please put her on. It’s very important.”

“Like I said. You got the wrong number,” the voice complained. “Ciao.”

“Wait! Is this 207-555-1000?”

“Yes.”

Her head began to swim. “Why do you have Linda’s phone?” she accused, suddenly worried for her friend’s safety.

“Look, lady. This is my phone. I don’t know any Linda. I’m going to hang up now, okay?”

“Please wait,” Sam begged. “I’m sorry, but I’ve called this number a thousand times in the past two years. It belongs to my friend, Linda Callison. Are you sure I’ve reached 207-555-1000?”

It sounded like his patience had run out when he gritted, “This is the last time I’m going to tell you, lady. You must have dialed my number by mistake. There’s no Linda here. Never has been. I’ve had this phone and the same number for over three years. Look up your gal pal in the phone book and don’t call me again.”

Click
. The phone went dead in her ear. Three years? That couldn’t be. She eyeballed the phone. His idea was a good one, except phone directories didn’t list cell numbers and Linda didn’t have a landline.

Sam’s paranoia kicked in full-tilt. Had Linda changed her number unexpectedly for some reason? That seemed the only possibility. Maybe someone had started stalking her on the phone, and she’d had to switch numbers quickly and hadn’t had a chance to call and tell her yet. A stalking seemed unlikely, but not impossible given her friend’s penchant for attracting the wrong kinds of men.

Troubled, she decided to call Linda’s mom, to make sure Linda was okay. After looking up the number in her address book, and about to hang up after five rings, Samantha finally heard the click of the receiver and a soft voice came on the line.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Callison?”

“Yes.”

“Hi, Mrs. Callison. This is Samantha Landers. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other. I’m Linda’s friend. I’m the one who flips houses for a living.”

“You do what? Who did you say this is?” The woman sounded tired and confused.

“Samantha Landers. I renovate houses and resell them, but that’s not why I’m calling. I’m calling about Linda. I’ve been trying to reach her since yesterday. She must have changed her number and forgot to tell me. I wondered if you would mind giving me the new one.”

When there was no reply on the other end of the phone, Sam prodded. “Mrs. Callison, are you still there?”

“I’m…here.” The words came out slow and suspicious.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have—?”

Linda’s mom cut in. “Who are you? What kind of joke is this?”

Dumbfounded at the angry tone, Sam attempted to explain again. “This is no joke, ma’am. I’m trying to reach your daughter. I’m her friend, Samantha.” It
had
been a while since she’d seen Mrs. Callison. It sounded like she suffered from dementia. But why hadn’t Linda told her?

“How dare you torment me this way,” she cried. “I have no idea who you are or why you’re doing this to me. I have no money if that’s what you’re after.”

“Money?” Sam’s heart squeezed tight. What was she talking about?

“Don’t call me again or I’ll phone the police,” Mrs. Callison threatened.

“What? Please don’t hang up. I don’t understand why you’re upset. I’m worried about Linda. She’s not answering her phone. Why won’t you help me?”

After another brief pause, Mrs. Callison said, “My daughter is dead. A drunk driver killed her
ten years ago
. If you were really her friend, you’d know that. But I’ve never heard of you. Leave me alone.”

The phone clicked off, leaving only the hum of the dial tone in Samantha’s ear.

Linda is not dead. Mrs. Callison is wrong. This isn’t happening.
Samantha threw the phone down and ran upstairs to the bathroom and dumped the bottle of pills Dr. Teagan had prescribed into the toilet. Perspiration beaded on her forehead as she flushed and dumbly watched the pink capsules as they disappeared with a whoosh.

She closed the lid and sat down holding her head in her hands. Although she’d not grown up religious, there seemed to be no one else to turn to.
Please God, whatever is plaguing me, let it end. I’ll deal with a brain tumor if that’s it. I’ll go back to the psychiatrist if I’m nuts. I’ll do whatever you want. Please just let everything go back to the way it was before Chad got hurt.

Jumping up from the seat, she hurried into the bedroom and grabbed her pink baseball cap from off the bedpost. Her heart raced like a thoroughbred horse. She stuck her ponytail through the hole in back of the cap. It was the cap she wore on the construction site most days. Feeling it on her head was reassurance that she was in control, even if the world was spinning out of control. Her head needed clearing. The only way to do that was for the ocean air to brush her face and the water to splash her feet.

 Instead of heading north down the beach this time, she decided to go south. She took off jogging to get as far away from the lighthouse in as short of a time as possible.

Trying to push every thought out of her mind, she concentrated on her arms pumping in rhythm with her legs. Before long, her breathing matched the ebb and flow of the waves splashing onto the shore next to her. It didn’t take long before she could actually feel the release of endorphins into her body.

After what she thought must have been about a mile, her pace slowed, and her pulse slowed with it as the feelings of euphoria took full effect. Thank goodness her sense of balance had begun to return.