Summer's Child

  One night, while driving back from a fashion show in Washington, he was uncharacteristically quiet in the car. She was tired, so she didn’t mind. Resting her head against the car window, she had nearly dozed off when his voice broke the silence.

  “I know this is crazy,” he said, his gaze fixed out the front window of the car, “and I have no idea how you’ll react to this, but…I’ve wanted to tell you something for a while now.”

  She turned her head in his direction, waiting.

  He glanced at her, and for the first time since she’d known him, he looked unsure of himself. “I’ve fallen in love with you,” he said.

  The words stunned her. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She had no idea how to respond.

  “I know, I know,” he said hurriedly. “I’m old enough to be your father. And believe me, I’ve been fighting the feelings. But I can’t help myself. I’ve been attracted to you from the very beginning, and you’ve just become more…appealing to me as you’ve matured and grown as a model. You project this…savvy innocence. It’s irresistible, Grace.”

  She couldn’t help being flattered that a man like Brad Chappelle was interested in her, but she still felt shocked by his admission.

  “Say something, Grace,” he said. His voice was almost pleading.

  “I’m very grateful for what you’ve done for me,” she said slowly. “And…I do love you, Brad.” She did. He was the dearest man she’d ever known. He’d become like a father to her, and more. But she knew that would not be the best thing to say right now. “I’m not in love with you, though. I’ve never thought of you that way.” She had to be honest with him. He was handsome, kind and generous, but nothing could change his age.

  Brad sighed. “See what I mean?” he asked. “Any of the other girls would have said, ‘oh, I love you, too, Brad,’ just to stay on my good side. But not you. I knew I could trust you to tell me how you’re really feeling. I certainly won’t push you, Grace. But I want you to know how I feel, in case that makes a difference to you. In case you might just possibly start looking at me…‘that way,’ as you say.”

  When she got home that night, she called Bonnie, even though it was quite late. She lay on her bed and told Bonnie, in perfect detail, what Brad had said to her.

  “I’m in shock,” Bonnie said when Grace had finished her story.

  “And I’m mixed up,” Grace said.

  “I think it’s neat that he’s interested in you,” Bonnie said. “He’s really cute, don’t you think?”

  No, she didn’t think Brad was “cute.” Bonnie’s seventeen-year-old boyfriend, Curt, was “cute.” Grace longed for Bonnie’s normal, teenage-girl life.

  “Can you picture going to bed with him?” Bonnie asked.

  “No,” Grace said, although she had never even kissed a boy, so it was difficult to imagine actually sleeping with one. And Brad was no boy.

  There was a knock on her bedroom door.

  “Grace?” Her mother opened the door and poked her head inside. “Hang up,” she said. “I want to talk to you.”

  Something in her mother’s voice told her not to argue.

  “I have to go, Bonnie,” she said. She hung up the phone and waited as her mother sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “I happened to overhear your conversation with Bonnie,” her mother began. “And I heard what you said about Brad.”

  Grace had been in her bedroom with the door closed while talking with Bonnie. Her mother must have had her ear pressed against the door, eavesdropping. Either that, or she’d been listening on the extension. Grace swallowed her rage; it would do no good to express it. “I was talking to Bonnie,” she said, “not you.”

  “I think it’s wonderful.” Her mother ignored the barb. “Do you realize how lucky you are? Do you know how many women would give their right arm for a man like Brad Chappelle? He has money. He has power.”

  “But I’m not in love with him,” Grace said, shocked that her mother would want her involved with a man as old as Brad.

  “Love can come later. Love can grow,” her mother philosophized. “You just have to be willing to allow it to happen.”

  “He’s too old for me,” Grace said.

  Her mother leaned toward her, clutching Grace’s arm in her hand. “You owe him a great deal, Grace,” she said. “Have you thought about that? About how much he’s done for you? You need to keep him happy.”

  “You sound like you’re more concerned about Brad’s happiness than you are about mine,” Grace said, freeing her arm from her mother’s grasp.

  “I don’t think you know yet what will make you happy,” her mother said, standing up. “I want you to think seriously about this, all right? You need to give Brad a chance.”

  Grace lay back on her bed after her mother left the room. She shut her eyes, remembering Brad’s kind, open face as he admitted his feelings for her. She was afraid. Afraid of needing Brad’s approval so much that she’d hurt him to get it.

  She never realized that she was the one who would end up being hurt.

  26

  THE PILOT’S EYES WERE BROWN. BROWN AND HUGE AND terrified as her face slipped into the black water. Daria clung to her arm, trying to hold her above the water’s surface, but the plane was going down. She turned to see Shelly hanging by her hands from the propeller, dragging the plane and the pilot under. She screamed at Shelly to let go, but Shelly hung on.

  “You don’t really want me to let go,” she called out to Daria. And the plane slipped under, taking the pilot with it, dragging Daria beneath the water’s surface as she tried vainly to pull the pilot up again.

  Daria sat up in bed, gasping for air as if she had in fact been underwater for far too long. Her sheets were soaked with sweat, and it took her a moment to get her bearings. She was in her bedroom at the Sea Shanty, and the room was dark and eerily still. She could barely hear the waves breaking on the beach.

  Relief washed over her at finding herself on dry land, but it was relief tainted with sorrow: it had been a dream, yes, but a dream too rooted in reality.

  Sleep would never come now, she knew, and she didn’t dare close her eyes again for fear of the pilot’s return. Getting out of bed, she pulled on her robe, then walked barefoot downstairs and out onto the front steps of the Sea Shanty. The night was warm and balmy, the sort of Outer Banks summer night she had treasured all of her life, but the soft air and rhythmic lapping of the ocean on the shore didn’t soothe her the way it usually did. She leaned back against the porch door and looked up at the stars.

  Poll-Rory’s porch door squeaked open, and in a moment Rory was walking across the cul-de-sac toward her. She sat up straight.

  “What are you doing up?” His voice was quiet, as though he didn’t want to wake anyone. He sat down next to her on the steps.

  “I could ask you the same question,” she said.

  “I’m a night person,” Rory said simply. “What’s your excuse?”

  She rested her head on her arms. “Nightmare,” she said. “That plane crash. The pilot drowned in front of my eyes one more miserable time.”

  He put his hand on the back of her neck, massaging lightly, and she closed her eyes, willing him to keep it there.

  “You can’t get away from that night, can you?” he said.

  “Shelly was a bitch in this one,” Daria said, shuddering at the memory of her sister’s belligerence. “She wouldn’t let go of the propeller. She said I didn’t want her to. What the heck does that mean?”

  Rory’s fingers dug a little deeper, slipping beneath her hair. “I’m not much of a believer in the deep meaning of dreams,” he said. “I think you still have some unfinished business regarding that night. That’s all.”

  He was right. “I keep wondering about the pilot’s family,” she said. Her cheek rested on her knee, and the words slipped slowly from her mouth. “I don’t know anything about her life. I don’t know how she came to be a pilot at eighteen. I don’t know if she had sist
ers and brothers, or a boyfriend who thinks he can’t live without her. I don’t even know her name, although I probably knew it at the time of the accident. I wish I’d made an attempt to get in touch with her family. I was the last person with her. If I’d lost someone close to me, I’d want to know what their last minutes had been like. Although, in this case, it sure wouldn’t be comforting information. And I couldn’t tell them what really happened, just like I haven’t told anyone else.”

  “Except me,” Rory said.

  She opened her eyes and raised her head to smile at him. “Except you,” she agreed.

  He dropped his hand from her neck to his lap. “Well, it isn’t too late, is it?” he asked. “Don’t you think they’d appreciate hearing from you, even after all this time? If I were in their shoes, it would make me feel good that the EMT still cared so much about what happened. And maybe it would help you, Daria. Maybe you’d stop being haunted by it all.”

  “I hadn’t really thought of doing that,” Daria said. “I guess I’m afraid to, since I’d have to lie about what happened.”

  “But wouldn’t you feel better to see that they’ve been able to go on with their lives? Assuming, of course, that they have been able to go on,” he said. “I guess that would be the risk you’d take by getting in touch with them. But no matter what you found out, at least you’d be dealing with reality instead of your fantasy. I bet it would put an end to your nightmares.”

  “Maybe I will,” Daria said, and the idea gave her some relief. Rory was right. It would be good to know, in concrete terms, exactly how the pilot’s family was faring.

  They both started at the sound of a bark and turned toward the beach to see Linda and three of her dogs crossing the dune to the cul-de-sac. Linda waved when she saw them and continued walking toward her cottage, the panting of the dogs loud and harsh in the still air.

  “Someone else is having trouble sleeping tonight,” Rory said.

  27

  RORY HAD PLANNED TO CALL FATHER MACY TO SPEAK with him about Shelly’s adoption, but the priest beat him to it. He called Rory and invited him in to “have a talk,” as he put it. Rory gave Shelly a ride to the church the morning of his appointment, since she was to start work at the same time. She was her usual, bubbly self in his car, chatting mostly about Zack, as if realizing his son was one of Rory’s favorite topics.

  “He’s a terrific volleyball player,” Shelly said as Rory turned the car onto Route 158. “Not as good as me, but still pretty good.”

  Rory had to laugh. “You’re just like your sister, you know that?” he asked. “She could beat me at anything. And she wasn’t too modest about it, either.”

  “You turn right in there.” Shelly pointed to the parking lot as they approached St. Esther’s. “You can park in any space you like.”

  The lot was nearly empty, and he pulled into a parking space near the small office building. He wondered if Shelly understood the reason for his visit with the priest. If she did, she’d said nothing about it.

  The front door to the office building was open, and they walked into a wide corridor. Sunlight spilled onto the hardwood floors from the skylights and the large window at the far end of the hallway and the clean, open, sunny feeling of the building made him even more optimistic about a comfortable, amiable visit with the priest.

  “Come on.” Shelly grabbed his hand and drew him down the hall. “I’ll introduce you to Father Sean.”

  The door to the priest’s office was open, and Rory saw Father Macy sitting at his desk, his back to the door. He was sandy-haired and wearing a blue plaid shirt.

  “Father?” Shelly rapped lightly on the open door.

  The priest turned in his swivel chair to face them. He stood up when he saw Rory.

  “This is Rory, Father,” Shelly said.

  The priest walked across the room, holding his hand out to Rory. “Good to meet you, Mr. Taylor,” he said.

  Rory shook his hand. “My pleasure,” he said.

  “I’m going to get the vacuum,” Shelly said to Father Macy. “I’ll start out here in the hallway so I don’t make too much noise for you and Rory, okay?”

  Father Macy touched her arm. “Good idea,” he said, then to Rory, “Come in and have a seat.”

  Rory followed him into the room and sat down on the couch, while the priest sat once again at his desk, turning his chair to face him. He looked younger than Rory had expected. The corners of his eyes were creased with laugh lines, but he was not laughing now. Not even smiling, and Rory’s vision of a cordial visit evaporated.

  “I understand you’re trying to find out who Shelly’s mother is,” the priest began.

  “Well, yes. Shelly wrote to me to ask for my help in finding out who her parents are,” Rory said. “But I’m also trying to create a complete picture of the situation. Not just the who, but the why, as well. Why it happened, the human drama of it, how the woman has dealt with her actions since that time, etcetera. Also, I want to focus on how Shelly has thrived with the Cato family.”

  The priest leaned forward. “And you would pursue this even knowing that Sister Chloe and Daria strongly object to your interference?”

  The priest made him sound like a villain. “Shelly’s twenty-two years old,” he said, wondering how many more times he would have to offer this argument. “And she, herself, asked me to pursue this.”

  “Shelly has never known what is best for her.”

  “I keep hearing that,” Rory said in frustration, “but I don’t see any evidence of it.”

  Father Macy scowled. “I know Shelly very, very well,” he said. “I see her at least several times a week, and I know she’s a vulnerable young woman with a need for stability in her life, which she’s been given by the Catos, especially Daria. Digging up the past can only harm her fragile hold on that sense of security.”

  “With all due respect, Father, I think you’re being melodramatic.”

  “And I think you are being stubborn,” the priest said. “You don’t want to hear any argument that will interfere with the production of your program. You’re in this for monetary gain, with no concern about the lives involved.”

  It wasn’t the first time he’d been accused of callous disregard for people’s feelings in his pursuit of material for True Life Stories. But the priest was wrong this time. He would not do anything that might hurt Shelly. Everyone was exaggerating the potential fallout from his research…or were they? His skin crawled with a sudden thought. The protestations of Daria, Chloe and the priest were so extreme, so vehement. Perhaps there was more behind them than simple concern for Shelly’s well-being. Perhaps they all knew something they did not want him to uncover.

  Rory leaned forward. “What’s going on here, Father?” he asked. “What is everyone afraid I’ll find out?”

  The priest looked surprised by the question. “The only thing we’re afraid of is that Shelly might be hurt by what you find. Or, even by what you won’t find. Her hopes are up so high, that the fall itself would damage her.”

  “I care very much about Shelly,” Rory said. “I promise that if I uncover something that I feel would be truly damaging to her, I’ll back off.”

  “I don’t particularly trust your judgment about what would damage her and what wouldn’t,” Father Macy said.

  Rory stood up. This meeting, short and bitter, was over. “I assume it’s hopeless asking for your cooperation on this,” he said. “I would have liked to hear your memories about Shelly’s adoption and how you went to bat to make that happen.”

  The priest didn’t bother standing up. “You’re right. It’s hopeless,” he said. “Daria found Shelly that morning, and I believe that was God’s plan. It was God’s plan that Shelly become part of a pious family. A true miracle. As far as I’m concerned, Shelly has no other parents, and no other family.”

  “All right.” Rory nodded. “I appreciate your time.”

  He walked across the room, opened the door and left the office. Shelly was vacuu
ming the hallway, but when she saw him, she turned off the vacuum and came over to him.

  “Isn’t he nice?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he lied. “Very.” He glanced at the vacuum in the corner of the hall. “Do you need a ride home later?” he asked.

  “Oh, no, I’ll walk,” she said. “I like to walk.”

  “I’ll see you later at the cul-de-sac, then,” he said. He walked through the hallway to the open door, leaving Shelly alone with one of her many guardians.

  Sean Macy’s office window looked out across the salt marsh toward the sound, and for a long time after Rory left, the priest simply sat and stared at an egret standing in the water and weeds. The brief encounter with Rory had exhausted him, but he knew that was only one facet of his misery. He had never before felt so low, and prayer no longer brought him comfort or answers.

  “Father?”

  He turned away from the window at the sound of Shelly’s voice. She stood in the doorway, the pretty, blond custodian of St. Esther’s, and he couldn’t help but smile at her.

  “Can I come in to vacuum now?” she asked. “Or will it disturb you?”

  “You can come in,” he said. He studied her as she rolled the upright vacuum into his office. She turned on the machine and began vacuuming in the corner of the room. Her long blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she looked much younger than her twenty-two years.

  Shelly.

  He knew so much about her. More than anyone else, perhaps. He turned back to the window. A sailboat was out in the sound, far beyond the marsh, leaning almost parallel to the water.

  Suddenly, the noise from the vacuum stopped, and he turned to see Shelly staring at him. She looked worried.

  “You seem unhappy again,” she said.