I made sure I got inside without his help—climbing the long flight of stairs from the parking area methodically, as my head whirled. “Thank you but I’ll get my own luggage, later,” I said, but he brought it up anyway. The house was decorated in handsome pale furniture and deep coral couches. On the front of the main level, a long deck stairstepped down to the dunes. Irene had made certain the kitchen was stocked. I took a bottle of water from the refrigerator, shrugged my business jacket onto a chair, pulled a notepad and a pen from the suitcases Solo propped inside the door of the master bedroom, then walked outside unsteadily.
A pair of cushioned lounge chairs waited under a long, coral-roofed gazebo facing the ocean. It took all my willpower to make the short trek to one of the chairs. I sat down in the gazebo’s breezy shade, slid my stockinged feet out of my pumps, and quickly drank a gulp of the water, enough to revive me. Then I bent my head over the pad and began doggedly scrawling notes about Frog’s case. I had phone calls to make, statements to be written, no time for rest or grieving.
“I’m not here to judge,” Solo said behind me, “but whatever you’re doing can wait until you feel better. I’ll fix you some food.”
“No, thanks. You can leave, now. I’ll call William and tell him I don’t need you. I appreciate everything you’ve done but I’m fine. I have work to do. I have to think.”
Silence. It lengthened into the slow rush of waves on the beach and the cries of gulls. Finally he said, “I guess you didn’t notice the house.”
“It’s a fine house. No problem.”
He came around in front of me, a tall, lean man with big shoulders, moving gracefully. He was dressed in soft khakis and a light shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He seemed to be the kind of man who dressed as an afterthought, and wore his clothes as practical coverings, not a fashion statement. On a better day I would have noticed much more about him. “Yes?” I said.
“Well, let me fill you in,” he said patiently. “There must have been a helluva storm last night. There were tree limbs all over the runway and the main road, and the house is missing some shingles and a couple of pieces of siding. The electricity’s off—that water you’re drinking is probably tepid—and there are two good-sized pine trees lying against the far side of the roof.” He paused, scowling. “But what worries me the most is that the alarm system is out. And the battery backup didn’t even kick in.”
I raised my head slowly. Everything was a dull, vaguely curious blur. I hadn’t noticed anything he’d described. “Can you fix any of it?”
He dropped to his heels at the end of my lawn chair. His eyes were all I could keep in focus. Large, dark, so familiar. I pushed the strange thought away. “I can fix everything,” he said. “Except you.” When I stared at him he frowned and rose to his feet. “All right, I’m not real good with words. I’ll get to work. But I’m not leaving you here alone. I’ll take an upstairs bedroom.”
“We’ll talk about this arrangement later.” I went back to my notepad with dogged concentration, forcing my fingers to write. I intended to list every legal move I’d made on Frog’s behalf, starting with the day I’d taken over his case five years earlier. Every move, and every mistake. I’d analyze it all endlessly, until I knew exactly where I’d failed him.
Mr. Solo, whoever he was, left me alone, or at least let me think I was.
I woke sometime that night, still wearing my business clothes, still on the lounge chair. The muggy ocean breeze made my skin feel salty. Dozens of crumpled sheets of paper lay around me. My day’s attempt at logical thought had scattered in the night wind at the edge of the continent, looking like strange little dust balls on the weathered deck. A half-moon sent pale light beneath the gazebo. My head throbbed. I felt weak and disoriented. When I sat up my glance fell on a low table that had appeared beside my chair. A tray of fruit, cheese, and bottled water sat there. Solo’s work, while I slept.
I put a shaking hand on an apple, brought it to my mouth, and bit in. Suddenly I was starving and I ate everything on the tray, stuffing food into my mouth, then gulping down the water. When I finished I abruptly bowed my head on one arm atop the table edge. Everything from the past day rushed over me again. Everything from the past twenty-five years, too.
My life made no sense, and there was no resolution for the ghosts and the guilt that haunted me. I’d left Burnt Stand the day I turned eighteen. I put everything I could fit into a small car I’d bought with my savings, and drove a few hours south, into Georgia. When I reached the sprawling skyscrapers and green suburbs of Atlanta I stayed in a cheap motel room and took a job waitressing at a midtown diner called The Peanut Room, where photographs of former President Carter lined the walls. I applied at Emory University for the prelaw program.
Swan ordered me to come back, then reasoned with me, then offered a few dignified bribes, but when nothing else worked, she cut me off without a penny. I know my decision to escape from her broke her heart—I had come to understand that the rules she enforced were as painful for her as for me. She only understood one way to preserve the tenuous Hardigree reputation she’d fought so hard to build. By sheer, stubborn domination. So I fought back in like kind.
I got into law school with a student loan, working two jobs to support myself. I lived on friends’ couches or in their spare bedrooms for the next five years, but by God, when I finished no one owned me and my guilt-riddled memories but myself. I turned down a bevy of prestige job offers from law firms and went to work as a public defender in the Atlanta courts. The money I made for the next few years was just enough to rent a cheap apartment and cover basic necessities, but I didn’t mind. I was an obsessive worker, a martyr to a cause, a loner. The occasional man who crossed my bedroom door couldn’t compete with my entrenched and often maniacal devotion to my calling. I intended to save every innocent person on the face of the earth. No other Jasper Wade would die on my watch. As for my guiltier clients—and most of my clients were guilty—they were all Great-Aunt Clara to me, deserving due process and a fair trial, at least. A few years later, when Irene Branshaw contacted me about working for the Phoenix Group, I knew I’d found the perfect channel for my constant, torturing need to redeem myself.
Until I failed Frog Marvin.
“I can’t go on this way,” I whispered to the island’s night wind. I got up, staggering, and looked through the moonlight at the beach and the ocean. Some dark urge said, Just walk in and don’t look back. I didn’t know what to do with that godawful thought, and it made me frantic. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t know how to live, either. I turned blindly, raising my hands to my tangled hair, holding the sides of my head as if my brain might explode. My gaze fell on the other lounge chair, a dozen feet or so from mine.
I halted, staring. In a bright ray of moonlight I saw my temporary housemate stretched out, sound asleep, on the long, low chair. Solo. I went over to him and stood, frowning down at his pleasant, rugged face and athletic body. Now dressed in a t-shirt and faded jeans, his face at rest, he looked vulnerable. He slept on his back with his thick forearms looped over his chest and his large, knobby bare feet crossed at the ankles—a very guarded way to rest. He’d burrowed his head against a matted throw pillow that matched the lounge’s paisley cushions. His dark hair was tousled in stark contrast against the feminine background.
I stared dully at the closed laptop computer that sat on the deck below his chair, along with an empty mug and an insulated coffee pot. He’d obviously tried to keep himself awake as long as possible. A few feet away a bizarre, anonymous thing glinted on the deck like a metal spider in the moonlight. The gadget was no more than a foot tall. Some kind of intricate robotic toy.
Bewildered, I turned and walked back to my chair. The ocean gleamed and rumbled ahead of me. A night filled with pinpoint white stars spread over it. The dunes stood out as white tops and deep shadows. As I watched, small, pale crabs scurried across the s
and. I squared my shoulders. I’d walk in the surf. I’d confront the ocean. I’d confront every burden in my lopsided life, and try to make some sense of them. And maybe you’ll decide to take that long walk into the water, an inner voice whispered.
My hands shook. I spent a moment lifting my wrinkled blue skirt and pulling my pantyhose down, then shoved the hosiery aside. Barefoot, I headed to the end of the deck and started down a short set of wooden stairs. Suddenly, the robotic toy emitted a pulsing, high-pitched shriek. I whirled around. The thing clattered toward me like a metal crab.
Solo was out of the chair and standing within two seconds. The robot kept scurrying my way and shrieking. Solo swept the moonlit deck with a quick, predatory arc of his head. When he spotted me he relaxed visibly and pulled some kind of remote control from his jeans’ pocket. With a press of his thumb, the robot quieted. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s a gizmo I built. A gimmick with motion sensors. But it works.” He walked toward me. “Are you all right? What do you need? Takin’ a moonlit stroll? Good. I’ll come along behind you. Don’t pay me any attention. I’ll just follow.”
I stared at the robot. “Goddamn that thing.” I was shaking.
“I figured you might wake up and take a walk or a swim. I thought I ought to know. It’s a mighty big ocean.”
Did he suspect I needed protection from myself? I managed, on weak knees, to climb back up the steps and walk toward him. I suddenly felt foolish, exposed—and terribly depressed. I halted an arm’s length from him. “I’m tired, but I don’t need an escort. I’m only going for a walk.”
He studied me closely. “Let me tell you something. I know all about your work for Phoenix. I know how hard you tried to save Frog Marvin. I’ve seen what kind of person you are, and I’ve got a pretty good idea what you must be thinking right now.” He paused. “And I’m not gonna leave you alone with those thoughts.”
My skin became a tourniquet. I could feel the blood draining from my face and a spring of relieved grief gushing inside me. How do you know me that well? His homey language, his deep drawl, his face. His face. Those dark eyes. “You’re right about some of it,” I whispered. “But what happened was my fault, and I can’t forget that.”
Solo gave me a long searching look, myriad emotions passing through his shadowed face, the intensity burning me. I could have sworn I saw tears in his eyes. No. Another trick of the moon. He reached out a hand as if to touch my arm, then stopped himself. He dropped his hand to his side. “He’d want you to be happy. He’d want you to believe you did all you could for him. I guarantee it.”
The timbre of his deep, sincere voice vibrated through me, unhinging my common sense. “You may know me, but I don’t know much about you.”
“I know this much: I’m not letting you take any walks alone.” He paused. “If you try, I’m not above wrestling you inside and locking you in your bedroom.”
My skin turned cold. I stared at him in disbelief, then realized he was completely serious. He’d threatened me. “Tomorrow, I’m leaving,” I said. “And you won’t stop me.” I walked angrily inside the house. After I entered the master bedroom I heard him follow me indoors. He moved around the spacious, peach-and-coral Florida kitchen, opening and closing the whitewashed cabinets, then I heard him walk carefully across the white-carpeted living-room floor, as if trying to be quiet. Then, silence. No sound of him climbing the stairs to the other bedrooms.
I opened my door a sliver and looked out. He’d lain down on a couch. The electronic tracking device sat in the middle of the room. I shut the door, paced unsteadily for a few minutes, then sat down on the master bed’s pearl-gray coverlet, shivering, furious. I lay back, knotting the cloth in my hands, suffocating on my own dilemmas.
Within five seconds I fell asleep.
Tell her. Tell her who you are. The thought drummed like an accusing chant in Eli’s mind as he swam in the warm Gulf waters early the next morning. Each powerful stroke of his arms plowed the order deeper into his conscience. Tell her. Tell her the truth today.
It’s me. Eli. Whatever questions haunt you, they haunt me too. I have to go back to Burnt Stand and find the answers for us both.
He prayed when he told who he was and what he wanted she’d remember some spark of the quick bond they’d formed as children. He prayed she wouldn’t look at him and think only of what Pa probably had done to her great-aunt. He prayed she wouldn’t look at him and see a murderer’s grown son.
Eli butterflied himself across a shallow wave then headed for shore. I’ll tell her as soon as I get back to the house. When she wakes up, I’ll be waiting to talk to her. He levered himself upright in the surf, found his footing, and scrubbed stinging saltwater from his face and hair, as tides of white foam and blue-green water played around his hips. He loved the ocean, loved the feel of something so endless and challenging it could only be an abstract joy, never summed up in man-made terms. It made him feel clean. Eli inhaled the rich air deeply—his eyes shut, his head back—then slung rivulets of water from his fingertips. He rimmed his thumbs beneath the loosely tied waistband of his black swim trunks, which had settled several inches below his navel. As he pulled the errant trunks higher on his lean hips, he opened his eyes.
Darl stood on a knoll of white sand not a dozen yards away, watching him.
She had gotten out of the house and gone to the ocean without him or his robotic gadget knowing. God, what a piece of work she was. The soft wind caused drying strands of her mink-brown hair to dance around her amazing face, curtaining her intense blue eyes, then revealing them. She never flinched from a somber study of him, even as he looked back the same way. A damp white nightshirt clung to her body and thighs, but her modesty saved little. Through the wet cotton he glimpsed a low-cut black bra and bikini panties. The silhouette of her high-breasted body and her strong stance on the dune, with the wind carrying her hair in front of her face, was a picture that would last in his mind forever. Aroused and helplessly miserable, he knew then that she was still his beloved Darl, grown and beautiful, dignified but damaged, dragging the weight of her childhood behind her just as he dragged his.
“I escaped,” she called grimly. Then she stepped down the small dune and walked towards him, halting at the edge of the surf. She tugged her nightshirt away from her body, but the wind pressed the material to her, again. A slight flush in her face said she might feel uncomfortable, but her eyes, underscored by dark crescents of fatigue, bored into him. “I climbed over my balcony,” she explained in a matter-of-fact way. “I just had to go out by myself this morning.”
Eli looked at her in speechless wonder. Tell her who you are. Tell her now. He stayed in the cool, hip-deep water, waiting for his physical reaction to ease. “When you were a little girl,” he began carefully, “you always found ways to buck the system.”
She went very still. “That’s an odd thing to assume.”
“But true.”
Slowly, she nodded. “You’re good at analyzing people. Or you’ve made it your business to research me as much as possible.”
“You’re not business to me. And you’re not a stranger. I don’t know any way to say this except to just—”
She held up a hand. “It’s all right. I know what you mean. Yesterday you became a good friend to me.” Her troubled eyes warmed with a sorrow and regret that left Eli speechless. “I want to thank you for everything. I want to thank you for not letting me walk out here alone last night. I was . . . exhausted, and confused. I scared myself last night. I don’t know what I want to do next—I can’t say I’m at peace with Frog Marvin’s death, or happy with my work on his behalf. I have to study every angle of the situation. I have to think. I only know this much: I do need to be here, away from everything and everyone who wants to tell me how to feel right now. I just need to exist for a day or two. No past, no future. Just be.” She smiled thinly. “And that, Mr. Solo, is my metaphysical t
hought for the day. Do you mind just ‘being’ with me?”
The weight of the situation settled on Eli. “Not at all,” he said finally. “I’ll make sure nothing and nobody bothers you while you’re here. I swear.”
The fervor of that remark raised a deeper blush in her cheeks and brought back the reserved look in her eyes. Eli silently cursed his choices. He’d learned so much from women—restraint and timing, the protective virtues of mating games. All cynical instincts, lost here on this beach, this morning. Darl smoothed the hair back from her face and gave him a polite nod. “I can see why William sent you with me. You’re very comfortable with your sense of honor.” She paused. “I envy you.”
With that she turned and walked up a path between the dunes, touching her fingertips to tall sea oats that bent their grassy heads to her. Eli could only stand there, troubled and guilty on the edge of the only world they could share easily.
He couldn’t tell her yet.
I never made the mistake of believing Eli would show up in my life someday. He no longer lived in the United States, and he’d probably never come back. I knew why. Ten years earlier, I’d tracked him down.
It was a bright spring morning in Atlanta, just a few weeks after I started work as a public defender for the district attorney’s office. I was twenty-five years old, a bright-faced obsessive workaholic, fiercely proud of myself. I’d finally gotten my law degree and was able to afford my own small apartment, even though the one-bedroom efficiency crowned a creaky, gothic apartment building off Ponce de Leon, a schizophrenic boulevard where fine old homes shared their address with tattoo parlors, and where some of the city’s sleaziest hookers occupied all-night diner stools alongside yuppie engineering students from Georgia Tech.
I looked at the amount in my checkbook that morning as I sipped hot tea at an oak breakfast table I’d scrounged from the vast selections of the Lakewood Flea Market, the city’s largest monthly swap meet. Swan had sent me five thousand dollars as a graduation gift—she couldn’t resist being proud of me, though she never said so. You’ve proved your point, her accompanying note said. When you’re ready to come home, Hardigree Marble can use your expertise in law.