Summer's Child

by Diane Chamberlain

  Sean looked down at the papers on his desk. He truly didn’t want to burden her with his problems. He never did. But right now he felt driven to tell her, his own personal confessor, what was troubling him.

  28

  THE MEETING WITH THE PRIEST CERTAINLY HAD NOT GONE according to plan, Rory thought as he drove home from the church. He wouldn’t be able to get information on Shelly’s adoption from Father Macy, that much was certain. Sure, he could get the facts from public records, but he had wanted the priest’s angle on the emotions involved. Without either of the elder Catos still living, it was impossible to understand exactly why and how they had longed to adopt the foundling.

  He was waiting at a stoplight when his eyes were drawn to the roof of a house across the street. Construction workers were on the roof, building a deck, and one of the workers was obviously a woman. Her back was to him, and she was leaning over, hammering, her khaki shorts defining her shape. Her narrow waist curved into trim, shapely hips, and he felt an instant, visceral attraction. Was this the sort of work Daria did, balancing on the side of a roof, wielding a hammer? His gaze drifted to one of the other workers, a man whose blond hair was tied back in a ponytail, and he realized the man was Andy Kramer, Daria’s co-worker. Rory jerked his gaze back to the woman. She stood up from her task, and he saw the wild black hair. Daria. A grin broke out across his face. He was filled with warmth at seeing her up there on the roof, and he was surprised, and a little shaken, by his unexpected physical attraction to her. It was a bit like being attracted to your sister. Except that Daria was not his sister.

  The driver behind him honked, and Rory quickly looked at the traffic light to discover it was green. He pressed on the gas, wondering how long he had been sitting there in a daze.

  Later that evening, he and Zack were batting the volleyball across the net on the beach, when Kara showed up. She was dressed in a green halter top and tiny shorts that displayed the gold hoop in her navel. Leaning against the post that supported the net, she watched the two of them, and Rory was aware of the vibrations passing between his son and the girl. No doubt, they wished he would disappear. He was superfluous now that Kara had arrived.

  He happened to glance toward the Sea Shanty and spotted Daria standing on the widow’s walk, watching them.

  “Hey, Daria.” He waved to her. “Come join us so we can have two teams.”

  He was pleased when Daria called back that she was coming down, and in a moment she was on the beach. She was still wearing the tank top and khaki shorts she’d had on when he spotted her on the roof. “How do you want to divide up?” she asked.

  “Kara and me against you guys,” Zack said quickly, and Kara walked onto his side of the net. “This is going to be too easy,” Zack said to Kara. “I don’t know about Daria, but my dad’s an old guy with a screwed-up knee.”

  Rory rolled his eyes at Daria. She was laughing.

  The game began. Daria was one mean volleyball player. She could spike the ball over the net with unstoppable speed, and when she jumped for a shot, it was as though she had springs on her feet.

  Rory positioned her on the court. He knew that touching her was unnecessary, yet his hand seemed drawn to her. This was crazy. A few hours ago, he’d thought of her as his little playmate. Grown-up now, yes, but still essentially that spirited, sexless child. One glimpse of her up on that roof and suddenly, her body beneath his hand was the body of a woman.

  He and Daria won the game. They were both sweaty and winded, and his knee throbbed, but they savored the victory, celebrating with a hug. Zack muttered something about having let the old folks win and refused to play again, which was a secret relief to Rory, who doubted his knee could handle a second game.

  He collapsed on the sand, and Daria sat down next to him to watch Zack and Kara play one-on-one. Daria’s thick hair was loose and blew around her face in the ocean breeze.

  “I saw you at work today,” Rory said. “You were up on a roof, working on a deck.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Where were you? Driving by?”

  “Uh-huh.” He still remembered how she looked up there. “I was driving back from St. Esther’s. I had an appointment with Father Macy.”

  She shifted on the sand to look at him. “You did?” There was unmasked disapproval in her voice.

  “He called me,” Rory defended himself.

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, how’d it go?”

  Rory sighed. “That man does not like me,” he said.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, he’s sure not going to give me any information about Shelly’s adoption.”

  “He cares very deeply for Shelly,” Daria said, brushing her hair back from her cheek. “He’s trying to protect her.”

  “Yeah, yeah. That same old song and dance,” Rory said tiredly. “Nobody wants me to pursue this, except Shelly herself.”

  “And Shelly doesn’t—”

  “Doesn’t know what’s good for her,” Rory finished the sentence. “I know that’s the party line. I just don’t buy it. I started wondering today if you know more than you’re letting on. If you’re trying to protect someone.”

  “I’m trying to protect Shelly,” Daria said. “She’s the only one I care about.” She shut up then. Zack and Kara were batting the volleyball back and forth in an easy rhythm, and Rory grew uncomfortable with the silence between Daria and himself. She was first to break it.

  “I’m going to Rodanthe tomorrow,” she said suddenly.

  “Rodanthe?” He thought of Grace. “Why?”

  “That’s where the pilot lived,” Daria said. “I got the name and address for her parents, and I’m going to pay them a visit.”

  “You move fast,” he said. “Have you spoken to them yet?”

  “No, I thought of calling them first, but I think a face-to-face meeting would be better.” She was staring toward the ocean, stoic determination in her eyes.

  “It’s going to be hard,” he said.

  “Yes,” she agreed, “but so is not knowing how they’re doing.” She looked at him. “I’m glad you pushed me to do this, Rory,” she said. “At least, I’m glad right now. We’ll see how I’m feeling tomorrow night after I’ve seen them.”

  “Well, while you’re down in Rodanthe, say hi to Grace for me. My mystery woman.” He lifted a handful of sand from the beach and watched it flow through his fingers. “She doesn’t know what she wants. I was wondering about that illness she had. Maybe it was breast cancer. Maybe she had a mastectomy.”

  “You mean…you…Wouldn’t you know by now?”

  He was confused for a moment, then realized what she meant and laughed ruefully. “No, I wouldn’t know. I told you, she keeps me at arm’s length.”

  Daria’s eyes widened in surprise. “Still?”

  “Still. She seems to want to be with me, but she shies away from physical contact. I don’t know if she’s still got a thing for her husband, or what.”

  “It must have something to do with her illness,” Daria said. “It’s time you asked her, don’t you think?”

  He dug his feet into the sand, shaking his head. “She’s not like you,” he said. “You don’t seem to have a problem talking about anything. Grace is very…closed.”

  “When do you see her again?”

  “Saturday. She’s coming to watch the hang-gliding competition with me. Are you going?”

  “I plan to. I haven’t been for a couple of years, but I want to root for my favorite priest.”

  “Father Macy’s in the competition?” Rory asked. He’d forgotten that the priest was a hang-glider pilot.

  “He wouldn’t miss it,” Daria said.

  Suddenly, Daria jumped to her feet and ran onto Kara’s side of the net. “Kara, girl,” she said, “you need to learn how to rush the net.”

  Rory watched as Daria gave Kara a few tips, helping her jump higher, helping her place the ball where Zack didn’t stand a chance.

  “No fair!” Zack compla
ined after missing several of Kara’s shots. “Show me how to do that.”

  Daria stepped over to his side of the net to offer him the same training.

  Rory leaned back on his elbows in the sand. He remembered the other night, when he’d sat with Daria on her porch steps, acutely aware of the unrelenting anguish the plane crash had brought her. He’d had his hand on the back of her neck, and he wished he’d somehow been able to absorb her pain through his fingertips to free her from it. He hoped her trip to Rodanthe served that purpose, that it eased her guilt and brought an end to her nightmares.

  Kara pounded the ball across the net, and both Zack and Daria ran for it. They collided in midair and fell to the sand, laughing. Rory laughed with them, and he knew in his heart that he was watching two people he loved.

  29

  THE DAY WAS BLISTERING HOT AS DARIA DROVE SOUTH TO Rodanthe, and the heat rose from the road in shimmering waves. She’d barely slept the night before, rehearsing what she would say to the pilot’s parents, but with the meeting looming in front of her, she found she couldn’t think about it. Instead, her mind slipped back to the evening before, when she’d played volleyball with Rory, when he’d touched her on the court. The last thing she’d needed was his help; she was now and always had been a superior volleyball player to him. But she had needed that touch. She’d hoped for it, even moving herself into positions where she thought she might find his hands on her body. And he had read her need and touched her. It had felt like a dance, but she had to remind herself she was dancing alone.

  So, he and Grace still were not lovers. She kept him at arm’s length. A smile formed on her lips at the thought. He was most likely right about Grace: she’d probably had breast cancer, maybe a mastectomy. She always wore those high-necked bathing suits. Naturally, she was struggling with intimacy, and Daria was a grade-A bitch for taking any pleasure in that fact.

  She drove across the bridge above the Oregon Inlet and through the green, undeveloped stretch of land that formed the Pea Island Wildlife Refuge. A short time later, she was in Rodanthe, the northernmost town on Hatteras Island. The houses were fewer here on this narrow strip of land, and the sense of commercialism that permeated Kill Devil Hills was missing.

  Rodanthe was so small that she found the street she was looking for with little trouble. She turned onto it, toward Pamlico Sound, and parked in front of the address she’d been given. The house was older, small and yellow, fronted by a tidy landscaped yard. There were no cars in the driveway, but there might have been one in the small garage at the rear of the property. She hadn’t thought about what she would do if no one was home. Maybe she should have called first.

  She knocked on the door and waited.

  “They’re not home.”

  She turned to see a woman getting out of a car in front of the house next door, grocery bags in her arms.

  “Do you know where I can find them?” Daria asked.

  “Probably at their store,” the woman said. “It’s called Beachside Café and Sundries. It’s straight down that way.” She pointed toward the sound. “Make a left at the fork.”

  Back in her car, Daria followed the woman’s directions to the Beachside Café. She parked on the street and sat in her car for a moment, debating what she should do. She didn’t want to interrupt them at work with something this weighty. Maybe she could just tell them who she was and ask if there would be a more convenient time for her to speak with them.

  With that plan in mind, she got out of the car and walked inside the café.

  The café was small and crowded and smelled strongly of coffee. All the tables by the windows overlooking the sound were full, and a couple of women stood near the counter, waiting for their orders, Daria supposed. A very young woman—too young to be the pilot’s mother—carried a tray of sandwiches to the diners at one of the tables. Standing behind the counter, a dark-haired man worked the espresso machine. He glanced up as Daria approached.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, his attention already back on the coffee machine.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said, “I’m looking for Edward Fuller.”

  He dried his hands on a towel. “I’m Eddie,” he said. He handed two cups of coffee to the women waiting at the counter, and they carried them over to the crowded tables.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you at work, Mr. Fuller,” she said again.

  “Eddie,” he repeated.

  “Eddie. My name is Daria Cato. I was one of the EMTs on the scene of the plane accident where your daughter, Pamela, was—” she glanced toward the tables by the windows and lowered her voice “—where your daughter was killed. I was wondering if there was a time I might be able to talk with you and your wife.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then nodded. “Sally?” he called to the waitress.

  The young woman turned from the table she was serving to look at him.

  “Can you handle things out here for a few minutes?” he asked.

  “No problem,” Sally said, and Eddie Fuller led Daria into a room at the back of the café. The room was minuscule and made smaller by two large desks set against adjacent walls.

  “Please—” the man pointed toward one of the desk chairs “—have a seat.”

  Daria sat down. “Is your wife here?” she asked. “I was hoping to talk with both of you.”

  “No, I’m afraid she’s not here right now. But I’d really like to hear what you have to say. You were there, on the scene?”

  “Yes, I was. And although it’s been months, I still think about her—your daughter. I just needed to make contact with you and your wife to be sure you’re doing okay and to belatedly convey my condolences.”

  With a heavy sigh, Eddie sat down himself, and Daria was distressed by the tears in his eyes. “Well, to be truthful, we’re not doing okay at all. It’s hell to bury a child,” he said, his gaze out the window. “It’s even worse when you blame yourself for her death.”

  “Why would you do that?” Daria asked, surprised. “How could you possibly be at fault?”

  He waved away the question. “Can you tell me what it was like?” he asked. “The accident, I mean? They told us she died almost instantly. She didn’t suffer much, did she?”

  Daria chose her words carefully. “It all happened very quickly,” she said. “And I guess you know that the passengers reported she’d lost consciousness before the accident, so I don’t think she was all that aware of what was going on.” The lie slipped awkwardly from her mouth, but the look of relief on Eddie Fuller’s face made her glad she had told it.

  “The autopsy said she’d had a seizure,” Eddie said. “That’s why the plane went down. I’m just thankful the two passengers were all right.”

  “A seizure?” Daria hadn’t known that. “Did she have a history of seizures?” She thought of Shelly. Shelly was not even allowed to drive, much less fly a plane.

  “No, that was her first, as far as I know. I never would’ve let her fly if I’d known she was prone to them. She had a condition called Marfan’s syndrome, although she never really had any symptoms of it. But apparently one of the symptoms is seizures.” He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, it seemed to take great effort. “I always wanted to fly,” he said. “It was a dream of mine from the time I was very small. But I couldn’t, because of high blood pressure. So, I pushed my daughter to be a pilot. I gave her model planes when she was little. A friend had a Cessna, and he took us up and would let her operate the controls.” Eddie played with the corner of his apron, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “Pam was bitten by the bug. I’d made sure that she was. She got her license the day she turned seventeen. She loved it, and I loved that she loved it.”

  “Is that why you blame yourself?” Daria asked.

  His nod was almost imperceptible.

  “You could never have predicted what happened.” She hurt for the man. “You and she probably had a special relationship because of your shared love of fly
ing. That sounds wonderful to me.”

  “I was selfish, living vicariously through Pam,” he said. “My wife never wanted her to fly. She was always afraid something awful would happen. And she was right. She still hasn’t forgiven me for it, either.” He looked down at the apron, smoothed it across the denim covering his thigh. “She and I…We’re not doing too well.”

  “I don’t mean to be intrusive,” Daria said, “but it sounds to me like both you and your wife loved your daughter deeply, and that maybe you haven’t really been able to grieve together because…because your wife is spending her energy being angry with you, and you’re spending your energy being angry with yourself, and so neither one of you is able to heal.”

  “You hit the nail right on the head,” he said.

  “What about counseling?” Daria said. “Maybe that would help the two of you.”

  “We went once, but then my wife had to have surgery and she was…” His voice trailed off as he looked out the window again. He shook his head. “She’s just had too much to deal with. So, we haven’t been back to the counselor, and Grace wouldn’t go, anyhow. She’s too angry with me.”

  Daria caught her breath. Grace? From Rodanthe? But Rory’s Grace was named Grace Martin, and Grace was not all that rare a name. Besides, Rory’s Grace was separated from her husband. Surely this couldn’t be…She looked around the room and found exactly what she was searching for on one of the cluttered desks: a photograph of Eddie, Pamela—and Grace Martin. Her mind raced as she tried to put two and two together.

  “Um…” Her voice had a tremor in it. “Your wife. Grace? How is she coping?”

  “You’d have to ask her that question,” Eddie said. He did not sound bitter, only confused. “I don’t know where she is half the time,” he said. “She won’t talk to me. She won’t tell me what she’s thinking or feeling. We’re both pretty alone in this…not grieving together, like you said.”

  He hadn’t mentioned a thing about a separation, and she needed to know. “Have you and your wife…separated over this?” she asked.