by Sophie Moss
She was a cook. He was an officer—a highly regarded one, and one who’d praised her publicly. He’d been quoted in over a dozen articles saying how brave he thought she was, how grateful he was that she’d been there that day to save his life.
No one would believe that he’d raped her. Not in a million years.
“Izzy,” Erin said softly, “as long as you stay silent, he wins.”
Izzy’s whole body vibrated, not just from shock, but from anger, now, too. “How dare you?”
“Izzy—”
“No!” Izzy snapped, cutting her off. “How dare you let me sit here and babble on about oysters when you knew? You knew I was raped, and you brought up the name of my attacker in our first session together. What the hell kind of a therapist are you?”
“I know that you’re hurting,” Erin said calmly. “And I know that you’re angry. You have every right to be. But, by not speaking up, you’re allowing him to control you. Don’t give him that power, Izzy. Don’t let him win.”
“He already won!”
“No,” Erin said. “You’re wrong. There’s no statute of limitations on rape in the military. The law changed a few years ago. You can still report it. It’s not too late.”
Izzy looked back at her, at this woman who thought she knew so much, but who didn’t know anything. She didn’t know anything at all. “I did report it!”
Confusion flashed across Erin’s face. “You did?”
“Yes!” Izzy shouted. “I went to the hospital. I got a rape kit. I filed a report. I did everything I was supposed to do.”
“I don’t understand,” Erin said. “What happened?”
Izzy pushed to her feet, strode to the window overlooking the water. She could see the waves crashing against the shoreline, splashing up into the yard. “I had to take some time off afterwards to recover. There was some damage…internally.”
She pressed a hand to the glass, squeezed her eyes shut. She could feel the rain lashing against her palm, hear the wind howling through the tops of the trees. “I went to work the next week and made an appointment with my commanding officer to explain what had happened. He said there was no record of a report, or a rape kit, or a hospital visit.”
The memories swam back and Izzy struggled not to choke on them. “He said…I must have imagined it. That the stress of war must have caused a…condition. That I needed to see a psychiatrist and have an evaluation to find out if I was still fit to serve.” The rain whipped against the glass, drummed against the roof. “I didn’t imagine it.”
“I believe you.”
It was only three words, but something inside Izzy cracked open the moment Erin said them. Because no one had ever said them before.
She hadn’t realized how badly she’d needed to hear them.
How badly she’d needed just one person to be on her side.
But it didn’t change the fact that she still had no proof.
“Without the rape kit, it’s his word against mine,” Izzy said. “And who’s going to believe me? I’m a cook. He’s a colonel. A jury would take one look at me”—she waved a hand up and down her body, gesturing to the curves she hid so carefully beneath baggy clothes now—“and think that I asked for it.”
“You didn’t ask for it.”
Izzy shook her head. She must have done something wrong. She must have done something to make him believe that she’d wanted it.
“Izzy,” Erin said quietly, walking up behind her. “Look at me.”
Izzy turned, lifted her gaze to Erin’s.
“You didn’t ask for it. You didn’t deserve it. And it wasn’t your fault.”
Izzy felt her body constricting, coiling in on itself as the pain she’d been holding inside for so long fought to get out. Burying her face in her hands, she started to weep. Erin helped her back to the sofa. She continued to say the words—You didn’t ask for it. You didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t your fault—over and over again, until Izzy slowly began to hear them, until they slowly began to register.
Until she slowly began to realize what she should have known all along, that the only thing she’d done wrong was let Bradley get away with it.
When she could finally see again without a wall of tears blurring her vision, she noticed that the clouds had passed, the wind had died, and there was only the softest pattering of raindrops against the roof. She looked back at Erin, who was sitting beside her now. There was nothing but kindness and compassion in her eyes.
Why had it taken her so long to realize that this woman only wanted to help her?
“I was late today because I’ve been tracking all the women who’ve served under…my attacker,” Izzy said, not wanting to speak his name out loud anymore. Not wanting to grant him even that smallest of courtesies. “I’ve been trying to figure out if he’s done this to anyone else, or if I’m the only one.”
Erin took a deep breath. “Most rapists are repeat offenders. The chances that you’re his only victim are extremely slim.”
Izzy nodded, because she’d read the same thing online. The fact that she hadn’t found anything until today didn’t mean that nothing had happened. “I saw something on one of the women’s Facebook pages today, right before our appointment. I sent her a message and asked her to call me. I’m waiting to hear back,” she said, then added, with a touch of desperation. “It could be nothing.”
“It could be nothing,” Erin said slowly, “or it could be exactly what you think it is.”
Izzy looked down at her phone, saw that the screen was still blank. No missed calls. No missed messages.
“What are you going to do if she says he assaulted her, Izzy?”
Izzy continued to stare down at her phone, willing it to ring. “I don’t know.”
Fifteen
One week later, Annie drove up the gravel lane to the farm. Taylor sat in the passenger seat, holding a pepper grinder and a pair of grilling utensils in her lap. Della had called a little while ago and said she’d forgotten them. It was fortunate that the farm was less than a half a mile from the café. They were going to have to get better at this if they were going to accept any more catering gigs in the future.
As far as Annie was concerned, they weren’t ready. Business at the café was ticking along comfortably now, but she still had a lot of loans to repay. She had planned to start crunching numbers after the tourist season slowed to see if an expansion would be feasible.
At this point, they didn’t have the workforce to support it. She and Della were the only two people who worked at the café. If they decided to give it a shot later this year, she would have to hire someone to manage the events and maybe another part-time person to staff them.
She wasn’t sure she could afford that yet.
Besides, there’d been enough changes in both her and Taylor’s lives over the past year. She just wanted everything to stay calm and stable for a while.
Pulling into an empty parking spot outside the two-story house that served as the farm’s office, she checked the clock on the dashboard. It was 4:45PM, which meant they had at least fifteen minutes until Ryan’s first guests would arrive.
“Do you want to run those things over to Della?” Annie asked, helping Taylor out of her seatbelt.
Taylor nodded, hopped out of the car, and went to the back seat to let Riley out. The dog scrambled out of the car and raced toward the water with Taylor close on her heels.
Annie stepped out of the driver’s side more slowly, pausing for a moment to take in the view. She was secretly glad to have an excuse to swing by early. Della was in charge of the food, so she wasn’t worried about that, but Izzy had insisted on taking care of the presentation.
And she wasn’t sure what to expect from the female veteran.
The few times they’d crossed paths over the past week, Izzy had seemed edgy and distracted. Will had even commented that he’d noticed her obsessively checking her phone. Della had waved all of it off and told Annie that she worried too much. And maybe she
did. But until Grace found out if the woman was dangerous or not, she was going to continue to err on the side of caution.
For Taylor’s sake.
Closing the door to her car, she headed across the lawn to the picnic area. She could smell the lemon and thyme rub Della had put on the rockfish, the smoke from the charcoal grill, and the salty scent of freshly shucked oysters. As summer evenings went, they couldn’t have asked for a better one. The skies were clear. The surface of the water shimmered with drops of reflected sunlight. And there was a soft wind blowing in from the south—strong enough to keep the bugs away but not strong enough to blow anything over.
“Hey, Annie,” Matt said, from behind a table where he and Wesley were shucking oysters.
“Hey,” Annie said, noticing the matching T-shirts they were wearing. The material was an earthy, sage green in a thin, washed-out cotton that looked like it had been worn a hundred times right out of the box. The name Pearl Cove Oysters was printed across the front in bold white font above an illustrated graphic of two halves of an oyster shell, partially open, but still connected at the hinge. “Love the T-shirts.”
“Thanks.” Matt smiled, popped another oyster open, and carefully set it on the bed of crushed ice between them. “The shipment came in this afternoon. Perfect timing.”
“Did Paul design them?” Annie asked.
Matt nodded. “He rocked it, right?”
Yes, Annie thought. He had. She looked down at the table, taking in the artful display of oysters on ice, the buckets of chilled champagne and polished flutes inviting guests to grab a glass and help themselves, and wondered if Paul had had a hand in that, too.
She was about to move on to the next table, when an assortment of colorful toppings and sauces caught her eye. She’d never seen Della make anything like them before. They looked more like something she would have served at Citron Bleu—the upscale D.C. restaurant where she’d worked before moving to the island last year. “Did Della make these?”
“No.” Matt shook his head. “Izzy did.”
Annie glanced up, surprised. “I thought Izzy didn’t cook.”
“She doesn’t,” Matt said. “She said it wasn’t technically cooking since she didn’t have to go in the kitchen. Della brought the ingredients out and Izzy mixed them up at one of the picnic tables. Here.” He handed her the oyster he’d just shucked. “Try one. They’re off the hook.”
Puzzled, and more than a little curious, Annie added a spoonful of the first sauce to her oyster, then tipped the whole thing back and let it slide into her mouth. The combination of flavors was so unexpected, she didn’t even know what to make of it at first. She tasted salt, citrus, mint, and something spicy. And, then, all at once, the flavors rolled together, complementing each other and, somehow, balancing perfectly with the buttery base of the oyster.
Off the hook didn’t even come close to describing this sauce. “What is this?”
“Blood orange juice with mint leaves and chilies.” Wesley grinned and handed her another oyster. “Try the next one. It’s a cucumber lime granita.”
Cucumber lime granita? Since when does an Army cook know how to make a cucumber lime granita?
Annie tipped the oyster back, swallowed, and then slowly lowered the empty shell to her side.
“Insane, right?” Matt asked, grinning now, too.
Annie nodded, blown away. “I’ve never tasted anything like that before.”
“Me neither,” Wesley said, laughing. “I didn’t even know what a granita was before tonight.” He handed her a third oyster. “The last one’s a Prosecco mignonette.”
Annie tasted the final sauce, savoring the sharp, sensual tang of the vinegar against the creamy sweetness of the oyster. The hint of Prosecco added a fun, flirty touch to what would have otherwise been a typical mignonette sauce. But there was nothing typical about any of these sauces.
Looking back up at Wesley, she felt something stir, deep inside her, in response to the decadent blend of flavors and textures. If these sauces were any indication of Izzy’s overall cooking style, then she had greatly underestimated the woman’s talent.
“Check out what’s on the next table,” Wesley said, holding his hand out for her empty shells. “She put that together, too.”
Admiration, Annie thought. There was admiration in his voice when he talked about Izzy now. She handed him the shells, walked over to the next table, and immediately saw why.
At first glance, it was a simple display of books and pictures, but something about the way they’d been arranged made you want to walk closer, reach down, pick one up. Some of the photos were old, so old they were yellowing at the edges, and Annie’s eyes widened when she realized that they were pictures of Coop Callahan as a young man.
Coop couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen years old in some of the shots. Propped up on stacks of books about wetlands and watermen and the history of the Chesapeake Bay, there were pictures of Coop out on his workboat—hauling up bushels of crabs in the summer and dredging for oysters in the winter. There were pictures of him loading crab pots into the bed of his truck, mending a trotline on the steps of his porch, and shucking oysters at a local seafood festival.
There were pictures of Ryan, too, at different stages in his life. There was one of him holding up a ribbon from the first science award that he’d won in grade school, one of him jumping off the back of a research ship in his scuba diving gear in graduate school, and one of him gracing the cover of Science magazine, from only a few years ago.
But it was the ones of them together—father and son—that had Annie reaching down, brushing her fingers over the wooden frames. Every picture on this table told a story of a father and son, who’d lived two very different lives, but who’d ended up back here together—as if every step they’d taken had led them to this moment.
“Mom!”
Annie turned and saw Taylor waving her over excitedly from the other side of the picnic area.
“Mom, come here! You have to see this!”
There was more?
Dazed, Annie made her way over to where her daughter stood beside another longer table. Halfway across the picnic area, her jaw simply dropped. Nasturtiums trailed through more beds of raw shucked oysters. Daisies, zinnias, and dahlias surrounded platters of rockfish and crab cakes, which had been garnished with paper-thin lemon slices and sprigs of fresh thyme.
There was a salad she didn’t recognize—some exotic combination of black beans, mangoes, cilantro, and citrus that had Izzy written all over it—and a plate of jalapeño cornbread so temptingly moist, she had to stop herself from taking a slice.
“Look,” Taylor said, pointing to Annie’s business cards, which were artfully displayed in a premier spot in the middle of the table, exactly the way Izzy had promised they would be.
Jesus, Annie thought. They’d hardly done anything. They’d barely even supplied the food.
Glancing over her shoulder, she caught the ‘I told you so’ look in Della’s eye, and felt the first sharp tug of guilt.
All around them, Ryan’s employees were busy putting the finishing touches on each of their parts of the operation. There was a nervous energy in the air, but there was also excitement. And pride. She could see it in their faces.
“Oh, hi,” Izzy said as she came around the corner and stopped abruptly at the sight of them. “I didn’t know you were here.”
She was wearing a Pearl Cove Oysters T-shirt—as all Ryan’s employees were—and her hair was pulled away from her face. But instead of her usual knot of messy curls that barely required a mirror, she’d braided it into a single sleek strand. She’d taken her time with the rest of her appearance, too, donning a clean pair of khaki shorts and a pair of sneakers that looked like they’d recently had a tumble through the washing machine.
“Did you do all this?” Taylor asked, gazing up at Izzy in awe.
Izzy nodded, glancing at Annie nervously before reaching down to adjust a few nasturtium leaves
so the vibrant blooms were more visible.
“Where did you get all these flowers?” Taylor asked.
“The Flower Shoppe,” Izzy said. “Gladys donated them. She said they were mostly day-old flowers that she’d have to throw out anyway.”
They didn’t look like day-old flowers, Annie thought. And she’d bet a month’s worth of income that Gladys had sent a fresh supply over with Kade earlier, and told him to keep that tidbit of information to himself.
Izzy stepped back, surveying the table. “Is it too much?”
Too much?
Izzy reached for one of the platters. “Because I could—”
“No.” Annie put a hand on her arm to stop her. “It’s…perfect.”
Izzy looked up. “You like it?”
There was so much hope and vulnerability in the other woman’s expression, Annie felt another wave of guilt roll through her. Where was the angry, closed-off woman who’d driven onto this island five weeks ago? Who was this woman standing before her now?
Was it possible that Annie had been so consumed with protecting Taylor that she hadn’t noticed the transformation?
Annie thought back to when she and Taylor had first arrived on the island last fall—how defensive and prickly she’d been during those first few weeks, how guilty she’d felt at not being able to protect her daughter from the school-shooter, how terrified she’d been that it could ever happen again.
But she hadn’t shown that fear to anyone, had she? No, she’d lashed out at anyone who’d tried to get too close.
She thought about what Will suspected had happened to Izzy—that someone had sexually assaulted her. For the first time since hearing those words, she let them sink in. Really sink in. And tried to imagine how angry she would have been if that had happened to her.
About as angry as Izzy had been when she’d first arrived on the island.
“Mom,” Taylor said, tugging on her hand. “Can we go find Ryan? I want to ask him where he hung the oyster shells we painted in summer school.”