Sailing out of Darkness (Carolina Coast Book 4)

by Normandie Fischer

  “My daughter said it’s near the Duomo.”

  “Then we will share the ride, if you would like.”

  Of course Sam would like. Martine flashed a smile at the man behind the rental agency counter. She must have asked about a cab, because he immediately picked up the phone and punched in numbers that resulted in a ride awaiting them in very few minutes. Sam paid attention. Martine was obviously a woman who knew how to accomplish things.

  “You will visit me?” Martine asked as the cab driver headed out into traffic. She extracted a calling card from a small case in her purse, jotted down her phone number and address on the back, and handed it to Sam. “And you said you miss your little boat. We, too, own a sailboat, but Tonio has been too ill to take me recently. Perhaps you would agree to?”

  Sailing? On the Mediterranean? “I can’t imagine anything I’d like more,” she said, tucking the card in her wallet. The Italian Riviera and a sailboat.

  “I will look forward to your phone call then, when you travel to the north. Va bene?”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Signora?” The driver pulled up next to a battered stone building and popped open his trunk.

  Sam tucked a few folded Euros into Martine’s hand. “You must take this. You paid for the rental and the gas to get us here. Let me at least pay for the taxi.”

  “I will look forward to seeing you soon, cara.”

  As the taxi drove off with her first new friend in this foreign land, Sam hit the buzzer for Stefi’s apartment. Soon, feet tromped down the stairs, Stefi flung open the door on a squeal, and, enveloped in her daughter’s arms, Sam entered stage two of Mama’s Healing Moments.

  The days rolled one into one another as she and her daughter trekked around the city when Stefi wasn’t in class. By her fourth day, Sam was determined to see the statue of the David tucked inside the cool stone walls of the Galleria dell’Accademia. None of the books or postcards did justice to Michelangelo’s genius. She’d seen the two-dimensional artist in Rome, but oh, my, this larger than life, three-dimensional masterpiece amazed her.

  She grinned. Interesting, wasn’t it, that this study of the male form, this huge and very nude male, didn’t send her running, considering her recent misadventures. Of course, she’d seen naked before, but neither Greg nor Jack could compare with this fellow. What man could?

  A wistful yearning coiled inside her. The artist had caught the boy-man David, the one who had known rescue from the lion and the bear and now expected God to perform the same against Goliath. So why had Michelangelo carved worry lines on David’s face?

  Had he pictured David wondering as he held those smooth stones if maybe he’d misheard the call? Could the artist see the grown man, the king, who would become an adulterer, a murderer? Had Michelangelo thought of those times and of the days David had spent on the run from Saul while he chiseled winkles in this David’s brow? She’d really like to know how David lived with himself in the days and years after Bathsheba.

  She forced herself up from the bench and circled the statue once more. Stefi and the gorgeous Italian boy, Guido—who draped himself on, over, and around Stefi with too much freedom for this mother’s comfort—would be waiting for her to squire them out to dinner again, so she’d better get moving. She cast another glance over her shoulder and, doing so, could understand Stefi’s infatuation. Guido might have been a direct descendent of the man who’d modeled for the pretty-boy David.

  Stepping out into the sunlight, Sam pulled on her dark glasses and turned in the direction of Stefi’s flat. They’d go to dinner—Sam treating, so she hoped the they wouldn’t include too many of the roommates—after which the kids would want to go to a dance club. The very thought made Sam feel arthritic. Not that she was, but really. Had she ever had that much energy? Better to bow out tonight.

  And try not to worry about her daughter in this too free, too foreign place. Yesterday, she’d tried to warn Stefi, quietly, gently, about the danger of quick intimacy. But Stefi had just hugged her hard and promised to be good.

  Right. Stefi’s mother had promised exactly the same thing, and look where she’d landed. Here, and wishing she could put a chastity belt on her daughter and throw away the key. It was way too late for Daniel, but she prayed Stefi would be more careful. And perhaps remember a few of the things her mama had taught her.

  Divorce stank. So did its aftermath.

  Sam let herself into the flat Stefi shared with three other girls. “Hey, love,” she called, setting her purse on Stefi’s bed before joining her daughter in the living room.

  Stefi sat cross-legged on a ratty old couch, the string from a tea bag hanging over the rim of her mug. “You have fun today, Mama? You want some tea?”

  “No, thanks. And I had a lovely time. Saw the David.” Sam eased down on the couch.

  “Oooh, isn’t he the yummiest thing?”

  Sam raised her brows. She’d missed this amusing girl of hers. “Well, I’m not sure ‘yummy’ is the word I’d pick.”

  “Those hands. I’d love to touch hands like those. And the lips. It’s probably a good thing the statue’s so big. Can you imagine the lip-locks it would get when the guard turned his back if that mouth were in kissing distance?”

  “Cold, though, don’t you think? Who’d want to kiss marble lips?”

  Stefi grinned. “There is that.”

  “Where are the others?” Sam asked, glancing behind her toward the back bedroom.

  “They headed out early to get seats at this concert. I thought maybe you and I could hang out by ourselves. Go get pizza or something.”

  No Guido? But instead of asking, she checked her watch. “Are you hungry already?”

  “I’m always hungry. Besides, it’s been a while since I ate.”

  “Give me time to take advantage of the empty bathroom for that shower I missed this morning, and we’ll head out.”

  Hot water was always at a premium where beautiful young women shared a space, and the faucets had run a tepid stream by the time Sam’s turn came that morning. She grabbed her towel out of Stefi’s room along with a bottle of Stefi’s shampoo and climbed in and under. She’d learned not to leave the water running during her full shower, so she turned it off while she lathered and turned it back on to rinse. Clean clothes, a quick blow dry of her hair, a dab of blush, and she only needed shoes.

  Stefi had changed from jeans with holes—fashionably placed holes—to a comfy yellow top and white pants. Sam raised her brows with a pleased, “Nice,” and then checked out the obviously new sandals on Stefi’s feet. “Like the toes,” she said when her daughter wiggled the painted nails. “They match your lovely hair.”

  Stefi squinted down. “You think so? I didn’t mean to make them auburn. I was trying for more red.”

  “They work well with those yellow sandals. You match all over.”

  “What are you going to wear? Your clodhoppers?”

  Sam tried to look affronted, but she couldn’t help the grin that surfaced. This was an old discussion. Sam had given in to some extent, but she’d never understand why anyone chose style over comfort. “For you, I’ll wear my flats tonight.” She dug the black shoes out of her suitcase and slipped into them.

  “Thanks, Mama. They’re much prettier.”

  Sam hoped they wouldn’t pinch. “Where to?”

  “Pizza?”

  “I shouldn’t have asked. I’m in the mood for a little elegance.” She lifted one foot. “In honor of my flats and those pretty sandals of yours.”

  Stefi slipped her arm through Sam’s and hugged. “Then the place across from the Duomo.”

  Which meant only around a couple of corners, no foot-pinching required.

  A waiter seated them and offered menus. Sam honed in on the choice of mussels. “Me, too,” Stefi said and pointed to the squid antipasto. “Let’s live dangerously.”

  White wine arrived. “To my beautiful daughter,” Sam said, lifting her glass. “I’m so glad to be here with yo
u.”

  “Oh, Mama, I’m so happy you came. It’s been so much fun.”

  “It has, but you know it must come to an end.”

  Stefi’s glass clinked on her salad plate as she set it down. “Why? When? You just got here!”

  “Four days ago.” Four nights were long enough to camp among the younger set and play at dorm living. “It’s time to move on, honey. Do a little more traveling on my own.”

  Stefi ran a finger around the rim of her glass, studying it as if the liquid held the answers she needed. “You’ll come back? When you’ve traveled more?” Worry clouded her lovely eyes.

  “I’m sure I will, sweetie. But there’s so much to see, and I need the time.”

  That inched the worry up Stefi’s forehead. Sam longed to smooth off the lines, but she didn’t have the power to do that, not unless she could pretend again that everything was fine. The smile she dug out must have been weak.

  “You’re still not over Dad?”

  “Divorce is hard.” If only Sam could lay the full blame there. “I just...the thing is, I’m still trying to figure out who I am as a single woman. Can you understand that?”

  “I think so,” her loyal daughter said.

  “I got so busy starting over again that I didn’t take the time I needed.”

  Stefi waited barely two breaths before inserting a timid, “Jack?”

  Picking up her glass, Sam focused on it and took a slow sip, hoping Stefi wouldn’t see the alarm in her eyes. Where had that come from?

  “Mama, it was obvious that you and Jack spent a lot of time together. And that India Monroe wasn’t exactly a part of it.”

  How on earth did mothers have conversations like this with their too astute daughters? “Well,” Sam began and then lost the thought. She tried to hook another one. “Let’s just say that the situation made me uncomfortable.”

  “That’s gotta be hard. You always told me to run from temptation. I’m proud of you for being courageous enough to come here.”

  “You are?” But Stefi didn’t know the truth of it—how Sam had run too late for it to count.

  “I love you, Mama. I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through any of this.”

  Their waiter cleared his throat. Ah, the antipasto. And more bread. Wonderful. Another distraction. Sam nodded her thanks to the waiter, while Stefi said, “Grazie,” like a native.

  Sam broke the bread and swirled it in the olive oil. She forked a piece of the perfectly cooked and marinated squid, smiling around a mouthful at her sweet, sweet girl, and that same sweet girl smiled back. They spoke of Italy and travel and school and Daniel and Cindy—but no more of Jack or of Italian boyfriends.

  Later, as they prepared for bed, Sam reached for Stefi. “You’re my beautiful girl, and I’m so very, very proud of the woman you’ve become.”

  “Thanks.” Stefi swiped at tears that had begun during the embrace. “You’ll call me? And you’ll come back?”

  “I will. I’ve lots of minutes on this calling card.”

  “You need an international cell phone, Mama. Really.”

  “Fine. As soon as I use up these minutes.”

  “And a computer or an iPad. Then we could talk and see each other on Skype.”

  “I know. But it’s just another thing to carry around. Another thing to lose.”

  Stefi loosed a deep and very loud exhalation, ending with a shrug that said she’d quit nagging, but she wasn’t happy. As Sam lay in the dark that night, she thought about daughters and mothers and all the mistakes she’d made. And she prayed that the compounded interest from each and every one of hers wouldn’t have to come out of Stefi’s account.

  8

  Teo

  Every fork in the road is a moment of truth,

  And a choice that leads to the next one.

  An interesting place, New York, but not a city in which Teo would want to live. He’d checked into his Soho hotel and changed his shirt before heading to Midtown for a late afternoon meeting with his editor, Valerie Thornton.

  Val was one of those strong women whose office attire consisted of jeans and a blazer with the sleeves folded back twice. She gave him an air kiss and led him to her office, long silver spirals dancing from her earlobes, her dark hair even more closely cropped than he remembered from their last encounter.

  Pointing him to one of a pair of visitors’ chairs, she took the other.

  “Things look about the same around here,” Teo said, waving at the piles of manuscripts that littered her desk. “Why don’t you just use a computer?”

  “I do.” She propped her booted feet on a coffee table, crossing them at the ankles. “The thing is, I work better from printed copy.”

  “Lots of paper there.”

  “Yours is often among them. You have the outline ready?”

  He nodded, handed over his ideas for Sophrina’s next adventure, and asked, “With all that to wade through, how do you get your changes online to send me and all your other authors?”

  “Gaby. My new slave.”

  Poor Gaby, deciphering Val’s squiggles. He’d seen Val’s handwriting, and it wasn’t pretty or particularly legible. But then, neither was his. Waiting as Val studied the typed sheets, he tapped fingertips on the brass handle of his cane and let his attention wander to her bookshelves.

  His occupied a corner, upper left, top shelf. He shot her a silent thanks for her early faith in him. The spines of others caught his attention. Colorful. Some actually blazed with reds and yellows.

  “You haven’t detailed who’s to be the victim,” Val said, clipping the pages together. “Someone on the yacht? And you’ll puff it with Aegean mayhem?”

  “I will. It’s gelling.” He cleared his throat. “What I really wanted to talk about is a new heroine, not quite fleshed out yet, but getting there.”

  Val’s brows arched.

  “To be honest,” Teo said, trying for smooth and confident, “I was thinking of trying something a little different, something other than a mystery.”

  A scowl replaced her hiked brows. “Your brand is mystery.”

  His bland expression resulted in a deep sigh and more questions. Clearly, she was not convinced.

  “Don’t worry,” he promised. “I’ll send you the finished proposal for Sophrina’s Grecian adventure after my trip to Athens. It’s coming together.”

  “Good.” She slid her feet to the floor and stood.

  That hadn’t gone so badly. Perhaps he just had to sneak the new proposal in at the same time he sent her the full manuscript of Sophrina’s book.

  He didn’t hear laughter from any of the workstations as Val led him past staff who scooted back into position when they saw her. At the elevator, Val hit the button, combed fingers through her spiked hair, and blew out a long breath.

  “Okay. Fine. Send me an outline of your new story idea,” she said. “We’ll see. But you may lose readers if you switch genres. A pseudonym?”

  “Not a problem.” He returned the barely-there good-bye hug, one cheek forward, brushing lightly.

  So what if he hadn’t a clue how to manage book signings as two different people. He wasn’t sure they advanced his career appreciably anyway.

  When the taxi stalled in traffic, Teo tried to make conversation with the driver and received only stares in return. Perhaps the fellow had just arrived off the boat from somewhere quite a bit east of here.

  He picked up a latte from the coffee shop next to his hotel to tide him over until dinner and headed upstairs. His hotel room insulated him from the screeches and howls of rush-hour New York. He opened his laptop, set it up on the desk, and while it booted up, sipped the coffee, swiping at the mustache it left on his upper lip.

  The caffeine provided enough oomph to get his fingers moving. But no matter how many keys he hit, how many sentences he wrote, he couldn’t seem to make sense of his vision’s last call for help. What he remembered was her silence, a silence still in force in spite of his offer to help. Noises surrounded
him, but they weren’t the ones he yearned to hear.

  Spiritual things had once seemed important, but even back then, visions had never been part of the equation. Apparitions obviously involved spirits of some sort—unless he actually was crazy—and he’d be much more comfortable if he knew they had something to do with God and not the other guy. Like Jacob’s wrestler or the extra man in the furnace. Not like something conjured in a séance or through a Ouija board.

  He positioned his fingers above the keyboard, his wrists resting as he punched in words, sentences, paragraphs. Then he shook his head and pounded the delete key to erase the nonsense. The shivers he felt from her weren’t remotely spiritual. No, sir. They were all woman.

  Only, not real.

  What was wrong with him?

  He shut down the computer and slipped it back into its case. He obviously wouldn’t be writing that evening.

  Interesting that he hadn’t told Val about the detailed notes he’d made of his encounters. Probably because what he had was plotless, consisting only of a few word pictures. Telling Val would have exposed the lack of substance.

  Why couldn’t he enlarge the story—what story?—and make sense of it all?

  He tipped back in his chair and remembered returning to the beach in Reggio right before he’d left for the airport. A couple of wind surfers had struggled to stay upright. One, a bikini-clad young woman, had squealed as she steered and balanced.

  Next thing? It had hit him. Bam.

  His woman sailed. Of course. That’s why he’d seen windblown hair and sunglasses. No, she hadn’t appeared that day. No face nor body had come attached to the knowledge, no words on the wind. Just poof! He’d known.

  Enough. He needed a shower and some food. Shower first.

  The nozzle pointed spray at his tired flesh. He braced his hands against the plastic surround and leaned into it, letting the water pound the kinks from his muscles. If only it would empty his mind.

  Sailing was an alien experience, right up there with bungee jumping or skydiving. Why would he conjure a heroine who messed with something so foreign? Sailing stories were bound to be full of odd and difficult technical details. Granted, he was a researcher, but settings were easy. Take a trip, write a new book. The murder/police procedural details came from interviews in each country and from a lot of reading. But sailing?