Sailing out of Darkness (Carolina Coast Book 4)

by Normandie Fischer

  Yeah, right, Sam. That’s you.

  She punched in the numbers she’d need to reach Daniel and listened to it ring. Maybe she’d only have to leave a message.

  He answered. Yes, he was fine, his wife was fine, the pregnancy was going well. “You fine, Mom?” he asked, and when she said she was, he chatted about his classes and how well he was juggling it all. She hoped it was true, that he wasn’t merely trying to stave off her worry.

  Her next call was to Stefi.

  “Yes, I’m driving carefully. Conservatively,” Sam promised when Stefi asked.

  Even though cars passed with kamikaze pretensions, the Italians did seem to honor the passing-only-on-the-left rule and kept that lane clear for vehicular samurai. Sam didn’t mind hugging the right shoulder, not even when it meant moving at a snail’s pace.

  “What are you seeing? Is it helping?” Stefi, who’d begged her mama to phone nightly, continued to need reassurance.

  “I’m eating and touring and having a lovely time, sweetheart. But don’t you think you should concentrate on your life there and let your mama off the leash?”

  Stefi’s answer followed a very loud and very elongated sigh. “But you’ll call me often? Maybe not every night, but often?”

  “I promise. Don’t worry, please.”

  “I’m trying.”

  Which was all Sam could ask of her, especially as Sam held a graduate degree in worry herself.

  The new girl in Beaufort answered the shop phone. Yes, she loved working there, all was great, lots of customers, and she’d go fetch Tootie from the stock room. Tootie could barely control herself as she told Sam about her uncle’s visit.

  That was good. Tootie’s uncle in the States meant no nagging for Sam to look him up.

  “I’m glad your assistant’s working out well,” Sam said to change the subject.

  “Oh, she is. And she has a whole slew of other friends who’ve started coming in every day. Business is great.”

  “Rhea says the same thing about the Raleigh store. Perhaps I should have left town sooner.”

  Tootie giggled, as she was supposed to. “You’re a hoot, Sam. By the way, Clay stopped in. He said the same thing he always does. No way is he going to swill that junk they brew down at the station house. He’s so funny. When I told him you were off in Italy, he said to tell you ‘hey.’ And Hannah was here this morning with her two. You met them, didn’t you? Louis and his sister, Linney? She asked where you were visiting. Said you had to come see her when you get home so you can compare trips.”

  “I forgot Matt had taken her to Italy.”

  Hannah happily flitting from place to place with her husband versus Sam’s miserable and very alone self barely registering her surroundings? Not exactly the bubbly conversation Hannah would expect.

  Tootie’s words didn’t register until she said something about Hannah’s newly adopted daughter. “Seems Linney’s been feeling poorly. You think the child’s condition makes it harder when she gets sick? I don’t know much about Down Syndrome.”

  “She’s sure a sweet thing, isn’t she?” Sam said, remembering the talk in town when the two children had been discovered hiding out behind Hannah’s church. “I suppose they were visiting Down East Creations?”

  “Business seems to be thriving there, too.”

  “Good news all around.” At least there was good news in Beaufort. Good news somewhere.

  Get. Over. Yourself. The words showed up as if shot from an old ticker tape machine. Click. Click. Click.

  With a sigh, she hung up and dialed Rhea’s phone. The thought of more conversation made her throat constrict. “I’m having a grand time,” she assured her friend and, hoping to cut short the call, added, “No, no, I’m not depressed or moping. How could I be, here in this incredible place?”

  Fine, she lied. So what?

  This became her driving tour. Each morning, the map and the route. Each evening, a place to rest. If she liked the look of the resting place—and how could she not, considering that this was the land of gorgeous, old, and welcoming places?—she stayed a day or two.

  The towns blended into a tapestry of quaint and interesting. But days of travel, with only a phone card to link her to others, began to take their toll. She needed to stop. To put up her feet and stay a while. To speak English.

  Portofino and Martine’s invitation to visit got Sam thinking west and then south. She opened her guidebook to research the area.

  Ah, yes, well, she should have known. She’d never be able to afford more than one night in a place like Portofino, a high-end—meaning expensive—seaside resort, very much on the beaten path. She flipped to the next page. Tucked in among the natural hyperbole were two paragraphs suggesting that the smaller, supposedly cheaper Reggio sul Mare might be the place for Sam, near enough to Portofino for her to call Martine and invite her for lunch. Or something.

  The little rental descended a treed hillside into the smallish resort town. She topped off the rental car’s tank, looked around with curiosity, and asked for directions to the nearest inexpensive hotel.

  The station attendant raised his brows at the word economico from an American’s lips, but he jotted down several names, accompanying his notes with florid gestures and something about turning right and then left—or maybe that was left and then right—and how this one was up the hill, and that one was down. The Pensione Garibaldi was her next to last stop.

  “Posso vedere una camera, per piacere? ” she asked at the desk, quoting her phrasebook.

  The landlady grinned over winsomely crooked teeth. With great flourish, she patted her flyaway hair and led Sam to a room on the third floor that boasted a distant view of the sea. It had a throw rug in bright blues to soften the terrazzo floor, a small desk, a bureau with a miniature television set, and a double bed, which Sam tested by sitting on it. A sink occupied one corner, but the toilet and bath were down the hall. Sam pointed to the shared toilet and shook her head, saying, “No, no, troppo, too much,” to the quoted room price.

  The woman suggested a sum by the week. Sam did the mental calculations and named a smaller number. The landlady grinned and nodded. The light in the woman’s eyes probably meant she’d have taken less.

  Handing over the keys at the local car rental agency gave Sam momentary pause, but she could leave whenever she chose, either by bus, train, taxi, or hired car. And she wasn’t far from Genoa or Milan, which meant flights home when she’d tired of this journey.

  And, no, choosing a place this close to someone she’d met had nothing to do with emotional dependence and everything to do with shoring up her walls. She’d come for adventure, but she didn’t want to become a basket case again and find herself in trouble. Better to admit she needed friends and be close enough to visit one.

  She sucked in a deep breath, released it, and nodded to the walls of her new room. This was good. She didn’t need an AA meeting, but she might just need an English-speaking female friend.

  Now that she’d decided to stay for a while, she looked at the town with a different eye. The other stops had been places to see. This was a place to savor while she saved money.

  She grabbed her shoulder bag and set out to explore. And to eat.

  A sign caught her eye. Any restaurant that advertised with a brightly painted fish in pinks and oranges and yellows swimming on a sea of blue at least needed sampling. A smiling waiter ushered her to a window table and brought her a bottle of water.

  She ordered her favorite mussels. If they could prepare mussels well, she’d return. And the cost was a fraction of what she’d spent on simpler fare in the cities. She must have delighted restaurateurs in Firenze when she took Stefi and that young Guido to dine.

  Speaking of Guido. That boy certainly knew how to flash his pearly whites. Naturally, Stefi imagined herself in love. But Guido had very little education, poor boy, and only spoke Italian. Oh, and hadn’t he said his life’s goal was to take over his uncle’s garage? He’d bore Stefi to death i
n a month.

  Sam forked a succulent bit of meat, chewed, and sighed. The waiter hovered. “Delizioso,” she said. He smiled.

  Why on earth did her daughter date these totally inappropriate men?

  Oh. Right.

  Sam winced. Perhaps she should initiate the Samantha Ransom Dependence Recovery Program and invite Stefi to join.

  Her mind kept capitalizing letters. That probably said something, though she didn’t know what. Very like Stefi in her teen years.

  She finished eating, paid and thanked the waiter, and started once again toward the seaside when a phone kiosk caught her attention. She really ought to report her new location to the troops.

  The children’s cell phones took messages. She tried Beaufort.

  Tootie answered. “Oh, Sam, you won’t believe how many people we’ve had stop in to buy things just today. I even sold one of those huge kitchen mixers to someone from out of town. And I’m doing fine with the spreadsheet program. Rhea’s been making sure everything is the way you want it. She’s great. I just feel so privileged to work with you both.” Tootie probably bounced to her toes as she spoke, with her eyes all glittery.

  When Sam asked about the house, Tootie mentioned the autumn flowers and fun on Alice. It was a good thing Holland knew his way around boats.

  “I’m glad you’re sailing her,” Sam said, trying to hide a wistful yearning.

  “So, where are you now?”

  “Well, I’ve decided to take a rest and save a bit on gas—so expensive. You remember I mentioned the woman I met in Rome, the one who comes from Portofino? Martine? Well, according to the travel guides, Portofino caters to the tourists, so I found a pensione in a little place to the north called Reggio sul Mare. It’s—”

  Tootie’s sputter stopped her. “Reg— Reggio? You’re there? Oh, Sam, that’s where my uncle lives!”

  “Theo Anderson?”

  “He does!”

  “Really?” Sam’s heart slammed into overdrive. Had Tootie told her this? The pounding hit her temples with a dull thud, like a rubber mallet on a nerve or two.

  An American ex-patriot and semi-famous writer roamed these streets. A man whose books Sam had read. Whose phone number Tootie had scribbled in a book. His book.

  He’d think she stalked him. How mortifying.

  Her first scrambled words made her cough and try again. “I suppose you must have mentioned the name of this town, but I certainly didn’t remember.”

  “Maybe I did. Who cares? It’s wonderful.”

  Seemed contrived to Sam, whose headache now burned at the back of her eyes.

  “I forgot to tell you that I took Uncle Teddy to your house. I hope you don’t mind?”

  Her house? Sam wanted to ask why, but ever polite, said instead, “Of course not.”

  “He’s gone off to see my cousin David at his school in California. And then there’s a trip to Greece. Anyway, he’ll be back in Reggio sometime or other. I’ll tell him to look for you. Okay?”

  “I only stopped here because of Martine Paoletti, the woman I traveled with. Who sails. She said I’d like Portofino. That I’d like to visit her. I mean, that’s why I’m near there. Here.” Sam clamped her jaw shut.

  Tootie merely gushed, her voice full of laughter. “Now you will have two people nearby. Uncle Teddy will be so excited.”

  “I don’t know how long I’ll stay. I mean, I may move on. Soon.” She’d paid for all those nights. How could she just up and run without using them? The pit deepened. Widened.

  “Oh, don’t. Please.”

  Sam tried to add a lightness that she was far from feeling. “We’ll see. Anyway, I’ll call you in a few days. And if you need anything, just send me an e-mail or leave a message at the front desk.” She recited the pensione’s number.

  “I will. Oh, Sam, this is going to be so good for you. I just know it.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  Maybe Tootie’s uncle would remain abroad long enough for her to see Martine and justify the expense of moving to another town. Or maybe he’d stay holed up in his rooms when he got back. He had to write, didn’t he? That ought to keep him occupied and off the streets.

  Her call to Rhea was harder still. The Raleigh store was doing fine, but Sam felt exposed, vulnerable, aching more with every sympathetic word Rhea uttered.

  “It seems,” Sam said, “that Tootie’s uncle lives in this town. How did that happen?” She tried to turn her half-snort into a cough. “I didn’t know that when I stopped. At least, not consciously.”

  “Just watch yourself, hear? Maybe he’s single and free, but you don’t want to go messing with anything that isn’t right for you, you know?”

  “I’m not.” She wouldn’t. She had no intention of even seeing the man, much less getting involved with him. She supposed Rhea just wanted to warn her. Mama Rhea.

  “I know you thought maybe Jack would fit in the picture, bring healing, because of that whole kid-friend thing and you trusting him. But, honey, God never does things that way, does he? Hurting someone in the process?”

  Sam shut her eyes against the memories of India. And of all those lies she’d fed her broken heart.

  Rhea seemed to read her mind. “And just ’cause that woman he lived with has issues, you don’t know what goes on in their home, in spite of him leaving. It wasn’t right. To my mind, that man has his own share of problems.”

  “I know,” she whispered. She did know. “But, then, so do I.”

  “We all do, baby. Look at us, not a one all fixed. Not a one with a bigger sin than the other. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Sin is such an ugly word.”

  “And so unpopular.” Rhea expelled a loud breath as if she were trying to stifle one of her laughs. “A rose by any other name—or, in this case, a wrong called a right or black called white. Words can’t wipe out the truth.”

  Sam didn’t answer. Rhea dipping her toe in the literary didn’t erase those plaguey images.

  “Just remember,” Rhea said softly, “it’s how we deal with our stuff that God cares about. He knows we’re gonna make messes. Look at David if you want to think of someone making a real mess. At least you didn’t get India killed off.”

  That forced a grunt from Sam. “At least.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I saw the statue of David in Florence. An incredible work.”

  “I’ve seen a picture.”

  “Doesn’t do it justice. It’s powerful. Really powerful.”

  “And look at that. All David did? Him being a murderer as well as an adulterer? God still said David was a man after his own heart.”

  “But that was David. Not me.”

  “Well, sure, honey. Me neither. But so what? It’s the heart thing. You hear that? The heart. So you just get your heart focused where it’s supposed to be and let it mend, then see what comes.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And watch out over there.”

  Sam leaned against the headboard of her bed with the notebook on her lap and a pen in her hand. Journaling was new to her, but it seemed fitting, like a grown-up’s diary to record the moments, the scenes, to complement the photographs she usually forgot to take. For later. When this trip was merely a memory and real life again foisted itself on her thoughts.

  Because the time here wasn’t real. But it was all she had at the moment.

  The sea continued to amaze her. If she looked to the side out her window, she could see the turquoise that turned to cobalt and, further out, to a darker black-blue. And the mountains. So much green, so many rocks and stones, levels and heights. And the buildings, so old. No, ancient, with newer apartment buildings away from the center of town, so much uglier than the old.

  She described it as best she could, the people watching, her frustration with the language. Language study would have been a whole lot easier at twenty. She’d learned to ask quanto costa, how much, and to understand numbers, to figure out how many euros to dole out and how many to ex
pect in change. Calculating from euros to dollars and cents made her dizzy, so she just pretended they were equivalent, one to one.

  And then there were the vehicles. She still couldn’t figure out how four people fit into a Fiat barely big enough for one. And the three-wheeled trucks were a hoot. Scooters zoomed all over the place, but she could see their value in a country where gas prices would put most folk in the poor house.

  Her pen dashed across the journal’s pages as she made notes about the family Garibaldi, her landlords—mama, papa, aunt, grandmother, teenaged daughter, and schoolboy son. The daughter often worked behind the front desk and spoke beautiful English.

  Lovely people. Everyone here is friendly, much more so than in the cities. I wish I knew how to answer their questions or understand their explanations.

  If it weren’t for that fellow—who’s bound to think I’m one of those author-groupies if he finds me here—I’d park myself in Reggio for the next several months.

  You know, until I’m no longer afraid to go home.

  That drew her attention to the window and the sun streaming in. She slid the notebook back in a drawer, ran a brush through her hair, and headed down the stone steps to the lobby. Signora Bruneschi, manning the front desk, called a greeting. Sam waved, adding a “Buon giorno” to her and then to Papa, who was sweeping the front walk.

  She didn’t remember being quite so driven by the scent of food back in the States, but here she existed to eat. Her mouth watered at the thought of a thick slice of pizza, dripping with mozzarella. She stepped up and into the marble-floored pizzeria and breathed in the aromas of the wood oven, onions, garlic, and herbs. When it was her turn to order, she pointed to the slice she wanted, topped with olives, artichokes, and onions, and carried her trophy and a bottle of water down to the beach.

  She slipped out of her walking shoes and waded into the shallows. Without a breeze, the sea was calm, a deep aqua melding into a dark, rich blue beneath the light that danced on the small ripples. She climbed on her rock, the one she’d discovered yesterday where she could dangle her feet on either side—toward the Mediterranean or the beach. Today, she faced Africa.