Sailing out of Darkness (Carolina Coast Book 4)

by Normandie Fischer

  Several paragraphs of “Oh, Teddy, remember when?” were her attempt to soften him before she cut to the chase with a plea for money. Eighty thousand dollars’ worth of money.

  Asked for a loan, wanted a handout. For a down payment on a new house, she said, so she could be comfortable. She was sure Teo wouldn’t miss that measly (Measly? On what planet?) amount, not with his books having done so well and all that investment income.

  How did she know about his investments? He certainly hadn’t mentioned them. She even threw in the line about being the mother of his son. As if he needed reminding.

  Sorry, Janet, no more bailouts. Robert had been right. He’d scribbled a note on the bottom of his typed one. “Don’t let her con you, boy. You don’t watch out, there’ll never be an end to that gal’s whining.”

  Teo could hear Robert talking past the cigar perpetually unlit but drooping from his lips. Robert’s wife, Lizzie, laid down the law, said she’d leave him if he didn’t quit smoking. She’d rather be divorced than watch him die of cancer or have to listen to him talk through one of those tinny boxes his brother had. She pretended she didn’t notice the hastily chewed mints or the smell of mouthwash.

  Robert had once asked how Teo could write so sympathetically about Sophrina when he acted so blamed mad at women otherwise. “Because,” Teo had said when he’d moved past admiring Robert’s turn of phrase, “I like Sophrina. She makes no bones about being self-centered, then goes out of her way to help people.”

  “Means you know there are types other than Janet,” Robert had said.

  “Sure, but I’m not about to put myself in a place where a woman has power over me again.”

  A fresh cigar had crackled as Robert rolled it. “Never say never.” One of Robert’s favorite lines, that one was right up there with, “Never say you won’t ever until you haven’t ever.” You’d think Robert were seventy instead of fifty-eight.

  He loved to pontificate, spent a lot of phone time telling Teo to forget about Janet, go find someone better. Get on with life. “Your leg and hip were busted, boy, not your balls.” If Robert had a gut and gray hair to go with the stogie, maybe a white suit and shoes, he’d epitomize Hollywood’s Southern lawyer. Instead, he was a grown-up preppie with the build of a linebacker.

  In spite of Robert’s words, Teo knew the truth about himself: he was a man of broken parts who had once lain in a hospital bed with a non-functioning libido. No matter how hard he had tried to stay positive in those days, a leg muscle contracting in spasm or a moment of loneliness priming him for a pity party had brought Janet’s whining to full throttle. How had he ever imagined loving such a voice?

  Like loose metal in a tin can the scene jangled in his brain. No matter how often he tried to stuff it under other thoughts, the memory surfaced. He slammed shut his eyes to ward off a rewind. It didn’t work.

  He saw it: his cracked body lying tilted in the hospital bed as he attempted to anesthetize himself with a made-for-TV movie about a murder in Wilmington, DE. Hard to believe. Wilmington didn’t seem like the place for real-life soap operas, although Teo supposed bad could happen anywhere. As an anesthetic, the movie had failed miserably, mostly because he identified with the criminal’s frustration. A modern Lady Macbeth, the guy hadn’t been worried so much about getting out the spot as trying to sink in the deep blue sea a cooler containing the body parts of Mistress Number Two. No matter how many holes he shot in that cooler, the thing had refused to sink.

  That part of the memory amused Teo. Sophrina would have laughed that fool of a murderer out of town, especially when he came up with the theory that his Mistress Number One had pulled the trigger.

  Teo hauled himself up again and limped to the window, trying to think about dinner and not the scene that had played out that day. He propped one hand against the frame, but he didn’t see what was out there. His gaze focused inward.

  His own repeat-play melodrama began with Janet’s swishing entrance into his room at the rehab center. He remembered her long nails, red and sharp against the tan leather of the briefcase—his new, barely used and very expensive briefcase—that she had flipped open. She’d reached inside and shoved some papers across the tray table.

  “Need you to sign, Teddy, bottom of the fourth page.” The red tips had slipped under the top right corners, and she’d counted under her breath until she reached number four. He’d glanced down at the words, uncomprehending.

  “I just can’t take this whole scene anymore.” Her mane of unnaturally bronzed hair had walled part of her face as she refused to make eye contact. “It’s just too much, you see? I mean, you can’t expect me to put my life on hold any longer, and who knows what kind of shape you’ll be in if you ever do get out of here. I mean, trauma does things to a man. You even told me you couldn’t... I mean, that it doesn’t, you know, so...” Janet had shrugged, as if she weren’t talking about the most vital part of his anatomy. Then she’d rammed the knife home. “And I’m real sorry, Teddy, but those scars, well, they really—and, look, I don’t mean to hurt you, you know I don’t,” and here she’d let her gaze catch his for a brief moment, “but they...well, they turn me off. Big time.”

  He’d just stared at her, not quite comprehending. When she’d handed over a pen, his gut had twisted.

  Years of marriage blown off with a paper and a wave. And him, left lying in that bed, wondering, imagining.

  Not get it up? Ever? Hadn’t that just been a temporary setback? The accident, the surgery, the rigors of rehab?

  Okay, so he’d worried when nothing had happened, no matter what, but he’d thought it was bound to come back. Wasn’t it?

  And then—so what if he had gotten it back? He’d still have to deal with this mutilated shell.

  In those days, when he wasn’t being yelled at and prodded and forced to put one leg in front of the other for his own good, he’d fretted. Then he’d prayed. Then he’d begged.

  Then he’d shrugged. “No matter.” At least, he had come out flush from the trucking company’s settlement (thanks to Robert), and if he were gimpy—or whatever—at least now he was a rich gimp.

  Right.

  As if that made it okay.

  Dream on, buddy.

  His head fell forward, and the regrets washed over him. Tomorrow he’d work again. Tomorrow he’d get out of this slump. There was always tomorrow.

  But there wasn’t, was there? Tomorrow he’d be playing host and tour guide. Why had he made that offer? Yes, Samantha seemed nice enough. And certainly attractive. But she was recovering from a divorce, and, if Tootie were right, something since then with that fellow Jack, who was bad news, if Tootie were to be believed. With a girlfriend who ought to be locked up, supposing she’d been the vandal at Samantha’s place.

  No, he needed to avoid this in-the-flesh vision and whatever baggage she carried. And he would. After tomorrow.

  Taking her to visit Cinque Terre would fulfill whatever host obligations he had. And tonight, Nicco and his wife had invited him to dine at their flat. That would be fun. It always was.

  Sated after a hefty plate of fresh greens that Nicco’s wife promised would improve digestion, Teo leaned back in his chair and smiled at his hostess. “Delizioso, Adele,” he said as he patted his stomach.

  She beamed. “Vuoi di piu? Forse un espresso?”

  “Niente, grazie. Nothing more.”

  Nicco passed the carafe of vino rosso around the table. Teo, whose first glass still held a few sips, offered to pour some for Adele’s latest matrimonial candidate.

  The woman extended her glass. “Grazie, ” she said as her lashes drooped and lifted to regard him once again with acute interest. She was a beautiful woman. No, a stunning one. Her dark hair fell in luxuriant waves below her shoulders. She was also a widow who obviously thought him an excellent prospect for husband number two.

  The conversation swelled around them as Nicco and his brother discussed the latest soccer tournament. The team from Padua was ahead by two wins
, but Nicco waved this away. “They have not the fortitude to go all the way to victory.”

  His brother disagreed.

  Teo watched the interchange, acutely aware that the beautiful widow wanted more from him. They had spent a pleasant evening with lively conversation, mostly about travel. She and her husband had visited many places, including New York. And she would very much enjoy a return trip.

  When the party began to break up, Nicco suggested Teo drop the woman at her flat on his way home. He’d agreed and then wished their silence on the drive were a comfortable one, but her expectations weighed on him. He walked her to her building’s entrance and helped with the key to the heavy door. She looked up at him. He bent and kissed her cheek. She sighed.

  “Would you enjoy to come up for a while?”

  “I think not,” he said, making his tone gentle with a hint of regret.

  “Perhaps another time.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps.”

  “Buona notte, Teo.”

  “Anche a te.”

  She turned, and he waited until the door closed softly behind her.

  He was a fool. A beautiful woman obviously offered herself, and he turned her down. He could at least have cultivated a friendship. She was intelligent and kind.

  But she wanted more than friendship, and he didn’t have it to offer. He tried to picture intimacy with her. He could imagine himself sitting over dinner with her, enjoying conversation with her. But he could not imagine more.

  It was too bad.

  It was past midnight. He reread the words on the screen before him as Sophrina busily wove herself through the story. She stood on the deck of a mega yacht, dressed in a flowing caftan and holding the wrong end of a loaded gun. A muscled and oh-too-handsome (which made Sophrina’s heart flutter) deckhand extended his palm. She dropped the gun into it and pointed to the wife of the shipping magnate. “That is your murderer,” she proclaimed untruthfully, before all hell broke loose.

  Teo rubbed one hand down his trouser leg and grinned. Somebody was going down.

  Of course, the somebody wouldn’t be the wife.

  His fingers rushed across the keys. The phone rang. He ignored it, then blew out a loud breath and answered.

  “Unc, it’s me, Tootie.”

  Sighing, he tried to disconnect from the story. “What’s up?” He looked at his watch. “And why are you calling at this hour? Is anything wrong?”

  She laughed. “I figured if you didn’t want to answer you wouldn’t, but you’re always up late, aren’t you?”

  He sighed. “I guess I am.”

  “Anyway, I just wanted to say hello and find out about your trip. I’m here with Mom and Dad. He’s grilling steaks. And Mom said she hasn’t heard from you either, so here we are. Calling.”

  His silence had been intentional, hadn’t it? But he couldn’t tell her or Deb that.

  “Well, let’s see,” he said. “I learned that I’m not a seaman. I chartered a boat for my research, and a storm came up. The captain made Bligh look like Santa.”

  “Poor Unc.” Her pause lasted for one quick breath. “So, have you seen Sam yet?”

  A tremor massaged his throat. He swallowed it away, saying, “Yes, yes I have.”

  “Did you like her?”

  Tootie sounded so eager—and so young—that Teo couldn’t be upset, although remembering the embarrassing moments from the night before, he wished his friends and relatives would leave well enough alone. Fine, he enjoyed good company, but women invariably wanted more. “She’s very nice. I invited her to visit Cinque Terre tomorrow—no, make that later today. After I sleep for a few hours.”

  “Really? That’s great!” she said, ignoring his hint. “Where’s Cinque Terre?” He heard a voice in the background, and Tootie said, “Oh, here’s Mom. But how do you spell that place so I can look it up?”

  He told her and waited for his sister to pick up the phone, answering her queries mechanically, assuring her that he was well. And, yes, enjoying himself.

  He was, of course. Always.

  15

  Samantha

  Choices threaten, choices come,

  Choices beckon, choices run.

  Choose to listen or choose to flee,

  Choose to cower or choose to be.

  Sam spared very little thought for her outing with Teo—until she woke that morning. She finished her ablutions and headed downstairs for a prima colazione of tea and fresh bread. None of that brew pretending to be coffee for her. No, tea would do when she breakfasted at the hotel. There was nothing better than a good Italian espresso, but she was too spoiled from years of sampling luscious roasts at Samantha’s to be interested in the Garibaldi’s attempts at caffè Americano.

  She’d play it cool with Teo. He had offered his tour-guide services. She’d accepted. They would visit the five hillside villages that hugged the sea, and then he’d go back to his writing, and she’d...well, maybe Martine would be available for lunch one day soon.

  He arrived in an elegant Fiat that was worlds away in design and cost from the lowly rental that had brought Sam north from Firenze.

  “Nice,” she said as she slipped onto the leather seat and smoothed her palm across its edge. The buttery feel of it made her hand tingle.

  With Teo driving, Sam could watch the passing scenery, and his easy handling of the powerful vehicle allowed her to relax—instead of trying to press imaginary brake pedals as she’d done whenever Greg got behind the wheel.

  They parked at Monterossa al Mare, the village most easily accessible by car. “Come,” Teo said, helping her out and leading her to the waterfront. The charm of the place, the splash of color in sea and buildings and people, the lazy sunlit day, caught her imagination.

  Teo didn’t seem bothered by the pace she set or by her silence. When the walkway filled with jostling tourists and one loud fellow bumped into Sam, he motioned them forward. “Which would you prefer? Train or by foot?”

  She thought of his leg as she shaded her eyes and studied the rough path that headed up the hills and into vineyards. “It’s quite a distance, isn’t it?”

  “We can take the train to Riomaggiore, the last village, and walk back as far as Manarola. The hike between the two is easy, and there’s a wonderful restaurant by the sea.”

  The train ride took minutes, the tour of Riomaggiore not above an hour. “Been there, done that,” Sam said as they began the walk back. But she said it under her breath and doubted that Teo even noticed. Hiding under her broad-brimmed hat and with a faint breeze off the water, Sam could enjoy the rustling silvery leaves of the olive groves with always the view of the water on one side and hills on the other.

  Teo led her into the cool darkness of the restaurant. She ordered spaghetti al pesto, he a salad and slice of steak. She slurped the ends of her pasta, dashing bits of basil-garlic sauce on her chin. Teo’s eyes smiled as she dabbed it off.

  She felt the tension of the past weeks ease as they chatted. Thinking of him and his writing world, she nodded toward the town. “Will you use this place in one of your books?”

  He leaned back in his chair and lifted a cup of cappuccino to his lips. “Maybe some time or other, even if only in reference.”

  “So how do you pick your settings?”

  His eyes twinkled. “Sometimes I want an excuse to visit a place. Other times, a random twist in a plot idea just seems to point to a specific place. I’m fortunate that Sophrina likes Europe.”

  “I see.” Wasn’t that twinkle cute? “You’re completely at the mercy of your character.”

  “You’ve discovered my secret.”

  She’d like to pick at the subject, but she’d need more caffeine if she had to work at it. The pasta and the exercise had made her sleepy.

  They watched colorful fishing boats coming and going and, after lunch, headed out onto the stone jetty. Waves spewed surf into the air. Sam dodged the damp spray, laughing, and Teo snapped photo after photo, too often of her.

  “
Stop,” she cried, holding her hand to shield her face. “Photograph something else, please. That bent woman over there, or look, the little boy with his fishing rod. I think he’s caught something. Just turn the thing away from me.”

  “The widows,” he said, staring through his viewfinder.

  She followed the direction of his lens as it pointed to a group of ladies in black dresses, black scarves, leggings, and shoes. “This is like a story book. Doesn’t it make you want to know about the people who’ve always lived here? What it was like for their grandparents, before tourists showed up? Were the towns rivals? Did they work together to tend the vineyards and olive groves or did each hold tightly to his little parcel?”

  Teo dropped the camera to his chest. “Exactly. I visit places like this and wish I could get into the soul of the people, not the shopkeepers and waiters with their always smiling faces, but their families, the ones back up in the streets behind here, the ones we don’t see. How much of the world do they know—well, not this generation, but the previous ones? Did they venture forth, as isolated as these villages must have been for years? What is their conversation? What are their interests?”

  “They’ve been discovered now. I mean, by the world.”

  “I’m afraid so,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to visit in August when most Europeans take their vacations. Come on, let’s catch the train to the next town.”

  Two hours later and back where they’d begun their tour, they sampled gelati. Sam ordered a raspberry ice. Teo held his cone of cioccolato to her lips. She grinned, licked, and shared hers. His eyes seemed to darken as he offered seconds. She demurred and turned to watch the sun-speckled sea. Had she imagined that look, that connection?

  Biting the side of her cheek and turning her head so he wouldn’t see, she grimaced. She really, really must get over herself.

  On the return drive, she tried to do that. But she barely noticed the view as the car sped down the highway, barely heard the purr of the well-tuned engine, but she did listen too acutely to the sound of her own thoughts, which flitted from the scent of this leather and the feel of this seat to memories of Jack’s refurbished MG on the way to the concert in Greenville.