Circling The Shadows (Sunshine and Moonlight Book 1)

by Paige Randall

  "You got my shoes? When and how?

  “This afternoon. Before I came out to the beach. I picked your lock.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “I did. Hidden talents from my youth. Brian can bust into anything.”

  “I’m impressed, John. You aren't climbing with me?" Anna asks.

  "Someone needs to stay on the ground to keep watch. I lied about bribing the staff. I’ll send a nice donation though." He puts his hands in the pockets of well fitted jeans. Suddenly, the idea of Anna climbing the tree is unnerving. He imagines her falling and splitting her head. As clear as day, he can see her laying on the ground, bleeding. The thought starts to bring a rise of panic, but he takes a few deep breaths and pushes it back, settling himself.

  Anna approaches the tree slowly, tentatively. Wooden blocks prop branches to protect them from the damp ground. "Will I hurt her?" she hesitates.

  "Your 110 pounds can't do any damage to this old girl."

  "I am not 110 pounds any more. More like 120. Maybe more.

  "I like it," he says. "More to love."

  She laughs a little awkwardly. John has never used that word before. Anna starts to climb. She climbs the length of every mammoth branch and then climbs up and up. He resists the urge to holler for her not to climb too high. When she climbs out of his line of vision, he worries again. The moonlight doesn't let him see much. After a while, he walks the tree searching the branches above. Finally he sees her, sitting about twenty feet up, legs swinging.

  He calls to her, "Hey, you okay?"

  She answers in a loud whisper. "I haven't had a birthday like this in a long time."

  Is she crying?

  "Well come on down. We have to do one last thing on your birthday. We need some cake and a candle."

  She makes her way down the tree and kisses the trunk. "Thank you old girl," she says to the oak. They walk back to the car quietly, not wanting to risk discovery by patrolling guards or neighbors.

  "John, I am utterly speechless," she says. "Thank you. Thank you for this wonderful evening." She pulls his mouth to hers. “Thank you.”

  I love her. I can’t be without her, he thinks, thankful for the darkness, sure that his feelings shows on his face.

  "This late, I think we'll have to go into the city to find some cake. And you can make your wish." He decides not to joke about wishes. Wishes can be dangerous.

  The next morning John Skypes with Clara. Their conversation is expectedly one sided. "Daddy loves you so much baby girl." Clara mostly stays on Stephanie's lap, grabbing at Daddy on the screen, but he still feels their connection continuing to grow.

  After ending the call, John clicks onto Amazon to send her an exact copy of the stuffed pony he bought for her birthday. Buying a second one is easier than shipping the first and he likes looking at it here, remembering Clara’s happy face when she found it on her birthday.

  John goes to the room where Clara slept days before, sits on the bed and pets the pony's mane. He asks himself the questions he has been running from, for a year and a half. Can I care for her? Will she forgive me when she understands what happened? How does a little girl grow up without a mother?

  John remembers his own mother. She is tough and complicated, but full of love. Love makes up for a lot. If he keeps running he knows the answers to his questions... He can't care for her at all and she will never forgive him. He is so grateful that Clara knows Stephanie as a mommy, almost. That comfort and love, a mother’s love, can never be underestimated. John thinks about how she calls Stephanie, Tashie and not Momma. At first, he was angry as hell about it. He willingly deserted his daughter so she could have a mommy. But now, as he thinks about the future, he imagines another woman in his life, becoming a part of her life too. Maybe Anna.

  John remembers those first days after Sarah died, when Clara screamed and screamed. He held her and rocked her. His own shock and grief were no comfort. He took her to Stephanie, placing Clara in her arms. She quieted within moments and slept for the first time in two days.

  "She's yours now, Stephanie." Stephanie rocked the sleeping baby, face peaceful at last. It was a stark contrast to John's tortured expression.

  "I'll do anything for her John. Of course. And you. Anything," she said swaying his baby gently.

  He knows now, Stephanie thought she could reason with him later. But John left and later never came. Stephanie never had an opportunity to change his mind, to figure out a way they could take care of Clara together. Until now.

  John remembers with dry eyes. He assesses his state of mind, his body's response. No need to throw a chair through a wall or kick in some asshole’s teeth. No heart pounding, shallow breathing, sweating, nausea. He is okay.

  His first impulse is to share these feelings with Anna. It seems so normal. They have grown so close that sometimes he forgets the barriers. How can he feel this way for a woman when there is a drawbridge raised between them? They have a little more than four weeks left. If he pushes it, she might run. He understands that instinct more than most. Maybe she won't leave, but she could cut him out. Like a cancer. He imagines waving to her from his porch as she turns her back on him. The thought makes him doubt his growing resolve.

  He knocks on her door, leaving the decision for later. She answers fresh from the shower in a towel.

  "Oh yeah right," John says, walking in unasked and removing the towel. Wordlessly, he picks Anna up and carries her to the bedroom. Sometimes it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. She lets him and John doesn’t analyze it by starting a conversation about it.

  "I was thinking about renting a boat and spending the day on the water. Interested?" John asks later as they lay tangled in each other’s arms.

  "Aren't you the planner? Sounds wonderful. Dinner on the docks?"

  He agrees, wondering how things will change between them by dinner.

  They pick up sandwiches from a local deli, relocated New Yorkers are good to have around, and rent a pontoon boat. They cruise along at slow speeds shaded from the afternoon sun. Pointing out alligators, egrets, herons, osprey nests and dolphins, they chat over the gentle roar of the motor. Anna snaps photos pointing the camera every which way. Since that day on the beach, her camera is always close at hand. After an hour, John cuts the engine and they rock with the current. They sit quietly, taking in the beauty of their surroundings for a long time.

  John stops debating with himself. Enough is enough. He braces himself against the side of the boat, knuckles a little white. "Anna,” he starts slowly. “I want to tell you something."

  "What’s up John?” she asks, half listening, trying to frame a photograph of a small pod of dolphins a distance from the front of the boat. John waits until he has her full attention. After a moment, she notices his expectant silence. “Go on," she says, her face becoming a little tight.

  He looks her squarely in the eyes, takes a deep breath to try and still his pounding heart. Doubt clouds his thinking, but he won’t hold it back any longer. After the requisite deep breath, he begins simply, but completely. "Anna. I love you."

  "Utterly and completely? Me too," she says smiling, hopefully. The boat sways with the current.

  "No. Not like that. Not 'I love you until Labor Day.' I love you, Anna. Period." He considers adding and I want to spend my life with you but he doesn't.

  She speaks slowly, in a patient voice, as if to a child. "You don't love me John. You want me. Maybe you've grown to need me a little. I’ve been close by while you’ve found your footing these past months. But you don't love me." She meets his eyes with hers, hopefully, trying to shut him down.

  "Bullshit Anna. I love you. And I think you love me.”

  Anna turns back to the dolphins frolicking in the distance. "Let's not do this. Let's not ruin things," she pleads.

  John moves to her, reaching his hands to her shoulders. "Why does this have to ruin anything? Why shouldn’t we be together? Whatever is holding you back, let’s deal with it. Are you married A
nna? Leave him."

  Anna pushes him away with both hands on his chest. She speaks in a low, cold voice, barely concealing her rage. "Well isn't this the fuck all," she says, decidedly British, lengthening her neck, chin rising. "Am I on a boat over alligator infested waters because you think I won't jump in and swim back to shore?"

  He nods reluctantly. She is furious.

  "Well you are smart, but so, so dumb. I've waded through much worse, you know."

  John backs away from Anna. He expected many reactions but not this. Maybe some reluctance and possibly a no but not her anger.

  "I am not actually married, John. Another commitment is not keeping us apart. This is all me, just wanting to be left alone. What is it really? I think you can't live with the suspense anymore? This is really curiosity, isn’t it?"

  "I want to know why we can't be together. We love each other. We aren't kids. This is more than a summer fling. "

  "Oh bullshit John. You don’t know anything about me.” Her anger turns her mean.

  “I know enough.”

  “This isn’t really about love at all. You just decided today is Anna's day to tell a sad story, a sad story on a boat. I guess your life is on a new course and mine needs to alter too. You are hiding behind proclamations of love, but it is crap John. It is manipulative crap. 'I love you now tell me your sad story?'" She mocks him.

  He starts to protest, but she won’t stop. She is on a roll now, her words raging on. "Thanks John, well fine then. Here goes Anna’s sad story."

  “Stop Anna.”

  But she won't be stopped. Her words spill breathlessly. "I had it all. I had the love that lonely girls at boarding school dream of. Dylan was the love of my life. We met and married very young. I traveled, shooting photos with Pemberley. He was an oncologist at Hopkins. A fucking oncologist! He was the kindest, gentlest man you could imagine. But funny and adventurous too. He was everything to me. Three years ago I lost our baby. I was five months pregnant. Weeks later, there was a car accident. He was hurt terribly, in hospitals and rehabs. Turns out he was struggling so hard for life and he had a brain tumor all the while. He died before Christmas. The irony was ridiculous. He died slowly. He was in pain." She stops for a breath, dry-eyed. "I think my story telling talents have improved, don’t you?"

  She seethes with rage and something else he can't identify. Trying to understand it is throwing him off. He is stunned by her reaction and her words aren’t making sense. “Anna I am so sorry.”

  “Fantastic. Thanks,” she says sarcastically, breathing hard.

  “I am truly sorry Anna, but why are you angry at me?” He doesn’t understand. “You had a terrible loss, your husband and your baby. It is unimaginable. But why are you angry with me?”

  "Well you haven’t heard the best of it yet. There is, of course, more. This part is truly outrageous. Ask me again like you did that very first day. 'Anna what do you hope for this summer?'” She waits with arms folded across her chest, closing herself off to him. “No really ask.”

  He refuses to repeat the words for her.

  “You don’t want to play along? Fine. My real answer? The truth?” She pauses for effect. “I want a baby."

  “What?” he asks, thinking he must have heard her wrong.

  "You were meant to be my sperm donor that first day in the kitchen. I thought you were here for a week and it would be quick and easy. I’d never know your last name, never see you again. I could spend my first trimester on the beach in solitude, remembering the feeling of fresh air, rinsing the smells of hospital from my pores."

  "Are you pregnant?" he asks in a harsh whisper, his own fury taking shape.

  "I am not. After our first evening, I decided there was no rush and took the necessary precautions. We had fun and how I missed fun! And sex. I hadn't had sex in a very, very long time. I was living the life of an eighty-year-old woman for years. But then Clara arrived and I learned your story. I knew I could never use you as I had planned, and I could never have a future with you either." She holds back blonde curls whipping against her face in the breeze.

  She keeps talking, but he is done listening. He leans over the side of the boat, the abject betrayal in her words, rolling his stomach. She was going to steal his child. She was going to use him for a baby and take it away. He already deserted one child. She would force him to desert a second.

  She is still talking, but he can’t hear her anymore. Rage fills his ears with a dull throb. He starts the boat, but he doesn’t move. He imagines Anna with his baby somewhere else, someplace he can’t identify. And he would never have known.

  "Please John, let's just go back," she says. Finally, he speeds the boat back to the harbor without a word.

  She steps from the boat onto the dock, leaving John to tie up to the moorings. "I'm going to walk back. It seems the sea air wasn't enough for me today." She is unnaturally cordial with her words and tone.

  "John,” she says, turning back to him. He watches her blank faced, still disbelieving, in silence. “You are on this wonderful path, reconnecting with your sweet, darling girl. But the nightmare of what happened with Sarah will haunt you forever. You are nowhere near any possible consideration of becoming a father again. You won't be for years. And it is all I want, all I think about. I planned to enjoy you these next few weeks and then go home, taking other measures to become a mother." Now she is done and she leaves him standing on the boat in disbelief.

  In all this time, he had never considered the dread that having another baby would bring. That it would happen again. That every time he walked out the door he would return to carnage. She is right, of course.

  He considers chasing after her, but he is too angry and there is no point anyway. He walks the docks, finds a seat at a bar and lets the bourbon flow. He drinks to tragic endings of happy marriages. He drinks to the children that are the collateral damage. He drinks to lost dreams. He drinks to the Anna he thought he knew. After that he just drinks.

  Anna walks the few miles back to 517. She tries to maintain her rage because it is far more palatable than sadness, but sadness wins out after the first mile. She returns to the house and head meets pillow for tears she has not cried for Dylan since toes hit sand that very first day.

  Hours later, her mobile vibrates to life, glowing in the dark. "Hello?" she asks, not recognizing the number.

  "Is this Ms. Hinton?"

  "This is Anna," she says.

  "This is Lynn. Do you remember me?”

  “Of course Lynn. Hello.” Anna says sitting up. “Is everything alright?”

  “Yes. Joanie called me down here to Dock of the Bay. You know it?”

  “I do.”

  “John is here. He is in bad shape. I can bring him to 516, but I’d feel better if he was in your care.” Lynn asks without asking.

  "I'll be there in five."

  Minutes later, Anna collects John and guides him to her car. Before he leaves Lynn’s side, John hugs her and tells her she is his best friend. She pats his arm amicably and sends him on his way. Anna thinks John and Lynn have been spending time together. Good for John, Anna thinks. Lynn seems to be a person who could use a friend.

  “Lynn,” Anna calls back. “Thank you.”

  Lynn smiles and goes her own way.

  John starts talking immediately. "I'm not a chatty drunk, you know. I'm not going to pour my heart and soul out to you.” John says ignoring their earlier conflict. "Later, when I climb out of this bag, we need to talk. Don't you hate when people say 'we need to talk'? But we need to talk. I had a thought, but I need to shut up about it in case it is stupid when I wake up tomorrow, feeling like a cow shit on my head."

  There is that drawl. You can take the boy out of Texas, but with a few drinks it is 'Remember the Alamo.' She agrees, questioning his assessment that he isn't a chatty drunk.

  She settles him into bed at 516 and stays on the couch downstairs because she can't stand the thought that he will wake in the night sick and alone. She is a good nurse wi
th years of practice. He has a quiet night and she awakens to a cup of coffee and his freshly showered smile. She is not sure if his smile is genuine though. His face looks tight, like it is restraining thinly veiled anger underneath.

  "If this was a novel, you would have left town in the middle of the night never to see or hear from me again," he says.

  "Those thoughts were not completely out of the realm of possibility. Very Jane Eyre," she admits.

  "Jane comes back though," he points out. Anna agrees, remembering the story.

  "About that talk," he begins.

  "Drunk thoughts or sober?" she asks.

  "Drunk ideas, sober realizations."

  "I need food. You need grease. Pancakes with a side of bacon and eggs?" Food is a good way to avoid more conversation.

  "Are you putting me off or hungry? My head is still a little fuzzy."

  "Both," she admits.

  “I’ll make some eggs. I might have some bacon.”

  John fries bacon and scrambles eggs in silence. Anna toasts bagels from the freezer.

  When they sit to eat, John asks, almost casually, “How much of what you told me yesterday was true?”

  Anna drops her bagel to the plate in frustration. “That is your conversation opener?”

  John’s anger rises with hers. “Something was off yesterday Anna. There is something you are not telling me.”

  “Bullshit John, I poured my soul out to you. You ass.” Anna yells into his face.

  “I am so sorry about your husband and your baby, but your story isn’t ringing true. You were lying about something. It felt rehearsed.”

  She stands abruptly and walks toward the glass door. John follows and grabs her arm, rougher than intended. Anna screams and swings her body away from him, raising her hands to protect her face. Her reaction tells him what he needs to know.

  John falls into a chair. He imagined many possibilities, but not this. “He beat you.”

  “No he didn’t,” she says, but as she says it, she drops to the kitchen floor, defeated.

  “He beat you regularly I think. My guess is he did it at night. Woke you in a rage. This is why you won’t share my bed.”