Summer Shadows

by Gayle Roper

  “Really?” Rick looked interested. “Maybe I should take up metal detection instead of my current job. Walking on the beach all day sounds pretty good about now.”

  Celia heard the wistfulness in his voice. “Don’t you like your job?”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay. There are just times when the people are more than I want to deal with.”

  She nodded as Aunt Bernice flashed across her mind. And Eddie. And Mom. She knew all about people who were hard to deal with. “What do you do for a living?”

  Rick was quiet for a minute, and she realized that he and she were walking slowly down the beach toward the metal detector and the kids without Abby.

  She glanced back and saw Abby staring out to sea. Marsh was walking toward her. Celia smiled. Abby’d be all right with him to watch out for her. The sparks those two shot off in the presence of each other were like nothing she’d ever seen. Lethal. Lovely. Too bad neither of them seemed to realize what was happening.

  She glanced up at the house. Mrs. MacDonald stood at the rail, watching her daughter. Celia had a flash of insight. The woman didn’t like Marsh. That was why she stayed. Or maybe it was a matter of liking Sean better.

  Celia had no doubts which man Abby liked better.

  “Public relations,” Rick said.

  “What?” Celia looked at him blankly.

  “Public relations,” he repeated. “It’s what I do for a living.”

  “Oh. You don’t like it very much?” An adventurous wave surged up the beach and broke over Celia’s feet. She laughed and jumped away, bumping into Rick. He put his hand to the small of her back to steady her. When he dropped his hand, she felt its absence as strongly as she’d felt its momentary presence.

  He shrugged. “On certain days I don’t like it. Other times I do. How about you? Do you like what you do?”

  “I do, in spite of the oil stains, the long hours, and the baby-sitting worries. I feel like I’m helping people.”

  “Marsh says you’re a massage therapist.”

  She nodded. “At Seaside Spa.”

  He grinned that devastating grin. “And are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Helping people?”

  Celia kicked at a clump of sand. It exploded and thousands of tiny sand granules floated in the air. “There’s this guy who’s fifty-seven and hasn’t done a lick of exercise in years except maybe push his self-propelled lawn mower. He used to vacation here in Seaside with his parents when he was a teenager. He’s back with his own family for the first time in thirty-something years. He remembers surfing at seventeen and decided it was like riding a bike: You never forgot how. So he bought himself a board and went.”

  “Got creamed by a wave, did he?”

  “Most of the time the waves around here aren’t the creaming sort, but he still got worked over pretty well. After two days of climbing on and falling off the board, he could hardly move. Add to that the waves twisting him all around.” She turned to frown at Rick. “What is it with men and sports?”

  “You mean Sports Syndrome, the disease that makes us all see ourselves as NFL or NBA caliber no matter our age?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Strange. I’ve always thought of it as an unparalleled opportunity for women to develop their particular illness, what I call the Callous Condition.”

  “The one that makes us say, ‘It’s all your fault, you idiot’?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Celia nodded. “There’s definitely a correlation between the two conditions with my would-be surfer. His wife kept growling that he was ruining everyone’s vacation with his moaning about his aches and pains. When he couldn’t stand her griping anymore—or maybe it was his pain he couldn’t stand—he came to see me.”

  Rick grinned at her. “And your healing hands cured him.”

  She looked at her hands. “It’s not quite that simple. He needs several more weeks before he’s back to anywhere near normal, but at least he’s walking enough to make it to the beach and the boardwalk—if he doesn’t feel compelled to go on the roller coaster or one of those rides that whips you around.”

  “Does the boardwalk have many rides?”

  She nodded. “It’s a nice boardwalk.”

  “What’s your favorite?”

  She looked wistfully out at the ocean. “We haven’t gone on any of the rides yet.”

  Rick raised his eyebrows. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Two months.”

  “In all that time you haven’t taken the girls to the boardwalk? Scandalous.”

  There spoke someone who didn’t have to worry about how expensive such an evening would be. “We’ve gone to the boardwalk, but it was a while ago, and the rides weren’t open for the season yet.” As she’d known they wouldn’t be.

  “Then you need to take them back now that they’re open.”

  “Yeah, well, sometime.” She promised herself that she’d take Jess and Karlee when Karlee was better, no matter how much it cost. The girls deserved it.

  They walked for a few minutes, watching Clooney and the children. Even Jordan grew still and stared when Clooney pulled out a red beach spade and dug a hole. When he reached down and pulled out something, the children clustered around. One by one they reached out a forefinger, touching whatever it was. Then Clooney straightened, putting the treasure in the pack around his waist.

  “Go to the boardwalk with me tomorrow night.”

  Celia stopped dead and stared at Rick. A sudden gust of ocean breeze blew her hair across her mouth. She spit it out, pushing it behind her ear. “What?”

  He stood with his hands in his pockets and his feet spread. “You heard me.”

  She swallowed against the sudden rapid beat of her heart. “I guess I did, but it’s been so long since a man asked me to go anywhere that I thought I heard wrong.”

  “They should be standing in line to take you out.”

  She blinked. Feeling shy all of a sudden, she dropped her eyes and stared at a piece of broken clamshell beside her foot. “Um.”

  “It’ll be fun,” he said. “Come on.”

  She frowned at the clamshell and the clump of seaweed lying next to it. “I’d have to bring the girls.” She knew she’d just rung the death knell to her first date possibility in longer than she could remember. No man wanted two little girls he didn’t know tagging along, but a baby-sitter was unacceptable for several reasons, most of them green with denominations noted in the corners. “They’re at a baby-sitter’s all day. I can’t leave them all evening too, especially Karlee.”

  “Of course you can’t,” he said without missing a beat. “I expected them to come with us.”

  Celia forced her gaze upward, studying his face. If he was unhappy about the presence of the two little chaperones, he was a very good actor. She saw no signs of distress or unhappiness. “Thank you.” She flushed. “We’d like to go.”

  She cleared her throat. She’d just agreed to her first date in over seven years. Panic made her pulse pound. Did she even remember how to act? “It’ll be fun,” she managed. It’ll be nerve wracking. “The girls will be delighted.” At least that was true.

  Rick looked at her thoughtfully. “He was an idiot, you know.”

  “Who?”

  This time it was Rick who reached out to pull the hair from her mouth and put it behind her ear. “Whoever he was who left you. An absolute idiot.”

  Twenty-four

  THE PAGE THAT called him from Abby’s dinner table had been for a patient who had a severe reaction to some medication. The boy was fine now, his hives gone, his breathing normal, and the prescription changed. Doubtless he was back in his own narrow bed with its Monsters, Inc. sheets, already in dreamland. The only ones to lose sleep over the crisis would be the parents.

  He turned the key in his cycle, then revved the engine. He flipped back the kickstand and pulled out of the hospital lot. All his emergencies should be as easy to deal with.
/>   Of course he loved the challenge of even such a straightforward puzzle—which was one reason he liked medicine so. The dilemmas, the dramas, shifted daily, hourly, teasing and testing his abilities, his intellect. He always had liked to tackle tough issues, no matter what they were. That characteristic was one of the reasons he was able to get out of the Pines. Once he looked at his escape as a maze he must traverse, a quest that he as the hero must win, he was able to formulate plans. McCoy had struck out blindly at anyone in his way, fueled by hate and despair instead of cool reason. Sean shook his head. That way lay emotional disintegration.

  The challenge of Abby Patterson was one he savored, like a chef delighting in the fine tastes he created. He brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them like an Italian chef might.

  Thus far he had won every battle life presented him. He would win this one too. He ran his plan through his mind once again, then grinned. Its simplicity didn’t take away from the satisfaction it gave him. Any other person would struggle for days, weeks, to come up with such a clever idea. McCoy could have thought for the rest of his life and never imagined anything of such subtlety.

  He almost felt bad that he had to ruin her. She was, in her own Goody Two-shoes way, an interesting person. Despite her fragile physical appearance, she had steel in her spine, though he wasn’t certain whether it was tempered enough to withstand the hurricane that was her mother. At dinner he had gotten an intense charge over the animosity between the two women even as he made believe he was unaware. He wasn’t certain of the cause for the friction. In spite of his considerable and well-developed ego, he didn’t think he was what they were arguing over. Then again, the mother was pushing him down Abby’s pretty throat, and he didn’t think she wanted to swallow.

  All he was certain of was that Abby didn’t suspect him, and that was what mattered in the long run.

  As he pulled into his garage, he wished there were some way he could be present to see her face at his preemptive strike. It probably said terrible things about his character—or lack of character—but he wanted to know that she was suffering at least as much as he was.

  Tomorrow the destruction of Abigail Patterson would begin.

  Twenty-five

  ABBY ROSE FROM her desk in the back corner of the library where the children’s collection was housed, absently rubbing the ache in her hip. She’d been sitting too long. There was just time, late in the afternoon of her second full day at her new job, to check out her little kingdom before she left for home.

  The children’s section of the library had been the recipient of a large grant last year, and not only had the book collection been expanded significantly but also wonderful peripherals had been added—extra computers, educational software and games, books on tape, and a small but fine collection of children’s art, all reproductions of course. New furniture in bold primary colors made the area attractive and inviting.

  She wandered around her domain, reveling in the fact that she was the one in charge. She had achieved this goal against the odds even if she hadn’t yet gained her larger goal of independence. Not that she’d given up that struggle. No, sirree, Bob. In fact, she had just begun to fight.

  She came to a computer screen stalled halfway through a learning game. Undoubtedly some mother’s patience had run out at this point. Abby hit choice B with a touch of the mouse, and the computer said, “You are so smart! Congratulations.” Applause rang behind the words. She grinned and set the game back at the beginning for the next little user. She stopped to straighten a toppling pile of videos sitting on the floor beside a little girl with her nose in Ramona the Brave. The child never noticed her, a fact that delighted Abby.

  I want to turn little girls like her into modern day Megg Ropers, well-educated women who, though they might not learn Greek, Latin, and philosophy as Megg did, love books and learning.

  Tomorrow would be her first opportunity in a group setting with StoryTime at ten. She had her book picked out, her props ready. She couldn’t wait for all the little eager faces to grow fascinated by the story, to watch the children edge closer and closer to her as they forgot the real world and lived the adventure.

  With the summer season about to explode, next week StoryTime would move to twice weekly on Tuesdays and Fridays. She sighed happily.

  She stopped by the children’s audio collection to straighten and re-alphabetize it. She was working on the third shelf when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to find her boss, head librarian Nan Fulsom.

  “Have you got a minute, Abby?”

  Nan looked so serious that she made Abby nervous. She nodded. “Of course.”

  “Come to my office, will you please?” Though phrased as a question, it was an order.

  Nan turned and walked toward the front of the building without waiting to see if Abby followed. With a frown of concern, she did. When they entered the office and Nan closed the door behind her, Abby’s mouth went dry.

  She was in trouble; she knew it. She just didn’t know why. She ran through the last two days in her mind. As far as she could tell, nothing had happened to precipitate Nan’s abrupt attitude.

  Nan took her seat behind her desk, indicating a red faux leather chair for Abby. She sat and watched Nan lean forward to finger a piece of notebook paper that sat in the middle of her amazingly neat desktop. Nan’s computer sat on a lower desk that formed an L with the main desk. A screen saver picture of Nan with some people Abby assumed were her family flashed, only to slowly diminish in size and bounce around the screen before popping back to full size again.

  “I received an unsettling letter today,” Nan announced, drawing Abby’s eyes back to her. “I’m not certain what to make of it.”

  Abby nodded even as she wondered what this could possibly have to do with her.

  Nan was silent for a minute, studying the paper in front of her. Then she held it out to Abby. “I think you need to read this.”

  With a strong feeling of premonition making her stomach flip, Abby took the proffered paper and began to read. She was mindful of Nan’s eyes on her. Watching for her reaction?

  Mrs. Fulsom,

  Are you aware that the woman who is your children’s librarian has spent several years under psychiatric care? Do you think it’s wise to have someone so unstable looking out for our children? I know it makes me uncomfortable, and I do not plan to bring my family to the library until she is removed. I would appreciate you addressing this matter immediately.

  Abby felt like a fist had been thrust into her gut. She stared at the accusatory words. Someone thought she was a danger to the children? She, Abby Patterson? But that was ridiculous! She loved children, absolutely loved them.

  “Who?” she managed to get out between her dry lips. She scanned the letter. “There’s no signature.” She looked at Nan.

  “I know.” Nan reached for the paper. “That fact makes me very uncomfortable. Something isn’t right here, but I still feel that I must ask about the contents.” She held her hands out, palms up. “I’m accountable for this library and all who work and visit here. I have to check.”

  Abby swallowed hard. “You mean you want to know whether I was under a psychiatrist’s care?”

  Nan nodded.

  “Is that legal?” Abby asked. “Your asking, I mean. Certainly there’s nothing illegal or wrong in someone seeing a psychiatrist.”

  Nan again nodded. “I just need to know, Abby. I don’t want to know what you saw one about, if you did, and I don’t plan to tell anyone. I just want to know.”

  “Are you aware that I’m a widow?”

  “I didn’t know.” Nan glanced at her screen saver and the tall, thin man with glasses who stood with his arm about her shoulders. “I’m sorry.”

  Abby shrugged. “It was three years ago. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.” She shivered. Maddie. Sam. “An automobile accident killed my husband and our two-year-old daughter Madeleine.” This time it was Abby who glanced at the screen saver and the thr
ee daughters ranged around Nan and her husband. Three living, vibrant daughters.

  Nan studied her daughters too. “How did you stand it?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.” They were both silent for a moment. “Yes, I did see a psychologist for a time for grief counseling. I saw him weekly for six months, then once a month for six months. He was a very wise man, a Christian. He helped me a lot. Time has helped too.” Abby smiled without humor. “Though I have to admit, seeing your three daughters still stabs me in the heart.”

  Nan looked away, staring out her window at the parking lot half full of cars.

  “Please don’t misunderstand me,” Abby said quickly. “I’m not going to fall apart because your girls are alive and mine isn’t. I would never wish for you that pain. It’s that I’ll never know what Maddie might have been at the ages of your girls.”

  Nan turned back to her computer picture, nodding. “I understand.”

  She didn’t, Abby knew. No one did unless she’d been there, but Abby appreciated Nan’s attempt at empathy.

  Her boss studied the letter lying on her desk, her lip curled in distaste. “Do you have any idea why someone would write something like this? Do you have any enemies? Any personal troubles that would cause someone to attack you?”

  “No one, at least no one I know of. Certainly no one from home. I only moved here on Friday. I haven’t had time to develop enemies yet. Not that I’m planning to.” A thought struck her. “But I did witness a hit-and-run Friday. Maybe this note is related to that, though I don’t see how.”

  Nan considered the possibility for a moment. “I don’t see how either, but even if it were, how would someone know such personal information?”

  Abby shivered. It was creepy to think of someone delving into the most private parts of her life. “That’s a very good question. To my knowledge, no one in Seaside is privy to that part of my life. It’s not the kind of thing you tell people. Hello, I’m Abby and I was in counseling for a year.”

  Nan gave a small laugh at the comment.

  Abby continued, “It’s the Internet, I imagine. Someone who knows how to get around can find out almost anything he wants about anyone.”