Barefoot in the Sand

by Holly Chamberlin

  Sometimes guesswork was all a researcher or a reporter had to go on, Laura thought. That and gut instinct.

  “Thank you for your time,” Laura said. “I really appreciate your kindness.”

  With a slight groan, Lenny rose from his chair. “Like Otto”—he smiled—“I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  Lenny led her back to the front of the house and opened the door. “Let me know if there’s any way I can help going forward.”

  “I will, thanks.”

  Laura headed back to Port George, her mind puzzling over all that Lenny Tobin had shared with her. On the surface, none of it had anything to do with an unnamed pregnant teenage girl. Still, Rob Smith’s disappearance in the summer of 1984 was the only event of note she had discovered thus far. She would continue on his trail for a little while longer. What could it hurt?

  When Laura reached Port George, she headed directly for City Hall. It was located on Main Street—no surprise there—and was a modest building compared to the library. A clerk directed her to a bank of computers, at which she was able to look up the declaration of “dead in absentia” for Rob Smith. What a strange concept, Laura thought. Dead because we don’t know that you aren’t.

  It didn’t take long to learn that the lawyer who handled the paperwork for the Smith family was Theodore Coldwell. Laura made a note of this in her notebook and logged out. On her way out of the building, she stopped to ask the clerk who had helped her earlier if he knew anything about Mr. Coldwell, specifically, if he was still practicing. He was. Mr. Coldwell, the clerk told her, had an office and a house in town. Then the clerk helpfully gave Laura the lawyer’s phone number.

  Laura thanked the clerk and left the building, momentarily blinded by the afternoon sun. She wondered what Mr. Coldwell could tell her about Rob Smith’s disappearance. Maybe nothing more than Lenny Tobin had been able to tell her. But she had come to Port George to find the truth. If she made a nuisance of herself along the way, so be it. She would call Mr. Coldwell’s office and ask for an appointment. What was the worst that could happen?

  The phone was answered by a young woman with a singsong voice. Laura recited her podcast story. It was getting easier to lie. Not necessarily a good thing.

  She waited a long moment while the young woman spoke to her boss.

  “He can give you a few minutes tomorrow at ten a.m.,” she said crisply when she returned to the phone. No more singsong voice.

  Laura thanked her and ended the call. Clearly, Mr. Coldwell wasn’t thrilled about meeting with Laura Huntington, one of those newfangled podcast people, but something had made him agree, and possibly it wasn’t just politeness.

  Suddenly, Laura realized that she was starving. She would treat herself to a decent meal in town. She had walked along Main Street for only a few yards when she came upon a small café. A handwritten sign in the window announced that the daily special was a platter of fish and chips. Laura realized she had never had fish and chips in her entire life. How had that happened? It suddenly seemed imperative to settle down with a meal of fried food, and maybe even to follow it with a rich dessert. Something chocolate.

  With a growling stomach, Laura pushed open the door of the little restaurant and went inside.

  Chapter 11

  “We should charge admission to these events,” Brent said, looking significantly at the old round-faced clock on the wall behind the counter. “What do people take us for, a nightclub?”

  “Who knew a reading by a local poet would pack the house?” Arden smiled. “You know people are always reluctant to leave after a reading.”

  “Yeah. Because of the free wine and cheese.”

  “Or the air of warm conviviality.”

  “Harrumph.” Brent was already heading off to retrieve a crumpled paper napkin that had found its way onto the floor.

  Arden was pleased. The summer interns, Zach and Elly, had done a fine job of setting up chairs and the old wooden podium Margery had found at an auction an age ago; after the reading, while Sybella signed copies of her book, Zach wrote receipts, took money, and made change. Elly transported the unsold signed copies to a special display that would remain in place through the end of the summer.

  “Sybella sold five copies of her book,” Arden said to Deborah as her friend joined her, plastic cup of wine in hand. “I’m happy for her. I think she’s got real talent.”

  “I think it’s wonderful you give self-published writers a venue in which to hawk their wares.”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite that way.”

  Deborah waved her hand dismissively. “You know what I mean. It’s wonderful you support writers the way you do. There’s no way people like Sybella can make back the money they spent on getting their work into print. I bet some unscrupulous store owners would demand a cut of any sale made.”

  Gordon joined them; he was one of the people who had bought a copy of Sybella’s book. “I don’t think independent bookshop owners are unscrupulous as a lot. Though they are required to be savvy about making a living.”

  “I’ll say. If Margery hadn’t taught me all she knew, I’d have lost the business several times before now.”

  “To Margery!” Deborah raised her cup in a salute.

  “I can’t find my mommy!”

  The wail of distress had come from a little girl of about five, standing alone in the middle of the shop. Immediately, Arden felt the nasty sting of panic. She had seen the girl’s mother only a few minutes earlier, but now she was nowhere in sight. She couldn’t have gone off and left her child behind. Could she have? Who would do such a thing, abandon a helpless, defenseless little girl in such a cruel and . . . Arden realized her heart was beating too quickly and a cold sweat was pouring down her chest. She felt frozen to the spot, unable to approach the child, to offer help, to open her mouth to scream.

  Then Gordon was kneeling at the little girl’s side, speaking in a quiet and comforting tone. Though Arden couldn’t hear what exactly he was saying, his message seemed to soothe her. She stopped crying and nodded solemnly.

  “Gaby!”

  “Mommy!”

  The child’s mother was dashing toward her daughter. Gordon stepped back as the child launched herself into her mother’s arms. “I went to the ladies’ room,” the woman explained in a rush. “I told her to stand just outside the door. I didn’t think she would wander off. I’m so grateful to you. Thank you.”

  “This is a safe space,” Gordon said firmly. “Nothing bad would have happened to her here.”

  Holding her daughter in her arms, the woman left the shop.

  Suddenly, Arden realized that she could move and quickly turned away from the others. Tears were pricking her eyes and she still felt a deep unease disproportionate to the actual event. Nothing terrible had happened. What was wrong with her lately? She had been thrown into fierce nostalgia by the sight of Aria and Ben the other afternoon, and now this scared child had excited a dreadful jumble of emotions, including guilt and shame.

  With effort, Arden took a deep breath. It was no big surprise that she should be so hypersensitive. Summer was always a difficult season for her. Still, it had been a long time since two incidents in the space of as many weeks had elicited such a deeply emotional response.

  “You okay?” Deborah asked. “That poor little thing. I was really worried for a moment.”

  Arden turned and smiled. “I’m fine, just tired. I think I’ll go to bed the moment I get home.”

  Deborah frowned. “I haven’t been able to sleep well with this sale hanging over my head. I just have to make it happen.”

  “Don’t knock yourself out in the process. I know it’s important, but is it really worth your health?”

  “Maybe. No. Oh, I don’t know.” Deborah smiled as Gordon rejoined them, broom in hand. “Here’s the hero of the hour.”

  “I didn’t do anything special,” he demurred. “Anyway, Brent had to dash so I told him I’d sweep up the crumbs.”

  “Well, as
long as you have everything in hand,” Deborah said, “I’ll head home.”

  Deborah’s leaving precipitated the exit of the final two guests, and then the shop was empty but for Arden and Gordon. Arden cleared up the business end of the evening while Gordon stowed the broom and dustpan. She badly wanted to ask him what he had said to the child to make her stop crying. Would it embarrass him if she did? He had dismissed Deborah’s praise so definitively. She wished she could tell him what the incident had done to her, how it had made her feel, but that was impossible. That would come too close to the truth of the past, that other country from which she had fled.

  “Ready to go?” Gordon asked. His copy of Sybella’s book peeked out from the pocket of his cotton jacket.

  Arden smiled and came out from behind the counter, keys to the shop in hand. “Yes. Thank you for being such a great help this evening. I really appreciate it.”

  “My pleasure. Besides, that jalapeño cheddar was awesome.”

  Chapter 12

  Laura looked up at the narrow, redbrick building in which Ted Coldwell had his office. It was tucked between a hardware store, the good old-fashioned kind with a gumball machine for the kids accompanying their parents on a quest for a packet of bolts or screws, and a women’s clothing shop called The Top Shelf. If the name alone weren’t enough clue as to the shop’s pretentions, Laura thought, holding back a smile, the items displayed in the window would confirm them. Who in Port George could possibly have need of a sequined cocktail dress?

  Mr. Coldwell’s office was one of two on the third floor. Laura opened the door to find who she assumed was the young woman who had answered the phone the day before. Her self-important air virtually smacked you in the face. Laura half admired the kid. She couldn’t be more than twenty and yet she held herself with the self-assurance of a seasoned thirty-five-year-old professional. She probably shopped at The Top Shelf for her evening wear.

  Laura announced herself. She noted a brass nameplate on the desk.

  “I’ll let Mr. Coldwell know you’re here,” Nadine West told her blandly.

  Laura had to wait for only a moment before she was ushered into Mr. Coldwell’s office. He greeted her cordially but without a smile. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, handsome man of the William Holden mold, Laura thought. Masculine but not rough. He was wearing a good, sober suit with a patterned tie that hinted at a warmer, more relaxed personality after hours. He sat at his desk only after Laura had taken her own seat.

  “How can I be of help?”

  Laura, wondering how many times he had asked that question through the years, conquered her nervousness. “As I explained to Ms. West yesterday, and as I expect she told you, I’m researching a podcast about people from small towns who went missing and how their disappearance affected their communities.”

  Mr. Coldwell nodded slightly. His expression revealed nothing.

  Boldly Laura went on. “I’ve been reading through copies of the local paper—the librarian pointed me to Edward Meyer, the former editor, and he gave me access to his archive—and I’ve also spoken to Lenny Tobin, a former reporter for the Daily Chronicle, and I’m intrigued by the story of Rob Smith’s disappearance. I saw in the county courthouse that you helped his family have him declared dead in absentia.”

  Mr. Coldwell’s expression took on a wariness. “Yes.”

  Laura pressed on. “I found it interesting there was no mention of a girlfriend in the articles Lenny Tobin wrote while the search for Rob was taking place.”

  “Why would that be interesting?” Mr. Coldwell asked neutrally.

  “Because supposedly Rob Smith was well-liked by the entire population of Port George. It stands to reason he’d have a girlfriend and that any reporter worth his or her salt would have interviewed her along with Rob’s friends and family.”

  Mr. Coldwell was silent for a long moment, long enough for Laura to wonder if she was going to be tossed out on her ear.

  Finally, he looked Laura squarely in the eye and said, “I believe that Rob Smith was seeing a family friend of mine. Their relationship wasn’t public, but some people knew in the way that they know things in small towns.”

  “Why wasn’t the relationship public?” Laura asked, intrigued.

  Mr. Coldwell cleared his throat. “Because the girl’s parents would have found Rob unsuitable for their daughter. Her father was an investment banker. The boy’s father drove a truck.”

  Good old-fashioned social snobbery, Laura thought. “What was the girl’s name?”

  Mr. Coldwell hesitated a moment, as if debating whether he would answer Laura’s question. “Victoria Aldridge,” he said finally, almost begrudgingly. “Her parents were Herbert and Florence Aldridge.”

  Herbert Aldridge. Lenny Tobin had talked about the man. “Does this Victoria Aldridge still live in Port George?”

  “No. She left a long time ago.”

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  “I have no idea.” Mr. Coldwell’s tone had become flat and dismissive. Abruptly he stood. “I’ve given you all the time I can give. I’m afraid this interview is over.”

  Laura stood. She knew better than to attempt another question. “Thank you. I can see myself out.”

  Deep in thought, Laura walked back to the Lilac Inn. The meeting with Mr. Coldwell had unsettled her. He had been both reticent and forthcoming, an odd combination of behavior, one she hadn’t expected from someone who had been practicing law for so long. Could he have had something to do with the disappearance of Rob Smith? Or maybe . . . He was of the right age. Could Ted Coldwell be her biological father? Pretending to help her while leading her away from the truth? Because the last thing a respected lawyer would want was the sudden revelation of a love child.

  Laura almost laughed out loud. Ted Coldwell. Victoria Aldridge. Herbert Aldridge. Rob Smith. You could go crazy making up stories featuring people about whom you knew virtually nothing. How did novelists do it? she wondered. All that conjuring stories out of thin air. She would stick to academic work. It seemed a breeze in comparison.

  Chapter 13

  Arden found Elly in the used-book section, her head bent over a copy of My Love Affair with Jewelry, a largely photographic volume about Elizabeth Taylor’s beloved treasures.

  “Elly?”

  The young woman closed the book with obvious reluctance. “Someday,” she said firmly, “I am so going to have a diamond ring as big as the ones Elizabeth Taylor got from Mike Todd and Richard Burton. And I’m going to go on vacation to big resorts on an island in the Pacific, and I’m going to have one of those really cool old cars, you know, like a Rolls-Royce or something, with a chauffeur to drive me around.”

  Arden smiled briefly. She refrained from asking just how Elly expected to afford such luxuries. She had no desire to burst her teenage bubble. And for all Arden knew, one day Elly would achieve her desires. Not that things were the real treasures in and of themselves; experiences were worth far more. But things didn’t necessarily hurt.

  “I think that the dusting is calling your name.”

  “Oh, sure!” Elly shoved the book back onto the shelf and dashed off.

  Not for the first time did Arden wonder if Elly had given college any serious consideration. Elly was intelligent. She was a voracious reader with an amazingly retentive memory. But that didn’t necessarily mean she was cut out for the academic demands of college. Some people were able to use their gifts to the full without the usual formal schooling. Maybe Elly would prove to be one of those rare types.

  And, Arden supposed, she herself had been able to muster her talents without a degree. Not that at the age of seventeen she would ever have imagined such a possibility. No, at the age of seventeen she had been poised to attend Blake College, the school her parents had chosen for her. For the next four years, she would work hard and win enough academic awards to make her parents proud. Shortly after graduation she would marry a sober, steady, slightly older professional man. She would have children. I
t was what her parents had wanted for her since the day she was born.

  Suddenly, Arden recalled a conversation with a classmate at Wilder Academy. Her name was Kathy or Katie; Arden had forgotten her last name entirely. Katie—that sounded right—was a scholarship girl, one of a handful of students from Port George and the surrounding towns whose parents couldn’t afford the pricey tuition of Wilder Academy but who showed a degree of academic prowess. What had Katie looked like? Short? Well, every girl at Wilder Academy had been short compared to Victoria Aldridge.

  “Did you get into your first choice?” Katie had asked one afternoon after classes had ended.

  Arden hadn’t bothered to explain that she had only applied to one college, and that it had been selected by her parents. “Yes.”

  “Radical. I’m not going on to college after all. It’s okay. I never really wanted to anyway. My father is kind of bummed, though I can’t figure out why. He’s always thought I was kind of a ditz. My mother doesn’t care what I do as long as I move out and pay my own way. I’m stoked to start working. And no more homework!”

  Arden hadn’t known quite how to respond. She had envied Katie. Arden wasn’t allowed to make up her own mind about things. It wasn’t cool that Katie’s mother wanted her out of the house, but then again, maybe that was normal. Maybe it was right that parents should encourage their children to be independent. Maybe it wasn’t right for parents to dictate their children’s futures.

  Before Arden could reply, another classmate, a guy whose blue hair was teased into a faux Mohawk and who mistakenly thought wearing black eyeliner was doing him a favor, came bouncing out of the building.

  “Hey, girls,” he shouted. “Either of you wanna do the nasty with me this weekend?”

  Arden had blushed. Katie had rolled her eyes and called back, “Eat shit and die, Ralph. With a dickhead like you?”