Barefoot in the Sand

by Holly Chamberlin

  Ralph had just laughed and bounded off.

  A loud crash from the other end of the shop returned Arden to the twenty-first century.

  “Sorry!” Elly yelled. “My bad!” A moment later she appeared, face flushed. “I knocked over that display rack up front but it’s okay. No harm done.”

  “As long as you’re not hurt.”

  “Nope.” Off Elly went, feather duster in hand, to tackle another bit of the shop.

  It could be heartbreaking to be around the young, Arden thought. They were so sure of so many things and, still, so terribly vulnerable, not yet made wise and toughened by experience. Life would inflict a beating on Elly—no one got out entirely unscathed; Arden was sure Katie had had her share of pain—but it could also bring Elly great joy, the kind of joy that had little or nothing to do with baubles and everything to do with peace of mind and emotional fulfillment. Maybe Elly would marry. Maybe she would have children. Maybe she would do neither. It didn’t matter, as long as she lived her own, authentic life.

  And how many people, Arden wondered, could say they were doing just that?

  Chapter 14

  Lenny Tobin had mentioned to Laura that Mr. and Mrs. Aldridge lived at the top of Old Orchard Hill, as they had done for close to sixty years. In one of the articles written at the time of Rob’s disappearance, Laura had noted that the Smiths resided on Fern Pond Road, in a working-class section of town. It hadn’t been difficult to learn that Mr. and Mrs. Smith lived there still.

  That morning, Laura had decided to take a considered look at each house. What might they tell her about the two families? Certainly nothing that might provide a hard-and-fast clue as to the identity of her mother. But what could be the harm? Asking questions, following hunches, visiting sites of historical interest—it was all in a day’s work for a researcher.

  First, Laura drove to Fern Pond Road. She found the Smith family’s home easily; their name was painted on the mailbox in large black letters. Laura stopped the car but kept the engine idling. The house seemed a small one in which to raise four children. Rob, as the only boy, had probably had his own bedroom, and possibly his older sister had had her own room, too, but the two younger sisters might have shared a bedroom. Laura wondered if the siblings had quarreled about that, the younger girls claiming it was unfair that Frannie and Rob were given special treatment. Laura shook her head. Making up stories again.

  She could see there was property behind the house; once, it might have been home to a swing set or a plastic slide. A chimney indicated the presence of a fireplace. Lacy curtains on the windows were visible from the street. A wreath of dried flowers and herbs hung on the front door. Outside the small garage was parked a Subaru wagon that had seen better days.

  The Smiths’ residence was unremarkable, but from what Laura had been able to glean from Lenny Tobin’s interviews with the family, it had been a happy home until Rob had gone missing. A wave of sadness flowed through Laura as she continued on past the house. It didn’t feel right to loiter outside a home that had seen so much grief.

  The Aldridge home was located on the other side of Port George, and it took Laura a full fifteen minutes to make the journey. What connected these two families—if anything—other than that a long time ago the daughter of the wealthy family had possibly been in a secret romantic relationship with the son of the poor family? A classic Romeo-and-Juliet plot, ending, of course, in disaster, at least for the hapless boy.

  If Rob Smith’s disappearance had had anything to do with his purported relationship with Victoria Aldridge. Laura reminded herself to be careful about making assumptions. Her habit of romanticizing had gotten her into trouble in the past. Her disastrous marriage was proof enough of that.

  Suddenly, Laura realized that within the length of two or three streets the scenery had become vastly different. Here, the houses were larger and more ornate than the ones to be found in the other neighborhoods through which Laura had passed. Every house had a garage big enough for two or three vehicles. The cars that were parked in the driveways were new. Laura spotted a Mercedes, a Lexus, a Porsche. The land on which the houses sat was significant. She passed two trucks belonging to landscaping companies. People here didn’t mow their own lawns or remove dead tree branches from their property. They had the money to call a professional to perform those chores.

  Finally, Laura turned onto Old Orchard Hill. It was more of a gentle slope than a hill, and the apple trees that lined the way didn’t look healthy. Not that Laura knew all that much about agriculture, but she could tell a healthy tree from a damaged tree and a McIntosh apple from a Cortland.

  At the zenith, Laura parked and stared up at the house in which Ted Coldwell’s friend Victoria had grown up. Although large and imposing, and in spite of the grand staircase that led up to the large double entry doors, Laura thought the house had a generally run-down look about it, as if it had been ignored for too long. As if it was unloved. The house was set back a considerable distance from the road. The property was surrounded by a tall iron fence with a formidable gate, though Laura noted that the gate wasn’t quite shut. Maybe the lock was broken. Maybe nobody cared enough to keep it secure. Between the house and the gate was an expanse of slightly overgrown lawn. From the road, Laura couldn’t see the garage or any other features that might be part of the estate, a greenhouse maybe, or flower gardens. Or the pool the Aldridge family had had built in the summer of 1984.

  Was it possible, Laura wondered, sitting behind the wheel of her car, looking at that forbidding iron gate, that she, Laura Huntington, was the link between the Smiths of Fern Pond Road and the Aldridges of Old Orchard Hill?

  She groaned. She was doing it again, creating silly fantasies. Laura started the car and turned back down Old Orchard Hill. Common sense told her that it would be far too neat and easy that the first age-appropriate female mentioned to her since she came to Port George should turn out to be the person for whom she was searching. So, of what value had this little excursion been? None.

  Deciding that she needed a moment or more to calm her overheated brain, Laura set out for the coast. Twenty minutes later she came to a beach. It wasn’t at all like the few she had seen on her journey north to Port George, like the beaches in Wells and Ogunquit. Here, rocks were layered thickly on the narrow strip of sand, making walking downright precarious. Laura wondered if the high tide had brought the rocks with it. She knew little about beach environments and how they worked. The coming and going of tides, the relevance and fragility of dunes, the types of seaweed and their uses, crabs, clams, and starfish, the busy life of tidal pools—all were largely a mystery. Maybe if she had grown up by the sea, she would have an intimate knowledge of coastal ecosystems, but she hadn’t.

  Oddly, Laura’s ignorance made her feel somewhat lonely. That and the fact that as far as she could tell, she was the only human in sight. If she cried out for help, who would hear her? But why should she need to cry out for help? Why was she so acutely aware of her vulnerability in the world, of her aloneness? Why—

  Suddenly, Laura whirled around. There was still no one in sight. The air was still; there was no breeze that might have gently caressed the bare skin of her arm. But something had touched her. Something or someone. Laura would swear to it. It had felt like a hand, a warm human hand, gentle, reassuring, and, strangely, somehow familiar. Could the touch have been her mother’s, not her birth mother’s (whoever that was), but the touch of the woman who had raised her so lovingly, the woman who had set her on this journey? Her mother watching over her? It was possible. But Laura couldn’t say for sure.

  What she did know was that whoever had made such a personal connection meant her no harm. None at all.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  No one whispered back.

  Chapter 15

  “Pale ribbons of sand,” a voice whispered. “Dim and murmuring sea.”

  The sky was the sickly yellow-gray that presages a thunderstorm. All else was drained of colo
r, pale and lifeless. Her hands looked like the flesh of fish.

  She could hear the dim and murmuring sea but it was far, far away.

  A figure neither male nor female but also both and also possibly not quite human was moving toward her but not making any progress. What might have been its head was bent forward as if fighting against stiff winds.

  But there was no wind. The air was still.

  She realized now that she couldn’t move. She wanted to run away from the dark, enigmatic figure that was coming relentlessly toward her but not. But coming. Coming.

  Then a sudden lurid glare of light seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, and hands with flesh like the flesh of fish covered her eyes. She tried to scream but no sound came from her throat but the—

  Finally, with a cry that sounded even to her own ears like that of a terrified child, Arden shot up in her bed to find the cats circling her protectively.

  “It’s all right,” she assured them with a shaky voice. “Mommy is all right.”

  It was just a dream. Just a horrible dream. If only she could understand it, discern the identity of that strange figure that had been coming for her . . .

  Suddenly, Arden laughed out loud. Of course. Only weeks ago, she had reread the classic M. R. James ghost story “Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come to You, My Lad.” Her brain had simply borrowed material from the terrifying waking dream the hero experienced in his hotel room after having found the ancient whistle on the beach.

  Who is this who is coming?

  Still, the dream had to mean something more than just a replay of the old story. It had to mean something unique to her, Arden Bell. And the most obvious meaning the dream seemed to suggest was that someone might be coming for her. Her parents? They had enough money to hire a private investigator, but after all these years why would they care to locate their daughter? To make amends before dying? No. Arden just couldn’t believe her parents were capable of caring enough about the state of their eternal souls to atone now for their ancient sins. If they hadn’t searched for her back when she had run off at the age of eighteen, they would not search for her now.

  Arden rubbed her eyes. It was already close to four o’clock. There seemed little point in trying to get back to sleep for a mere two hours, considering the energy it would take to calm her mind and relax her body. Arden threw back the covers and got out of bed. Immediately, three cats began to crash their heads into her calves and weave their furry bodies around her legs.

  “You’re in luck,” Arden told them as she put on her summer robe. “Breakfast time comes early today.”

  Chapter 16

  A sign over the counter announced that the North Star had been in business since 1952. The design of its logo, the image of a radiating star, testified to its being a classic midcentury diner. A fair number of the floor tiles were missing; others were degraded; but the floor was clean. Most of the red Formica tabletops were chipped, and every one of the red leather seats on the stools at the counter was cracked, the fissures covered with silver duct tape. The banquette seats were similarly worn, but not a stray speck of food or spilled liquid was on any surface. The mirror over the grill was remarkably clean, given its proximity to grease splatters.

  The hostess showed Laura to a table near the back of the diner, a perfect spot from which to observe the other customers. Within moments a smiling waitress was at her side. The waitress, Laura guessed, was in her mid to late fifties, about the same age as Laura’s mother would be if she was still alive. She was a small woman, barely five foot, and wiry. Her eyes were pretty, a vivid green, and they drew attention away from the fact that the rest of her face was unremarkable. Her hair was badly dyed, probably with an at-home kit. Laura knew the look; she had suffered her own hair-coloring disasters.

  “I haven’t seen you in Port George before,” the waitress said as she poured Laura a cup of steaming-hot coffee. “Visiting?”

  Laura smiled and prepared, once again, to lie. “Yes, in a way. I’m doing research for a podcast. Basically, it’s about people who go missing and how it affects their community.”

  The waitress put her free hand on her hip. “Is that right?” Her green eyes were wide with interest. “Nothing exciting ever happens around here, not usually anyway. And we rarely get interesting people visiting.”

  “At least you’re not overrun by tourists in the summer months,” Laura commented, though she wasn’t sure that was a good thing. Tourists meant business. Business meant people could pay their bills.

  The waitress shrugged. “I guess. My friend Kari lives down in Portland and she says you can’t even walk down some streets in summer for all the people who come to shop and eat lobster. Anyway, what’ll you have? Our blueberry pancakes are the best for miles around.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll have.”

  A few minutes later the waitress returned with Laura’s meal. The plate was piled with three massive pancakes bursting with purplish blueberries. Laura hadn’t eaten so large a breakfast since she was in college, when most Sunday mornings she and her roommates would go to the diner just off campus for a complete pig-out.

  “Now, eat them while they’re hot,” the waitress advised. “Though frankly, I’ve had them cold and they’re almost just as good.”

  Laura picked up her fork. She hadn’t planned on asking about the Rob Smith case when she walked through the door of the diner—she had just wanted a good breakfast—but the waitress seemed inclined to chat so... “I don’t suppose you remember Rob Smith?” she asked casually. “He was a teen in the mideighties. I’m asking in relation to my research.”

  The waitress, who now introduced herself as Kathy Murdoch, nodded. “I was born and raised in this town. Of course, I remember him, though I have to admit I haven’t thought about him in ages. All that chaos when Rob went missing. His poor family. Every girl in town wanted to be Rob’s girlfriend, and all the guys wanted to be his friend. He was one of those naturally popular types, no big ego but always everyone’s favorite. It’s a terrible shame what happened to him.” Kathy paused. “Whatever it was.”

  “What about Victoria Aldridge? She was about Rob Smith’s age. Did you know her?”

  “I was in her class. I was a scholarship student at the Wilder Academy. I had a bit of a brain in those days, or I fooled someone into thinking I did. Victoria, though, she was the real deal, super-smart. I didn’t know her well, but she always said hello when we met.” Kathy shrugged. “Anyway, after high school, Victoria went on to some fancy private college. I think she came back once, but then she went away again, who knows where, while the rest of us—most of us, anyway—stayed right here and got on with life in Port George.”

  Ted Coldwell, too, had mentioned that Victoria Aldridge had not been back to Port George in a long time. It might be how Victoria was best remembered these days, by her absence. “You said you didn’t know her well. Did she have close friends?”

  Kathy frowned. “No, not really, though she got along with people all right. I think she was pretty shy. And her parents were rich. Her father did something in banking I think. I don’t think they liked their daughter spending a lot of time with the locals, not the ones of us who weren’t in their social set.”

  This bit of information, too, jibed with what Ted Coldwell had told Laura. “Do you know anyone I might talk to who could shed some light on Victoria?”

  Suddenly Kathy frowned. “Wait a minute. Victoria didn’t go missing, Rob did. Why do you want to know about her?”

  Laura thought fast. “Well, when we’re crafting a story, we ask all sorts of questions about all sorts of things that might seem irrelevant but which sometimes turn out to be important. We don’t want to miss any, you know, er, angles.” Laura managed a smile. She hoped Kathy bought her pathetic reply.

  It seems that Kathy did. Her smile returned. “I get it,” she said brightly. “And now that I think about it, my younger sister, Sarah, was good friends with one of the Smith girls, I can’t remember which one, b
ut she told me that Victoria had visited the Smith house once or twice with Rob. Why would Victoria have been there if she wasn’t his girlfriend?”

  Laura could think of a few reasons—for one, they might have been on a community youth group committee together. Still, it was another sort of confirmation that Rob Smith and Victoria Aldridge were an item or, at the least, knew one another as friends. It still meant nothing.

  “I have to say it’s a thrill to be talking to a real live journalist,” Kathy went on. “You asked if I knew anyone who could shed light on Victoria before she went away. Well, you could talk to Renee Wilson. She and Victoria went to the same Catholic grammar school.” Kathy smiled. “Like me, Renee never left Port George, but unlike me she doesn’t have to wait tables for a living. She married some guy with his own accounting firm, and from what I hear she pretty much shops for a living.” Kathy paused. “Not that there are many places around here to spend money. She probably buys a lot online.”

  Laura made a note, first asking if Wilson was Renee’s married name. It was.

  “And Jack McDonald. You could talk to him. He had a landscaping company; in fact, his son runs it now. Anyway, I’m pretty sure Jack senior had the Aldridge account at one point. He was an okay guy. Funny, though. I haven’t heard anything about him in years.”

  “What do you think Mr. McDonald could tell me about Victoria?” Laura asked dubiously.

  Kathy frowned. “Hmm. You’re right, that’s a long shot. But his son, Jack junior, would have known Rob pretty well. They were the same age.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “You’ll definitely have better luck with our high school English teacher, Miss Thompson. She was close to Victoria, like a mentor or something. Tell her Kathy Murdoch sent you. Just remember that it’s Miss, not Ms. or Mrs. She was always a stickler about that.”

  Laura promised that she would remember. “One last question if you don’t mind. What did Victoria Aldridge look like?”