Poison Flowers

by Nat Burns

  Table of Contents

  Other Bella Books by Nat Burns

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Copyright © 2013 by Nat Burns

  Bella Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 10543

  Tallahassee, FL 32302

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First published 2013

  eBook released 2013

  Editor: Medora MacDougall

  Cover Designer: Judy Fellows

  ISBN 13: 978-1-59493-321-9

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Other Bella Books by Nat Burns

  Two Weeks in August

  House of Cards

  Identity

  The Quality of Blue

  The Book of Eleanor

  Dedication

  I’d like to dedicate this book to my two daughters, Jessica and Rachel, who, even when very small, showed infinite patience as they waited for mom to scribble yet one more story.

  Acknowledgment

  Many thanks to Bella Books, my home away from home, and to my sweet editor, Medora MacDougall. What would I do without her calm advice? Also thanks to those friends who pre-read Poison Flowers and shared their advice and approval. It was much appreciated.

  About the Author

  Nat Burns lives in beautiful Albuquerque, New Mexico, truly the Land of Enchantment, where she writes full time, helped by a houseful of cats. www.natburns.com

  Chapter One

  “Hey, baby, what you doing out here all by yourself?”

  The young man appeared before her with such abruptness that she gasped and choked, breaking into a spasm of coughing. She held up one hand, gesturing for him to wait as she struggled for control. The youth, no older than seventeen certainly, turned to his handful of friends and snickered at her predicament. They responded with muffled laughter.

  Eyeing them as she tried to still her spasming throat, Marya knew a moment of fear. She had an open mind, always had. She truly believed in freedom of expression. Yet she also knew the dangers arising from substance abuse and irresponsible young people. It wasn’t the group’s abundance of tattoos and piercings that alarmed her nor their choices of black leather as accouterments. It was the challenge of their eyes as they watched her. She could see them making judgments: How much harm would come to them if they harmed her?

  Marya wished suddenly that she had driven away upon first spying the then-distant quartet of young people. They had been strolling carelessly along the edge of the sand and loudly whooping out their indignation at being baptized by the ever-moving waves. Their rowdy behavior should have been a clear indicator that she didn’t want to be alone in their company.

  “Hey, is that your Trooper up there?” asked a young girl, her bleached hair colored bright pink on one side, baby blue on the other. “How ’bout you take us for a ride? Ricky, make her take us for a ride.”

  She watched Marya intently, pale blue eyes heavily outlined in black kohl and mascara. The other girl in the group, thinner, with long blond hair blowing across her face, watched her as well.

  “Yeah,” chimed in a young boy who had a fine silver chain running from his nose to his ear. “We wanna go into the strip. You take us, lady?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Marya choked out finally. “I have someone waiting for me. I’ve got to get there as soon as I can.”

  “Is it a boyfriend, señorita?” This was asked by Ricky, the first one who had spoken, the one she immediately recognized as the ringleader.

  “That’s none of your business,” she said as she rose to her feet. She patted sand from her hands and started to move away.

  “Hey wait, lady, you got sand all over you!” The two boys descended on her and began playfully slapping sand from her bottom and legs as they circled around her, shouting encouragement to one another. The girls watched and shouted suggestions.

  “Look here, you two!” Marya said loudly as she stilled and stood her ground. “I want you to stop this right now.”

  “Or what, sweet thing? I’ll tell you what, you gonna give us a ride into Myrtle Beach, that’s what.”

  Ricky moved close, too close for her to be comfortable, and she, without even thinking about it, crouched into defensive mode, calling upon her years of taekwondo training. But before she needed to defend herself, a spate of rocks came whistling out of the sky. One struck the chain-faced boy on his shoulder; he yelped as the group turned to face the attacker. To her surprise, it was a short, stocky woman. She stood barefoot on the beach, her light cotton pants rolled to her knees and a loose button-down shirt billowing in the ocean wind. Her hair, cropped close, appeared pure white and actually gleamed in the slanting sunlight.

  “Oh shit! It’s her!” one girl blurted in a sotto voce exclamation.

  “I see her,” said the ringleader in a harsh, disparaging mutter. Another rock sailed toward them, so quickly that Marya didn’t even see the woman move. It found its mark, on the ringleader’s thigh, and he growled as he clasped his leg in both hands. He glared at the woman.

  “Get on with you,” the woman called, her voice low and bearing an undeniable ring of authority. “I’ll not have you on my property. I’ve told you that too many times. I’m getting tired of repeating myself.”

  Silence fell as the ruffians mulled over the implied threat. Finally, cowed and with much impotent glowering and muttering, they moved as one unit up the beach in the direction from which they’d come.

  Marya breathed a sigh of relief and relaxed her posture. Impulsively, she rushed toward the woman and threw her arms around her shoulders in a quick hug of gratitude.

  “Thank you, thank you,” she said. “I was beginning to get worried.”

  This close, Marya could see the woman’s face. She realized she was older than she was by more than a decade and was handsome, with smooth, defined features and striking blue eyes. Suddenly feeling foolish, she stepped back, hands twitching nervously at her sides.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?” she asked after many moments of silence had passed.

  “You should be worried,” the woman said in a hard, pedantic tone. “I can’t believe you were stupid eno
ugh to be out here alone, with evening coming on. I particularly resent you adding to the trouble I already have with these kids.”

  She looked Marya over with mistrustful, dismissing eyes. “You’re not much above a brat yourself, are you? Get on off my property, or I’ll call the cops and have your ass hauled in.”

  With that comment, she turned and walked away from Marya, her strong legs and feet churning sand.

  Bewildered and unbelievably hurt by the stranger’s irritation, anger stirred in Marya. She had never been what one would call coolheaded and suddenly she was seeing red. And, of course, her mouth shot off, taking on a life of its own.

  “Could we be any bitchier?” she called after the woman. “You’re just damned lucky those kids didn’t decide to gang up on your ass. One day those rocks won’t cut it anymore and then what will you do?”

  Her rescuer ignored her, mounting the wooden porch steps that led to the interesting house that had drawn Marya into this little drama. Marya made her way up the sloping, grassy hill toward her car.

  “I hope your damned house falls off into the ocean,” she muttered, just for good measure.

  She turned once at the top and studied the scene below. The road offered a wide green shoulder before sloping into a scenic expanse of tan sand and dusky blue ocean. The large house just past this stretch of beach angled away from the sea and its appearance had snared her interest as she drove by. The house was crisp white against the cobalt of the water, a two-story Cape Cod with a wide, wooden porch that jutted out over the ocean. It was an unusual style for this area. Yet whoever built the house had planned wisely, for although the house site appeared to be centuries old—judging from the amount of seashore that had eroded from around it—the solid home rested sturdy on a dais of huge stones, some naturally occurring, others appearing to have been laid like puzzle pieces and mortared together.

  Earlier, guiding her car over a sloping dune, Marya had pulled onto the grassy expanse that demarcated the beach from the highway and sat a moment savoring the sound of waves coming ashore. Eventually lulled into obedience to the water’s call, she had left the car and meandered across the sand, further drawn in by a lavender banner atop a flagpole that snapped with high energy in the ocean wind. It drew her attention for it appeared a statement, mounted as it was in an offshore rocky formation. Though she had walked as close to the water as it was possible to do without sacrificing her sandals, she saw no indication of what it signified.

  “Probably a landmark for boats, so they’ll stay away from her,” she told herself now as she laid one hand on the hood of her car, preparatory to leaving.

  Dim lights had brought several of the house windows to life, and she caught a glimpse of the white-haired woman as she passed by just inside one of them. Who was she? And why did she seem to hate people so much? More importantly, why did she seem to hate her?

  Chapter Two

  The girl had been feisty. Dorry could appreciate that. She watched through the window as the redhead mounted the grassy dune separating Dundun Beach from the highway, noting how her lithe form made her appear to float above the flora.

  Though she was small, her arms had been strong when they hugged Dorry close.

  Dorry took in a deep breath, reliving, for a brief moment, how that embrace had affected her. It had been such a long time since anyone had held her. As if facing death, she had, in that moment, seen her life flash before her eyes and realized how solitary she had allowed it to become. She closed her eyes and savored anew the memory of a soft, slightly rounded body pressed to hers. Her thoughts flew to other embraces, long ago, from a body even more full, more voluptuous. A body that smelled like the Far East from a rich, heady perfume. A body that she had loved to distraction.

  Dorry turned from the window and studied the living room of her home. She enjoyed the monotone simplicity of this room, the richness of the brown on brown. The wood of the walls and floor had been salvaged from shipwrecks and polished to a smooth sheen by her paternal great-grandfather. He’d been a sailor and had built this home so his wife and six children could watch as he passed by on his way to Begaman Harbor, some thirty nautical miles north, when he was scheduled to come home. Those were big days in the Wood household. Grandma Ashton had beamed with joy as she told young Dorry about his homecomings when she was a girl. He was always laden with presents for his children, and their mother had always prepared a feast of good food to celebrate the event.

  Dorry walked to the long wooden bar that defined the eastern wall and poured a healthy two fingers of single-malt scotch. She carried it to the window and looked out at the traffic passing by on Route 17.

  They were all dead now. Her great-grandparents, grandparents and even parents. And now her only sister, taken by cancer two years ago. Dorry was truly alone, the last of her line.

  Alone.

  Old memories rose and conquered her. Memories of the woman she had loved so fiercely. Tears filled her eyes and then ran with frenzied haste down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. Her thoughts had drifted to joining her family. She could see herself walking along a white tunnel toward them. She saw her father’s jolly smile as he welcomed her. Her mother’s open arms, which would give her solace from all of life’s demands. She could be free from the guilt and sadness that defined her life these days. It would be such an easy thing to give up…to go join them all and become a trusting child again.

  “Ahhh, fuck no,” she said loudly. She scrubbed at her face with one hand as her other lifted the scotch to her lips. She drained the glass, welcoming the liquid heat as it burned her throat and blazed a noticeable path to her stomach. She was alive and kicking, and she would continue that way, thank you very much.

  Her gaze drifted toward where she had last seen the feisty redhead. She remembered everything about her. Was she a tourist? Had to be, or Dorry would know of her. Damn, but she had been pretty with those huge blue eyes and that gorgeous auburn hair. Dorry had always been a sucker for freckled redheads.

  She smiled as she let her imagination roam free. She could see them having coffee together after a night of passion…their gazes would meet and they would smile. Dorry started physically as another face appeared. A dear, beloved face that was lost to her now.

  She growled and moved to the bar where she slammed down the glass. It just wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair.

  She fished her cell phone from her pocket and called the one friend she had left. As she did most evenings.

  His voice on the other end of the line calmed her immediately and she knew again why she was alive and healthy. Why she persevered. It was for and because of him. He’d lost Dolly too, and he knew alone just as well as Dorry did.

  “Have you had dinner?” he asked, his gentle voice scolding; he knew she hadn’t eaten.

  Dorry laughed, and, carrying her friend’s voice with her, she moved down the long hall toward the kitchen.

  Chapter Three

  The old codger sidled up to the counter and, with a grunt, settled onto the stool next to her. She wasn’t worried; she knew the type. Widower at loose ends. A somewhat annoying bearer of local lore. Leaning forward, she blew on her coffee and took a cautious sip.

  “Hello there, young ’un,” he said as he perused the menu.

  “Hello, yourself. You doing all right this evening?” She studied him, her reporter mind filing away a description of his appearance: thick, short salt-and-pepper hair—more salt than pepper—a deeply lined, tanned face with perpetually squinting brown eyes and heavy, drooping lips. A typical middle-aged, paunchy body. He wore belted, low-slung jeans and a button-down western-style shirt.

  His grin showed relief and she saw some of his habitual loneliness ease up. “I’m finer than frog hair in the dead of summer,” he replied jovially.

  She was procrastinating, putting off her arrival at her parents’ house, and the Fetch It Diner was doing a good job of providing just the diversion she needed. And more time to ponder the latest burning
question: Why did coming home this way feel so much like failing? Here she was, thirty years old, old enough to be on her own and taking care of herself, back with her parents again.

  “You having the usual, Kent?” the waitress asked. She waited expectantly on the other side of the counter. Her tired air had weighed her down until her body had spun itself into a snug cocoon of indifference.

  “Yeah, Lisa, sounds good,” he replied.

  She hurried off and silence slammed heavy between them.

  “Marya Brock,” she said, extending her hand.

  He took it in his callused paw. “Kent Sayers.”

  “So, Kent, you a native?”

  “Yeah, I am. Born and raised just down the street a ways. I’m on my way out of town, though,” he said, adding a steady stream of sugar to the coffee Lisa slid in front of him. “I truck for Ferguson.”

  “Ahh.” Marya nodded slowly. Ferguson handled a large nationwide fleet of eighteen-wheelers. “Where you heading?”

  “Up 95. Maine, believe it or not. Got a load of Florida cypress I brung up yesterday.”

  She gave a low whistle. “Man, someone paid for that.”

  He laughed, the sound a low tone, throttled in his throat. “You got that right. It’s that pecky wood too, and that’s dear to everyone.”

  He sipped his coffee and sighed contentedly. “You from here?”

  “Nope, Seattle.”

  “Washington State? Now that’s a long haul. What brings you to the East Coast?”

  She hesitated. She wasn’t about to come out to this stranger, figuring the world he lived in wouldn’t even allow him to grasp the idea of a lesbian relationship, much less how painfully one could end.

  “Just needed a change, I guess,” she said finally. “My parents live here.”