A row of palmettos ran along the back of the house, the silvery ocean visible between their narrow trunks.
Joshua’s heart rammed. “This is it?”
“The Hall place,” Jimmy said.
Pulling his eyes away from the house, Joshua dug in his pocket for his wallet, but Jimmy waved his hand.
“No, no, I be doing you and you wife a favor. You go on in there and see her. She need you, yeah.”
“Thank you, Jimmy. I appreciate it.”
He climbed out of the truck and slung his bag over his shoulder. Jimmy honked, and grumbled away the way they had come.
For a moment, he stood at the edge of the driveway. As he gazed at the house, the hairs at the nape of his neck stood on end.
In his dream, he hadn’t seen the place from the front, but this seemed to be the same model—a white, two-story Cape Cod on the beach.
Would it have a patio and a balcony, too?
Slowly, he started down the driveway. He reached the front walk, went to climb the porch steps, and then paused.
On a clear, sunny day such as today, Rachel would not be inside. She would be on the balcony, taking in the panoramic view of the sea.
He walked around the side of the house, brushing drooping palmetto leaves out of his face.
At the rear corner, he looked up. He saw a patio, and above, the moss-braided balcony that he knew would be there.
Rachel was up there, too.
64
He climbed the balcony staircase.
She stood in the far corner, arms folded on the railing, contemplating the ocean. She wore a white velour jogging suit and sneakers. Her hair was tucked underneath a baseball cap.
He noticed a bulge on her hip, concealed by her jacket. A gun. Although she had retreated to her hideaway, she was still afraid Bates would find her. He couldn’t say that he blamed her.
She didn’t turn at his arrival. She continued to gaze at the water. She was so beautiful that his heartbeat stuttered, but in many ways, she was as mysterious as the vast sea that claimed her attention.
He lowered his bag to the floor. He had considered his opening line for this conversation over a hundred times, and now, when the moment had finally come, he didn’t know what to say.
She spoke first, without looking at him: “So. You found me.”
“It wasn’t easy.”
At last, she turned. She looked him up and down as if seeing him for the first time. Anguish flashed in her eyes.
“Oh, God, you’re hurt,” she said. She started to come toward him, and then stopped herself. “What happened?”
“Bates came to the house. We had a fight. I shot him with the gun you left for me—three times.”
“You shot him three times! What? Is he—”
“Don’t get excited. He’s still alive. He had on a bulletproof vest, I think. By the time I called the cops he had already gotten away.”
“Jesus.” She nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I-I never thought you could deal with him, Josh. That’s why I ran. I was afraid of what might happen to you if you had to face him.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Rachel. You think I’m a wimp?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that’s what you thought about me. I was a pushover. I avoided conflict. You didn’t think I could handle Bates.”
She shook her head. “You don’t know him, Josh.”
“You don’t know me, either!” He slammed his fist onto the railing, and the entire balcony creaked.
“Okay,” she said softly. Eyes wary, she edged into the corner as if to escape. “Calm down, please.”
She had a cornered animal look in her eyes that made him think of Bates, and how she must have often looked at him when he had abused her, and Joshua didn’t want her to ever look at him like that, as if fearful that he was going to raise his hand to strike her. That a display of anger was enough to send her cowering in fear was evidence of how deep her wounds ran.
He blew out a chestful of hot air, and unclenched his fist.
“Look,” he said. “Just because I’m pissed off doesn’t mean I’m going to hurt you, Rachel. I’m not him.”
“I know you aren’t.” But her eyes held a trace of anxiety.
“Part of my problem is that I don’t get angry often enough. I keep things bottled in. I need to learn how to express my feelings more openly, before they explode out of me.”
Nodding, she hugged herself.
“I’m not a violent person,” he said. “I would never treat you the way he did.”
“I know, baby, I know.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, which were starting to get teary.
“But I was willing to die for you, Rachel. I believe in our marriage vows. I would lay down my life for you... and when you stand here and tell me that you were afraid I wouldn’t stand up to Bates, that’s about the biggest insult you can give me.”
“I’m so sorry. I...I don’t know...”
“You said you ran because Bates escaped from prison, but I don’t think that’s the whole truth. There’s a lot more to it than that.”
She dropped her gaze. “Maybe you’re right.”
“You were running from me, too. From giving me the truth.”
“Do you hate me?” Her eyes searched his face, desperately. “I would understand if you do. After what I did to you...I deserve your hate.”
“I don’t hate you.” Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned against the railing. “I hate what you did to me, but I don’t hate you.”
“You should.”
“I’ve done some research. I know how Bates got thrown into prison for attacking you. The guy’s a certified nut job. Your leaving Chicago and changing your name is probably the only reason you’re still alive.”
“It was a living hell,” she said. Tears wove down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the heel of her hand. “Leaving behind my family, my friends, my life. All because of him. When I first moved to Atlanta, I would cry myself to sleep every night. Giving up everything...it didn’t seem worth it. But all that changed when I found you.” Through her tears, she managed a slight smile.
His throat got tight, and it was difficult to speak.
“If you felt that way about me, why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“Because I was scared! I was scared to tell anyone I met in Atlanta about Dexter. Dexter was a cop, well connected... he knew people everywhere, and you know how folks talk. I slip up and tell someone, and word begins to travel, and the next thing you know, as soon as he gets out of prison—or escapes, like he did—he’s coming to Atlanta and showing up at my front door. I couldn’t risk telling anyone.”
“I’m your husband, damn it! I deserved to know.”
“You did.” She blotted her eyes. “But I was scared to tell you, most of all.”
“Why?”
“Come on, baby. What would you have thought of me, knowing that I’d been married to a terrible, abusive asshole who was in prison because he’d tried to kill me? Would I have been as attractive to you? Would you have wanted to be with me, knowing that when Dexter was released, he was going to track me down and try to finish what he’d failed to do the first time?”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything with me. I would’ve wanted to be with you, regardless.”
“Now don’t you start lying to me.” She laughed hollowly. “Think if I’d shared all of these things with you after we’d been dating for a couple of months. You would’ve run for the hills.”
“Give me a little more credit.”
“And then you would’ve told your mother,” she said, rolling her eyes. “She would’ve talked so bad about me to you that the shit she says about me now would’ve been no comparison. She would’ve made it her mission to drive you away from me, and you might have given in and ended it.”
“You were assuming way too much, you know, way too much.”
“But on top of everything, you w
ere so... nice, so damned decent.” Her eyes were watering again. “I was coming out of a situation where I’d been married to the devil incarnate, and I mostly blamed myself for getting involved with him, for letting him do the things to me that he did. I honestly didn’t believe that I deserved to meet a good man. But there you were.” She smiled wanly. “I guess I wanted to be a woman who was worthy of you.”
“You wanted to be worthy of me?”
“I wanted to be worthy of you—not some scared woman on the run coming into your life with all this crazy-ass baggage.”
It was perhaps the most revealing answer he’d ever received from her. She wanted to be worthy of him? With her beauty, intelligence, and charm, he’d lain awake many nights worried that he didn’t deserve her, that her professed love for him was only a passing fad, that she would wake up one day and realize how thoroughly unremarkable he was—and would want out.
“We never see ourselves as others see us, baby,” she said. “You’re a good man, Joshua. Honest to a fault. Considerate. Gentle. Hardworking. Dependable. And need I say, fine.” She laughed lightly. “I almost couldn’t believe that we had a chance to build something together. I was scared to let my skeletons out of the closet and risk screwing it up.”
“So you lied,” he said. “About everything.”
She cringed as if slapped. “Not everything.”
He stared at her.
“But far too much, I admit,” she said.
He turned away. She hesitated, and then crossed the balcony and touched his arm. Her hand was warm, electric.
“I never lied about loving you.” Tears glimmered in her eyes. “I’m sorry for everything. I hope...I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me.”
He clasped his hands together. His heart felt as if it were on the verge of imploding.
“We have a lot more to talk about,” he said. “Bates told me some pretty shocking things.”
“About money,” she said.
“There’s that, and then this house—something I never knew anything about.”
“I’ll tell you everything. But will you be able to forgive me?”
He gazed out at the ocean, the waves gilded with sunlight. “Leave me alone out here for a little while.”
“Of course.” She squeezed his arm. “I’ll be inside.”
She went inside the house through a sliding glass door, her figure folding into the shadows within.
He remained on the balcony. He watched the waves crashing on the beach, the seagulls screeching overhead, the fleet of clouds gathering on the horizon. The gentle cycles of nature that would continue long after he and Rachel were gone and forgotten.
Their time on this world, together, was precious. He knew she loved him, and he loved her more than he’d ever dreamed of loving another person. Her dishonesty had wounded his heart, and it would take him time for their marriage to recover from the emotional damage, but his feelings for her, in light of the suffering he had undergone to find her again, had only deepened many fathoms. Like the sea before him.
This was what commitment was all about, he realized. Braving heartache and disappointment, in order to keep a union intact. It wasn’t easy, wasn’t painless, wasn’t convenient. Commitment was work.
And staying committed was a conscious choice.
He remained on the balcony for perhaps a half hour. Then, he picked up his bag, and went inside.
Entering the house via the balcony door placed Joshua in a bedroom. A large, cleanly swept space, it was sparsely furnished with only a queen-size bed, dresser, and a small bookcase packed with several old Bibles, as if Rachel had come there to do penance. Her suitcase lay open beside the bed, clothes with the tags still on them lying inside.
He entered the hallway. There were three more doors off the hall, but they were closed.
“Rachel?” he called.
“Downstairs,” she said. “In the kitchen.”
She sat at a dinette table, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. She had removed her cap, and from the strands of hair that stood in disarray, he knew she had been scratching her scalp, one of her nervous habits.
She looked up from the paper, smiled hesitantly. “Coffee?”
“Please, thanks.”
She went to the counter. As she was opening a cabinet to retrieve a cup, he came behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders. She flinched at his touch, as if expecting a blow, and then she relaxed, her body becoming pliable in his hands.
He gently turned her around. She looked up at him.
Hope and anxiety flickered alternately in her eyes.
“I forgive you,” he said.
She closed her eyes and released a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of her soul. “Thank you.”
“There’s no way I’m leaving you. You’re my wife, the mother of my child. I pledged to stay with you till death do us part, and I’m not changing my mind now. I hate what you did, but I love you.”
Tears streamed out of her eyes, rolled down her cheeks. “I love you, too.”
He flicked away her tears with his finger. “But you have to promise me something.”
“Anything,” she said.
“No more secrets between us.”
“No more. I promise.”
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She slid her hands across his back and nuzzled against his chest.
They stood in the kitchen, holding each other, for a long time.
Over coffee at the kitchen table, he said, “You know I’ve got a lot of questions.”
“I know you do.” She looked at him over the rim of her cup. “Like about this house, for example.”
“That’s a good place to start. Do you own this place?”
“The property’s been in my mother’s family for many, many generations. My aunt Betty placed it in a trust to avoid the hassles of probate...in the event of her death.”
“I heard about your aunt.” He reached for her hand. “I’m so sorry.”
Clenching his hand, she pulled in a shaky breath.
“Anyway, she designated a bank as the trustee, but I’m the only beneficiary. I’ve been responsible for taking care of things here for the past few years, ever since Aunt Betty has gotten up in age.”
“You never told me much about her. I knew you were close to her, but not much else.”
“She was like a mother to me.” She sighed heavily, closed her eyes.
“You don’t have to talk about it right now if you don’t want to.”
“I can’t talk about this house and not talk about Aunt Betty.” She looked around, a wistful smile surfacing through her grief. “I’ve got so many happy memories of this place. Growing up, I used to spend summers here with her—she was a teacher back home in Illinois and would come here for summer vacation. It was an annual thing we’d do, up until the time I graduated from high school.” She shrugged. “When I left Illinois and came to Georgia, to start fresh, I lived here for a few months, trying to get my head right again.”
“Does the name of this area, Hall Hammock, have something to do with your family?”
“Back in the 1870s, my great-great granddad, Frederick Hall, got together with two friends and bought this part of Hyde Island from a white plantation owner.” Her voice was rich with pride. “Seven hundred acres—a huge land purchase now, and practically unheard of for black people back then.”
“Right after the Civil War? Most definitely.”
“He and his buddies kept about a hundred acres apiece for themselves, and then divvied up the rest in tracts that they sold to other freed families who had lived as slaves on Hyde before the war. Free Geechee folk from all over the rest of the island poured into Hall Hammock. It was a new beginning in a place they could call their own.”
“That’s pretty amazing,” he said.
“We’ve lost some of the land to the state parks department—they operate a big marine institute on the North End— and a lot of people have moved o
ut, too, to live on the other side where they can have jobs, ’cause there aren’t many jobs here any more. But some of us are still here, hanging on to our roots.”
“How long has this house been standing? It doesn’t look that old.”
“An awful hurricane came through here in the early seventies. It destroyed a lot of homes, including ours. Aunt Betty and Uncle Sammy took the insurance money and built a new house, the one we’re sitting in now.”
A frightening thought occurred to him.
“Does Dexter know anything about this place?”
“Are you kidding? I never dared to tell him a word about it.”
“But you were married to him. How did you hide... well, never mind.”
“No, it’s a fair question. I kept it secret from Dexter because I realized on some level, even then, that he didn’t have my best interests at heart. This house has always been a very personal, important place for me and my family.”
“You never told me about it, either. You hinted about it, though, I recall.”
She touched his hand. “But I was planning to tell you, baby. I really was. But with Dexter being around...I was afraid. This is the one place in the world where I’ve always felt safe.”
“I can understand. You’ve got your own private hideaway here.”
“Now let me tell you about Dexter. If I’d told him about this house when we were married, he would have demanded that I try to take it out of trust and sell it. That man didn’t want me to have anything that I cherished—outside of him, that is.”
“Did you ever love him?”
“Never,” she said plainly. “But I was only twenty-three when we got married, naïve, and Dexter is ruthless about getting what he wants. He wanted a trophy wife, and he decided I was the one. When I met him, it was like getting swept away by a deadly tidal wave. We got married within three months of our first date.”
“Three months? We got engaged after six months, and some people told me that was too fast.”
“Every relationship is different. In the case of you and me, we’d developed so much chemistry that after a few months, it was a given that we were going to get married.”
“True,” he said. “Actually, by the third date, I had a pretty good idea.”
“With Dexter, though, it was like being forced into a corner. He started talking about marriage on the second date, and he went all out with the flowers, chocolates, jewelry, designer clothes, expensive dinners. He wanted to see me every single day. He would tell me, ‘My job is to make you marry me.’”
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