The sound echoed through the cavern-like halls. The ease and efficiency in which I silenced him, made me squeal – a third echo down the hall. I jumped into the elevator just as the doors were shutting. Jonathan, stunned and angry, didn’t follow.
My few victorious moments in the elevator were shattered. First, Yellow played. I ignored Sam’s phone call, adding to my already impressive guilt list. And stupid Jonathan was waiting for me on the first floor, slightly out of breath from taking the stairs. Where were the stairs, I wondered, briefly.
“This isn’t over,” he warned me. “You at least owe me a few minutes of your precious time.”
“What for?” I ordered, folding my arms across my chest and brushing past him anyway. “I can’t live my life with you constantly holding my past over my head.” Being in the lobby of the hotel, where strange eyes were upon us, gave me more confidence while simultaneously softening Jonathan’s surety. “And I shouldn’t have to,” I continued heading toward the front doors.
But, my feet stopped when Jonathan Dekker said, “Delilah, I’m sorry. Sorry for everything.” I turned around and faced him – about ten feet apart. “Please, forgive me. I took advantage of you back then and I was stupid enough to try it again. I know it’s too late for us. I screwed up. But, I need you to know that I’m sorry.”
My left eyebrow perked up on my forehead. Was he telling the truth? Was it just another ploy? I couldn’t tell. So, I hesitated.
“I’d hate for us to part on bad terms. Let’s just have dinner,” he compromised, “no strings attached. We can catch up. You won’t believe what some of your kids are up to these days.”
As soon as he lured me with my former students, I knew better than to accept his invitation. I was certain that there was a lot he could tell me, and I wanted so badly to know. Hearing about how well your former students were doing was like chocolate sprinkles on a cupcake. But, the fact that he dangled the sprinkles so shamelessly, knowing full well how much I loved my students, I knew it was no good.
“I can’t, Jonathan,” I decided finally, “but I appreciate the apology.”
“Bitch,” he mumbled under his breath, not so quietly. “Fine. Have it your way. Won’t have dinner with me? Then I’ll have lunch with Clark Duffy, as planned, tomorrow.”
“I knew you were full of shit,” I shook my head. “Do whatever you want. Just leave me the hell alone.”
I stormed out of the Peacock. I reached the Jeep and broke down crying. I should have been proud of myself. I’d stood up to him, even managed two nice slaps across his stupid face, but I felt worse than ever. My past would be dumped over Tipee like an overturned garbage truck. Fired for accusing innocent students of cheating, which cost at least one of them a full scholarship. Slept with the boss to cover up hitting one of them, another blemish in my file that was thankfully swept under the rug, thanks to money and ass-kissing and the administration’s hope not to further tarnish the school. No book party would save me from that kind of press.
Funnily enough, the idea that worried me most of all, as I drove back to Beach Read and my phone started playing Yellow again, wasn’t the press or the store or being run out of town by islanders branding pitchforks and torches. It was telling Sam. I wished I could flatten myself against the scenery and disappear.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Hide-n-Seek
In spite of our ten-year age difference and his readiness to hang me out to dry in his newspaper, my Uncle Clark Duffy was the closest thing I had to a brother. Before I finished my first cup of coffee, Clark leaned against the counter at Beach Read. His handsome face was accented by his devilish smile, and he reminded me of a nerdy Ryan Reynolds, always up to something. Typically, he was. This time, he was. He knew exactly why I’d asked him to come see me, and he couldn’t have been more delighted with his upcoming lunch date. Yes, he confirmed that Jonathan Dekker had contacted him. Yes, they were meeting for lunch. And, yes, I was as good as an ogre in this town.
Still, Clark and I had a history of aligning. During hide-n-seek games in the Duffy house, Clark always looked out for me, and helped me into some of his best hiding places. When I lived in Durham, Clark was the only member of my extended family to visit. We’d enjoyed several nights out clubbing and whether it was warding off gross suitors or making sure I didn’t drink too much (or helping me out when I did), Clark was always there. Once, he even held my hair as I threw up after too much tequila, and he never even teased me about it later. That’s family.
Or at least, I hoped some of that sentiment might hold true.
“You’ll turn your paper into a tabloid,” I warned carefully, “if you print anything that man says. He’s just a bitter ex-boyfriend-”
“Maybe, but I’ll be the judge on whether or not his information is newsworthy,” Clark returned. “Must be important for him to come all the way here to have lunch with me.”
I huffed. “He didn’t come for you. He came here for me, and when I didn’t deliver what he wanted, he threatened me with your lunch date.”
“Sounds like a real prince,” Clark winced, “and this was the guy you were so ga-ga about, huh?”
“I admit, I’m a terrible judge of character,” I threw back. “I thought he was a good guy, thought my Duffy family loved me, thought the world was my oyster. I’m an idiot. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re about to subject yourself and your readers to nothing but vicious gossip.”
“Gossip sells. So, what he’s going to tell me, it’s all untrue?”
I cocked my head. “I’m sure he’ll leave out anything that incriminates himself,” I tried.
“But, what he has to say about you? That part?”
“Clark, it’s the past,” I whined.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said, heading for the door. “I’ll let you know how it goes.” I nervously fiddled with my starfish necklace, thinking again about calling Sam, if only just to hear the reassuring sound of his voice, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I called him last night after I got back home and regained my composure. Slapping ex-boyfriends takes a lot out of a girl. Sam had asked me where I’d been, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about Jonathan. I love Delilah, but it’s hard to move forward when you have to keep looking back. I didn’t want to do anything to add to his frustrations, though I would need to tell him before Clark printed the news in the paper.
Clark returned to Beach Read earlier than I expected. I’d been putting up some framed pictures, Agatha Christie, prints of her original book covers, images of Poirot and Miss Marple. I made a weak attempt at drowning my angst with work. Seeing Clark brought me down off the ladder, almost falling.
“So, what’s it going to be, Clark?” I asked, heart thudding. “Are you going to drive the nail into my coffin?”
“I would,” he started, “if I had any nails. Dekker didn’t show.”
“Didn’t show?”
“Didn’t show. I called, but only got his voicemail,” Clark explained. “You didn’t murder him, did you?”
With a roll of my eyes, I returned, “I could have, but no. Not this time.”
Clark smiled. “Then, you’re safe, for now.”
Safe for the time being, surely, but I didn’t trust it. Why didn’t Jonathan show? I’d denied him, slapped him, and made him angry by not falling for his ploys. Surely, I’d instigated his need for revenge.
As soon as Henry returned from combing the beaches and visiting old buddies around the island, I took off – back to the Peacock. I had to know. I raced through the lobby, let myself get all worked up in the elevator, and pounded on the door to room 304. No answer. Pounded again. No answer.
“He checked out,” a voice informed from down the dimly lit hallway. I jumped. Chris Kayne strolled down the hallway.
“Checked out?” I repeated dumbly.
He held up his phone and started reading, “Room 304. Jonathan Dekker. Reserved for three nights. Checked out late last night. How strange! He was barely
here eight hours.”
“You have all that information on your phone?” I marveled.
Chris nodded. “As long as I am in the building, I can access the hotel’s records. I like to know how many guests are here and in which rooms-”
“Why?”
He smiled widely, “Because collecting information is what I do. 304 is small, mediocre view. I’d say your friend was trying to be economical.”
“He’s not my friend,” I spat back.
Chris smiled. “Then you must be glad he’s gone.”
“Puzzled, but yes. I’m glad.”
Chris nodded, and looked down at his feet, as if being shy. He tucked his phone back in his pocket, opposite of the notebook on the other side, and led me to the elevator. He pushed the down button, and asked, “Join me for a sweet tea on the deck?” I agreed, though I hadn’t intended for a social call.
Jonathan Dekker had high-tailed it out of town after our confrontation. That alone was good reason to relax. Wasn’t it? Perhaps my two slaps on his cheek had been enough to send him racing back home with his tail between his legs. Perhaps he’d seen reason and realized that he had nothing to gain by coming forward to ruin my life here. These were good suppositions, but why did I feel like something wasn’t right?
Chris ordered sweet iced teas for us, and led me to a shaded spot at the corner of the front porch – the only corner without a view of the water. Rather, we looked out to the parking lot, the sandy stretch of thistles and shrubs, and further to the woods – mostly gnarly and twisted live oaks that had been battered down by ocean winds.
“I love those trees,” Chris said, noticing that I was staring at them. “Live oaks. I love the way they’ve grown bent away from the ocean.”
“Did you know that live oaks are called that because they don’t have a dead season, like other trees do. They stay green all winter, and obviously they can grow anywhere. They don’t mind the salt air or the spray that comes off the ocean. Live oaks are symbols of strength, which makes sense considering that their wood was used on hulls of warships. Sorry, I’m rambling.”
Chris laughed, and said, “Ramble away. I enjoy it.”
“In that case, I’ll just add that they can live to be hundreds, even a thousand years old,” I went on, “and they’re pretty good for climbing, if you like that sort of thing.”
“I have climbed many of those trees, as a matter of fact,” he reported. “They were great for exploring, collecting samples, hiding.”
“Hiding? I bet this whole property was great for hiding,” I returned. “You must’ve had some pretty mean games of hide-n-seek when you were young.”
He shrugged. “I played a few times with bored staffers, but they always gave up looking after a while. I knew all the best places. The Peacock offers an array of excellent places to hide, but back then the lighthouse was my favorite.”
Hide. That’s what the ghost woman said to me. Maybe that’s what she was trying to do, maybe that’s what she’s doing now, if she exists. The breezes kicked up around us. We’re all just one pain away from lunacy. Maybe my subconscious created the woman to tell me to hide from the pain I’d been storing inside, saving up like a hoarder. I’d just run out of the Peacock’s ballroom to escape from my aunts, and in the midst of a panic attack, the image that I saw wasn’t warning me but rather giving me advice. Hide. Hide.
Before, the idea of conjuring up an imaginary woman seemed as ridiculous as pigs flying. Now, it was the only thing that made sense.
“So, this Jonathan Dekker,” Chris interrupted my thoughts, “he isn’t a friend, so what is he?”
“Old boyfriend. We were together a couple of years,” I explained, “though his idea of being together was drastically different than mine.”
“Then, what was he doing here? Trying to win you back?”
I shrugged, not willing to explain the whole story. “In a manner of speaking, but I’ve moved on.”
“With the cop.”
“With the cop.”
“He hovers like a cop,” Chris told me. He leaned over the deck’s railing, resting his elbows there.
“Any news about Rachel? Has she given you permission to talk about science again?” I questioned.
Chris shrugged. “It’s not going to work out between us. Her idea of being together is drastically different than mine and if I can’t be myself, what’s the point?”
I smirked. “Sorry.”
“I’m not,” he decided. “It’s just another experiment that didn’t live up to my hypothesis.”
I winced and gave him a sorry expression. “Hope this doesn’t tarnish your visit or your view of Duffys or women in general.”
He chuckled. “Are you kidding? The Duffys could bestow a thousand disappointments on me, and I’d still have a high opinion of the family, thanks to you and your aunt. You’re their redemption.”
A smile draped over my face. “Then they might be in trouble, but it’s still a sweet thing to say, Chris.”
“It’s only the truth,” he replied. “Honestly, I wasn’t looking forward to coming home. My father is a difficult man. Once I left, I stayed away. He put on that grand party for me, but hasn’t sat down and had one conversation with me this entire time. His way of dealing with me or with anything is to throw money at it, if he can. I’ve hardly even seen him. But, then there was you, the woman who lost her shoe, and I remembered why I liked it here.”
“Well, I can’t speak for the rest of the family, and I’m sure they wouldn’t want me to,” I smiled, “but I’m glad you came home. If you hadn’t, we may never have met and I wouldn’t have had the chance to hear all your great Beach Read stories. Who knows what’ll happen to Beach Read after October.”
His eyebrow perked up on his forehead. “Did I detect a defeatist tone? You aren’t throwing in the towel, are you?”
“Did you know that ‘throwing in the towel’ is a boxing expression from the 18th century?” I chimed up. “So many idioms we use in everyday language originate with sports. Ever notice? When a boxer tosses the towel, it means he concedes the fight.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I’m not giving up,” I breathed out heavily, “but I am so tired of fighting and it’s all I seem to do.”
A chill spread over me like a lightning flash. Without my consent, my head took me back to my attack, when the shadowed man threatened me with the knife, and I almost willed him to go ahead and do it. Off to the right, near the trail that led to the cape, a golf cart emerged. Wake drove. The back was loaded with shovels, rakes, clippers, and other landscaping gear, which made the vehicle rattle annoyingly as he sped along. My heart started racing. The way Wake had grabbed my bad arm that day I’d snooped at the lighthouse was exactly the same movement the shadowed man made against me the night at the pier.
“I shouldn’t be here,” I sputtered out, “I should’ve listened to Sam in the first place. ’Don’t go back to the Peacock,’ he said and here I’ve gone twice in two days.”
“Delilah, you don’t have to tell him,” Chris suggested, ingeniously. Wake and his golf cart disappeared around the back of the hotel, without noticing us, and I took a few deep breaths. Feeling so out-of-control made me sick to my stomach. Would it be like this every time I spotted someone suspicious? Managing my water exposure is semi-doable, but my triggers were spreading, just like my nightmares. I couldn’t live like this forever.
“That’s part of my problem,” I huffed. “I don’t tell him things, and I should.” I set my empty glass down on the table behind us, and was set to go, anxious to get away from this place and Wake and the guilt I felt for disregarding Sam’s request not to put myself in danger again.
But, then I stopped, mid-deck, and turned around. I was sick of hiding. I marched to the opposite end of the wrap-around deck, the place where I’d come the night of the party. Wake’s cart was parked at the other end. I could see its tail peeking out from the opposite side, where a staircase lined the co
rner.
“Where do the stairs go? I didn’t notice them the night of the party,” I remarked.
“They go up to each floor’s deck and then to a widow’s peak,” Chris explained. “It’s the fire escape.”
I huffed. Though the stairs provided an alternative route to the other floors of the building, they couldn’t have been used for the redhead. To get to them, one would have to cross all the picture windows of the ballroom.
I took the few stairs to the left, the steps I’d fallen down the night of the party, and stood in the same place where I’d held the redheaded woman in my arms. Hands on hips, I glanced around. I had no idea what I was looking for… just something. Anything.
Chris, who watched patiently from the railing of the deck, said, “The police went over all this.”
“I know.” Away from the building, where the redhead emerged, marked a straight line to the lighthouse. I turned back around and faced the building. A metal object jutted out from behind the stairs. The under-deck was lined with latticework, but here, at the stairs, a latch had been broken to a small doorway. There was a crawlspace under the deck. I leaned inside. Sand, dirt, weeds, and who knows how many spiders and other things lurked in there, but the space stretched from one side of the house to the other.
“See anything?” Chris asked.
“Possibilities,” I answered. For a crawl space, it wasn’t dark or scary. It was three feet high and light filtered in between the deck slats. Creepy critters might be an issue, but I had to check it out anyway.
On hands and knees, I made my way through. The ground had been disrupted recently. Weeds were bent. The sand was disheveled. Though that could have easily been caused by a raccoon or squirrel (or something else I couldn’t think about), I had to believe that this had been the redhead’s hiding place.
Chapter Forty
Seek and Find
In the Sermon on the Mount, nothing is mentioned about hiding and seeking, but rather seeking and finding. Jesus tells us that along with asking and knocking, we should be seeking and in doing so, we will find. Now, what we will find, He doesn’t specify, an idea that reminds me a little of fishing. You might catch a fish, but it could end up being an eel, a crab, a tire, a boot, or nothing at all. Even no answer is an answer, right? So, this hopeful charge to seek doesn’t necessarily end with us getting what we’re after. Rather, we get something.
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