Stranger on the Shore (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4)

by Marilyn Brant

  He stopped at the next corner and waited as I glanced down the side street in search of my Civic. “I appreciate that you took my advice that day at the beach. That you bought something you needed at my shop. And that you’ve been kind to my sister. She seems very open but—actually—she doesn’t take easily to many people,” he said. “I like seeing her happy.”

  “Joy is wonderful,” I told him with feeling, finally spotting my car and pointing to it. He followed me as I turned to walk toward it. “And so are her friends. I’ve never met people so warm and welcoming.”

  He assessed me silently as we sidled up to my car. “She’ll be thrilled to hear that you think so.” He paused. “I know people are supposed to say nice things about their sisters but, in Joy’s case, I happen to mean them. You won’t find a more kindhearted person on the planet. Or a more artistically talented one.”

  This was refreshing to my ears. Incredible, really. To be around a pair of siblings who loved and respected each other this much. Who genuinely seemed to want to build each other up in the eyes of the world. I loved my sister but—let’s face it—I didn’t always like her. And vice versa.

  I nodded at the sketchpad he was carrying. “Joy’s pretty impressed with your artistic talents as well,” I told him. “And so am I. I truly enjoyed looking at your paintings today in several of the shops, and your sister is awfully proud of your work. I could tell by the way she talked about you.”

  I noticed Gil swallowing, and I saw an expression I couldn’t identify flashing across his face. At first I thought it was pleasure, but I soon realized it was more than that. It was gratitude.

  “Well, thanks,” he said. “I like to paint seascapes with some surrealistic images. It’s relaxing for me.”

  “How many have you painted?” I asked him. “Just the ones at the shops I visited today—yours, your sister’s, and The Golden Gecko? Or are there a lot more?”

  He laughed. That deep, throaty laugh I remembered from our meeting at the beach. “Oh, I’ve got a bunch. If you’re coming to the Craft Festival this weekend, you won’t be able to escape seeing them. I’ll have a box of my painted greeting cards in the same booth as Joy and her bracelets. And she’ll outsell me a hundred to one.” He arched a dark eyebrow. “So, if you were only being nice by complimenting my artwork, you’re stuck pretending to love it. At least through the weekend.”

  I laughed in return—feeling younger, suddenly, as if two decades had just melted away and I was a nineteen-year-old girl again. My daughter’s age. Talking on a hot summer night to the charming lifeguard at the community pool. Daydreaming secretly about what it might be like to date someone smart and funny like him...someone so different from Donny...even though I was already a married woman back then and not free to act on those fantasies. A window to a world of brand-new possibilities had been flung open for me on that long-ago night. But, after my quick peek out into that exotic landscape, the blinds were snapped shut again.

  Then, I remembered something rather significant.

  I was no longer that young girl. I was also no longer married. I was free to fantasize about any foreign world I wished to imagine. Without embarrassment. Without restrictions. Even one inhabited by The King, who was apparently alive and well and living in Sarasota.

  “I’ll definitely be seeing you and your paintings this weekend,” I informed him, proud of how confident I sounded. How calm and sure. “And I promise to disguise how dreadful I think your artwork is.” I feigned a bored shrug. “I mean, I’ll tell everyone I meet what a talentless hack you are, of course, but only behind your back. To your face, I’ll be sure to fake it really well.”

  He grinned at my obvious sarcasm. “I guess I deserved that. I should have left it at ‘thanks,’ shouldn’t I?”

  I grinned back at him. “Yes,” I said, unlocking my car. “And thank you, Gil, for the coolest towel I’ve ever owned and for walking me here. I appreciate it.” I slipped into the front seat and he shut the door for me. A gentleman, just as Joy had said.

  We waved good night and I drove—no, I floated—away. Back to the mausoleum of silence that was bungalow #26, which, for the first time since I’d arrived in Sarasota, I didn’t mind at all.

  ~*~

  Gil strode back to his car and sat in it, mentally painting a portrait.

  Honey-blond hair with streaks of light chestnut—wavy, mid-length, braided hastily. The flyaway strands that escaped were like wispy baby hair. Uncurled ribbons.

  Creamy skin, merely a shade darker than it had been when they met. Sun-kissed on her cheeks, perhaps, but still a Snow White level of fair.

  Hazel irises with curious tints of gold, green, and cinnamon. Smile lines at the outer corners of her eyes, but faint, as if not often used.

  Lips...falling somewhere between dusky rose and cerise. Soft and sans lipstick. Who’d kissed her last?

  She had a grown-up daughter, he reminded himself, which she seemed too young to have. And an ex-husband, which always equaled baggage. But then, who at thirty-five or forty didn’t have a shitload of that, whether they’d been married before or not?

  He wasn’t pleased to admit this to himself, but he liked her, dammit. A lot. And the strength of his attraction surprised him, especially given their whole twenty or maybe thirty minutes of acquaintanceship. Being around her had even brought out a few college-boy feelings in him. Carter would be so proud. But Marianna wasn’t quite as transient a visitor as he’d initially thought. She’d be in Sarasota for much of the summer.

  Huh. Didn’t know if he should be more excited or worried by this.

  Though Joy liked her—that much was obvious. For his sister’s sake, he hoped Marianna might stay even a little longer than expected. For his own sake, well...it was far too early to say.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Speak of the devil,” he said to his sister, grinning into the receiver. Although, really, in Joy’s case it was more like “speak of the angel.” He hadn’t been exaggerating one iota when he told Marianna what a good person his sister was.

  “You were talking about me to Marianna?” Joy asked, unable to disguise her delight. “Is she still there? Are you two going out? Should I hang up?”

  He snickered. “You and Ma use slightly different tactics but, really, you are the same sneaky animal.”

  There was an offended huff on the other end of the line. “You offered to walk her to her car, Gil. I didn’t suggest it. And, anyway, the difference between Ma and me is that I know when I’m right.”

  At that, he burst out laughing. “I stand corrected, Sis. You are far, far worse than even our mother. And, no, Marianna is not still here, and she and I are not going out.” At least not tonight, he added to himself. Hey, he wouldn’t rule it out. “But she’s very nice, and she said several sweet things about you. I’m glad you have a new friend.”

  “You two share a color vibration,” Joy said smugly. “You should know about it. The two of you go together like peanut butter and cucumbers.”

  To anyone else, this would sound incredibly unappetizing, but Gil knew his sister well. It was one of her favorite food combinations.

  “Enough with the matchmaking, Veggie Girl. I’ve had my dose for the day already.” He relayed all the gory details about their mother’s event up in Tampa that afternoon. “Next time, she can pick on you. Try to set you up with her chiropractor or her lawn guy or whatever barista made her latté that morning.”

  Joy groaned. “You think she hasn’t tried that already? But don’t worry. I’ll escort her to whatever event comes up next. I just...I just wanted to say thumbs-up, Gil. I think the summer is going to be more fun now—for both of us—with Marianna here. Don’t you?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. Your instincts are usually on target.” He paused. “Except when it comes to food.”

  His sister laughed, just as he’d hoped. It always made his heart dance a little whenever he managed that. She’d lived in sadness for too long, and he’d never tire o
f seeing her basking in the light of levity and acceptance. It was good for her.

  As for him? Well, life had just thrown something intense and interesting his way, but he’d reserve judgment on whether it was good or bad for him until he saw what happened next.

  ~*~

  I was not prepared for the blinking red light of the unit’s landline indicating a message awaited me. Nor was I expecting the intermittent beeps of my cell phone, which I’d left to charge on the kitchen counter, telling me there were voicemails on that, too.

  I checked the number of messages. Five unanswered calls on the landline. Three on the cell. My first impulse was, naturally, one of fear: Who died? Or was it just Donny again with more threats?

  I listened to the first landline message and discovered it was my daughter, Kathryn. Parental concern immediately intensified. Oh, no. What could be wrong?

  “Hi, Mom. It’s about noon. I need to talk with you. Can you give me a call right away? I’m at home until three.”

  She didn’t sound panicked, just in need of something. My anxiety lessened a tiny bit.

  The next message played. Kathryn again. “Did you get my call, Mom? It’s two forty-five.”

  Then, “Mom, it’s six o’clock and I haven’t heard from you yet. I’m at work now. Call me here. Please.”

  Two more calls on the landline, one at seven thirty and one at eight fifteen—both hang-ups.

  On the cell, all three were from Kathryn, and the last one, time-stamped at 9:27, simply had my daughter asking in a shrill voice, “Where. Are. You?”

  I checked my watch. It was already after ten p.m., but Kathryn and I were in the same time zone, so I had no doubt my little night owl would still be awake.

  I dialed Kathryn’s cell phone and she answered on the first ring. “Jesus, Mom, where have you been?”

  But I didn’t answer this. I had questions of my own. “Kathryn, honey, what’s wrong? Are you hurt? In trouble?” Oh, God. Hopefully nothing serious...

  “No, Mom, I’m just mad.” She huffed on the line, so much like my sister that it scared me a little. Once upon a time, Kathryn had been a shy and quiet girl. Now it was like having Ellen II around to railroad me all over again.

  “About what?” I asked. Although I had to admit to feeling a tiny bit guilty for having left my cell phone at the bungalow, I hadn’t expected to be gone nearly that long and, obviously, I hadn’t expected a crisis to pop up on a random Thursday while I was out window shopping and buying fudge and water shoes. To discover my daughter was, thankfully, only mad, and not hurt or in trouble, took away some of my initial panic, but it also made me feel a bolt of resentment at having my unusually good mood shattered.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours about this, and you’ve been ignoring my calls.”

  “Kathryn,” I said, exhaling very slowly, “I was not ignoring you. I was just out for the day and—”

  “Whatever,” she interrupted. “The problem is with you and Dad. He’s so pissed off with you that he’s called me three times this week just to rant, and he almost never calls. He kept me on the phone for an hour this morning, asking me questions about the sale of the house. Why did you have to argue with him again? I thought you said all of that was over. You promised me it would be over.”

  The accusation in her voice hung in the airwaves between us as I tried to process this latest betrayal by my ex. As always, when it came to the harebrained things Donny did, I saw shades of scarlet. I had to blink all of the red away and swallow twice before I could trust myself to open my mouth and begin to construct some kind of an answer.

  “Sweetheart,” I began, “what did he want to know about the house?”

  My daughter forced out another puff of air. “Oh, like how much it sold for, exactly, and what extravagant things you’ve already purchased with the cash, and some stuff about my scholarship. I really don’t know many of the house details, and I told him that. I just—I just don’t understand why you two can’t get along. And share things. Can’t you just give him some money from the sale? He said he’d help you if you were desperate and in need.”

  This felt like being stabbed. Damn him.

  I’d spent nearly two decades being the responsible parent. Being the one who set limits on our daughter’s behavior and her bedtimes. Who saved for her braces and took her to orthodontist appointments. Who had to say “no” to getting the puppy we couldn’t afford to take care of and “yes” to a reasonable curfew in high school. Who signed her permission slips and went to parent-teacher conferences. I was the one who, on principle, wouldn’t badmouth the girl’s father—just because he was her dad—even after our divorce. Even when I knew, from his infrequent phone calls to our daughter, that he’d never offer me the same courtesy.

  This, however, was an example of Donny going way too far. I always figured Kathryn understood the truth without my having to say anything specific. That she knew he couldn’t be trusted. He’d left both of us after all. Maybe I should have been clearer, though. Maybe my days of trying to protect his image with our daughter were over.

  Well, actually, there was no maybe about it.

  I took a deep breath. “Sweetie, do you remember when you turned twelve and you got that locket from Aunt Ellen and Uncle Jared? It was your golden birthday, so they gave you a golden heart locket on a gold chain?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Remember how a few months later it disappeared? At first, I thought you’d lost it at school, but you insisted you had it when you came home on Friday afternoon. That you took it off in your room and put it in your jewelry box as always, but you couldn’t find it when you wanted to wear it the next week.”

  “Yeah, I remember cleaning my room really well, but it never turned up.” She sighed. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, dreading having to tell my still innocent daughter the rest of this particular story. “It was a 24-carat gold locket and chain, Kathryn. About a week or so after you told me it was missing, I was doing the laundry and I found the receipt from the pawn shop in your dad’s jeans pocket.” I paused to let this understanding sink in to my daughter’s mind, and to let myself have a moment to swallow back the bitterness of that discovery over seven years ago. It wasn’t just Donny’s theft of the necklace that made me realize it was the beginning of the end for us. It was also the lack of respect toward his daughter, his wife, and even his in-laws that this act demonstrated, underscoring our marital problems. Not to mention his stunning lack of remorse when I confronted him about it.

  “She’s a kid,” he’d said dismissively, even though I’d been in tears over the incident. “She won’t miss it, and we need to put food on the table.” Only it wasn’t food he’d used the money for. It was drink. Specifically, his drinks—and Vince Jordy’s—at Pritchett’s Pub, a place an hour away from Mirabelle Harbor, near the dog-racing tracks.

  “That...that can’t be true,” Kathryn whispered.

  “I wish it weren’t,” I told her. “But I swear it is. I even kept the slip. I could prove it to you.” The necklace was gone when I went to the pawn shop to try to find it. Not that it would’ve mattered. The damage had already been done as far as I was concerned. But I’d hoped, even then, that I could save Kathryn from this pain of his betrayal. “I’ve reached my limit with your dad’s irresponsible behavior. With trying to cover for him when he does something foolish or underhanded. I’m sorry to have to say this to you, but your necklace was just the tip of the iceberg. I’m not giving him any more chances.”

  There was silence on the line for a full fifteen seconds and no further comments from my daughter on the subject—at least not at the moment. But I knew her. Knew she needed time to assimilate this information. To remember all the other incidents from her childhood that didn’t quite make sense before and to wonder if there had been anything else her father might have lied to her about. No doubt, Kathryn would think of several possible occasions. More questions would invari
ably come later.

  In an attempt to lighten the mood, I inquired about her job at the campus store selling books and sweatshirts to students during the summer school session. (Answer: “Fine.”)

  I then asked about her college friends in general and, specifically, about her two roommates. (Answer: “They’re good.”)

  Finally, I asked about her boyfriend Sid, a young man Kathryn had been dating for five or six months. Exclusively. (Answer: “He’s really great. He’s just so wonderful to be around. And smart. And funny.”) Kathryn all but gushed, speaking of the boy using multiple—albeit short—sentences. This could only mean one thing: They were desperately in love and sleeping together.

  Heaven help us all.

  But, of course, I could hardly give my daughter decent relationship advice, and I’d already mentioned a few times that I thought she and Sid were getting serious way too fast. I didn’t dare bring it up again. From what I could sense, my baby girl was already teetering on the brink of cutting her annoying mom out of her life as it was, and Donny the Idiot wasn’t helping matters. I didn’t want to push my daughter away or close down the lines of communication, however thin. I didn’t want Kathryn to rebel against her parents like I’d once rebelled against mine. Look where that led?

  “I love you, Kathryn,” I said before we hung up.

  And I enjoyed the minor victory of hearing my daughter reply, “Yeah. You, too, Mom,” before clicking off.

  But it was hard to know how Kathryn would react to this new information about her dad once she’d had a chance to think deeply about it. I suspected I’d still be blamed for it in some way, at least in part. For not being able to stop him from doing dishonorable things. For not being a stronger, more assertive woman. For not leaving him—and for letting him, instead, leave us. For not telling Kathryn a few truths about him much sooner.