“Breakfast? You, Sam? You never eat breakfast,” Curtis admonished.
“Yeah, well, I’m not usually up this early,” I said with a sigh.
“Why up so early today?” asked Emily.
“Yeah, Sam, excellent question. We are all waiting to find out what has motivated you to grace us with your presence before noon,” Curtis added with a sarcastic smile.
I shot Curtis an annoyed glance.
“I had something I forgot to give Emily, Curtis. Thank you very much.”
Curtis returned my annoyance with playful contempt.
“Watch yourself there, pal. Don’t make me toss you out of here. The owner doesn’t like that sort of thing in here. And after your little display in here last night, I’m inclined to put your picture up behind the bar”—he gestured behind him—“‘Do Not Serve.’”
He laughed and went to help someone else with a mimosa. Emily joined him in the laugh and finished her coffee.
“No thanks, Sam, I have to get back. But I really enjoyed talking to you.”
She fumbled in her purse for a minute and handed me a card.
“Call me… okay?” She looked at me hopefully and smiled.
I told her I would and gave her a small smile. She continued to smile as she glanced back at me and seemed to just disappear out the door of the pub. I must have been staring at the empty door for a moment too long.
“Sam, knock it off; she’s gone, and you need to stay away from the likes of her,” Curtis offered.
“Why would you say something like that? A beautiful, interesting woman like that might give me a much-needed diversion in my life.” What a load of crap that was.
“There is something about her, Sam… something isn’t quite right there.”
“Curt, she lost her husband… she’s… we have some things in common.
Maybe she’s a little messed up. But she’s in a way better place than I am, I’ll tell you that much.”
Curtis looked at me and frowned.
“No, that’s not it.”
“Then what?”
“I”—he stammered a bit—“I don’t know, Sam, I don’t know. But you need to trust me on this. I’m a bartender; I know people, and she’s not good people.
Tear up that card; hope she never comes back here to stay. You should hope you never see her again. Something just isn’t right there. It’s like… she’s got some bad mojo going on. Come on, have I ever given you bad advice before? I mean besides that thing with the stripper and her sister.” He broke into a big smile.
He had a point. But really, the thing with the stripper and her sister wasn’t really bad advice. The problem there was the execution of the plan. It’s all a matter of perspective, really. Two hot girls, one guy, and four bottles of tequila.
What could go wrong?
The problem was, I didn’t know what Curtis was talking about regarding
Emily, so I nodded at him and told him I’d see him later and left the pub. I couldn’t stand for more conflict with Curtis… I need him on my side. And I know he was right to be worried about Emily. The last thing I need in my life right now is another woman. I really can’t afford to have him against me… not like Natalie. I already hurt her and I can’t stand it. I need them both; I just wish I could tell them. There’s just too much loss in my life right now—I really need people around, even if no one wants to be around me.
March 11th
She was staring off into nothing. Her formerly beautiful blonde hair was unkempt and matted to her head as if it hadn’t seen a brush in days. Her normally electric blue eyes were staring lifelessly out into the great nothingness of the wall. She stared off like she was waiting for something that wasn’t there, but would be any moment now. Then, suddenly, she began to turn her head in a slow, deliberate movement. She stopped and fixed her gaze on me, and all at once, her eyes were alive. They were deep and pleading, begging me… but for what? What did she want? Slowly her lips began to move… to say something, but I couldn’t hear what. I tried to speak, to tell her I couldn’t hear her, but nothing came out. My mouth wouldn’t move. Her lips were moving, forming a word over and over again… What was it?
Lady
I awoke suddenly, jumping up off the couch in my office. The pain in my head struck me hard in the temple. I got up and went to the bar to pour myself a drink. But there was a book sitting in front of Jack. I pushed it aside and grabbed Jack and a glass. Then I stopped cold.
I turned my head back to the book and stared. I could hear the phone ringing, but the outline of the book and the name were blindingly bright in my view. The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James. That was Sandy’s favorite book. And as much as the ringing phone beckoned me and as much as my head hurt, all I could focus on was that book. I picked up the book and stared at the well-worn cover, still wondering what Sandy was trying to tell me. I opened the book and flipped through the pages quickly and learned nothing new. It was just a dream.
I poured myself that drink and tried to forget about the book and Sandy.
March 12th
When entire days just disappear like yesterday, it’s hard to emerge and rejoin the world. There are messages waiting and people looking for me. They all want to know where I was, why they couldn’t get me. The people closest to me know why, but they just hide their true feelings. Some people get angry or upset, some are concerned and have prejudged that I should be “seeing” someone for help. It is all so much fun. The biggest problem is that I just don’t care enough to be polite to them most of the time. They leave messages urging me to call them—they need an approval on an order or a bill is overdue or something like that. And in the great big scheme of things, I just don’t care.
I finally surfaced from my office and snuck through the inn to the cottage so I could grab a shower and get cleaned up. As I turned the corner near the lobby, Natalie was waiting for me.
“Sam, I wanted to apologize for the way I’ve been acting. I should be more sensitive to what you are going through. I’m sorry.”
I stared for a minute… you know, deer in the headlights look… it actually took me a minute to remember our last tense exchange.
“Natalie, it’s fine; it’s okay. I’m sorry, too—let’s just forget about it.”
I tried to push past her, but she wouldn’t let me pass.
“No, Sam, it’s not alright. I’m your friend, end of story. If you fired me right here and right now, I’d still want to go have dinner with you.” She stopped to breathe deeply, and all I could do was repeat my previous deer in the headlights expression.
“Sam, I want you to know I’m sorry for how I behaved.”
I recovered myself somewhat and smiled at her.
“Nat, really, it’s okay. I just need some more time—I need to get my head on.” Had she just told me she wanted to have dinner with me? As I pondered this and watched her offer a small smile, I noticed a car in front of the inn. It was a black Lincoln Town Car, just sitting there idling.
“Nat, is that a guest’s car?”
She turned. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Do you know if it’s been here for long? It shouldn’t just be sitting out there with the engine running like that.”
“I saw it pull up about ten minutes ago, and it’s been sitting there ever since. It was here earlier this morning but when I checked and it was gone; I just figured they were lost. Now it’s back.”
I stepped around Natalie and made my way toward the door. Just as I reached to push the door open, the driver threw it in drive, and the car squealed out of the circular driveway and out of sight. I stood at the door staring as it disappeared. Natalie came up behind me. “What’s going on, Sam?”
“I don’t know, Nat, but something about that car makes me feel uneasy.
Isn’t that the same car that was parked across the street last week?”
“Ummm, well, I don’t know. It could be, but black Lincolns are a dime a dozen around here. I think you’re just being p
aranoid.”
“I thought it was weed that made you paranoid, not whiskey.” I tried a lame joke.
But she was right—we were ten minutes from the retiree capital of the
Northeast. There were more retirement communities in Ocean County, NJ, than in any other county north of Florida, and the old folks sure love their Lincolns and
Cadillacs. But it wasn’t Lincolns and Cadillacs; it was a black Lincoln Town Car.
“Nat, I don’t know—I feel like something is going on, and I’m the one left out in the cold. I’m having strange dreams, drunk blondes are throwing themselves at me, there are notes left in my office, and I’m hallucinating.” I started to rub my forehead but noticed Natalie looking at me strangely.
“Blondes, Sam?”
With that I had to laugh out loud. “Yeah, Nat… blondes.”
I had made a note of the Lincoln’s license plate number as it tore away from the inn. I went back to my office and was about to pick up the phone to call the police when I decided to pick up Portrait of a Lady again. Something about that book… I’d missed something. So I opened it again and started reading:
Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea.
I noticed the words “afternoon tea” had been underlined with pencil—did that mean something? Sandy had taken to going to the Country Cottage Tea Room in Beachwood for tea in the months before her death. She would go there to meet with her book club. Could this be something? Portrait of a Lady was the last book the book club was reading before she died. I had no idea, but I really hate reading, so I put the book down.
Feeling like I had learned something but not sure what it was, I picked up the phone and called Detective Sloane at the Point Pleasant Police Department.
“Sloane.” Her voice was brisk and tough.
“Becky, long time no talk,” I volleyed, trying to judge her mood. Becky was an old ex-girlfriend, and she was none too happy when Sandy and I got married.
She actually had a patrolman give our limo a ticket for illegally parking in front of
Saint Peters.
“Sam Shepard.” She sighed wearily. “What can I do for you on this fine day?” she asked without a hint of helpfulness.
“Becky, I’m actually calling on some official business but hoping you could do an old friend a favor?” I asked hopefully.
“Well, if I recall correctly, it is you who owe me a favor. But go ahead, shoot—what do you need?” Her tone softened noticeably.
“Becky, there’s been a suspicious-looking car around the inn lately. It was just here and I got the plates. I hoped maybe you could run it for me? See if anything interesting turns up?”
“I guess so—that’s easy enough that I would do it even for you. Why are
you so interested in a black Lincoln? It’s not like it’s a bunch of rowdy kids in a
Camaro.”
“I don’t know. I’ve had an uneasy feeling lately, and this black Lincoln hanging around makes me feel like someone is watching me. Or maybe casing the inn. I’m worried someone might be casing the place, waiting to rip me off,” I lied.
“Black Lincoln? Really? How can you be sure it’s the same one? There are dozens around here.” I could hear her smiling in disbelief at my seemingly ridiculous request.
“I know, I know, but I’m sure it’s the same one.” As I gave her the plate number, I felt even more certain that something was going on here, and this car had something to do with it. Becky told me she’d run a check on the plates and call me when she had something.
March 13th
My eyes fluttered open to see the moonlight shining brightly over the room. It was like someone was shining a spotlight into my bedroom. I had actually made it to my bed tonight and was only a little buzzed. I checked the clock and it was 2:55. I sat up, scratched my head, and looked around. I decided to get up and get a drink of water. I walked from the bathroom back to the bed; I sat back down, swung my legs into bed, said, “Good night, Sandy,” and closed my eyes.
My eyes shot open and I couldn’t move. I knew what I had seen. There was no denying it, and it chilled me to the bone. I had just seen Sandy lying in bed next to me.
She is lying right there with her back to me, I thought, her blonde hair splayed over her pillow and moonlight streaking over her purple nightgown. I was now lying with my back to her, and I didn’t know what to do. Only a few inches from me was my dead wife.
After about thirty seconds, I realized I wasn’t breathing. I took in a quick breath and slowly turned my head and shoulders to look, but she wasn’t there. I sat up quickly, my breath was coming hard now and sweat was beading on my forehead. My head was now clear. It’s amazing what kind of a buzz kill seeing your dead wife materialize next to you is.
I got up and went into the kitchen, looking for a glass and something to drink. The odd thing is that I don’t keep any alcohol in the cottage. But I looked for it anyway. After ten minutes of searching for something I knew wasn’t there, I gave up. I headed back to the bedroom and threw on a shirt to head over to the inn to grab Jack from my office.
I stepped out the cottage to walk across the grass and tripped over something. What the hell was that? Just a hat—someone must have dropped it, but normally there are lights on in the garden lawn area at night. Why weren’t they on now? That was very strange. I stopped and looked around; only the lights from the street dimly lit the grass.
I started back towards the inn when a glare caught my eye. There it was on the other side of the street: A black Lincoln Town Car. I stood there and stared at it for maybe a second too long. I started to feel like my staring was obvious, so I continued walking into the inn. Probably just a car parked on the street. It didn’t really mean anything.
But then that parked car revved its engine and pulled quickly away. I was feeling less and less paranoid and more like I was right. Someone was watching me.
A half an hour and a bottle of Jack later, I was passed out on the couch in my office. At least I wouldn’t run into anyone dead while I was passed out.
March 14th
I was up and in the car before I thought about what I was doing or what time it was. Traveling down route 9, my mind raced through the past couple of days… from the book to the sightings of Sandy and the Lincoln. It all had to mean something. I pulled into the WaWa on the corner in the middle of Toms River and stared out into the water beyond the marina. My back started to send shots of pain up my spine. I sipped my cup of coffee, took some painkillers, and watched someone working on the outboard engine of their fishing boat.
At this spot, the river began to open up to its widest point before it spilled out into Barnegat Bay and then flowed into the Atlantic. The sun had come up and was shimmering on the river. It was still cold out, but it was a beautiful sight. Springtime was on its way. I stood there, staring, not really sure why I was here. Then I hopped back in the Chevelle and fired up the engine, staring out the windshield, knowing exactly where I was going.
Ten minutes later, I pulled onto the concrete squares of the old formation blocks and killed the engine. I guess I could have pulled forward into the parking lot, but I always wanted to park on the blocks. So I did—and enjoyed it thoroughly. I know; it was kind of a stupid, rebellious thing. But I deserved it for having spent so much time with my face pressed against that cold concrete doing push-ups. I got out of the Chevelle and walked around the side of Farragut Hall, past where the Capstan once stood, and looked out over the waterfront where Sandy and I first met.
I was 15 years old and a sophomore second-year cadet trying to learn how to sail. The only problem was, I seemed to like to be in the water more than on the water. And given that it was late in October, in the water was not somewhere you wanted to be. I was making a weak attempt at bringing the boat into the dock and not really having much success. I threw a line in, trying to hook it around the pier, when she came up to the dock and gr
abbed the line. I looked up and saw her blonde hair blowing in her face, and she pulled me in. And I was hooked on her as much as my boat was to the dock.
She was the dock master’s daughter, so I quickly learned how to sail—and sail well. I spent every minute I could down at the waterfront; Sandy and I became very close very quickly. Before I knew it, the waterfront was closed for the winter and she was my date at the Winter Semi-Formal dance. I remember it like yesterday: She wore a black gown that was off the shoulder and enhanced her blossoming breasts with shimmering sequins. It was on those docks, on that night that we sat on the deck of an old boat, staring out at the river with the reflection of the harvest moon on the water. As I leaned in and kissed her lips softly for the very first time, I could see that same image of the moon in her blue eyes. I’ll never forget that sight as long as I live.
I turned around and looked at Farragut Hall, windows boarded up, porch rotting and in paint peeling from the wood around the windows. I walked up the steps and pushed aside the yellow “DO NOT CROSS” warning tape that failed miserably in its mission to keep me off the decrepit porch. I walked around to the football field side of the porch and stared off at what was once the site of many sunny Saturday games, and some not-so-sunny ones. So many days of running around the track with a Springfield .22 caliber rifle raised over my head, Sandy and her friends watching from behind the gates and giggling at us poor losers. Suddenly, there was a loud bang from inside the building, and it made me jump almost out of my shoes. What was that, and where did it come from?
There couldn’t be anyone inside, could there? The windows were all boarded up, doors chained and padlocked shut, but I was sure I’d heard something.
I walked to the side door and tried to look in the small windowpanes that weren’t boarded up, but couldn’t see anything inside. I pulled on the door; it was locked tight. I quickly ran around to the main doors of the building and pulled them, too, but they were locked as well as chained. So I turned around, walked down the front steps of the porch, and turned to face the building. The windows on the second floor were not boarded as the first floor’s were, and many of them were broken. It seemed possible that someone could have found their way up onto the roof of the porch and made their way into the building through one of the windows.
Sands of Time Page 5