Raquel Byrnes

by Whispers on Shadow Bay

  “Did you see that?” I said, hand to my chest.

  “What?” He looked past me, his jaw set.

  “I thought I saw…something.” Head pounding with a headache, I rubbed my temple.

  “I found this in the car.” He held out a sweater, and I turned to slip arms in the sleeves. “With the weather turning, I thought you might be cold.”

  “Thank you.” I shook my head. “You didn’t see anything?”

  “Come inside, Rosetta.” The teasing smile no longer at his lips, he extended his hand. “It’s not safe out here once it starts to get dark.”

  “But…there’s someone out there.” I glanced behind us as he pulled me into the woods.

  The dark look on Simon’s face made my stomach flop. “There always is.”

  3

  The wind whirled and whipped past as we walked in silence through the woods. I listened to the creaks and groans of the branches overhead and pulled on a long lock of hair. A nervous habit since childhood, I twirled and knotted my curls with my fingers without thinking.

  Simon strode next to me, his long legs encased in dark charcoal slacks, hands in his pockets.

  I rushed to keep up.

  His eyes remained downcast, as if he was lost in thought.

  Thunder rumbled over the canopy of trees like an angry animal prowling the dark.

  Along our path, a familiar bloom caught my eye, and I scooped to pick one. Downward white petals surrounded a bushy yellow middle. Like a ballet dancer in long tulle, I spun the flower on its stem as we walked. I lifted it to my nose, breathed in the delicate scent, and ran a petal along my cheek.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” I whispered.

  As if pulled back to the present from far away, Simon looked over at me, a bemused expression on his face.

  “What?”

  “I was talking to the zinnia.” I smiled and held the flower up. “Zinnia aceresa, it’s a desert species. They don’t grow in places like this.”

  “You seem to be holding proof to the contrary,” Simon said and climbed over a downed log. He turned, offered his hand, and helped me over it. Warm and strong, my heart paced up as he enclosed my hand in his. “Are you a botanist?”

  “Uh, yes,” I chuckled. “But I also grew up near a botanical garden. I spent hours there sketching and walking. I have dozens of nature journals filled with pressed flowers.” I held up the bloom, made it spin, the petals flaring out. “These little flowers used to remind me of prancing fairies.”

  A smile tugged at his full lips, and he took the bloom and smelled it. “They don’t belong here, you say?”

  “No.” I watched him as we strode, his eyes out of focus, far away again.

  We crested a rise, and the gables of Shadow Bay Hall came into view.

  “Why do you suppose that is?” Stopping at the top of the hill, he turned and handed the flower back to me. “Why don’t they belong?”

  I glanced at the hulking home. Backlit by the flashes in the slate clouds, it sat cast in shadows. Mrs. Tuttle waited on the porch, her hands on her hips.

  “I supposed it’s considered too delicate to survive a place like this,” I said quietly.

  “I’ve found that beautiful and delicate don’t always mean weak,” he answered and held my gaze. “Don’t you agree?”

  “I…” He stood too close to me, and I felt off balance, thrown by his nearness. The blue eyes had a ring of gold around the pupil. They reminded me of sunflowers against a summer sky. “I guess.”

  Mrs. Tuttle opened the front door and the creaking pulled his gaze from mine. He stepped away, taking my breath with him.

  “I nearly called out the air brigade,” Mrs. Tuttle said. Her gaze rested on me for a second, a twitch at her right eye. “You might have let me know you weren’t in residence, Ms. Ryan. I made breakfast.”

  “Oh.” I looked at her, caught off guard. “You did?”

  “Rosetta was making her escape, but you know Noble Island, not much goes to plan here.” Simon walked inside and I followed, sliding past Mrs. Tuttle’s glare. “Is my father up?”

  “I was just about to check on him,” Mrs. Tuttle answered. “I have to speak with you, Simon.”

  Turning on the first step, his hand on the bannister, Simon shrugged. “So talk.”

  “It’s about”—her gaze flicked in my direction—”Well, it’s about Carl.”

  “Ah, the elusive man-nurse, Carl,” Simon intoned. “Is he not coming?”

  “I got a call from the caregiver agency,” Mrs. Tuttle said with exasperated look. “Carl didn’t get an offer from us. It went to Ms. Ryan. Since she didn’t call us, and we therefore weren’t made aware of the error—”

  “Are you saying this is my fault?” I looked at her, shocked.

  Of course, it was my fault. Had I called instead of launching across two states without checking, Mrs. Tuttle might have known about the mix-up days ago. And told me not to come.

  She glanced back at Simon, ignoring my question. “As a result, Carl took a job elsewhere.”

  “Have the agency send out another batch of applications.” Simon drummed his fingers on the rail, impatient. “My father needs someone soon.”

  “Yes, they said they’ll send them, but…when will you find time to go through them?” She checked her wristwatch. “Aren’t you leaving for Seattle?”

  “The academy can reschedule the appointment. For what they charge, they’ll accommodate us. With the storm closing, charters out of here will be cancelled, anyway.”

  “Not to mention the drive is blocked,” Mrs. Tuttle said. “O’Shay had to walk the length of it to bring me the mail. Any luck with Myer’s truck?”

  “Seems Rosetta’s stunt driving did a number on both my car and hers. It’ll be a day or two before the drive is cleared.” Simon’s gaze rested on me. “She’ll probably have to stay another night. Dr. Fliven didn’t clear her yet.”

  I felt heat rush to my cheeks. I’d crashed his car, blocked his driveway, and now messed up some sort of appointment. I’d ruined their chances at getting Nurse Carl. My hand went to the bandage on my head, and I realized they had a doctor come out to see me as well. My stomach flopped. I’d been nothing but trouble and bluster since my arrival. Suddenly, babbling about zinnias and fairies with Simon seemed lame.

  Mrs. Tuttle turned to me, her lips pursed, but a heavy thud, followed by the crash of shattering glass from the floor above, sent us all running.

  Simon pushed through the double doors to the master suite, with Mrs. Tuttle and me just behind him.

  “Father,” Simon shouted.

  Davenport Hale flailed on his four-poster bed, his face red and tense as he jerked his arms wildly. He looked as if he was trying to bat something away.

  “What’s the matter?” Simon shouted. He ran to his father, and I followed.

  Davenport’s red face, distended neck muscles, and wheezing made my heart race.

  “He’s having an asthma attack,” I said and scanned the medicine bottles and boxes on the nightstand. “Where’s his inhaler?”

  “I don’t know.” Simon tried to catch his father’s arms, worry wrinkling his brow. “He’s never done this before. Father!”

  Mrs. Tuttle wrung her hands, her face knotted with stress. “It’s…It’s supposed to be there.”

  Shaking my head, I pawed through the collection of meds but didn’t find a rescue inhaler. I pulled open the drawers of the nightstand, ran to the other side of the bed, and checked the other one. Nothing. Davenport’s eyes bulged, his breathing labored. I turned to Mrs. Tuttle.

  “Where’s my wooden box?”

  “What?” She licked her lips, eyes never leaving Davenport. “What box?”

  I rounded the foot of the bed, got in front of her, breaking her gaze from Davenport. “My wooden box,” I shouted. “Where?”

  “It’s on the table at the foot of the stairs.” She looked at me like I was crazy.

  I ran past her, down the stairs, and spot
ted my box. Flipping the lid up, I ran my finger along the labels on the small glass bottles nestled together. Finding what I needed, I grabbed it, unscrewing the top as I took the stairs two at a time. Back in the room, Davenport’s flailing was more frantic, and his wheezing ragged. I pushed past Mrs. Tuttle and shoved the bottle into Simon’s hand.

  “Hold this.” I climbed next to Davenport on the bed and rubbed the drops between my palms. “You should call 9-1-1.”

  Simon looked at the bottle and then back at me with a furrowed brow. “The phones are down. The storm...”

  “Mr. Davenport,” I said in a voice I hoped was soothing and not laced with panic. “I have something that might help, but I need you to stop flailing.”

  Davenport’s wide eyes found mine. He blinked and tried to say something.

  “Shhh,” I held my hands up in front of him. “I need you to calm down, OK?”

  I held his face, my palms on either of his jowly cheeks. Whispering softly, I tried to hold his gaze with mine. “Stop gasping, Mr. Hale.” I patted his cheeks, put some solution on his chest. “This is eucalyptus oil in tincture. It’s what is in that salve you rub on when you have a cold. It’s what’s in cough drops. You know what I’m talking about?”

  He nodded slightly, his hands going to my arms, wrapping around my wrists.

  “He wants you to stop,” Mrs. Tuttle blurted.

  Simon put his hand up. “Don’t, Tuttle.”

  Davenport’s grip loosened. I held my hands up and passed them across his nose, letting the tincture’s scent waft over him.

  “This is ancient medicine,” I intoned, watching his face, seeing his panic abate. “But it’s medicine, nonetheless. The more you calm down, the deeper you’ll breathe. Take a breath slowly with me, Mr. Hale. In through your nose.” I pulled my lips in, letting my nostrils flare as I took in a slow deliberate breath.

  Davenport’s eyes never left mine. His hands tightened, but he inhaled slowly, the tension releasing the lines under his eyes as the oxygen filled his lungs.

  “That’s good.” I nodded and smiled. “Let’s do another one, OK?”

  He nodded, and we breathed in together.

  Davenport’s face lost its strained pull, his body relaxed, and his gaze went to Simon, relief pulling a slight smile across his lips. “I…” He gasped, like he’d just run a marathon. “I think it’s…”

  “Don’t talk too much.”

  His arms fell. He looked exhausted. “Where is your inhaler, Mr. Hale?”

  He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked around. “I think…I dropped it behind the bed.”

  Simon bent down, searched the rug under the headboard, and came up with the yellow plastic inhaler. Handing it to me, he gave me a nervous smile. “That was close.”

  I nodded, handed the inhaler to Davenport, and helped him take a couple of puffs from it before setting it on his nightstand.

  “That little tincture trick only works so much,” I said to Davenport. “Just helps to stave off panic during an attack. What you really need is more than one of these around. Do you have others?”

  The reaction to the inhaler medicine was almost immediate. Davenport took in a deeper breath, and his color faded from frantic red to pink.

  “No. Just the one,” he managed.

  “Well, you should have…whoever…order more.” I moved to get off the bed, but he reached out for me, his hand rough on my skin.

  “Who are you?” Davenport breathed. He ran his gaze over my face. “What…”

  “Rosetta Ryan,” I said and smiled. I patted his hand. “I nearly killed your son last night with my car. Ran over some bushes—”

  “Oh, yes,” Davenport said and looked at Mrs. Tuttle. “The one who isn’t Carl.”

  “I’ve called the agency, Mr. Hale,” Mrs. Tuttle said tersely. “Carl isn’t available any longer, but we’ll find someone”—she looked at me and then back at Hale—“someone suitable soon.”

  My face flared hot. “I seem to have thrown a monkey wrench into things around here. I’m so sorry.” I bit my lip. “You need to rest, though, Mr. Hale.”

  “My dear, you very clearly belong here,” Davenport said releasing my hand. He motioned to Mrs. Tuttle. “Call the agency.”

  I looked at Simon. He regarded his father with worry. Glancing at me, he mouthed, “Thank you.”

  “But, Mr. Hale,” Mrs. Tuttle whined. “She wasn’t qualified to—”

  “Don’t speak to me about qualified,” Davenport shouted and collapsed with a wracking cough. “You just stood there while I nearly suffocated in front of you.”

  She took a step back, hands balling at her sides, and glared at me. “Yes, Mr. Hale.”

  Turning to Simon, Davenport reached out and put a hand on his son’s forearm. “I want her to stay.”

  Simon nodded, his gaze going to me. “Then we’ll ask her to stay, Father.”

  Mrs. Tuttle cleared her throat. She wouldn’t look at me. “Her things are already on the third floor. I’ll have—”

  “Too far,” Davenport broke in. “I want her close. How will she hear me from way up there?”

  “I put her in the blue and cream room last night after she—”

  “Yes, that’s fine.” Davenport’s brusque voice held fatigue. He looked at Mrs. Tuttle. “Call the agency and tell them we’re hiring Ms. Ryan.”

  Mrs. Tuttle nodded, sent a searing glare my way, then turned and left without another word.

  “Are you sure?” I looked at him and then Simon. “Thank you, really, thank you.”

  “Well, you’re no Carl…” Simon teased, his eyes dancing. “But what Davenport Hale wants, he gets.”

  I followed Simon into the hall outside Davenport’s room. He turned to me, leaning against the wall with his arms in his pockets. A wave of pale hair fell into his eyes as he spoke.

  “I’ll get Dr. Fliven up here as soon as I can. Thanks for what you did in there, Rosetta.”

  I nodded and wiped sweaty palms down my pants. A fresh wave of menthol vapor released from the oil and floated up. “I’m glad I could help.”

  “You did more than help. You saved his life. I was so afraid he’d have a heart attack with all that struggling. The corners of his mouth were blue.” Simon ran a hand over his mouth as if rubbing away the terrible words. “I thought…”

  “Panic can do harsh things to your body,” I said. “He really needs more than one inhaler. They should be around the house in case he needs one.”

  “My father has never had an attack like this. We should be prepared in case it happens again. You’re right. I’ll call Dr. Fliven to order more and see what we should do next.”

  “Well, good.” I didn’t want him to walk away, but couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Simon regarded me in silence. I felt pinned in place by his gaze.

  “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” His voice was almost a whisper. “I thought when I saw you—”

  “What, beach bunny?” I stepped back and leaned on the wall opposite him. “Having a tan doesn’t lower your IQ.”

  “First impressions are seldom the whole story.” He stepped forward, the heat rolling off him in waves. He reached up as if to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, but stopped. “I apologize for jumping to conclusions about you. I truly am grateful, Rosetta.”

  “OK.” I swallowed hard. “I mean, you’re welcome.”

  “I’m glad you’re staying after all.” Simon’s voice, low and deep, sent my pulse racing.

  “Me, too.” Why did he stand so close, and why did my entire being react despite trying to appear calm? A splinter of worry needled my gut. So soon after having my heart broken, it was unwise to even allow an interest in Simon. He was my employer.

  A shadow crossed his face, and he leaned against the wall again, his gaze going to my lips.

  “Is there something wrong?” I asked, worried I had dirt on my face.

  “No, nothing,” Simon said as he took a deep breath and let it out
slowly. “I better get going.”

  “OK…”

  He headed down the hall. The tension in his broad shoulders and back was evident. He glanced back once, his expression unreadable, and then he was gone.

  I felt a tug in my chest at this sudden turn of events. I had a job after all. A place to stay. Glancing back at the heavy door to Davenport’s room, I swallowed hard.

  Why then, did I feel so unsettled?

  4

  Simon

  The small generator that powered his office hummed to life and Simon’s gaze went to the flickering lamp on his desk. Noble Island’s electrical grid struggled to keep up with the demands of the growing population and needed an upgrade. Simon rubbed his face, tired. He needed to meet with the island’s mayor to discuss plans soon. As one of the island’s founding families, the Hales held a permanent chair on the governing board.

  A series of bleeps signaled an incoming fax, and Simon turned in his office chair to face it. The information he’d requested took longer than anticipated. When Tuttle hired the nurse, Carl, Simon had done an extensive background check. Bringing someone to live in the home brought risks, and he was determined to keep those he loved safe.

  The file the employment agency sent over on Rosetta an hour ago held nothing more than her name and work history, which he was surprised to see, was almost non-existent save for some internships at the University of California in San Diego. Just out of college, she would count her job at Shadow Bay Hall as her first. He gathered the papers from the tray and flipped through the wider search he’d asked his lawyer to conduct this morning. Simon leaned back in his chair, feet on his desk, and read with growing interest.

  Rosetta Ryan did not have a work history because she’d not needed one. The only child of Wall Street mogul, Stratham Ryan, Rosetta’s major life events routinely made the society page of West Coast publications. Her engagement to an oil heir, Michael Whitman, even made the New York papers due to her fiancé’s ties to East Coast society. Rosetta had lived the privileged and pampered life others only dreamt of.

  But Simon discovered the reason for such an incredible change in her circumstances. When the FCC investigated her father and his company for false reports and manipulation of their hedge-fund stockholders, it seemed like the powerhouse Stratham would avoid prosecution.