Destiny Bay

by Sarah Abbot

  Abby nodded, as if she had a clue who on earth Uncle Ned and Aunty Jane were. “Would you care for a drink?” she asked, carafe poised over the glass in front of Ronnie.

  Ronnie chuckled delightedly. “Ah, you’ll fit in ’round here just fine, Abby. I’ll let Chef know you like the salmon. According to him, it’s ‘Fit for ze gods, cheri! Ze mere fact zat I offer zis ambrosia to mademoiselle and not ze Pope has assured me a place in purgatory!’”

  Abby grinned. “He’s probably right, you know.”

  “Aye, that’s true. I must say, it’s a relief to find you so friendly, especially with you being a TV personality and all. None of us knew quite what to expect.”

  “None of us?”

  “Oh, the town,” she said, as if there were nothing out of the ordinary in being expected by an entire town. She selected a breadstick and bit off a healthy portion. “Now, here’s what I don’t get: why did you come anyway? Oh, I’ve heard the rumors. You’re here to find a long-lost family heirloom; you’re writing a book; you’re the artist’s love child…”

  Abby felt in sudden danger of choking, despite the fact that she hadn’t placed a single thing in her mouth. “Love child?”

  “That’s right,” Ronnie said, leaning forward just a bit. “So, is it true?”

  “Uh, no.” Abby dabbed her mouth. “I’m a Lancaster, through and through.”

  “Ah, that’s too bad. My Auntie Jane’s put money on it, along with half the folks down at the pub.”

  As no words seemed forthcoming, Abby simply blinked.

  “Tell me about the long-lost family heirloom angle,” she managed at last.

  “Oh, that. Well, folks say that your mother lost a valuable piece of jewelry. Some say it was stolen, others say it was simply misplaced. Heaven knows if you lost a piece of jewelry in the woods by the cottage, you’d never find it again.”

  “Do you know what kind of jewelry it was?”

  Ronnie shrugged. “Necklace, perhaps? It would be easy to snag the chain, aye?

  “Hmm.” Abby made a mental note to jot down this bit of information. “It would be easy, I guess.”

  “Will you look at that?” Ronnie asked, nodding toward the window. “Look who’s standin’ out there, just glaring into my restaurant?”

  Abby turned. As if drawn by a magnetic force, her eyes fell upon those of the man on the boat. Her jaw dropped, breath caught in her throat. Quickly, she turned back to the table, hoping her face was not as flaming red as it felt.

  “Ryan Brannigan,” Ronnie announced. “Resident heartbreaker and finest guitar player this side of I-don’t-know-where.”

  “I see.”

  “Steel yourself, Abby. Mark my words: one look at that man and you’ll be smitten.”

  “I don’t ‘smite’ easily,” she said, recalling the fierce anger she’d seen in those eyes. She shivered despite herself.

  “Oh, there’s nothing easy about Ryan Brannigan.” Ronnie sipped her wine, looked thoughtfully into the glass. “I learned that the hard way when I tried getting over him.”

  Abby thought it best to steer the conversation in another, less sensitive direction. “Brannigan…is he any relation to Cora Brannigan?”

  “He’s her son. You’ll meet him soon enough, I’m guessing.”

  “Her son?” That boorish man was Cora’s son? A few curious patrons turned at Abby’s outburst. She smiled nervously, shrinking in her seat. “Well,” she said quietly, “considering that I rented Artist’s Cottage from his mother, I daresay you’re right.” Though the realization was anything but welcome.

  Ronnie sidled her chair closer to Abby, the chains on her army boots rattling. “He’s considered quite a catch around these parts, aye? He runs himself a right fine group of businesses, too. Cottage rentals, a fishing fleet. Spends most of his time at Rum Runner’s, though—that’s the pub he opened when he first moved back here.”

  Abby’s appetite suddenly turned. She couldn’t even look at her salmon, let alone eat it. “Sounds as if you’re the local expert on the man,” she said, her lips tight.

  “I like to think so. I’m hoping I still have a chance with him, but if I bat my lashes much more, my eyelids will wind up in traction.”

  “I wouldn’t waste your time.” Abby couldn’t help the acid tone that crept into her voice. “There’s something seriously wrong with him.”

  “Why on earth would you say that?” Ronnie asked peevishly. “You don’t even know him!”

  “I may not know him, but I’ve encountered him twice now since I’ve arrived, and both times he was positively emanating hostility. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was following me.”

  “Maybe he’s here to see me. Or maybe he’s here to eat? Did that ever occur to you?”

  Abby bit her lip. She’d said too much and she’d offended Ronnie. She forced a chuckle. “Of course, you’re right. How silly of me! Now, why don’t you tell me about this building?” she asked a tad too brightly. “I’m guessing it was a ship, at one time.”

  “It was.” Ronnie leaned in, her anger slowly dissipating. “This building was constructed from the most notorious sailing ship ever to run aground in the history of Destiny Bay, and that’s saying something, believe you me.

  “We’ve a right proper fleet of war ships, galleons—even a ghost ship or two—just off the coast, there,” she said, tossing her head in the vague direction of the ocean. “Saint Cecelia’s Shoal is a wicked dangerous place for a ship. Been known as the graveyard of the Atlantic for well over two hundred years.”

  “Really?” Abby said, suddenly conscious that she, too, had leaned in closer.

  “Really,” Ronnie said, eyes narrowing just enough to suggest something sinister. “The ship that was used to build this place was called the Defiant. A pirate ship, she was, and filled to the brim with the worst sort of fiends you could imagine.”

  “You’ve told this story before, haven’t you?” Abby asked, grinning in relief when she noticed that Ryan had gone.

  “Told it? M’dear, folks here have been raised on it. Mainlanders may have their boogey-man,” she said, voice barely over a whisper, “but we’ve got our Black Jack.”

  Abby lurched in her chair as another thunderous round of thumps sounded outside the front door. “And what’s the stomping all about?”

  “Oh, that. Well, that’s a tradition that’s been around since long before you and I were born. You might have noticed that trees are a rare commodity around here, so lumber’s precious scarce. Folks ’round here have been salvaging the hulks of scuttled ships for lumber since settling this place.”

  “Priceless,” Abby said, shaking her head.

  “Free, actually. Just how we like it,” she commented, spearing a morsel of Abby’s salmon and popping it into her mouth—a gesture that seemed entirely appropriate, considering…well, considering everything.

  “The Defiant, as I’ve told you, was a pirate ship. The crew members survived, and wreaked the worst kind of havoc imaginable all over the island before they were stopped and hanged.”

  “How awful,” Abby said, secretly intrigued by this tidbit of Destiny Bay history.

  “As you can imagine, our upstanding forefathers didn’t particularly want to use the wicked pirate lumber, but we’re a thrifty sort. Unfortunately, we’re superstitious, too.

  “To make a long story short, the good folks of Destiny Bay threw their principles to the wind, salvaged every scrap they could, and settled their unease by cursing the captain of the Defiant whenever they crossed the threshold.” Ronnie shook her head, defeated. “I lose more doorsteps that way.”

  It was too much. Abby gaped at her hostess. “Tell me, please, how on earth has this place stayed a secret for so long?”

  “Haven’t you figured that out?” Ronnie asked, grinning. “We’re descended from pirates, m’dear. There’s nothing a pirate does better than guard his treasure.”

  “That’s an amazing story.”

  “And true, every word,�
�� said Ronnie. “There’s even a festival to celebrate our pirate ancestors—Marauder’s Return. It’s coming up in a couple of weeks.”

  “Can I ask you just one more thing?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I understand your parents owned this place before you did. Do you think they’d be willing to speak with me about my mother, Celeste Rutherford? She worked here years ago, and—”

  “Ah, so that’s why you’re here!” Ronnie leaned back in her seat, frowning slightly. “I’ll ask, sure, but I can pretty much guarantee they’ll say no. It’s the way of the island to let sleeping dogs lie. Way back, after the Defiant, there was a phrase coined that says: to speak it is to call it. It’s how people deal with things they can’t undo—they pretend it never happened, and they do their best to prevent it happening again.”

  “I don’t understand,” Abby said, trying to keep the irritation from her voice. “What harm would it do to talk to me about my own mother?”

  Ronnie’s gaze was sympathetic. “None that I can see, but as I don’t know anything about her, I can’t help you.” She patted Abby’s hand. “I’ll ask. Could be that I’m wrong.”

  Again, the needling thought that this was not going to be as easy as she’d expected occurred to Abby. She rose and gathered her purse. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you for a delicious meal and the delightful chat.”

  “Oh, it was my pleasure, Abby.”

  Abby tossed her sweater over her shoulders. “Where should I pay for my meal?”

  “Pay?” Ronnie gaped at her. “Why, it’s on the house, Abby. We’re friends, now.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t…you paid extra for that salmon!”

  “I insist.” Ronnie snatched a bill from her pocket— presumably Abby’s—and tore it to bits.

  Abby frowned at the tattered shreds of paper that littered the floor. “Would you settle for a fat tip?”

  Ronnie’s answering smile was angelic. “Oh, only if you think it necessary.”

  Abby dug into her purse, laughing, and pulled out several generous bills.

  Ronnie tucked them into her pocket, eyes a-glitter. “I’ll see you again soon, now, will I? I’m hosting a small gathering tomorrow night that I call the Chef’s Table. We’ll close up shop and eat ’til our buttons pop. Would you like to come?”

  “It sounds great!” Abby said, grinning. “Just so long as I don’t have to eat seal flipper pie.”

  “Don’t know what you’re missing, m’dear.” Ronnie steered Abby toward the door, arm linked in hers in the practiced way of old friends. “I’ll find out what I can about your ma and get back to you. Now, don’t forget to give that doorstep a good thump, or I’ll not be held responsible for what befalls you in your dreams—and, repeat after me: a curse on you, Jack!”

  Resistance was futile. Abby knew that, now. She stepped onto the front step, felt a brisk wind buffeting her cheeks as she did so. “A curse on you, Jack!” she bellowed, and followed it with a volley of stomps fit to trounce the wicked pirate another few feet under.

  “That’s the spirit!” Ronnie called, arm raised in farewell.

  Abby cuddled into her sweater. It was surprisingly cool for this time of year, and she wondered if she would get to see snow before she went back home in three months.

  Three months wasn’t long, especially if people decided to maintain this bizarre code of silence they seemed intent upon preserving.

  Ronnie’s words sounded in her head. We’re descended from pirates. There’s nothing a pirate does better than guard his treasure. Did they guard the past as well?

  She arrived at her car and frowned at a small rectangle of white paper that fluttered beneath her wiper. She tugged it out and read, her fingers beginning to tremble and her breath coming quickly. She looked around the street, but saw no one.

  The note screamed out to her in the silence.

  Abrielle Lancaster,

  Go home!

  Chapter Five

  For two hours The Lover had sat, still as the yearnings he had trained into submission, still as the unwavering memory of her face, still as her bones, laid low in the earth.

  Waiting.

  His body trembled in protest, quivered with anticipation—like an animal awaiting its prey.

  Still, he commanded silently, turning a searching eye inward and watching the building tumult within his soul. The time is not yet.

  The problem was, nothing within him was still, anymore. Not since the whisperings had begun. Not since he heard that dreamed-of unimaginable: her daughter is coming.

  That day seemed forever ago, and yet so close he could still smell the sudden wetness that had bloomed on his skin like a fever; he could still hear the riotous, internal Amen! that was both an end to his heart’s benediction, and its thunderous awakening.

  He remembered that moment—the fulcrum upon which his life now seemed to balance—as so profoundly pivotal that every moment leading up to it was before, and every moment following it was after.

  Before had once been sweet, then—for far too long— had been bitter.

  After would be filled with moments fit to make his memories fade with their brilliance. He would see to that; yes, he would.

  He knew, from sweet experience, that good things came to those who waited, but he didn’t wish to be kept waiting for another moment. Abrielle had been gone too long, and though he tried to be patient, as his mother had taught him, it was not a virtue that came naturally to him.

  Unbidden, his thoughts spiraled back to his childhood, to the days when his patience had first been tried. Nights of crying for his mother’s tender care, of pleading with her to come back to him, and always the same entreaty from her lips: good things come to those who wait.

  But he had been a child—too young to understand that a man must use his time of patiently waiting to nudge along the fates. He must form his own destiny.

  And Abrielle Lancaster was his destiny.

  He crept from his hiding place in the bracken and walked the length of the balcony, as quietly as a ghost. If he stood just there, behind the huge tangle of honeysuckle, she wouldn’t even see him. He would be inches from her, and she wouldn’t even know! Unless light caught the reflective material that was stitched onto both his jacket and pants.

  As if in confirmation, the bright glare of headlights swept around the corner, illuminating the reflective stripes on his clothing. His heart lurched, but the lights continued their sweeping arc uninterrupted.

  He breathed deeply, calmed himself with assurances of the love that slumbered deep in Abrielle’s heart. He calmed himself with imaginings of awakening that love, bit by precious bit.

  Calmness always helped him to think more clearly. Yes, he had been foolish to wear the running suit, but there was a solution to every problem, wasn’t there?

  A slow, delighted smile spread over his face. After taking something from the pocket, he unzipped his jacket and removed it, folding it carefully and dropping it over the side of the verandah, where it fell onto a smooth gray boulder. He unbuttoned his shirt, removed it, folded it carefully and dropped it on top of his jacket. His pants followed, as did the remainder of his clothing, until he stood naked—the truth of him bare before the very heavens that had brought his love back to him.

  The soft wind buffeted his bare flesh, winding around him like a veil. He felt it and knew that it was the caress of Celeste’s spirit.

  Sweet anticipation filled his chest.

  He picked up the locksmith set he’d taken from his pocket. Within seconds, the locked door yielded willingly beneath his ministrations. He smiled to himself. He had a way with his hands.

  The cottage filled with sea air as he pushed open the door. He stepped into the main room, barely able to suppress his excitement.

  The bedroom, he knew, was at the top of the stairs, and he wasted no time getting there.

  Her scent was all around him in the tiny room. He lifted a bottle of perfume and removed the lid. Champs Elysees by Guerlain. He l
ooked down at the rumpled bed and smiled, his eyelids heavy with longing, yet he forced himself to look critically upon the room.

  Already, he could discern the skeleton of habits beginning to form. For instance, he could see from the angle of the abandoned pillows that she likely slept on the right side of the bed with a pillow sandwiched between her knees. He could tell by the tea bag that sat in a lonely puddle at the bottom of the trash can that she drank Earl Grey. He could tell by looking at the very few dog-eared corners of her book that she read far too late into the night, and she’d probably finish a book in a night or two.

  He opened the bedside drawer and saw a Burberry purse, Lancôme lipsticks, Mac nail polish and three kinds of chocolate.

  He smiled, satisfied.

  This was his entitlement as the alpha male—to know such things of his chosen, to observe with an eye toward possession. This was the courtship primeval—a solitary practice, in which he was well versed.

  But for now, it was time to leave the cottage.

  As he turned to go he noticed, for the first time, that a portrait was hanging opposite the bed. His breath caught in his throat as he slowly approached—memories exploding in his mind with every step.

  Yes! It was the portrait he had watched being painted!

  He reached up and touched the lovely white breast that seemed thrust forward just for him, his mouth filling with saliva. His heart squeezed with longing. Oh how he missed her! He missed her scent and the softness of her skin. He missed the sound of her breath in his ear, her coy little resistances to him—the lovers’ game they’d played. He even missed crouching in the bushes for hours on end as she lay naked in the sunlight, letting that foolish artist paint her, letting him believe she loved him.

  Yes, even the sun had loved Celeste, touching her with light and making her golden. He should have known that something as exquisite as she could not be meant for this earth, but that’s exactly where she’d ended up, wasn’t it?