by Sarah Abbot
“Uh, that would be great,” she said, taken aback only slightly. She was beginning to figure out the rhythm of this place, and accept the fact that most people were friendly to a fault—Ryan Brannigan excluded.
Officer Flynn disappeared from the threshold, and Abby sighed. Here, in this seaside oasis, she’d had more opportunity to fear for her life than she’d ever had in the crime-riddled city.
“Life’s just full of surprises,” she muttered under her breath, wondering if the same would be true of this evening’s gathering at the Surfside. She went upstairs to dress, second-guessing her decision to come to Destiny Bay with every step.
“So, what did you think of Chef’s prime rib?”
“Delicious. And if you tell me the steer that gave up his ribs for our meal landed your Uncle Ned on his arse before he caught him, I swear I’ll never believe another word you say.”
Ronnie chuckled delightedly and slid a shooter across the bar. “Oh, you’re a fine one, Abby. See what you think of this shooter. I call it ‘The Panty Dropper.’”
“I’m quite pleased with my panties where they are, thanks,” Abby said, eying the drink suspiciously. She’d already had two glasses of wine with dinner.
“Your loss.” Ronnie winked, tossed her head back and downed the drink in one gulp.
“I’ll watch for your drawers. If you hear me whistle, you’ll know they’ve dropped.”
“You’re a friend, and true, Abby.”
“Well, you know what they say,” Abby said, grinning, “friends don’t let friends drink and drop.”
“Shall I get you another glass of wine, then?”
“Only if I’m guaranteed that my underwear will stay in place.”
“I think my granny might have a bottle of that particular vintage tucked away,” Ronnie replied sweetly, “but we don’t sell that poison ’round here.”
“How responsible of you. Which reminds me, did you have a chance to speak with your parents?” She had been disappointed that they hadn’t come to Ronnie’s dinner.
“I did,” Ronnie said, wiping a cloth over the bar. “It was very strange, I must say.”
“In what way?” Abby asked, leaning forward.
“Well, they got all tight-lipped and huffy. Said I shouldn’t be dredging up the past and that a lot of people were hurt in those days. They refused to say one word about her.”
Abby slumped back on her stool. “Why am I not surprised?” she asked, raking her fingers through her hair. “I loved meeting your friends tonight, Ronnie, but no one seems to want to talk about her. I have to figure out why.”
“Oh, there’s nothing I like better than a mystery. Why don’t you let me do some digging on my own, see what I can find out? Folks might be more inclined to talk to me about it, as I’ve lived here all my life.”
“Would you do that for me?” she asked, her hopes inching back up. “I’d be so grateful.”
“I’m on the job,” Ronnie said with a wink. Then she paused, sighing deeply. Two bottles dangled, as if forgotten, in her hands.
“Ronnie?”
“It’s Ryan. He’s just come in. Go ahead and turn. He’ll never know we’re talking about him. Men are oblivious that way.”
Abby turned and looked…then turned back quickly, but not before his image was seemingly seared upon her retinas.
A tumble of deep blond hair grew slightly too long, and curled around his collar. Eyes of the most extraordinary tiger-pelt topaz stared out from under his slightly shaggy bangs. A five o’clock shadow intensified his air of ruggedness, though his clothes did anything but. Fine clothing, Abby knew. Apparently, Ryan Brannigan did as well.
“He’s certainly handsome,” Abby said, rubbing her arms brusquely in a vain attempt to smooth the goose bumps that had sprung up.
“Handsome? That’s an understatement.” Ronnie looked at her watch, her lips pursing tightly. “Late. Well, that’s the last time I save the lion’s share of prime rib for him. Now that you’ve had a good look at him, tell me you’ve ever seen his equal,” she challenged.
“I mustn’t have. I’d have remembered.” Abby glanced at the hearth, longing for the flames of a warming fire to flare into being. The night was warm, but Abby was suddenly chilled.
As if time came to a sluggish stop in the chill of the moment, she watched Ryan turn slowly. She was riveted to his gaze, and an unmistakable bolt of recognition coursed through her, thrilling her, terrifying her.
Her cheeks were flaming with heat, her skin prickling with cold. When she thought she might never be able to look away, Ryan turned, shattering her entranced stare.
Abby trembled. She felt branded.
Ronnie leaned across the bar. “I’ve been crazy about him since grade school. Let me call him over to introduce you.”
“Um, uh, the…” Abby stammered, blushing furiously at Ronnie’s comic expression.
“Rendered you speechless, ’as he? Ah, well, it happens to the best of us.”
“What I mean to say is no, I don’t want to meet him.”
Ronnie looked at her, grinning. “Are you daft, girl? He doesn’t bite. Least not until he knows you a bit better. Ryan!” She waved spiritedly.
“No! I said no, Ronnie!” Abby squeaked, grabbing Ronnie’s arm.
It was too late.
The man in question turned slowly, lifted his glass in silent acknowledgment toward Ronnie, then turned pointedly away.
Ronnie stared at his wide back, perplexed. “Now what do you suppose has gotten into him?”
Abby felt desperately uncomfortable, knowing that it was her that had gotten into him.
Ronnie shrugged. “Ah, well, he’s prone to dark moods, you know. He’s a Scorpio, see. Get a load of that Scorpio passion, though, and you’re more than willing to put up with the drawbacks. What are you, a Libra?”
Home, home, home—it was all she could think. “Cancer,” she said absently, placing a splayed hand on her stomach. The meal she had eaten with such relish began to heave within her protesting belly.
She couldn’t understand this stranger’s effect on her; it was beyond unsettling. Perhaps she was ill?
“Really? That surprises me,” Ronnie said, totally oblivious to Abby’s distress. “You’re very ‘girly,’ if you don’t mind me saying. That jibes fine with Cancer, but you seem a bit…well, how should I word it? A bit cautious—like you weigh things out ’til the cows come home. That would be the scales at work. Perhaps you’ve got Libra ascending?”
“What on earth are you going on about, Ronnie?” Abby asked, pressing her fingertips to her jugular. Her pulse was fast, blood pushing against the walls of her vein as if racing against an unseen enemy.
“The stars, Abby, the stars!” Ronnie said, arms raised toward them in case Abby had forgotten exactly where stars were located. “Now, get yourself up. I’m going to introduce you to our Scorpio friend, and I’ll have none of his moodiness, believe you me.”
Before Abby could protest, Ronnie had swooped around the bar like a bird of prey, snatched her by the elbow, and was tugging her in her wake.
Abby resisted Ronnie’s grip, feeling certain that she was on a collision course with disaster, but to no avail.
“Ryan, you handsome devil, I’d like you to meet my new pal, Abby Lancaster.” And with that, Ronnie deftly maneuvered her directly in front of that same hostile gaze she’d witnessed her first day in Destiny Bay.
She felt the blood drain from her face. His eyes were like embers, and seemed to burn into her with equal intensity. His jaw was rigid, his shoulders held stiffly beneath his shirt. All she wanted to do was run. Instead, she mustered her courage.
“H-hello,” she said, her voice squeaking as she held out her hand.
Ryan ignored it. Instead, he looked directly past her at Ronnie. He drew her near and kissed her cheek lightly. “Hey, Ron. Good to see you.”
Abby’s jaw dropped. A few people in the immediate vicinity shifted awkwardly.
“Good to see you,
too,” Ronnie said, frowning. “This is Abby,” she repeated with a helpful shove.
Abby tried not to trip over her feet, and extended her hand once more.
This time, he took it—squeezing instead of shaking— and there was nothing welcoming in his grasp whatsoever. It was an unmistakable warning, made all the more menacing by his narrowed eyes and very quiet voice.
“No introduction necessary.”
Instinctively, she slowly drew back. “Nice to meet you,” she said lamely, tugging on her hand but finding it held fast.
Ryan leaned down, almost brushing her skin as he whispered in her ear, “You’re not welcome here.”
Abby stared up at him, wide-eyed, as he let her hand fall.
Ronnie glanced back and forth between the two of them, looking utterly perplexed. She scowled at Ryan and scooped Abby under the shelter of her arm, skillfully diverting her from Ryan’s gaze.
“Are you all right, Abby?” Ronnie asked. “What did he whisper to you? Not that it’s my business, but if he upset you…You know, you don’t look well, girl, and trust me, that’s saying something.”
Abby closed her eyes tightly, amazed yet again by this stranger’s effect on her. “I have to go,” was all she could say, and she ran into the welcoming darkness of the night.
Chapter Eight
The following afternoon, Abby pulled her hair into a clip and fastened it at the nape of her neck. A touch of lipstick, a brush of mascara, and she was ready for her meeting with the O’Donnells. She smoothed her hands down the length of her ivory silk pants and surveyed her appearance—such as it was—in the warped reflection offered by the living room window.
“Note to self,” she said quietly as she pulled a few strands of hair from the clip, “purchase mirror.”
After her disturbing meeting with Ryan Brannigan, she’d woken up this morning with every intention of leaving. But something inexplicable held her back: something of the fine salt mist that settled in her bones like a haunting, of dawn’s sleepy silence, pierced by a gull’s joyless cry. Something in the feeling of a mother’s timeless longing—beckoning with outstretched, weathered fingers.
Much as it surprised her, Abby was falling in love with Abandon Bluff, the romantic name given to the slice of land that was mainly occupied by cottages—hers included. Somehow, the cottage seemed so much closer a connection to her mother than the house she had grown up in.
She couldn’t seem to stop her mind from racing, and the one point it kept hurtling back to was that Destiny Bay was a treasure more people needed to know about, and why shouldn’t she be the one to tell them? The town was filled with glorious old captains’ houses—why not turn one into an inn? Why not add a spa? Why not get out of the city, get out of the cutthroat industry she was mired in, and live in this beautiful place for the rest of her life? Why not rescue city-weary folk, much in the same way she was now feeling rescued? Without even thinking, she could count at least forty people who would love to vacation here—who knows what she could accomplish if she actually put her marketing education to good use?
If she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit that she was tired of the television industry. Perhaps that was why she’d been so eager to come to Destiny Bay in the first place.
But of course there was more than just logistics to consider. There were the frightening instances of the footprints, the White Lady, and that feeling of being watched. For now, she was content to believe that her city paranoia had gotten the best of her, and had made perfectly explainable occurrences seem ominous.
The footprints? Simon Gorham, of course, and they’d been there since before she arrived.
The White Lady? The outward manifestation of her complete exhaustion. In other words, she’d imagined her.
The feeling of being watched? Well, the police were about to put a stop to that particular situation.
The only thing that was still troubling was Ryan Brannigan.
It was his eyes that she couldn’t forget: utterly still, yet somehow calculating; wounded, yet predatory. Right now, as she looked toward the heaving Atlantic, she saw depths equally as treacherous, but perhaps less cold. She shook her head, perplexed by both the man and her intense reaction to him. And what on earth was his problem with her? As for what to do about him, well, she could only hope to figure it out soon. In a town this small, avoidance seemed an unlikely option. She had no choice but to face him, and to do it with as much dignity as possible.
The bell above Abby’s head jangled as the door of O’Donnell’s Post and Petrol closed behind her. She lifted the sunglasses from her eyes and peered around the post office.
A wooden-topped counter dominated the space, behind which was pinned a countless array of stamp books, envelopes and fishing licenses. Franklin O’Donnell had explained on the phone that he’d closed the framing part of his business years before.
Abby wandered over to the counter, where glass jars filled with pickled eggs, candy sticks and organic-looking objects (the origins of which she dared not speculate upon) were set out for sale. A display case filled with homemade fudge towered to her left, brimming with flavors such as cherry cordial, pralines and cream, and…
“Be still my heart,” she whispered, all but pressing her nose to the glass. “Triple chocolate explosion!”
“Can I get you a piece, deary?”
Abby spun around. “Oh! Hello.”
The woman’s eyes widened. Her ruddy complexion deepened as she stared unabashedly at Abby, hand pressed to her chest. “Saints preserve us,” she said. “My, but you’re like her. I’d heard so, mind, but to see the resemblance in person!” The woman maneuvered her considerable girth around the corner of the counter. A helmet of teased, graying hair tipped this way and that, along with her head. “It’s like looking back through time, it is.”
Abby shifted beneath the unrelenting stare. “You must be Mrs. O’Donnell.” She extended her hand in greeting and felt the absent grasp of Mavis O’Donnell’s in hers. “Mrs. O’Donnell?” she asked again, this time slightly louder.
The woman shook her head as if awakening, and quickly flapped away the formality. “Mavis, please. And you…mercy, I’d have known you anywhere, m’dear.” She turned toward the doorway from which she had come, shouting, “Franklin? Get you here, man! You’ll not believe who I’ve got by the hand!”
Abby grew slightly more aware of the hand in question, enveloped as it was, by the warm, meaty ones of Mavis O’Donnell.
“Come into the kitchen and sit you down, deary,” she said, bustling around the counter and drawing Abby toward the door behind it.
Abby followed as if pulled into the woman’s wake, eyes taking in the aged black-and-white linoleum and cherry-sprigged wallpaper.
Mavis reached into the depths of a yellow-painted cupboard and emerged with three teacups.
“I’ve tea on to brew,” she said, smoothing her hands self-consciously down the length of her floral apron, “and a plate of the finest scones you’ll ever have tasted, if I say so myself. Cora’d tell you otherwise, but don’t be believin’it.”
She reached into another cupboard and pulled out a container, placing it on the table in front of Abby. “I saw you eyeing my homemade fudge. Help yourself to a piece.”
“How kind of you, Mavis.” Abby glanced around the homey room. “You really shouldn’t have gone to such trouble.”
“Nonsense!” A plate full of piping hot, flakey scones, the color of fresh butter, were placed before her, along with a cut-glass dish of preserves and its twin, filled with thick cream.
“Well, and where have you been, laddie? It’s a fine gentleman keeps a lady waiting, says I. Abrielle Lancaster, this is my husband, Franklin,” she said, turning her attention to her shuffling husband. “Oh, I know you’ll curse your poor, weary eyes when I say this, Franklin, but if this Abby isn’t the image of her mother, God rest her.” She turned back to Abby, whispering under her breath, “Legally blind.”
Franklin loo
ked in the vague direction of the door frame, smiled and nodded obediently. He was smaller than Mavis by a good three inches and fifty pounds, but had a pleasant, intelligent face with a tired handsomeness that put her in mind of tweed jackets and fine tobacco.
Abby liked him instantly, felt filled with gratitude for this unassuming man who had first told her about her mother’s sojourn in Destiny Bay.
“She shacked up in Artist’s Cottage with that crazy fool who painted her naked six ways from Sunday,” he’d explained when she called the number of the framing shop on the back of the portrait.
Abby had been shocked at the news. Naked paintings and crazy artists fit nowhere within the parameters of what she’d thought she knew about her mother—the prim, fragile society woman who had leapt to her death without even leaving a note.
“You’re lucky to have that painting, miss. As far as I knew, Douglas McAllister destroyed every painting he’d ever made of your ma after she gave him the boot. Went right out of his mind, he did, tossing paintings into the bay, drunk eight days of the week…aye, old Douglas was a proper nut.”
Now she reached out to shake Franklin’s extended hand. “It’s good to meet you in person, Mr. O’Donnell. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’re willing to help me.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” he said, as Mavis maneuvered a chair beneath his rump and he lowered himself upon it with the help of his cane. “I’ll be as helpful as I can.”
Mavis sat beside her husband. “Now, what would you like to know about your mother?”
Abby exhaled loudly. What wouldn’t she like to know? “Well, first of all, tell me about this man she lived with…Douglas McAllister.”
Both O’Donnells shifted in their seats. “Well,” Mavis said, folding her arms over the shelf of her bosom, “he wasn’t well liked, I can tell you that much. Had an eye for the ladies, which caused the men to dislike him, and a habit of throwing the lasses over the moment a prettier girl came along, which caused the women to dislike him.”