A Rare Chance

by Carla Neggers

  “Think she’s out there?” Scag asked seriously.

  Gabriella felt a weight come over her. She could be chasing stars, wasting time. “I have no idea, but I have to check.”

  “And it beats sitting around jabbering about orchids with an old man,” he said without a hint of self-pity. He waved her off. “Go on, I’ll give Yeager your message. I wish I could go with you. Do I need to tell you to be careful?”

  She gave a tight shake of the head, an even tighter smile, and was off. Scag had never been overprotective or a worrywart. He had never tried to stop her from doing anything—even attending business school, which he had considered idiotic and she had loved. But as she raced down the musty red-carpeted stairs and out the front door, she realized that checking a couple of dozen islands in and around Boston Harbor for Lizzie Fairfax was hardly Tony Scagliotti’s idea of dangerous.

  Half an hour later, she was parked at a private yacht club on the Boston waterfront where TJR Associates kept a small cabin cruiser. She had no idea how to operate it, but her credentials got her onto the premises, and she figured there’d be someone she could hire. She raced down the dock until she found a kid, maybe nineteen, cleaning a speedboat. Turned out it belonged to his parents. Could he drive it? Yeah, sure. Could she hire him to take her out to the harbor islands?

  “Which ones?”

  “We can try the Brewsters first.”

  He grinned, throwing down his scrub brush. “Let’s go.”

  Twenty minutes later they were cruising through the inner harbor, Logan Airport and the Boston skyline looming. It was cold out on the water. The kid—his name was Mark—had given her an oversized fleece pullover to put on. Gabriella pulled her hands up into the sleeves in an attempt to keep them warm. The Brewsters were a series of rocky outcroppings that faced the Atlantic Ocean, marking the entrance to the network of islands, peninsulas, and small bays that formed Boston Harbor.

  Up ahead, the 1716 granite Boston Light, the oldest lighthouse in North America, stood sentry on Little Brewster. Mostly stark and windswept, the Brewsters, with their tall grasses, rocky ledges, and profusion of wild roses, were too exposed, Gabriella decided, for Lizzie’s purposes. Metropolitan District Commission and Department of Environmental Management patrols, even passing commercial ships and pleasure boats, would be too likely to spot her.

  “Let’s head down to Quincy Bay,” Gabriella shouted to her driver.

  Mark shrugged. He was a tall, stringy kid who looked younger, she expected, than he was. He could definitely handle a boat though. “It’s your nickel.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “Let’s do it.”

  He cut back toward land, just south of the inner harbor and Dorchester Bay. Gabriella recalled Lizzie’s tales of buried pirate treasure, a Civil War prison for Confederate political and military prisoners, secret tunnels, lost lovers freezing to death with their arms wrapped around each other. There were also, Gabriella knew, tales of islands turned into public garbage dumps, inhabited only by sea gulls and rats.

  She glanced back at the Boston skyline. They weren’t being followed. She was fairly sure that even Pete Darrow, as skilled a cop as he supposedly was, would have a difficult time chasing her across Boston Harbor without being seen. She felt exhausted, a little crazy, and also strangely exhilarated. She was doing something. Even if she was wrong, at least she was making an effort to find Lizzie.

  Paris. Yeah, right, Lizzie.

  They sped past Lovell’s, Gallop’s, and George’s Island, now headquarters for the MDC, Gabriella rejecting them all. She was beginning to feel as if she’d gone off on a wild goose chase and forced herself to shut her eyes a moment, to let the bits and pieces of her conversation with Scag, her various conversations with Lizzie about the islands, her journal entries float up from the back of her mind.

  “Where’s Pettit Island?” she asked.

  “Not far from here,” her guide yelled back. “It’s real small. There’s no public access. I think it’s deserted.”

  “Take me there.”

  He swung the boat around, across choppy water, the cold wind in her face, so strong it whipped up tears in her eyes and blew them against her cheeks. She didn’t brush them away. She tried to control her impatience. She wanted to see Lizzie, talk to her. Then she’d know for sure if the journal was something real, or made up, exaggerated. She’d know if Lizzie was acting on her own. If she was more afraid of Pete Darrow or Joshua Reading—or afraid of neither, only of herself.

  They came to Pettit, in a relatively quiet section of Quincy Bay. It was definitely small, with a dense covering of underbrush and trees stunted and gnarled from the wind. Gabriella had Mark pull up to a decrepit dock in a tiny cove, where tall grasses threaded their way up among the rocks on the shoreline.

  She spotted a shocking-pink plastic sea kayak tucked under a wind-bent scotch pine. It wouldn’t be visible to passing patrol boats unless they got up close. Gabriella’s heart jumped. Lizzie had taken up kayaking a couple of years ago in south Florida.

  “I want to get out here for a minute,” she told Mark, trying to sound casual. “Can you wait?”

  “No problem. Watch out on that dock—doesn’t look too steady.”

  It wasn’t. When she climbed out onto it, she could feel the boards soft and squishy with rot underfoot. She quickly jumped the last yard to dry ground. Mark had cut the engine. She could hear the cries of birds, the soughing of the wind, the lapping of the waves, the hum of boats in the distance. She checked the kayak. It had the wide, stable body and sit-on-top design suitable for ocean kayaking. Lizzie could have paddled in from shore.

  Gabriella looked back at her driver. “I’m going inland a bit,” she called.

  He waved her on.

  She thrashed through underbrush fast coming to life after the long winter. Sprouting ferns, wild blackberry and raspberry bushes, puckerbrush, sumac, probably a fair amount of poison ivy. Gnarled, twisted wild beach plums grew in abundance, and wild roses—she could imagine them in summer—were everywhere. Saplings vied with the tangles of brush for sunlight and space, maple and oak and scotch pine trying to make it to maturity under the harsh island conditions.

  After a few yards, Gabriella spotted a footpath along the edge of a tangle of blackberry bushes. It led her through more underbrush and struggling trees, to the base of a rolling, egg-shaped drumlin, a hill of glacial till and clay that proliferated on the harbor islands.

  In a small, grassy clearing, an expensive dome tent was set up, with a cooking area out front and clothes—women’s clothes—hanging on a makeshift line strung between two skinny trees.

  The tent flap was open, the inner screen zippered shut. Gabriella approached cautiously, in case she was wrong and it wasn’t her friend’s camp she’d come upon. “Lizzie?”

  No answer.

  She peered into the opening, squinting.

  Lizzie was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the tent, a hand on each knee, eyes shut. Meditating.

  “Lizzie,” Gabriella said more sharply, “it’s me.”

  Her eyes opened. Widened. She sputtered into slightly hysterical laughter, her cheeks eerily pale. “So it is. I heard you. I thought you might be Joshua or Pete Darrow.”

  “And so you meditated?”

  “It wouldn’t have done any good to run. Where would I go?”

  Gabriella unzipped the tent and crawled inside, not certain of the state of Lizzie’s mind. She recalled certain passages in her journal, then quickly put them out of her mind.

  The tent’s interior was cozy, set up with a sleeping bag, freeze-dried foods, bottled water, camping utensils and pots, flashlights, books. Everything a fiancée on the run might need. Lizzie uncrossed her legs, her movements deliberate, controlled, her world reduced to this small, efficient, isolated camp. She wore dark green Patagonia fleece pants and a matching pullover, thick hiking socks, no shoes. Her hair was pulled back and tightly braided. Showers would be a problem on her little island getaway. Lizzie ha
d obviously been out there since calling Gabriella four days ago.

  But Lizzie, Gabriella knew, was in the thick of things this time, unable to remove herself entirely from her drama. It was as if Pettit Island was a symbol for her position, isolated and removed; yet there was Boston, looming in the distance, not so very far away at all.

  Feeling a little shell-shocked, Gabriella sat in front of her friend, who’d lied to her, used her, put her in one hell of a position. Yet Lizzie, she supposed, was simply fighting her demons the only way she knew how. She’d gotten away from Joshua Reading. Never mind the rest of it, that was what counted.

  “Lizzie,” Gabriella said tightly, hanging on to the last shreds of her own self-control, “are you okay? What’s going on? What’re you doing out here? You can’t stay here forever.”

  Lizzie’s eyes were clear and very green but not quite focused, not quite alert. “I told you: I can’t marry Joshua. I needed some time to myself to sort things out.”

  “This isn’t Paris,” Gabriella said with a small, forced smile.

  “It’s better than Paris, actually.” There was no guilt in her tone, no curiosity about how Gabriella had found her, or why, or what came next. “I have the ocean right here, my own water and food. I have everything I need. If I’d known camping could be this peaceful, I might have gone off to Australia with you and Scag after all.”

  “Lizzie—”

  “I just thought I’d take a few days and sort things out.”

  “Well, you can’t stay here. Pete Darrow’s looking for you. Joshua—” Gabriella inhaled sharply, willing herself to remain calm. “If I’ve found you, they will. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Please don’t make me go back,” she whispered, her eyes wide, focused on Gabriella as if she had the power to make her do anything, even something against her will—as if Lizzie had no will of her own left. “You’re stronger than I am—you go back. You tell them to leave me alone. I’m—God, I’m trying to put myself back together. I’m sorry I lied to you, Gabriella. But if I told you I was coming out here, I knew you’d have come, you’d force me to do the right thing, and I just couldn’t. I just wanted to run.”

  “What do you think I’d have made you do?”

  Her eyes reached Gabriella’s. “Tell the truth. Tell what I know. Face up to reality.”

  Gabriella bit off a protest. She knew Lizzie was right. Probably that was exactly what she would have encouraged Lizzie to do. In her vulnerable state, she might have felt coerced.

  But Gabriella wasn’t ready to let her friend off the hook. “You could have warned me Pete Darrow would be looking for the package you put in my care.”

  Impossibly, Lizzie paled even more, her cheeks turning ashen, her hands trembling as she knotted her fingers together in her lap. “You didn’t…Gabriella, you kept your promise, didn’t you?”

  “I tried. I really tried, Lizzie.”

  Tears welled in Lizzie’s eyes, shame marring her features. “Then you opened the package?” Her voice was feeble. Hope against hope. “Gabriella, did you?”

  Gabriella didn’t bother with excuses. Later, when she had a different perspective on her ordeal, Lizzie might be able to see why Gabriella had made the choices she had. “Scag found the package, Lizzie. He opened it, copied your diary, and gave it to me without reading a word. But I read it. I’m sorry. I was worried about you. I simply didn’t know what else to do.”

  Mortification and indignation swept over Lizzie, stiffening her spine, spilling the tears down her pale cheeks. She looked as if she would be sick. She motioned toward the tent opening, extending one shaking arm. “I want you to leave, Gabriella. Leave right now. Obviously I can’t trust anyone anymore, not even you. I thought you were my friend! I thought—just leave!”

  Gabriella remained right where she was. “Lizzie, you are not responsible for what Joshua Reading did to you. You are only responsible for what you did. And you got out. You’re here. You’re not trying on wedding dresses and planning your honeymoon with that son of a bitch.”

  “You read my private thoughts. You broke your word to me.”

  “I made a promise based on false information.”

  “It shouldn’t matter what was in the package!”

  “It does matter, Lizzie. Look, I don’t want to fight. Lizzie, for God’s sake, you’re my best friend. We’ve been friends forever. For all I knew Darrow or Joshua had you stuffed in some attic somewhere. I was afraid you were in serious danger.”

  “Well,” she said, summoning up her last shreds of haughty dignity, “as you can see, I had everything under control.”

  Gabriella didn’t argue. It was so obvious to her that Lizzie had precious little under control. “There’s more,” she said. “Lizzie, Pete Darrow has your journal.”

  White-faced, panicked, Lizzie jumped to her feet, crashing out of the tent, wild with the need to flee. But there was nowhere to go. Gabriella followed her out to the cooking area, where she was pacing around in a tight circle, breathing hard, tearing at her braid.

  “He can’t,” she kept saying, “he can’t.”

  “He stole it.”

  Gabriella stayed back, knowing how she would feel in Lizzie’s position. She might respond differently, but she would feel just as miserable, just as out of control, just as trapped. And Lizzie, who preferred helping over being helped, would be there for her.

  She went on steadily: “I’d have been more careful where I hid it if I’d realized what a bombshell it was. Lizzie, is Pete Darrow…”

  But Lizzie refused to listen and covered her ears, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Lizzie,” Gabriella said gently, touching her friend’s shoulder, “come back with me. We’ll figure this thing out together, you and me.”

  She groaned, crying. “Everyone will know what a sick, sick person I am.” She whirled around at Gabriella, screamed at her. “Everyone!”

  Thanks to you, her tone said.

  Gabriella tried to understand, tried to be patient. But she needed to cut through Lizzie’s panic and self-pity and get her to listen. “Everyone won’t know. It’s none of their business. You’ll sort out what happened in your own way. You’ve already begun. Keep reminding yourself that you got out. I didn’t force you out, your parents didn’t. You got out on your own, because you knew you had to.”

  Lizzie stopped moving, her breathing ragged, as if she’d run for miles. She brushed her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “You would never have gotten into such a relationship.”

  “This isn’t about me, Lizzie.”

  “I loved him.” Her face screwed up as she fought back more tears. “I really did. I’m not sure if I saw him now I wouldn’t want to marry him on the spot.”

  “Is that what you want? To marry Joshua Reading?”

  “No!”

  “Then trust yourself, Lizzie. You have to start some time.”

  “It’s so easy for you to say.”

  “Yes, it is, because I know you. I believe in you.”

  She was shaking her head, not countering Gabriella so much as trying to set things straight in her own mind. “He’s just so obsessed with being weak, a coward. He’s desperately afraid Titus will find out how much he fears him, despises him. Loves him. I don’t know. He wants to prove himself to his brother one minute and kill him the next.” She sniffled, shaking her head. “And yet he can be so intense, so warm and sensitive.”

  “I know he can. I’ve seen him that way.”

  Her eyes, red rimmed and swollen from crying, fastened on Gabriella, a hint of the old Lizzie Fairfax coming through. “That’s what attracted me to him in the first place, you know. Not the other stuff. I’ve never been so obsessed with anyone the way I was with him. It was like an addiction. I had to get out, go cold turkey, run. I couldn’t think about what I was doing to you, my parents, anyone I cared about.”

  Gabriella nodded, imagining Lizzie out here alone on an isolated island, she a woman more accustomed to cities, pe
ople, activity. She had always prided herself on doing the right thing, at least in public; she liked being gracious and classy and well bred, a contrast to Gabriella’s more direct style. Leaving Joshua Reading, hiding until she could pull herself together, lying to her best friend in order to save herself, it had all taken courage. Gabriella saw that now.

  “You did the right thing, Lizzie,” she said, knowing it was true. If Lizzie had tried to give Gabriella all the facts, she’d have never been able to make herself leave.

  For a moment, she looked hopeful, almost proud. “I did, didn’t I?”

  “You know you did.”

  “I think—in the past few days I think I’ve come to realize that I was drawn to someone who’d make me the focus of his world. I don’t understand why, but I craved that recognition and attention. Now I need to figure out why.”

  “You will,” Gabriella said. Practical concerns kept her from wanting to probe deeper, at least for the moment. She hoped Mark was still waiting with the boat. “How does Joshua know about the journal?”

  “He found it. He was furious. That’s when I knew for sure I had to get out.” Her voice was steely, the initial shock and despair and humiliation of seeing Gabriella lifting. “I didn’t want to be in a relationship with sick, secret parts to it. It was all so thrilling at first. Anyway, he wanted me to destroy my journal. I refused. I put it in safekeeping with you, in case he tried to turn it against me somehow—in case he wouldn’t let me leave him. I’d hoped that by hanging on to it he’d just leave me alone.” She shook her head, sighing but restrained, her hysteria having passed. “I know I’ve handled this badly, but I did the best I could, all I could. Gabriella”—she took a breath—“you don’t hate me, do you?”

  “For what?”

  “For falling for your boss, for putting you in this position.”

  “No, Lizzie, I don’t hate you.”

  She acknowledged Gabriella’s words with a small nod. “We should go. If you want, I’ll talk to the police. I’m sure they’ll want an explanation of the pictures.”

  Gabriella went still. “Lizzie?”