West Wind
Page 13
"No. The man on the cover."
"I didn't really notice," Erin said. She picked up the magazine, thumbing through the pages until she found the photo spread.
"He's okay, I guess. Who wouldn't be with that kind of money? How much do you think that speedboat cost?"
"I'm not sure, but the sailboat cost at least $500,000. I know. I bought it for him."
"What? You're kidding me! You know this guy?"
"That, my dear, is your next assignment. The boat was an advance on his forthcoming book."
She smiled at Erin's disbelief.
"Yes; it's that important. That's why I need you. He's already missed three deadlines. I'm afraid he's a bit lackadaisical. His first chapter was due last month." Patricia leaned back into her leather chair and arched a silver eyebrow. "I cannot tolerate that."
"Is he local?" Erin flipped through the magazine to the feature article and this time looked closer at the photographs.
"No. I hope you don't mind, you'll have to travel for this one. He lives in North Carolina, just a few hours away," Patricia added, noting Erin's frown.
Erin chewed her lip. She preferred to work with D.C. writers, primarily retired professors. She kept an apartment in Dupont Circle, near the fashionable northwest but not as expensive. Still, living in the capital was expensive and she could not afford to turn down a job.
"Can you leave right away?"
Erin fumbled through her jacket pocket and pulled out her mobile phone. Flipping through its digital calendar, she scanned the months of April and May. Nothing she couldn't reschedule.
"Yes. Do you have a bio on this guy? What does he do?"
Patricia paused. "I'm sorry, no bio unless you count the ‘Sexiest Man in America' feature in ‘Them.' He's an artist and for some reason he's popular in L.A. You won't believe what they're paying for his paintings. Anyway, your job is to make sure he finishes this book. Hell, I need you to make sure he begins it. I envision a book that can be used in a university setting by art students, and still entertain the layperson. It's important we publish his book right away while he's on top. He's an exciting talent, and a richly illustrated, very personal book about Stephen Spence would be extremely marketable."
"What's his name? Stephen Spence?" Erin echoed distractedly.
"Have you heard of him?"
"I'm not sure. I'll have to some research. I guess these kinds of magazines would be the best place to begin," Erin said, dropping the tabloid on the table. "The paparazzi apparently like to follow him. Who are the women?"
"Who knows? You seldom see him with the same one twice. He doesn't appear to be lonely, does he?"
Erin heaved a sigh. "Men like him seldom are."
* * *
She wasn't sure how long the project would last, so Erin over packed. She decided to keep her appearance professional and maintain a dressy-casual style for work. To her traditional "librarian garb," she added a new cocktail dress. She also packed a few cotton tops and shorts since spring came earlier in the Carolinas. Stephen Spence lived by the Atlantic, so she could beachcomb, maybe swim during her free time. She tossed an assortment of undergarments, stockings and her bathing suit into the mix.
She didn't keep a toiletry bag packed so she went through the medicine cabinet and the shower and dumped products into a water-proof tote.
Aidan leaned against the bathroom door, eating a protein bar. "Hey, what's going on?"
Aidan Carter was Erin's ex-husband and a full-time student, still working on his doctoral degree. Their marriage ended a year ago after she discovered his affair with another student. It was a bitter breakup. After their divorce, Erin discovered it hurt more to lose her childhood friend so they remained close and, temporarily, roommates.
Sometimes, though, Aidan forgot they were "roommates." Sometimes, she did too.
"I have an assignment. I'll be gone for at least a month, I imagine," Erin said.
"What's the assignment?"
"I'm going to North Carolina. Patricia has a client who can't meet his deadlines. I have to go down there and crack the whip."
Aidan nodded. "Who is this client and how old is he?"
"Jealous?"
"Maybe."
"Well, don't be. It's work," Erin said, relieved she hadn't brought home the magazine with photos of Stephen Spence. "Besides, you have your life and I have mine. Remember?"
It wasn't exactly the truth, but Erin refused to admit it. During the past four months that Aidan had been back, they had ended up in bed together a few times. It wasn't that odd, really, she rationalized. He was gorgeous, with dark hair, steady gray eyes, and chiseled features. He also was a brilliant scientist, or would be when he finished his doctorate. Sex with Aidan was safe, she told herself.
"I remember, but I worry about you. You know I care," he said, stepping into her bedroom. He cupped her chin and gently kissed her lips. Then he glanced into her suitcase and noticed the mass of frilly underwear and her bathing suit.
"Looks more like a vacation to me."
Erin closed her suitcase and zipped the flap, suppressing a grin at the thought that she would be spending the next few weeks at the beach with a handsome and rich playboy.
"Well, it's not."
Chapter Two
Erin drove the twelve hours to Hatteras in a short-lease SUV. Living in a major city with a subway meant she rarely needed a car. Since Patricia was picking up the tab, she opted for something large and luxurious. It was dark by the time she rolled into the ferry parking lot at Swan Quarter and it was empty.
"Great. That's just great," she muttered, climbing out of the vehicle and walking to the pier. A weather beaten "Closed" sign swung on a chain strung across the entrance. The last ferry to the island faded to a speck in the distance.
Back at the SUV, Erin turned on the overhead light and studied the GPS, flipping through the digital maps. There was no other way to the island. She would have to stay on the mainland and catch the morning ferry.
She backtracked a few miles to Route 264 and checked into a small roadside motel. In the lobby, she found a shelf with colorful brochures. She shuffled through them until she found one with the ferry schedule, then tucked it into her purse while the desk clerk ran her credit card.
"Is there a restaurant close by?"
The clerk, a dark-skinned quiet man, shook his head. "There is a convenience store across the street," he suggested.
Instead, Erin stopped at the vending machines near the staircase and punched the buttons for a bottle of water and a pack of peanut butter crackers. She fed more dollar bills into the machine, and then selected a bag of chips and a chocolate bar.
An hour later, showered and wrapped in a fleece robe, she sat cross-legged on the motel bed, the remote control in one hand and the candy bar in the other. She flipped through the local channels searching for a weather update, but the old television only brought in local channels, and none of them included a forecast. The bed was littered with junk food wrappers and cracker crumbs. Her cell phone trilled, and she dove for her purse. She scanned the caller ID before pushing the green answer button.
"Aidan?"
"Hi. How was the drive?"
Erin chewed her lower lip. "Okay."
"Did you make good time?"
"Aidan. You don't have to check up on me."
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
After a few silent seconds, Erin continued, "We talked about this, Aidan. We go our own ways."
"I don't know if I can."
"You already have."
"No, I haven't. I'm right here."
"I'm not going to talk about this again," she said. "You've got things to do; I've got things to do. I can't have you calling me up every night. You've got to stop pressuring me, Aidan."
"Fine. Good night."
Erin shook her head at his abrupt farewell, turned off her phone and tossed it on the bedside table. Too energized to go back to bed, she pulled out her tote bag and carried it over t
o the bathroom sink. She ferociously brushed her teeth and then flossed until her gums bled. She twisted her long, blonde hair, tying it into a loose knot then leaned towards the dark glass and glared at her reflection. She growled and muttered, "Men!"
Picking up her cell phone, she programmed it to send all calls from Aidan to voice mail.
* * *
In the morning, Erin placed three outfits on the bed and stepped back. The first was a La Vintage skirt and jacket she had found at a boutique specializing in black and white haute couture clothing. It was a "power suit," but it still exuded sexiness. A soft gray blouse with its plunging neck line complemented the pencil skirt. The heels on the black, patent-leather Vince Canuto dress pumps probably were a bit too high for an island visit.
The second outfit was a sleeveless, blue mock turtleneck sweater and a pair of flare-legged Armani khakis. The pants emphasized her slim waist and curvy hips. The sweater showed her trim, strong arms to an advantage. A pair of Hugh Boss boots -- shiny, calf-skin with a side zipper -- finished the ensemble.
The third outfit was a pair of brown, light-weight shorts by Dockers, a black, cotton T-shirt with a handkerchief hem and a pair of leather sandals. She had selected the outfit on a whim. In fact, she bought several in different colors. They were modest and comfortable and less intimidating than the first two choices. Considering the photographs she had seen of Spence, she decided a low-key approach may be the best and opted for the shorts.
Weather also could be an issue. The forecast for the North Carolina coast, printed from a web site and taped to the motel's front desk when she checked in the previous night, had not been helpful. An ominous black cloud with a single raindrop beneath it was partly obscured by a gray sun. A cartoon thermometer called for a high of seventy-three degrees.
"Partly cloudy with a chance of rain," the forecast boldly predicted beneath the pictures. She imagined the manager's choice to print daily forecasts in black ink had been motivated by frugality.
Wearing only panties and a bra, she peeked between the heavy, vinyl drapes to see ... almost nothing. A blanket of fog lay over the parking lot. She could see only the front bumper of her rental SUV, which may or may not have been the only car in the parking lot. She shivered, then went back to her suitcase and pulled out a sweater.
Twenty minutes later, after a hastily eaten continental breakfast in the hotel lobby, she drove back to the Swan Quarter ferry with time to spare. She sat in the SUV after paying for a ticket and waited for the "Governor Hyde" to begin loading. The Sound Class ferry was more than 160-feet long and carried thirty-five vehicles. Hers was the twentieth in line, and only five cars followed.
Soon it was her turn and she drove up the creaking, steel ramp. An old man with a stubbly beard and wearing a Greek fisherman's cap stood near the SUV's right front fender. He coaxed her forward with a gloved hand. When her bumper was only a few inches from the car in front, the man signaled halt, then gave her a quick thumbs up. She shifted into park, turned the engine off, and set the parking brake as instructed.
It was still a bit chilly for shorts but she ignored the cold, damp wind, pulled her sweater on, and climbed out of the truck. The dull yellow disc of the rising sun grew brighter over the bow of the boat as it plowed eastward through a light chop. She leaned over the rail, settled a pair of sunglasses on her nose and watched as seagulls wheeled and circled around the ferry. In the distance, as visibility improved, she spied a sailboat. Slowly, the morning fog burned away and the ship chugged noisily through the Pamlico Sound.
* * *
More than two hours later, the ferry landed at Ocracoke. First car on the ship meant last one off, so Erin disembarked after a few minutes. She drove the SUV to a lonely corner of the parking lot. Once again she consulted the GPS receiver, having entered Spence's address into the device the day before. She zoomed in the tiny screen and studied the network of roads until she located his house. The mechanical voice of the GPS commanded: "Head south on Northpoint Road toward Pamlico Shores Road.
Erin smiled. During the past two days, she had become accustomed to the disembodied female voice and nicknamed her "Becky."
She put the SUV into gear and drove out of the ferry lot towards the small village of Ocracoke.
"Turn left at Pamlico Shores Road and drive point-one miles before turning right at British Cemetery Road," Becky ordered.
"And we're on our way," Erin chimed.
She drove down the small paved road to the stop sign and looked right. Beyond the brown beach house at the curve was the glimmering sound. To the left she saw scrubby shrubs, a few bent and twisted cypress and oak trees, and the roof tops of island cottages. The roadway was narrow with no markings and no other cars were in sight.
She drove on.
"In 500 feet turn left onto Back Road," Becky piped.
Erin glanced to her right and noted a small, rundown cottage. Folding chairs were stacked on the porch. A live oak's limbs stretched over the structure, shading it well and inhibiting any grass that may have taken root. A rusted blue truck and a trailer hauling a white bass boat were parked in the driveway. A hand-lettered sign offered nightcrawlers and cut bait.
"Hmmm… Spence's neighbors aren't that fashionable."
On the left she noticed a small cemetery bordered in a gray, weather-beaten wood fence.
"Hence the name ‘Cemetery Road,'" Erin said aloud, having started to converse with Becky the previous afternoon. Becky had no reply.
She stopped the SUV in the middle of the road and looked at the headstones. Most were small, thin eroded stones, discolored with black and green mildew. The trees at the back of the cemetery were stunted, windswept oaks.
She drove on, passing more houses. "The neighborhood's improving," she told Becky.
She braked the SUV to a crawl and turned onto Back Road. On her right, an octagon, cedar-sheathed house contrasted with an elegant, older house covered in white-washed siding and with a large wrap-around porch. Erin noted that most of the houses on the island were situated on pilings, probably because of rising seawater during tropical storms and hurricanes.
"Continue point four miles, then turn left at State Road 1341," Becky monotoned.
Erin drove through more of the same: an unmarked paved road bounded by rustic cottages mixed with newer construction, shrubs, sawgrass, palmettos and stunted oak trees.
"Drive point three miles, then turn left onto unnamed road."
"No name, eh?" Erin squinted into the sun as she searched for her turn.
"Satellite signal lost," Becky announced, and the little cartoon car on the GPS screen became a question mark.
"Thanks a lot, Becky." Erin slowed even more after checking the rear-view mirror and seeing nobody on the road. She had to be close. In the distance, she could see houses. Most were three-story wooden and glass sentinels amid the saw grass. They all faced Pamlico Sound.
"Ahhh, here's the money," Erin noted.
She passed two unmarked, black-topped roads and decided to keep looking. Ahead, on the left, she saw a battered, unmarked mailbox. Just beyond it she saw the edge of a narrow, unpaved road -- a trail really. She imagined the entrance to Spence's property would be somewhat grand, like some of the houses she passed earlier. It seemed unlikely that the rusting mailbox, impaled by an unpainted wooden post and set in a five-gallon bucket filled with concrete, would belong to a famous artist. "And playboy," she thought.
"Probably not the road I want to take, right Becky?" she asked the GPS receiver. No answer, of course. Becky's screen only showed the question mark. "Afraid to commit, are we?"
She smiled and accelerated past the mailbox, then braked to an abrupt stop. Numbers or letters on the box were more likely to be on the right side, so the postal carrier could see them when delivering the mail. She could at least see if she had passed the address.
Erin pressed the button to lower the window, leaned out for a better look at the box. It bore only stick-on letters that announced: "S_ence."
Erin drove slowly and admired the change in topography. There was much more open space now, although it was still swampy.
"Arriving at destination on left," Becky chimed, having regained her bearings.
Erin stopped in front of a massive gray house that floated in the field of sea grass. Unpainted and also on pilings, the wood-shingled house featured a gabled roof and long engaged dormers. Hinged, wood-batten shutters were held open with a stick, protecting the old-fashioned sash windows. The house was encircled by a wrap-around porch and behind it she glimpsed a long stretch of white beach and blue water.
She didn't see a driveway, so she stopped her truck close to the edge of the road. She checked her watch. It was just after noon and, according to Patricia, Spence expected her. She hiked the fifty yards to the front door, wading through the sea oats and saw grass that whipped and scratched her bare legs.
"Shoot," she hissed, licking a finger and rubbing it on a long, bloody scratch. "I should have worn pants."
After plucking sticker burrs from her shorts and shaking sand from her sandals, Erin pressed the doorbell. She waited a minute or two before pressing it again. After a few more minutes, she tried knocking on the door. There was no answer.
She frowned. Spence knew she was arriving today, so he wouldn't have left town, she reasoned. After peeking in the windows and detecting no signs of life, she knocked harder, calling, "Mr. Spence. Hello. Mr. Spence?"
She considered calling Patricia and asking for the artist's telephone number, but decided she couldn't give up that easily. Looking for another entrance, Erin walked around the side porch but a locked screen door barred access. She retraced her steps to the front, went down the steps and around the porch. Just past the screen door the land sloped downward. With no stairs in sight, she decided to climb through the railing while she could still reach it. She tossed her purse first. Then, using the railing as a ladder she scrambled up and slithered onto the porch.