by Angel Lawson
“Don’t be so judgmental. Our grandparents had quite a bit of money. Sugar’s father owned a factory in Marion. Do you think that property came cheap? It’s a huge block of waterfront real estate. Sure, fifty years ago it wasn’t what it would cost today, but don’t mistake them for poor,” she scolds. “Sugar and Jimmy went to private school. They were friends with a lot of kids down here.”
“Oh.” I feel like an idiot. “I guess it’s just different from what I’m used to.”
Still, as we reach the upper-class neighborhood, I’m relieved. For once, I don’t feel like I have to watch my back as we walk from the car to the door in case a rabid dog wants to attack.
“How did you find this woman?” I ask.
“I followed a trail of newspaper clippings and some police reports. I almost overlooked it. I think her family wanted to hush it up, but the police wanted her statement because she was from a good family and not a wanderer or prostitute.” She frowned. “She was not his typical M.O. That made them curious.”
My mother rang the bell on the large double black doors. We hear several locks release from the inside and she glances at me from the side. “Also, we’re talking more about this Mason thing on the way home. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”
I have no chance to reply before the door opens and a well-dressed, attractive woman about my mom’s age answers the door. Her hair is cut short and she’s let the gray grow in, but it doesn’t make her look old. She has an air of elegance about her. She smiles when she sees us. “You must be Julia and Summer. I’m Martha Sanders.”
She swings the door wide open and lets us in—such a different greeting than any of the other homes we’ve been to. “Sorry about the mess,” she says, ushering us through an immaculate dining room and down a hallway lined with framed photographs. We emerge in a brightly lit, enclosed porch, overlooking a backyard pool. My mother sits on a cushioned wicker couch and I sit next to her. Martha takes the seat next to us and starts pouring lemonade out of a pitcher on the table in front of us. I feel like I’ve entered the Twilight Zone.
“I hope you found the house easily,” she asks.
“We did, thank you,” my mother says. “You have a beautiful home. Did you get that fixture at Horchow?”
I have no idea what a Horchow is, but Martha’s face lights up. “I did—for a steal, too. I hit the post-season sale—my favorite thing.”
I watch these two, trading compliments and shopping tips, in fascination. Again, my mother manages to charm and relax her sources, no matter their social class. She truly has a gift.
During the conversation, my mother has taken her notebook out of her bag and placed it on her lap. “I appreciate your willingness to talk to us. I can’t tell you how difficult it’s been to find people willing to talk to about the horrific crimes Gaskins committed.”
Martha frowns and sets her glass on the table. “I was one of the lucky ones,” she explains. “I can’t imagine how our lives would be different if he had successfully lured me away from my car that night. Obviously, I would be dead, but my family…my parents had a hard enough time with the basic fact I’d encountered him. They did everything to make it disappear. It’s why I never testified.”
“Martha,” my mother says, “Can you tell us what happened that night?”
“You won’t use my name?”
“Of course not. Not unless you want me to.”
“I was about your age.” She points to me. “My boyfriend and I were on our way back from Myrtle Beach. It was late summer and our friends liked to meet down at The Pavilion. Charlie had this old clunker, an Oldsmobile, and it got a flat tire. Back then there was hardly anything on the road between Myrtle and Cherry Grove, even though they weren’t really that far apart.”
“I remember,” my mother murmurs. “There’s nothing as dark as a deserted road in the middle of the country.”
“Oh, you were down here, then? Then you do know how the roads were pitch black and rough, hardly the main roads they are now. While Charlie changed the flat, I waited in the car.”
My mother has been taking notes but stops abruptly and leans forward to listen. I, too, am enraptured by Martha’s tale. Her voice has the smooth southern accent actors attempt to copy for movies but can never quite master. It’s different from Anita’s or Justin’s.
“A car zipped past us, but I saw the taillights brake and then the headlights bounce when it turned around. I was glad someone cared enough to stop. Charlie was struggling a bit, it was the first flat he had changed on his own, plus it was really dark out. The lights from the other car would be helpful.”
She pauses and takes a sip of her drink. “When the man got out of the car, I don’t think he noticed me at first. He walked right over to Charlie and asked him if he needed help. They talked for a minute, assessing the damage and then he saw me in the car. The moment we made eye contact, I knew we were in trouble. His eyes were mean. Wicked.” She shudders. “I don’t know how, but if you’ve ever encountered evil, you know the feeling. It’s like ice settles in your veins. That man was pure evil.”
“In the second between the two of us making eye contact and Charlie saying something to him, the man pushed Charlie out of the way and grabbed a tool out of his hand. He hit him across the head with a crack.” Martha stops and takes a breath; her hands shake in her lap.
My mother, who has been completely silent up to this point, asks, “Are you okay? Do you need to take a break?”
Martha shakes her head. “No, I can do it. I knew Charlie was hurt, if not worse. I lunged to get to the door lock, but he beat me. That bastard already had the door open and dragged me across the seat and out of the car, before I could even think properly. He pushed me into the dirt and I had on this skirt and sandals that made it impossible to run—but even so, where would I go?”
“You always think you’d fight, but when the moment came I was paralyzed. He tore at my skirt, ripping the fabric. I remember thinking how mad that made me—I’d spent hours sewing it earlier in the week. I could see the car from where he dragged me, and I could see the lights from where he left the door open and I looked there instead of in his mean, dark eyes.”
I felt the nausea build in my stomach and rise in my throat. My mother also appears pale and I wonder if she feels sick, too. Her eyes are set on Martha and I’m not sure when she last took a breath.
“He didn’t rape me. He didn’t get the chance. Another car drove up and by the grace of God, they stopped. Gaskins must have known he couldn’t take on a group and bolted, leaving me on the side of the road in my torn, dirty clothing. The people that stopped piled us into their car and rushed us both to the hospital. Charlie had a concussion and I had some scrapes and bruises, but it could have been much worse.”
My mother regained her composure. “I’m so sorry.”
Martha gives us a tight smile. “I’m alive. Married, and have wonderful children. Donald Gaskins got out of the car that night with intentions of killing whoever he came across. Male or female. The fact Charlie and I survived is a miracle. Not only that, something good came from that night.” She stands and walks over to a framed photo and holds it up. It’s a wedding portrait. “He was in the car that stopped. I call my husband, Henry, my guardian angel. He said when they saw the two cars on the side of the road they almost passed, but Henry noticed something and forced them to stop.”
“What was it?” I ask, speaking for the first time. Goosebumps prickled across my arms and neck.
“He saw a glimmer coming from the field behind the car. It’s how they knew to look for me there. I’m not sure but I’ve always suspected it was the reflection of his knife from the lights.” She tugs at the front of her blouse and reveals a jagged scar. An uneasy sense of familiarity washes over me.
“Thank goodness they saw it. If they hadn’t, they would have driven by and Charlie and I would both be another in the long list of kills by Donald Gaskins.”
What happens next is strange. My mother pu
ts down her notes and gives Martha a hug. They cry together over the story and the past. Then, like magic, the mood lifts and my mother and Martha begin talking about their childhoods and possible familiar friends from the area. The horrible déjà vu moment is gone and the next thing I know, I’m watching two women hover over a kitchen counter making chicken salad sandwiches because my mom and I have been invited for lunch.
* * *
“Truth,” my mother says to me the instant the car door closes behind us and we wave goodbye to Martha.
It’s only one word, but it’s kind of a code between us. When you pull the truth card out and lay it on the table the other person has no choice but to comply. We made up this game when I was nine and my mother found a crumpled-up note from my teacher about a bad grade buried under the bed. We made a deal then. Tell the truth and there would be no judgments. We would just figure out the best way to handle the situation.
“He was my teacher,” I say.
“Summer!”
“An assistant, really,” I rush to add, as though it makes it better. It doesn’t. Neither does the next part. “We started dating last fall and I found out before graduation he has a girlfriend—a fiancé. Or did. I don’t really know if he’s telling the truth. Either way, it doesn’t matter.”
She says nothing but I see her hands clench around the steering wheel. She knows if she’s quiet enough, I’ll spill; I’m uncomfortable with the quiet. “He helped in my AP Lit class, and when I struggled with one of my papers he got me through it. Then later, I ran into him a couple times at football games and once at the movies…and it just went from there.”
“What does that mean? It just went from there? He’s your teacher! He should have known better.”
“I know. I just got caught up in it. Him. His girlfriend—fiancé—found us…” I look at my hands, unable to face her. “Found us together and everything imploded.”
“Oh, honey.” She sighs. “This is why you pulled away from your friends, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” I say, because really how much worse can it get? Public humiliation? Broken heart? Trailer park showdown? “No one could know about it.”
“Why did he come here?”
“To get me back, I guess. He wants me to go on the trip to France with him.” I dare a glance and the hard, shocked look before has softened.
“What a jerk.”
“He is a jerk. When his fiancé confronted me, I had no idea she existed. He snuck me around under the whole big secret of our age difference and the rules about student/teacher relationships. That’s true, of course, and I agreed knowing it was wrong, but I was completely shocked when I finally met her.”
“Ouch.”
“She was furious and I was just embarrassed. But then he chose her over me and all that time I spent with him, everything I gave up; spring break, prom…all of that stuff was wasted. I don’t know if he thought he loved her or if he thought she’d keep the secret. But now that I’ve graduated he changed his mind, I guess, and wants me back.”
She jerks the car onto the side of the road and hardly has it in park when she leans over the middle and pulls me into a hug. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I ask into her hair. “This one’s on me, Mom.”
“For letting this happen. I should have been there—I should have noticed! For giving you such bad role models for men in your life. For dragging you all over to research serial killers. Warning you off guys like Justin Hawkins and those other beach bums, a little too late. I did a crappy job teaching you on this subject. Probably because I suck at it myself.”
I pull away. “Mom, you don’t suck. And I wasn’t looking for a guy like Dad, it just kind of happened. He said all the right things and we had a lot in common. The one thing you taught me though, is cheating is a deal-breaker. Once I found out I walked away, no matter how difficult it was.”
This makes her smile. “I guess I wasn’t a complete failure.”
“Not at all,” I say, hugging her again. She restarts the car and pulls into the road. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I know it’s one of the guys checking in. This prompts me to say, “And as far as Justin goes, give him a break. He’s not such a bad guy. Neither are the others.”
“Sometimes they do mature, although it may take a decade or two.” It’s an odd thing to say but not an argument, so I let it go. We ride the rest of the way back to the house in silence, absorbing the emotional turmoil of the day.
Chapter 15
It’s Monday and my mother heads down to the campground cocktail party at the same time I hop in the passenger seat of Justin’s Jeep to ride over the bridge to the beach. Pete and Nick are crammed into the backseat, a guitar takes up the space between them.
I love the feeling of Justin’s open roof, the noise of the wind and the sense of freedom. The boys fight over the radio and we have to come to a crawl on the main road because tourists are all over the place.
“It’s weird,” I say suddenly.
“What’s weird?” asks.
“I was thinking of these people as tourists, when I’m one of them, too.”
The boys laugh and Justin tips his head back.
“What?”
Pete calls from the backseat. “You’re not a tourist, Summer. That ship sailed weeks ago.”
“Face it,” Nick says. “You’re one of us.”
The feeling warms my soul in an unexpected way.
We finally get through the traffic jam and Justin parks the car under the house. Pete grabs his guitar and Justin lifts a cooler out of the back. Nick waits and gives me a hand to get out of the Jeep. I don’t need it but I take it anyway, just to touch him for a brief moment.
“I missed you today,” I tell him.
“How was it? Your mom said she didn’t need me.”
“It was rough. And Mom was right, she probably wouldn’t have learned the information we needed if a man was there.”
He frowns. “Bad?”
“Scary.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder and I lean into his chest. “Donald Gaskins was a bad man. That woman is lucky to be alive.”
He holds me for a moment, strong and supportive. I don’t know how he’s aware that it’s exactly what I need, but it is. I hear the footsteps pounding on the porch overhead and the scent of a fire burning and I’m thankful to be safe—to have these guys around me and not a dirt-bag like Gaskins in my life.
I tilt my head and look up at Nick. He gazes down at me and brushes his nose against mine. It’s a sweet gesture and the longing I’ve had for him since the library flares to life.
“Nick! Get up here and carry some firewood!” Anita shouts from somewhere above.
“One day I’m going to get you alone,” he mutters.
My stomach drops at the intensity of the threat. I swallow and reply, “I’m counting on it.”
Reveling in the weight of his hand, we walk up the stairs and down the boardwalk. Past the dunes, Anita and Maggie have set up a fire pit, stacked high with wood. Chairs circle the pit. Nick ducks under the porch to get another bundle and I follow Anita to the table stacked with food and ingredients for s’mores.
“This is amazing,” I say, checking out the spread and the fire that Bobby is now trying to light. All the guys surround him, offering suggestions. I hear a firm no! when Justin suggests gasoline.
“Jesus, you’ll burn your hair off,” she shouts over the guys. “I swear it’s like having four extra kids.”
“Speaking of four, where’s Whit?”
“I’m sure he’ll be along. Probably cleaning up after surf school,” Maggie says.
Sure enough, just as the fire gets blazing and the sun starts to set, Whit wanders up the beach. He’s sun-bleached and happy. It’s hard to take my eyes off of him.
“Hey,” he says, walking past. He grabs a brownie off the table and plants a kiss on my cheek.
“You look happy.”
He shrugs, taking a bite of the treat. “It had a pretty amazing
five a.m. kick-off and things kept coasting.”
He passes the guys, bumping fists, and heads back down to the water. One by one they stand, peel off layers of clothing and following Whit.
“I thought they were staying out of the water,” I said, watching them go.
“They’re like fish, they need the water to breathe,” Anita says.
“Something going on between you and Whit?” Maggie asks.
“We’re hanging out some.”
“Huh,” Ivy replied, “I would have sworn you and Justin were getting close.”
I shrug, focusing on the bowl of fruit salad that I’m putting together.
“Although,” Maggie continues, “I swear Nick has been eyeing you like a wolf watches a lamb since you got here.”
“Girls!” Anita says, dropping a pan of pasta salad on the table. “Leave Summer alone. She’s cute and smart and let’s not pretend all four of those boys are probably salivating over her right now.”
“Mmmhmmm,” Ivy hummed. “Four girls and one guy. How do you make those odds work?”
“Plus the Pact. Don’t forget that,” Maggie adds. “It either complicates or simplifies things.”
Anita gives me a sympathetic glance. “Girls, seriously. Let it go. You know how it is. Love burns hot and fast around here. If Summer manages to hook one of the boys, that’s her business.”
“Okay,” Maggie says, giving me an apologetic grin. “But if it were me, I’d never really be able to choose.” She flings her arm around Ivy’s neck and kisses her cheek. “Thank god I don’t have to.”
“Hey!” Anita cries, giving me a wink. “Why does Summer have to pick?”
Ivy smiles and it’s brilliant and wide. “Good point.”
I glance back over my shoulder, looking at the three of them around the fire. Whit’s still up at the house. There’s no chance I’m choosing one of these guys over the other, and if that means I have to burn hot and fast while I’m here, I’ll do it.
* * *
“I’m headed up to the house. Anyone need anything?” I ask a short while later, the boys came up one by one, rinsing off and changing into dry clothes.