Sanctuary Cove

by Rochelle Alers

  The seconds ticked by and Jake stared at his hands sandwiched between his knees. “Folks in the Cove don’t have much to do with folks in the Creek or Landing, and vice versa.”

  “Are you saying you don’t visit the other parts of the island?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I go to Angels Landing to visit my kin, but they don’t like coming here.” He smiled when Asa told him about his attempt to drive to Angels Landing. “You can’t drive there from here. You’ve got to go on foot, because it’s too swampy to drive. Even with four-wheel drive you still can get stuck.”

  Asa gave the older man an incredulous look. “I’m not about to go walking in a swamp.”

  Jake grunted. “There’s nothing to it, son. You just put on a pair of boots that come to the knee and head due northwest. The boots are to protect your ankles from them moccasins and copperheads. It would also help if you bring a rifle ’cause you never know what else might jump out at you.”

  “That’s okay. The next time I’ll take the causeway.” Asa glanced at his watch. He wanted to return to the boardinghouse and check his e-mail on his laptop. “Are you ready to go back?”

  Jake had revealed that he and his wife moved into the bungalow behind the boardinghouse after their children married and moved away. He’d wanted to ask the older man about Deborah and Jeffrey, but changed his mind. That was something he would uncover himself—tomorrow.

  “Yeah, I guess so.” Jake rose slowly to his feet, swaying slightly until he regained his balance. “I sit out here most nights because I can’t stand the chatter of the folks setting in the parlor. When you get to my age, son, you need a little peace and quiet.”

  Smiling, Asa slowed his stride to accommodate the much shorter man. “I know what you mean.” After the evening meal, the boarders gathered in the parlor to either play cards or board games. An open bar with cordials was available for those who wanted some liquid libation. Those who imbibed too much usually fell asleep where they sat, while others became more animated. It was only when Rachel dimmed the lights at ten that they put away their games and retreated to their suites. Both men turned when they heard two short taps from a car’s horn.

  Jake stopped, waving to Deborah when she maneuvered over to the curb. “Hey, Missy.”

  Deborah lowered the passenger-side window, leaning to her right. “Mr. Walker. Asa. Can I give you a ride back to the boardinghouse?”

  “I don’t mind if it won’t put you out,” Jake said.

  “Please get in. You, too, Asa.”

  Asa rested a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “You go. I’ll walk.”

  The older man took a step, moving closer to Asa so Deborah couldn’t overhear him. “Look, son, around here when someone offers to do you a favor you accept it. Not to is an insult. Now, please get in the car.”

  Knowing he’d just been chastised, Asa opened the passenger-side door, waiting until Jake was comfortably seated and belted in before he slipped onto the backseat. The subtle scent of perfume wafted in his nostrils. It was the same fragrance Deborah Robinson wore the day he saw her in the Muffin Corner.

  What had shocked him was Mayor White offering his condolences on the drowning of her husband, which meant she was recently widowed. The mayor had also welcomed her home, leading Asa to surmise that she’d left Sanctuary Cove but had come back to live.

  She’d lost her husband and he his wife. There were similarities yet one profound difference. He’d also lost his child, while she still had hers. Staring out the side window, Asa watched the slowly passing landscape. The bright lights from the town square disappeared, replaced by an occasional streetlight, then complete darkness as they left the downtown area.

  The in-ground miniature solar lights lining the driveway led to the sprawling two-story structure that once had been the winter residence of a Charleston-based cotton planter before the Civil War. They reminded Asa of those on an airport runway. Rachel Dukes told each of her new boarders that she’d invested her blood, sweat, and tears in restoring the mansion to its original magnificence, and prided herself on offering services comparable to those found at the finest mainland-based hotels.

  He could attest to that because the décor was quintessential antebellum and the cuisine classic lowcountry. At times, the charming southern hospitality generated by Rachel left Asa feeling slightly overwhelmed. The housekeeping staff moved about the eight–thousand-square-foot, twenty-two room house silently and efficiently. At any given time a white-glove examination would not pick up a speck of dust anywhere.

  He was out of the car as soon as it stopped, to assist Jake who was slower exiting. Bending lower, Asa smiled at Deborah. He extended his hand. Her bare face shimmered under the lights from the dashboard. “Thank you very much for the ride.”

  She returned his smile and took his hand. “It was my pleasure. Good night, Asa.”

  He closed the door, took a step back, and stared at the red taillights of the silver-gray sedan. Waiting until she disappeared from view, Asa turned and mounted the steps to the porch, walking around to a side door. He wanted to avoid the small crowd that had gathered in the parlor. Every time they’d asked him to join them he’d turned them down. It had reached a point where the other guests had begun avoiding him at breakfast and dinner, leaving him to sit alone while he ate in the formal dining room; he knew they thought him strange or maybe even a little crazy. He didn’t want to answer their endless questions, while at the same time regurgitating his life story to strangers.

  Taking a back staircase, he made it to his room without encountering anyone. He unlocked the door, reached for the DO NOT DISTURB placard and slipped it on the doorknob, closing and locking the door.

  Walking over to the casement windows, he opened them and stepped out onto the veranda. The chaises positioned outside the other rooms were unoccupied. It wasn’t often he had the veranda to himself, but tonight had to be his lucky night. Flopping down on the thick cushion, Asa ran his hand over his face, then went completely still. The lingering scent of Deborah’s perfume clung to his palm. He inhaled deeply, trying to identify what made up the notes to the fragrance. He recognized musk and vanilla but there was another component that made it distinctive, memorable like its wearer.

  There was something about Deborah that stirred emotions Asa did not want to feel—at least not consciously. Her beauty, smile, and feminine smell made him feel desire, something he’d sworn off after his wife was killed.

  Chapter Six

  Deborah sat in bed, a pile of pillows supporting her back and shoulders. A stack of her grandmother’s letters and her journal lay beside her.

  After the town council meeting Eddie Wilkes had approached her with the news he wanted Whitney to come to his office Saturday morning to interview for a position as a freelance reporter. The newspaper editor told her that Whitney had emailed him several articles he’d written for his high school newspaper. She was aware that her son was a straight-A student, but for an award-winning journalist to endorse Whitney’s reporting ability filled her with pride.

  Reaching for the stack of letters Sallie Ann Payne had written to James Williams, Deborah untied the ribbon she’d used to bundle the nearly two dozen envelopes. If Whitney was going to write about his great-grandmother, then she had to glean as much information about the woman who’d spent her entire life in Sanctuary Cove. Not even her father’s urging could get his parents to leave once they retired. She remembered Sallie Ann declaring emphatically that if she was buried anywhere but on the Cove her soul would wander until it found its way back home. She removed the letter with the earliest postmark from its envelope.

  Deborah spent the next ninety minutes reading the letters. They were erotic love letters from Sallie to James. She smiled. If she were a writer Deborah would have turned the letters into a novel. Reaching for her journal and a pen, she opened it to a blank page.

  January 11th—I met a man. His name is Asa Monroe and he is spending the winter in the Cove. I don’t know what it is a
bout him, but whenever he smiles at me, something stirs my blood. He makes me feel things I’ve never felt with any man. Not even with Louis.

  Capping the pen, Deborah stared at what she had written. He makes me feel things I’ve never felt with any man. There. She’d whispered what she had felt and had been feeling since she and Asa exchanged their first smile. Initially Deborah had been flattered that an attractive man had smiled at her, because it had been twenty years since she had returned a man’s stare with a blatant one of her own. Once she had become involved with Louis she hadn’t looked at another man.

  Then, there was the scene in Jack’s on New Year’s Eve. Although there was another woman at Asa’s table, he seemed intent on staring at her. It was the subtle wink that confirmed Asa Monroe was interested in her. And Deborah wasn’t so gauche that she didn’t know when a man was flirting with her.

  She had to ask herself whether she was willing to engage in a little harmless flirtation with a man who affected her with such intensity. Smiling, Deborah stored the journal and pen in the drawer of the bedside table, recounting her conversation with Barbara: I know you just lost your husband, but that doesn’t mean you have to stop living and loving.

  Her friend was right. She couldn’t stop living or loving because of Louis’s death. What Deborah had to decide was whether or not she was willing to take a chance on love again. She knew it wouldn’t be with Asa, because he would leave the Cove come spring, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy his company in the meantime.

  Slowly, methodically, Deborah stacked the letters, retied them with the ribbon and placed them in a drawer under her lingerie. Even though her grandmother hadn’t left instructions, she knew the letters were for her eyes only.

  Slipping back into bed, she rearranged the pillows and turned off the lamp. Within minutes of her head touching the pillow Deborah fell asleep. It was the first night since that fateful day in December that she hadn’t stared at the clock waiting for sleep to overtake her, so she could forget that the man who’d lain beside her for so many years was gone and would not be coming back.

  Deborah stood on the sidewalk, admiring the gold lettering on the plate-glass window: THE PARLOR BOOKSTORE. Although she hadn’t yet officially opened for business just seeing the words made it all the more real. The shelves were anchored to the walls; the ladders slid easily along the rails, permitting her access to the higher rows. Half the books were stacked, and with the delivery of the piano, tables, and chairs the residents of Sanctuary Cove could avail themselves of the town’s first bookstore.

  Her gaze shifted to the HELP WANTED sign she’d placed in the window earlier that morning. It had taken her a while to decide on the hours of operation for the bookstore, especially now that she was solely responsible for caring for her children. She hoped that whoever filled the position would be flexible enough to allow her time to run errands and be available for meetings with her children’s teachers and advisors. Deborah walked back into the store, nearly colliding with the cable technician.

  “I’m going to wire upstairs, then I’ll hook up your televisions. I should be out of your hair in about half an hour.”

  Deborah wanted to ask him if he could do it within fifteen minutes because her stomach was making gurgling noises. She’d gotten up early to make breakfast for her children, but had only drunk a cup of coffee herself. If she’d known Peter Raney was going to show up an hour later than scheduled she would’ve stopped at the Muffin Corner to eat something.

  Picking up a box cutter off a side table, she cut through the tape on one of eight cartons labeled A FRICAN-AMERICAN. When she had dismantled her bookstore, she’d made certain the books were packed by genre. Thus far she’d shelved self-help, study guides, travel, and cookbooks. Fiction, nonfiction, mystery, teen, art, science fiction, romance, biography, literature, and African-American literature and Black Studies still needed to be dusted and alphabetized.

  Deborah sat on a low stool, wiping off the covers and jackets of a carton of books featuring African-American history and literature. She flipped through the pages of The Divine Nine—The History of African American Fraternities and Sororities written by Lawrence C. Ross, Jr. The only thing she’d regretted when in college was that she hadn’t pledged a sorority. She’d written her grandmother asking her advice, and Sallie Ann had written back advising her to concentrate on her coursework. Now that she’d read her grandmother’s letters to James Williams, Deborah regretted not saving the ones her grandmother had written to her while she’d attended college. It wasn’t what she’d written, but how she’d written them, using a vintage fountain pen when most people used ballpoint pens. When she’d asked her why she still used such an antiquated writing utensil that had to be manually filled with ink, the older woman had replied that she loved seeing the flow of ink across a blank page and then waiting for it to dry.

  Deborah had managed to empty one carton when a tap on the door garnered her attention. Turning, she saw Asa Monroe peering through the glass. She stared at him staring back at her, the sound of her pounding heartbeat echoing in her ears. Her feelings toward him were becoming more confusing. What, she mused, was there about Asa that made her react like an adolescent girl with her first crush? Her palms were sweating, her knees shaking, and Deborah didn’t have to glance down at her chest to know her nipples were visible through her shirt.

  A grin tilted the corners of her mouth, and much to her surprise Asa winked at her. Walking to the door, she unlocked and opened it a few inches. His gaze moved from her face to her white tee-shirt to her cropped jeans and ballet-type shoes.

  “Good morning. We’re still not open.”

  “I know. I came to ask you about the sign in the window.”

  Deborah stared up at the man, noticing for the first time he was taller than she’d expected or remembered. At five-eight, there weren’t too many men who were a full head taller than she was. He looked as if he was ready to pose for an ad in a golfing magazine with his navy blue golf shirt, tan slacks, and imported slip-ons. “You… you want to work here?”

  Asa smiled. “You mentioned last night that you needed a part-time employee. I just came to ask if the position has been filled.”

  “Oh no,” she said much too quickly. “It’s still available. But I just didn’t expect someone like you to apply.”

  “May I come in?” Asa asked. He entered the shop when Deborah opened the door wider, then closed it behind him. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but it’s against the law to discriminate against an employee because of age, race or gender.”

  Her mouth curved into an unconscious smile. Not only was Asa Monroe very attractive, but he was as equally charming. His face was the color of gold-brown autumn leaves and there was a hint of gold in his large, deep-set brown eyes. He had what Deborah thought of as balanced features: his eyes and nose making for an arresting face. She stared at his mouth, finding his lower lip a bit too sensuous for a man. But it was his voice—velvet, resonant—that unnerved her.

  “I haven’t discriminated against you because I haven’t interviewed you.”

  “Will you?”

  “Will I what, Asa?”

  “Will you give me an interview?”

  “I can’t interview you now because I have someone working upstairs. As soon as he’s finished we’ll talk.”

  An expression of bewilderment crossed Asa’s face when he heard the sound of Deborah’s hunger. “Is that your stomach growling?”

  A rush of heat that began in Deborah’s chest moved upward, stinging her cheeks. “I’m afraid it is,” she admitted. “I’m waiting for the technician to finish up, then I’m going to get lunch.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Asa angled his head. “Would you mind sharing lunch with me over at Jack’s? You can interview me while we eat,” he added quickly.

  The sweep hand on Deborah’s watch made a full revolution before she spoke again. “Okay. But I’m picking up the tab, because it will be a business expense
.”

  Asa smiled again. “Okay. While you wait for the technician to finish, I’ll help you shelve books.”

  Deborah’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. Either Asa Monroe really did want a job, or he was trying to impress her. She hoped it wasn’t the former reason because she could only pay him a little more than minimum wage. The woman who’d worked for her in the Charleston location was an independently wealthy, retired school librarian. Books had become her life and she couldn’t bear not to be involved with them. When the discussion of a salary was broached, she’d quickly agreed to accept the lowest hourly wage mandated by law.

  “Asa, I don’t know what you’re looking for when it comes to a salary, but I can’t afford to pay much more than the minimum wage. If business is good the first three months, then I’ll give you a raise.”

  “Are you saying I’m hired?”

  Resting her hands at her hips, Deborah exhaled an audible sigh.

  “I’ll need someone to unpack and shelve new stock. I’ll also need that person to cover the front desk when I have to run errands or look in on my children.”

  “How old are your children?” he asked.

  “Seventeen and fifteen. They’re not babies, but they still need my supervision.”

  “How many hours would you need me?”

  “Probably between ten and fifteen hours a week.”

  “How many days a week?”

  “No more than three or four days. The bookstore will open from Tuesday through Saturday, nine-thirty to six.”

  “Will you have a late night?” Asa questioned.

  “Thursdays. I’ll stay open until eight. May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course, Deborah.” She loved the way he said her name. It came out in three distinct syllables, like De-boar-rah, stressing the middle syllable.

  “Why are you looking for work? And why a bookstore?”