by Mari Labbee
THE FEEL OF ECHOES
Mari Labbee
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Mari Labbee
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1542963893
ISBN 13: 9781542963893
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017902036
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
For Rick
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
PART TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR BIO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would not have been possible without the love, support and encouragement of my husband, Rick. You have taught me what love is all about. Thanks to my parents; my dad who taught me to appreciate a good story, and my mom, from whom I inherited a love for books and reading. My sisters; Beck and Chris, my greatest cheerleaders (Thanks Sissy for your words of encouragement after reading the rough draft). My two beautiful nieces, who make everything fun. And thank you, Gail, for your guidance and expertise.
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
The room was dark and warm, much warmer than it should have been for this (or any other) time of year in these parts. A wisp of breeze found its way into the room through the half-open window, so insignificant that not a speck of dust had been disturbed in its wake. Outside, a sliver of moonbeam broke free from behind the gauntlet of clouds that held sway on this night, slicing the darkness neatly in two and shining into the room through uncovered windows, casting little pools of light as it went—searching with what could almost be called single-mindedness (if moonbeams possessed such a talent). It illuminated an empty box against a wall, a still-sealed box next to a stack of suitcases, where a small potted cactus topped with wispy white strands had been placed precariously on top—until it found her.
She had long ago thrown off the single sheet that covered her. A light sheen coated her arms and legs, and small beads of sweat clung to a delicate mustache above her lip. The moonbeam shone on her face. She squinted, frowned, and turned over onto her side—it followed. Her breathing had been deep and even, but it quickened now as eyes darted back and forth beneath closed lids. Her legs twitched, like a dog dreaming, digging her deeper into the hopelessly tangled sheet. A small whimper escaped her lips.
Footsteps—someone was running.
The door flew open with enough force to shake loose the lamps on either side of its frame, sending a flutter of moths excitedly into the night. The woman ran from the house and into the thicket of woods surrounding it. She held up the blue skirt of her dress with both hands balled so tightly into fists that her knuckles had gone white. A peal of thunder cracked open the sky and the storm that had been brewing arrived, pitting wind against rain until they became one feral force.
And she brings down the rain, the woman thought. How could I not have known?
Her breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, and bared shoulders heaved as if a weight sat atop them. She ran with a destination in mind, coughing through the fire in her chest.
“Must reach it…”
Rain lashed down in stinging pellets, blinding her as she pushed aside low-hanging branches that whipsawed back around, landing on porcelain flesh to raise pink welts and draw blood. Vines wrapped themselves around her ankles and pulled her down into the boggy ground. The woods had come alive to mock her, conspiring to keep her here—to tie her to this place forever. She tightened her grip on the waterlogged skirt that had become an anchor. A quick escape would be almost impossible. The air crackled, and the wind moaned; there was nothing but storm, woods, and pain. She had to reach it before they reached her. She ran without stopping until she reached the clearing, and only then did she stop to stare out into the inky darkness. As if to answer her prayers, the bloated clouds above parted and washed the clearing in silvery moonlight, illuminating it as if it were day. The field spread out before her like a fan to where the land suddenly stopped and descended sharply into the sea below. She burst out running, hair trailing behind her like ribbons, wind blowing in from the sea, blasting her head-on as she ran.
The lighthouse at the edge of the cliff stood as it had for decades: a redbrick sentinel, stoic and dark, guarding the ragged coast—indifferent, oblivious.
Suddenly a man’s voice rang out. She turned to look back, but she didn’t dare stop. Her eyes wide and filled with fear, she searched the darkness for him. His voice rang out again, rising above the suddenly hushed wind.
“Not just me,” she whispered desperately. “He…they…have power over the wind.”
Again he called out, urgent, closer this time.
Her heart beat like a hammer to her chest, her legs were on fire, and pain danced on every nerve. Cannot stop, cannot stop until…
She must reach it—there could be no other outcome. As she neared the lighthouse, the roar of waves crashing against the rocks deadened all other sounds. Only as she reached the lighthouse did she dare turn to look.
The lantern lights had reached the edge of the woods (they likely thought she had run in the other direction and started that way before realizing their mistake), but now they were coming into the clearing, and they were coming fast. She looked up and hesitated for just a moment before grabbing the handle and pulling open the lighthouse door.
No more time.
Quickly, taking two steps at a time, she made her way up. Her footsteps on the metal stairs reverberated through the great tower, stopping finally when she reached the watch room just below the lantern. There she began looking around frantically—her hands out in front of her—feeling for something along the walls.
Where is it? It has to be here! Her hands worked qu
ickly over the damp bricks, their rough surface scratching her small fingers. Nothing-there is nothing here! The tears came now, an unstoppable torrent.
She plunged her hand into the pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt where she fished out a key but fumbled it. The echo of it clattering to the floor, reverberated all the way down the great tower. A desperate whimper escaped her lips as she bent to pick it up. With shaking hands, she threaded the key into the lantern door’s lock, exhaling once the lock clicked.
She scrambled up into the lantern room and quickly made her way to the door that led outside, only to be slammed against the glass lantern by the force of the wind as she stepped out. Clinging fast to the smooth glass surface, she inched her way around to where a demon sea churned far below.
Waves, one after another, pounded the rocks that seemed to cower against the punishment they received. Jagged spires, polished smooth, gleamed in the pearly light.
“Rosabel!”
The man’s voice rose up on the wind. She went to the parapet rail and looked over—there they all were, together, but none of them was looking up. Suddenly her hair, taken by the wind, flew around her like a wild flame. He looked up and saw her: eyes shining, lips trembling, so beautiful despite the fear. Their eyes locked.
He was with them—Elias—his face gaunt and gray, hollow eyes staring up at her.
“My love,” she whispered, “where are you?”
She searched his face for traces of the man she had known. Her eyes burned with tears. Sadly, she knew now—he was one of them. The others hadn’t looked up yet. Not expecting to find her there, they hadn’t thought to do so. But finally, she looked up, and a slow smile appeared—there were terrors in that beautiful smile. Finally, the others looked up too. Elias-turned to stone-didn’t move as the others started without him. They were coming up now, coming for her.
With hands firmly gripping the short rail that separated her from the sea below, she looked down. A moment later she climbed over the rail onto the narrow edge and stared down at the dark sea below. Suddenly, a shimmer of light caught her eye, and she looked over her shoulder. Everything stopped: no more waves, no more wind, only the thump of a heartbeat. Rosabel smiled and reached a hand out far to her side—hand open wide, fingers splayed, reaching, as if to catch a moonbeam. Her heart became quiet; contentedness swelled its chambers, and a strange calm settled over her, replacing the desperation of a moment ago. Time stood still. From far out at sea, more clouds rolled in, and thunder growled low, soon to make things worse, but she didn’t hear it. She didn’t hear the wind, the waves, or the echo of footsteps inside the lighthouse. In that infinite moment, all was as it was meant to be.
Behind her, there was a crash. They had reached the scuttle, and they would be at her soon. She pulled her hand back, gripped the rail behind her, and inched her feet farther over the edge. The lantern door was thrown open, and a woman shrieked.
They were too late.
Rosabel closed her eyes and drew in a calm breath, and before anyone could stop her, she let herself fall gently into the wild sea below.
The last thing she heard was his cry.
“Noooooo…!”
CHAPTER TWO
Sabrina was jolted awake, a hand on her throat, a half-strangled scream still in the air. It took a moment before she realized where she was. She felt her forehead; drenched in sweat…again. She looked down and saw the sheet balled up around her feet. Since she’d moved into the house, she hadn’t slept through one entire night. Every night, at some point, she had woken up in more or less the same state she was in now.
It’s the stress, she told herself. She just hadn’t anticipated so many obstacles when she bought this old house, thinking she would restore it. Something she really should have given more thought to, and looking back now, she couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t. This place was far away from everything—everything; the closest town was almost an hour’s drive. What was she going to do? How would everything get done? And the money…no, she didn’t want to think about that. The stress might not actually kill her, but it was enough to give her nightmares—ones that she could never remember upon waking. Tonight, though, she had screamed, and that was a little weird, or had she just dreamed of a scream? She couldn’t be positive, but it felt like she had screamed. And this time she remembered something: water rushing toward her…falling…and that scream.
She untangled herself from under the mangrove at her feet, sighing as she slung her legs over the mattress that sat on the floor, and slipped her feet into sandals. Usually, she’d go barefoot, but the floors needed refinishing—as the splinter she’d spent hours fishing out of her right foot so clearly demonstrated the first night here.
She shuffled over to the bathroom and turned the faucet handle on the sink, which began filling with cool water (the only temperature it produced for the moment), all fine by her, since the heat never let up. Yet another unexpected surprise. Coastal Maine wasn’t supposed to swelter. Summers were supposed to be mild and pleasant, something she’d been looking forward to.
She splashed her face and then ran wet hands along the back of her neck and arms to cool off. Her reflection in the mirror stared back. Dark pools underlined her eyes, and (she could swear) another dozen fine lines had sprouted. Every day here added to this very tired-looking version of herself. She had definitely looked better.
Her days had been spent working to exhaustion, and the nights brought little relief. Not only had she not anticipated having to do all the work herself but restoring this old house was draining what was left of her money. She really hadn’t thought this whole thing out adequately and grossly underestimated what it would take, what with nobody willing to drive out this far for a protracted job.
So far she’d managed to get three contractors out here; two of the estimates were so expensive she’d simply thrown them away, and the third contractor never returned her calls. She ran both hands through her hair and thought, Maybe that haircut, or training for a 5K, or even therapy might have been the way to go to satisfy this much-needed change. Now all she had to look forward to was a looming bankruptcy if things didn’t start working out around here. Overly dramatic, are we? She thought, pushing the bothersome thought away. No, she wasn’t ready to admit anything like that this early on.
Outside, the half-light of dawn streamed in, washing the second-story corner room in bright morning light. The day was fast approaching and brought with it enough work to keep her from thinking about anything else.
Hardly worth getting back in bed.
She quickly brushed her hair and twisted it up into a topknot to keep it off her neck. Then she grabbed the blue bandanna hanging on the doorknob and tied it around her head. She pulled a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from one of the suitcases and glanced down at the clock radio sitting on the floor next to the mattress. She stretched her leg out and pushed the power button down with her big toe. It jumped to life.
“Another hot summah day, whew!”
The second DJ cut in, “Ayuh. Make sure lemonade’s on hand, and if yahr headed upta…”
They were talking about the weather again. It’s all anyone around here was talking about. It led all the local newscasts. Nobody knew how high the mercury would climb, and they were interviewing experts on it. Debates about global warming, climate change—whatever you wanted to call it—led all the shows. It was being discussed and debated by expert and neophyte alike.
Apparently, she’d chosen the hottest summer ever to move to the southern coast of Maine. And they hadn’t been spared humidity, either, something the locals were having quite a time with, and she included herself in that population now. She began wondering if New York was having the same heat wave and stopped herself. It didn’t matter. Nothing that happened there should matter to her anymore.
As she left the room, she tossed her nightshirt into the box by the door. The box was doubling as a laundry basket for now, and she thought, Got to get better organized. She frowned. But gett
ing organized was something she was having a little trouble with for the first time in her life.
The last six months had been quite a journey. Never in a million years would Bri have imagined how much her life could change in such a short time.
Last March, she came to Pegottie for the first time and set eyes on the house. She had been staying at the Cutter Inn, in a lovely cottage on a particularly beautiful, if not isolated, stretch of beach just outside the town of Pegottie, population fifty-eight hundred. From that beach, while taking her daily solitary walk, she first noticed the top of the lighthouse on the cliff at the end of the beach.
Pegottie, for all its charm, wasn’t a big tourist attraction. It was small and inconvenient, far away from airports, malls, and everything else that attracted most people. Its beaches were rocky, wireless and Internet were spotty, and there were no world-class restaurants. There were better beaches and bigger towns farther south, and that’s where the tourists flocked. She might never have come to such a place if her life hadn’t been broken. All she wanted was to be away—away from everything familiar, and Pegottie was precisely what she was looking for; they had found each other. After all, a wedding no longer occupied her thoughts. Her life wasn’t filled with anything having to do with white gardenias or a gown of silk with pearls sewn into a sweetheart neckline and, most of all, it had nothing to do with wedding invitations. She desperately wanted to forget that unusually frigid late-February day when she had picked up the invitations, and Pegottie would help her do it.
CHAPTER THREE
“They turned out very nice,” Mr. Linden said, handing over two boxes. He peered at her over the reading glasses perched at the end of his nose. “Take a look,” he said, smiling.
Bri opened one of the boxes.
“Oh, they are, they are!” she exclaimed, running her fingers over the raised silver lettering on parchment.