Angels Landing

by Rochelle Alers

  “But what, Kara?” Dawn asked when she didn’t finish the sentence.

  “I’m not in Arkansas.”

  “If you’re not in Little Rock, then where the hell are you?”

  “I’m in Angels Landing. It’s on Cavanaugh Island.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. “I know I didn’t do well in geography, but could you please tell me where Cavanaugh Island is? Is that even in the United States?”

  “Yes. It’s a Sea Island off the coast of Charleston, South Carolina.”

  “South Carolina! Why are you in South Carolina? Have you been holding out on me, girl? Do you have a man there you don’t want me to know about?”

  If the situation into which she’d found herself wasn’t so serious, Kara would’ve laughed. But it wasn’t funny. Far from it. “No, I don’t have a man here. You, better than anyone, should know that I don’t want to deal with any man after that last loser. Too bad I didn’t have the good sense to walk away before it even started.”

  Dawn sucked her teeth. “You dated him for all of four months, and that was more than two years ago, Kara.”

  Kara stared at the threadbare rug and the fading drapes of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “I wish it’d been four seconds and two hundred years ago.”

  The sound of Dawn sucking her teeth again came through the earpiece. “You weren’t alive two hundred years ago.”

  Shaking her head, Kara held her forehead. There were times when she didn’t know if Dawn actually worked at being obtuse or if she was that gullible. When she’d mentioned this to her roommate, the dance teacher claimed men liked her best whenever she pretended to be an airhead. There had to be an awful lot of men who liked Dawn because Kara had lost count of the number of them who’d crossed the threshold of their East Harlem apartment.

  There were times when she’d come home to a living room filled with people. She’d go directly into her bedroom, close and lock the door, and wait for the revelry to end. It did end, but not until the early-morning hours when she had to get up and go to work, while Dawn slept well into the afternoon when it was time for her to get up and go into the dance studio where she taught ballet, jazz, and tap.

  “I’m here because I need to work out a few things that have to do with someone’s estate.”

  “What are you talking about, Kara?”

  She told Dawn everything, beginning with the letter from David up to and including her meeting with the sheriff. What she left out was her relationship to Taylor Patton. She wasn’t ready to approach that can of worms when she could barely wrap her own head around things. “Right now, I’ve committed to staying here a week to sort out a few details.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Dawn asked. “You just found some long-lost relatives are ready to take you out, and you talk about hanging around and giving them the opportunity for a drive-by?”

  The laughter began, shaking Kara until she found it almost impossible to talk. She could always count on Dawn to make her laugh. And lately there hadn’t been that much for her to laugh about. Her position as a social worker for at-risk children had her close to being burned out, and the steady stream of people coming and going at the apartment she shared with Dawn had also begun to take its toll, leaving her sleep deprived. If she could afford to move, she would have, but with exorbitant and prohibitive Manhattan rents, Kara felt trapped.

  She loved Dawn like a sister, but her roommate allowing unemployed actors and dancers to occasionally crash at their apartment went beyond being a good friend. And as much as she tried to explain to Dawn that they were her friends, not their friends, nothing changed until Dawn asked a few of them to leave and not return because several valuables had disappeared from the apartment.

  “It’s not that easy to execute a drive-by down here. First of all it’s an island, and there are only two ways on and off it, the ferry and the causeway, so how would they get away? And then there’s the sheriff. He’s definitely no-nonsense.”

  “Is he a good old boy?”

  Kara scrunched up her nose when she recalled Jeff Hamilton. If she hadn’t been so agitated, she knew she would’ve noticed that he probably wasn’t much older than she was and that he was tall and well-spoken. He’d denied interrogating her when that was exactly what he’d done. Also like his cousin David, he had tried to convince her to remain in Angels Landing and claim her birthright.

  “Not quite,” Kara responded.

  “What does the house look like?”

  “It’s a twenty-room antebellum mansion. It’s rather run-down but not falling apart.”

  “Damn, Kara,” Dawn drawled. “We could party for days in a place that big.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not going to be here long enough to throw anything.”

  “Good for you. You come on back home where you belong. It’s taken me awhile to turn you into a Big Apple diva, so I can’t imagine you turning into a Scarlett O’Hara Southern belle, rocking on the front porch with a tall glass of sweet tea, while servants fan your moist face.”

  “Stop it, Dawn!” Kara said, laughing.

  “Is there someone who takes care of the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you have a servant.”

  “She’s a housekeeper.”

  “We won’t argue about terminology, but on a more serious note, I’m worried about you, Kara. You can’t dismiss the threats because you don’t know how far these folks will go to get what they feel is legally theirs.”

  “It’s not legally theirs,” Kara argued softly.

  There came a beat; then Dawn asked, “Are you certain?”

  “Very certain.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “It’s something I can’t talk about right now.”

  “Hold up, Kara. You know you can tell me anything. We’re more than friends, we’re sisters. Let me be there for you… help you with this.”

  “No lie, Dawn, because if I didn’t think of you as my sister, I would’ve moved out a long time ago.” Kara chuckled uneasily.

  “I know you’re not talking about my friends hanging out at our place.”

  “They don’t hang out, Dawn. They move in.”

  There came another pregnant pause from Dawn. “Why didn’t you tell me you felt like this?”

  Kara rolled her eyes upward even though Dawn couldn’t see her. “I’ve told you I didn’t mind them staying over for a night or two, but they’d come and never leave.” Having lived with Dawn for so long, Kara knew how hard it was for an actor, singer, or dancer to wait for his or her big break. Kara was the social worker, but Dawn had become their Mother Teresa.

  “I can understand. Honestly… I used to think you were jealous of them, particularly my guy friends.”

  This time Kara was at a loss for words. “Jealous, Dawn? No way! I don’t have a boyfriend because I’m too stressed out from dealing with women who let their husbands or boyfriends abuse their children, then lie because they don’t want to lose the man. I put myself at risk every time I report a case of abuse or neglect. And I never know when the parents are going to turn on me.

  “Then there are the times when I’m on call. Do you think any man is going to understand me getting up in the middle of the night to remove a child from his or her home? And every time I have to go to the hospital to see a battered child with tubes attached to their little bruised body, I lose a little bit of myself.” Tears filled Kara’s eyes, and she clasped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs. “I have to go. I’ll call you in a few days.”

  “Kara?”

  “Bye, Dawn.”

  She broke the connection. Wiping the tears with the back of her hand, Kara attempted to bring herself under control. She knew feeling emotionally exhausted had something to do with her current situation. Although she’d been a social worker for ten years, she was still shocked and amazed by the amount of adults abusing helpless and vulnerable children and prayed she would never get so jaded that she�
��d accept it as commonplace rather than the exception.

  She lost track of time as she sat in the chair, staring into nothingness. Kara had always prided herself on being strong, yet this was one of those times when she didn’t know what to do.

  Her situation wasn’t unique. There were thousands who’d uncovered they were adopted or that one parent wasn’t their biological parent. The use of DNA had become quite popular to determine paternity. Maury Povich’s “You are or you’re not the father!” had become the show’s catchphrase. Despite her startling resemblance to the Pattons, Kara knew some of them would demand she submit to a DNA test to validate Taylor’s claim that she was his child and sole heir.

  Pushing off the chair, Kara plugged the cell into the charger. She stood in the middle of the bedroom, her eyes shifting from one object to another. The room reminded her of those she’d seen in museums, and she was uncertain whether the massive mahogany four-poster bed was an antique or a reproduction. The posts were elaborately carved with pineapples, leaves, and vines. The design was repeated on the legs of the highboy, writing table, the drawers on the bedside tables, and on the front of an armoire. Age and countless footsteps had worn away the color and woven threads of area rugs, and the design on the wallpaper had faded.

  Mrs. Todd had offered her a choice of the six bedrooms, and she’d chosen this one because the casement windows opened out onto a veranda that overlooked the rear of the property while offering panoramic views of the water. What had kept the mansion from appearing decrepit was its cleanliness. There wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere.

  Kara didn’t know why, but suddenly she felt as if she were smothering and had to get out of the house if only for a few minutes. She exchanged her tank top and shorts for a blouse and black cropped pants. Slipping her feet into a pair of sandals, she picked up her cross-body bag and walked out of the bedroom, nearly colliding with Mrs. Todd; she’d just come out of a room carrying a plastic bucket with cleaning supplies.

  “Now that it’s stopped raining, I’m going out for a while.”

  “Are you going to walk or drive?”

  Kara paused. “I think I’ll drive. Where do you suggest I go?”

  Mrs. Todd switched the handle of the pail from one hand to the other. “I think you should start with Haven Creek.”

  “Where’s Haven Creek?”

  “It’s west of here. It’s the first town off the causeway.” The older woman squinted. “You do know east and west don’t you?”

  Kara smiled, nodding. “Yes, I do.” She’d noticed Mrs. Todd squinting and wondered if she needed to have her eyes examined, then reminded herself Mrs. Todd wasn’t her client and she wasn’t in Angels Landing to evaluate her.

  Mrs. Todd nodded. “Will you be back in time for dinner?”

  She glanced at her watch. It was after 3:20. “Yes. I’m only going to be gone for about an hour.”

  “Until you learn the island you shouldn’t be out after dark.”

  “Now you’re scaring me, Mrs. Todd.”

  “I don’t mean to scare you, but some of the roads don’t have lights. Don’t drive too fast or you’ll get a ticket. The second time you’re caught speeding the sheriff will impound your car for thirty days.”

  “Isn’t that a little harsh?” Kara asked. “What if you need your car to go to work?”

  “That’s the law. The sheriff doesn’t make exceptions.”

  “I’m not going to be out too late. And I’m definitely not going to speed.”

  The older woman nodded before Kara headed out of the door.

  Minutes later, Kara drove slowly, staring out the window of the car that made her feel as if she were riding on air. The sedan was at least twenty-five years old, and kept in mint condition. There wasn’t a hint of rust on the black, shiny exterior and the saddle-tan leather interior was as supple as soft butter.

  As she lowered the driver’s side window, the scent of salt water wafted into the car. Decelerating to ten miles an hour, Kara became a tourist and sightseer. One- and two-story homes, palmetto and Spanish moss–draped trees dotted the landscape. She spied a marker indicating the number of miles to Haven Creek.

  A cyclist coming in the opposite direction waved to her as he passed, and she returned the wave. How different, she mused, Cavanaugh Island was from Manhattan where cyclists and bike messengers whizzed in and out of traffic while coming dangerously close to the many taxis playing chicken with pedestrians. Here the street and road names were flora: Magnolia, Palmetto, Honeysuckle, Oak, Gardenia, Peach, Carnation, and Cherry. In Manhattan there were street numbers running east and west and avenues running north and south.

  The most profound difference was the absence of noise—no sirens or honking horns. The apartment she shared with Dawn was on the eighteenth floor, and once she closed the door all street noises ceased to exist. Kara had spent hours sitting on the balcony outside her bedroom, reading or taking in the sight of pleasure boats and barges gliding along the East River. Winter was her favorite time of the year with the falling snow making it almost impossible for her to see the lights on the many bridges connecting Manhattan with the other boroughs.

  And if she hadn’t had to come home and step over people in sleeping bags in the living and dining rooms, her home life would have been close to perfect. She also resented not being able to watch television in the living room because of strangers sprawled over the sofa and chairs drinking beer and eating chips. Kara loved Dawn but hated that her dogged need to take care of a bunch of freeloaders allowed her to constantly be used as a doormat.

  She’d also found it hard to accept twenty- and thirtysomething educated people traveling around with all of their worldly goods in a bedroll or backpack. Perhaps if she hadn’t had such a stressful job, then she probably would’ve been more tolerant. The deliberation whether or not to leave or remove a child from his or her home was never an easy decision for Kara. Even after she’d made the decision, there were doubts. Those were the occasions when she wanted to come home to peace and familiarity.

  Kara knew she could find the peace she craved at Angels Landing. She would be the only one living in a six-bedroom, eight-bathroom house with a small and grand ballroom, two kitchens, a formal dining room, a solarium, and front and back porches. Mrs. Todd told her Taylor had lived alone, rarely had visitors, and conducted business using the telephone or Internet. She could understand his need for solidarity.

  A wry smile twisted her mouth. She couldn’t believe Taylor had known so much about her, yet she knew very little about him. However, in the week that she remained on the island, she would find out as much as she could about the man who supposedly had fathered her.

  The landscape changed again, becoming more wooded with trees lining both sides of the two-lane road. The houses in this section of Angels Landing were smaller replicas of the house she’d inherited.

  “Pattons.” The name had slipped unbidden from her lips. They couldn’t live in the big house, so they’d built their own Angels Landing mini-mansions.

  Kara slowed and turned off the road at the marker pointing the way to Haven Creek’s business district. Waning afternoon shadows slanted over a street that could’ve been in any small town in America. There was a sign prohibiting vehicles on the street, and she maneuvered into an area set aside for parking. She walked the short distance from the parking lot to Oak Street. Cobblestone streets, bricked sidewalks in a herringbone design, and black-and-white striped awnings shading storefronts gave the main thoroughfare a picture postcard appearance.

  Peering through a window, Kara stared at a group of women sitting in a circle quilting. She’d always wanted to learn how to hand quilt. The shelves in the next shop were filled with sweet-grass baskets.

  Moving along the street, Kara soon realized the area was an artists’ colony. Haven Creek was a Lowcountry Taos with businesses offering photographs and paintings depicting the scenes of the Sea Islands; another shop displayed an ironworker’s creations reminiscent of the late Phi
lip Simmons’s, the most celebrated of Charleston ironworkers; she passed a jewelry store featuring gold and silver pieces, another of a furniture maker, and an architectural firm. She stopped abruptly when she came face-to-face with Jeff.

  He touched the worn brim of his Atlanta Braves baseball cap. “Good afternoon, Kara. I thought I wouldn’t see you again until tomorrow.”

  Kara felt her breath catch in her throat when she met the dark, deep-set eyes of the man who’d promised to protect her. Why, she thought, hadn’t she noticed the perfection of his masculine face? He wasn’t just a good old boy, but tall, dark, and very handsome.

  She inclined her head. “Good afternoon. I thought I’d get out and do a little sightseeing.”

  “I told you I’d take you around.”

  Kara focused on his face rather than the automatic handgun holstered at his waist. “I suppose I felt a little restless. I’m not used to sitting around doing nothing.”

  Jeff nodded to a shopkeeper and stepped to his left to allow him to pass. “What is it you do, Kara?” he asked.

  Her gaze moved to the badge and name tag pinned on the chambray shirt over his heart. “I’m a social worker for a child protective agency.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, Jeff whistled softly. “That can’t be easy, especially in a big city.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Overworked and underpaid?”

  “How did you know?”

  Jeff smiled, drawing her eyes to the slight cleft in his strong chin. “I’ve met a few social workers in my travels, and they all complained about carrying too many clients on their caseloads and are paid a pittance for performing miracles.”

  Kara laughed for the second time that afternoon. “I’ve never heard it put quite that way.”

  “It’s not much different for law enforcement when the bad guys outnumber the good guys.”

  She sobered quickly. “Are you saying there’s a lot of crime on Cavanaugh Island?”

  “Quite the contrary. There’s little or no crime, especially with an islandwide policy of zero tolerance. You break the law, you pay the price.”