Sail Away with Me

by Susan Fox

  Of course he wished that she could overcome her anxiety about social situations, and become part of his life outside Destiny Island.

  “Now,” Akemi said, arranging neat slices on a glazed plate, along with a couple of other varieties of sushi she had prepared earlier, “everything is ready. Let’s move to the dining room.”

  Iris took a salad of thinly sliced cucumber from the fridge and Ken brought a bowl of delicious-smelling karaage. Once they had seated themselves and used chopsticks to serve themselves, Akemi said, “Do you realize, it’s only ten days to Christmas? In two weeks, the year will be over.”

  And he would be back in Vancouver. He avoided looking at Iris, who was as aware of that fact as he was.

  “Blue Moon Harbor is so pretty at Christmas,” Iris said. “It’s a wonderful time of year.”

  Julian had never been big on Christmas, but in the past years Luke’s boys had livened up the day. He needed to get started on his gift shopping.

  “I phoned Melanie Newall,” Ken said, “and thanked her for the great job the Gazette did on our holiday ad. We’ve had a wonderful response to it.”

  Books were perfect gifts. Everyone in his family read—even Forbes now, with his current fascination with thrillers. Sonia, she loved anything scientific . . . He smiled, thinking of Iris’s knack for selecting the perfect book. She could help with his Christmas shopping.

  His mind was only half on the Yakimuras’ conversation as Iris asked her dad if Melanie had given him a hard time about not running for some position.

  Ken shrugged, and Akemi said, rather sharply, “I do wish you would have.”

  “So do I,” Iris said. “But I’m also sorry to see Walter Franklin step down. He’s been an excellent trustee. It’s a shame that a stupid rumor kept him from running again.”

  “At least there’s a good man stepping in,” Akemi said. “And it is uncontested, so we already know the result.”

  “Yes,” Ken said, “Bart will do a fine job.”

  “Bart?” The name came out of Julian’s mouth in a dry croak. He put down the forkful of karaage he’d been raising to his mouth.

  Akemi turned to him. “Bart Jelinek? The man who owns Island Realty.”

  “Yeah, right,” Julian managed, fighting a surge of nausea. He slipped his hand into his pocket and gripped the mended guitar pick. Curiosity drove him to ask, “He’s running uncontested for what?”

  “A trustee position on the Islands Trust,” Ken answered.

  Julian struggled to control his racing heart, churning stomach, and desire to flee. Iris had said that if she breathed deeply and accepted her anxiety, then her brain would understand that the panic was unwarranted and it would diminish. He sucked in air and let it out. “The Islands Trust is one of the governing bodies? They handle”—unable to think of the French word for “zoning,” he switched to English—“zoning and development?”

  “That’s right,” Ken said, speaking in English now, too.

  “It’s one of the most influential leadership positions on the island,” Akemi said, also in English. “Since my dear retiring, humble husband refused to run, I suppose we should be glad it’ll go to such a capable, respected man.”

  Respected.

  This is our secret, Julian.

  Yeah, Jelinek was respected. That was how he’d controlled Julian, by saying no one would believe a kid like him over a community leader. Since that time, the man’s “star” had only risen. Now he would become even more prestigious. He would use that to manipulate other boys. So much for deep breathing and calming the anxiety; Julian’s gorge rose and he took shallow breaths in an attempt to quell the nausea.

  For years, he’d tried to box up the past and keep from thinking about it. From letting himself realize that he wasn’t a special boy. That Jelinek wasn’t just his abuser but a fucking pedophile. That over the past decade and longer, Jelinek had victimized other boys. And Julian had done nothing to stop him.

  He shoved back his chair, its legs grating across the ceramic tile floor, and jerked to his feet. Nausea, dizziness, cold sweat; he couldn’t even breathe. If he stayed here a moment longer, he’d throw up or pass out. Possibly both.

  “I can’t . . .” He gulped air. “Sorry, I . . .” Somehow, he managed to get his body coordinated enough to stride toward the door, and then he was running.

  * * *

  Iris stared after Julian, her mouth gaping. Then she was on her feet, too, rushing after him.

  “Iris!” her mother called.

  Iris, who never raised her voice, shouted, “Sorry, Mom,” and kept going.

  The front door of the house was wide open to the late November cold, and she slammed it behind her, flying out into the rain, down the steps, and toward the street. She caught up to him at the B-B-Zee van as he tried to jam a key into the driver’s-side lock. Shivering, her light sweater absorbing the chilly rain, she tried to remain semi-calm. Taking the key ring from him, she said, “You can’t drive. Julian, come back inside. Whatever’s wrong, we’ll talk about it.”

  He shook his head, tremors racking his body. “Can’t.”

  Tension and cold made her tremble. His agony was obvious, and somehow she had to help. “Go around to the passenger side.” She unlocked the door, hoisted herself into the driver’s seat, and reached over to unlock the passenger door. Julian hauled himself in and sat, hunched into himself, quaking.

  She turned on the interior light, levered the seat forward, and put the key in the ignition. Studying the diagram on the gear shift, she pressed down the clutch pedal and ran through the gears. Thank heavens Grandmother Rose had driven a stick shift. When she turned on the ignition, Janis Joplin’s voice blared out, singing that a woman could be tough. Iris flicked off the CD player. She located the headlight and wiper switches and then, in first gear, pulled away from the curb. “I’ll drive you to Forbes and Sonia’s house.” She made a jerky shift into second.

  “No.”

  It was too cold for the commune and they couldn’t go to the boat because her keys were in her purse, back in her parents’ living room. Her apartment, then—provided Mrs. Wong, the neighbor who had a spare key, was home as she almost invariably was.

  Visibility was nasty. Iris leaned forward, peering out the windshield. Beside her, Julian was like a child with night terrors, curled trembling in a fetal position. She’d seen him exhibit minor versions of the same symptoms before. Was he physically ill, or was it a panic attack?

  Hands tight on the wheel, damp and shivering herself, she tried to think of possible triggers. A discussion about the Islands Trust and zoning? What could be more harmless?

  When she stopped at the village’s one traffic signal, the lights from holiday decorations were a colored blur through the rain, incongruously cheerful in contrast to Julian’s state of mind. She clicked on the heater, was blasted with cold air, and turned it off again.

  She passed Dreamspinner, Blowing Bubbles, and Island Realty, and turned onto Blue Moon Harbor Drive.

  “Stop!” Julian cried in a choked, frantic tone.

  Heart racing, she slowed and pulled toward the curb. Before she got there, he jumped out. She jammed her foot down on the brake pedal, forgetting to depress the clutch, and the van stalled and lurched to a halt. After shifting into first, she got out, too. The headlights and streetlights didn’t provide much illumination through the heavy rain, and she didn’t see Julian. Gazing around, she shivered as cold water beat against the top of her head and her shoulders. She had parked beside a row of townhouses, the property set off from the road by a low hedge.

  She heard the sound of retching, over by the hedge. She followed it, to see Julian kneeling, his back to her. She touched his shoulder.

  He jerked as if she’d struck him. “Go away!”

  She wanted to help, but how could she if her touch upset rather than soothed him? Helpless, she stood in the rain as he vomited again.

  Eventually, he rose slowly. When he turned to her, his face was white i
n the dim light, wet hair plastered to his forehead. “Sorry,” he said grimly.

  “It’s okay.” Again, she yearned to reach out but she didn’t dare. “What can I do to help?”

  He shook his head, which seemed to her to say that he didn’t think anyone could help.

  Trying to sound firm and competent, she said, “We’ll get hypothermia. Come back to the van and we’ll go to my place. We’ll take off our wet clothes and I’ll make ginger tea. It’ll warm us and help settle your stomach.” Maybe this was merely a tummy upset, but she doubted it. If the pain he suffered was emotional, how could she help if he wouldn’t share with her?

  “Okay.” He said it with resignation, not hope, but he did accompany her to the van and haul himself inside.

  This time, he didn’t hunch over but flopped back in the seat, not bonelessly like a rag doll but taut and trembling, like he was exerting iron will to hold himself together but not quite succeeding.

  She was shaking, too, from cold and tension, and could barely manage to drive. But she got the van into a guest parking spot outside her building. After they trudged through the rain to the front door, she crossed her fingers and buzzed Mrs. Wong. Fortunately, the seventy-something widow answered.

  “It’s Iris and I’ve forgotten my keys. Can you let me in?”

  The door released and Iris and Julian took the elevator to the third floor. Mrs. Wong stood in the open doorway of her apartment, dressed in burgundy sweats. She held out a key, her sparse gray eyebrows climbing her forehead as she stared at the drenched pair.

  “It’s a long story,” Iris said.

  She unlocked her door and ushered Julian inside. “Go into my bathroom and get out of those wet clothes. Toss them outside the door and I’ll put them in the dryer. Have a hot shower. There are a couple of new toothbrushes in the cabinet under the sink.”

  He said nothing, but walked down the hall.

  Like her keys, her phone was in her purse, so Iris used the land line to call her mom.

  Akemi answered promptly. “Iris, what’s going on? Where are you?”

  “Julian’s sick. I’m sorry to run out like that, but I didn’t want him to drive. We’re at the condo.” It would feel like a betrayal to say she suspected that the scar had ripped off his emotional wound. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I hate to ask this, but do you think Aunt Lily might stay at your house tonight? Julian didn’t want to go home, and just seems to want to be alone. If she came home, it could be awkward for everyone.”

  “Yes, I see. We will do what we can to help Julian. Do you want me to call Lily at the store?”

  “Thanks, Mom. That would be great. I need to get out of my wet clothes.”

  “If you need anything, you’ll let us know.” It was an order, not a question.

  “Absolutely.”

  Iris went to her bedroom, stripped off her clammy clothing, and slipped into a plum-blossom yukata. She hung up her blouse, bra, and wool pants to dry. A shower would be nice, and she could use her aunt’s bathroom, but she wanted to be available when Julian emerged, so she settled for toweling her wet hair. He had, as requested, tossed his pants and shirt outside her bathroom door. She cleaned out his pockets and put the clothes in the dryer in the laundry closet, and then put the kettle on.

  Rubbing her arms to warm up, she stood by the stove. When the kettle whistled, she made a pot of ginger tea—no strong black coffee for Julian’s stomach tonight—and took the teapot and two mugs to her bedroom. The bathroom door was still closed. The shower no longer ran. “Julian?” She tapped on the door. “Are you all right? Can I help? Your clothes should be dry soon, but in the meantime why don’t you come get under the covers?”

  He didn’t respond, but after a minute the bathroom door eased open and he came out, clad in black boxer briefs. His face was pale and strained, his blond hair wet and tousled.

  She dared to reach for his hand and this time he didn’t jerk away but let her lead him to the bed. When she pulled back the duvet, he obediently slid between the sheets, sitting up with two pillows behind his back, the duvet pulled to his waist. He took the mug she handed him and she stood by the bed, not knowing what to do next.

  “Look at you,” he said, his voice even huskier than usual. “So pure and lovely. Like springtime on this dark, dirty winter night.”

  This wasn’t the time to tell him about the kimono tradition of wearing a pattern that reflected not the current season but the upcoming one, hence her plum blossoms. Besides, she sensed he was talking about more than just clothing, using an analogy she didn’t grasp.

  Clasping her mug, she went around the bed and curled up on top of the duvet, facing him. “Julian, please tell me what’s wrong. Let me help.”

  He stared down at the mug, took a sip of tea, and then gazed back to her face, his expression bleak. “If I tell you, you’ll know how . . . contaminated I am.” He spat out the word with disgust.

  She didn’t believe that, or at least didn’t want to. She thought she knew Julian’s soul, yet might his unhealed wound be something so horrible that she’d recoil? There was only one way to find out. “Tell me. Keeping this secret is tearing you up inside.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Iris was right. What she didn’t know was that revealing his secret would also tear him apart. Not only that, but it would shatter Forbes and Sonia.

  This is our secret, Julian.

  “No,” he muttered in a rasp that tore at his throat. “No longer.”

  “Julian?”

  He took another sip of tea, his motions slow and deliberate. From here on in, everything would change. He noted the delicately curved line of the mug, the cream and rust ceramic glaze. He savored the ginger flavor on his tongue, unusual and a little exotic. Rather like Iris, with her wisdom and a rare beauty that went soul-deep. He put the mug on the bedside table beside a sage-green glazed bowl holding a half dozen pretty shells and rocks, and then turned back to Iris.

  He knew the words he had to say. They’d been hidden in his soul for more than a dozen years, though he’d done his shameful best to bury them. “Bart Jelinek is a pedophile.”

  She blinked, frowned. “What? What did you say?”

  He waited. She’d heard him; she just needed to process.

  Her eyes narrowed in concentration. Slowly, she turned away from him.

  Crap, I’ve lost her. She won’t even allow for the possibility.

  She put down her mug and turned back to him. Her lips quivered and her eyes were wide and glazed with moisture. “You?” she whispered. “He abused you when you were a boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Julian.” She leaned forward and put her hands on his shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

  She believed him. Still wanted to touch him. Didn’t censure him. But that was only because the truth hadn’t truly sunk in, with all its ramifications. Even so, the fact that she believed him was like one stone lifting from the heap that weighted down his heart.

  “Tell me,” she said as tears slipped down her pale cheeks.

  “You don’t want to hear the details.” Yet now he’d ripped off the scab, more poison spilled out. “I was eleven when we moved to Destiny. A pissed-off kid. I’d lost my home and friends, lost my dad to Sonia. I had a stepbrother I didn’t know, and the kids in school were his longtime friends. There was no place for me. I was vulnerable and I was weak.”

  “He preyed on you?”

  Julian nodded. “He was a friend of Sonia’s and Luke’s. He visited the house, sometimes with his wife. He . . . recognized what I was. Flawed, weak. He befriended me, invited me to”—he gulped, remembering—“this outbuilding on his property. His man cave, he called it. His house wasn’t far from ours, an easy bike ride. The man cave had cool stuff: a wide-screen TV, video games, snacks. He paid attention to me when no one else did. Enjoyed my company.” He swallowed, a sour taste in the back of his mouth. “It felt like he was the one person on the island who saw me. And wasn’t I an idiot to not realize wh
at he really saw, this pathetic little victim?”

  As he’d been speaking, he and Iris had adjusted their positions so now she was nestled against him with his arm around her shoulders. She stroked his bare chest in slow circles, and he didn’t know whether she was trying to soothe him or herself.

  “Julian, you were a child. You had no reason to suspect he was anything other than he appeared to be. He was a friend of your stepmom’s and stepbrother’s, so—” She sucked in a breath. “Luke? You don’t think . . . ?”

  “That Jelinek abused him, too? No. There were no signs of that. Luke was better adjusted than me, not so vulnerable.”

  “It was his island, his home, his support network with Candace and their friends.”

  “Yeah. So, anyhow, Jelinek said he’d always wanted a son but his wife couldn’t have kids. He said I was a special boy, said he cared about me. Cared for me.” Julian choked out the rest. “Said he fucking loved me. And I was flattered, needy, he knew all the buttons to push.”

  “My God,” Iris said slowly. “It’s so hard to comprehend. He’s a criminal, yet everyone thinks he’s a total good guy.” Her eyes narrowed. “Every time you’ve gone strange, looked like you might be having a panic attack, it’s because something reminded you of him.”

  He nodded. “Just being on the island has always been hard. I don’t even read the Gazette for fear some article will mention him, or I’ll see his real estate ad with his picture.” Hoping to rid himself of the sour taste in his mouth, he reached for the mug and drank. His stomach had settled a little, thanks to the tea or maybe to spewing forth the truth to this amazing woman.

  “He said we needed to keep my visits to his place a secret, because others would be jealous. He gave me attention, approval, affection—and God knows, maybe it was genuine. Maybe he’s so fucking perverted that he actually equates abuse with love. He seduced me, like the salesman he is. Not with a hard sell, the kind that’s so blatant even a stupid kid like me might’ve been able to recognize and resist it. But with a subtle, smart, persistent soft sell, exploiting all my weaknesses and fears and breaking me down until I was putty in his hands.”