Betrayed

by Karen E. Olson

  I want my paints. I want to capture the island, the water, from this vantage point, an angle I never had when I lived here because I was always looking out toward the water, not the other way around.

  Despite the churning sea, a sense of peace rushes through me as we approach. The National Hotel towers majestically over Old Harbor, and the line of shops where Veronica’s gallery sits grows larger as we get closer. I have nothing for Veronica now, unless I can get hold of my watercolors from Woods Hole.

  I spot the little house. The one where I spent fifteen years of my life. It looks exactly as when I left it, unchanged. How can that be? I am so different.

  The boat’s engines are cut and we slow down, bouncing slightly against the dock. I stumble a little, unsteady. I never spent any time on the ferry; I just watched it come and go, the tourists filing off its decks and on to the island for their holidays. I waited for them at the bike shop, ready to take anyone who wanted to go on a tour. And then I’d meet Steve for dinner at Club Soda, for hamburgers and beer and laughter.

  He’s not waiting when we dock. I am momentarily disappointed, even though there is no way he could have known I was coming. I haven’t called ahead. I don’t want to risk anyone knowing I’m here.

  Instinctively, when I get off the ferry, I look around to make sure I’m not being followed.

  There are two taxis waiting for the ferry, but I don’t need a ride. I want to walk, even though my toes are frozen inside my sneakers. I wiggle them a little to try to warm them up, but it’s futile. I zip up my fleece jacket so it’s tighter around my neck. There’s nothing I can do for my ears; my hands are still in my pockets. I walk briskly, faster and faster up the hill. I’m not quite as cold as I was when I got off the ferry by the time I reach the door at Club Soda.

  He won’t be here; I know that. It’s lunchtime and a Thursday, and he’s always here for dinner on Friday nights. At least he used to be. Could be he changed it up after I left, set up a new schedule. He and Jeanine.

  I should have stopped at the spa to see her. But I’m hungry, and I want to get used to the place again, just for a little while by myself. I want to feel comfortable, relaxed first. I am a little concerned that Abby will be working; I’m not ready to see anyone I know. I don’t recognize the waitress or the bartender, which surprises me a little, but I’ve been gone a while. I can’t expect that things wouldn’t change even a little.

  I sit at a table near the bar and order a hamburger, onion rings, and a beer. It feels so natural; I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to come back.

  One thing I’ve learned: Miami is only where I grew up; here on Block Island, I’m home.

  It’s too far to walk to Steve’s, so I have the bartender call me a cab. It’s habit, really; I have a cell phone in my pocket but I don’t like using it and I don’t need one here.

  Again I feel a little pull of disappointment when the cab that drives up is not Steve’s, but I climb in and give his address. The cabbie glances at me in the rear-view mirror but says nothing.

  Butterflies are fluttering in my belly by the time we pull up to the little gray Cape Cod house. The red and blue and white buoys that hang from a rope along his small white picket fence almost make me cry. I pay the cabbie and tumble out of the car, dragging my backpack with me.

  I take a deep breath, push my way through the little gate. I don’t go to the front door; Steve hasn’t used it since Dotty died. Instead, I go around the side to the door to the porch that leads into the kitchen. I know this house as well as I’ve known any of my own.

  I peer through the window. It’s dark, but that’s not a surprise. Steve is the quintessential New Englander: save electricity, and thus money. I take a deep breath, raise my hand, but before I can knock, I hear a familiar buzzing. I consider ignoring it, but reach around and unzip the front pocket of the backpack. The number on the phone is ‘unknown.’

  I answer it. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tina?’

  The voice is familiar. ‘Spencer?’

  ‘You have to come back.’

  ‘No. It’s too soon.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  Before he can explain, the door swings open and Steve is suddenly there, standing in front of me, his eyes wide, a smile spreading across his face. ‘Nicole?’

  I am unprepared for the emotion that rushes through me. Tears spring to my eyes, and I nod, but I’m still holding the phone next to my ear, and what Spencer says next makes me freeze.

  ‘Zeke’s gone.’