“Shall we sit for a while? Have a glass of something?” Robert’s cheeks were drained of color.
They sat. Marilyn’s nostrils filled with the smell of him. When she closed her eyes, she remembered the grey shadows of his bedroom and the soft way he’d spoken to her when she had allowed him to see her— truly see her for the first time. James couldn’t have understood the inner chaos of her soul. Instead, he ordered them a bottle of whiskey, announcing that they would soon toast to their future at the Cliffside Overlook.
The whiskey was poured. Marilyn regarded it as a safe evacuation. If she could only drink enough, maybe her annoyance at James would fade away; maybe she wouldn’t remember the horror that awaited her for the rest of her days. James lifted his glass and beckoned for Robert and Marilyn to do the same.
“To us and to wherever the wind — be it as powerful and frantic as this — takes us,” he breathed. “I am grateful to have been brought into such a world of history and life. And I know that I will add my personality and business prowess to it in ways that will blow all previous eras of the hotel out of the water.”
James then lifted the glass a tiny bit higher, nodded his head, and dunked the glass back. Marilyn’s eyes found Robert’s for just a split-second as James’s were closed. Robert’s were difficult to read.
A man and his young son approached the table, then. All the color had drained from the man’s cheeks. The young boy looked squeamish and held back as his father spoke.
“Mr. Sheridan, I believe we need to sound the alarms and get everyone to the safe house,” the man said.
James cleared his throat as he tapped his glass back on the table. “Excuse me, sir. What is your name?”
The man balked. “I’m Collington, sir. I’ve worked at the hotel for years. Johnson and I ensured there was a safe house for storms like this.”
James arched an eyebrow. “All this talk of Johnson. I’ve grown tired of hearing about him.”
Mr. Collington looked exasperated. “If we don’t get these people to a safe house, there’s no telling what might happen. This hotel is quite old and I believe it hasn’t been appropriately stabilized in years. Please, Mr. Sheridan. Listen to reason.”
James clucked his tongue. “Mr. Collington. It pains me to tell you this, but in fact, I’m the new owner of the Cliffside Overlook. All decisions go through me as of this afternoon. Do you understand me?”
Mr. Collington’s eyes nearly popped from his head. His hand found his young son’s shoulder as he took a delicate step back.
“After what Johnson told you? You actually sold?” He spoke to Robert as though Robert had committed a heinous crime.
Robert’s eyes fell toward the table. Marilyn quivered in shame. He’d done it for her, for them, and she couldn’t even live bravely enough to throw everything away for him. Why? What was wrong with her?
“I think we will stay here,” James scoffed then. He wanted to be resistant, to prove that he was stronger and braver than any other man.
“That is a foolish decision,” Mr. Collington blared.
“Father, can we go?” The young boy whispered it as he tugged at his father’s elbow.
“Dexter, yes. We’re on our way.” He lifted his heavy eyes toward Robert.
“James. It’s imperative that we get these people out of here,” Robert urged then.
Mr. Collington’s posture shifted. He gave Robert a grateful nod. “We have a number of vehicles ready to go. We don’t have many guests at the moment. We could have everyone to the safe house in maybe thirty minutes or less— before the storm really kicks off.”
James glowered. “Excuse me. I believe I’ve already—”
But Robert thrust himself up from his chair so quickly that it knocked back against the ground behind him. “You know nothing of this island. Just listen to someone else besides that horrible little voice in the back of your head for once.” He then clapped his hands violently to force the other diners to spring their attention toward him.
“Everyone. This tropical storm could soon take a turn. I believe it’s essential that we make our way to a safe house. Gather whatever belongings you require and meet in the foyer in ten minutes’ time. Remember— the most important thing to save is your life. We have very little time.”
Chapter Seventeen
Dexter Collington was eighty-eight years old. He had this number proudly displayed on a number of birthday cards around his room at the nursing home, and he announced it plainly upon Lola and Kelli’s entrance, saying, “I’m eighty-eight years old, but I keep telling you, Lola. If you want me to take you on a date, I’ll do it in a heartbeat.”
Lola laughed as the older man greeted her with a firm handshake, one that seemed overly powerful given his age.
“You’re such a rascal, Dexter,” Lola told him.
“And you! That article you wrote was beautiful. Thank you for including what I said. That older man Johnson is burned in my mind as one of the most spectacular men. The older generation, you know— even older than my father. It’s difficult to explain that to younger folk, now.” His bright eyes were circled with wrinkles as though time itself had attempted to conceal their light. He nodded toward Kelli and said, “My name is Dexter Collington. And you are?”
“This is my cousin, Kelli,” Lola introduced.
Kelli lifted a hand to shake Dexter’s. She tried to envision him the way her grandmother had known him— a ten-year-old boy, following his father’s orders as they maintained the old hotel. How sad it was that you could never dip behind a person’s eyes and really see what they’d seen. It would have been better than any film.
“You’re the woman trying to sell the old hotel,” Dexter said. He slowly lowered himself into his chair, a grand event that made his knees crackle and pop.
“I am,” Kelli replied. “But we’ve come up against a problem with the place. You see— I never knew who the owner was after Johnson. I was always told the hotel belonged to our family, that it was ours to sell. But it seems there was a final sale around the time of the hurricane. Do you know anything about that?”
Dexter’s eyes were endlessly curious, like the eyes of kindergartens as you marched past their classroom. Maybe that kind of curiosity never died if you allowed it to flourish, if you continued to ask questions and live vibrantly in the world.
“There was a man on that last night,” Dexter breathed. “He was so angry. Speaking to Robert, saying he owned the place.”
Kelli and Lola’s eyes flashed with intrigue.
“So the hotel belonged to Robert?” Kelli demanded.
“Yes. Well, Johnson left it to him. My father always said Robert didn’t really know what he was doing. That was a huge burden to him. But Robert had loved Johnson like a father and really pushed himself to keep the old place afloat. It was an act of love, you see, which was why my father and I were so confused at the sale.”
Kelli sputtered. “Why did he sell it to this man? And do you remember a woman there with them?”
Dexter’s eyes swam with confusion. “There was a woman, yes. I had seen her several times throughout her stay. She was married to the man who took over the hotel, I believe.” His voice lowered for a moment as he added, “Always such a sad woman.”
Kelli and Lola exchanged glances again. “What happened after the hurricane?” Kelli asked.
“Well, the place was completely demolished, as you know,” Dexter explained. “At some point, Robert met with my father to ask that he keep tabs on the property, you know, to try to keep trespassers away. There was always hope that he would rebuild the place.”
”But why wasn’t James involved in the rebuilding?” Kelli asked.
“I can’t tell you. I don’t believe I ever saw that man again after the storm,” Dexter said sadly.
“But you kept tabs on Robert over the years, didn’t you?” Lola asked. Her voice ached with intrigue. In the little swaddle around her, baby Max cooed.
“Of course. My father loved Rob
ert. I came to love him, as well. He took over the Sunrise Cove from his parents and he and his wife— well. I suppose you know all about that and their children, Wesley and Kerry.”
“I’m Kerry’s daughter,” Kelli affirmed.
Dexter’s eyelids widened. “It’s always a family affair on this island, isn’t it? Generations after generations, all stacked up on this beautiful rock. My daughter and two sons had children of their own, who’ve now had children of their own. One of those children even had a baby a few months back— even brought the baby in here to meet me. All I could think was that I wished my dad was here to see this.” He chuckled.
There was a moment’s pause as they each collected their thoughts. They were so far down memory lane; Kelli worried they wouldn’t weave their way back to reality.
“But you must have noticed that the woman Robert was married to, the one who worked with him at the Sunrise Cove, was the very woman who’d been married to that horrible man who’d bought the hotel?” Kelli asked softly.
Dexter’s smile was infectious. “I didn’t notice at all. In my memory, Robert’s wife was constantly laughing, chasing after little Wes and Kerry with all the energy in the world. Such a shame they died so young. Their funerals were only months apart.” He lifted a handkerchief and tapped the side of his eye.
Probably, at his age, he’d been to more funerals than he knew what to do with.
“But no. I never connected that this other man’s wife and Robert’s wife were one and the same,” he continued, his eyes alight. “She seemed a bright light of energy. Robert loved her to pieces, and she loved him right back. What more could we ever want on this earth. Don’t you agree?”
A few minutes later, little Max began to really cry. Lola and Kelli stepped out from Dexter’s nursing home room with copious thank you and many promises to return.
“I get fewer and fewer visitors over the years,” he told them as he leaned on his cane. “But I have so many stories. I hope they don’t get buried.”
“We’ll collect them, Dexter,” Lola assured him as her hand spread out across Max’s forehead. “You’ve lived quite a life through so many different eras of this island’s history. Thank you for your words.”
Chapter Eighteen
1943
MR. COLLINGTON TORE down the little driveway that led toward the foyer of the Cliffside Overlook Hotel. The rain hung in sheets between Marilyn and James and the approaching vehicle. The vehicle’s tires squelched through the mud and tossed mud back, splattering the car. James shifted his weight and grumbled.
“I think it might pass soon,” he said of the storm.
Marilyn’s throat was tight. After a strange pause, she asked, “How much did you pay Robert? For the hotel?”
James scoffed and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. It struck Marilyn that she and James stood on a sort of sinking ship. She was reminded of that long-ago story, passengers atop the Titanic as it sank into the Atlantic and how they’d yearned for a ship that was unsinkable. How bizarre that you couldn’t believe anyone when they said they had told you the truth.
Mr. Collington beckoned for James and Marilyn to come. Marilyn had packed a single suitcase with her essentials— her jewelry, a few items of clothing that she especially liked, and, of course, her diary. James had packed nothing and had put up a hissy fit when she’d begun to pack some things for him. “It will pass!” he’d screamed to her, even as the wind had howled outside.
Mr. Collington son sat in the front seat of the vehicle. He’d donned a little hat, which was now soaked through from the rain and dripping off the brim. Marilyn sat as far as she could away from James in the backseat. Her eyes traced the outline of the beautiful mansion as they skidded away from the property and toward the safe house. Something in her gut told her she’d never see it again. It was almost like the feeling she’d had when she’d left her parents’ house to marry James in the city. She’d yearned to trace the outline of those trees forever, to capture the scent of the grass and the flowers in a vial she could return to again and again.
The safe house was located on a far hill overlooking the rest of the Vineyard to ensure no flooding. It had been built squat and low, dipped slightly into the ground beneath for stability, and it had been filled nearly to the brink with food and water for this very occasion. As Marilyn and James ducked in, one of the restaurant workers said, “I never imagined we’d ever actually need this space.” Marilyn felt this was a perfect summation of the feeling of needing a safe house. You never assumed it would come to this. Always, you assumed your life would keep on carrying through, scheduled out, plotted and schemed. Nature and life had other plans for you, always.
James and Marilyn were taken to a circular table in the far corner of the safe house. The area was dark and smokey, as many people had begun to smoke cigars and cigarettes, their motions panicked and their puffs aggressive. Marilyn had never liked smoking; her knees had always clacked together in the wake of each inhale. Now, James had no words for her; he only had fear for himself and all the money he’d just poured into this hotel, a hotel located with its face out to sea and its arms wide open to whatever horrors nature wanted to put upon it.
Where was Robert? Marilyn stirred in doubt as her eyes scanned table after table, on the hunt for that familiar, beautiful face. The wind now sounded like a torrential scream. She shivered and beckoned for one of the restaurant workers to come.
“Can you please get my husband and I some whiskey to calm our nerves?” she asked the server.
The man nodded and then promptly returned with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. James growled that he didn’t need to calm himself, that he wasn’t worried at all. Still, he poured two fingers’ worth of whiskey into his glass and hardly noticed when she served herself. The whiskey calmed her nerves; it brought some logical thought.
Robert still felt like the owner of the hotel. Probably, he felt his allegiance to Johnson and all he’d done more now than ever. He wouldn’t seek his own safety until every last person from the hotel remained latched inside the safe house. Sweat billowed up across Marilyn’s neck. She couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to him.
Please. If you must take something, take the hotel. Spare Robert. Please.
She wasn’t entirely sure who she said these words to. She knew better than to assume any of her asks from God or from the universe would go answered. Still, she had to think them; she hummed them over and over, crafting a sort of mantra—these words allowed for only the occasional spike of panic.
James poured himself another drink and growled inwardly. His eyes churned toward Marilyn menacingly. He then beckoned for another hotel guest to come forward. The man’s name was Henrik, and he was a French immigrant, staying at the hotel until he could decide whether to remain on the island or move elsewhere. He was Jewish and had escaped before the Nazis had invaded. It didn’t feel like a particularly good time to bring that up.
“How are you, my boy?” Henrik asked. “Rumor has it you just purchased that hotel we just abandoned like a burning house.”
James glowered at him. He then tapped his glass and gestured for a server to bring another. He poured Henrik a glass and lifted his to cheers.
“What a ruckus this all is, hmm?” he said to Henrik. “My wife is terribly worried. And for what? Storms pass all the time. That hotel has been standing in that location for over one hundred years. God won’t reach his hand down and rip it up now. Not so soon after I’ve put the land in my name, and besides, what is it I always tell you, Henrik?”
“You tell me that you get whatever you please,” Henrik replied. He said it with the slightest dose of irony, although Marilyn sensed that James didn’t pick up on it. “But what good is a world where so many men assume they always get what they please?” He said these words to Marilyn.
And at this, James erupted with laughter. He shot his elbow into Henrik as he cried, “You’re a funny man, Henrik. One of the greatest. Perhaps you can stay
on the island with us. I’ll put you in charge of something or other. Hell, maybe you can build us up a French quarter on the island. People adore all that French stuff, don’t they?”
Henrik’s nose quivered. Marilyn felt she could have disappeared into her chair. She was so embarrassed at her husband’s idiocy. Her fingers twitched to grab her pen and diary and start scribing all her anxious thoughts as they swirled around in her head, but it would have to wait.
Suddenly, Robert burst in through the safe house door. With him came an enormous burst of wind. Papers fluttered everywhere as many women gasped. Robert’s face reminded Marilyn of men she’d seen in photographs, men who had gone to war and returned having lost something, something either physical or internal they could never get back.
She couldn’t resist him. She took a huge gulp of whiskey and burst to her feet. She hustled through the crowd, her thin legs weaving around other’s knees and awkward skirts. Perhaps James had cried out for her to stop; she couldn’t have heard him over the rush of the wind and the wild, provocative conversation.
When she reached Robert, she placed her hands on his upper arms and watched as he folded up against her, gasping. His forehead was plastered against her shoulder; his dark hair spilled over her neck. Her hand swept over his drenched hair as she whispered, “It’s going to be all right, Robert. It’s going to be all right.”
Her heart shattered as he shifted his head from left to right, a firm NO. Slowly, he lifted his chin so that his eyes connected with hers.
“It just crumbled,” he breathed. “I watched it as I raced off the land. A tree barreled against a part of it, and the whole structure of it crumbled. Even the dome over the ballroom— it was cast inward. The sound of it was horrible. The worst thing you can imagine. I finally turned to watch the road and nearly drove myself off a cliff. I wasn’t paying attention.”
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