Land's End Page 9

  “Good night.” She shifted her gaze to his. “And thank you again for your hospitality.”

  “You’re welcome here.”

  They’d stood like this in the moonlight once before. Did she remember that? How they’d looked at each other, recognizing that in another moment they could have been in each other’s arms? His hand still held her arm, and her skin seemed to warm under his touch.

  Back away. Looking into Sarah’s eyes is a dangerous thing.

  He’d be better off to pick a fight with her. Fortunately that was always an easy thing to do.

  “Are you ready to leave yet?”

  For a moment his words didn’t seem to register. Then she lifted her eyebrows. “I thought you said I was welcome here.”

  “You are, if you insist on staying. But you must realize by now that your being here, opening the past, can only bring pain to all of us. Especially to my daughter.”

  She winced at that, making an involuntary movement as if to push his words away. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, particularly not Melissa. She’s already had enough pain to last a lifetime.”

  He had to harden his heart. He could not let himself be touched by her caring for his child. “Then go.”

  For a moment she looked at him as if she stared through him, seeing something he couldn’t see. She shook her head slightly.

  “The first time I saw you since my return, you accused me of coming here to satisfy my Puritan conscience.”

  He remembered those bitter words, thrown at her from his own pain. “I didn’t mean—” But he had.

  “Maybe you were right.” She seemed to drag in a breath, and he thought she wouldn’t say more. “Maybe it is that.” She went doggedly on. “I just know that if Miles betrayed me, that means I failed him somehow.”

  He didn’t want to think that, because the corollary was that he had failed Lynette. “What they did isn’t our fault.” He had to keep telling himself. Maybe eventually he’d believe it.

  She shook her head. “I have to know. I have to understand, if I’m ever going to move on.” Anguish laced her words. “Don’t you see that?” She grabbed his hand, her fingers digging into his skin. “You of all people should see that.”

  He did. Her grief went right through all his barriers and pierced his heart, twisting it until he didn’t know where her pain ended and his began. He wanted to help her, wanted to protect her—

  He couldn’t. He couldn’t protect both her and Melissa, no matter how much he wanted to. And his first duty had to be to his child, even if that meant hurting Sarah.

  It cost something to push her hand away. He had to drag in a breath of moist marsh air before he could speak.

  “You’re wrong, Sarah. I’ve accepted what they did. I think it’s time you did, too.”

  He turned and walked away before he could drown in the hurt in her eyes.

  Sarah stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror the next morning. She’d like to say she was doing fine, but her image showed the lie to that. That difficult exchange with Trent had left her sleepless for most of the night.

  Was she doing the right thing? If her search for the truth hurt a helpless child, how could she possibly justify that?

  And what about that odd story of Robert’s? He’d implied that he was trying to tell Trent an unwelcome truth, but the characters in his story had been lovers. Trent already believed that about Lynette and Miles. She was the one who doubted.

  Robert’s innocent lovers had been killed by someone unknown. If he intended to say that Lynette and Miles had met a similar fate, then her task was far more complicated and dangerous than simply proving to her own satisfaction that they had not been lovers.

  She’d wrestled with the questions for hours, turning again and again to prayer until she’d finally realized she didn’t have a choice. God had set her on this path, and she couldn’t turn back. She could only push toward a resolution, trusting that He had some good in store for all of them.

  She patted a little loose powder over the dark circles and pulled her hair back into a ponytail. That would have to do.

  She went out, locking the door behind her, and crossed the patio toward the breakfast room. She couldn’t prevent her steps from slowing as she approached the door. The last thing she needed was another private talk with Trent. Steeling herself, she went inside.

  A quick glance assured her that Trent was nowhere in sight. Unfortunately, neither was Derek, and she’d hoped to manage a private word with him this morning. The only person in the room was Joanna Larson.

  Joanna had always been pleasant enough to her in the past, but detached, efficient and wrapped up in her work. Miles, as she recalled, had admired the woman’s loyalty and efficiency. If Joanna had outside interests, Sarah had never heard of them. She’d always seemed detached, but she hadn’t been detached in her reaction to Robert Butler’s story.

  Sarah smiled and nodded when the woman looked up for a moment, her mind busy. She poured a cup of coffee, hesitated a moment and then moved to Joanna’s table. Surely it would be natural to talk with the woman, wouldn’t it?

  “Joanna, I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk last night. How are you?”

  The woman looked up, and all Sarah could think was that Joanna looked almost as bad as she did. Her pale blue eyes also bore dark circles underneath. Her cup clattered as she set it in the saucer, as if her hand trembled.

  “I’m fine.” Her face gave the lie to the words. “I couldn’t believe you’d come back. Why are you here?”

  Apparently she felt free to say this morning the words she’d suppressed the previous night. She shouldn’t be surprised. Joanna’s loyalty to Trent was notorious—she’d devoted her life to him. If Trent didn’t want her here, then Joanna didn’t, either.

  “I came to take care of some things I left unresolved. I hoped you might understand that.”

  The words she considered soothing seemed to have the opposite effect. Joanna shot to her feet. “Understand? Why would I understand? It’s nothing to do with me.”

  “I just meant—”

  “You should leave.” Joanna shoved her chair so hard it nearly tipped over. “There’s nothing for you here.” She brushed by Sarah and scurried out the door.

  Sarah sank into a seat. She hadn’t imagined the woman’s reaction the previous night. She had strong feelings beneath that neutral exterior, but it didn’t look as if she’d easily share those feelings with Sarah.

  And if the others react the same way? Where will you turn then? Or will you just give up?

  She glanced at the buffet, but her stomach protested at the thought of food. She’d saunter through the main part of the house to see if she could run into Derek. Maybe he didn’t share the opinion that her absence was preferable to her presence.

  She walked through the formal dining room, empty save for the disturbing memories of last night’s dinner. Robert Butler and his story—what had he meant by telling it? And that odd reference to the prophet and King David. She’d looked up the story sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Nathan had told his story to convict David of his guilt. Surely Robert wasn’t implying any guilt on Trent’s part, although Trent was definitely the king of his small island.

  Music filtered from the formal living room—the piano, and a tune she vaguely recognized as a Mozart piece her hapless piano teacher had once optimistically thought she’d learn to play. She moved toward the door. She’d be able to catch Derek.

  But it wasn’t Derek at the piano this time. It was Melissa. Sarah stopped at the entrance to the room, unwilling to intrude. Melissa played with a skill that certainly would have astounded Sarah’s teacher. Her hands moved over the keys with an enviable sureness, and her eyes were closed.

  Sarah’s throat tightened. Lynette had been a concert pianist before she’d given up her career to marry Trent. Obviously her daughter had inherited her gift. The music seemed to be a solace to the child, and she was glad. She stepped back softly. She wouldn
’t interrupt.

  A door clattered above them, in the loft that housed a small sitting room and Trent’s private study. “Melissa, can’t you do that later? I’m trying to work up here.”

  Melissa froze, hands still on the keys. Then, without a word, she slid off the piano bench and ran out of the room by the opposite door.

  Sarah took a step forward, propelled by anger. Didn’t he see what the music meant to his child?

  She looked up at Trent, and the words died on her tongue. He stood with his hands planted on the railing of the loft, looking after Melissa with an expression of pain and regret twisting his face.

  “Go after her,” she said before she could think too much about it.

  He looked at her, face tightening. He would tell her to mind her own business. Tell her to leave.

  “I can’t. I’d only make things worse.” He turned and slammed his way back into the study.

  It was hopeless. She couldn’t correct what was wrong between Trent and his daughter. But even so, she couldn’t keep from going after Melissa.

  The front door stood open, and she stepped outside. Melissa was in a corner of the wide front veranda, curled up in a porch swing padded with bright cushions. She was turned away, face buried in her arms, and she didn’t move at Sarah’s approach, though she must have heard her. Unsure what to do or say, Sarah sat down in one of the wooden rockers that lined the veranda.

  The rocker squeaked slightly, and a breeze off the ocean lifted her hair and bent the golden sea oats on the dunes. Bougainvillea rioted over the latticework that marked the end of the veranda, and sunlight danced on the water. Only the humans were miserable.

  “I’m sorry,” she said finally. “Maybe your dad is working on something that needs a lot of concentration.”

  Melissa straightened, revealing a tear-stained face. “He hates my playing.”

  “You play beautifully. I’m sure your father is proud of that.”

  She shook her head, dark hair flying, and her lips trembled. “He hates my playing because I’ll never be as good as my mother.”

  Her heart hurt so much for the child that she could scarcely speak, but somehow she had to find the words to reassure her. She leaned forward, reaching out to touch the knee of Melissa’s jeans.

  “I can see how you might feel that way, but I don’t think it’s true, not really. He loves you.”

  Hostility flashed in Melissa’s eyes. “What would you know about it? You—you’ve got something to give. You’re a doctor. Everybody respects you.”

  Not lately, but she wouldn’t tell Melissa that. “Maybe so, but my mother is the head of pediatrics at a university hospital. And my father is chief of surgery at that same hospital. They’re both the very best in their fields. When I was growing up, I felt as if I could never live up to what they were. Sometimes I still feel that way.”

  And that was more than she’d told anyone about her relationship with her loving, overpowering parents in a long time.

  Melissa just stared at her, her face as masked, in its own way, as her father’s was. Then she slid off the swing. “You don’t understand,” she said, with the irrefutable logic of a twelve-year-old. “You’re not like me at all. You’re a grown-up.”

  She spun and walked away. Sarah watched. Was Melissa’s step a bit lighter? She couldn’t be sure. But at least the child wasn’t crying any longer.

  You’re a doctor, she’d said. You’ve got something to give.

  She leaned back, feeling somehow better than she had. Maybe she hadn’t helped Melissa, but Melissa had helped her. She’d reminded her of something she’d been in danger of forgetting. She was a doctor. She was a grown-up. She’d better start acting like one, and get on with what she’d come here to do.

  “There it is. Number 340.” The man who ran the storage facility pointed out the obvious, his gaze avidly curious. Obviously he knew who she was. “Nothing’s been touched in a year. You need any help?”

  “No. Thank you.” She fitted the key into the lock of the wide door of the storage locker. “I’ll take it from here.”

  He lingered, probably hoping for more of a reaction. “You’d best prop that door open. It’ll be awful hot in there.”

  “I will.” She stood, staring at him, until he took the hint. He shrugged, turning back toward the air-conditioned cubbyhole where she’d found him.

  “I’m off in an hour. You want any help before that, you call me.”

  She glanced at her watch. Nearly three. The day had slipped away while she’d tried to track down a few of Miles’s coworkers and stopped at the clinic. She waited until he’d disappeared before grasping the handle of the garage-style door and yanking it up. She didn’t need an audience while she went through the remnants of her life with Miles.

  The door creaked open, letting out a blast of air as hot as an oven. Furniture, boxes, packing crates had been crammed into the storage compartment willy-nilly—everything that had been in the small cottage she and Miles had rented on the island. She wasn’t even sure who’d done it. She’d just received a note and the key from their landlord, along with a bill for the storage.

  She stared, eyes stinging. There was Miles’s desk—an elegant old rolltop she’d found in an antique shop in Savannah. She’d paid the earth for it, but it had been an anniversary present. And the rocking chair her grandmother had given her—she should have taken that with her, but she’d been too shocked to think things through.

  No longer. Thanks to Melissa’s reminder, she was back on track. She’d already stopped by the clinic, faced down Esther and insisted on being put on the physician’s rotation for the coming week. Now she would go through the remnants of her marriage, looking for any clue, however faint, to what had happened to them.

  She stepped inside, letting go of the door. It slid down, and she grabbed it just in time. Holding the door with one hand, she groped for something to prop it. Obviously she’d have to keep the door open—she’d pass out from the heat if she didn’t. Her fingers touched a broom that leaned against the wall, and she shoved it into place.

  She wiggled the handle, but the broom held firm, wedged into the track of the door. The outside air was warm and moist, but at least it moved. She could tolerate this.

  After fifteen minutes of work she wasn’t so sure. She was already drenched with sweat. Maybe she’d better pack up any papers to take with her, then come back later to sort out what she wanted shipped back to Boston and what could be sold.

  Grabbing a couple of boxes, she began emptying the contents of the desk drawers and file cabinet. Miles had been meticulous about keeping records—he’d saved every scrap of paper that might possibly be needed at tax time.

  She hauled two boxes of papers to the door, pausing long enough to drink from her water bottle, and began going through the stacked boxes in search of anything else that might be personal.

  Boxes of dishes. She dug in her pocket for the pen she’d brought and marked them. No point in doing this all over again. She yanked open another box, expecting to see pots and pans, and found instead items that had once been on Miles’s dresser.

  Her heart lurched. There was the paperweight they’d brought back from their honeymoon in Venice. And the small pewter tray he’d dropped change into each night. Her heart twisted at the image of him talking over his day as he went through the nighttime routine. That had been a comfortable part of the day—a time of conversation, laughter, intimacy. How could that have been a lie? She’d known him so well, first as a teenager in Boston, then connecting with him when they’d both been working in Atlanta. She’d known him as well as anyone could.

  Trying to swallow the lump in her throat, she closed the box. Maybe she was being a coward, but she’d deal with those things later.

  A hot and trying twenty minutes later, she had all the papers she could find packed into two more boxes. She carted one to the door, inhaled a breath of fresh air and started back for the other one. As she bent to pick it up, she heard an ominous ra
ttling sound. She swung around, scrambling frantically toward the door, even as she saw that she’d never make it in time. The door slid inexorably closed.

  For a moment she just stood, staring at it in disbelief. How could it possibly be closed? She grabbed the bar at the bottom and yanked, and the truth settled in. The door wasn’t just closed. It was locked.

  She pulled again, feeling panic rise. She searched the door with eyes and fingers, trying to find a latch to open it from the inside. Nothing. She was trapped. She didn’t even have her cell phone with her—it lay on the front seat of the car. Just a few yards away from the door, but it might as well be on the moon for all the good it would do her.

  She banged on the door with her fist, shouting. Surely the attendant would hear her. Or he’d come and check on her, wouldn’t he? She glanced at her watch, heart sinking. Twenty after four. He’d said he was leaving at four. The chance that anyone else would come by the storage facility at this hour was slim.

  She sank into the rocking chair, fighting down panic. At least she wasn’t in the dark. Sunlight seeped through the translucent panels under the roof. Think—she had to think, but her mind seemed oddly fogged. She pressed her hand against her forehead, professional instincts clicking into gear. She couldn’t sit here hoping to be rescued, like Rapunzel in her tower. If she didn’t get out soon, heat exhaustion would take over and she wouldn’t be able to think rationally at all.

  Her fingers tightened on the arms of the chair. Please, Father. Help me.

  Maybe it was the effect of the rocking chair, with its reminder of her grandmother. That formidable lady would not have sat around. Pray as if it all depends on God, she’d always said. Work as if it all depends on you.

  Work. The word launched a train of thought. Miles’s workbench stood against the wall, his tools packed into the red tool box he’d always kept in such meticulous order. She scrambled over intervening boxes to reach the work bench and grabbed the toolbox. Thank You. Thank You.

  Back over the boxes—they seemed to have gotten higher. It was more of a struggle just to get to the door, to fumble the box open.