Authors: Wendy Corsi Staub
“I doubt it.” Laura sighs and slides her empty plate and cup away. “Guess we’ll have to make a run for it.”
“Or,” Liza says impulsively, “we can just order more coffee—even though it does taste like mud—and stay here until it lets up.”
Laura looks surprised, then smiles and says, “That’s fine with me.”
And Liza realizes, as she smiles back, that she doesn’t have any real friends anymore—that maybe she never has.
Not that she wants or needs them.
She’s better off living a solitary existence. She has plenty of work—and plenty of men—to keep her company when she needs it
But, Liza decides, if she
did
ever decide to make a new friend, Laura Towne is the kind of person she would choose.
H
e slips silently into the room with the lilac-sprigged wallpaper, knowing that Laura’s safely out of the house, but still somehow feeling the need to be cautious.
He locks the door behind him, of course, just in case.
Then he hurries over to the suitcase that’s lying open on the luggage stand beneath the lace-curtained window.
His breath comes more quickly in anticipation as he reaches in and carefully pushes aside the neatly folded stack of jeans and tee-shirts and sweaters. Beneath them, he finds what he’s looking for.
Lovingly, he takes out a pair of panties and a bra.
Then he frowns.
These simple white cotton garments aren’t at all what he was expecting . . . what he remembers.
No, Laura always went for the daring lingerie—wisps of black lace, sheer teddies, push-up bras . . .
He checks the suitcase again to see if she’s hidden the good stuff, but there are only a few more pairs of plain white underwear.
And something else isn’t right . . .
He leans forward burying his face in the sweater on top of the pile of clothing in the suitcase.
That scent that clings to the cotton knit . . . it’s not right either.
Too light and . . . floral.
Laura always wore a heavier, musky fragrance. He remembers how it used to drive him crazy, how he would burrow into the soft skin at her throat and breathe her essence until he felt intoxicated with the mere scent of her.
He remembers what it was like to slide his hands beneath her clothes to stroke her warm skin, what it was like to undress her, sometimes gently, other times roughly in his impatience to consume and possess her . . .
How she used to throw her head back and moan his name and pull him to her with the same urgency he felt . . .
That was before she started pushing him away whenever he came near her.
Before she cast him aside carelessly, telling him she no longer needed him, that she never really wanted him in the first place . . .
He squeezes his eyes shut against a stab of pain that’s as sudden and fresh as if he’s just lost her all over again.
And when it subsides, he reminds himself that it was a long time ago. That Laura Towne will never hurt him again.
No one will ever hurt him again.
Not Laura.
Not Liza.
Not Sandy.
And not Lorraine.
The thought of Lorraine, and what he’d finally done to her, makes him giddy with excitement.
Soon, he promises himself, he’ll have that delicious sensation again . . . power and control . . .
He hears a tearing sound and, startled, looks down to see a pair of Laura’s panties, ripped in his hands.
For a moment, he feels panic rising in his throat, threatening to gag him . . .
What have I done? She’ll know I’ve been here. She’ll figure out what’s going on, and she’ll escape before I can carry out my plan . . .
Then he gets hold of his senses.
Calmly, he tucks the torn panties into his back pocket and replaces everything else in the suitcase, just as it was when he found it.
She’ll never know. Even if she notices the panties are missing and gets suspicious, she would never, ever suspect that you’re here.
And even if, somehow, she happens to catch sight of you before it’s time, she still won’t know.
As he walks toward the door he glimpses his reflection in the mirror nailed to the back and he pauses to examine himself, pleased with what he sees.
Hair that’s permed so that it looks wavy, and that’s dyed a natural-looking shade of brown.
Eyes whose true shade is hidden behind light-blue-colored contact lenses—cornflower blue, the lady in the optical shop had called them.
And a chiseled, handsome face—the face that he picked out of a catalogue in his plastic surgeon’s office three years ago.
S
andy huddles under the overhang of rock that juts over the beach like an awning. Here, her body flattened up against the steep, rocky incline that rises from the sand toward the road above, she’s partly sheltered from the driving cold rain and the wind that roars in off the water.
And from here, she can see most of the magnificent houses that sit atop the crescent-shaped windswept shoreline. One of them, she’s certain, belongs to Ethan Thoreau. She’s half in love with him already.
As she waits for the rain to let up, she dreams about tonight . . . about what it will be like with Ethan. And the goosebumps that cover her flesh have nothing to do with the chill wind or her drenched clothes.
Sandy knows that she’ll make love with Ethan tonight. There’s no question of waiting, like she had with Frankie, and with Joe. There’s no need, this time.
After all, with Frankie, her high school boyfriend, it was different because she was a virgin. They both were, actually, and though Frankie had pressured her for the first year they dated, she had suspected that he was secretly just as terrified as she was. And when they finally made love, rather than being a wonderful experience that was worth waiting for, Sandy couldn’t believe what a letdown it was.
She’d continued to date Frankie anyway, until graduation, when he’d enlisted in the navy. He was married now and stationed in Washington State, the last she’d heard. His wife was someone he’d met in Florida during training. Theresa had met her when Frankie brought her home to Greenbury one Christmas. She had told Sandy that Mrs. Frankie, as they called her, was cute and petite even though she was seven months pregnant and that she had a thick southern drawl.
When Sandy had told Theresa she was happy for Frankie, Theresa had just patted her arm, as if to say,
Sure you are.
Sandy knew Theresa was thinking that she was jealous of Mrs. Frankie. The truth was, Sandy had never wanted to marry him. She just missed sleeping with him . . . not because the sex was terrific, but because she missed having sex, period.
She’d been celibate for two years after he left for the navy, until she’d started dating Joe. She still remembered how attracted she’d been to him, that first time she’d seen him at the Knights of Columbus Mardi Gras Night. He’d been wearing a v-necked sweater and tight jeans that emphasized his beefy build, and she’d thought the tattoo on his forearm was sexy.
She’d poked Theresa and pointed him out. Theresa, of course, had zipped over to some guys she knew and found out that the stranger was Joe Marconi, a twenty-five-year-old beer-truck driver from Hartford, and that he was single.
When Sandy met him a few minutes later, she’d seen that Joe wasn’t quite as perfect up close. He had a beer belly that wasn’t quite camouflaged by the dark sweater, and his teeth were stained yellow, probably from the cigarettes he chain-smoked. But still, there was something about him that drew Sandy; and when he’d asked her out, she’d eagerly said yes.
And when, after their first date—dinner at Pizza Hut and a Jim Carrey movie that had Joe laughing uproariously, to Sandy’s embarrassment—he had taken her back to his apartment, she’d eagerly slept with him.
If sex with Frankie had been disappointing, sex with Joe was even less satisfying. He was purely selfish in bed, and he insisted on the missionary position, lights out, every time. Sandy, who was ashamed of her lumpy body anyway, didn’t mind the dark, but she did mind the routine love-making and the fact that Joe never even bothered to kiss her anymore, or hold her afterward. It was a wonder that he’d been so traumatized when she’d broken the engagement—he’d never acted as though he were in love with her, especially when they had sex.
I bet Ethan Thoreau is fantastic in bed,
she thinks now, gazing up at the huge houses overlooking the beach. And as she stares dreamily into space, thinking about her date tonight, it gradually dawns on her that the rain has stopped. The sky still looks ominous, though, as if it could open up again any second.
Sandy scrambles out from beneath the overhang and picks her way up the craggy slope from the beach to the winding road that follows the shore. The wind is in her face and she keeps her head bent as she heads back toward the inn.
She doesn’t see the middle-aged woman who’s walking a black Lab along the side of the road until she nearly bumps into them.
“Hi,” the woman, who’s wearing a yellow rain slicker and matching hat, greets Sandy with a smile as her dog lifts its leg and urinates on a bush.
“Hi.” Sandy points to the dog. “He’s beautiful. What’s his name?”
“He’s a she, actually. Lady.”
“I used to have a yellow Lab.” Now that the dog is finished with her business, Sandy bends over to pat her sleek head. “Hello, there, Lady. Hi, girl. You’re just beautiful. Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”
“You’re not from the island are you?” the woman asks, winding another length of leash around her hand.
“No, I’m not. . . . How’d you guess?”
“You don’t look the type. Most of the young people who come to Tide Island are hippie types. They call it Tie-Dye Land.”
“I’ve heard that.” Sandy straightens and asks, “Do you live here year round?”
The woman nods and points to a large house with weathered gray shingles that’s set back from the road. “My great-grandfather built that over a hundred years ago. I grew up here. Now my husband and I are about to move to Boca Raton, and my son and his wife are going to move out here. They’re both investment bankers in New York, and they’re taking an early retirement.”
“That’s nice.” Sandy smiles politely. The woman seems to be the chatty type, so she adds cautiously, “Um, I was looking for a friend of mine who lives around here someplace. Maybe you know him . . .”
“If he lives around here, I’m sure I do.”
“His name is Thoreau . . . Ethan Thoreau?”
At the woman’s blank look, Sandy says, “He’s a surgeon in Connecticut, so he wouldn’t be a year-round resident, but . . .”
“I’ve never heard of him,” the woman informs her decisively. She glances down at her dog, who’s nosing along the weeds at the edge of the road. “You must have the name wrong.”
“I don’t think so . . .”
“Then he doesn’t live around here. Maybe on the other side of the island, where there are some newer, smaller houses. A lot of those are rentals, and—”
“I doubt he’d live in a small rental,” Sandy cuts in. “He has a private plane and he’s very wealthy.” She wishes she could take the last few words back. They make her sound so . . . pathetic.
The woman purses her lips and yanks the dog’s leash. “Come on, Lady, get out of there.” To Sandy, she says, “If your friend lives in this area, then I’m afraid I somehow haven’t met him.”
“Maybe he’s new to the island.”
“Most of these homes stay within families for generations, like mine. If one had been sold recently, I’d know about it.”
Sandy shrugs and watches as the woman tugs Lady onto the concrete and starts back toward the huge gray house.
“Thanks anyway,” Sandy calls, and the woman dismisses her with a brief wave.
These island people sure are strange,
Sandy decides.
She glances back at the majestic row of waterfront homes, again wondering which one belongs to Ethan.
Then, as she feels icy raindrops on her face, she turns and hurries in the opposite direction, toward the inn.
L
iza sweeps into the foyer of the inn on a gust of wind and rain and slams the door shut behind her with a curse.
Thanks to this lousy weather, she’s drenched and chilled to the bone. She and Laura had waited as long as they could in the general store for the rain to let up, but finally, Liza’s patience wore thin and she decided to make a run for it.
Laura had stayed back at the store, saying she wanted to browse around a bit.
“In
here?
” Liza had asked incredulously, looking around at the meager inventory.
“I need some art supplies, and there’s a whole section of them over there,” Laura had pointed out.
“It figures. No stockings, but this place sells all the paintbrushes and canvases anyone could want.”
“A lot of artists come to Tide Island,” Laura said quietly.
“And you’re one of them, obviously.”
“Not professional. I just like to paint.”
“Well, knock yourself out,” Liza had said, heading for the door.
Even as she’d walked out onto the stormy boardwalk, she’d regretted being so snippy with Laura. Why did she always find herself doing that . . . jeopardizing the few potential friendships that ever came along by displaying a generous dose of attitude problem?
It wasn’t that she had disdain for Laura’s painting hobby, or even for the outdated excuse for a store. It was just that Liza couldn’t help herself sometimes. The hurt little girl she’d once been seemed to surface when she least expected it, lashing out at anyone who happened to be around.
Like poor Laura Towne, who, to her credit, hadn’t seemed all that thrown by Liza’s bitchiness.
I’ll make it up to her later,
Liza thinks, squishing across the foyer floor in her ruined Italian leather boots.
There’s no sign of Jasper Hammel.
She reaches for the small silver bell on the counter and rings it impatiently. She wants to ask Hammel whether D.M. Yates has called for her again, but there’s no response to the bell.
Frowning, Liza rings it again. When there’s still no response, she walks toward the back of the first floor, checking first the parlor, then the dining room and a small library off the hall. They’re all deserted and the whole house seems eerily silent except for the ticking grandfather clock in the hallway.