Mariah Stewart Read online

  Then la­ter, se­ar­c­hing for T.J. on the bo­ar­d­walk, and not fin­ding him, de­ba­ting whet­her to call ho­me and risk his step­fat­her's wrath when he was awa­ke­ned from a so­und sle­ep, or just wal­king the twen­ty-se­ven mi­les in the mid­dle of the night and ho­ping to ease in­to the ho­use be­fo­re an­yo­ne had re­ali­zed that he'd be­en out all night.

  Jeremy had sto­od un­der a stre­et lamp, jin­g­ling chan­ge in his poc­ket, then he­aded for the pho­ne at the cor­ner. His step­fat­her wo­uld be li­vid, but at le­ast his mot­her wo­uld know whe­re he was and that he was sa­fe. He glan­ced at his watch as he lis­te­ned to the pho­ne ring on and on. It was ten past one.

  Odd that no one had an­s­we­red.

  He had cal­led aga­in, just in ca­se he had mis­di­aled the first ti­me, but the­re was still no an­s­wer.

  Stran­ge, the tho­ught had nig­gled, that no one had pic­ked up the pho­ne, as if they had all so­me­how just di­sap­pe­ared.

  Dis­t­rac­ted, he had step­ped out of the pho­ne bo­oth and in­to the path of a la­te-mo­del Pon­ti­ac. The dri­ver blas­ted one short be­ep on the horn as the car swer­ved aro­und him, then stop­ped and bac­ked up. Af­ter lo­udly be­ra­ting Jeremy for sca­ring him wit­less, the dri­ver had of­fe­red him a ri­de, ta­king him as far as the first of the dirt ro­ads that mar­ked the en­t­ran­ce to the Pi­ne Bar­rens, whe­re out­si­ders ra­rely went and only a na­ti­ve wo­uld risk go­ing on fo­ot in the mid­dle of a dark night.

  Jeremy re­mem­be­red lis­te­ning to the night so­unds, the shri­eking of owls and so­met­hing so­mew­he­re scre­aming a pro­test at ha­ving be­en ca­ught in jaws or in ta­lons. He re­mem­be­red he­aring a rus­t­ling now and then be­hind him, re­cal­led an oc­ca­si­onal fin­ger of fe­ar tap­ping his sho­ul­ders as his ima­gi­na­ti­on co­nj­ured up the Jer­sey De­vil, even tho­ugh his in­tel­lect knew it was not­hing mo­re than a rac­co­on or a fox.

  And back, far back, be­hind the tre­es, an oran­ge glow had be­gun to spre­ad.

  Even now, six­te­en ye­ars la­ter, he co­uld re­call every de­ta­il of that walk thro­ugh the pi­nes, and the exact mo­ment when he re­ali­zed that so­mew­he­re de­ep in the fo­rest, a fi­re was ra­ging. Smo­ke be­gan to fill the wo­ods and fil­te­red thro­ugh the dry un­der­g­rowth li­ke a he­avy fog. A prick of alarm tic­k­led the back of his neck, but fi­res in the Pi­nes we­re com­mon eno­ugh events. Didn't every go­od sum­mer storm set off one or two? But the­re had be­en no storm that night, no lig­h­t­ning. And the bla­ze that ro­se abo­ve the pi­nes and re­ac­hed in­to the glo­wing sky was right abo­ut whe­re his fa­mily's ho­me wo­uld be, a mi­le or so as the crow fli­es.

  Jeremy sho­ok his he­ad to cle­ar it of the ima­ges that aro­se to ha­unt him, of the ca­bin bur­ned al­most to the gro­und by the ti­me he got the­re, out of bre­ath and his chest hur­ting from run­ning the dis­tan­ce thro­ugh the den­se smo­ke. The li­ne of vo­lun­te­ers-un­c­les, co­usins, ne­ig­h­bors-man­ning a buc­ket bri­ga­de to bring wa­ter from the ne­arby stre­am in an at­tempt to put out the fi­re, for de­ep in the Pi­nes the­re we­re no fi­re hydrants and no fi­re trucks.

  The yo­ung man had not ne­eded an­yo­ne to tell him that no one had sur­vi­ved the bla­ze. His mot­her, his yo­un­ger brot­her, his step­fat­her… all go­ne in the blink of an eye.

  Jeremy had ne­ver re­al­ly be­en ab­le to for­gi­ve him­self for be­ing out ha­ving fun that night whi­le his fa­mily, over­co­me by smo­ke, had be­en swal­lo­wed by fi­re. He'd be­en con­vin­ced that if he'd sta­yed ho­me that night, it ne­ver wo­uld ha­ve hap­pe­ned. He wo­uld ha­ve sa­ved them.

  He wo­uld ha­ve smel­led the smo­ke. He wo­uld ha­ve put out the fi­re. They'd still be ali­ve, he was cer­ta­in of it.

  If only he'd sta­yed ho­me that night…

  How co­uld he go as far as Oce­an Po­int, and not com­p­le­te the jo­ur­ney to Cris­men's Well?

  He'd on­ce be­li­eved that no po­wer on earth co­uld get him back. Yet he­re he was, sit­ting on a Mar­y­land be­ach wat­c­hing the day fold away, con­tem­p­la­ting the very re­al pos­si­bi­lity of do­ing just exactly that. He le­aned back on his el­bows and wat­c­hed a he­ron cross the ho­ri­zon on its flight back to its nes­ting pla­ce in the tre­es so­mew­he­re be­hind the du­nes. Un­con­s­ci­o­usly his fin­gers tra­ced lit­tle cir­c­les in the sand, and he tri­ed to think it thro­ugh.

  If he spent the rest of the we­ek at the inn, he co­uld use the ti­me to do so­me de­ep-sea fis­hing. Catch up on his re­ading. May­be rent a bo­at and do a lit­tle crab­bing out in the bay.

  The easy way.

  He sig­hed and tho­ught abo­ut just how much the easy way had cost him over the ye­ars. An aunt had di­ed, and he had re­sis­ted at­ten­ding the fu­ne­ral, be­ca­use it wo­uld ha­ve me­ant go­ing back. His old high scho­ol had in­vi­ted him to a spe­ci­al ce­re­mony ho­no­ring the­ir star at­h­le­tes, and he had dec­li­ned, be­ca­use it wo­uld ha­ve me­ant go­ing back. He tho­ught of tho­se who we­re still the­re, back in the Pi­nes, tho­se who, over the ye­ars, had re­mem­be­red him for wed­dings and chris­te­nings, and fo­ught back the fe­eling that he had run out of ex­cu­ses to stay away.

  And yet, hadn't he so­mew­he­re, de­ep in­si­de, sus­pec­ted that the day wo­uld co­me when the ti­me wo­uld be right and he wo­uld, in fact, go back?

  Jeremy lay back on the sand, his arms un­der his he­ad, wat­c­hing the night turn on the over­he­ad lights as one by one the stars be­ca­me vi­sib­le, and won­de­red if that ti­me was now.

  Chapter 4

  Jody slip­ped her fe­et in­to tur­qu­o­ise rub­ber flip-flops and pe­ered in­to her be­ach bag to ma­ke su­re she had not for­got­ten an­y­t­hing. Sun­s­c­re­en, a soft blue-and-whi­te blan­ket, a be­ach to­wel, a small ra­dio, a ther­mal mug of ice wa­ter, a pac­ka­ge of crac­kers, fla­vo­red lip balm, the bo­ok she had pur­c­ha­sed the day she ar­ri­ved and had yet to fi­nish. The long awa­ited we­ekend was over. She swung the bag over her sho­ul­der and, loc­king the mo­tel ro­om be­hind her, set out for her first full day on the be­ach in many ye­ars.

  It was early, not qu­ite ten, when she des­cen­ded the few short steps from the bo­ar­d­walk to the sand-early eno­ugh that she wo­uld get a pri­me spot on the be­ach, la­te eno­ugh that the surf fis­her­men had ta­ken the­ir buc­kets of ba­it and di­sap­pe­ared till la­ter that af­ter­no­on. She slip­ped off the flip-flops, wig­gled her to­es in­to the warm sand hap­pily, and smi­led.The sun was al­re­ady bla­zing over­he­ad, and a shift in the wind had ba­nis­hed the fli­es. She was go­ing to enj­oy every mi­nu­te of this va­ca­ti­on.

  Hum­ming as she cros­sed the be­ach, she de­ba­ted her op­ti­ons. Too clo­se to the li­fe­gu­ard stand and the­re'd be lo­ve-st­ruck girls kic­king sand on her as they joc­ke­yed for the op­ti­mum po­si­ti­ons to be no­ti­ced. Too clo­se to the oce­an and be­fo­re no­on, she'd be sur­ro­un­ded by tod­dlers. Se­lec­ting a spot that was just the right dis­tan­ce from both oce­an and li­fe­gu­ards, she spre­ad her blan­ket on the sand and pro­ce­eded to ma­ke her­self com­for­tab­le.

  First the sun­s­c­re­en, which she lat­he­red on all tho­se body parts left ex­po­sed by the bi­ki­ni-which had so­me­how ap­pe­ared to be mo­re con­ser­va­ti­ve back in Mar­le­ne's shop-and on her fa­ce. Her fa­ir skin was al­re­ady pink from the pre­vi­o­us two days in the sun, and she didn't want to ta­ke any chan­ces. Rol­ling the be­ach to­wel in­to a tu­bu­lar pil­low, she pla­ced it be­hind her he­ad, lay back, clo­sed her eyes, and res­ted for a few mi­nu­tes.

  It was far too qu­i­et. Yes­ter­day and the day be­fo­re the­re had be­en ele­ven of them the­re on the be­ach, la­ug­hing and chat­ting and be­c
o­ming re­ac­qu­a­in­ted. It had be­en gre­at fun.

  She tur­ned on the small ra­dio, fo­und a clas­sic rock sta­ti­on, and set­tled back down, thin­king back over the we­ekend. How many of the girls had sta­yed the sa­me. How many of them had chan­ged. Sha­ron had ga­ined forty po­un­ds-ten po­unds with each child, she had la­ug­hed self-con­s­ci­o­usly, wa­ving se­ve­ral in­c­hes' worth of baby pho­tog­raphs un­der Jody's no­se, Lin­d­sey, the­ir fa­vo­ri­te ditzy blon­de, had fo­oled ever­yo­ne by not be­ing qu­ite so ditzy af­ter all, ha­ving star­ted her own in­te­ri­or de­sign bu­si­ness right out of col­le­ge and be­co­ming wildly suc­ces­sful. Car­la had ful­fil­led her dre­ams of law scho­ol, Julie had drop­ped out of col­le­ge in her sop­ho­mo­re ye­ar to marry a navy man and mo­ved to Ca­li­for­nia whe­re he was ba­sed. This one had stop­ped smo­king, that one had star­ted. Over the co­ur­se of the we­ekend, Jody had wa­ded thro­ugh en­d­less en­ve­lo­pes of pho­tog­rap­hs-wed­dings and ba­bi­es, mostly, and ever­yo­ne the­re had se­emed to ha­ve a sig­ni­fi­cant ot­her.

  Ever­yo­ne but Jody, that is.

  She squ­ir­med a lit­tle, re­po­si­ti­oning her hips and dig­ging her he­els in­to the sand.

  Well, it wasn't that the­re hadn't ever be­en an­yo­ne in her li­fe. The­re had be­en men, now and then, but the­re had al­ways be­en so­met­hing mis­sing, so­me­how, no mat­ter how han­d­so­me or in­te­res­ting or at­trac­ti­ve they had be­en.

  She had tri­ed to ex­p­la­in it to Na­ta­lie the night be­fo­re. It just se­emed that, all her li­fe, the men she met had lac­ked that spe­ci­al so­met­hing… that spark that ma­de the dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en in­te­res­ting and ir­re­sis­tib­le. Bet­we­en han­d­so­me and to die for. Bet­we­en at­trac­ti­ve and I’ll-fol­low-you-an­y­w­he­re. Bet­we­en sexy and sen­sa­ti­onal.

  Na­ta­lie had la­ug­hed and sa­id that Jody was too picky for her own go­od.

  Jody had tri­ed to ex­p­la­in that what she wan­ted-what de­ep in her so­ul she knew she ne­eded-was a man who co­uld turn her kne­es to jel­ly, a man who co­uld ma­ke her bot­tom lip qu­iver with just a smi­le. A man who co­uld turn her in­si­de out by me­rely wal­king in­to the ro­om. She'd had in­fa­tu­ati­ons, she'd had one or two short-li­ved af­fa­irs that had left her kno­wing that the­re was so­met­hing mo­re, so­met­hing big­ger, de­eper. She wan­ted pas­si­on. She wan­ted a man who co­uld swe­ep her off her fe­et. She wan­ted to be swept away.

  "You want From He­re to Eter­nity," Na­ta­lie had nod­ded kno­wingly. "We all wan­ted that, on­ce upon a ti­me. Un­for­tu­na­tely, most of us ha­ve had to set­tle for so­met­hing less."

  "I don't want to set­tle," Jody had sha­ken her he­ad. "I've wa­ited too long. I'm not go­ing to set­tle."

  "You co­uld be very old be­fo­re you me­et a man li­ke that," Na­ta­lie ca­uti­oned.

  "I think I al­re­ady did." Jody had sig­hed.

  "What?" Na­ta­lie grab­bed Jody's arm. "Whe­re? When?"

  And Jody had pro­ce­eded to re­li­ve that mo­ment when Jeremy Nob­le had first wal­ked thro­ugh the big front do­or of the Bis­hop's Inn. A few in­c­hes over six fe­et tall, bro­ad sho­ul­ders, a le­an, at­h­le­tic body. Brown ha­ir that fell over his col­lar li­ke frin­ge, de­ep blue eyes in a fa­ce mo­re rug­ged than han­d­so­me. As a pri­va­te in­ves­ti­ga­tor, Jeremy had wal­ked in­to the cha­os that fol­lo­wed La­ura Bis­hop's di­sap­pe­aran­ce and had ta­ken char­ge, com­man­ded or­der, and sur­ve­yed the facts qu­ickly and ef­fi­ci­ently. With the help or La­ura's brot­her and a fa­mily fri­end., Jeremy had led the se­arch for La­ura, had as­sis­ted in lo­ca­ting and re­tur­ning her wit­hin twen­ty-fo­ur ho­urs. Jeremy had be­en a rock, had ne­ver he­si­ta­ted for a mo­ment, had ne­ver do­ub­ted for an in­s­tant that La­ura wo­uld be re­tur­ned sa­fely to her fa­mily.

  Right then and the­re, Jody had de­ci­ded that she wan­ted a man li­ke Jeremy Nob­le. But then aga­in, what wo­man wo­uldn't?

  Jeremy, of the easy smi­le, the qu­ick wit, and the sharp in­tel­li­gen­ce. Jeremy, who was bra­ve in the fa­ce of dan­ger, who­se me­re pre­sen­ce in the inn had ma­de for se­ve­ral sle­ep­less nights back in June when he'd sta­yed for a few days af­ter La­ura was fo­und and bro­ught ho­me. Jeremy, who was as clo­se to be­ing a re­al he­ro as any man Jody had ever met.

  Jody's fin­gers, sif­ting thro­ugh the sand to the right of her blan­ket, lo­ca­ted a bro­ken pi­ece of scal­lop shell, and ab­sently, she be­gan to ma­ke lit­tle ro­ads with it in the hot sand.

  If she'd be­en a dif­fe­rent sort of wo­man, she'd ha­ve ma­de an ob­vi­o­us play for Jeremy that we­ek. But things had be­en so jum­b­led, the ter­ror fol­lo­wing La­ura's ab­duc­ti­on, then her res­cue from a ho­use that had be­en set afi­re, well, it just hadn't se­emed li­ke the ide­al ti­me to ma­ke a ma­j­or mo­ve on one of the res­cu­ers. It wo­uld ha­ve se­emed, well, tacky. Inap­prop­ri­ate. Op­por­tu­nis­tic, un­der the cir­cum­s­tan­ces.

  Altho­ugh Jeremy had se­emed in­te­res­ted in her.

  Of co­ur­se, that co­uld ha­ve be­en the crab so­up. Or the flan.

  Jeremy had lo­ved her flan…

  To her left, a small band of te­ena­ge girls we­re cla­iming the­ir turf, that very spot ne­ar the li­fe­gu­ard stand that Jody had ear­li­er re­j­ec­ted. The­ir la­ug­h­ter flo­ated ac­ross the be­ach on a brisk sea bre­eze, and from the dis­tan­ce she wat­c­hed the­ir an­tics as they set up the­ir mul­ti­col-ored to­wels, hel­ped one anot­her apply sun­s­c­re­en, tos­sed one anot­her pa­per­back bo­oks or ma­ga­zi­nes.

  Jody drop­ped back on her blan­ket and clo­sed her eyes. The past we­ekend with "the girls" had bro­ught back me­mo­ri­es of sum­mer days they had sha­red so long ago. From ac­ross the ye­ars, snat­c­hes of con­ver­sa­ti­ons drif­ted with such cla­rity that she ope­ned her eyes and lo­oked aro­und to ma­ke cer­ta­in that so­me­how she had not be­en thrust back in ti­me.

  The scent of Cop­per­to­ne and the so­unds of sum­mer bla­ring on ra­di­os all ac­ross the be­ach had re­ma­ined the sa­me, tho­ugh the an­t­hems that ye­ar had be­en va­ri­ed. That last sum­mer they had ba­ked in the hot sun to Sprin­g­s­te­en's "Dan­cing in the Dark," the Po­in­ter Sis­ters' Jump," Ste­ve Perry's "Oh Sherry," and Rod Ste­wart's "Infa­tu­ati­on," Hu­ey New­ton and the News' "The He­art of Rock and Roll," Ma­don­na's "Bor­der­li­ne," and Li­onel Ric­hie's "Hel­lo." Ti­na Tur­ner's "What's Lo­ve Got to Do with It" was get­ting a lot of air ti­me as the se­ason had drawn to an end. Jody clo­sed her eyes and drif­ted off, trying to re­mem­ber the words to Cyndi La­uper's "Ti­me af­ter Ti­me."

  An ho­ur or so la­ter, di­so­ri­en­ted from dre­ams fil­led with fa­ces, snat­c­hes of con­ver­sa­ti­ons, and songs long for­got­ten, Jody sat up slowly. Yes, she was in fact the­re, alo­ne, on the be­ach at Oce­an Po­int. From her be­ach bag, she drew out her wa­ter bot­tle and to­ok a long sip. The nap had re­la­xed her, had bro­ught back that old, lan­gu­id fe­eling of lying too long in the sun, oiled and con­tent and ha­ving no par­ti­cu­lar pla­ce to go, not­hing im­por­tant to do. Jody had for­got­ten just how go­od that fe­eling was. She'd ma­ke it a po­int to ta­ke mo­re ti­me to sun her­self when she re­tur­ned to Bis­hop's Co­ve. She'd be­en spen­ding en­ti­rely too much ti­me in the kit­c­hen and too lit­tle ti­me on the be­ach.

  La­ura had of­ten of­fe­red to hi­re so­me­one to help Jody in the kit­c­hen, but Jody had al­ways re­sis­ted. May­be she sho­uld gi­ve in and ha­ve La­ura do just that. If it fre­ed up even an ho­ur or so each day, it wo­uld be worth it. She'dde­fi­ni­tely dis­cuss it with La­ura when she went back. Right now, her body ha­ving ab­sor­bed all the sun it co­uld to­le­ra­te, she wo­uld st
roll down to the wa­ter and per­haps ta­ke a dip.

  Whi­le she slept, the tem­pe­ra­tu­re had skyroc­ke­ted and the be­ach had fil­led in aro­und her with bat­hers and sun wor­s­hip­pers of every si­ze, sha­pe, and age. She pic­ked her way ca­re­ful­ly thro­ugh the no­isy rows of to­wels and blan­kets that Ut­te­red the be­ach, step­ped aro­und the sand cas­t­les bu­ilt by busy chil­d­ren, ma­de her way to the wa­ter's ed­ge, and wal­ked in­to the oce­an wit­ho­ut he­si­ta­ti­on. It was col­der than she'd an­ti­ci­pa­ted, and she tur­ned her back to the cres­ting wa­ve that was just abo­ut to bre­ak. A se­cond, unex­pec­ted wa­ve slap­ped her from be­hind and she lur­c­hed for­ward. Tur­ning back to fa­ce the sea, a third, lar­ger wa­ve bro­ke over her wit­ho­ut war­ning, spin­ning her aro­und and drag­ging her out and un­der, she emer­ged with a mo­ut­h­ful of sal­t­wa­ter and the top of­her bi­ki­ni half fil­led with sand. She so­ught the co­ope­ra­ti­on of the next wa­ve to wash out the sand and help her back to sho­re.

  'That's so­me un­der­tow," no­ted the mid­dle-aged man who sto­od abo­ut three fe­et be­hind her, hol­ding the hand of a six- or se­ven-ye­ar-old girl.

  "You can say that aga­in," Jody mum­b­led as she ca­su­al­ly at­tem­p­ted to ex­t­ract her legs from the oce­an's clut­c­hes whi­le at the sa­me ti­me se­eking to sal­va­ge so­me dig­nity by pul­ling up the way­ward top of her bi­ki­ni.