Theo had decided not to show the boy’s death, something he might well have done in The Sanitarium, but this time around, he didn’t have the stomach for it. A fleeting reference to the smell coming from the baker’s oven would be more than enough.
But the kid was cunning. Even though he’d been transported into an environment that couldn’t be more foreign—an environment that transcended both time and space—he’d managed to stay alive. And he was doing it without the help of social workers, child endangerment laws, or a single supportive adult, not to mention a cell phone or computer.
At first, Theo couldn’t figure out how the kid was pulling off his miraculous escapes, but then it had come to him. Video games. Playing hours of video games while his wealthy, workaholic parents were conquering Wall Street had given Diggity quick reflexes, keen deductive skills, and a certain comfort level with the bizarre. Diggity was terrified, but he wasn’t giving up.
Theo had never written a kid into a book, and he was damned if he’d ever do it again. He hit the delete key, wiping out two hours of work. This wasn’t the kid’s story, and Theo had to get back in control before the little prick took over.
He stretched his legs and rubbed his hand over his jaw. Annie had repacked the boxes on the floor, but she hadn’t yet put them away. She lived on rainbows. He didn’t believe Mariah had left her anything.
But she didn’t live on rainbows where he was concerned. He wished she’d either stop taunting him with the possibility she was pregnant or give him some idea of when she’d know for sure. Kenley had never wanted kids, which had turned out to be one of the few things they’d had in common. Just the idea of ever again being responsible for another human being made him break out in a cold sweat. He’d as soon put a gun to his head.
He’d barely thought about Kenley since the night he’d told Annie about her, and he didn’t like that. Annie wanted to give him a free pass for Kenley’s death, but that only said something about Annie and nothing about him. He needed his guilt. It was the only way he could live with himself.
Chapter Fifteen
ON MONDAY MORNING, ANNIE STUMBLED out of bed while it was still dark so she could get ready to go out on Naomi’s boat, but she hadn’t taken three steps across the room before she jolted wide-awake. Go out on Naomi’s boat? She groaned and buried her face in her hands. What had she been thinking? She hadn’t been thinking! That was the problem. She couldn’t go out on the water with Naomi. What part of her brain had failed to register that? Once the Ladyslipper left the harbor, Annie would be officially off the island. But because the boat was anchored at Peregrine, departing and returning every day—because Naomi was part of the island—because Annie had been distracted—she’d somehow failed to make the connection. She must be pregnant. How else to account for such a monumental lapse?
If you didn’t spend so much time mooning over Theo Harp, Crumpet said, you’d have your brain back.
Even Crumpet wasn’t this dim-witted. Annie was supposed to meet Naomi at the dock, and she couldn’t not show up without an explanation. She threw on some clothes and drove into town in the Suburban, which Jaycie had let her borrow.
The road was pitted with frozen February mud after Saturday night’s storm, and she drove carefully, still shaken by how scatterbrained she’d been. For twenty-two days, she’d been trapped on an island that existed because of the sea, but she couldn’t venture out into that sea. She could never make such a basic mistake again.
The sky had just begun to lighten when she found Naomi at the boathouse dock throwing some gear into the skiff that would take her to the Ladyslipper, which was anchored in the harbor. “There you are!” Naomi called out with a cheerful wave. “I was afraid you’d changed your mind.”
Before Annie could explain, Naomi launched into the day’s weather forecast. Finally, Annie had to interrupt. “Naomi, I can’t go with you.”
Just then a speeding car skidded into a parking space next to the boathouse, sending gravel flying. The door flew open and Theo jumped out. “Annie! Stay where you are!”
Both of them turned to watch as he charged toward them along the dock. His rumpled hair stood up in the back, and he had a pillow crease across his cheek. “Sorry, Naomi,” he said as he came to a stop next to the boat captain. “Annie can’t leave the island.”
Another mistake. Annie had forgotten to tear up the quick note she’d left for Theo last night, and now here he was.
Naomi splayed a hand on her ample hip, showing the steel that had made her a successful lobsterman. “Why the hell not?”
As Annie began to plead an upset stomach, she struggled to come up with an explanation, Theo’s hand clamped her shoulder. “Annie’s under house arrest.”
Naomi’s other hand found her opposite hip. “What are you talking about?”
“She got into some trouble before she came here,” he said. “Nothing big. Doing puppet shows without a license. New York has strict laws about that kind of thing. Unfortunately for her, it was a repeat offense.”
Annie glared at him, but he was on a roll. “Instead of going to jail, the judge gave her the option of leaving the city for a couple of months. He agreed to her coming here, but only under the condition that she not leave the island. Sort of like a house arrest. Something she obviously forgot.”
His explanation both fascinated and appalled her. She drew away from his hand on her shoulder. “What’s it to you?”
The hand returned. “Now, Annie. You know the court made me your guardian. I’m going to overlook this little breach, but only if you swear it won’t happen again.”
“You city people are crazy,” Naomi grumbled.
“Especially New Yorkers,” Theo agreed solemnly. “Come on, Annie. Let’s get you away from temptation.”
Naomi wasn’t having it. “Ease up, Theo. It’s just a day on my boat. Nobody will be any the wiser.”
“Sorry, Naomi, but I take my duty to the court seriously.”
Annie fought between the desire to laugh and the urge to shove him in the harbor.
“That kind of stuff doesn’t count for shit here,” Naomi argued.
She was genuinely angry, but Theo didn’t budge. “Right is right.” He implanted his fingers in Annie’s shoulder. “I’m going to overlook this little incident, but don’t let it happen again.” He led her off the dock.
The moment they were out of earshot, Annie looked up at him. “Doing puppet shows without a license?”
“Do you really want everybody to know your business?”
“No. Just like I don’t want them to think I’m a convicted felon.”
“Don’t exaggerate. The puppet show thing is only a misdemeanor.”
She threw up her hands. “You couldn’t have come up with something better? Like an urgent phone call from my agent?”
“Do you have an agent?”
“Not any longer. But Naomi doesn’t know that.”
“Apologies,” he said with a nineteenth-century drawl. “I just woke up, and I was under pressure.” And then he went on the attack. “You were really going to climb blissfully into that boat and sail away? Honest to God, Annie, you need a keeper.”
“I wasn’t going on the boat. I was telling her I couldn’t go when the cavalry rode up.”
“Then why did you accept in the first place?”
“I’ve got a lot on my mind, okay?”
“Tell me about it.” He steered her across the parking lot toward the town hall. “I need coffee.”
A few local fishermen were still lingering around the community pot inside the door. Theo nodded at them while he filled two Styrofoam cups with something that looked like engine sludge and snapped on the lids.
Once they were outside again, they headed toward their cars. His was crookedly parked a couple of yards from hers. As he took a sip of his coffee, the curl of steam pulled her attention to the sharply defined borders of his lips. Between those perfect lips, his rumpled hair, beard stubble, and slightly red nose from th
e cold, he looked like a scruffy Ralph Lauren ad. “Are you in a hurry to get back?” he asked.
“Not particularly.” Not until she understood why he hadn’t shoved her on that boat and happily waved good-bye.
“Then get in. I have something to show you.”
“Does it involve a torture chamber or an unmarked grave?”
He shot her a disgusted look.
She gave him her newly patented smirk-smile.
He rolled his eyes and opened the passenger door.
Instead of driving back toward the house, he drove in the opposite direction. The dilapidated yellow schoolhouse trailer clung to the hill next to the ruins of the old building. They passed a closed art gallery and a pair of shuttered eateries advertising lobster rolls and steamed clams. The fish house sat next to Christmas Beach, where the fishermen hauled out their boats for maintenance.
The bumpy road made drinking a hot beverage, even with a lid, difficult, and Annie sipped carefully at the bitter coffee. “What Peregrine needs is a good Starbucks.”
“And a deli.” He slipped on a pair of aviators. “I’d sell my soul for a decent bagel.”
“You mean you still have one?”
“Are you done yet?”
“Sorry. My tongue keeps getting away from me.” She squinted against the bright winter sun. “One question, Theo . . .”
“Later.” He turned onto a badly rutted lane that quickly grew impassable. He parked in a grove of spruces. “We have to walk from here.”
Only a few weeks ago, even a short walk had been daunting, but she couldn’t remember her last coughing fit. The island had given her back her health. At least until the next time somebody shot at her.
Theo shortened his long-legged gait and held her elbow as they walked across the frozen ground. She didn’t need the support, but she liked the simple courtesy of his Old World manners. Twin ruts marked what was left of a lane that cut through a pine thicket. From there the lane sloped slightly downward past a felled tree, curved around a slight bend, and then opened into what, in summer, would be a glorious meadow. At the center sat an abandoned stone farmhouse with a slate roof and a pair of chimneys. A patch of what might be blueberries grew against an old stone icehouse. The ocean lay in the distance—close enough for a breathtaking view, but too far to inflict the worst of its fury. Even on a cold winter day, the secluded, sheltered meadow felt enchanted.
She released a long, slow breath. “This is a fantasy of what a Maine island should be.”
“A lot cozier than Harp House.”
“A crypt is cozier than Harp House.”
“I’m not arguing with you about that. This is the island’s oldest working farm. Or at least it was. They kept sheep here, grew some grain and vegetables. It’s been abandoned since the early 1980s.”
She observed the solid roof and unbroken windows. “Somebody’s still taking care of it.”
He took a slow sip of coffee, saying nothing.
She tilted her head toward him, but his eyes were hidden behind the lenses of his sunglasses. “You,” she said. “You’re the one who’s been taking care of it.”
He shrugged, as if it were no big deal. “I bought the place. Got it for a song.”
She wasn’t fooled by his dismissive tone. He might hate Harp House, but he loved this place.
He continued to gaze across the meadow and out at the ocean. “There’s no heat, no electricity. A well, but no functioning plumbing. It’s not worth much.”
But it was to him. The meadow’s shady spots held a few still-pristine patches of snow. She gazed past them toward the water, where the morning sun decked the waves’ crests with silver tinsel. “Why didn’t you want me to get on Naomi’s boat? Once I cleared the harbor, the cottage would have been yours.”
“The cottage would have been my father’s.”
“So?”
“Can you imagine what Cynthia would do with it? Turn it into a peasant’s hovel or tear it down to build an English village. Who the hell knows what she’d come up with?”
Another piece of what she’d thought she knew about him broke away. He wanted her to keep the cottage. She had to shake the cobwebs from her brain. “You know it’s only a matter of time before I lose the cottage. Once I find a steady job, I won’t be able to come here for two months every year.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
We. Not just her.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you the place.”
She followed him toward the farmhouse. She’d grown so used to the sound of the surf that the meadow’s birdcalls and deeper silences seemed enchanted. As they approached the front door, she knelt to examine a cluster of snowdrops. Their tiny, bell-shaped petals dipped in apology for showing off their beauty when so much winter remained. She touched one of the snowy blooms. “There’s still hope in the world.”
“Is there?”
“There has to be. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
His harsh bark of laughter held no merriment. “You remind me of this kid I know. He can’t win, but he keeps fighting.”
She tilted her head quizzically. “Are you talking about yourself?”
He seemed startled. “Me? No. The kid is— Forget it. Writers tend to blur the line between reality and fiction.”
Ventriloquists, too, she thought.
I have no idea what you’re talking about, Scamp sniffed.
Theo located the key he wanted and slipped it into the lock, which turned easily.
“I thought nobody on the island locked their doors,” she said.
“You can take the boy out of the city . . .”
She followed him into an empty room with worn, wide-plank wooden floors and a big stone fireplace. A chorus of dust motes, disturbed by the air currents, danced in front of a sunny window. The room smelled of woodsmoke and age, but not neglect. There were no piles of trash, no holes in the walls, which were papered in a faded, old-fashioned floral design that curled at the seams.
She unzipped her coat. He stood in the center of the room, his hands in the pockets of his gray parka, almost as if he were embarrassed for her to see this. She moved past him into the kitchen. The appliances were gone, with only a stone sink left and some dented hanging metal cupboards. An old fireplace occupied the end wall. It had been swept, and fresh wood lay in the grate. I love this place, she thought. The house was of the island but set apart from its conflicts.
She pulled off her hat and stuffed it in her pocket. A window above the sink looked out across a clearing that must have once held a garden. She imagined it in bloom—hollyhocks and gladiolas coexisting with snap peas, cabbage, and beets, all of it flourishing.
THEO CAME INTO THE KITCHEN behind Annie and watched her gazing through the window, her open coat falling slightly off one shoulder. She hadn’t bothered with makeup, and standing in this kitchen from the past, she could have been a farm woman from the 1930s. Her bold eyes and abundance of unruly hair didn’t conform to contemporary standards of manufactured beauty. She was a creature unto herself.
He could imagine the makeover Kenley and her fashion-forward friends would have ordered up if they’d had the chance. Chemically straightening Annie’s hair, fillers to plump her lips to porn star proportions, breast implants, and a little liposuction, although he couldn’t imagine where. But the only thing wrong with the way Annie looked was . . .
Absolutely nothing.
“You belong here.” As soon as the words were out, he wanted to snatch them back. He manufactured something approaching a drawl. “All ready to plow the fields, slop the hogs, and paint the outhouse.”
“Gee, thanks.” She should have been insulted. Instead she gazed at her surroundings and smiled. “I like your house.”
“It’s okay, I guess.”
“More than okay. You know exactly how special it is. Why do you always have to act like such a tough-ass?”
“No acting necessary.”
She thought it over
. “I guess you are. But in all the wrong ways.”
“In your opinion.” He didn’t like her insights into his weak spots, her bleeding heart opinion about his relationship with Kenley, her willingness to set aside everything that had happened during that summer all those years ago. It made him afraid for her.
A beam of sunlight skipped across the tips of her eyelashes, and he felt a primitive urge to dominate her. Prove to himself that he was still in control. He wandered toward her, taking his time, gazing into her eyes.
“Stop it,” she said.
He lifted a curl that lay by her ear and ran it through his fingers. “Stop what?”
She shoved his hand away. “Stop going all bloody Heathcliff on me.”
“If I had any idea what you were talking about . . .”
“The saunter. The hooded eyes, the whole broody-arrogant thing.”
“I’ve never sauntered in my life.” Despite her protests, she hadn’t moved an inch. He brushed her cheek with his thumb . . .
HE WAS CASTING HIS DEVIL’S spell over her. Or maybe it was the farmhouse. Whatever the cause, she couldn’t seem to move away from him, even though there was something disquieting in his gaze. Something she didn’t entirely like.
All she had to do was turn her back. She didn’t. Nor did she stop him as he pushed her coat from her shoulders, then shrugged off his own. They landed in the puddle of winter sunshine spilling through the window.
As they stood there, arms at their sides, gazes locked, she grew aware of every inch of her skin. Her sensitivity was so sharp that she could feel the hum of her veins and arteries. Of his. She wasn’t made for mindless sex. She wasn’t designed to take what a man had to offer and forget about him afterward. In these womanpower times, that lack of detachment was a weakness. A defect. One more giant thing wrong with her.