When she heard that, she said to the Superman cartoon character playing soundlessly on the television, “He was supposed to go to a fundraiser on endangered species.”
That’s when she ran. Her mother was dead and there was nothing more holding her here.
To Maine, to find sanctuary.
Riptide, Maine
June 22
Becca said, “I’ll take it.”
The real estate broker, Rachel Ryan, beamed at her, then almost immediately backpedaled. “Perhaps you’re making this decision too quickly, Ms. Powell. Would you like to think about this for a bit? I will have everything cleaned, but the house is old and that includes all the appliances and the bathrooms. It’s furnished, of course, but the furniture isn’t all that remarkable. The house has been empty for four years, since Mr. Marley’s death.”
“You told me all that, Mrs. Ryan. I see that it’s an old house. I still like it, it’s charming. And it’s quite large. I like a lot of space. Also it’s here at the end of the lane all by itself. I do like my privacy.” Now, that was an understatement but nonetheless the truth. “A Mr. Marley lived here?”
“Mr. Jacob Marley. Yes, the same name as in A Christmas Carol. He was eighty-seven years old when he passed away in his sleep. He kept to himself for the last thirty years or so of his life. His daddy started the town back in 1907, after several of his businesses in Boston were burned to the ground one hot summer night. It was said his enemies were responsible. Mr. Marley Senior wasn’t a popular man. He was one of those infamous robber barons. But he wasn’t stupid. He decided it was healthier to just leave Boston and so he did, and came here. There was already a small fishing village here, and he just took it over and renamed it.”
Becca patted the woman’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I’ve thought about it, Mrs. Ryan. I’ll give you a money order since I don’t have a bank account here. Could it be cleaned today so I can move in tomorrow afternoon?”
“It will be ready if I have to clean it myself. Actually, since it’s summer, I can round up a dozen high-schoolers and get them right over here. Don’t you worry about a thing. Oh yes, there’s the most adorable little boy who lives not far from here, over on Gum Shoe Lane. I’m not really his aunt but that’s what he calls me. His name is Sam and I watched him come into this world. His mother was my best friend and I—”
Becca raised her brow, listening politely, but evidently Rachel Ryan was through talking.
“All right, Ms. Powell, I will see you in a couple of days. Call me if there are any problems.”
And it was done. Becca was the proud renter of a very old Victorian jewel that featured eight bedrooms, three spacious bathrooms, a kitchen that surely must have been a showplace before 1910, and a total of ten fireplaces. And as she’d told Rachel Ryan, it was very private, at the end of Belladonna Drive, no prying neighbors anywhere near, and that’s what she wanted. The nearest house was a good half mile away. The property was bordered on three sides by thick maple and pine trees, and the view of the ocean from the widow’s walk was spectacular.
She hummed when she moved in on Thursday afternoon. She even managed to work up a sweat. Even though she wouldn’t use them, she cleaned the bedrooms just because she wanted to. She wallowed in all the space. She never wanted to live in an apartment again.
She’d bought a gun from a guy she met in a restaurant in Rockland, Maine. She’d taken a big chance, but it had, thank God, worked out. The gun was a beauty—a Coonan .357 Magnum automatic, and the guy had taken her just next door, where there was a sports shop with an indoor range, and taught her how to shoot. He’d then asked her to go to a motel with him. He was child’s play to deal with after the maniac in New York. All she’d had to do was say no very firmly. No need to draw her new gun on the guy.
She gently laid the Coonan in the top drawer of her bedside table, a very old mahogany piece with rusted hinges. As she closed the drawer she realized that she hadn’t cried when her mother died. She hadn’t cried at her funeral. But now, as she gently placed a photograph of her mother on top of the bedside table, she felt the tears roll down her cheeks. She stood there staring down at her mother’s picture, taken nearly twenty years before, showing a beautiful young woman, so fair and fine-boned, laughing, hugging Becca against her side. Becca couldn’t remember where they were, maybe in upstate New York. They’d stayed up there for a while when Becca was six and seven years old. “Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry. If only you hadn’t locked your heart away with a dead man, maybe there could have been another man to love, couldn’t there? You had so much to offer, so much love to give. Oh God, I miss you so much.”
She lay down on the bed, held a pillow against her chest, and cried until there were no more tears. She got up and wiped the light sheen of dust off the photo, then carefully set it down again. “I’m safe now, Mom. I don’t know what’s going on, but at least I’m safe for the time being. That man won’t find me here. How could he? I know no one followed me.”
She realized, as she was speaking to her mother’s photo, that she also ached for the father she’d never known, Thomas Matlock, shot and killed in Vietnam so long ago, when she was just a baby. A war hero. But her mother hadn’t forgotten, ever. And it was his name that her mother had whispered before she’d fallen into the drug-induced coma. “Thomas, Thomas.”
He’d been dead for over twenty-five years. So long ago. A different world, but the people were the same—both good and evil, as always—mauling one another to get the lion’s share of the spoils. He’d seen her before he’d gone, her mother had told her, seen her and hugged her and loved her. But Becca couldn’t remember him.
She finished hanging up her clothes and arranging her toiletries in the old-fashioned bathroom with its claw-footed bathtub. The teenagers had even scrubbed between the claws. Good job.
There was a knock on the door. Becca dropped the towel she was holding and froze.
Another knock.
It wasn’t him. He had no idea where she was. There was no way he could find her. It was probably the guy to check the one air-conditioning unit in the living room window. Or the garbage man, or—
“Don’t be paranoid,” she said aloud to the blue towel as she picked it up and hung it on the very old wooden bar. “Do you also realize you’ve been talking out loud a whole lot recently? Another thing, you don’t sound particularly bright.” But who cared if she sang to the towel rack, she thought, as she walked down the old creaking stairs to the front entrance hall.
She could only stare at the tall man who stood in the doorway. It was Tyler, the boy she’d known in college. She’d been one of his few friends. He’d been a geek loner and hadn’t managed to make more than a few non-geek friends. Only he wasn’t a geek anymore. No more heavy-rimmed glasses and pen protector on his shirt pocket. No more stooped shoulders and pants worn too high, his ankles showing his white socks. He was wearing tight jeans that fit him very well indeed, his hair was long, and his shoulders were wide enough to make a woman blink. He was buff, in very good shape. Yes, he was a good-looking man. It was amazing. She had to blink at him a couple of times to get her bearings.
“Tyler? Tyler McBride? Is it really you? I’m sorry I’m gawking. You look so very different, but it’s still you. Actually, to be perfectly honest about this, you’re very sexy.”
He gave her a huge grin and gripped her hands between his. “Becca Matlock, it’s good to see you. I came over to see my new neighbor, never dreaming it could be you. Is Powell your married name? I can’t imagine why you’re here of all places, the end of the world. But whatever. Welcome to Riptide.”
4
She laughed and squeezed his hands and said, “Goodness, you’re not a nerd anymore. Listen, Tyler, it’s because of you that I’m here. I would have called you. I just haven’t gotten to it yet. Can I really be so lucky to have you for a neighbor?”
He gave her a very nice smile and just stood there, waiting. Had he had braces? She couldn’t remember. It didn’t mat
ter, he had gorgeous teeth now. What a difference. Incredible.
“Oh, yes, everyone’s a neighbor in Riptide, but yes, I live just one street over, on Gum Shoe Lane.”
She let go of his hands although she didn’t want to, and stepped back. “Do come in. Everything, including the furnishings, is ancient, but there aren’t any springs sticking up in the sofa, and it’s fairly comfortable. Mrs. Ryan sent an army of teenagers here to clean the place. They did a pretty decent job. Come in, Tyler, come in.”
She managed to make two cups of tea on the ancient stove while Tyler sat at the kitchen table watching her. “What do you mean you came here because of me?”
She dipped a tea bag in and out of the cups of hot water. “I remembered your talking about your hometown, Riptide. You called it your haven.” She paused a moment and stared down into her teacup. “I’ll never forget your saying that Riptide was in the boondocks, near nothing at all, so private you nearly forgot that you were even here. Just out on the edge of the world, nearly falling into the ocean, and nobody knew where it was, or cared. You also said that Riptide was the place where the sun first rose in the U.S. You said for those moments, the sky was an orange ball and the water was a cauldron of fire.”
“I said that? I didn’t know I was such a poet.”
“That’s nearly word for word, and, as I told you, that’s why I came. Goodness, I can’t get over how you’ve changed, Tyler.”
“Everyone changes, Becca. Even you. You’re prettier now than you were back in college.” He frowned a moment, as if trying to remember. “Your hair’s darker and I don’t remember you having brown eyes or wearing glasses, but otherwise, I’d know you anywhere.” Well damn, she thought, that wasn’t good. She pushed the glasses higher on her nose.
He accepted the cup of tea, not speaking until she sat down at the table across from him. Then he smiled at her and said, “Why do you need a haven?”
What to tell him?
That the governor had been shot in the neck because of her? No, no, she couldn’t feel responsible. That madman shot the governor. She stalled.
He backed off and said, “You went to New York, didn’t you? You were a writer, I remember. What were you doing in New York?”
“I was writing speeches,” she said easily, “for bigwigs in various companies. I can’t believe you remember that I went to New York.”
“I remember nearly everything about people I like. Why do you need a haven? No, wait, if it isn’t any of my business, forget it. It’s just that I’m worried about you.”
She wasn’t a very good liar, but she had to try. “No, it’s okay. I’m getting away from a very bad relationship.”
“Your husband?”
No choice. “Yes, my husband. He’s very possessive. I wanted out and he didn’t want to let me go. I thought of Riptide and what you’d said.” She didn’t want to tell him about her mother dying. To mix that with a lie was just too much. She managed to shrug and raise her teacup to click it against his. “Thanks, Tyler, for being at Dartmouth and talking about your hometown to me.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, his eyes serious upon her face. “If your husband is after you, how do you know he didn’t follow you to the airport? I know New York traffic is nuts, but it’s not all that hard to follow someone, if you really want to.”
“It’s a good thing I’ve read a lot of spy novels and seen lots of police shows.” She told him how she’d changed taxis three times on the way to Kennedy. “When I got out at the United terminal, I was sure no one had followed me. My last driver was one of a vanishing breed—a native New Yorker cabbie. He knew Queens as well as he knew his ex-wife’s lover, he told me. No one followed me, he was sure of it. I flew to Boston, then on to Portland, and bought myself a used Toyota from Big Frank’s. I drove up here to your haven, and he’ll never find me.”
She had no idea whether or not he believed her. Well, all that about her escape from New York was the truth. She’d only lied about who she was running from.
“I sure hope you’re right. But I plan to keep an eye on you, Becca Powell.”
She managed to get him to talk about himself. He told her he was a computer consultant, a troubleshooter of sorts, and he designed software programs for major accounting and brokerage firms, “to track clients and money and how the two come together. I’m successful, Becca, and it feels good. You know, you were the only girl in college who didn’t look at me and giggle at what a jerk I was. You called me a nerd and a geek, but that was okay, it was the truth. Do you know we’ve got a gym in Riptide? I’m there three days a week. I find that if I don’t work out regularly, I get all skinny again, lose my energy, and want to wear a pocket protector.”
“You’re sure not skinny now, Tyler.”
“No,” he said, grinning at her, “I’m not.”
When she showed him out some fifteen minutes later, she wondered again if he’d believed her reason for coming to Riptide. He was a nice guy; she’d hated to lie to him. She was glad he was here. She wasn’t completely alone. She watched him get into his Jeep. He looked up and waved at her, then executed a sharp U-turn. He lived just one street over, on Gum Shoe Lane, but it was a good distance away.
Her house. That felt good. She slowly closed the front door and turned to look at her ancient furnishings. Her mother, the antiques nut, would have shuddered. When Marley Senior had furnished this house, she wondered if he’d ordered anything out of the turn-of-the-century Sears catalogue.
Now that she was settled in, her two suitcases emptied and tucked in the back of her bedroom closet, she decided to explore the town. She locked up the house, got into her car and drove down West Hemlock past one of Riptide’s half-dozen white-spired churches. It was a charming town, isolated, and unspoiled. Just being in such a quaint village made her feel safe.
When she turned her Toyota onto Poison Oak Circle ten minutes later, she spotted the Food Fort. Everyone there was friendly, including the produce woman, who handed her the best head of romaine lettuce in the bin. Since it was a fishing town, there was lots of fresh fish available, mainly lobster. Becca was eager to give everything a try.
Her evening was peaceful. She spent the twilight time leaning over the railing of the widow’s walk, staring out at the ocean. The water was calm; waves crested gently against pine-covered rocks that she could barely make out from where she stood. But Marley Senior had named the town Riptide. Was there a vicious tide that pulled people out to sea? She’d have to ask. It was a scary thought. She’d been caught in a riptide once when she was about ten years old. A lifeguard the size of Godzilla had managed to save her, telling her you had to swim parallel to shore until you were free of the strong current.
She wasn’t being sucked out now, dragged under to die a horrible death. She’d escaped, just as she had when she was ten. Only this time she’d saved herself. Like the ocean on this beautiful evening, her life was calm again. She was safe.
She looked to the left at the dozen or so fishing boats coming back into the harbor. Since it was summer, some tourists were out in their white-sailed boats, enjoying the last bit of the day. The deep scent of brine settled around her. She quite liked it. Yes, she was going to be safe here.
The phone installers were coming the next day. She’d changed her mind at least a dozen times as to whether or not she would even have a phone. In the end, she’d decided in favor of getting connected, perhaps as a gesture of confidence that her stalker would fail to track her down.
The next morning just after nine o’clock, Tyler appeared again at her door, a little boy at his side, holding his hand.
“Hi, Becca. This is my son, Sam.”
His son? Becca looked down at the solemn little face looking up at her. He didn’t look a thing like Tyler. He was sturdy, compact, with a head of very dark hair and eyes a beautiful light blue. Sort of like hers, she thought, and smiled. He looked all boy. He didn’t seem happy to be there. She opened the screen door and stood back. “Do come in
, Tyler, Sam.”
He was so wary, she thought. Distrustful. Or was it more than that? Was there something wrong with this precious little boy? Was this Rachel Ryan’s Sam, the little boy she obviously adored? She smiled down at him, then slowly came down on her knees. “I’m Becca. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam.” She held out her hand.
“Sam, say hello to Becca.”
There was a slight edge to his voice. Why was that? She said quickly, “It’s all right, Tyler. Sam can do what he wants. I don’t think I was all that talkative, either, when I was his age.”
“It’s not that,” Tyler said, frowning down at his son.
The child just stared up at her, unmoving, so very still. She didn’t stop smiling. “Would you like a glass of lemonade, Sam? Mine’s just about the best east of the Rockies.”
“All right.” His voice was small and wary. Thank goodness she’d bought some cookies. Even wary little boys had to like cookies.
She sat him at the kitchen table, saying, “Do you have an aunt Rachel, Sam?”
“Rachel,” Sam repeated, and he gave her a huge smile. “My aunt Rachel.”
Sam said nothing more after that, but he ate three cookies and drank nearly two glasses of lemonade. Then he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. All boy, she thought, but what was wrong? Why didn’t he speak? And he looked so blank, as if his mind wasn’t focused on the here and now.
“Do come back, Sam. I’ll make sure there are always cookies here for you.”
“When?” Sam said.
“Tomorrow,” she said, giving him a big grin. “I’ll be here all morning.”
“What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?” Tyler said as he took his son’s small hand.