A Letter for Annie (3 page)

Then, diabolically, his thoughts turned to Annie. Her aloof behavior. The way she’d looked at him in her bedroom, as if he were an intruder bent on no good. Her whole snow-queen routine would get old. Because the hell of it was he was going to be spending considerably more time than he liked at the Greer cottage, which had been neglected too long and needed a great deal of work. He didn’t appreciate her treating him like the bad
guy. He wasn’t the one who’d run away. He wasn’t the one who’d devastated Pete. Sure, Kyle had his own sins to atone for, but he’d stuck by Pete to the end.

Still, one thing was for damn sure. Before Kyle finished with the house, he’d get some answers from her. She owed him. More important, she owed Pete and the Nemecs.

He tossed back the rest of the beer, then glanced at the TV. Bottom of the eighth? Hell, he’d missed more than half an inning. He swung to his feet and snagged a second brew from the fridge.
Enough about Annie,
he told himself.
You don’t need this aggravation in your life.
Tomorrow, weather permitting, he was working outside. He would concentrate on the job. Put her out of his mind. Exactly where she belonged. Where she always should have belonged.

A
FTER SUPPER
Annie undertook the task she’d been putting off—making an inventory of food supplies. Although Carmen had left a well-stocked pantry and some frozen casseroles, Annie would have to make a trip to the supermarket, even if a raging case of cabin fever was preferable. For a change of scene and to work off tension, she’d been walking on the beach each afternoon while Geneva napped.

Annie was compiling a grocery list when the phone rang. The warmth of Nina Valdez’s voice was a balm. “Your friends are missing you. So am I. And the customers? They’re always asking after you.”

Annie doubted she had left such a void in the lives of Bisbee residents. Maybe in Nina’s, though. “I miss everyone. I wish I were there.”

“How is she, honey?” Nina’s voice registered concern.

“I’m not really sure.” As she talked, Annie carried the phone onto the front porch and curled up in the swing. “She isn’t giving me all the details and for now, she’s holding her own. But I can see it’s a struggle for her, and one day she’ll have to give in.”

“Do you have help?”

An onslaught of loneliness blindsided her. “Mmm, not really. Not now. But Carmen will be back soon.”

“Have you considered hospice care?”

Nina might as well have socked her in the stomach.
Hospice.
The word floated in her awareness like a circling vulture.

“Annie?”

“I’m here,” she whispered.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. But I don’t want you facing this on your own.”

“She’s really dying, isn’t she?” Annie had known that intellectually, but she’d avoided saying it aloud. Somehow verbalizing made it real.

“Yes, honey, she is. You know that’s why I encouraged you to go home to Oregon.”

Tears rolled down Annie’s cheeks. “She’s…she’s…” Her voice caught. “My family.”
My only family
was left unsaid.

From that point, she couldn’t focus on the conversation, but she did hear the empathy and love in Nina’s voice.

After Annie hung up, she stayed on the porch to pull herself together. Then she went into the living room, where she and Geneva played two games of gin rummy. At nine, after a fit of coughing, Geneva declared she was
ready for bed. Annie helped her undress. When Geneva was finally tucked in for the night, she reached up and grabbed Annie’s hand. “Thank you for making the list for Kyle Becker. I can’t wait to see how the renovation turns out.”

Hearing the delight in her aunt’s voice, Annie realized this house project had given Geneva a purpose. But when it was completed…?

As she gently squeezed her aunt’s hand and leaned over to kiss her, she wished she could ask Kyle to take all the time in the world to finish his work.

Oddly, when she was finally in her own bedroom, it seemed as if the man himself were there. His scent lingered in the air and the memory of his presence made her pulse race. She found herself remembering the fun-loving eighteen-year-old jock who had been Pete’s best friend. Her friend, too, teasing her unmercifully about her studious ways, about the glints of red in her hair, and, of course, about how gaga she was over Pete. Most of the time Kyle had been full of laughter and jokes, but every now and then she had sensed that beneath his cheerful facade lay a serious side, even a vulnerable one, possibly a result of his troubled home life.

Today she’d seen only the serious Kyle. It was the hurt she saw. Unexpectedly, that made her feel sad—and guilty. Pete’s death clearly haunted them both.

B
Y
F
RIDAY AFTERNOON
Kyle and Annie had settled into a kind of compromise. So long as he worked outside, she stayed inside. The two times he’d had to work in the house, Annie had pulled on a shapeless gray crewneck sweater and headed for the beach. They only communicated when necessary.

By contrast, the more he was around Geneva, the greater his respect for her. So few home owners really knew what they wanted, and he often spent as much time undoing their decisions as he did on the actual work. No such problem with Geneva. Insofar as was possible, she wanted the house restored to its original splendor, and she knew exactly what that would look like. Best of all, she was willing to pay.

This morning she had shown him photos of the exterior, circa 1936. Built to withstand the coastal weather, the cottage was functional yet beautiful in its New England simplicity. The design had been lovingly executed, and Kyle wanted it to be lovingly preserved. Some jobs were merely that—jobs. The rare few, like this one, stirred something deep in his soul.

As he was leaving for the day, he met Annie return
ing from the beach. He couldn’t just ignore her, but what came out of his mouth was sarcastic. “Got big plans for the weekend?”

She looked straight through him. “I’m not here for fun,” she said, and continued to the house.

No, in a real sense, she wasn’t here for fun. But the way she frowned and kept to herself suggested she didn’t know much about fun anymore. Not that it was any of his business.

Bubba gave a short bark of greeting, happy to run around for a few minutes before hopping into the cab. Kyle watched him, but his thoughts were on his senior year in high school. They’d all had fun then. Pete the quarterback, him the running back. Annie, in her short-skirted cheerleading outfit, her shining hair caught up in a big blue bow. Postgame parties on the beach, sparks from a bonfire spiraling into the starry sky, beer flowing freely. Sometimes Pete brought his guitar and, accompanied by the rat-a-tat of makeshift driftwood bongos and the cadence of the surf, they would all sing along until gradually, one by one, the couples slipped off into the darkness.

Almost as a self-protective device, he realized now, he’d cultivated a devil-may-care, bad-boy image, and there had been no shortage of willing girls climbing all over him. But none of them had been Annie.

A burning sensation filled Kyle’s throat. He fought the disturbing images.

And what about his own weekends these days? Compared to Annie, he had only minimal bragging rights. How many alcohol-buzzed evenings could a person
spend at the Yacht Club playing pool and flirting with the barmaids? Or, big deal, watching ESPN until his eyes glazed over?

At least tonight he had the softball game to look forward to. That was the good news. The bad news? Rosemary’s birthday party, where subtly and not so subtly the matchmakers would be zeroing in on him.

“Bubba, I swear to God, I’m gonna die a bachelor.”

A
NNIE PULLED
a deck of cards from the pocket of her overalls and sat down across from her aunt. “Gin rummy tonight, Auntie G.?”

“No, petunia. I want to start on the family history.” From the chest, which had remained by her chair, she reached for a stack of photographs. “We’ll begin with my father and mother.” She drew out a picture of a handsome, dark-haired young man, wearing a World War I uniform and looking directly into the camera. “This is my father. He went over to France with the first wave of Yanks. In all the years I knew him, he never once talked about his war experiences. Only about the fine friends he’d made, many lost in the trenches.” She paused, thinking of all those soldiers who never returned home. “One of those friends gave my father a wonderful piece of advice in early 1929. ‘Sell your stock,’ he said. Because of my father’s respect for the man, he did exactly that, only a few short months before the October crash.”

“I’ve always wondered how he managed to build this house during the Depression.” Annie fingered the faded photograph. “What about your mother?”

“Lucy Windsor was from a wealthy Connecticut
family that summered in Maine. Shortly after the war, she fell madly in love with William Greer and, despite her parents’ objections that he didn’t come from the ‘proper’ stock, she defied them by marrying him and, in essence, living happily ever after.”

The ghost of a smile teased Annie’s lips. “I’m beginning to see where your independent streak may have originated.”

“You come from a strong line, my dear.” Geneva pointed to a photo of a blond beauty with bobbed hair, clad in a fringed flapper-style evening gown. “My mother. People always loved being around her. My father built the cottage for her. She longed for the sea of her childhood, and he gave her the next best thing. Even though we lived in Portland, we spent every summer here. Happy times.”

“I’ve always thought this house had ghosts, the good kind.”

Geneva nodded. “That’s why it’s so important to me to preserve this place.”

In her great-aunt’s words Annie heard the plaintive melody of nostalgia. “I hope new owners love and honor the cottage the way you do.”

“New owners? I’m not fixing up the house to sell it.” Geneva smiled, then picked up Annie’s hand and held it in her own. “Oh, my little petunia, this place will be yours.”

Annie’s mind reeled. Hers? That would mean staying in Eden Bay. “Auntie G., I’m not sure—”

“This is your home. In time, I pray you will come to embrace this place.”

What could she possibly say to her great-aunt? The
gift of the cottage was more than generous. How could she disappoint Auntie G. by telling her she had no desire to remain in a town with such distressing memories? “I can’t promise anything.”

The older woman nodded in understanding. “Not now, maybe. Just promise me you’ll give Eden Bay a chance.”

It was a lot to ask, but under the circumstances she had little choice but to murmur, “I’ll try.”

Later, as Annie snuggled under the comforter that smelled vaguely of lavender, she pondered how different things might have been for her in Eden Bay, if only…She shuddered and drew the spread up over her shoulders. So much had changed, and her future was a huge question mark. In another world, she might have been the one to continue the line of Greers living in the cottage. Now they would die out with Geneva.

Perhaps that was just as well.

B
Y THE TIME
Kyle raced home from the softball game, showered, changed and drove to the Nemecs’ house, the party was in full swing, the celebration enhanced by the Nemec Construction Tigers’ 10-3 win. “The conquering hero arrives,” trumpeted Wade Hanson, the finish carpenter. The men clustered around a beer keg looked up and cheered. “Great pitching, Becker,” one of them said.

“You guys weren’t too shabby yourselves. Fifteen hits, no errors. You know what?” He grinned and ambled toward the keg. “I think we all deserve a beer.” Somebody thrust one into his hand. He made quick work of it and refilled the cup. It was a clear, cool
night, and if he had a choice, he’d stay out here talking about the upcoming NBA playoffs and shooting the breeze with the fellas. He pictured the women gathered in the family room, undoubtedly talking about kids and recipes and stuff. Times like this, he was glad he wasn’t married.

As if that thought had summoned her, Wade’s wife, Carrie, appeared, hooked her arm through Kyle’s and started toward the house. “Come on in, you guys. It’s time for the cake.”

With Kyle in tow, Carrie walked through the kitchen, past the dining room table laden with assorted appetizers and into the family room. “Here he is,” she called to the assembled throng, as if she’d just reeled in a prize salmon. “The winning pitcher.”

Bruce Nemec sidled up behind him and whispered, “Into the frying pan, son.”

The women cooed their congratulations. One stood outside the circle, smiling, never taking her eyes off him. Rosemary. “Sit down,” Bruce’s wife, Janet, urged. “There. Next to the birthday girl.”

Kyle complied, even throwing in a gentlemanly kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Rosemary.”

“It is now,” she said, lowering her voice and laying a hand on his knee.

Someone dimmed the lights and Pete and Rosemary’s older sister, Margaret, entered the room, bearing a sheet cake with lit candles. The crowd began singing “Happy Birthday,” and when Margaret set the cake on a table, Kyle could finally read the message written in frosting.
This is the year! Happy twenty-fifth!

The year for what? The girl had only one goal, one dream—marriage. Just then somebody had the nerve to call out, “Make a wish, Rosie.”

And damned if she didn’t blow out every one of those twenty-five candles.

While everyone was eating, Kyle excused himself and escaped down the hall toward the bedrooms and guest bath. The door to Pete’s old room, normally closed, stood open. Against his instincts, Kyle went inside, shutting the door behind him. He turned on the table lamp and stood in the middle of the room, trying to recall what it had looked like when he and Pete had spent hours sprawled on the floor with their Hot Wheels track or sitting at the desk playing Tetris on Pete’s computer. The army reserve recruiting poster was gone, as were those of assorted athletes and rock stars. The walls had been painted a dove-gray, and the NASCAR curtains had been replaced with something floral. Kyle closed his eyes, summoning the essence of Pete. Nothing. Finally he moved to turn off the lamp.

There—carved in the wooden surface of the table—were the initials PN and KB with the date—6/6/90. They had just finished fifth grade. Kyle remembered the day vividly. His father had come home drunk from the job at the fish cannery. In memory, Kyle could still smell his rank body and sour-sweet bourbon breath. Joe Becker had taken one look at the sink full of dirty dishes and turned on Kyle. “You worthless piece of shit,” he’d shouted as he slammed him into the wall of their shoddy trailer house. Over and over. Eventually Kyle had escaped and run as fast as he could to the Nemec home.
He’d rapped on Pete’s bedroom window. Pete had come out into the yard and led Kyle silently down the hall and into the bedroom. This bedroom. Pete had left long enough to get an ice bag, some towels and analgesic. No medic ever treated anyone more tenderly.

Kyle studied the surface of the desk, then ran his finger over the carved indentations. It was that night they had become blood brothers, vowing to cover each other’s backs. The evidence lay in the paired initials staring up at him.

Sinking onto the bed, Kyle held his head in his hands, gritting his teeth against the howl that threatened to explode from his chest.
One of us failed.

“S
ON, YOU ALL RIGHT
?” Bruce stood in the doorway, frowning with concern.
Son.
From early on, Mr. Nemec had called him that. The word used to flow over him like warm honey, causing him to feel special, as if he belonged. Making him believe, at least for a pocket of time, that the ratty trailer house and the brute who lived there didn’t exist. But now the true son was dead, and Kyle was no substitute, no matter how warmly the Nemecs drew him into their lives. No matter how hard he wished he could fill the empty place where Pete should’ve been.

Raising his head, Kyle wondered what he could say. The truth was too painful. “I just needed a moment.”

“With Pete.” It was not a question.

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “There are times I still can’t accept the fact he’s gone.”

“I know what you mean.” Bruce strolled about the
room, tracing the same path Kyle had taken earlier. “For a while, you know, we kept this room just as it was. If Janet had her way, it would have remained a shrine. But that wasn’t healthy. We had to move on.” He stopped in front of Kyle and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s been a long time. You need to move on, too.”

Kyle wondered if he ever could, living in this town, working as Bruce’s heir apparent, being embraced by the Nemecs in every possible way. Maybe he should bite the bullet and extricate himself from them. If he stayed in Eden Bay, what would be his role? How much did he owe this family who had accepted him as one of their own since he’d been a terrified little boy?

“I think Rosemary’s wondering where you are.”

There was his answer. He knew they were generous people who would understand if he couldn’t love their daughter, but shouldn’t he at least try? Yet if he did and things didn’t work out between him and Rosemary, he would have knowingly hurt another Nemec.

He rose to his feet. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to put a damper on the party.”

Bruce clamped an arm around his shoulder as they walked down the hall. “You didn’t, son.”

Afterward, Kyle couldn’t remember what had snapped within him. He only knew he had been helpless to control what he said next, as if the impulse had been building in him all week. “Bruce,” he said, and stopped at the end of the hall. “There’s something I need to tell you. It, uh, it’s not easy.” Then he uttered the words that removed any trace of celebration from the man’s face: “Annie Greer is back in town.”

A
NNIE ROSE
early Sunday morning, her nerves jangling. Today was the day. No longer could she put off the trip to town. They needed both groceries and medicine. So long as she had been sequestered at the cottage, she felt safe, as if nobody could see her through the fog that obscured sections of the coastline. Today, however, the skies were a brilliant blue. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, and bright sunlight glared off the beach sand. She could hide no longer.

After breakfast she helped Geneva to her chair. Annie had arranged for Frances to come while she was gone, but left her cell number on the pad on the table and made sure the phone was at her great-aunt’s elbow. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

Geneva huffed. “Frances and I will be fine. What about you?”

Annie chose to misunderstand the implication of her aunt’s pointed question. “I’ll be back in a jiff.” That, at least, was the truth. She’d strategized that Sunday morning would be the best time for this ordeal. People would be sleeping in, at church or maybe golfing. She could dart in and out of the store, unrecognized. Anonymous.