Daughter of Deep Silence (7 page)

S
omething tight squeezes my heart at the sound of my name on his lips. I look down at my hands, fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt. Libby’s signet ring gleams in the dull light. “I remember a few things.” My voice comes out broken; it’s perhaps the most honest thing I’ve said to him so far.

“She didn’t say anything, though?” He faces me, scrutinizing my reactions. “When you were on the lifeboat together? About what happened on the
Persephone
when she sank?”

Shaking my head I tell him, “They tried everything to try to fix my memory: hypnosis, therapy, drug treatments.” I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a shuddering breath. “But I don’t want to remember. Please.” I feel the tears burning, forcing their way free. “Please don’t make me remember.” I swallow, thickly. “I can’t,” I add in a whisper, telling him what I know he wants to hear: that I’m not a threat. That whatever secrets he has can remain buried.

That he can afford to let down his guard around me.

His hands fall lightly on my shoulders, fingertips nudging me toward him. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, wrapping me against his chest. We stand like this for several moments, his racing heartbeat eventually slowing under my cheek.

Closing my eyes, with the sound of the waves as a backdrop, I can almost believe I’m back on the
Persephone
. Before anything went wrong. When my future was still a brightly coiled path of possibility.

“Trust me, you don’t want to remember.” He swallows several times. “It was awful,” he adds, almost silently.

I pull my head back and look up at him. He’s staring at the horizon, but his gaze is unfocused. I wonder whether, like me, his mind churns with images from that night. The terror. The confusion. The pain. It’s obviously all still there, grinding under the surface. The truth of what happened, struggling for release.

The trick is in getting him to confess it all willingly. “You’re right—I
don’t
want to know and I won’t ever ask you to remember any of it,” I tell him.

I can lie as convincingly as he can.

Because I know that if I ask him now, he’ll feed me the same lines he’s fed everyone else. About the rogue wave. About the miraculous rescue.

He needs to trust me first.

He needs to
know
me.

His expression turns grateful, the wariness almost gone. And I know I’ve achieved my goal—that I’ve put him at ease.

“They’ll probably start wondering where we are soon if we don’t get back.” I turn and start toward the house. In the storm-darkened evening the lights around the patio and pool have come on, turning the O’Martin estate into a beacon. I point it out to Grey, adding, “Don’t lighthouses usually signal danger?”

He chuckles. “Who’s to say that’s not accurate?”

I smile, allowing my shoulder to bump gently against his. This time, the walk in silence is amiable rather than awkward. But my steps slow as we leave the beach behind and make our way up the stairs to the boardwalk. Even with the turning weather the yard is strewn with people. Strangers. My stomach tightens and I honestly wonder what would happen if I just turned and started running. Never stopped.

If I could run fast enough and far enough that I could forget everything.

But it’s never worked before.

There’s only one path forward and I’m already far enough down it that the only option is to keep moving.

“I guess we have to go back in there, huh?” I ask. Grey’s shirt whips out behind me in the wind, the hem popping and snapping like a flag.

“Unfortunately,” Grey responds. He stands slightly behind me and I hear the way his voice shifts, a note of regret playing under the words as he adds, “I’m not sure familial duty ever ends.”

As a Senator’s son I’m sure much is expected of him. But there’s bitterness and anger in the way he says it, as though the sentiment runs deeper. I make a mental note before turning and letting his shirt drop from my shoulders, holding it out to him. Once he’s shrugged into it, I take my time slipping the buttons into place for him.

“Thank you,” I tell him. He frowns, confused, and I smile. “For making this”—I wave a hand between us—“bearable.” I lift one corner of my lips higher, the Libby trademark. “Maybe moving back home won’t be so bad after all.” His eyebrows rise in surprise, but before he can say anything his phone chirps in his pocket.

Almost apologetically, he slips it free and glances at the screen. He frowns.
My dad
, he mouths to me as he presses the phone to his ear. “Hey, Dad, what’s—” He swallows the rest of the greeting and turns slightly away, listening. A look of concern flashes across his face. “Is she okay?” He glances back toward the house, clearly anxious.

“Good.” After listening a moment more, he cringes. “Oh, um . . .” His eyes snap to mine. “No, I . . .” He takes another step away. His voice drops. “I left early—decided to walk home.”

He glances at me again. “No, I’m not—I’m . . . I’m by myself.” He rubs that spot behind his ear, shoulders pulled tight. It doesn’t take a master sleuth to figure out the other side of the conversation. If Grey’s lying, clearly he’s doing something he doesn’t want his father knowing about.

And I’m guessing that something is anything involving me.

The call ends abruptly and Grey inhales sharply. “Sorry about that,” he says, sliding the phone back in his pocket.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

He lifts a shoulder, having a hard time meeting my eyes. “My mom wasn’t feeling well so Dad took her home. He was just calling because he couldn’t find me at the party and was worried.”

I feign surprise. “Oh no, is your mom okay?”

“Probably just something she ate or a bug. Dad says she’ll be fine. But, uh, I should be going.” He takes a step backward and then another. There’s a stretch of silence between us and I can see the way his mind churns, trying to figure out how to fill it.

I wait, knowing that it’s in the silences where truth often comes.

But not tonight, apparently. He simply nods and then turns, jogging for home. And I smile, knowing it’s not the last I’ll see of him.

This is just the beginning.

I
’m up early the next morning, anticipation making it difficult to sleep in. After showering I drive into town. Caldwell is a collection of small islands, some of them protected by Cecil’s conservation easements, but most dotted with high-end, expensive beach houses set on large lots. Though the town itself sits on the biggest island, it’s still only a few blocks long. I pull into one of the many open parking spaces along the street and make my way into the specialty food store.

The thing about small towns is that everyone knows everyone else. And while I may be a stranger, Cecil wasn’t. When I approach the manager, he greets me warmly, immediately expressing his regrets over my father’s passing. I tell him I’m looking for a get-well gift for Mrs. Wells and he helps me fill a sweetgrass basket with some of her favorite items: 80-percent-cocoa dark chocolate; organic scuppernong grapes; and several vials of Refreshergy, the energy drink she takes every morning.

“Looks disgusting,” I comment as the manager rings them up. He shrugs, claiming that the Senator’s wife swears by them.

Once I’m back in the car, I flip open the glove compartment and pull out another Refreshergy vial, tucking it into the basket with the others. Except for the fact that the seal is broken, there’s no way to tell the difference between them.

That done, I grab my cell phone and dial a number I’d memorized this morning. After two rings, a soft voice with a drawn accent answers, “Good mornin’, Caldwell Island Country Club, how can I help you?”

“Yes, this is Mindy Gervistan and I work for Harrison Cheefer, Senator Wells’s chief of staff?” I let just a touch of nervous energy come through in my voice. “I was just going over his calendar for the day and I have on here that the Senator’s playing golf, but somehow I don’t have the actual tee time. Do you mind letting me know when it is?”

“Of course,” the woman says. There’s a rustling of paper. “We have him and his son down for noon with their usual caddies.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” I gush, sounding relieved. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you!”

She chuckles as she says good-bye and I check the time before slipping the phone back into my purse. It’s ten fifteen now, which means I’ve got at least an hour to kill. For a moment I think about heading toward the Caldwell Island Marina where the
Libby Two
is still docked, but I’m not quite sure I’m ready to handle that just yet. So I decide to wander my way back to the O’Martin estate—taking turns at random to familiarize myself with routes I’d only seen online. I drive past acres and acres of forest and marsh, all protected thanks to Cecil and managed by Shepherd. I smile, rolling down the windows and letting the fresh summer air play through my hair.

It’s so different here along the coast, that I still haven’t fully adjusted. I grew up in Ohio and my family had been solidly middle class, which meant access to the ocean was rare. And for years after the
Persephone
, the thought of living anywhere near the ocean terrified me.

I couldn’t even stand the taste of salt on my food, much less face the prospect of a horizon that never ended. Which is why when Cecil had given me my choice of European boarding schools, I’d chosen one tucked deep in an alpine valley, far away from the sea, from my old life, from anyone who’d ever known anything about me or Libby.

But I’ve always known that eventually I’d have to conquer my distrust of the ocean. It’s the only way I’d be able to get close enough to Grey and his father to implement my plan. Luckily, rage is a powerful emotion, strong enough not just to burn away pain but also to sear back the whispering tendrils of fear.

Back at the O’Martin estate I leave my car parked in the driveway before striking out on foot, the sweetgrass basket balanced in my arms. It’s not a long walk to the Wellses’ house—only a mile and a half—but for privacy reasons, most of the lots on this island remain shrouded with stunted pines that tangle the ocean breeze before it can make it to the road. I’m sweating by the time I turn into their driveway.

The Wells house is monstrous and modern—all sharp angles and slick panes of glass that do nothing but lash out against the natural curving beauty of the island coast. It clashes against the moss-draped oaks lining the long driveway, as though, like the family inside, it were determined to make the land bend to its will.

After ringing the bell I stand on the porch, waiting. Despite the fact that it’s still early in the summer, my sundress sticks damply to my back and already the late morning hums with the thickness of humidity and cicadas.

I’m pleased that when Grey finally opens the door, his eyes widen in surprise.

“I was worried about your mom,” I say, holding out the sweetgrass basket. “I don’t want to intrude, especially if she’s still not feeling well, but I did want to stop by and make sure she’s okay. See if there’s anything I can do.”

He hesitates, trying to reconcile my presence, wondering whether to sort me into the enemy or the friend camp. My hope is that after our walk on the beach yesterday, I’ve at least earned a “to be determined” designation. Just to be sure, I let my chin drop a fraction, allowing one corner of my lip to kick up higher than the other in a self-conscious smile.

In response, he glances over my shoulder at the empty driveway and must figure out that I walked up here. His grip on the door loosens and he steps aside. Having been born and raised in South Carolina, he well knows that manners dictate you offer someone refreshments when they’ve gone out their way like I have.

I nod my head in thanks as I step inside. When Grey takes the basket from me, his eyes linger for a moment at where I’d been clutching it against my chest. As I expected, the air-conditioning is running at full blast, and the thin material of my sundress does little to hide that my skin instantly prickles into goose bumps.

I cross my arms, rubbing at the exposed skin to warm it. It’s just enough of a natural response that I can tell Grey’s not sure whether I caught him ogling or not. Flustered, he turns and leads me through the house.

“It’s funny you showed up here,” he remarks as we walk.

“How so?” I ask, taking the opportunity to scan my surroundings as I follow him. The inside of the house has about as much character as the outside: furniture in various shades of white with severely sharp angles; walls that sport grayish-toned abstract paintings; and a polished concrete floor that echoes our every footstep.

It’s quieter than a church, less personal than a hotel suite.

“I’d been thinking about offering to show you around town.” He steps aside to allow me to enter the kitchen first. It’s enormous, the ceiling intricately vaulted and the entire far wall a row of French doors looking out toward the ocean. There’s nothing at all homey about this room with its twelve-burner gas stove and row of gleaming Sub-Zero refrigerators. If anything, it’s more designed to cater elaborate parties than family dinners.

“But clearly you don’t need that anymore,” he says, holding up the basket as evidence that I know my way around.

I lean against the marble-topped island and laugh. “Yeah, but I had to use the GPS to get to the store and relied on the clerk to let me know what your mother might like. Speaking of . . .” I pull free the extra bottle of Refreshergy and I pretend to slice my nail against the seal in order to uncap the lid. I sniff at the contents, bracing myself for the smell of rotting fish and honeysuckle. “What is this stuff?”

Grey sets the basket down and rolls his eyes. “Some organic crap my mom puts in her breakfast smoothies. One of her friends recommended it—convinced her it would somehow make her look younger and give her more energy.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Have you tried it?”

“God, no,” he says, shaking his head adamantly. “Though she swears by it. Drinks it religiously every morning before her swim.”

“That’s what the clerk at the store said.” I place the vial back on the counter and riffle through the rest of the basket, holding up the contents and inspecting them as though I’d never seen any of it before. “I basically just asked him to grab anything he thought your mom would like.”

“You really didn’t need to do all of this,” he tells me. “But I know my mother will be very touched you thought of her.”

My smile turns rueful. Playful. “Well, I felt bad she fell ill at the fund-raiser. I figure poisoning the neighbors doesn’t give the best first impression.” There’s something reckless and delicious in the admission of truth.

Grey’s just started laughing when his father walks in, attention focused on a stack of letters in his hand. The sound chokes in Grey’s throat.

Senator Wells glances up and the moment his eyes land on me, his expression tightens. Ever the consummate politician, he quickly shutters his true thoughts behind a slick smile.

“Miss O’Martin,” he says with a slight tilt of his head. “We weren’t expecting you.” His words are perhaps sharper than he intends.