Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense) (33 page)

Seeing
he was trying to ameliorate her with one of his bland solicitous smiles, his
wife became more annoyed.  “You know I hate when you do this,” she snapped.  “I
hate when you try to plan some stupid 'surprise,'” she quoted with her fingers,
“that I have no interest in.  Whatever it is, I don't care right now.  Because
I need to go to the print shop to pick up the new brochures.  And here's
another newsflash—after nineteen years of marriage, there is nothing you can do
that's gonna strike me as all romantic, so why bother.  That's just life,
okay?”

Angrily,
she shook her head, her red curls flopping over her eyes, the ones she always
let drop from her up-do.  She made the hairstyle seem casual, but he could tell
it was calculated.  To look sexy, to look artfully messy and provocative. 
Well,
he
was going to be the recipient of that for a change.  He was
going to show Vickie that he was more capable than she thought.  That
he
could provide her with the excitement she craved, provide them both with a
rich, amazing life. Todd had been planning this for awhile now, and today was
the day to bring his plans to fruition.

Several
months ago, he had sensed that he was losing Vickie, and he had decided that he
would do whatever he had to in order to keep her.  He might have lost that
chubby cherub from years ago, but he accepted the short-tempered woman in her
place—the skinny woman, obsessed with her looks—and he still wanted her.  After
all these years, he was the one who
deserved
her.  She owed him.  It was
that simple.

“
Hellooo?
”
she snarled.

Finally
Todd spoke, his voice a few degrees cooler than usual.  “You've always
underestimated me.  You've never realized what I am capable of.”

“What's
that supposed to mean?”

Sure,
he was used to that surly tone by now, but the difference this time was that
now he had something tangible to show her.  Not a vague promise or a romantic
platitude.  Something big—something
real
.  Todd gave her another one of
his easy smiles.  He so adored her.  And soon she would see just how far he was
willing to go for her. 

His
warm smile of love—mixed with a hopeful eagerness to please—seemed to annoy
her.  She curled her lip, rolled her eyes, and turned to look out the window. 

In
due time
, he thought eagerly.

That
morning when Nicole heard the rumble of Michael's dinghy, she'd peeked out the
kitchen window and watched him come ashore.  Once he’d walked across the strip
of sand below her yard, taken the gravel path parallel to the water, and was finally
out of sight, she’d grabbed her jacket and hurried outside.  She didn't bother
resetting the alarm, because she didn't plan to go far. 

As
soon as she left, Puddle began to bark.  Momentarily, Nicole hesitated on the
porch, then ducked her head back inside.  Her dog was up against the door jamb,
wanting to come along.  “Okay—come on,” Nicole acquiesced, snatching the
harness and leash off the window sill.  Latched loosely to the porch railing,
Puddle seemed satisfied. 

Her
aunt's note had read:
Go to a place for princesses.
  The phrase had
moved her—like a key in a lock—
click
.  Nicole remembered.

Quickly,
she hopped down the porch steps and crossed the grass to the two towering oak
trees, buried in their own colorful, overgrown foliage.  From here she couldn't
even tell if the tree house was still there.  But it
had
to be; why else
would her aunt be leading her there?

Why
had she not even considered the tree house sooner?  It was the spot in which
she, Alyssa, and Linda had spent much time playing.  The place Aunt Nina had
dubbed their “castle”—which, as Nina always said, was “a necessary place for
princesses.”  She always said it with this faux properness, right before she
served them tea, A.K.A. apple juice.  

Once
Nicole remembered that, the significance of various clues had come together. 
The poem,
Annabel Lee
with its references to a “kingdom by the sea,” and
the allusions to the Three Sisters Lighthouse had all been part of an effort to
jog Nicole's memory—to bring to mind this game she and her sisters used to
play—pretending to be princesses, up in the tree house.  Now it made sense:
Nina's first note that remarked, “The treasure is the house.”  She had meant
this
house, Nicole realized, as she came up flush against the thick trunk. 

Squinting
up at the massive umbrella of leaves, she knew that the mystery was far from
solved yet.  What had Aunt Nina hidden up there and why she had chosen cryptic
messages to lead Nicole there?  Had her aunt been anticipating her own death? 
Had Nina been so certain that she would not recover from her illness and that
Nicole would be in
Chatham
prior to the Harvest Parade?  These were pieces of
the puzzle Nicole couldn't manufacture at this point.

Now
she wondered if the letters spelling out “behind you” had been a double play on
words; not only referring to the picture reflected in the library mirror, but
also meaning behind the house, in the backyard.  It seemed, when Nicole thought
about it, that her aunt had scattered various clues, not, in actuality, a linear
trail, but assorted memory triggers.  Perhaps Nina figured enough messages,
references, and nudges in the right direction, would lead Nicole to the right
place.

Last
night, before Nicole could think all this through, she had frozen up.  She
still wasn't sure if her withdrawal from Michael was reasonable.  But the idea
of him searching through her house, her things—her aunt's things, really—in
order to discover where the treasure was, or perhaps
what
it was, had
just seemed so secretive.  Sneaky, even.  And when she coupled that with her
dream and the strong feeling that she’d seen him in
Boston
before…

She
hated not trusting him anymore, but the feeling dug in anyway and tangled
through her like a weed—insidious, disruptive, ugly.

Now
Nicole reached up, grazing her palms over the rough bark of the tree, to try to
feel for the rope ladder that had once led the way.  Hoping to feel it coiled
or tossed up—

She
felt something!  Straining on her toes, her hand was wrist-deep in leaves, she
was finally able to make a fist around the rope.  She pulled hard, which sent
the ladder swinging down, nearly batting her right in the face. 

Her
pulse began to pound.  Instinctively, she tightened her fingers into determined
fists.  Nostalgia blanketed her shoulders, as anticipation—even
nervousness—shook her.

The
cord rocked unsteadily as she climbed.  She closed her eyes as her head ducked
into the mass of leaves—bringing her eye level with the tiny entrance to the
tree house.  The “door” was a metal gate, about three feet tall.  She pushed
the gate in.  Stiff, rusty hinges screeched as they fought her.  Even though
today’s sun was bright, in this cave of tree shade, only slices of light found
their way through.

Her
arm stretched inside as far as it could reach.  Nervously, she patted the floor
of the tree house, fearing mice would scamper or snakes would slither across
her hand.  Instead, leaves crunched in her ears and rubbed into her hair.  A
sudden dryness attacked her throat, as she coughed on pollen and dust, and strained
to see the full interior.  Suddenly she felt something furry and she shuddered,
let out an abrupt scream and almost lost her balance.  Breathing hard, she
steadied herself with one hand clutching the bottom planks of the tree house,
and realized it had been an abandoned birds' nest.

Her
eyes stung with tears, not just from the dust and pollen that threatened to
clog her throat, but also from the waterfall of memory.  So many years gone by,
the tree left to bloom, and the piece of childlike architecture still in the
center.  There was something beautifully sad about it.  So much had grown
around it, yet preserved it at the same time. 

Now
she sneezed.  Blinked her eyes clear, coughed again.  Straining, she reached
even deeper inside—and with questing hands, she felt something.  Deep in the
back corner of the tree house was the edge of…what was this? 

It
felt hard and angular, but covered in something soft, like velvet. 

Nicole’s
heart was jumping as she got a grip on the thing and dragged it forward.  With
curious, trembling fingers, she found an opening in the velvet and peeled back
the satchel.

She
thought she heard Puddle's bark then—but the sound stopped.  Perhaps a squirrel
or chipmunk had scurried past and caught the dog's attention. 

She
returned her attention to the velvet satchel. 

Inside,
there were three brown paper packages stacked on top of one another.  She knew
she shouldn't dawdle out here; she should bring these into the house and take a
better look.  But curiosity overtook her and she pried open one of the
packages.

Then—she
gasped. 

“Oh
my God...” 

With
an uncertain smile, she realized that it was a painting of Alyssa.  Instantly
Nicole recognized the little girl standing near the surf, smiling; she
recognized her sister's apricot-colored dress with the high ruffly collar.  In
the painting, Alyssa looked to be about five years old.  Immediately, Nicole
knew that her aunt had painted this—but what she
didn't
know was why
Aunt Nina had hidden it.  Was it so the Goliath Gallery in
Boston
could not lay
claim to it?  That was all Nicole could think of.

Before
she could open the other two packages, she noticed an envelope taped to the
brown paper.  She pulled it off and opened it.  A letter from Aunt Nina, dated
the first week of September.  Hastily, Nicole read and tried to absorb the
meaning, but she really needed to go inside and give all of this careful
attention, so she folded the letter and put in her jacket pocket.  Then she
tried to pull the entire velvet bag through the archway and balance herself at
the same time—but quickly discovered there was no point. 

In
one frightful instant, she was grabbed by the legs.  Like an octopus strangling
her knees.  She couldn't escape, couldn't fight the force that grabbed onto her
and yanked her down.  Her heart lurched into her throat as she came plummeting
to the ground.

Before
Nicole could scream, a hand clamped over her mouth and she was dragged by her
hair, up onto her feet, and then toward the house, the sides of her shoes
scraping into the ground.  It couldn't be happening again, she thought
frantically, registering now the hideous face of her attacker, which was all
too familiar.  The same man who had attacked her two weeks earlier on the
beach.  How could he have become a distant memory already?  She had literally
forgotten about him—about the scariest moment of her life—until now. 

Now
she was reliving it.  Wrestling against him, Nicole reached up and tried to
pull his brawny arm off her mouth, but he was too strong.  In seconds, her
heels were clopping on the steps as she was pulled up the porch, and shoved
through the back door. 

“Come
on, stop it,” he growled.  He all but threw her over the threshold into the
kitchen, then slammed the door behind him.  Lurching forward, he gripped her
arm before she could run.  His dirty fingers dug into her flesh until she
whimpered in pain.  Her heart was galloping so hard, it threatened to pummel
her chest from the inside out, to burst her ribs.  She was never so scared in
her life.  Michael was not here to save her now.  Nobody was.  What would she
do? 

Suddenly
short of breath, she was nearly hyperventilating when the man shoved her into
one of the kitchen chairs and let go of her.  That was when she realized she
was crying, because she tasted the saltiness of her tears streaming into her
mouth. 

Through
blurry eyes, she looked at him—even uglier and more terrifying than she
remembered—than she had allowed herself to remember, maybe. 

Maybe
that was it, she found herself thinking, as the man stepped closer.  A voice
seemed to appear abruptly in her mind, chiding her. 
This is real, it's not
a book, you can't close it, you can't put it on the shelf, you can't interpret
it the way you want—
 

She
shot her leg out to kick him in the kneecap.  But she just missed, her attacker
averting the kick.  He tightened his merciless claw on her arm.  “Stop it!  Cut
it out, you bitch!”  With that, he took out some kind of stretchy cord from his
coat pocket and threw his duffel bag on the kitchen table.  Instinctively,
Nicole eyed the bag—and noticed the angular corners that were jutting against
the nylon.  Then she realized...in those hazy seconds when she'd come spilling
down onto the ground, this man had scooped up the paintings that had tumbled
down with her.  He'd put them in his duffel bag. 

Why?
she asked
silently.  This was not a random attack?  Not a psychotic act of violence, but
a kind of calculated theft?  Was that possible? she wondered, as the man
grabbed her hands and wrapped the cord tightly around her wrists. 

Hastily,
he dropped to his knee and wrapped more cord around her ankle, securing it to
both the chair and the table.