Loving Eden (26 page)

S
ullen’s Grove
. It was only one exit ahead. The burning sensation had crept to both eyes. Eight hours of driving had that effect. There had only been one stop since Evan set off this morning, and he had made that as quickly as possible—enough time to stretch his legs and convince himself heading north was the right direction.

Evan rubbed his tired eyes before reaching for his cell phone.

There were ten missed calls and too many texts to count. He gripped the phone in his fist. The tightening in his chest wrapped under his ribs and pressed against his sternum, forcing the clamped breath he was holding to escape through his mouth.

When he saw the city’s name splayed across the sign in front of him, his hand relaxed its hold on the phone. Ivy wouldn’t expect his call much less expect him to be only miles from her hometown. She always talked about Sullen’s Grove as if it was the most idyllic place in the world to grow up and live. There were oak-lined streets, artsy shops, even a downtown waterfront where you could buy ice cream and stroll along the boardwalk. The whole time they dated, he had never visited. Maybe that was part of the problem. She had tried; she had invited him. So why, after all these months, was Sullen’s Grove the one place he thought he could find safe harbor?

Pausing before making the call, he debated again whether dragging Ivy into this was such a good idea. She would help, she would want to help, but she didn’t deserve this mess. He tossed the phone into the open passenger’s seat, and twisted the knob on the radio. Ivy would forgive him. Hell, she might not ever know he had driven by without stopping.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see her; she was the reason he was headed north and east from Atlanta. She might be the only person who could understand why he had to make a run for it. Let’s be honest, that’s what this was—an escape plan—a full-blown sprint to find freedom. Later. He would call her later. With the Sullen’s Grove exit two miles behind him, Evan eased into the next convenient store he spotted on the side of the road. His legs could use another stretch.

A woman selling peaches at a makeshift produce stand smiled at him as he pulled the brim of his baseball cap firmly over his eyes and popped the cover on the gas tank. He didn’t think she recognized him. At least, she hadn’t reached for a cell phone. Her attention was on restacking a basket of peaches that had fallen too far forward.

He felt the tension ease out of his shoulders. He leaned against the blue Jeep that had become his travel companion only ten hours ago. It didn’t matter that he had paid too much for it. Fifteen thousand dollars cash in exchange for freedom was a bargain. Hopefully, the extra money would be enough to keep the seller from sharing the exchange to the tabloids.

The lever clicked on the gas hose handle. Evan retrieved the nozzle and slid it back into place on the pump. By now, the peaches were perfectly stacked. He sauntered over to the stand.

“What can I get you?” The older woman had shifted her task from stacking peaches to separating a sack of snap beans.

He eyed the rows of blueberries, peaches, and a carton of okra. “What do you recommend?”

The white-haired woman adjusted her visor. “You don’t sound like you’re from here.” She cocked her head.

“No, ma’am, I’m not.” He swallowed hard, waiting for the inevitable—an autograph and a selfie shot request. He would have to work on camouflaging his accent. It wouldn’t be the first time he had disguised his deep Texas drawl.

She leaned over the table separating her from Evan, and placed the side of her hand against her cheek to shield the words from any eavesdroppers. “If you won’t say anything, I won’t say anything.” Her forehead furrowed. “These peaches are from South Carolina. We say everything’s local, but it’s
not
.”

Evan feigned shock and winked at the lady. “Your secret is safe with me.” He reached for one and tossed it in the air. “So, I guess I’ll take some of those illegal South Carolina peaches.”

“Good choice.” She placed a basket on the scale and scribbled the weight and price on a receipt. “That will be six dollars.” She picked up each peach and placed it inside a paper bag.

His wallet was halfway around his hip when he remembered all he had was one hundred dollar bills. “I—uh—do you take hundreds?” He pulled one of the crisp bills from his wallet. The plan was to use only cash, that way no one would see his name on his credit card or ask for his ID. Total anonymity was the game.

“For a basket of peaches?” The woman looked at the currency as if he had tried to pay with yen.

Evan smiled, realizing the predicament they were both in. He hadn’t bothered to bring anything with him other than a duffle bag and his phone. The longer he stood there, the more he wanted to try one of those infamous peaches. Sure, he was only twenty yards from the convenient store, but he wasn’t about to undo all of the hard work that had gone into perfecting his sculpted form for a bag of greasy chips.

“How ‘bout this, darlin’? You keep the change, and I’ll take two baskets of peaches.” He placed the bill next to the register.

“Oh, I can’t take that.” The pitch in her voice climbed an octave.

Evan didn’t give her a second chance to argue. He grabbed another basket, dumped the fruit into the paper bag, and strolled back to the Jeep. He cranked the ignition and maneuvered onto the highway, giving the produce lady a wave.

The Jeep was headed east. Now that Sullen’s Grove was in his rearview mirror, Evan wasn’t sure where the road would take him. Eventually, he would run out of road—the ocean was just hours in front of him. He reached into the paper sack and seized the first peach. As he bit into the soft, fuzzy fruit, a trickle of juice ran down his chin. He wiped the nectar from his face with the back of his hand. Settling his athletic frame into his seat, he felt the resemblance of a smile creeping across his lips. Something about not having a destination felt better than having one.

T
he night’s darkness wrapped the air and sank into every open space. Other than a few blinking lots on the horizon, it was dark. Evan rolled his shoulders up and back. All the muscles in his arms were tight from twelve hours of driving. The ferry ride was advertised as fifty-five minutes long, so he stepped from the Jeep and strolled to the side of the vessel loaded with cars.

He had made the last voyage of the night. The ferry service stopped at midnight. He intended to stay in the last coastal village he found at the southern tip of the Outer Banks, but when the road ran out, the waterway could take him one more leg. The extra distance was like the last drink he couldn’t turn down. He needed it.

The salt air whipped past him as he leaned against the railing. How had his life come to this? He was running. Running from everyone, everything. He shoved his hands in his front pockets and rocked back on his heels. There had to be a way to get back in control.

It had never been this bad before. The hoop kept moving. He had convinced himself that eventually the novelty of Evan Carlson would wear off. Following the once college quarterback now movie star would become boring and mundane as soon as the next big star was discovered. But five years later, it still hadn’t happened. He glanced over his shoulder, a regular habit whenever he was in public. The couple in the adjacent car was trying to soothe a fussy baby. They hadn’t reached for their phones, yet.

In the beginning, it was fun, even exciting when he made the cover of a magazine. It was the same kind of rush when he threw a winning touchdown. He didn’t want to admit to anyone now that at the time he got a kick out of being named the World’s Sexiest Bachelor. All of that seemed stupid, ridiculous, and shallow. He kicked the side of railing with his boot.

The captain pulled the horn on the ferry as it approached the dock. The sound echoed over the water. Evan retraced his steps to his vehicle, and waited for the crew to motion him onto the shore. Maybe he had read too many scripts or played too many roles, but as the ramp lowered and he pressed his foot on the gas, he had the strange sensation that a new movie had begun.

T
here were six miles between the ferry dock and the main village of Perry Island. Evan couldn’t see anything except sand dunes as he followed the cars in front of him.

It was now one in the morning, and he had managed almost sixteen hours without talking to his agent, publicist, stylist, trainer, or assistant. That was a record first. The music on the radio had turned to static. He searched for a station that could spread its waves this far into the outer edges of North Carolina. His eyes burned, but the cool air from the open window felt soothing as he drove.

Evan slowed the Jeep as he rolled into the village. Nothing was open, or at least from the street, he couldn’t see any lights. The car in front of him turned into the gravel parking lot of the Windsheer Inn. He pulled to the side and watched as the driver walked to the door, grabbed an envelope from a drop box, and retrieve a pair of keys. That was how that guy had a room. Dammit
.
He hadn’t thought to call ahead to make reservations. He snorted. He hadn’t thought ahead about any of this.

Somewhere in the middle of the drive from the ferry dock, he remembered passing a campground. He pulled hard on the steering wheel until he had performed a U-turn, sending him back on the beach road.

Along the ocean side of the island was a campground. Just like everywhere else, it was thrown into utter darkness. Evan pulled to an open spot and cut the engine on the Jeep. His lungs filled with a deep inhale of salty air as the waves pounded on the shore in front of him.

He reached for the lever on his seat and reclined it as far as it would go. There was barely enough room, but he propped his feet on the dash before pulling his hat over his eyes.

It wasn’t a penthouse, a yacht, or a decked out guesthouse, but Evan smiled as his tired eyes gave in to the sleep that had invaded his body. It might only last one night, but he slept satisfied knowing there was no way anyone in the world would find this movie star tonight.

T
he alarm chirped cricket sounds for the fourth time. Haven threw the sheet off her chest and kicked the quilt to the end of the bed. 5 a.m. Who in their right mind woke up at 5 a.m.? She tapped the screen on her phone to cease the joyous insects from a repeat performance. This wasn’t the first time she had cursed the early wakeup call as she stumbled to the shower and turned the water on.

There were water restrictions this time of year on the island. So many tourists, so little rain, and only seven minutes a shower. It was her mother’s idea to use a kitchen timer. Haven twisted the dial to the right and placed the timer on the counter before stepping into the steady stream of hot water. If she had to take a quick shower, it was going to be a good one.

She closed her eyes and lathered a handful of shampoo through long strands of auburn hair.

He shouldn’t be stealing my heart and my breath

We said good-bye with one very last kiss

But no matter what, every corner I turn

I see his face, his eyes, and it burns, it burns

Haven raced to stop the water and hopped over the side of the tub. There had to be paper in here somewhere. She tore through the first cabinet drawer and then the other.

“Ugh!” She exhaled, and then wrapped a towel around her chest before scurrying into her room. Her writing notebook was still in her bag, and that was in the front seat of her car. She repeated the words in her head faster this time, hoping they didn’t slip away as quickly as they had appeared.

“Ah-ha!” She triumphantly pulled an envelope from a stack of unopened mail. Pens were easier to find. She grabbed a ballpoint next to her bed and frantically jotted down the lyrics on the back of the envelope. She read them again aloud and hummed a few bars in a minor key. She smiled.

A shampoo trail slid along her temple. “Crap.” She touched the foamy mess still in her hair and hesitantly left the envelope on her bed, walking back to the shower with one eye on the envelope. Maybe if she stared hard enough, the rest of the song would come.

Not knowing how much time she had actually spent in the shower before her burst of lyrical genius, she reset the timer for five minutes and rinsed her hair.

The lyrics came at the strangest moments. Sometimes it happened when there was a guitar on her knee and her writing journal within arm’s reach, but usually it was completely inconvenient and random like this morning—the words hit her like an unexpected burst of energy, needing to be expended in that moment or she would spontaneously combust—at least it always felt that way.