Stargazey Point (20 page)

Cab nudged her, lifted his chin toward the door. They tiptoed away. It was like being in church, Abbie thought, the peace, the beauty; an image of Michelangelo flashed across her mind. Beau in his workshop.

“Just so you know,” Cab said, when they were back in the main room. “We don’t talk about Beau spending so much time here.”

“Millie and Marnie wouldn’t like it?”

“Oh, Marnie wouldn’t care, but Millie has some strange ideas about the way things should be. It’s just better to keep the peace than stir up unhappiness.”

Abbie frowned at him. She hoped he would say more, but if he knew more, he was keeping his own peace. “Does Beau do all the painting?”

“Most of it. I do some detailing. I’m a craftsman, not an artist.”

“I wonder.”

“Well, don’t. I designed utilitarian buildings when I was an architect; I know how to follow directions and stay in the line.” He grinned. “But I can appreciate others’ artistry. What about you?”

“Me? I can barely draw a straight line. I’m not sure about staying in the lines. In my family you were taught to think and color outside the box.”

“What about the films you made?”

“I didn’t make them. I did the interviews. The local color, the history.”

They had crossed the floor and come to the carousel platform.

“Sounds pretty creative.”

Abbie shrugged. “In my family you learned to be creative, but for the purpose of helping others, outwitting red tape, getting things done. It wasn’t art. At least not in my case. I was kind of the throwback.”

They had sat down on the platform, angled slightly toward each other.

He frowned at her. “So you became a weathergirl?”

“Stupid. I know. I studied communications. I was egotistical enough to think I could change the world by reaching the most people at once. But I couldn’t figure out how to do that. The only job I could get was weathergirl.” She laughed. “Like I said, stupid. And arrogant. And look where my arrogance got me.”

“Hey, Stargazey Point isn’t so bad.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You did good work. The documentaries.”

“It was Werner’s work. He had the vision, the ability. I couldn’t get past the individuals.” She swallowed. It hurt. “And in the end, I couldn’t even help them.”

She stood up. “Sorry, I don’t know why I said all that. Just forget it. I’d better go.”

Cab grabbed her wrist. Not hard but strong enough to prevent her from leaving.

Her first impulse was to wrench away and run, but she’d displayed more theatrics than she was entitled to. “I really have to go. Millie will wonder where I am.”

They stood there for a long moment just looking at each other. Then he let go, reluctantly it seemed to Abbie, and there was nothing left to hold her back. She seemed to have lost the will to leave. He stepped toward her and she headed for the door.

“You did what you could,” he said. “It’s all any of us can do.”

“But it wasn’t good enough.”

Chapter 13

C
ab sat on the platform of the carousel and watched the plywood door, half expecting—no, wanting—her to turn around and come back. She’d delivered a zinger and slipped out before he could even recover. He should have stopped her.

He pushed to his feet just as the door opened. His pulse skipped a beat before he recognized Sarah.

“What did you do this time?” she asked, coming inside.

“Don’t you ever let up?”

“When hell freezes over. I don’t have all the time in the world. Life awaits me in Manhattan. And don’t ask what’s stopping me from going back there now.”

Cab grinned even though he didn’t feel much like indulging her. “I wasn’t. I was going to ask you why you’re here. Don’t you have a whole bunch of kids to keep out of trouble?”

“They’re busy. And I have plans for them for the weekend. What I’m wondering is what are your plans?”

“Working. Like always.”

“That’s what I figured.” She slumped and shuffled toward the door, shaking her head.

“What?”

“I sure was hopin’ I wouldn’t have to get Ervina to make me a potion.”

“What do you need a potion for?” Cab asked suspiciously.

She grinned over her shoulder. “To give it to you.” She slipped out the door.

“I hate it when you do that,” he called after her.

“ ‘Hate’ is a powerful word,” said Beau from the doorway to the workshop.

“I’m having a rough day.”

Beau nodded slowly. “Women can make a day rough all right. ’Course they can also be good for what ails you.”

“You’re not suggesting that—”

“I’m not suggestin’ nothin’, just saying.” He walked over to the workbench and picked up his jacket. “I’ll be gettin’ on now. Millie’ll have supper on the table and wondering where I am. Evenin’, Cabot.”

In another minute, Beau was gone, and Cab was sitting alone with his empty carousel. It was Friday night. He could have been dining with Frank and Tony except that Bailey would be with them, and after the way she’d insulted Abbie, he never wanted to see her again.

He could have asked Abbie to dinner, that’s what he really wanted to do. But hell, just when you thought she was beginning to relax, something set her off again. He didn’t like to see anybody hurting, and he especially didn’t like to see Abbie that way. She didn’t deserve to think she was a failure just because some guy didn’t know enough to save himself when the authorities swooped down on them.

When it was obvious she wasn’t coming back and it was too late to go after her, Cab decided to knock off work and go home. He unplugged equipment, checked the dehumidifier and thermostat, and looked over his wooden menagerie, trying not to make any analogies about the route his life was taking.

He stopped by Midnight Lady. She was never fickle, never ran, never played games. Then again, she wasn’t real. He stroked her flank. Ran his fingers over the hard, wooden mane and turned out the lights.

T
he nightmare came near morning.

Abbie turns, in slow motion, to Werner. Help me, but Werner keeps filming. A car slams to a stop behind him, the thugs jump out. She yells to warn him, but he doesn’t hear. They run toward him, she screams. But they pass him and grab her instead, pull her from the donkey and his boy. She fights but they’re too strong. They drag her to the car and throw her into the backseat. Werner, help me! Werner turns the camcorder on her and films them taking her away.

Abbie struggled to sit up. The sheets had tangled around her legs, tethering her to the bed.

“It wasn’t like that,” she moaned. She pressed her hands to her face.
He
wasn’t like that. Or was he? Would he have sacrificed her to save his work? Because it was his work. Her work had been the donkey boy, the woman who showed her the handwoven wedding dress she’d been making for her twelve-year-old daughter for the day she would wed.

Her daughter who had perished in that schoolhouse—and she still pressed a packet of food into Abbie’s hands as the embassy car came to extract her from the jungle.

What had happened to that woman? Would she finish the wedding dress for someone else or pack it away with her memories and her dreams? Would she drift back to anonymity because Abbie’s interview had perished alongside her child?

Abbie felt feverish, her skin hot to the touch. She wrestled the covers away, sat up. It was tragic, but she’d done her best, and she wanted to be free. She wanted to live life again. Make friends. Make love.

Anger and frustration washed over her in suffocating waves. Maybe she was selfish, but she wanted to be happy. Useful. But mainly happy. She needed to move on. And she knew the only person who was stopping her was herself.

She got out of bed, dragged on jeans and a sweatshirt, and slipped downstairs. The lawn was heavy and wet with dew, bathed in moonlight. Cold on her bare feet. She walked to the edge of the dunes and looked out into the darkness.

It was a damp night; the wind off the water was chilled, but inside her was warm and she knew what it was. Hate, anger, frustration. And she wanted it gone.

She took a breath, her throat seized, but it had to be done; she was ready.

“You have to let me go,” she said aloud. “I wanted to keep you but I can’t. I can’t change the past. I’m scared, but I have to go on alone. I need you to be okay with that.”

She listened to the wind, to the waves. She didn’t really expect to hear a voice, so she jumped when a voice came out of the darkness.

“Abbie?”

Abbie sucked in air.

“It’s me. Beau. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“Oh. I was . . . just out for a walk.” She shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He nodded. “I saw you from my window. I’m glad you came out tonight.”

Abbie looked up at his face.
Why?

“I made something for you. A
petit cadeau
, if that’s not being presumptuous.”

Abbie shook her head. She couldn’t think of anything to say. She couldn’t imagine why Beau would want to give her a present.

He fumbled in his jacket pocket, brought out a flat packet covered in tissue paper, and handed it to her. Slowly she opened it and held it to the moonlight. It was a small star, with five delicate points, each highly ridged. It was carved from a dark wood and was attached to a silver chain.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s a nautical star. So you’ll always be able to find your way home.”

M
arnie dreamed of Paris, of jazz trios and absinthe. Cigarette smoke and long thin loaves of bread. Of hot nights and hotter sex. Of a time long gone by.

She awoke with the sense of having been on a journey. And was a little disoriented to find herself at home.
Home.
There was a time when she detested that word. She’d suffered her entire childhood under Daddy’s heavy-handedness and Momma’s all-consuming love. She would have left as soon as she could, even if Daddy hadn’t driven her off first. And the scoundrel let everyone think she’d run away. She never let on any different. Even to this day. Let Millie have her illusions about their family. She and Beau knew better.

They never spoke about it. Like they had just cut off that early part of their lives like you cut off last year’s garden growth. She didn’t know about Beau. She only knew about herself. She’d made her peace with things—with herself. Millie was the one who was still fettered to the past.

A
bbie was wearing Beau’s necklace when she came downstairs the next morning. She went straight to the coffeepot on the kitchen counter then carried her cup to the table, where Marnie and Millie were sitting over their midmorning cups of coffee. They’d been up for hours and Abbie had just managed to drag herself out of bed.

“Good mornin’, Abbie,” Millie said. “What would you like for breakfast? Jerome stopped at the back door to bring us some fresh eggs from Ervina.”

“Jerome is already here?” Abbie looked at the kitchen clock. She’d overslept, but it was only nine thirty. Abbie drank her coffee as fast as the heat would allow.

Millie turned to her. “Now there’s no need to hur— What a lovely necklace.”

Abbie’s hand went to her throat. “Beau gave it to me.”

“Beau?” Millie squinted, trying to see better.

Abbie stepped closer so she could see.

Marnie pushed her chair back, glanced at the necklace, and raised an eyebrow. “I’m thinking you better get outside and oversee Jerome.”

“Oversee? I meant to help him.” Abbie turned from Millie, rinsed off her coffee cup, and put it on the drainboard.

“I’ll walk you out,” Marnie said and hustled her out the door.

“Beau made that?” Millie said from inside.

“Should I not have worn it?” Abbie asked and raised her hand to the wooden star.

“Of course you should. It’s just unusual, or rather unheard of, for Beau to show a finished product, much less give it as a gift.”

Strange that Beau didn’t show them his carvings, didn’t tell them about his work on the carousel. Abbie didn’t understand why it should be kept a big secret. She wanted to ask Marnie why Millie would care, but she was stopped by the sound of children playing.

“Did you hear that? I heard them earlier and thought I must be dreaming, but now I hear them again.”

“Well, it is Saturday and sunny. They may be down on the beach. They’re welcome. Or—” She stopped by the garden gate and lifted her chin toward the gazebo.

The first thing Abbie saw was Jerome dressed in ragged overalls, dark muscular arms catching the sunlight. He was standing with his feet apart, pointing at something with the paintbrush he was holding.

And then she saw the source of the chatter and laughter. The gazebo was surrounded by children all holding paintbrushes, stroking the wooden boards and flinging paint as they cavorted with their friends.

“Well, well, well,” Marnie said. “Looks like you’ve got a workforce.”

Abbie had a momentary vision of Tom Sawyer before it was replaced with thoughts about child labor laws and the safety of whitewash.

“I see, but should they be helping? Isn’t whitewash made with lye? Is it toxic?”