Chapter 16

An hour later, they stood on the rocky shores of Shelter Island. Surf foamed around Athena’s sneaker-clad feet, washing ashore broken pieces of clamshells, sea glass, and smooth pebbles with every surge. Long, ropy strings of bull kelp and eelgrass littered the beach. Red and purple sea urchins and anemones clung to the rocks in the clear tidal pools. Tiny sand crabs scurried for cover under driftwood and rocks, as squawking gulls swooped and dove, hoping for an easy supper.

She led the way as they climbed the slippery wet rocks to the headland. The rain had stopped, but water dripped from the branches of the trees towering overhead. She inhaled the familiar smells of fresh sea air, cedar, and rich, wet earth. “Nothing’s changed. Everything looks the same as I remember.” A slew of memories assailed her, and the lump in her throat made swallowing difficult. The island looked the same, but a lot had changed. She didn’t live on the island anymore, and her parents were gone, vanished from these very shores.

“Your old house is north of here, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Our place was about a kilometer over that hill, on a rise overlooking a small bay. There should be a path here somewhere that follows the ridge. We used the trail when we hiked to this beach to harvest oysters.” She searched under the soaring red cedar, Sitka spruce, and hemlock trees for signs of the old trail.

Hidden in the shadows under the leafy fronds of western sword ferns, Salal, and the tangled mats of huckleberry bushes was a slight indentation in the hard-packed earth. “There’s the trail.” She scuffed her feet through the soft sand, hesitating. Did she really want to continue the trip down memory lane?

As if sensing her indecision, Russ moved beside her. “We can go back to the boat. Just say the word, and we’re outta here.”

“I’d like nothing better than to take you up on your offer, but I have to do this. I should have come here years ago.” She stiffened her spine, set her jaw, and started along the path.

Brambles tore at her leggings as she scrambled over gnarled tree roots and the massive, moss-covered trunks of fallen trees blocking the path. Every step carried the weight of an old memory. The trail wound past an outcropping of smooth, moss-covered basalt rocks that she used to imagine was a castle. She’d stood on top and scoured the sea, searching for attacking pirates.

She paused by an ancient Sitka spruce. The massive tree stretched into the heavens. Its trunk was more than a meter thick, the bark rough and cracked with deep crevasses. The branches, as thick as her thighs, were coated with draping fronds of gray, feathery moss. Her father had told her the tree was over five hundred years old.

She ran her hands over the indentations scored into the thick bark. Maggie, encased in a small heart, was still visible. She’d been six when her father had used his hunting knife and carved her name into the tree. Fearing he was hurting the tree, her tears had flowed, and she’d tried to stop him when the tree sap bubbled to the surface of the fresh wound.

He’d taken her in his strong arms and assured her the tree would be fine, and the wounds would heal, but her name would remain carved in the bark forever. She closed her eyes and, for the briefest heartbeat, inhaled a whiff of the sweet-cherry pipe tobacco her father smoked. Tears stung her eyes.

“You okay?” Russ’s deep voice broke through the haze of memories.

She patted the carving. “Being here is—” She shrugged, unable to express with words her mixed emotions.

He rested his warm, broad hand on her shoulder. “I can’t imagine how difficult this is.”

Fighting the desperate urge to lose herself in his warm embrace, she shrugged off his hand and swung away from the tree. Setting one foot in front of the other, she continued along the trail. If she wanted peace, if she wanted to stop drinking, she had to see this through. But, oh man, was it difficult.

The closer they came to the small clearing where her family home had stood, the heavier her steps. Twenty-three years had passed. The west coast’s punishing winds and rains were hard on manmade structures. Would the house still be standing?

Dark, frightening memories of that last night threatened to overwhelm her, and her pace slowed, each step like slogging through thick, viscous mud. She paused at the final fringe of trees, struggling to gather the courage to enter the clearing.

Russ draped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, offering her silent support.

The desire for a drink roared through her, almost driving her to her knees. If it hadn’t been for Russ’s supporting arms, she’d have fallen. It would be so easy to turn back to the boat and sail away from the island, to never face the nightmare of her past. So easy.

But could she live with herself if she took the coward’s way out? She’d wasted too many years living in fear, buried in the past. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped out of the dense forest.

Thick, waist-high mats of blackberry and wild raspberry bushes choked the clearing. Wild sea grass and orange-and-purple wildflowers swayed like waves in the ocean breeze. A huge Douglas fir had blown down. The thick trunk lay across the crushed remains of the shed where her father had kept his tools. Beyond the shed, on a slight rise, was the house.

Her breath caught in her throat. The rancher was smaller than she remembered. Moss covered the cedar-shake roof, and white paint flaked from the walls, revealing the faded gray of weathered wood. The glass in one window was shattered, and a tattered, faded curtain fluttered in the breeze as if the building had declared a truce against the unrelenting attack of the elements.

Her father had built the house with his own hands. Every spring he applied a fresh coat of white paint to the outside walls in a futile attempt to stave off the damaging assaults of the damp salt air and fierce nor’easters.

The wooden garden boxes, where her mother had grown vegetables and strawberries, had rotted, spilling rich black dirt onto the weed-choked ground. The old hen house had collapsed in a jumble of rotting wood and chicken wire.

“Your parents picked an ideal location. You can see all over the bay from here.” Russ shoved aside a fallen branch and stepped over a rusted shovel lying half-submerged in the ground.

She smiled through her tears. “Mom loved looking out the kitchen window when she was cooking or doing dishes. She said this spot was her little piece of paradise.”

“The roof is still standing, and the place looks safe. Do you want to go inside?”

Did she want to enter the house? She swallowed.

She did.

And she didn’t.

The last time she was inside the house, the nightmare of her missing parents had spiraled into a terrible reality. But she was there to face her demons. She sucked in a shaky breath. “Let’s check it out.” Placing one unsteady foot in front of the other, she waded through the brambles to the front of the house.

The wooden porch steps sagged, a large, ragged hole where the bottom step had once stood.

“Careful.” Russ grasped her arm and helped her over the gap and up the rickety steps to the small covered porch.

The wood planking groaned and creaked under her weight. Curls of faded red paint peeled off the weather-stained, wooden front door. She thrust off an image of her mother singing her favorite old-time rock and roll songs as she wielded a paintbrush and painted the door a vibrant crimson. Athena had helped by swiping her own brush across the smooth surface, dripping more paint on the porch than the door.

“That might be a problem.”

She wiped her damp face with her sleeve and shot Russ a glance. “What are you talking about?”

He pointed at a shiny new padlock hanging on a thick chain between the doorframe and the tarnished door handle. “Looks like someone doesn’t want people going inside.”

“The door’s locked?” She blinked. They couldn’t go inside the house. A spurt of relief washed over her. But she’d come all this way. “Why would it be locked?”

He shrugged. “The lawyer told me Angus had a guy look after his cottage. Maybe he watched this house as well.” He tugged at the chain. “The caretaker still lives on the island. The estate’s paying him now.”

“Why would the caretaker lock this door? I can’t imagine there’s anything of value in the house. Not after all these years.”

His brow furrowed. “Your parents’ disappearance was all over the news. People are still curious about what happened.” He nodded at the padlock. “The lock’s probably to stop nosey people from snooping.”

She tugged on the door handle, rattling the chain. Now that she’d come this far, she refused to be turned away. “Isn’t there something you can do, some way we can get inside?”

“You really want in there, don’t you?”

“That’s why we’re here.”

“Okay.” He leaped off the porch and, shoving brambles aside, he strode across the clearing and disappeared behind the collapsed shed. He returned seconds later with a rusty shovel.

“What are you going to do with that?”

“Smash the chain.”

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “That’s breaking and entering.”

“Are you forgetting the terms of Angus’s will? I own this island. I assume that means all the buildings, including this one.” He lifted the shovel over his shoulder and swung, grunting with the effort. The blade struck the chain with a loud metallic thunk.

The links broke apart, the padlock fell to the porch with a clatter, and the chain dangled.

He kicked the lock aside and grasped the door handle and yanked. The door wrenched open with a loud, protesting squeal of long-unoiled hinges. He grinned and gestured. “After you, m’lady.”

His attempt at levity fell flat. Her knees wobbled as she stared into the dark musty interior, preparing herself. After all these years, mice, birds, rats, and raccoons would have moved into the deserted house and left their mark. Inhaling a deep breath, she stepped over the warped threshold.

Pale afternoon sunlight streamed in through the kitchen and living room windows. The worn linoleum floor gleamed as if recently mopped, and the kitchen counter shone. The large oval maple table where the family ate their meals sat in the middle of the room with four matching wooden chairs placed around it. There wasn’t a speck of dust or rodent droppings anywhere. Other than a pervasive musty smell, the house was exactly as she remembered.

A flood of memories washed over her as she crossed to the living room. The braided rug, its vivid reds and greens long faded, lay before the plaid-covered, cushioned recliner that was her father’s favorite place to read on stormy days. Her mother’s embroidered knitting basket, filled with colorful balls of wool, was on the floor beside the wooden rocking chair just as it had always been.

The floor creaked as she shuffled down the dark, narrow hall and paused before her parents’ bedroom door. Turning the handle, she forced open the warped door. Just like the rest of the house, the room was clean and tidy. The bed where she’d spent countless hours cuddling with her parents, secure in their love, while her father read her stories of the ancient Greek and Roman gods and their exotic adventures, was made up, the pillows covered in clean pillowcases. The quilt her mother had spent hundreds of hours making in the evenings by the crackling fire was folded neatly on top. The closet door was ajar, revealing a neat row of clothes hanging from rusted, metal hangers. A sob hiccupped in her throat.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Russ’s broad shoulder brushed hers, and the instant jolt of awareness snapped her out of her shock. “This room, the house—” She pointed at the tidy bed. “—nothing’s changed. It looked exactly like this the last time I was in here.” She swallowed back tears through the tightness in her throat. “How is that possible after all these years?”

He shrugged. “Someone looks after the house, probably the caretaker.”

His words hung in the air like smoke. Why had Angus Crawford instructed his caretaker to install the padlock on the front door and keep the house clean? Why hadn’t he let the elements run their course and the house slowly collapse? Had he cared for the long-gone occupants? Was that it?

“This must bring back a lot of painful memories.” Russ’s voice was a soft husk.

“There’s sadness, for sure, but we were happy here.” She studied the familiar room. Her father’s deep laughter echoed from the shadows. She closed her eyes and saw her mother’s warm, loving smile, and her sparkling blue eyes… The image switched to the night she found the house empty and cold, and her terror, knowing something was terribly wrong, that her life had altered forever— She shut down the onslaught of bittersweet memories, spun around, and ran out of the room as if she were being chased by the ghosts of the past.

“Where are you going?” Russ called. “Wait.”

Closing her ears to his pleas, tears blinding her eyes, she charged out of the house and stumbled down the creaking steps.