Marta Perry - Land's End

The small boat nosed away from the dock cautiously. Hitting the channel, deep now because of the high tide, Jonathan accelerated. The roar of the motor and the wind rushing through her hair made conversation impossible, and Sarah was grateful.

Jonathan, face drawn tight with distaste, clearly thought this a bad idea. Maybe it was, but that didn’t change her mind. It was ridiculous to assume she’d ever stop imagining what the place looked like. She might as well know.

A dolphin lifted from the water in a perfect silver arc, and her breath caught in her throat. She’d nearly forgotten the unexpected moments of sheer beauty the island provided. Sunlight was warm on her shoulders, accentuating the golden haze that gleamed from sand and sea oats. No wonder these were called the Golden Isles.

Jonathan throttled back and pointed. For hundreds of years oyster shells had washed up into a barrier ridge, separating the sound and the salt marshes. Along the ridge, fifty or more brown pelicans sunned themselves. Startled by the boat, they took off, skimming the breakers and squawking their dislike.

It took only minutes to reach their destination. Cat Isle was hardly big enough to be called an island—a few acres of tangled vines, hoary old live oaks draped funereally in Spanish moss, scraggly pines. As far as Sarah knew, Trent’s cottage was the only building of any sort.

Jonathan idled up to the crumbling dock. The weathered gray boards were adorned with moss.

“Does Trent own the whole island?”

He nodded, tossing a line over an upright. “Bought it from me, as a matter of fact. We never came here much, but it’s easier access from Land’s End—you can take a kayak down the creek when the tide is right.”

She nodded, trying to fix the geography in her mind. Land’s End was nearly surrounded by water, with the ocean in front, the sound to the south and the marshes and creek running behind it.

“Trent completely remodeled the cottage, but Lynette didn’t like it. She said the place made her nervous. She—” He stopped abruptly, shutting down as sharply as the boat’s engine had. “Go ahead.” He jerked his head toward the path. “I’ll wait here.”

She’d expected him to go with her, but maybe it was just as well. She didn’t need anyone to see her reaction to the place. She scrambled up on the dock, getting a green smear on her khakis in the process, and started toward the cottage.

The path, surrounded by lush, overpowering green undergrowth, nearly lost itself several times. This was her dark image of the islands, the gloomy, mysterious depths of maritime forest, only a step or two from the sunlit water.

The scent of honeysuckle enveloped her, deepening like incense as she moved farther from the dock. With a wary eye out for snakes, Sarah pushed along the path until it widened into a clearing.

Weathered a gray-green like the dock, the cottage seemed to grow out of the forest. It had a rustic charm, if she could divorce herself what had happened here. But if Lynette disliked the place so much, why would she choose to meet anyone here, especially a lover?

She pushed hair back from her damp forehead. That wasn’t right, anyway. Whatever Miles had been doing here, it wasn’t making love to Lynette Donner. If she couldn’t believe that, nothing in her life made any sense.

She grasped the door handle and pushed it open. She stood for a moment, eyes adjusting to the gloom. Abruptly a wave of distaste washed over her. What was she doing here?

Like an echo of her thought, the voice came from within the room. “What are you doing here?”

With a queer, cold twist in her stomach, she turned. The shaft of light from the open door cast harsh shadows on Trent’s rigid face.

“A stupid question, isn’t it, Sarah? I already know what you’re doing here. You’re looking for more grief, and you’ve found it.”

Trent didn’t know which emotion was stronger at the sight of Sarah—rage or shame. Rage that she was here, or shame that she, of all people, had caught him here?

“You just can’t listen to me, can you?” He took a furious step toward her. Rage, definitely.

The shock that had filled her eyes at the sight of him faded. She squared her shoulders, as if determined he’d find no weakness in her.

“I want to see where it happened. I have to.”

“You’re trespassing.” If his tone was any sharper, he’d cut himself. “Get out.”

Her mouth firmed. “I have a right to see where my husband died, trespassing or not.”

“It won’t do you any good. There’s nothing to see here.” Nothing but betrayal. The thought burned like acid.

She studied his face, as if she’d see behind the words to the feeling. She wouldn’t. He didn’t let anyone in.

“Why are you here, then?”

The rage flashed along his nerves again, and he fought it back. “That’s none of your business.”

She shook her head, her pale hair moving like silk on her shoulders. “We’re the same, Trent. You came here for the same reason I did. To try and make sense of what happened.”

“If we’re alike, then neither of us should come here. There is no sense in it.”

He wanted to deny the despair in his voice. It was a weakness, this failure to put Lynette’s death behind him. He didn’t tolerate weakness, not in the people who worked for him, not in himself. Certainly not in himself.

I tried. You know I tried. Why couldn’t I make her happy?

God didn’t give him an answer. He never did to that question.

He took a breath, forcing himself to calm. “I’m sorry for your pain.” He gestured to the cottage he’d once thought would be a peaceful retreat for him and Lynette. “Believe me, I’ve looked, but this place doesn’t have answers. It’s just a shell.”

She moved slightly, as if he’d given her a respite from the tension. “Did you come here often? Before, I mean.”

Before their lives exploded.

“I thought we would, but it didn’t happen. Lynette—” He swallowed. “She was enthusiastic about fixing the place up when we first bought it, but she soon gave up. She didn’t seem to like it here.”

“Someone made it comfortable.” Sarah touched the back of the leather sofa that faced the fireplace.

“My housekeeper.” His voice sounded strangled to his ears. “She ordered the furniture.”

Did Sarah know Lynette had died on that spot? Pain twisted inside him, as fresh as if it had happened yesterday—racing to the cottage when the police called, bursting in the door, heart pounding as if it would explode from the pressure.

Gifford and a couple of his officers had straightened at the sight of him. They’d stepped back, averting their eyes, as if it were indecent to look at him at such a moment.

No. He wouldn’t remember the rest of it. He wouldn’t let that image back into his mind.

The fury surged through him again. This was Sarah’s fault. He was here, remembering, because of Sarah.

He stepped toward her, driven by blind anger. His leg brushed the table next to the sofa, and the small glass vase on it wobbled. His fingers closed on the vase—tight, tighter, until it should snap in his hand.

With a quick, hard movement he threw it. It smashed against the logs that lay ready in the fireplace, the sound a shocking punctuation to his thoughts.

Sarah jerked back, her green eyes darkening like the ocean on a stormy day. “Trent, don’t—”

He couldn’t be here with her any longer without losing control. He grasped her elbow and propelled her toward the door. “You’re going. Now.”

Maybe she recognized the futility of protesting. She let him usher her out the door, across the porch, down the steps. He rushed her down the path toward the dock, brushing through overgrown branches of crepe myrtle and tendrils of Spanish moss, dozens of Low Country scents released by their brusque passing.

He charged onto the dock and came to an abrupt halt. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder how Sarah had gotten to the cottage. Now he knew. Jonathan’s four-passenger jet boat bobbed on the swell. Jonathan stared at him, shock and apprehension on his face.

He gave Sarah a final push toward the boat. She slipped on the mossy planks, and Jonathan extended his hand to help her. Without looking back, she stepped lightly onto the rail and down to the deck.

Maybe he’d frightened her. He hoped so.

“Trent, I’m sorry if this has upset you.” Jonathan’s tone was grave.

“Upset?” He was aware of an urge to punch something. Or someone. “Why would it upset me to know that my friend is going against my wishes behind my back?”

“I understand how you feel.”

“Do you?” His eyebrows lifted. “I doubt it.”

Jonathan’s patrician face seldom showed anything so raw as embarrassment, but he seemed to wince. “No, I suppose not. But Sarah has feelings, too. Her loss is as great as yours.”

The impulse to deny that astounded him and gave him pause. He’d been giving lip service to Sarah’s loss, but had he really considered how the tragedy had affected her? She and Miles seemed to have a happy marriage—happier than his and Lynette’s, in any event. And she still believed in Miles.

It didn’t matter, he thought at some level, and was instantly ashamed. Of course Sarah’s grief mattered. But he had his child to protect, and that one fact outweighed everything else.

He had to say something. He looked at them. Jonathan wore a slightly chiding air. Sarah’s eyes were dark with pain, but she stared back at him steadily, as if to say that she wouldn’t give in. That this wasn’t finished between them.

He wouldn’t apologize again. “You’ve seen the cottage. That will have to be enough for you, Sarah. Go back to Boston and get on with your life.”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. Sarah wouldn’t give up.

That was the first thing he’d learned about her, back when she was nothing more than his new assistant’s slightly inconvenient wife. He’d soon learned she was much more than that. She’d nearly driven him crazy over that clinic idea of hers, and probably the real reason he’d resisted it so long had been because he’d enjoyed butting heads with her.

Jonathan, apparently realizing there was nothing to be gained here, turned the ignition. The sound of the motor sent a brown pelican lifting from the water. The jet boat backed slowly away, the gulf widening between boat and dock.

The gulf between him and Sarah had widened that night at Adriana’s party, when a half-serious, half-laughing quarrel had, as suddenly as summer lightning, sparked into awareness. They’d both recognized it in the same instant, both turned guiltily away.

He watched the figures in the boat grow rapidly smaller as Jonathan accelerated, throwing up an emphatic spray. Determination hardened inside him.

Sarah had to leave St. James.

Sarah turned the car off the main road onto a narrow lane, wincing as overhanging branches slapped the windshield. The rays of the setting sun slanted through the trees, dappling the lane ahead of her with alternating patches of sun and shade.

Jonathan had reluctantly given her the directions to Haller’s Tavern, and he hadn’t offered to go with her. Maybe because he knew she’d refuse, or maybe because he was already tiring of her and her quest.

Jonathan’s attitude toward her had changed after that encounter with Trent the previous day. She could hardly blame him. He was Trent’s friend, unless she’d ruined that with her interference.

That friendship had always surprised her a bit. There didn’t seem much common ground between the idle patrician and the self-made man, and now—