But it was the same long yellow-pine dining table separating the rooms—the table he and his family had gathered around to eat, to play board games, to put together eye-crossingly complex jigsaw puzzles during that summer.
The same table he and Kyle had been assigned to clear after dinner. The table where his father had lingered some mornings over coffee.
He remembered when their father had shown him and Kyle how to punch holes in the lid of a jar and catch lightning bugs. The evening had been warm and soft, the hunt and chase giddy. Nathan remembered watching the jar he’d put beside his bed wink and glow, wink and glow, lulling him to sleep.
But in the morning all the lightning bugs in his jar had been dead, smothered, as the book atop the lid had plugged all the holes. He still couldn’t remember putting it there, that battered copy ofJohnny Tremain. The dark corpses in the bottom of the jar had left him feeling sick and guilty. He’d snuck out of the house and dumped them in the river.
He chased no more lightning bugs that summer.
Irritated at the memory, Nathan turned away from the TV, went back to the stove to pour the steaming water over a spoonful of coffee. He carried the mug out onto the screened porch to look at the river.
Memories were bound to surface now that he was here, he reminded himself. That was why he’d come. To remember that summer, step by step, day by day. And to figure out what to do about the Hathaways.
He sipped coffee, winced a little at its false and bitter taste. He’d discovered that a great deal of life was false and bitter, so he drank again.
Jo Ellen Hathaway. He remembered her as a skinny, sharp-elbowed girl with a sloppy ponytail and a lightning temper. He hadn’t had much use for girls at ten, so he’d paid her little attention. She’d simply been one of Brian’s little sisters.
Still was, Nathan thought. And she was still skinny. Apparently her temper was still in place as well. The streaming ponytail was gone. The shorter, choppy cut suited her personality if not her face, he decided. The carelessness of it, the nod to fashion. The color of it was like the pelt of a wild deer.
He wondered why she looked so pale and tired. She didn’t seem the type to pine away over a shattered affair or relationship, but something was hurting. Her eyes were full of sorrow and secrets.
And that was the problem, Nathan thought with a half laugh. He had a weakness for sad-eyed women.
Better to resist it, he told himself. Wondering what was going on behind those big, sad, bluebell eyes was bound to interfere with his purpose. What he needed was time and objectivity before he took the next step.
He sipped more coffee, told himself he’d get dressed shortly and walk to Sanctuary for a decent cup and some breakfast. It was time to go back, to observe and to plan. Time to stir more ghosts.
But for now he just wanted to stand here, look through the thin mesh of screen, feel the damp air, watch the sun slowly burn away the pearly mists that clung to the ground and skimmed like fairy wings over the river.
He could hear the ocean if he listened for it, a low, constant rumble off to the east. Closer he could identify the chirp of birds, the monotonous drumming of a woodpecker hunting insects somewhere in the shadows of the forest. Dew glistened like shards of glass on the leaves of cabbage palms and palmettos, and there was no wind to stir them and make them rattle.
Whoever chose this spot for the cottage chose well, he thought. It sang of solitude, offered view and privacy. The structure itself was simple and functional. A weathered cedar box on stilts with a generous screened porch on the west end, a narrow open deck on the east. Inside, the main room had a pitched ceiling to add space and an open feel. On each end were two bedrooms and a bath.
He and Kyle had each had a room in one half. As the elder, he laid claim to the larger room. The double bed made him feel very grown-up and superior. He made a sign for the door: Please Knock Before Entering.
He liked to stay up late, reading his books, thinking his thoughts, listening to the murmur of his parents’ voices or the drone of the TV. He liked to hear them laugh at something they were watching.
His mother’s quick chuckle, his father’s deep belly laugh. He’d heard those sounds often throughout his childhood. It grieved him that he would never hear them again.
A movement caught his eye. Nathan turned his head, and where he’d expected a deer he saw a man, slipping along the river bank like the mist. He was tall and lanky, his hair dark as soot.
Because his throat had gone dry, Nathan forced himself to lift his mug and drink again. He continued to watch as the man walked closer, as the strengthening sun slanted over his face.
Not Sam Hathaway, Nathan realized as the beginnings of a smile tugged at his lips. Brian. Twenty years had made them both men.
Brian glanced up, squinted, focused on the figure behind the screen. He’d forgotten the cottage was occupied now and made a note to himself to remember to take his walks on the opposite side of the river. Now, he supposed, he would have to make some attempt at conversation.
He lifted a hand. “Morning. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You didn’t. I was just drinking bad coffee and watching the river.”
The Yankee, Brian remembered, a six-month rental. He could all but hear Kate telling him to be polite, to be sociable. “It’s a nice spot.” Brian stuck his hands in his pockets, annoyed that he’d inadvertently sabotaged his own solitude. “You settling in all right?”
“Yeah, I’m settled.” Nathan hesitated, then took the next step. “Are you still hunting the Ghost Stallion?”
Brian blinked, cocked his head. The Ghost Stallion was a legend that stretched back to the days when wild horses had roamed the island. It was said that the greatest of these, a huge black stallion of unparalleled speed, ran the woods. Whoever caught him, leaped onto his back, and rode would have all his wishes granted.
Throughout childhood it had been Brian’s deepest ambition to be the one to catch and ride the Ghost Stallion.
