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“Yes.” Daria looked at Rory. “Remember the annual bonfire we had on the beach near the end of each summer?”
He had forgotten, but the memory slipped back easily. The huge, roaring fire. Great food. The sound of the ocean. Willing girls and the sheltering darkness. He nodded.
“Well, Jill has kept that tradition going,” Daria said. “She has to get special permission each year, because bonfires are no longer allowed on the beach. She has to make the fire closer to the water, but she’s fanatical about it. She’s got a couple of teenagers, and her husband comes down on the weekends. I don’t know what happened to Brian, her brother.” Daria looked at Chloe, who shrugged.
“Haven’t seen him in years,” Chloe said.
Rory was pleased to hear that some of the old residents were still around, although he was disappointed that Cindy Trump was not one of them. He’d always thought that Cindy somehow held the key to the mystery of the foundling.
He looked at Shelly. She was a striking young woman, with large, light brown eyes, that long blond hair, a willowy body and perfect tan. Sitting there on the floor of the living room, she was all legs and arms and gossamer hair. She’d been wearing the same ingenuous smile since his arrival, and he realized that she had a childlike way of speaking, a simplicity about her. He’d lived with Polly long enough to recognize it, and he wondered if Shelly’s rude introduction to the world had left her with some brain damage.
“How about you, Shelly?” he asked. “What are you up to?”
“I work at St. Esther’s Church as a housekeeper,” she said proudly. “And I design shell jewelry.”
“Shell jewelry?” he repeated.
“Uh-huh.” She stood up and walked out to the porch for a moment. Back inside, she handed him a choker, a small, gold-plated starfish set in the center of a strand of tiny shells. He was impressed. He’d expected shell jewelry to be a bit on the tacky side, but this was certainly not.
He looked up at Shelly. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “Was this a real starfish?”
“Yes,” she said, taking the choker back from him. “I collect the shells on the beach. It’s hard to find a starfish that size, though.”
“It’s wonderful, Shelly,” he said. “What do you do with the jewelry after you’ve finished it?”
“I sell it at the gift shop on…” She looked to Daria for help.
“Consignment,” Daria said.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Shelly said, grinning at him.
“Yeah, it is.” He felt the broad smile on his face. Something about Shelly touched him. Reminders of Polly, perhaps, or maybe it was just the simple joy that emanated from her.
“Tell us about your son,” Chloe said.
“Oh.” Rory looked out the window at the darkening sky and wondered if Zack had made any friends on the beach. “He’s a California kid,” he said. “He doesn’t want to be here. But—” he stretched and sighed “—I’m hoping he’ll adjust to it. He’s a good kid, just screwed up a little from the divorce.” He wondered what Chloe thought about divorce—or the phrase “screwed up,” for that matter. Did he have to watch his language around her?
He leaned forward abruptly. “Well,” he said, getting down to business, “I received Shelly’s letter a few months ago, and I’ve decided to follow up on her request to find out who left her on the beach twenty-two years ago. I plan to make it an episode on True Life Stories.”
Dead silence filled the room. Chloe and Daria looked at each other, and Rory didn’t miss the disapproval in their faces. Shelly wore a sheepish smile, and Rory suddenly realized she had written the letter without her sisters’ knowledge.
“That is so cool!” Shelly said finally. “Thanks, Rory.”
Daria looked at her younger sister. “You wrote to Rory?” she asked.
Shelly nodded.
“I wish you’d told me that, honey.” Daria’s voice was disapproving, but not unkind. Even so, he instantly felt sorry for Shelly.
“I thought it was a wonderful letter,” Rory said quickly. “A wonderful idea. And if I can’t uncover the answer during my research, Shelly, maybe someone watching the show will know what really happened and contact me.”
Chloe tucked her legs beneath her on the sofa. “I don’t think this is such a good idea, Rory,” she said. “Why dredge up something that happened twenty-two years ago?”
“Chloe’s right,” Daria said. “I’m sorry to put a damper on your idea, but Shelly’s a Cato, Rory. She has been, right from the start. Of course, she’s always known what happened to her, but she’s one of us, an integral part of us. Who her birth mother was doesn’t matter.”
For the first time since his arrival, Shelly lost her smile. “I know I’m a Cato,” she said to Daria. “But I’m also something else. I’ve always wanted to know what that something else is.”
Daria looked surprised. “You never said anything about it, Shelly. Nothing at all.”
“Because I figured there was no way to ever find out,” Shelly said. “But I was watching True Life Stories one night, and I knew Rory lived here when I was found, and he always can figure out those mysteries, so…if he wants to try—” she shrugged “—I want him to.”
He had not expected resistance. It was understandable, though, that Chloe and Daria would find his plan unsettling if they hadn’t known about Shelly’s letter. Was he being intrusive? Was Shelly’s plea enough reason for him to tamper with their lives?
“Well,” he said, standing up. “I guess I’ll have to give this some more thought.” He saw Shelly bite her lip. A crease formed between her eyebrows. “And right now, I’d better go home and see what my son is up to.”
“Good seeing you, Rory,” Chloe said. She did not stand up, but Daria did. She walked him to the porch door.
“Don’t be a stranger, Rory,” she said.
“Thanks,” he said. “I won’t be.”
“I’m sorry Shelly bothered you about…”
“It’s not a bother at all,” he said.
Daria brushed a few flakes of sawdust from her hair, and in the porch light, Rory saw a world of worry in her eyes. “I think it would be a mistake to pursue the story,” she said.
“Well,” he said, touching her arm, “we’ll talk about it again, all right?”
He left the Sea Shanty and was halfway across the cul-de-sac when Shelly caught up to him.
“Rory, wait a second,” she said.
He stopped walking and turned around. Poll-Rory’s porch light lit her face.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Please, Rory. I still want you to try and find out who my real mother was,” she pleaded. “I really want to know.”
He hesitated. “Your sisters have some genuine concerns,” he said.
“Yes, but I’m the one who counts, right?” Shelly asked.
He studied her face. She was a stunning young woman with hope in her eyes, and he couldn’t help but smile at her. “That’s right, Shelly,” he said. “You’re the one.”
5
DARIA’S MOOD WAS LIFTING. SITTING IN HER PARKED CAR IN the Sea Shanty driveway as she waited for Shelly and Chloe to join her for the drive to Sunday mass, she felt a lightness she had not known for the past two months. She’d felt it when she’d awakened that morning and found herself getting out of bed with a smile on her face. She only had to look across the street at Poll-Rory to know the reason for her altered mood. Her lightness was tempered, though, by Rory’s desire to pry into Shelly’s past. Nothing could be gained by that…and too much could be lost.
The Wheelers—seventy-something Ruth and Les—were getting into their van in the driveway next door. A few of their grandchildren climbed into the van with them, and Daria knew they were going to St. Esther’s for mass, as well. She waved, and Ruth Wheeler called out a greeting.
Chloe and Shelly walked down the wooden front steps of the Sea Shanty. Shelly got into the front seat of the car, Chloe the rear.
“St. Christopher,” Chloe prayed as Daria backed the car out of the driveway, “guard and protect us on our journey.”
For as long as Daria could remember, Chloe had uttered that prayer every time she got in a car—even after St. Christopher had been desainted. Chloe had a bit of the rebel in her.
“There’s Rory Taylor.” Shelly pointed toward Poll-Rory, where Rory and his son were crossing their yard, carrying beach chairs and towels under their arms.
Daria tapped her horn. Rory waved at the car with a smile as she passed them. Rory’s son reminded her of the boy she had known many years ago—the handsome, blond-haired boy with the broad-shouldered build that would later serve him well on the football field. She remembered what a strong swimmer Rory had been and how she’d liked to watch him swim far out into the ocean until the lifeguards whistled at him to come in. He’d been a lifeguard himself one year, and he’d rescued an elderly man caught in the undertow. He’d been seventeen then, and by that time he’d definitely forgotten she existed. The local newspaper printed his picture after he rescued the man, and she’d carried that picture around with her for years, even after he’d gone off to college and stopped coming to Kill Devil Hills.
“Your cheeks are red, sis,” Chloe teased from the back seat of the car.
“Are not.” Daria tilted her chin to look at her reflection in the mirror. She feared Chloe was right: she could feel the flush rising from her stomach all the way to her ears.
“What do you mean?” Shelly studied Daria’s face. “Why would her cheeks be red?”
“’Cause Daria has a thing for Rory,” Chloe said.
Shelly lit up at that news. “You do?” she asked.
“I don’t know what Chloe’s talking about,” Daria said.
“A new man for you!” Shelly exclaimed.
“Oh, no,” Daria protested. “No way.” She glanced over her shoulder at Chloe. “Thanks a lot,” she said.
Chloe laughed.
“I’m not interested in Rory Taylor that way at all,” Daria said to Shelly. “Chloe just remembers back when we were kids, and it’s true, I did have a crush on him then, but that was a long time ago, so don’t get your hopes up.” She knew that Shelly had been worried about her ever since Pete fell out of her life. Shelly didn’t know how much of a role she’d played in his leaving, of course, and Daria intended to keep it that way.
“I think he’s really nice,” Shelly said.
“Yes, he is,” Daria agreed. She’d been particularly touched the night before by the warm and easy way Rory had related to Shelly. That was a sure way to Daria’s heart.
St. Esther’s was packed with the summer crowd. The church had expanded physically since that day Daria and her mother had lit candles for the infant abandoned on the beach, but the atmosphere inside was the same—clean and light and filled with the scent of the sea. Daria knew she could be considered part of the summer crowd herself, since she rarely attended church any other time of year. Shelly went most weeks, either walking or riding her bike or catching a ride from a fellow parishioner. But in the summer, Daria felt a need to attend mass out of respect for Chloe. She’d somehow missed out on the devout genes that had coursed through her family for generations. Perhaps Chloe had received her share.
Communion was a problem for her this summer. Although she’d left behind church dogma and ritual, she still felt guilty about receiving communion when she had not confessed the truth about the plane crash. Yet she received it, anyway. Otherwise, Chloe would have known she was carrying around some sin in her heart. Daria told herself she had done her best the night of the crash. Everyone had done their best. No one had any intent to harm. Nevertheless, she had covered up their human failings. That was her sin.
A group of children mobbed Chloe—Sister Chloe—in front of the church after mass, badgering her with questions about what they would be doing in day camp the coming week. Daria liked watching Chloe with the kids. Her sister was animated and affectionate with them, unlike the nuns Daria remembered from her own Catholic school childhood.
Sean Macy approached them as they were walking to the car, and the three of them turned to greet him.
“Hi, Shelly, dear,” the priest said when he’d caught up to them. “Sister.” He nodded at Chloe, then looked at Daria. “Good to see you at church, Daria,” he said. He had a teasing twinkle in his eye, and Daria smiled at him. All of the Catos had a special place in their hearts for Father Macy, since he’d helped Sue and Tom Cato adopt Shelly long ago. He’d also gotten Shelly her housekeeping job at the church, and he worked side by side with Chloe in the day-camp program.
“I need a moment with Daria,” the priest said to them. He took Daria by the arm and led her away from the car, and she waited for him to speak again. “I’ve been asked to talk with you, Daria,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. “What about?”
“About resuming your EMT duties.”
She groaned. Someone at the Emergency Medical Services must have been bending Father Macy’s ear. “Who told you to speak with me?” she asked.
“Several people, actually,” the priest said. “You are sorely missed. And the community suffers without you, you know.”
“Thanks for the guilt trip,” she said.
“Seriously, Daria.” His face lost its smile. He was handsome, his hair still that wheat-blond color, but when he didn’t smile, he looked tired. “I don’t know what demons you’re grappling with,” he said, “but I want you to know that I’m here, if you ever want to talk about it.”
“Thanks, Father,” she said. “But I really have nothing to talk about. I just needed a break for a while.”
“I can understand that,” he said. The smile was back again. “I feel that way myself sometimes.” He squeezed her hand warmly, then told her goodbye, and she turned and began walking, slowly, toward her car.
She had certainly considered counseling. That’s what she would suggest for anyone else who’d suddenly relinquished their EMT duties. But counseling wouldn’t help. She’d lie to the counselor, so what would be the point?
In the car, she found that Shelly was now in the back seat, Chloe in the front. She started the engine.
“What did Father Sean want to talk to you about?” Shelly asked.
Daria pulled out of the parking lot and turned onto the road. “He just wanted to see if I could help out with the charity auction this year,” she said.
“Oh,” Shelly said, satisfied, but Chloe gave Daria a dark look.
“With a lie like that,” she said under her breath, “you’d better go to confession before you receive communion next Sunday.”
Daria thought she was only half joking.
6
GRACE SPOONED A DOLLOP OF WHIPPED CREAM ON THE mocha latte and handed the cup across the counter to Jean Best, one of the regular customers at Beachside Café and Sundries.
“How are you doing, Grace?” Jean asked. Her eyes bore concern, and the question was sincere, but Grace busied herself cleaning the espresso machine.
“Just fine, Jean,” she said. “Thanks for asking.” She knew she should ask Jean how things were going with her elderly mother and the house she was trying to sell, but she didn’t want to engage her—or anyone, actually—in conversation.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Jean said, taking her cue from Grace’s reticence and backing away from the counter. “Thanks for the coffee.” She carried her coffee to one of the small tables near the window overlooking Pamlico Sound, and Grace was relieved to see her go.
Beachside Café and Sundries was small, cramped and popular among locals and tourists alike. She and Eddie had opened it eight years ago with money Eddie’s mother had left him. They carried a few staples, but they were most beloved for their coffee and sandwiches, which ran the gamut from avocado and cheese to Italian subs, something for everyone. The shop had been a labor of love, a reflection of love, and people used to comment on the warm, supportive relationship she and Eddie still enjoyed after twenty years of marriage. No one was commenting on it now, though.
Grace made a couple of sandwiches for a man and woman she didn’t recognize. She was more comfortable these days with the strangers, with people who didn’t know her and know all she’d endured these past few months. She didn’t want pity. She didn’t want sympathy. And most of all, she didn’t want to talk about it. Because if she talked, she would disintegrate into little pieces. And that she couldn’t afford to do.
She knew her regular customers worried about her. They worried about how much weight she’d lost and how fragile she seemed to be, both physically and emotionally. They commented about her pallor and her inability to concentrate on what anyone was saying. A few weeks earlier, she’d overheard a conversation between two of her customers, one of whom said, “Grace just isn’t herself these days.” That had become her mantra. Whenever she found herself thinking or doing something out of character for her—which was often, lately—she heard that voice inside her head: Grace just isn’t herself these days.
She could hear Eddie in the small office behind the counter area, typing on the computer, and she wondered how many of the regulars knew that things had fallen apart between the two of them. It had to be obvious. The jovial atmosphere that had once existed in Beachside Café was gone, and now there was a palpable tension between Eddie and herself. Several customers even knew that Grace had moved into the above-garage apartment she and Eddie used to rent to tourists in the summer. How they’d found out, she didn’t know, but the year-round population in the Outer Banks community of Rodanthe was small, and it wasn’t hard for people to learn each other’s business. And, of course, everyone knew the reasons for the change in Grace, as well as for the change in her marriage.
“Grace?” Eddie poked his head out from the back office of the café. “Phone.”
Grace wiped her hands on the towel hanging below the counter and walked into the office. She took the phone from his hand.
