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“Stop it, Louise. I’ve told you I felt obligated.”
Louise pressed her lips together. “Okay, honey, I know all about your big heart. But to put it more kindly this time, I’ve seen your parents take advantage of you over and over again, and what you did thirteen years ago went beyond what anyone should expect from you.”
“Be fair, Louise. They didn’t know how I got that money.”
“True, but do you honestly think they would have cared?”
That hurt, but Vicki had to admit the truth in her friend’s words. Louise had a gift for seeing the simple facts, pleasant or not. It was an ability that Vicki had never really developed. Even now she still couldn’t judge her parents from an objective viewpoint. They were her parents, after all.
“Besides,” Louise continued, “you could have gotten into big trouble. Malone was a stranger to you!”
“No, he wasn’t. Not exactly. He was the friend of a friend.”
“But you knew he was a criminal.”
“He wasn’t a criminal!” Vicki was tired of defending herself over this issue. Louise would never comprehend Vicki’s motives for what she’d done that day, and why should she? Louise was the daughter of a pair of Orlando obstetricians who’d never demanded more of her than passing grades and weekly phone calls. But Vicki needed Louise’s help desperately, so she tried once more to make her understand about Jamie Malone. “He left Ireland to avoid going to prison. He was innocent of any wrongdoing. It was a family-loyalty thing. I told you all this years ago.”
“Yeah, I know,” Louise drawled without enthusiasm. “The poor guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Exactly.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“Get me a divorce. Or an annulment. Or make a case for abandonment. Whatever it takes. But do it quickly and quietly. When I get a ring in two weeks, I want to wear it as the respectable single woman the Townsends and Graham think I am.”
“This won’t be easy, you know that,” Louise said.
“I know, but I’m putting my future in your hands.”
Louise sighed. “Okay, our best chance is a divorce for the reason of abandonment. You’ll have to run a newspaper ad for four consecutive weeks in the county of his last-known address. After that, you’ll file papers with our court, and then you’ll wait a prescribed amount of time for Mr. Malone to come forward. If he doesn’t, and if the judge feels you have truly exhausted all reasonable efforts to locate him, he’ll grant a divorce on the grounds of abandonment.”
Vicki fought her escalating panic. “Four weeks? A prescribed amount of time? Lulu, I just told you I have to have this taken care of in two weeks.”
Louise narrowed her eyes and spoke in low tones. “And that’s not all. Your name will be in the newspaper, as will his, so you’d better hope that the issue of his green card and your fraudulent marriage in Orlando doesn’t ring a bell with an overzealous immigration official.”
Being accused of defrauding the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service after all these years was enough to turn Vicki’s blood to ice. And if Graham’s family saw her name in the paper and investigated her background, they would do everything in their power to keep Vicki from becoming a Townsend. She didn’t even want to think about Graham’s reaction. She loved him, but he could be extremely opinionated about issues of respectability.
“You’re scaring me, Louise,” she said. “Surely there must be a statute of limitations on this sort of thing.”
“I don’t know, but even if there is and even if you get away with a clean divorce, it could be a very long and expensive process. Remember, Malone’s in absentia. You’re shouldering all the expenses.”
Vicki pictured her dwindling savings account, and desperation crept into her voice. “I don’t have a lot of money, but time is the most important issue. The process you described takes too long. What else can I do?”
Louise drummed her fingers on the table while she considered Vicki’s question. Finally she said, “It’s a long shot, but you actually might be able to find this guy and get him to sign uncontested divorce papers. That way, you see him one time, he signs, you’re divorced in a Broward County court, and it’s over like any other failed marriage with no assets, liabilities or children to argue over.”
There was a ray of hope, after all. “So how do I find him?”
“Our firm uses a reliable detective agency. They claim they can find anybody. I can have an investigator call you.”
Vicki poured another inch of wine into Louise’s glass. “You’re an angel, Lulu. I’ll owe you big time.”
Louise arched her trim black eyebrows. “You bet you will.”
AT NINE O’CLOCK Monday morning Vicki met with her contractor and discussed the final decorative details for her shop. While they talked, a painter stenciled “Tea and Antiquities” in old-English script on the panels of the leaded-glass windows.
Vicki was pleased with the transformation of the two-thousand-square-foot store. After investing her life savings into this prime location of old-name insurance companies, law offices and upscale retail shops, she nervously anticipated the grand opening of Tea and Antiquities in twelve days. She hoped her shop would attract customers because of its originality. It was the only store on the street that offered the comfort and refinement of an English tearoom with the eye appeal of antiques she and Graham had personally selected.
The contractor had just left when Vicki’s phone rang. She crossed to a mahogany Chippendale desk to answer it. “Tea and Antiquities.”
“Miss Sorenson?”
She didn’t recognize the male voice. “Yes.”
“This is Russell Weaver from Insider Investigations. I got a call from Louise Duncan this morning advising me that you have a need for our services.”
Vicki set both elbows on the desk. Thank goodness. Louise hadn’t forgotten. “That’s right, Mr. Weaver. I need you to locate someone for me as quickly as possible.”
“A former husband, is that right?”
Louise had obviously tried to be discreet, and Vicki saw no reason to correct the misconception by calling Malone her current husband. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“The man’s name?”
“Jamie Malone.”
“Last known address?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Occupation?” Weaver asked questions as if following a script.
Unfortunately Vicki didn’t know her lines. “I’m not positive of that, either. I think he used to work as a carpenter.” She felt incredibly foolish. Certainly any woman would know more about a former husband.
“He changed jobs a lot,” she said to cover her ignorance and tried to overlook the snort of skepticism that came from the earpiece. “I haven’t seen him in thirteen years.”
“His age?”
Vicki let out a breath of relief. She knew this one. There was four years’ difference in their ages. “He’s thirty-eight.”
Mr. Weaver asked a few other pertinent questions to which Vicki responded with embarrassing ambiguity. Finally with a knowing smugness, he said, “Do you happen to have a description of your former husband, Miss Sorenson?”
“Well, of course.” That was truly an honest answer. How could she forget seeing Jamie Malone for the first time on the steps of the Orlando courthouse? Her knees had been knocking. Her palms had been sweating. She’d been trembling like the last leaf in a windstorm on the day she’d agreed to marry him for the generous sum of five thousand dollars.
Besides his physical characteristics, which were still clear in her mind, she remembered the underlying brashness of the man—a trait that was intimidating to a shy twenty-one-year-old farm girl who only wanted to get the disagreeable task over with and collect her money. Even Jamie’s quick smile and misplaced attempt at charm hadn’t put her at ease.
She gave the detective a description of the way Jamie had looked thirteen years ago. Then, grateful that Mr. Weaver didn’t ask more personal questions, she acknowledged his promise to call with information as soon as he had any.
That call came in the early afternoon of the same day.
“You’ve found Jamie Malone already?” Vicki asked.
“Sure have.”
“How did you do that so quickly?”
The detective chuckled. “I’d like to tell you that I used some ultraspecialized procedure known only to the investigative trade, but the truth is, I found him on the Internet.”
Vicki couldn’t contain her surprise. “You’re kidding!”
“Actually I found J.D. Malone. I had to do some further searches to ensure that he was our man, but everything checked out. Turns out your ex is an artist living in a little town in North Carolina.”
Vicki’s first reaction was to declare that she wasn’t paying $150 an hour for this ridiculous, unfounded information. The Jamie Malone who’d persisted in invading her memory the past few hours could hardly be an artist. “Oh, no, Mr. Weaver,” she said. “You must be mistaken.”
“Nope. No mistake here. This is definitely the man you’re looking for.” He read off a grocery list of Jamie’s past. “James Dillon Malone came from Ireland in 1988. Lived a year in Rhode Island on a work visa. Then moved to Florida where his visa was due to expire.” The detective cleared his throat before introducing his next factual detail. “And then it seems his immigration problems were miraculously over, Miss Sorenson. He got his green card after marrying you in 1990.”
Vicki felt a blush of mortification creep up her neck to her cheeks. “I guess that’s him,” she admitted.
“You want his address?” Weaver asked.
“Definitely.”
“It’s simple enough. Jamie Malone, Pintail Point, Bayberry Cove, North Carolina. I looked on a map. It’s in the extreme northern part of the state, on the coast.”
Vicki thanked the detective and told him to send her the bill. After disconnecting, she stared at the address she’d written in her day planner. Those few words abruptly connected her to Jamie Malone in a way she’d never expected to be again. She’d only seen him twice in 1990. Once at the courthouse and then again six months later at an INS office where they’d somehow managed to pass the required post-wedding interview. They’d exchanged extremely personal information over the phone a few days before the interview, and luckily, they’d memorized the very details the official that day had wanted to know.
Today Vicki recalled some of the particulars. Jamie had said he was an early riser. He slept in boxer shorts. As a child he’d had chicken pox and measles, nothing more serious. His mother lived in Ireland, but he hoped to bring her to America. He watched very little television, since soccer matches weren’t broadcast much in the U.S. He didn’t smoke, but appreciated his Guinness. He ate red meat and liked to run in the evenings before his shower. He had no political affiliation, and he wasn’t religious, but if it turned out there was a God, it was okay with him.
Vicki also remembered that Jamie claimed he had a healthy sexual appetite, something Vicki had to admit, as well, in front of the INS agent. In fact, recalling how they’d professed to making love every day of the week made her face flush with heat even now.
At the INS interview, his hair had still been long and wild. There’d still been stains under his fingernails. And his smile had still been eager.
Vicki closed her planner and tucked it into her purse. She’d never have believed she could dredge up so many details about a man she’d only thought of over the years as a problem she’d have to address one day. Well, today was the day, she thought as she picked up the phone again and punched in Louise’s number.
“What’s up, Vic?” Louise asked.
“Draw up my divorce papers, Lulu. I’m heading to Bayberry Cove, North Carolina.”
CHAPTER TWO
THE FIRST SNAG in Vicki’s foolproof plan to obtain an uncontested divorce occurred two days later at the Norfolk, Virginia, airport. Minutes after her plane landed, Vicki and other passengers with schedules to return the next day were summoned by an airline representative. This woman calmly explained to the ticket holders that they should call the airline to confirm that their return flights weren’t being affected by the approaching storm.
Storm? What storm? Vicki remembered a local TV weatherman’s vague reference a couple of days before to a tropical storm in the Atlantic Ocean. But since it was October, near the end of hurricane season, and the system was well north of Florida, she hadn’t paid much attention. Now, suddenly, she was well north of Florida and that feathery white ripple she’d seen on a meteorological radar screen had acquired a name and a circular motion. Unbelievably, Tropical Storm Imogene was targeting a still-unspecified patch of land somewhere along the North Carolina/Virginia coast.
Wonderful. Vicki slung her garment bag over her shoulder and made her way to the rental-car counter. She had a reservation at a hotel near the airport for tonight, but her flight back wasn’t until noon tomorrow. She had more than twenty-four hours to sweat out Imogene’s eventual landfall—at the same time she was sweating out her meeting with Jamie Malone.
After a thorough search, the rental-car agent found the small town of Bayberry Cove on a map. It was situated on the shore of Currituck Sound in the lowland marshes between the North Carolina mainland and the Outer Banks. A bird could have probably made the journey from Norfolk in about half an hour, but thanks to the narrow, twisting two-lane road Vicki had to take, she arrived at the town boundary sixty minutes later.
Now Vicki’s problem was to find the even more elusive Pintail Point. And she didn’t have time to waste driving aimlessly. She headed down Main Street, searching for a busy establishment where locals might direct her to where Jamie Malone lived. She chose the Bayberry Cove Kettle, a small, pleasant-looking café with ruffled curtains in the windows and an open parking space in front.
A hand-printed sign on the door reminded her of the approaching storm: “Closing at 3 p.m. Imogene’s coming.” Vicki entered the crowded restaurant and took the only available seat, a stool at the counter. Apparently the residents of Bayberry Cove were indulging in a last hearty lunch before holing up in their houses for the duration of the storm.
Most of the customers didn’t seem too worried. In fact, several of them were concentrating on triangular-shaped puzzle boards spaced across the length of the counter. Each puzzle had a dozen wooden pegs sticking up from holes. Vicki remembered playing these leap-frog games when she was a little girl in Indiana. These, like the ones she recalled, came with cardboard instruction sheets that described the participant’s mental capacity according to the number of pegs left in the board when he ran out of moves. If the player left one peg, he was a genius. If he left five or more pegs, he was a blockhead.
A full-figured waitress with short platinum hair took Vicki’s order. “What can I get you, honey?” she asked. Her voice was decidedly Southern. So was the name on her lapel badge. Bobbi Lee. Her smile was wide and friendly.
“Just coffee,” Vicki said. “And directions, if you don’t mind.”
Bobbi Lee set a steaming mug of coffee on the counter. She slid a chrome pitcher of cream and two sugar packets toward Vicki. “I don’t mind a bit. I probably know every address in this little town. Lived here all my life.”
Vicki took a sip. It tasted better than Florida coffee, probably because there was a bit of October chill in the North Carolina air. “Do you know where Pintail Point is?”
Bobbi Lee’s cherry-red lips tugged down at the corners. She leaned one well-rounded hip against the counter and stared at Vicki. “Pintail Point? Now why would you want to know where that is? It’s way outta town in the marshes. There’s nothing much out there but ducks.”
“Maybe so,” Vicki said, “but someone lives there I used to know. I need to find him.”
Bobbi Lee tapped her pencil against her order pad. A bit too loudly and a bit too fast. “You just continue down Main Street till you hit Sandy Ridge Road. Turn right and in about three miles you’ll see the causeway that’ll take you to Pintail. It’s only one lane, so make sure nobody’s comin’ the other way.”
Vicki dug in her purse for her wallet. “I will. Thanks.” She left two dollars on the counter. “By the way, do you know which house belongs to Jamie Malone?”
Bobbi Lee snorted and jabbed her pencil into a tight wave over her ear. “There aren’t any houses out there,” she said. “But Jamie won’t be hard to find. He’s the only man that lives on the point.”
No houses? One lone resident? Vicki took a healthy swig of coffee.
“You do know a storm’s comin’?” Bobbi Lee said. “Pintail’s no place to be.”
Vicki picked up her purse and headed for the exit. “I won’t be there long,” she responded. “Thanks again.”
Bobbi Lee only nodded, but as Vicki went out the door, she distinctly heard the waitress say, “Now, why would that woman be lookin’ for a married man?”
Married? Jamie Malone was married? Bobbi Lee had said Jamie was the only man on Pintail Point. She hadn’t mentioned a woman at all. Vicki slid into the driver’s seat of her small rental car. She took a moment before starting the engine to think about this latest shocking information. What kind of trouble was she heading into with the only man who lived on Pintail Point? Was she meeting with a bigamist? Jamie must have married another woman because surely he didn’t still think of Vicki as his wife. Vicki definitely didn’t think of him as her husband. Would she face an irate woman who knew nothing of Jamie’s past? And why did the waitress proclaim Jamie’s marital status in a voice loud enough to ensure that she heard it? Was it a warning of some kind?
Vicki turned the key in the ignition, relieved to hear the steady hum of the engine. This little car would take her away from Pintail Point as reliably as it got her there.
“You’ve come this far, Vicki,” she said. “Just get it over with.” She pulled out of the parking space and headed in the direction of Sandy Ridge Road. In her rearview mirror she saw Bobbi Lee watching her departure from the open doorway of the Bayberry Cove Kettle.
ANY NOTION that the airline representative might have been wrong about the approaching storm vanished when Vicki left the town limits of Bayberry Cove and turned onto Sandy Ridge Road.
The two-lane paved road hugged the shore of Currituck Sound, and on a sunny day would have provided scenic glimpses of the protected waters between the North Carolina coast and the Outer Banks. But today the horizon was gray, leaving the far islands blanketed in charcoal shadows. White-capped waves crashed against the sea wall, spewing frothy streams of brackish water over the edge of the road.
Wind buffeted Vicki’s little car. She gripped the steering wheel to maintain a straight course. The marshes were eerily void of wildlife, and there wasn’t a boat in sight. Vicki imagined that on any other day, fishermen would be working these waters and cursing the many pleasure-boaters.
After three miles, she spotted the causeway Bobbi Lee had mentioned and turned off Sandy Ridge. Her tires crunched on the gravel surface of the one-lane spit of land bordered by sloping rock embankments. The causeway appeared to be about half a mile long, and at the end, through a thickening haze, Vicki detected a couple of low buildings set amongst a copse of trees.
This path was more treacherous than Sandy Ridge. Currituck Sound attacked the causeway from both sides, sending churning waves onto the road and leaving the driving surface riddled with puddles, gravel and seaweed.
In the distance, clouds swirled in ashen bands heavy with moisture. The weather was deteriorating quickly, Vicki realized, and she would be wise to leave the causeway as soon as possible. Once Jamie signed the papers, she could wait out the storm in a hotel near the Norfolk airport.
The buildings on the point of the causeway were more recognizable now. Vicki slowed her car under the wind-whipped branches of a tall pine. Bobbi Lee had been right. There were no houses on Pintail Point. There was, however, a large metal shed with a tin roof. And a houseboat.
