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Vicki parked next to a pickup truck with a light film of sand on its metallic-blue panels. She removed her briefcase from a zippered compartment in her garment bag and examined the point, which was no more than two acres.
She didn’t see anyone around the houseboat, a one-story structure with a sundeck occupying half the roof. The boat was painted forest green with tan trim around the windows and shake cedar shingles extending from the slightly peaked roof. Window boxes gave the compact place a whimsical look, almost like a mountain chalet.
Vicki closed her eyes and took a fortifying breath. A clear image of that other time she’d met Jamie Malone flooded her memory. She was even more anxious now than she’d been on the courthouse steps. On that day, however, she’d known what to expect. She and Jamie had followed the advice of a mutual friend who’d guided them through the marriage and green-card process. Now she had only herself to rely on. There was no intermediary to witness this odd reunion, except perhaps Jamie’s wife.
Vicki shivered. She buttoned her jacket, stuffed her car keys inside the pocket and wrapped a trembling hand around the door handle. “Just go,” she said to herself. “Find this man, get him to sign the papers, and you’ll be on your way in a few minutes.”
She opened the car door and stepped into a fierce wind that whipped her hair from its tortoiseshell clip and battered strands of it against her cheeks. For a moment she felt like the heroine of a gothic novel. All the elements were here. The wind, the threatening rain, the isolation of Pintail Point. And even worse, a man who was just as much a stranger to her today as he’d been thirteen years ago when she’d married him.
She approached the houseboat. “Mr. Malone?” she called, and realized her words had been swept up in a gust of wind. “Hello!” she hollered. “Mr. Malone, are you here?”
She heard a bang and a crack. She couldn’t identify the sound, but it was repeated twice more before someone shouted back, “Yes, I am, though if the wind gets any stronger up here, I might be blown to the mainland.”
Up here? Vicki held the hair out of her eyes and stared at the top of the houseboat from where the voice with the hint of an Irish accent had originated. A man appeared on the roof. He braced his feet apart against the force of the wind and looked down at her. “I can’t imagine what you’re doing on the point today, but as long as you’ve come, would you toss up a box of staples?”
Vicki followed the imaginary line from the tip of the man’s index finger to a red metal toolbox on top of a large wooden picnic table. She went to the edge of the table and grasped the latch of the toolbox. She’d just opened the lid when a loud snuffling sound came from the ground. A second later a heavy weight landed on the toe of her loafer. Vicki screamed, jumped away from the table and leaned over to see what had attacked her shoe.
A large, pointed dome of patchy gray fur poked out from underneath. A pair of small amber eyes on each side of a long, grizzled snout looked up at her with an expression of casual canine interest. “My God,” she gasped, “does he bite?”
The answer came from the top of the houseboat. “Beasley? Only the occasional gnat. And it had better be flying low.”
Vicki shifted her attention from the strange-looking dog to the man. He wiggled his finger with an edge of impatience, reminding her of his request. He obviously had no idea who she was.
Vicki hadn’t known what she would find on Pintail Point, but she’d half expected the past thirteen years would melt away and she’d recognize the ruddy face of the scruffy carpenter she’d married. The man giving her an expectant look from twelve feet above was Jamie Malone all right, but thirteen years had made a difference in him, as they no doubt had in her.
“The staples are in a red-and-white box,” he said. “I’m up here with a roll of plastic and a staple gun that’s just run out of staples. And a sky that tells me I’m running out of time.”
“Oh, right.” She rummaged through the toolbox and found the requested item.
Jamie approached the edge of the roof and bent slightly. “Just toss her up. I’ll catch it.”
The tail of a green flannel shirt flapped around worn denim jeans that accentuated long, lean legs. At the open yoke, a white T-shirt stretched across the tapered chest of a well-developed male, not the skin-and-bones frame of the young Irish immigrant who’d looked as if he’d survived on one meal a day.
He showed her his open palm. “Before I grow a beard, miss.”
Beard? He hadn’t had one thirteen years ago, at least not on his wedding day. Now he had the shadow of one, lending a nonchalant dignity to his face. His hair was still a tangle of coffee-brown waves, though it fell no longer than the edge of his collar. The wind played havoc with it, but Vicki had the notion that it would look pretty much the way it did right now even on the calmest of days. And Jamie’s smile, the feature she remembered most, was still the solar center of his face. With a frown that said he didn’t have time for conversation or even a serious inspection of his visitor, he held up his staple gun to bring her back to her senses.
She threw the box underhanded. It somehow defied the wind and landed in Jamie’s grasp.
He opened the stapler, filled it and snapped it closed again. “Thanks. As soon as I get this tarp secured, I’ll come down and see what brought you out here on this wicked day.” He went down on his knees beyond the slight peak of his roof and she had only the sound effects of his work to identify where he was.
“Yes, please,” she shouted to the general vicinity of the stapler. “I won’t take much of your time, but I need to speak with you and be on my way as quickly as possible.”
After another minute the stapling stopped. Jamie stood up again and looked toward the mainland. He shook his head once before returning his attention to her. “Doesn’t look like you’ll be going anywhere today,” he said.
She stared across the sound. The waves had increased in size, but it wasn’t as if Pintail Point was no longer connected to the mainland. She could simply drive away, couldn’t she? “What are you talking about?”
“Causeway’s washed out. You can’t see it from where you’re standing, but I can. The water’s claimed the road about halfway between Pintail and the coast.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I’m afraid not. It happens with every good storm. In a day or two it’ll dry out.” He looked over his shoulder toward the Outer Banks and frowned. “Though this storm seems a bit worse than most. Come aboard and see for yourself.” He gestured. “The ladder’s just at the bow there.”
After considering for a moment that only a lunatic would climb to the roof of a houseboat in a fiercely blowing wind, Vicki headed for the ladder. She had to see for herself if Jamie’s assessment of the situation was correct. She crossed a narrow bridge from the ground to the boat, set her briefcase on the deck and moved around to an open porchlike space that spanned the front of the houseboat. The hull made a squeaking sound as it rocked against the rubber bumpers connecting it to the sturdy wooden dock.
Vicki had climbed nearly to the top of the ten rungs when Jamie appeared from above and offered his hand. When she looked up at him, his entire face changed. It was as if the sun had broken through a menacing layer of clouds. His green eyes sparkled and his wide grin produced a pair of distinctive dimples. “Bless my soul,” he said. “I thought you looked familiar, Vicki. After all these years, my sainted wife has come to me.”
Startled by his enthusiastic greeting, Vicki grasped his hand and stepped onto the upper deck. “I’m surprised you remember me.” She tried to hide the strangely pleasing effect his recognition had produced behind a sober expression.
“A man never forgets his first, Vicki darlin’,” he said. He was still holding her hand, she realized, and staring at her in an odd, almost familiar way. “How did you find me?”
Omitting the detail of the detective, Vicki said, “You were on the Internet.”
Jamie laughed. “I’ve achieved cyber-fame? Has the INS posted a Most Wanted list?”
The response, though meant to be humorous, still spawned an uncomfortable twinge of nerves in the pit of Vicki’s stomach. “Let’s hope not,” she said. “Or if they have, let’s assume they’ve got more desperate criminals to find than the two of us.”
Jamie chuckled. “That’s a good bet. Anyway, it’s nice to see you again, Vicki. Even on a day such as this one.”
“You’ve been on my mind lately, Mr. Malone.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “I’m flattered,” he replied. “But it’s ‘Mr. Malone,’ is it?”
She looked down before he could read her embarrassment in her face. It was, after all, a ridiculous way to address one’s husband.
“Are you certain you’ve got your footing?” he asked. “The wind’s blowing hard up here.”
She nodded and he released her hand but stayed by her side. Vicki cleared her throat and spoke close to his ear so he could decipher her words in the wind. “As I said, I’ve been thinking about you. About what we did. That’s why I’ve come. And I can’t stay but a few minutes.”
He pointed to the causeway. “You didn’t believe me, but have a look for yourself.”
Vicki stared across the sound from this improved vantage point and gasped. The mist was thickening, making visibility difficult. “I can hardly see anything,” she said. He took her hand and guided her to where she could make out a stream of water surging in frothy ripples across several yards of the gravel surface she’d driven over not twenty minutes before.
“Do you see that?” Jamie asked.
It looked as though the causeway had broken in two. She dropped her forehead into her hand and fought a rising panic. “Maybe if I leave now, I can just make it.”
“In that little car?” Jamie nodded toward her rental.
“Of course.”
“You’d be swept off the road and into the sound like a teacup in a whirlwind. I wouldn’t even attempt it in my truck.” He shrugged one shoulder with matter-of-fact acceptance of her predicament. “Guess you’re stuck here for the duration.” He touched her arm, drawing her attention to a spot in the distance. “Do you see that man on the mainland?”
She did. Barely.
“I’m betting that’s Deputy Blackwell putting up barricades like he does whenever the causeway’s washed out.”
Through the soupy mist she detected a figure on the coast, and suddenly a location a mere half mile distant seemed a continent away.
“It’s official,” Jamie said. “Luther’s not letting anyone on or off now.”
The deputy swept his arm in a huge arc over his head, and Jamie waved back. Then Luther Blackwell, the man who’d just decided Vicki’s fate for the next several hours at least, climbed in his patrol car and headed on down Sandy Ridge Road.
“I can’t miss my flight home,” Vicki said.
“Maybe you won’t,” Jamie said. “When is it?”
“Tomorrow at noon.”
He squinted at the darkening horizon. The first fat drops of rain pelted them, driven by a sudden gust of wind. “On the other hand, maybe you will.”
She was trapped on a virtual island with a man who was practically a stranger! Vicki couldn’t imagine a worse outcome to what was supposed to have been an uncomplicated mission. She knew nothing about Jamie. He could be half-crazy living out here in the middle of nowhere. Or worse.
“Let’s get down to ground level,” he said. “This roof’s as secure as she’s going to get, but we humans are tempting the elements.”
She tried to control a trembling that began in her legs and was working its way up. And I’m tempting fate, she thought.
Jamie helped her to the ladder. “Are you cold, Vicki?”
“No, I’m fine.” She scurried down and retrieved her briefcase while Jamie stowed his tools in the metal box. He whistled for his dog, who still lay in unperturbed comfort under the picnic table. By the time Jamie opened the door to the houseboat, the rain was hard and steady. Since escape was impossible, Vicki went inside. Jamie took her jacket, hung it on a hook by the door and handed her a towel. She dried off as best she could while watching the darkening sky through a large window over the kitchen sink.
“Maybe I should turn on CNN,” Jamie said. “We can get an update on the storm.”
Vicki stepped over Beasley, who was now sprawled in the middle of the floor and followed Jamie from the kitchen to a living area furnished with a beige leather sofa and two matching leather chairs. It certainly didn’t look like the accommodations of a psychopath—not that she knew how psychopaths lived. He picked up a remote control from a glass coffee table with a ship’s steering wheel as its base. The brass trim on the spokes shone as if they were polished regularly.
The rest of the room showed similar attention. A pine dining set occupied one corner of the room. Its top was clear of clutter, prompting Vicki to remember her own dining table, which was currently layered with unopened mail and magazines. Nautical paintings hung in groups around the walls of the houseboat. Remembering her surprise at hearing Jamie was an artist, Vicki wondered if he’d painted the canvases himself.
He pulled the chain on a dark metal lamp with a leaded-glass shade. The outside gloom was transformed into a soft amber glow. While Jamie selected the channel for CNN, Vicki surreptitiously inspected two of the paintings in hopes of discovering something about the man she was stuck with. Jamie Malone was not the artist of either.
When a reporter’s voice caught her attention, Vicki looked at a twenty-five-inch television screen. The set had a built-in VHS and DVD player. Since the old Jamie hadn’t been a TV watcher, at least according to the information they’d exchanged in order to fool the immigration officer, she wondered when this later version of the man had become inspired to buy a state-of-the-art model.
Within minutes the focus of a news story was a radar screen splattered with colorful images in blues, reds and yellows. A meteorologist was saying, “This one caught us by surprise, folks. Imogene is now a category-one hurricane. Residents along the North Carolina coast should hunker down. The eye will pass near the Carolina/Virginia border by nightfall.”
Vicki stopped patting her hair dry and draped the towel over her shoulders. She gawked at the swirling mass in the center of the screen that had suddenly become even more terrifying than her runaway suspicions of Jamie. “My God, a hurricane. And we’re sitting on this narrow little spit of land in a houseboat! We might as well be a weathervane on top of a barn in a tornado.”
“We’ll be all right,” he said. “It’ll be a blow, and likely will claim some shingles.” He patted the wall nearest him. “But the Bucket o’ Luck is a sturdy tub. She’s withstood a good many storms in her thirty-five years.”
“Thirty-five years! This boat is that old?” Vicki cringed at the thought. Certain that the Bucket’s luck had run out, she pictured herself clinging to forest-green flotsam in twenty-foot waves.
“I’m just now getting her broken in,” Jamie said. “It took us a few years to get used to each other. But trust me. She’ll come through this storm in fine style.”
“You speak of your boat as if it were a flesh-and-blood person,” Vicki said. A wife, for instance, she added to herself, remembering Bobbi Lee’s words.
He chuckled. “I suppose there was that same sort of period of adjustment for the Bucket, and me, as there is for a pair of new roommates.”
The masculine furnishings of the houseboat did not suggest a woman’s influence. But if Jamie had taken another wife at some time in his past, and if Vicki was going to weather a storm with him in this confined space, she had to know it now. “May I ask you something?” she said.
“Anything at all. There should be no secrets between husband and wife.”
She shook her head. “Right. Are you married?”
Jamie’s initial response was a bark of laughter, a most inappropriate reaction to a serious question. Vicki opened her mouth to tell him so, but his phone rang, prohibiting her from expressing her opinion.
Jamie picked up the receiver. “Yeah, Ma,” he said. “I just heard it on CNN. Now don’t you go worrying about me.”
Vicki relaxed a little. A man whose mother called to show her concern was probably not a homicidal maniac.
“Do you have everything you need in case you’re holed for a day or two?” he asked.
He sat back on the sofa. After a minute he looked at Vicki and touched his fingers to his thumb repeatedly in that gesture men use when a woman is talking too much. “Sure, I’ll be fine, Ma. Got plastic on the roof, and I’ll be putting shutters at the windows just as soon as I can get off the phone.”
A long pause. “Yes, plenty of food. I was at the supermarket yesterday.” He moved his head up and down in time to his mother’s conversation. “I can’t do that, Ma. Luther’s already blockaded the road. I’ll call you when it’s over.”
He set the receiver back on its cradle and looked at Vicki. “That was my mother,” he offered unnecessarily. “She lives in Bayberry Cove—another result of our wedding vows for which I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“Me? Why?”
“When you married me, you cleared the way for me to bring my mother over from Ireland. I was able to get her an immigrant visa and apply for her permanent residence once she got here. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t become a citizen first.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “So, does that answer your question about my state of wedded bliss?”
“No, it doesn’t. I meant, are you married to anyone besides me?”
For a second he looked truly shocked. “Where would you get an idea like that?”
“From a waitress in town. When I asked directions to Pintail Point, she made sure I knew that you were married.”
“Was she a blonde with an hourglass figure that might require more room at the bottom for the sand?”
Vicki nodded.
“A good woman, Bobbi Lee is. But she has it in her mind that every little detail of my life should be her concern.”
Vicki wasn’t fooled. She’d seen Bobbi Lee’s disapproval firsthand. Plus, when a man made a statement like that, he was obviously hiding something, and what Jamie was probably hiding was that he and Bobbi Lee shared more than a casual relationship.
“But back to your question,” Jamie continued. “Yes, indeed I have a wife, and by some miracle I’ve yet to understand, I’m looking at her now for the first time in thirteen years.”
“Do you tell people that you’re married and I’m your wife?” If he did, then the honesty of such a declaration was ironic in light of Vicki’s own deception.
“Not exactly. I tell people I’m married is all, and that’s the God’s truth. And for what it’s worth, Vicki, you’ve been nearly the ideal mate.”
She sank into one of the leather chairs. “That’s silly. We don’t even know each other.”
“Not so silly when you compare our marriage to others you know of. You never nag me. I can leave my socks in the middle of the floor. And if I want to watch a football game, you never utter a complaining word.”
He flashed her a crooked grin that under other circumstances might have been charming. And Vicki decided that Jamie Malone was not at all sinister. A man with an indolent dog, a caring mother and an ancient houseboat he lovingly tended, was strange perhaps, but not evil.
“’Course I can’t really say that the lovemaking has been very satisfying over the years,” he added.
He was, however, something of a smart-ass. Vicki’s cheeks flushed as she remembered again that she and Jamie had told an INS interviewer that they made love every day. Then she pictured Bobbi Lee with the wide smile and lavender-shaded eyes. And the tapping pencil. “I’m sure you’ve compensated in other ways,” she said.
