A Letter for Annie

By contrast, the more he was around Geneva, the greater his respect for her. So few home owners really knew what they wanted, and he often spent as much time undoing their decisions as he did on the actual work. No such problem with Geneva. Insofar as was possible, she wanted the house restored to its original splendor, and she knew exactly what that would look like. Best of all, she was willing to pay.

This morning she had shown him photos of the exterior, circa 1936. Built to withstand the coastal weather, the cottage was functional yet beautiful in its New England simplicity. The design had been lovingly executed, and Kyle wanted it to be lovingly preserved. Some jobs were merely that—jobs. The rare few, like this one, stirred something deep in his soul.

As he was leaving for the day, he met Annie returning from the beach. He couldn’t just ignore her, but what came out of his mouth was sarcastic. “Got big plans for the weekend?”

She looked straight through him. “I’m not here for fun,” she said, and continued to the house.

No, in a real sense, she wasn’t here for fun. But the way she frowned and kept to herself suggested she didn’t know much about fun anymore. Not that it was any of his business.

Bubba gave a short bark of greeting, happy to run around for a few minutes before hopping into the cab. Kyle watched him, but his thoughts were on his senior year in high school. They’d all had fun then. Pete the quarterback, him the running back. Annie, in her short-skirted cheerleading outfit, her shining hair caught up in a big blue bow. Postgame parties on the beach, sparks from a bonfire spiraling into the starry sky, beer flowing freely. Sometimes Pete brought his guitar and, accompanied by the rat-a-tat of makeshift driftwood bongos and the cadence of the surf, they would all sing along until gradually, one by one, the couples slipped off into the darkness.

Almost as a self-protective device, he realized now, he’d cultivated a devil-may-care, bad-boy image, and there had been no shortage of willing girls climbing all over him. But none of them had been Annie.

A burning sensation filled Kyle’s throat. He fought the disturbing images.

And what about his own weekends these days? Compared to Annie, he had only minimal bragging rights. How many alcohol-buzzed evenings could a person spend at the Yacht Club playing pool and flirting with the barmaids? Or, big deal, watching ESPN until his eyes glazed over?

At least tonight he had the softball game to look forward to. That was the good news. The bad news? Rosemary’s birthday party, where subtly and not so subtly the matchmakers would be zeroing in on him.

“Bubba, I swear to God, I’m gonna die a bachelor.”

ANNIE PULLED a deck of cards from the pocket of her overalls and sat down across from her aunt. “Gin rummy tonight, Auntie G.?”

“No, petunia. I want to start on the family history.” From the chest, which had remained by her chair, she reached for a stack of photographs. “We’ll begin with my father and mother.” She drew out a picture of a handsome, dark-haired young man, wearing a World War I uniform and looking directly into the camera. “This is my father. He went over to France with the first wave of Yanks. In all the years I knew him, he never once talked about his war experiences. Only about the fine friends he’d made, many lost in the trenches.” She paused, thinking of all those soldiers who never returned home. “One of those friends gave my father a wonderful piece of advice in early 1929. ‘Sell your stock,’ he said. Because of my father’s respect for the man, he did exactly that, only a few short months before the October crash.”

“I’ve always wondered how he managed to build this house during the Depression.” Annie fingered the faded photograph. “What about your mother?”

“Lucy Windsor was from a wealthy Connecticut family that summered in Maine. Shortly after the war, she fell madly in love with William Greer and, despite her parents’ objections that he didn’t come from the ‘proper’ stock, she defied them by marrying him and, in essence, living happily ever after.”

The ghost of a smile teased Annie’s lips. “I’m beginning to see where your independent streak may have originated.”

“You come from a strong line, my dear.” Geneva pointed to a photo of a blond beauty with bobbed hair, clad in a fringed flapper-style evening gown. “My mother. People always loved being around her. My father built the cottage for her. She longed for the sea of her childhood, and he gave her the next best thing. Even though we lived in Portland, we spent every summer here. Happy times.”

“I’ve always thought this house had ghosts, the good kind.”

Geneva nodded. “That’s why it’s so important to me to preserve this place.”

In her great-aunt’s words Annie heard the plaintive melody of nostalgia. “I hope new owners love and honor the cottage the way you do.”

“New owners? I’m not fixing up the house to sell it.” Geneva smiled, then picked up Annie’s hand and held it in her own. “Oh, my little petunia, this place will be yours.”

Annie’s mind reeled. Hers? That would mean staying in Eden Bay. “Auntie G., I’m not sure—”

“This is your home. In time, I pray you will come to embrace this place.”

What could she possibly say to her great-aunt? The gift of the cottage was more than generous. How could she disappoint Auntie G. by telling her she had no desire to remain in a town with such distressing memories? “I can’t promise anything.”

The older woman nodded in understanding. “Not now, maybe. Just promise me you’ll give Eden Bay a chance.”

It was a lot to ask, but under the circumstances she had little choice but to murmur, “I’ll try.”

Later, as Annie snuggled under the comforter that smelled vaguely of lavender, she pondered how different things might have been for her in Eden Bay, if only…She shuddered and drew the spread up over her shoulders. So much had changed, and her future was a huge question mark. In another world, she might have been the one to continue the line of Greers living in the cottage. Now they would die out with Geneva.

Perhaps that was just as well.

BY THE TIME Kyle raced home from the softball game, showered, changed and drove to the Nemecs’ house, the party was in full swing, the celebration enhanced by the Nemec Construction Tigers’ 10-3 win. “The conquering hero arrives,” trumpeted Wade Hanson, the finish carpenter. The men clustered around a beer keg looked up and cheered. “Great pitching, Becker,” one of them said.

“You guys weren’t too shabby yourselves. Fifteen hits, no errors. You know what?” He grinned and ambled toward the keg. “I think we all deserve a beer.” Somebody thrust one into his hand. He made quick work of it and refilled the cup. It was a clear, cool night, and if he had a choice, he’d stay out here talking about the upcoming NBA playoffs and shooting the breeze with the fellas. He pictured the women gathered in the family room, undoubtedly talking about kids and recipes and stuff. Times like this, he was glad he wasn’t married.

As if that thought had summoned her, Wade’s wife, Carrie, appeared, hooked her arm through Kyle’s and started toward the house. “Come on in, you guys. It’s time for the cake.”

With Kyle in tow, Carrie walked through the kitchen, past the dining room table laden with assorted appetizers and into the family room. “Here he is,” she called to the assembled throng, as if she’d just reeled in a prize salmon. “The winning pitcher.”

Bruce Nemec sidled up behind him and whispered, “Into the frying pan, son.”

The women cooed their congratulations. One stood outside the circle, smiling, never taking her eyes off him. Rosemary. “Sit down,” Bruce’s wife, Janet, urged. “There. Next to the birthday girl.”

Kyle complied, even throwing in a gentlemanly kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Rosemary.”

“It is now,” she said, lowering her voice and laying a hand on his knee.

Someone dimmed the lights and Pete and Rosemary’s older sister, Margaret, entered the room, bearing a sheet cake with lit candles. The crowd began singing “Happy Birthday,” and when Margaret set the cake on a table, Kyle could finally read the message written in frosting. This is the year! Happy twenty-fifth!

The year for what? The girl had only one goal, one dream—marriage. Just then somebody had the nerve to call out, “Make a wish, Rosie.”

And damned if she didn’t blow out every one of those twenty-five candles.

While everyone was eating, Kyle excused himself and escaped down the hall toward the bedrooms and guest bath. The door to Pete’s old room, normally closed, stood open. Against his instincts, Kyle went inside, shutting the door behind him. He turned on the table lamp and stood in the middle of the room, trying to recall what it had looked like when he and Pete had spent hours sprawled on the floor with their Hot Wheels track or sitting at the desk playing Tetris on Pete’s computer. The army reserve recruiting poster was gone, as were those of assorted athletes and rock stars. The walls had been painted a dove-gray, and the NASCAR curtains had been replaced with something floral. Kyle closed his eyes, summoning the essence of Pete. Nothing. Finally he moved to turn off the lamp.

There—carved in the wooden surface of the table—were the initials PN and KB with the date—6/6/90. They had just finished fifth grade. Kyle remembered the day vividly. His father had come home drunk from the job at the fish cannery. In memory, Kyle could still smell his rank body and sour-sweet bourbon breath. Joe Becker had taken one look at the sink full of dirty dishes and turned on Kyle. “You worthless piece of shit,” he’d shouted as he slammed him into the wall of their shoddy trailer house. Over and over. Eventually Kyle had escaped and run as fast as he could to the Nemec home. He’d rapped on Pete’s bedroom window. Pete had come out into the yard and led Kyle silently down the hall and into the bedroom. This bedroom. Pete had left long enough to get an ice bag, some towels and analgesic. No medic ever treated anyone more tenderly.

Kyle studied the surface of the desk, then ran his finger over the carved indentations. It was that night they had become blood brothers, vowing to cover each other’s backs. The evidence lay in the paired initials staring up at him.

Sinking onto the bed, Kyle held his head in his hands, gritting his teeth against the howl that threatened to explode from his chest. One of us failed.

“SON, YOU ALL RIGHT?” Bruce stood in the doorway, frowning with concern. Son. From early on, Mr. Nemec had called him that. The word used to flow over him like warm honey, causing him to feel special, as if he belonged. Making him believe, at least for a pocket of time, that the ratty trailer house and the brute who lived there didn’t exist. But now the true son was dead, and Kyle was no substitute, no matter how warmly the Nemecs drew him into their lives. No matter how hard he wished he could fill the empty place where Pete should’ve been.

Raising his head, Kyle wondered what he could say. The truth was too painful. “I just needed a moment.”

“With Pete.” It was not a question.

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “There are times I still can’t accept the fact he’s gone.”

“I know what you mean.” Bruce strolled about the room, tracing the same path Kyle had taken earlier. “For a while, you know, we kept this room just as it was. If Janet had her way, it would have remained a shrine. But that wasn’t healthy. We had to move on.” He stopped in front of Kyle and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s been a long time. You need to move on, too.”

Kyle wondered if he ever could, living in this town, working as Bruce’s heir apparent, being embraced by the Nemecs in every possible way. Maybe he should bite the bullet and extricate himself from them. If he stayed in Eden Bay, what would be his role? How much did he owe this family who had accepted him as one of their own since he’d been a terrified little boy?

“I think Rosemary’s wondering where you are.”

There was his answer. He knew they were generous people who would understand if he couldn’t love their daughter, but shouldn’t he at least try? Yet if he did and things didn’t work out between him and Rosemary, he would have knowingly hurt another Nemec.

He rose to his feet. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to put a damper on the party.”

Bruce clamped an arm around his shoulder as they walked down the hall. “You didn’t, son.”

Afterward, Kyle couldn’t remember what had snapped within him. He only knew he had been helpless to control what he said next, as if the impulse had been building in him all week. “Bruce,” he said, and stopped at the end of the hall. “There’s something I need to tell you. It, uh, it’s not easy.” Then he uttered the words that removed any trace of celebration from the man’s face: “Annie Greer is back in town.”

ANNIE ROSE early Sunday morning, her nerves jangling. Today was the day. No longer could she put off the trip to town. They needed both groceries and medicine. So long as she had been sequestered at the cottage, she felt safe, as if nobody could see her through the fog that obscured sections of the coastline. Today, however, the skies were a brilliant blue. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, and bright sunlight glared off the beach sand. She could hide no longer.

After breakfast she helped Geneva to her chair. Annie had arranged for Frances to come while she was gone, but left her cell number on the pad on the table and made sure the phone was at her great-aunt’s elbow. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

Geneva huffed. “Frances and I will be fine. What about you?”

Annie chose to misunderstand the implication of her aunt’s pointed question. “I’ll be back in a jiff.” That, at least, was the truth. She’d strategized that Sunday morning would be the best time for this ordeal. People would be sleeping in, at church or maybe golfing. She could dart in and out of the store, unrecognized. Anonymous.

She drew the baggy University of Arizona sweatshirt she’d bought at a flea market over her overalls, covered her hair with a ball cap and put on her sunglasses. Maybe she’d look like a tourist. Certainly not like Annie Greer, Homecoming Queen.

To her relief, the supermarket was nearly deserted. A bored clerk stood at Register Two, and a pimply faced teen was replacing the baggies in produce. A couple of perplexed-looking men in sweats stood in front of the coffee display, and one elderly lady was picking each and every egg out of a carton, checking for cracks.

Annie grabbed a cart and made her way tentatively up and down the unfamiliar aisles. This store had not been here when she’d lived here, but it was the closest to the cottage. As a few more customers entered and the market grew more crowded, Annie felt the keen edge of panic. She had to get out of the place. She grabbed the last few items off the shelves, and it was only when she got to the checkout stand that she realized she’d selected the wrong brands of several things.

“Paper or plastic?”

She couldn’t think. Finally, she blurted, “Paper.”

By the time she paid and started for the car, her knees had turned to rubber. She had escaped. She imagined a comic-book bubble of dialogue floating above her head: “The invisible woman triumphs again!”

In the car, she turned on the radio and headed down the street toward the ocean and home. A radio evangelist’s voice filled the air. Annie twisted the dial again. This time it was gospel music. Granted, it was Sunday morning, but surely some station was playing pop or jazz. So intent was she on tuning the radio that she nearly rear-ended the last car in a long line of vehicles stopped at the Coast Highway light. Two highway patrol cars blocked the intersection. There must’ve been an accident. Traffic was being diverted. Northbound to the right onto a side street; southbound to the left. Annie inched along until she made it to the side street, which wound through a brand-new subdivision. Still fiddling with the tuner and paying scant attention to her whereabouts, she followed the line of detouring cars as it entered a more established neighborhood.

Maybe it wasn’t about the tuner at all. Maybe she’d been subconsciously trying to block out her surroundings. But when the line of vehicles—including her Honda—made the next turn, she saw the large hacienda-style house in the middle of the block—33 Kittiwake Road. With trembling hands she managed to pull over to the curb and open the car door before vomiting into the street, her vision blurred by tears.

HANDS FOLDED in her lap, Geneva sat quietly, waiting, worrying. She’d always tried to be a positive person. If only she could be positive about Annie and her future. Isolating herself here indefinitely was unhealthy. If Annie didn’t open up soon about what was worrying her, Geneva would have no choice but to force the conversation.

She remembered that morning after high school graduation when Annie had called her at the hotel in Bangkok and told her she had to get away. She’d begged her great-aunt to help her. When Geneva had pressed Annie for details, the girl had refused to say anything more. Yet there’d been no mistaking the panic in her voice. Reluctantly, Geneva had given Annie instructions, called her friend Nina and wired money to Bisbee.

From that time to this, despite Geneva’s frequent probing, Annie had never spoken about any of her friends, about her mother and George Palmer, her stepfather, or about why she had needed to flee Eden Bay. Geneva shuddered to think what hideousness lay beneath her niece’s refusal to talk.

She brooded, unaware of the passage of time. When the front door opened, she started. “I’m back,” Annie called.

After putting away the groceries, Annie came into the living room. Her pallor highlighted the faint freckles running across the bridge of her nose and under her reddened eyes. “I think I’ll lie down,” she said. “Something must’ve disagreed with me. I’m a bit queasy. Can I get you anything before I go?”

What Geneva said aloud was “No.” What she was thinking was Child, you can get me the truth.

ANNIE BURROWED into the folds of the downy comforter, overwhelmed by a storm of long-buried emotions. She had thought never to see 33 Kittiwake again, her happy home for six years. The summer before her seventh-grade year her mother had married George Palmer, president of the local bank. Before that, she and her mother had lived in a cramped bungalow near downtown where Liz Greer owned a gift shop. They had struggled on occasion, but even when times were good, her mother had never seemed satisfied. When she started dating George, all she could talk about was his country club membership, the fancy dining establishments where they ate and his elegant home in one of the best neighborhoods.

When George had proposed, Annie remembered feeling happy about having a new dad and the prospect of a beautiful room with a canopy bed, a horse of her own and all the clothes any girl could desire. Instinctively she had warmed to George’s smile, his fatherly hugs and the way he called her “sweetie.” On their wedding day, Annie stood proudly by her ecstatic mother. She had never seen Liz Greer so happy. Holding a bouquet redolent with the scent of lilies and listening to her mother promise to love, honor and obey, Annie finally believed in fairy-tale endings.

Whatever George wanted, her mother gladly supplied. Both Liz and George expected Annie to behave in a way that reflected favorably their standing in the community. However, no matter how hard she tried to live up to their expectations, there was always the lingering suspicion that she never quite satisfied them. Even so, she’d reveled in the affection George showered upon her.

Gradually, though, she began to see that her mother’s attention was almost totally fixed on George. He, on the other hand, doted on Annie and seemed more a parent than her own mother. Over time Annie began to question her mother’s love, and a hole opened in her heart, ever widening, until Pete came along.

She muffled her sob. It was too painful to remember him and his gentleness, his devotion. And to remember what she’d had to do to him. To herself.

Auntie G. had sent her Pete’s obituary. For two weeks she never left Nina’s house, paralyzed by grief and memory. Pete represented the only time in her life when she had known the meaning of love and the sacrifices it required. Auntie G. and Nina could talk all they wanted about “moving on,” but the truth was that when she abandoned Pete, she lost any chance of knowing enduring love.

Now Pete had been dead six years. Two years ago George had died of a heart attack. She had thought she’d escaped Eden Bay forever. Rolling over on her back, she stared at the ceiling, the water stain resembling a cracked heart.

Suddenly the room seemed suffocating. If she stayed here, images from the past would loom and her stomach might again revolt. Leaping up, she pulled on her old Nikes, grabbed a sweater and bolted down the stairs. Geneva assured her she would be fine if Annie left for a while.

She jogged down the drive toward the ocean. Breakers were rolling in, crashing against rocks, spilling on the sandy beach. The sun sparkled on the whitecaps, turning the foam to spun sugar. It was a beautiful day, she kept telling herself. She had to live in the moment. Anything else was too painful.

She stood for several minutes at the edge of the sea, letting its roar and rhythm soothe her. As she caught her breath and her heart rate slowed, she made up her mind. She was here. In Eden Bay. It was unreasonable to suppose she could hide indefinitely. She was an adult. It was time to begin acting like one.

Feeling better, she started off at a brisk walk, following the curve of the shore. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t see the figure walking toward her, until the person said, in a shocked tone, “Annie? Annie Greer?”

The woman’s face was obscured by a broad-brimmed straw hat and sunglasses. But Annie knew the voice, and her heart plummeted. “Margaret?”

Slowly Pete’s older sister removed her sunglasses and then stood blocking Annie’s way. “My father told me you were back in town. I’m sorry about your aunt, but I hope to God you’re not staying long. You are not welcome in Eden Bay, not now, not ever.” She stepped around Annie, put on her sunglasses and strode off down the beach.

Annie remained glued to the spot, the words “not now, not ever” echoing above the thundering surf.

CHAPTER FOUR

MARGARET’S WORDS didn’t surprise Annie, but that didn’t make them any less hurtful. Walking back to the cottage, she reminded herself of her resolution. She wasn’t about to let the disapproval of other people interfere with her reason for being in Eden Bay. She was here to care for Geneva, and that was exactly what she was going to do.

Not that she could blame Margaret. Annie had never wanted to hurt Pete. But on that long-ago night and in the painful morning hours that followed, she’d had no choice. Giving up the dreams she and Pete had shared had taken every ounce of her strength and had left her hollow.

Auntie G. was right. She needed to face her demons. Yet the immediacy of her revulsion when she’d seen the Kittiwake house had scared her. She didn’t want to revisit the past, even as a means of healing. In Bisbee she had avoided the issue; here, it confronted her everywhere.

When she reached the cottage, Geneva was dozing in her chair, her veined hands resting on a stack of photographs in her lap. In repose, the crepelike skin on her face sagged and she looked every one of her eighty years. Her chest worked to pull in air, and with each exhalation, a ragged sigh escaped her lips. Annie smoothed back the wisps of hair on her forehead, and then went into the kitchen to make a fruit salad and warm some soup for supper.

“Annie?”

“I’m in the kitchen.” She lowered the heat on the stove and went into the living room.

“I must’ve dropped off. Did you have a nice walk?”

Erasing the image of Margaret’s stony face, Annie nodded.