CHAPTER ONE
Olympic Peninsula, Washington State, December 2009
Lizbeth Gordon reheats last night’s chili, fills her wine glass with merlot, and sits alone at the kitchen table reading the Sounding News. It sooths her to pore over local news and gossipy letters to the editor late in the day. Between school district politics and a depressed student in her office this afternoon, she needs soothing.
Where’s Dan?
At seven-thirty she calls his cell, which goes directly to voice mail. She leaves an upbeat message. Dan’s become touchy when he’s tardy. Is he punishing her by sending her calls to voice mail? That seems a little paranoid, but, well, his behavior has been odd lately.
Last week they’d argued about his long hours. Then he did a 180 and teased her, like the old days, “Lizbeth, my darling, you’re stalking me. Life is more fluid with Josh and Robbie at college. Lighten up.”
“I worry when you’re late.”
“Don’t.”
Dan’s been her rock for twenty years. How can she doubt him? Six weeks after they arrived in Washington State, the home pregnancy test confirmed her suspicion. She had trepidations about starting a family with a man she’d only known a couple of months, but Dan organized a party and passed out cigars.
They settled in artsy Port Benton. Dan started his dream business as a marketing consultant for Native American casinos and small resorts propagating like mushrooms on the pristine Olympic Peninsula. When Josh and Robbie entered kindergarten, Lizbeth entered graduate school. Family life and work were a dream come true with only a hiccup after the twins left for university. She’d burst into tears while stirring spaghetti sauce for two instead of a crowd of teenage boys. Dan had hugged her till she smiled again. She’d rallied by starting a counseling practice after school hours. And yoga three times a week that did marvelous things for her butt.
But lately, she’s been wondering what’s up with Dan’s evening meetings.
Lizbeth knows she’s a master at facilitating conflict resolution in everybody’s life but her own. Dammit! Something’s fishy.
She gets up and dumps her dishes in the sink. Dan can clean up.She tops off her wine glass, takes a sip, changes her mind, does up her dishes, wipes the counters down, and starts the dishwasher. The rain pounds like a gorilla clogging on the roof. Concerned, she opens the door onto their front yard and breathes in the heavy, wet scent. The wind whips her exhale into white smoke. In the glow of the porch light, thick drops dance on the front walk.
She hugs herself standing in the glassed-in porch of their 1940s-era home and floats in memories. When Josh and Robbie were young, the porch was full of boots standing in hunks of dried dirt, piles of sneakers, and scooters that belonged in the garage. Now the shelves Dan built to provide some order are empty except for her gardening boots, a couple pairs of Dan’s running shoes, and a small bag of bird seed.
She stares into the angry storm, takes a sip of wine, and speed-dials Dan’s cell again. It goes to voice mail again. Dan had a meeting in Port Angeles. He’ll be traveling on a rural road with a reputation for landslides and wrecks. She’s got to distract herself until she can wrap her arms around her husband and know he’s home safe.
Cell in hand, Lizbeth ascends to their upstairs TV room with each step pounding a note of frustration. Dan still teases her as he always has and brings her flowers on Friday nights like he always has, but lately he prefers reality TV instead of classic country music to relax. Exactly when did mindless entertainment replace their shoulder-to-shoulder time on the couch dueling over New York Times book reviews and politics? And yet, when the lights are low, and the music is right, they satisfy each other in bed like they did at twenty-something. They’re fortunate to have that in middle age, right? All kinds of stories including husbands with wandering eyes and partners with porn on the computer drift around the teacher’s lounge.
Lizbeth decides there’s no reason to micromanage Dan’s intentions. She clicks the television on.
CHAPTER TWO
On the Keller-Gordon front porch, Officer Brian Warwicki sets his face in a neutral pose, straightens his shoulders, finger-combs his military-cut salt-and-pepper hair, and presses the bell.
Lizbeth is well into streaming a rerun of CSI: Miami and feeling a sleepy buzz from the wine when the doorbell chimes. Odd. Could she have locked Dan out? No way. No one in this small community locks the door. There it is again. Definitely the doorbell. She takes the stairs down two at a time and yanks open the door to find their neighbor, Brian, in full uniform, standing in the front porch.
“What’s happened, Brian?” Lizbeth takes in the police cruiser in the driveway. Her heart speeds up, beating a tempo of Oh my God. . . . Oh my God. . . . Oh my God. . . .
“May I come in?”
“Yes, of course.” She steps aside, waving him toward the living room, closing the door. Her mind an iceberg of fear, her body moves on automatic pilot as she follows him into the living room.
“Please sit down, Liz.”
Lizbeth lowers herself on the couch by the fireplace, sinking into the overly soft cushions. She escapes momentarily from whatever is coming.
“I really should get these cushions re-stuffed.”
Tension thrums through her body. She laces her fingers, nails digging into the back of her hands, forming half-moon indentations. She waits.
Warwicki takes a seat in Dan’s favorite wing-backed chair, his lips set in a grim line.
“I’ve got some hard news, Liz. Please hear me out. Then I’ll answer your questions.” Brian clears his throat. “Dan was in a terrible wreck on Highway 20. His injuries were profound.” Warwicki’s eyes hold Lizbeth’s prisoner. “In spite of Fire and Rescue’s best efforts, Dan died at the scene.”
His words shoot into her heart with paralyzing pain.
“No,” she says. Then, “No, no, no . . . that can’t be true.” She begins rocking back and forth like a religious student at prayers, closing her world off from everything. A low keening escapes her lips.
Brian’s firm hand on her forearm brings her back.
“Look at me, Liz. I’m so sorry. Dan was my friend and a wonderful guy.” Brian threads his fingers through Lizbeth’s to get her attention. “I want someone to sit with you. Who shall I call?”
“No, no, no . . . Take me to Dan. I need to see him!” Her heart is beating like it’s going to explode out of her chest. Lizbeth jumps up, searching the room with wild eyes. “Where’s my purse?”
Brian stands, gently wraps his hands around her upper arms, and draws them both back down onto the couch.
“I hate to have to tell you this, but . . . state law requires an autopsy be performed after a fatal wreck. Dan’s body has been taken to the Levitz Funeral Home. It will be several days before the pathologist files a report with the county coroner. Then Dan’s body will be released to you. There is no way you can see him tonight.”
“PLEASE, Brian. I need to see my husband.”
“I’m sorry, Liz. That’s not possible.”
Lizbeth pinches her eyes closed, willing herself to another planet or at least back to yesterday so she can create an alternate reality to this one. She feels Brian’s arm tighten around her shoulders, bringing her back.
“I need to hear it all, Brian. Tell me everything.” Her eyes search Brian’s deep blue ones as she squares her shoulders.
“Are you sure, Liz?”
“Tell me, Brian,” she whispers with an exhale.
“No one actually saw the wreck. A citizen passed by shortly afterward and called nine one one. By chance, I was patrolling nearby. I was the first cop on the scene.” Brian runs his hand over his hair. “Questions remain about how and why it happened. We’ll do an investigation, of course. At this time, we estimate Dan was driving around seventy miles an hour in a forty-five-mile-an-hour zone, through those S curves near Anderson Lake Road.”
Lizbeth gasps and slaps her hand over her mouth.
“What are you saying? Dan’s not reckless. He loves that Mustang like a third child.” Is she going to faint? She never faints.
“I agree.”
Brian stops for a moment. She notices him notice her hands, white and bloodless, gripping the couch cushion on either side of her knees. She swallows hard, trying to stay calm.
“Tell me the rest, Brian.”
“Are you sure you?”
“Yes”
“I found Dan unconscious at the scene. His car had run up a bank, flipped over and skidded on its roof. His seat belt held him suspended upside down. I want you to know we believe Dan lost consciousness as his Mustang hit the rocky bank.”
“This can’t be real!” Lizbeth stares into Brian’s face, willing him to agree.
“Lizbeth, listen to me. I can’t stay long, but I won’t leave you alone. Who can I call to be with you?”
“My cousin Charlotte,” Lizbeth chokes out. “She’s on speed dial on my cell.” She swipes at tears streaming her cheeks. Her body begins to shake like a sapling in a Nor’wester.
“How soon can she get here?”
“I don’t know.” Lizbeth hiccups. “She lives in Greenville, South Carolina.”
“You can call Charlotte later. Right now, let’s get someone from the neighborhood.”
“Oh my God . . . Josh and Robbie. What will I tell them?” Lizbeth is hyperventilating.
Brian takes her by the shoulders.
“Look at me, Liz. Where do you keep your paper bags?”
“In the pantry,” she says, gulping air, pointing toward the kitchen.
He returns with a brown paper lunch bag, blows into it to expand it, covers Lizbeth’s nose and mouth, and tells her to breathe deeply.
Minutes pass. Lizbeth drops the bag and stares at her neighbor.
“Please, let me wake up from this nightmare!” Her breathing is normal, but her body is shaking. Is she going into shock?
Brain grabs a crocheted throw from the arm of the couch and wraps it around Lizbeth’s shoulders.
“I’m going to call Susan Munoz from down the block.” They both know reliable Susan, the sixty-something neighbor and grandmother, known for her big-hearted community volunteerism.
Lizbeth hears Brian’s low conversation with Susan as if it is coming through a tunnel. Susan arrives and takes Lizbeth into her arms. His hand on the door, Brian says, “You know where to find me if you need me,” he salutes a wave as he slips out.
Susan holds Lizbeth on the couch until she has no tears left. Later, Lizbeth phones her sons and Charlotte.
Susan pours cups of herbal tea and stays until Josh and Robbie arrive in a borrowed car from college, two hours away.
CHAPTER THREE
Greenville, South Carolina, to Port Benton, Washington, December 2009
Charlotte Gordon Beal books the first available flight from Greenville to Seattle. It’s no surprise when Lizbeth volunteers Josh or Robbie to collect her at the airport.
“No way, darlin’. Keep your babies close to home now.”
“Are you sure, Char?”
“Absolutely. I’ve reserved a Mercedes coupe. You know I’m particular about my ride.”
Charlotte has made the sixty-plus-mile drive from the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport to the Olympic Peninsula before and is prepared for the trek. After the Hood Canal Bridge, the scenery gets very rural very fast. Skyscraper-size Douglas firs line the two-lane highway, while peekaboo views across small organic vegetable fields and livestock pastures show off the rugged snowcapped Olympic mountains in the distance.
The locals don’t bother with much road signage, Charlotte recalls. Selling ice cream and beer to confused tourists who wander country roads with spotty cell phone coverage is good for the rural economy. That may have been fine on her last trip west, but Charlotte is in no mood to waste time when one of her favorite people in the world is in crisis. Her rental car comes with a high-end GPS.
The two cousins have been as close as sisters since Charlotte can remember. People who see them together take them for siblings; both are taller than average, have wavy, ginger hair that frizzes when it’s humid, fair skin that freckles in the sun, and the Scottish Gordon nose.
Navigating the back roads, Charlotte ruminates on how, as a kid, her cousin was feisty, all-in for causes, fighting injustice—until that nasty event her last year at college got Lizbeth sidestepping confrontation. Even so, with her history of gumption, Charlotte believes her cousin can step up when she needs to.
Charlotte can’t resist a smile remembering the year Lizbeth’s parents took a sabbatical to London and hired a graduate student to stay with their twelve-year-old daughter. A week after they left, the student’s video-game-addicted, cigarette-smoking boyfriend moved in. Incensed, Lizbeth used her babysitting money to buy a bus ticket to Charleston, two hundred miles away. Lizbeth walked from the bus station, carrying two suitcases, and surprised Charlotte’s family sitting at dinner. She refused to return to Neely until her parents were back in South Carolina. Fortunately, Charlotte’s room had twin beds.
Using razor sharp observation and empathetic hugs, Lizbeth has always been a loyal friend. In high school, Charlotte fell in with a fast crowd and partied with guys she met in the afternoons, drinking beer on the beach. Lizbeth knew why—Charlotte was in agony watching her father’s vitality eaten up by cancer—Lizbeth dogged Charlotte until she came clean.
Years later, Lizbeth was the first one Charlotte trusted to tell she’d joined the fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous.
Charlotte has lessons learned during fifteen years of sobriety, like keeping mum, at least initially, when the people she loves aren’t thinking straight. Dan’s death in a strange accident has Charlotte’s mind hopping. The last time Charlotte saw Lizbeth’s husband, he seemed oddly distracted, off kilter, and moody.
But on the phone yesterday, her cousin had called Dan “my forever one and only.” Charlotte suspects Lizbeth’s intuition is away with the fairies on the subject of Dan Keller. Approaching the first traffic light in thirty miles, Charlotte slows the Mercedes. Even in the short, dark days of December, the Victorian-era town overlooking Benton Bay is a rare jewel in the Pacific Northwest.
A year and a half ago, she and her daughter, Penny, celebrated Josh and Robbie’s high school graduation with the Keller-Gordon family. One afternoon, they took an Old Town tour guided by a barrel-chested man with a nineteenth-century handlebar mustache. He regaled them with tales of his great-grandfather, an infamous tavern owner in the city’s heyday as the prosperous customs Port of Entry for Washington Territory. He’d twirled his waxed mustache and told of the rough waterfront, where men were shanghaied and women walking alone could be kidnapped into slavery. To show how the city’s gentry lived, they strolled past logging barons’ Victorian mansions with breathtaking views of the bay.
He went on to tell the group how the good life ended in 1889 when Seattle won the bid for the Transcontinental Railroad’s Northwest terminus. After that economic blow, Port Benton limped along with a small paper mill and a modest commercial fishing fleet until the 1970s. The guide had described how nature lovers, hippies, and boatbuilders restored dilapidated Victorian buildings into bed-and-breakfast hotels and small businesses. Port Benton embraced the arts; tourists swarm the waterfront galleries and parks during the summer months, filling the coffers of entrepreneurs.
When Lizbeth and Dan fell in love with the small town and found careers to sustain them close to nature, it didn’t surprise Charlotte. But Lord have mercy, the climate is nasty, rainy, and cold October to June, and the water temperature still in the mid-fifties in August! Ugh. And at this time of year low, gray clouds kiss the bay and days are so short one wonders if full daylight will ever arrive. Charlotte shakes her head to throw off the worry bug. In addition to grieving Dan, Lizbeth needs to pull up her big girl panties, and sort out her feelings about being Southern. Otherwise, her dear cousin will stay stuck . . . belonging where?
As Charlotte makes the last turns into Lizbeth and Dan’s neighborhood, she finalizes her strategy to entice her cousin to Folly Island, ...
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