Dare to Die (6 page)

Annie wanted a quick dip, a plunge that would refresh her for a festive evening. She had no time or energy to waste.

A long-ago memory bobbed, bright as a beach ball bouncing in the sun, her mother's sweet and thoughtful voice when Annie had sloughed away a phone message from a too-earnest, too-plump, too-hungry-for-friendship girl in her class: “Don't pass by on the other side.” Annie returned that call and discovered a bright, sweet, kind girl who'd grown to be a charming woman whose friendship Annie still treasured.

Duane had asked Annie to look out for the girl in Cabin Six. Duane had known sadness. Ingrid's kindness had lifted him up.

Annie turned and walked slowly toward Iris's cabin. It was all well and good to offer understanding. Yet, what right did Annie have? She was a stranger. How could she help Iris? What was she going to say? She skirted around the side of the cabin. The nutrient-rich scent of the marsh was pungent and wonderful to Annie though outlanders sometimes called the smell a stench. The tide was out. Fiddler crabs swarmed on the chocolate brown mudflat. Egrets stepped high, beaks flashing to snatch a crab.

Iris heard the crackle of the oyster shells. She turned. The
late afternoon sun wasn't kind to her sallow, worn face, emphasizing dark shadows beneath her eyes.

Annie reached the steps to the deck. “Hey, Iris.” Silence fell. Feeling uncertain and intrusive, Annie forced a smile. “I'm going to take a swim in the pool and wondered if you'd like to join me.”

“A swim?” Iris spoke as if the words were strange.

Annie was suddenly certain it had been a long time, measured both in time and emotion, since Iris had slipped carefree into the inviting blue waters of a swimming pool.

Iris's thin face held an instant of eagerness, then the light in her eyes faded. She massaged one wrist. “Thanks. But I”—she stared down at the old planks—“I guess pretty soon I'll ride my bike for a while.”

It was a lame excuse.

Annie understood only too well. She knew—no one better—that Iris had no swimsuit. “Please join me. I hate to swim alone. I know you're only here for a few days and you may not have a swimsuit with you. Ingrid—she's the lady you rented from Wednesday night and I'm helping out while she's gone to be with her sister—has a stack of suits in the”—Annie caught herself in time from saying the one-piece suits were in the snack shop. She'd be sure and remove the sale price if Iris agreed—“office and they're for guests who forgot to bring a suit. I'll run and get one for you.” Annie's smile was warm. “The water will be perfect.”

Iris stared for a moment like a child offered an unexpected gift. Her sudden smile was shy. “That would be very nice.”

T
he water was perfect, not too warm, not too cold. With her dark hair sleek against her head, Iris looked younger and almost carefree.

Annie concluded, “…and I inherited the bookstore from Uncle Ambrose. Max followed me to the island.” She'd run away from New York and Max because she cared too much. She was sure they didn't belong together. Max was rich; she was poor. Max was laid-back and casual; she was intense and hardworking. Max enjoyed subtleties; she was direct and open.

“Now you're married.” Iris trailed fingers through the water. “It's like a fairy tale. And you lived happily ever after.”

Annie's throat felt tight. “Happily ever after…” Her smile disappeared. Once, she'd trusted that her life and his were charmed. Not now. Never again. Life and happiness were fragile at best. Sunny days could be gone in an instant.

Iris's dark eyes were empathetic. It was as if a cloud slid across
the sun and both of them were in a shadow. She looked at Annie gravely. “What happened?”

Annie gazed at Iris's burdened face, too old for its years. Annie was often asked about a time that was seared in her memory. She was quick to discern the curiosity of those seeking sensation, much like TV viewers feasting on the raw emotion and exhibitionism of reality shows. Instead, Iris looked at Annie with eyes that had known sorrow and fear. Was it better to push pain deep inside, hope that time would blur memory? Or was it better to confront the past?

Annie ducked beneath the surface, came up with water streaming down her face, fresh and cool. She'd not intended to reveal her heart to a stranger when she invited Iris to swim. “Last summer Max was accused…” She felt again the terror of sultry August days when Max was suspected of murder and damning facts piled against him until there seemed no way to save him.

Iris floated in a plastic ring and listened. When Annie finished, Iris spoke slowly. “Everybody has troubles. Even people like you. I guess I thought I was the only one.”

“Do you have troubles?” Annie's voice was gentle.

Iris's face crinkled in thought. “Things are better now. I belong to AA and NA.” Her face held a question.

Annie reached over the water, patted a bony arm. “I never had to fight that kind of battle. You have great courage.”

“One day at a time.” The oft-used words were a bulwark, a hope, a prayer, a plea. Iris looked past Annie at the rising tide and the spartina grass wavering in the onshore breeze. “I have things I need to clear up. Sometimes I don't remember things. When I do remember, I'm not sure what really happened. I've tried to tell the people I hurt that I'm sorry. That's why I came home. There are people I need to see.”

Annie remembered Cara Wilkes's sleek white convertible. Cara hadn't stayed long. After she left, Annie had found Iris sad and alone on the deck.

Iris looked wry. “See, I've got things to ask, but nobody much wants to see me. I bring back things they don't want to remember. Maybe I should leave.”

Annie wondered where Iris would go and to what kind of life?

Suddenly Iris's face hardened. “I can't let it be. When things aren't right, you have to do what you can.”

Annie had no words of wisdom. She knew better now than to murmur that everything would work out. Maybe. Maybe not.

A faraway deep-throated blast signaled the arrival of the five-thirty ferry.

Annie shot straight up in the water. “The ferry's coming in. I have to be at the pavilion in fifteen minutes!” She could do it. Max always marveled at how quickly she showered and dressed and was on her way, with her hair damp but curly, a touch of makeup, and a smile. The crisp robin's-egg blue linen shirt and skirt waited for her in the closet. It was time to share laughter and friendship and food.

In three swift strokes, Annie was at the ladder. On the deck, water streaming in rivulets from her brief hibiscus-bright suit, she looked down at Iris, alone in the pool. Iris had nowhere to go, no one to welcome her, and peanut butter and Ritz crackers in her cabin.

“Iris, please come with me.” Annie's smile was sudden and warm. “We're having an oyster roast. Ben Parotti's sweet tea with fresh mint is the best on the island and the view of the bay from the pavilion is great.” But who was she to tell a native islander? Annie rushed on, aware of Iris's limited wardrobe.
“It's down home. Everyone will be casual. There's a mixture of people. You'll probably know a lot of them.” She made a quick decision to leave the linen outfit in the closet, substitute a striped red-and-white tee, jeans, and red sandals.

“A party at the pavilion.” Iris's expression was a mixture of uncertainty and trepidation. “The last time I was there…” Her voice trailed away.

“Please come. Then you'll know you're home.” The pavilion hosted every kind of event from fund drives to school groups to political rallies to private parties. “Do you remember how the harbor lights spill across the water after the sun goes down?” Annie loved the harbor after dark, the smell of creosoted timbers and saltwater, the soft whisper of the sea against the pilings, an occasional glimpse of faraway lights as cabin cruisers sailed past carrying their passengers to nearby docks or faraway ports.

Iris stroked to the ladder. She looked up, her face resolute. “I'll come.” She climbed up the ladder. “I'll be quick.” She walked away.

Annie stared at the thin hurrying figure. She'd hoped to offer friendship, yet Iris seemed grim, as if she were fulfilling a duty.

 

T
HE HEAVY THROB OF GUITARS, DRUMS, AND PIANO ECHOED FROM
a stage set up halfway between the picnic tables and a grove of pines. A gangly young teenager with a white stripe of hair bristling from a shaved head painted red belted out “You're Sixteen.” A hand-painted sign hung from the stage: T
HE
R
ED
H
OT
M
OHAWKS
, appearing every Saturday night at The Haven, a buck a couple. Max taught tennis at The Haven, the island's recreation center for teens. Now she understood why he'd casually
mentioned the Mohawks over the last several weeks. The vocalist moved back and forth on the stage, bending and stamping, apparently heavily influenced by a vision of an Indian powwow. Annie was glad the band was on the far side of the tables. The sound was loud but not loud enough to make guests shout to be heard.

The pavilion sat on a slight rise overlooking the harbor. There were tables in the open-air pavilion, but Max liked his picnics to be beneath the stars. Their party was set up for the picnic tables that dotted the sweep of sandy ground between the pavilion and the boardwalk. Annie admired the centerpieces she'd designed, hurricane lamps with candles in the center of each table. Black anchor line was coiled around the bronze base of each lamp.

Ben Parotti's face was flushed from the heat of the roaring hickory fire beneath a sheet of steel balanced on concrete blocks. Bushel bags of oysters were piled nearby and a stack of water-soaked burlap bags. Miss Jolene directed two women behind a line of steam tables. Hot dogs bobbed in bubbling hot water. No Low Country oyster roast was complete without chili dogs and squash casserole, plenty of draft beer and sweet tea.

Sheets from the Broward's Rock
Gazette
covered one stone table. Oyster knives paired with stainless steel mesh oyster gloves were ranged around the perimeter of the table. When the roast began, Ben would steam the oysters for five to ten minutes, then shovel them onto the shucking table and everyone would set to work. They had invited forty guests, so Ben had five bags of oysters ready to steam, figuring around twelve to fifteen oysters per guest. Once a plate was loaded with oysters, the steam tables would be next.

“Come on, Iris.” Annie ran up the steps to the pavilion.
Guests walked toward the pavilion from the oyster-shell parking lot. She had barely arrived in time to greet the first arrivals. She skidded to a stop, stared up at the brilliant banner.

Max strode toward her, grinning, his arms open. The breeze ruffled his thick blond hair. He was handsome and happy, delighted in the banner, in the moment, in her. “One of these days, we'll greet our guests on our own front porch. Until then, this”—he gestured at the rippling silk—“is the next best thing.”

Annie came into his embrace. “Max, the banner's wonderful.” She smiled at him. “How did you ever think of this?”

He looked up at their images between the sparkling white Ionic columns. “We couldn't greet everyone there, so I brought the Franklin house here.”

Song lyrics boomed over the mike. Voices called out. Steps sounded behind them.

Annie remembered Iris. “Come meet Iris Tilford. She's the one who helped Emma when she was hurt. She's staying at Nightingale Courts and I talked her into coming tonight. She's from the island.”

Iris hung back a little. The breeze ruffled her hair, tugged at her blouse and slacks. She looked uncertainly at Max.

Max reached out to shake her hand. “It's nice to see you again.” He saw Annie's surprise. “Iris came by Wednesday morning when I was putting up the banner. I told her it was a surprise for my wife.” He grinned at Iris. “Thanks for keeping my secret. It's great you could come tonight.”

There was a flurry of arrivals and Iris edged away. A little later as the smoke billowed from the hickory fire and the sun spread a glory of rose across the water, Annie saw Iris standing alone near the old live oak that island lore traced back to the
days when privateers made Broward's Rock their base for sorties against the British.

Annie took a step, then stopped. Marian Kenyon, the
Gazette
's gimlet-eyed chief reporter, a bottle of Bud in hand, sped across the hummocky ground to plant herself in front of Iris. Whippet lean, Marian always moved fast. Her unruly black hair with its frosting of white appeared either unkempt or windblown depending upon the attitude of the viewer. Marian and Iris appeared to be acquainted. Annie was well aware that the island was a small and tight society, especially for natives. Despite her years of visiting when her uncle was alive and the time she'd spent living on Broward's Rock, Annie was often surprised at the intertwining of family and relationships that weren't always apparent to an outlander.

Billy and Mavis Cameron waited until Annie and Max were free before climbing the steps. Billy looked casual and comfortable in a red polo and khaki shorts. Mavis was more animated than usual, her pale cheeks flushed with eagerness. “Kevin's thrilled that you hired the band for tonight.” She pointed toward the stage where her son thrummed the bass guitar. “Honestly, I hated those Mohawk haircuts at first but they are having so much fun I don't mind so much now. I just hope he lets his hair grow back one of these days.”

A harsh twang signaled a guitar string out of tune.

Billy clapped Max on the arm. “Good thing you don't expect perfection.” Billy's smile suddenly faded. He squinted toward the live oak. “There's Iris Tilford. I'm surprised she'd come to the pavilion.”

Annie was puzzled, much as she had felt when Iris accepted the invitation to the picnic as if it were a duty. “Why wouldn't she come here?”

Billy's face creased in thought. “She wouldn't have good memories. But I guess there's a lot of water under the bridge. Or, actually, the pier. It's good if she's past all of that.”

Mavis tugged on his arm. “Kevin's waving at us.” Hand in hand, Mavis and Billy hurried toward the platform.

“Annie, hey. This is fun. I'm so glad we could come.” Liz Montgomery's conventional smile didn't reach her wide-spaced blue eyes. She was as always immaculately coiffed, her prematurely white hair bright and crisp, and stylish. Tonight she wore a pale blue linen long jacket over matching trousers. Russell stood a step behind her. His face was somber. Max enjoyed playing golf with him and he'd been pleasant to work with as they restored the Franklin house, but tonight he seemed as distant as the waning crescent moon. He gazed toward the live oak and Iris.

Liz's voice was pleasant. “Everything looks beautiful. I love the way candles glow in hurricane lamps.” As she gestured toward the picnic tables, she saw Iris. For an instant, Liz stood absolutely still, then she turned back to Annie. “The hickory smoke smells wonderful. We haven't been to an oyster roast since New Year's.” Her island accent was as soft and throaty as the coo of mourning doves. “Nobody does oysters better than Ben. Oh, there's Fran and Buck.” Liz lifted a hand in greeting. “Come on, Russell. Fran's waving at us.”

They moved away and Russell hadn't said a word. So much, Annie thought, for social graces.

Liz and Fran came together in a social embrace that reminded Annie of the stylized movements of Laurel's tai chi class. Russell and Buck shook hands.

The breeze stirred Fran Carlisle's black hair. She and Liz joined a group of women clustered around Henny Brawley.
Henny was gesturing toward the water. Russell stood a few feet away, arms folded, and looked determinedly at Ben's fire.

Iris was alone again. She moved out of the shadows and walked slowly toward the group of women.

Buck's usually genial face folded into a frown. He glanced at his wife, who was deep in conversation with Fran. Buck hesitated, then stepped toward Iris. They met near a weeping willow. Buck was a big man and his bulk made Iris appear even frailer. She stared up, her face grave.

Cara Wilkes strolled up the steps, smiling. “Hey, guys.” As she looked past Annie and Max, her smile slid away, making her look much older.

Annie knew she was watching Buck and Iris.

Cara's jaw muscles ridged, then she swung back to her hosts, once again with a smile. “Great day for a picnic.”

“Oysters ready.” Ben's hoarse shout sounded over the voices and music. He carried a shovel full of steaming shells to the prepared table. Laughing and talking, guests swirled toward the table.