Distracted (2 page)

“Fine. Good night.”

Erin shook her head at his abrupt farewell, turned
off her phone and tossed it on the bedside table. Too energized to
go back to bed, she pulled out her tote bag and carried it over to
the bathroom sink. She ferociously brushed her teeth and then
flossed until her gums bled. She twisted her long, blonde hair,
tying it into a loose knot then leaned towards the dark glass and
glared at her reflection. She growled and muttered, “Men!”

Picking up her cell phone, she programmed it to send
all calls from Aidan to voice mail.

* * *

In the morning, Erin placed three outfits on the bed
and stepped back. The first was a La Vintage skirt and jacket she
had found at a boutique specializing in black and white haute
couture clothing. It was a “power suit,” but it still exuded
sexiness. A soft gray blouse with its plunging neck line
complemented the pencil skirt. The heels on the black,
patent-leather Vince Canuto dress pumps probably were a bit too
high for an island visit.

The second outfit was a sleeveless, blue mock
turtleneck sweater and a pair of flare-legged Armani khakis. The
pants emphasized her slim waist and curvy hips. The sweater showed
her trim, strong arms to an advantage. A pair of Hugh Boss boots --
shiny, calf-skin with a side zipper -- finished the ensemble.

The third outfit was a pair of brown, light-weight
shorts by Dockers, a black, cotton T-shirt with a handkerchief hem
and a pair of leather sandals. She had selected the outfit on a
whim. In fact, she bought several in different colors. They were
modest and comfortable and less intimidating than the first two
choices. Considering the photographs she had seen of Spence, she
decided a low-key approach may be the best and opted for the
shorts.

Weather also could be an issue. The forecast for the
North Carolina coast, printed from a web site and taped to the
motel’s front desk when she checked in the previous night, had not
been helpful. An ominous black cloud with a single raindrop beneath
it was partly obscured by a gray sun. A cartoon thermometer called
for a high of seventy-three degrees.

“Partly cloudy with a chance of rain,” the forecast
boldly predicted beneath the pictures. She imagined the manager’s
choice to print daily forecasts in black ink had been motivated by
frugality.

Wearing only panties and a bra, she peeked between
the heavy, vinyl drapes to see ... almost nothing. A blanket of fog
lay over the parking lot. She could see only the front bumper of
her rental SUV, which may or may not have been the only car in the
parking lot. She shivered, then went back to her suitcase and
pulled out a sweater.

Twenty minutes later, after a hastily eaten
continental breakfast in the hotel lobby, she drove back to the
Swan Quarter ferry with time to spare. She sat in the SUV after
paying for a ticket and waited for the “Governor Hyde” to begin
loading. The Sound Class ferry was more than 160-feet long and
carried thirty-five vehicles. Hers was the twentieth in line, and
only five cars followed.

Soon it was her turn and she drove up the creaking,
steel ramp. An old man with a stubbly beard and wearing a Greek
fisherman’s cap stood near the SUV’s right front fender. He coaxed
her forward with a gloved hand. When her bumper was only a few
inches from the car in front, the man signaled halt, then gave her
a quick thumbs up. She shifted into park, turned the engine off,
and set the parking brake as instructed.

It was still a bit chilly for shorts but she ignored
the cold, damp wind, pulled her sweater on, and climbed out of the
truck. The dull yellow disc of the rising sun grew brighter over
the bow of the boat as it plowed eastward through a light chop. She
leaned over the rail, settled a pair of sunglasses on her nose and
watched as seagulls wheeled and circled around the ferry. In the
distance, as visibility improved, she spied a sailboat. Slowly, the
morning fog burned away and the ship chugged noisily through the
Pamlico Sound.

* * *

More than two hours later, the ferry landed at
Ocracoke. First car on the ship meant last one off, so Erin
disembarked after a few minutes. She drove the SUV to a lonely
corner of the parking lot. Once again she consulted the GPS
receiver, having entered Spence’s address into the device the day
before. She zoomed in the tiny screen and studied the network of
roads until she located his house. The mechanical voice of the GPS
commanded: “Head south on Northpoint Road toward Pamlico Shores
Road.

Erin smiled. During the past two days, she had become
accustomed to the disembodied female voice and nicknamed her
“Becky.”

She put the SUV into gear and drove out of the ferry
lot towards the small village of Ocracoke.

“Turn left at Pamlico Shores Road and drive point-one
miles before turning right at British Cemetery Road,” Becky
ordered.

“And we’re on our way,” Erin chimed.

She drove down the small paved road to the stop sign
and looked right. Beyond the brown beach house at the curve was the
glimmering sound. To the left she saw scrubby shrubs, a few bent
and twisted cypress and oak trees, and the roof tops of island
cottages. The roadway was narrow with no markings and no other cars
were in sight.

She drove on.

“In 500 feet turn left onto Back Road,” Becky
piped.

Erin glanced to her right and noted a small, rundown
cottage. Folding chairs were stacked on the porch. A live oak’s
limbs stretched over the structure, shading it well and inhibiting
any grass that may have taken root. A rusted blue truck and a
trailer hauling a white bass boat were parked in the driveway. A
hand-lettered sign offered nightcrawlers and cut bait.

“Hmmm… Spence’s neighbors aren’t that
fashionable.”

On the left she noticed a small cemetery bordered in
a gray, weather-beaten wood fence.

“Hence the name ‘Cemetery Road,’” Erin said aloud,
having started to converse with Becky the previous afternoon. Becky
had no reply.

She stopped the SUV in the middle of the road and
looked at the headstones. Most were small, thin eroded stones,
discolored with black and green mildew. The trees at the back of
the cemetery were stunted, windswept oaks.

She drove on, passing more houses. “The
neighborhood’s improving,” she told Becky.

She braked the SUV to a crawl and turned onto Back
Road. On her right, an octagon, cedar-sheathed house contrasted
with an elegant, older house covered in white-washed siding and
with a large wrap-around porch. Erin noted that most of the houses
on the island were situated on pilings, probably because of rising
seawater during tropical storms and hurricanes.

“Continue point four miles, then turn left at State
Road 1341,” Becky monotoned.

Erin drove through more of the same: an unmarked
paved road bounded by rustic cottages mixed with newer
construction, shrubs, sawgrass, palmettos and stunted oak
trees.

“Drive point three miles, then turn left onto unnamed
road.”

“No name, eh?” Erin squinted into the sun as she
searched for her turn.

“Satellite signal lost,” Becky announced, and the
little cartoon car on the GPS screen became a question mark.

“Thanks a lot, Becky.” Erin slowed even more after
checking the rear-view mirror and seeing nobody on the road. She
had to be close. In the distance, she could see houses. Most were
three-story wooden and glass sentinels amid the saw grass. They all
faced Pamlico Sound.

“Ahhh, here’s the money,” Erin noted.

She passed two unmarked, black-topped roads and
decided to keep looking. Ahead, on the left, she saw a battered,
unmarked mailbox. Just beyond it she saw the edge of a narrow,
unpaved road -- a trail really. She imagined the entrance to
Spence’s property would be somewhat grand, like some of the houses
she passed earlier. It seemed unlikely that the rusting mailbox,
impaled by an unpainted wooden post and set in a five-gallon bucket
filled with concrete, would belong to a famous artist. “And
playboy," she thought.

“Probably not the road I want to take, right Becky?”
she asked the GPS receiver. No answer, of course. Becky’s screen
only showed the question mark. “Afraid to commit, are we?”

She smiled and accelerated past the mailbox, then
braked to an abrupt stop. Numbers or letters on the box were more
likely to be on the right side, so the postal carrier could see
them when delivering the mail. She could at least see if she had
passed the address.

Erin pressed the button to lower the window, leaned
out for a better look at the box. It bore only stick-on letters
that announced: “S_ence.”

“You would think a guy like that could afford a
decent mailbox,” she said. After checking the mirrors for oncoming
traffic, she put the SUV into reverse, backed up a few yards, then
shifted forward and turned onto the sand and gravel trail.

Erin drove slowly and admired the change in
topography. There was much more open space now, although it was
still swampy.

“Arriving at destination on left,” Becky chimed,
having regained her bearings.

Erin stopped in front of a massive gray house that
floated in the field of sea grass. Unpainted and also on pilings,
the wood-shingled house featured a gabled roof and long engaged
dormers. Hinged, wood-batten shutters were held open with a stick,
protecting the old-fashioned sash windows. The house was encircled
by a wrap-around porch and behind it she glimpsed a long stretch of
white beach and blue water.

She didn’t see a driveway, so she stopped her truck
close to the edge of the road. She checked her watch. It was just
after noon and, according to Patricia, Spence expected her. She
hiked the fifty yards to the front door, wading through the sea
oats and saw grass that whipped and scratched her bare legs.

“Shoot,” she hissed, licking a finger and rubbing it
on a long, bloody scratch. “I should have worn pants.”

After plucking sticker burrs from her shorts and
shaking sand from her sandals, Erin pressed the doorbell. She
waited a minute or two before pressing it again. After a few more
minutes, she tried knocking on the door. There was no answer.

She frowned. Spence knew she was arriving today, so
he wouldn’t have left town, she reasoned. After peeking in the
windows and detecting no signs of life, she knocked harder,
calling, “Mr. Spence. Hello. Mr. Spence?”

She considered calling Patricia and asking for the
artist’s telephone number, but decided she couldn’t give up that
easily. Looking for another entrance, Erin walked around the side
porch but a locked screen door barred access. She retraced her
steps to the front, went down the steps and around the porch. Just
past the screen door the land sloped downward. With no stairs in
sight, she decided to climb through the railing while she could
still reach it. She tossed her purse first. Then, using the railing
as a ladder she scrambled up and slithered onto the porch.

She leaned against a gray piling and studied her
surroundings. A few feet away, swinging slowly in a white,
cord-twisted hammock was a man. He was wearing faded, ragged shorts
and sunglasses. A pair of flip flops and three empty beer bottles
on the deck beside him completed the vignette. The mailbox seemed
appropriate now, Erin thought.

She stood up slowly, brushed sand off her shorts and
walked towards the sleeping man. She hesitated waking him. Instead,
she spent a few heartbeats assessing him. He was tall and tanned.
His wavy, sun-streaked hair was a bit long and unkempt. He had a
broad forehead and a wide mouth. He kept in shape, she noted. His
arms were large and heavily muscled. He had a spare tire, however,
so if this was Spence he had forgone the crunches. The hair on his
arms and legs was thick. A thatch of copper hair traced down his
chest, snaking into the waistband of his faded Bermuda shorts. His
feet were long and his large toes splayed and tanned. He must not
wear shoes often, she thought.

“Do I know you?”

His slow, Southern drawl caught her by surprise. She
thought he had been sleeping. Playing opossum instead. She took a
step back.

“Mr. Spence? I’m Erin Andersen. I’ve been sent by
Patricia McDowell to help you with your book.”

He slowly lifted his sunglasses. Steel blue eyes
squinted in the morning sun.

“Hey, move over here, would ya? Can’t see who I’m
talkin’ to.”

Erin picked up her purse and moved to the far side of
the hammock, the afternoon sun shining on her face. Spence took in
her sandals, her legs, shorts, and shirt. He stared at her chest a
few seconds before moving up to her face. Then he grinned. His
teeth were bright white against his dark skin.

“Well, howdy. I forgot you were coming. You want a
beer?”

Erin hesitated, then decided she needed to make
friends fast.

“Sure. It’s been a long, thirsty trip,” she lied.

Stephen Spence pointed to a bar against the back of
the house and said, “Me too. Why don’t you grab us a couple. What’d
you say your name was?”

He hadn’t moved out of the hammock. Just pointed a
finger and dropped his sunglasses back into place. Erin placed her
purse on the deck and walked to the bar. Behind it, she discovered
a small refrigerator. She had to bend over to open it. Inside were
Coronas -- at least two dozen and nothing else -- so cold they
formed ice crystals when she pulled out two bottles.

“Opener’s on the counter there. Limes, too.”

She picked up the bottle opener. It was ancient and
rusty. Glad I’ve had a tetanus shot recently, she thought. On the
counter was a basket of limes. Recalling college days with tequila
shots and lemons, she rolled the lime, softening its rind so the
juice would flow. She pulled open a couple of drawers until she
found a sharp knife. She thought about neatly tucking the sliced
lime into the opening but decided she should just shove them into
the long necks. Lime pulp clung to the inside of the bottle and the
beer fizzed. She walked over to Spence and handed him one. The
other, she upended. She was amazed at how good it tasted.