Stranger on the Shore (4 page)

The gnarled old apple trees around the cabin, planted by a great-great-grandfather nearly a century before, cast shadows across the small windows, throwing the interior into semidarkness. There were no lanterns lit. Sarah doubted that her great-aunt even bothered to light them now, except for the convenience of a guest. It would make no difference to her nearly sightless eyes.

"Aunt Cinda? It's Sarah. You wanted to see me?"

She moved into the cabin, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. Her great-aunt was sitting in a rocking chair beside the unlit hearth, her shoulders covered, as always, by a soft woolen shawl. Her once luxurious hair stood in white wisps like combed cotton around her lined face.

"I've been waitin' for you, child, but you already know why I sent for you."

"Aunt Cinda—," Sarah protested.

"Don't you 'Aunt Cinda' me, Sarah Jane Wilson. You know good and well why I sent for you. And don't be trying to tell me no different. You know you have to see him."

The image of the stranger's face flashed through Sarah's mind. Why was he looking for her? Not that it mattered. Events were already out of her hands. For better or worse, she and this stranger were entwined in some way. Sarah sighed, wishing she could see into her own future the way she sometimes saw into others.

"Yes, you know," the old lady continued confidently. "What makes you wait when you know it has to be done?"

"I thought— I'm afraid."

"Why, child? What makes you kick against it so hard? What comes will come."

"I know, Aunt Cinda, but this time—this time I sense change, and I'm not sure I want it. I don't even know what
it
is. I can tell Grandpa where he left his reading glasses. I can warn Bobby Wade to check his left rear tire before it goes flat. I can tell Uncle Hiram he has time to hay the south pasture before it starts raining. But I can't tell you what I'll be doing tomorrow."

Aunt Cinda smiled at her gently, her expression reflecting love and understanding. "If you knew what you'd be doing tomorrow, you might be tempted to change it. And might be that it's best you don't. If you need to know, if you need to change it, you'll know. As for the other, just living's change. You know that. What comes, comes."

She paused, but Sarah knew she wasn't waiting for a comment.

"The last time, the little boy in St. Louis? It bothers you?"

"No. Yes. I mean, I don't know. I feel tomorrow's all mixed up with yesterday."

"Did you have trouble? Did someone find you out?"

"I don't think so. I called that sergeant friend of Sam Bascomb's. He acted like— Well, at least he didn't out-and-out disbelieve me. Not like the first time, anyway. It was all so muddled. I didn't see much. Just bits and pieces. I was afraid I didn't know enough. I had to call anyway, Aunt Cinda. I had to try. I didn't have any choice."

"Of course you didn't."

"But I felt so vulnerable. So exposed," Sarah said, hoping the old woman couldn't see the tears in her eyes, then realized she would know anyway. "There was so little time. He was being so brave, and he was so scared. I was afraid I didn't see enough—that they wouldn't find him in time."

"But you did. They found him."

"Yes, they found him. Still, there's something in the past that isn't finished. Maybe it's something to do with the boy. Maybe this man is part of it."

"Then you can't avoid it—or him."

"I know, Aunt Cinda. I know, but I came home for peace. As long as I'm here, I'm fine. Out there—it's all some kind of bad joke. Even when I was talking to that sergeant, I told him everything I knew. Then I ask him if it was enough, if they could find the boy. Do you know what he said? He said, 'I don't know, miss. You're the one with the crystal ball.' And he's supposed to be a friend."

"He hasn't known you long. Give it a little time, honey. Folks 'round here have known you all your life, and even some of them are a bit skittish. That comes from being afraid of what they can't understand. You know that. You did your best. You did what you had to do. That's all anybody can do. Sometimes we can't see the whole design—just the threads."

Sarah let the reassuring words wash over her, knowing that if anyone could understand what she was feeling, it was Aunt Cinda.

"Sometimes there's no way of knowing what's going to happen," Aunt Cinda reminded her. "That's when you have to take a chance and don't go worrying about it."

"You mean, follow my instincts?"

"Instincts, heart—whichever you want to call it. Life don't come with guarantees, child. Just be sure you listen to your own self."

Aunt Cinda fell silent, staring, without seeing, into the open hearth.

Sarah waited patiently.

Her great aunt had lived in this cabin since she was a young child, had spent her most of her life here. She had never traveled more than fifty miles from her birthplace and seldom left the mountain except to visit family or to help a neighbor in need.

She was over eighty years old now and had spent her life without what most people would consider necessaries—no electricity, a hand pump attached to the well over the kitchen sink, but no hot water, no heat except a stone fireplace and an ancient wood stove, and a detached privy commonly called "an outhouse."

Even in the world of old-fashioned, Aunt Cinda was an extreme case. Stepping into her cabin was a time-warp to the previous century. With the exception of a small, carefully nurtured garden spot, the isolated cabin site was, steep, rocky and heavily wooded which made life-style upgrades impractical, if not impossible. The soil was too shallow and too rocky to support a septic field. It was also too isolated for sewer lines, electric service or telephone landlines. High ridges and steep, narrow valleys created natural barriers that no cell tower or communication satellite could penetrate. Aunt Cinda lived exactly as her mother had in the early nineteen hundreds.

"It's good you came home to rest and that's just fine," her great-aunt said, breaking the silence. Her voice jerked Sarah's thoughts back to the present. "But, now, you have to see this stranger. It's important."

A shiver of apprehension crawled along Sarah's spine. This time there would be no hiding, no pretense. This time, when the man's eyes probed hers, he would know who she was, but she still wouldn't know the reason he was looking for her. By the time she found out it might be too late.

"Do you read this stranger, Aunt Cinda? Why is he asking about me? Why is he so important?"

"I don't rightly know why jus' yet, but he
is
important. You know it, too. If I knew who he was, maybe I could see more."

"How did you know he was looking for me?"

"I knowed that the same way you did, child. I don't reckon we needed any special help this time. The whole valley's buzzing with the news. You have to talk to him, Sarah. Best find out where he's staying."

Sarah laughed ruefully. "That shouldn't be hard. His name isn't a common one—not around here, anyway. He'll be in one of the fishing camps along the lake."

The old woman went still. "You know his name?" Aunt Cinda frowned. "You've already seen him." This last was a statement, not a question.

"Jimmy Joe and I talked with him at the lake," Sarah admitted, "but he didn't know who I was. His name is Matthias, Jordan Matthias. At least that's what he said."

There was a sudden light in her aunt's eyes as she turned toward Sarah. "He is comely, this Matthias?"

Although it was phrased as a question, Sarah recognized its rhetorical quality. "He's all that, Aunt Cinda," she said softly, as the image of his compelling face and his leashed strength again sent a rush of blood to her face.

"And young?"

"Mid-thirties, I'd say."

The old lady nodded. "He's a lone one. No hearth," she said, almost to herself. "Now I'm beginning to understand."

Sarah was puzzled. Her great-aunt had chosen to remain isolated all her life. She monitored the joys and burdens of kith and kin throughout the valley, but seldom read outsiders, particularly not ones she'd never touched or spoken to. So how did she know? Unless she was reading him through her great-niece.

"Do you know him, Aunt Cinda? Do you know what he wants?"

"Yes. Now I know what he wants. Even he doesn't know that. Not yet. There be other reasons for him being here." She lapsed into silence again.

Sarah waited expectantly. It would do no good to prompt the old woman. She'd say only what she wanted to say. And only when she wanted to say it.

When Aunt Cinda broke her silence, her voice was quiet, almost detached. "Do you like him, Sarah Jane?"

Did she like him? It was a question she'd avoided thinking about. "I don't know. I think I might have, if I hadn't been so afraid. He was good with Jimmy Joe. Jimmy Joe liked him."

"Youngsters have a way of seeing the truth. They don't let other things get in the way. They learn from yesterday, but they don't drag it around with them. It's time you let go of some things, too."

"I know, Aunt Cinda. I tell myself the same thing every day. It's why I made myself take that job in St. Louis. But it's hard."

The old lady nodded, sympathy evident in every line of her face. "You did right. Can't let what's gone tell us what's going to be. Just remember, times come when you don't know. That's when you have to take a chance and don't go worrying about it. Just listen to your own self."

She paused a moment, then abruptly changed the subject. "He's got no roots, this Matthias. And he's looking for Monte Ne."

"Monte Ne?" Sarah couldn't keep the surprise from her voice. Why had a stranger come looking for Monte Ne? "Monte Ne was buried over fifty years ago," she said.

"Yes, but that might be the reason he looks for you. That may be part of the past you're worrying about."

"I still don't understand, Aunt Cinda."

"He looks for Monte Ne, Sarah. Who owns Monte Ne?"

Sarah shook her head. "I do," she admitted. "At least I own some of the land above the lake's high water mark where Monte Ne once stood."

Her great-aunt nodded. "You own enough. Go see him, Sarah."

The image of the stranger's face swam before Sarah's eyes, so real that she clenched her fists to keep from reaching up and placing her finger in the deep cleft of his chin. She blinked and released a shuddering breath.

"All right, Aunt Cinda," she agreed, struggling to keep her voice from wavering. "If you think it's so important, I'll see him."

"When?"

"Thursday. I'll see him Thursday."

* * *

Once again Jordan Matthias's eyes intently searched the area around the town square. He could see one old farmer dressed in overalls leaning against an antique hitching post in front of the town hall. That was all. No sign of anyone who might be Sarah Wilson.

He'd found the note last night. After all this time and effort, it looked as if he was about to meet Miss Sarah Wilson. Today was the day—if the whole thing wasn't a joke. He doubted anyone in town would play that kind of joke on him, though. True, a lot of people knew he was asking questions about the woman, but not one of them had ever heard of her. At least, he always received that answer—until last night when someone pushed that note under his door at the fishing camp.

He checked his watch. The note was specific.
"If you wish to speak with Sarah Wilson, be in the second booth of the Mountain Springs Café at three o'clock."
That was all. No signature. No indication of where the note came from or who delivered it.

Jordan opened the screen door and stepped inside the café. Despite the heat of the Arkansas summer, there was no air conditioning. An old-fashioned blade fan hanging from the high ceiling turned lazily, its efforts only slightly disturbing the humid air infused with the odors of frying onions and fresh apple pie.

He looked anxiously toward the row of booths along one wall and then relaxed. Whoever had written the note obviously knew the café. Several of the tables, those most directly in front of the screened front door, were occupied, but the side booths were empty. All three of them. Easy enough to find the second. He slipped into the middle booth.

Jordan glanced at his watch again. Exactly three o'clock. Well, he could afford to wait a few minutes on the off chance that Sarah Wilson, or at least someone who knew her, would show up. She'd certainly led him on a wild-goose chase thus far.

A young dark-haired girl approached the booth from behind the counter, pad and pencil in hand.

"Only iced tea for now," he told her. "I'm supposed to meet someone here."

The girl nodded, slipped the pad and pencil into the pocket of her apron and turned back toward the counter. She returned in a moment with a tall glass of iced tea and set it in front of him.

He sipped his tea and waited, letting his mind drift back over the details of his search for Sarah Wilson. He'd first heard of her while visiting a former army buddy, now a police detective in Saint Louis. At the time, the police had been busy searching for a missing boy. During his visit, Hoyston had taken a telephone call on his personal cell phone from a woman named Sarah.

He'd assumed the call was personal because all department calls were routed through the switchboard and was surprised when he heard his buddy's voice become gruff, almost antagonistic. He was even more puzzled when Hoyston, with his head tilted to hold the cell phone against his ear, began scribbling notes from the conversation.