第 9 页

Nine

Despite closing the shutters and drapes to keep out the morning light, Paul woke with Friday’s dawn, and he spent ten minutes stretching the ache from his body.

Swinging open the shutters, he took in the morning. There was a deep haze over the water, and the skies were gunmetal gray. Cumulous clouds raced along, rolling paral-lel with the shore. The storm, he thought, would be here before nightfall, more likely by midafternoon.

He sat on the edge of the bed as he slipped into his run-ning gear, then added a windbreaker over the top. From the drawer, he removed an extra pair of socks and slipped them on his hands. Then, after padding down the stairs, he looked around. Adrienne wasn’t up, and he felt a short stab of disappointment at not seeing her, then suddenly won-dered why it mattered. He unlocked the door, and a minute later he was trudging along, letting his body warm up be-fore he moved into a steadier pace.

From her bedroom, Adrienne heard him descend the creaking steps. Sitting up, she pushed off the covers and slipped her feet into a pair of slippers, wishing she’d at least had some Coffee ready for Paul when he awoke. She wasn’t sure he would have wanted any before his run, but she could at least have made the offer.

Outside, Paul’s muscles and joints were beginning to loosen and he quickened his stride, It wasn’t anywhere near the pace he’d run in his twenties or thirties, but it was steady and refreshing.

Running had never been simply exercise for him. He’d reached the point where running wasn’t difficult at all; it seemed to take no more energy to jog five miles than it did to read the paper. Instead, he viewed it as a form of medi-tation, one of the few times he could be alone.

It was a wonderful morning to run. Though it had rained during the night and he could see drops on the windshields of cars, the shower must have passed through the area quickly, because most of the roads had already dried. Ten-drils of mist lingered in the dawn and moved in ghostly procession from one small home to the next. He would have liked to run on the beach since he didn’t often have that opportunity, but he decided to use his run to find the Home of Robert Torrelson instead. He ran along the high-way, passing through downtown, then turned at the first corner, his eyes taking in the scene.

In his estimation, Rodanthe was exactly what it ap-peared to he: an old Fishing village riding the water’s edge, a place where modern life had been slow in coming. Every home was made of wood, and though some were in better repair than others, with small, well-tended yards and a thin patch of dirt where bulbs would blossom in the spring, he could see evidence of the harshness of coastal life every-where he looked. Even Homes that were no more than a dozen years old were decaying. Fences and mailboxes had small holes eaten away by the weather, paint had peeled, tin roofs were streaked with long, wide rows of rust. Scat-tered in the front yards were various items of everyday life in this part of the world: skiffs and broken boat engines, Fishing nets used as decoration, ropes and chains used to keep strangers at bay.

Some Homes were no more than shacks, and the walls seemed precariously balanced, as if the next strong wind might topple them over. In some cases, the front porches were sagging and had been propped up by an assortment of utilitarian items to keep them from giving way completely: concrete blocks or stacked bricks; two-by-fours that pro-truded from below like short chopsticks.

But there was activity here, even in the dawn, even in those Homes that looked abandoned. As he ran, he saw smoke billowing from chimneys and watched men and women covering windows with plywood. The sound of hammering had begun to fill the air.

He turned at the next block, checked the street sign, and ran on. A few minutes later, he turned onto the street where Robert Torrelson lived. Robert Torrelson, he knew, lived at number thirty-four.

He passed number eighteen, then twenty, and raised his eyes, looking ahead. A couple of the neighbors stopped their work and watched him as he jogged by, their eyes wary. A moment later, he reached Robert Torrelson’s Home, trying not to be obvious as he glanced toward it.

It was a Home like most of the others along the street:

not exactly well tended, but not a shack, either. Rather, it was somewhere in between—a sort of stalemate between man and nature in their battle over the house. At least half a century old, the house was single storied with a tin roof; without gutters to divert runoff, the rain of a thousand storms had streaked the white paint with gray, On the porch were two weathered rockers angled toward each other. Around the windows, he could see a lone strand of Christmas lights.

Toward the back of the property was a small outbuilding with the front doors propped open. Inside were two work-benches, covered with nets and Fishing rods, chests and tools. Two large grappling hooks were leaning against the wall, and he could see a yellow rain slicker hanging on a peg, just inside. From the shadows behind it, a man emerged, car-rying a bucket.

The figure caught Paul off guard, and he turned away be-fore the man could see him staring. It was too early to pay him a visit, nor did he want to do this in running clothes. Instead, he raised his chin against the breeze, turned at the next corner, and tried to find his earlier pace.

It wasn’t easy. The image of the man stayed with him, making him feel sluggish, each step more difficult than the last. Despite the cold, by the time he finished, there was a thin sheen of sweat on his face.

He walked the last fifty yards to the Inn, letting his legs cool down. From the road, he could see that the light in the kitchen had been turned on.

Knowing what it meant, he smiled.

While Paul was out, Adrienne’s children had phoned and she’d spent a few minutes talking to each of them, glad they were having a good time with their father. A little while later, at the top of the hour, she called the nursing Home.

Though her father couldn’t answer the phone, she’d made arrangements to have Gail, one of the nurses, answer for him, and she’d picked up on the second ring.

“Right on time,” Gail said. “I was just telling your father that you’d be calling any minute.”

“How’s he doing today?”

“He’s a little tired, but other than that, he’s fine. Hold on while I put the phone by his ear, okay?”

A moment later, when she heard her father’s raspy breaths, Adrienne closed her eyes.

“Hi, Daddy,” she started, and for several minutes she vis-ited with him, just as she would have had she been there with him. She told him about the Inn and the beach, the storm clouds and the lightning, and though she didn’t mention Paul, she wondered if her father could hear the same tremor in her voice that she could as she danced around his name.

Paul made his way up the steps, and inside, the aroma of bacon filled the air, as if welcoming him Home. A moment later, Adrienne pushed through the swinging doors.

She was wearing jeans and a light blue sweater that ac-cented the color of her eyes. In the morning light, they were almost turquoise, reminding him of crystal skies in spring.

“You were up early.” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

To Paul, the gesture seemed oddly sensual, and he wiped at the sweat on his brow. “Yeah, I wanted to get my run out of the way before the rest of the day starts.”

“Did it go okay?”

“I’ve felt better, but at least it’s done.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “It smells great in here, by the way.”

“I started breakfast while you were out.” She motioned over her shoulder. “Do you want to eat now or wait a lit-tle?”

“I’d like to shower first, if that’s okay.”

“It’s fine. I was thinking of making grits, which take twenty minutes anyway. How do you want your eggs?”

“Scrambled ?”

“I think I can manage that.” She paused, liking the frankness of his stare and letting it continue for a moment longer. “Let me get the bacon before it burns,” she finally said. “See you in a few?”

“Sure.”

After watching her go, Paul climbed the steps to his room, shaking his head, thinking how nice she’d looked. He took off his clothes, rinsed his shirt in the sink and hung it over the curtain rod, then turned the faucet. As Adrienne had warned, it took a while before the hot water came on.

He showered, shaved, and threw on a pair of Dockers, a collared shirt, and loafers, then went to join her. In the kitchen, Adrienne had set the table and was carrying the last two bowls to the table, one with toast, the other with sliced fruit. As Paul moved around her, he caught a trace of the jasmine shampoo she’d used on her hair that morning.

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you again,” she said.

Paul pulled out her chair, “Not at all. In fact, I was hop-ing you would. Please.” He motioned for her to sit.

She let him push her chair in for her, then watched him take his seat as well. “I tried to scrounge up a paper,” she said, “but the rack at the general store was already empty by the time I got there.”

“I’m not surprised. There were lots of people out this morning. I guess everyone’s wondering how bad it’s going to be today.”

“It doesn’t look much worse than it did yesterday.”

“That’s because you don’t live here.”

“You don’t live here, either.”

“No, but I’ve been in a big storm before. In fact, did I ever tell you about the time I was in college and went down to Wilmington?”

Adrienne laughed. “And you swore you never told that story.”

“I guess it’s coming easier now that I’ve broken the ice. And it’s my one good story. Everything else is boring.”

“I doubt that. From what you’ve told me, I’m thinking that your life has been anything but boring.”

He smiled, unsure if she meant it as a compliment, but pleased nonetheless.

“What did Jean say had to be done today?”

Adrienne scooped out some eggs and passed the bowl to-ward him.

“Well, the furniture on the porches needs to be stored in the shed. The windows need to be closed and the shutters latched from the inside. Then, the hurricane guards have to be put up. Supposedly, they lock together and there are some hooks you drop in to keep them in place; after that, we brace them with two-by-fours. The wood for that is sup-posed to be stacked with the hurricane guards.”

“She has a ladder, I hope.”

“It’s under the house, too.”

“It doesn’t sound too bad. But like I said yesterday, I’d be happy to help you with it after I get back.”

She looked at him. “You sure? You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s no bother. I don’t have anything else planned, any-way. And to be honest, it would be impossible for me to sit inside while you were doing all that work. I’d feel guilty, even if I’m the guest.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

They finished serving up, poured the Coffee, and started eating. Paul watched her butter a piece of toast, momen-tarily absorbed in her task. In the gray morning light, she was pretty, even prettier than he’d realized the day before.

“You’re going to talk to that person you mentioned

yes-terday ?“

Paul nodded. “After breakfast,” he said.

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“I don’t know whether to be happy or not.”

“Why?”

After the briefest hesitation, he told her about Jill and Robert Torrelson—the operation, the autopsy, and all that had happened in the aftermath, including the note he’d re-ceived in the mail. When he finished, Adrienne seemed to be studying him.

“And you have no idea what he wants?”

“I assume it’s something about the lawsuit.”

Adrienne wasn’t so sure about that, but she said nothing. Instead, she reached for her Coffee.

“Well, no matter what happens, I think you’re doing the right thing. Just like you’re doing with Mark.”

He didn’t say anything, but then, he didn’t have to. The fact that she understood was more than enough.

It was all that he wanted from anyone these days, and though he’d met her only the day before, he sensed that somehow she already knew him better than most people did.

Or maybe, he thought, better than anyone.

Ten

After breakfast, Paul got into his car and fished the keys from the pocket of his coat. From the porch, Adrienne waved, as if wishing him luck. A moment later, Paul looked over his shoulder and began backing out of the drive.

He reached Torrelson’s street in a few minutes; though he could have walked, he didn’t know how fast the weather would deteriorate, and he didn’t want to be caught in the rain. Nor did he want to feel trapped if the meeting started to go badly. Though he wasn’t sure what to expect, he de-cided he would tell Torrelson everything that had hap-pened with regard to the operation but wouldn’t speculate on what had caused her death.

He slowed the car, pulled it to the side of the road, and switched off the engine. After taking a moment to prepare himself, he got out and started up the walkway. A neighbor next door was standing on a ladder, hammering a piece of plywood over a window. He looked over at Paul, trying to figure out who he was. Paul ignored the stare, and when he reached Torrelson’s door, he knocked, then stepped back, giving himself space.

When no one came to the door, he knocked again, this time listening for movement inside. Nothing. He moved to the side of the porch. Though the doors of the outbuilding were still open, he didn’t see anyone. He considered calling out but decided against it. Instead, he went to the trunk of his car and opened it. From the medical kit, he pulled out a pen and tore a scrap of paper from one of the notebooks he’d stuffed inside.

He wrote his name and where he was staying, as well as a brief message saying that he would be in town until Tues-day morning if Robert still wanted to talk to him. Then, folding the paper, he brought the note to the front porch and wedged it into the frame, making sure it wouldn’t blow away. He was heading back to the car, feeling both disap-pointed and relieved, when he heard a voice behind him.

“Can I help you?”

When Paul turned, he didn’t recognize the man standing near the house. Though he couldn’t recall what Robert Torrelson looked like—his face was one of thousands—he knew he’d never seen this person before. He was a young man in his thirties or so, gaunt, with thinning black hair, dressed in a sweatshirt and work jeans. He was staring at Paul with the same wariness the neighbor had shown him earlier when he’d first pulled up.

Paul cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said, “I was looking for Robert Torrelson. Is this the right place ?”

The young man nodded without changing his expres-sion. “Yeah, he lives here. That’s my dad.”

“Is he in?”

“You with the bank?”

Paul shook his head. “No. My name is Paul Flanner.” It was a moment before the young man recognized the name. His eyes narrowed.

“The doctor?”

Paul nodded. “Your father sent me a letter saying he wanted to speak to me.”