A Letter for Annie

In her great-aunt’s words Annie heard the plaintive melody of nostalgia. “I hope new owners love and honor the cottage the way you do.”

“New owners? I’m not fixing up the house to sell it.” Geneva smiled, then picked up Annie’s hand and held it in her own. “Oh, my little petunia, this place will be yours.”

Annie’s mind reeled. Hers? That would mean staying in Eden Bay. “Auntie G., I’m not sure—”

“This is your home. In time, I pray you will come to embrace this place.”

What could she possibly say to her great-aunt? The gift of the cottage was more than generous. How could she disappoint Auntie G. by telling her she had no desire to remain in a town with such distressing memories? “I can’t promise anything.”

The older woman nodded in understanding. “Not now, maybe. Just promise me you’ll give Eden Bay a chance.”

It was a lot to ask, but under the circumstances she had little choice but to murmur, “I’ll try.”

Later, as Annie snuggled under the comforter that smelled vaguely of lavender, she pondered how different things might have been for her in Eden Bay, if only…She shuddered and drew the spread up over her shoulders. So much had changed, and her future was a huge question mark. In another world, she might have been the one to continue the line of Greers living in the cottage. Now they would die out with Geneva.

Perhaps that was just as well.

BY THE TIME Kyle raced home from the softball game, showered, changed and drove to the Nemecs’ house, the party was in full swing, the celebration enhanced by the Nemec Construction Tigers’ 10-3 win. “The conquering hero arrives,” trumpeted Wade Hanson, the finish carpenter. The men clustered around a beer keg looked up and cheered. “Great pitching, Becker,” one of them said.

“You guys weren’t too shabby yourselves. Fifteen hits, no errors. You know what?” He grinned and ambled toward the keg. “I think we all deserve a beer.” Somebody thrust one into his hand. He made quick work of it and refilled the cup. It was a clear, cool night, and if he had a choice, he’d stay out here talking about the upcoming NBA playoffs and shooting the breeze with the fellas. He pictured the women gathered in the family room, undoubtedly talking about kids and recipes and stuff. Times like this, he was glad he wasn’t married.

As if that thought had summoned her, Wade’s wife, Carrie, appeared, hooked her arm through Kyle’s and started toward the house. “Come on in, you guys. It’s time for the cake.”

With Kyle in tow, Carrie walked through the kitchen, past the dining room table laden with assorted appetizers and into the family room. “Here he is,” she called to the assembled throng, as if she’d just reeled in a prize salmon. “The winning pitcher.”

Bruce Nemec sidled up behind him and whispered, “Into the frying pan, son.”

The women cooed their congratulations. One stood outside the circle, smiling, never taking her eyes off him. Rosemary. “Sit down,” Bruce’s wife, Janet, urged. “There. Next to the birthday girl.”

Kyle complied, even throwing in a gentlemanly kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Rosemary.”

“It is now,” she said, lowering her voice and laying a hand on his knee.

Someone dimmed the lights and Pete and Rosemary’s older sister, Margaret, entered the room, bearing a sheet cake with lit candles. The crowd began singing “Happy Birthday,” and when Margaret set the cake on a table, Kyle could finally read the message written in frosting. This is the year! Happy twenty-fifth!

The year for what? The girl had only one goal, one dream—marriage. Just then somebody had the nerve to call out, “Make a wish, Rosie.”

And damned if she didn’t blow out every one of those twenty-five candles.

While everyone was eating, Kyle excused himself and escaped down the hall toward the bedrooms and guest bath. The door to Pete’s old room, normally closed, stood open. Against his instincts, Kyle went inside, shutting the door behind him. He turned on the table lamp and stood in the middle of the room, trying to recall what it had looked like when he and Pete had spent hours sprawled on the floor with their Hot Wheels track or sitting at the desk playing Tetris on Pete’s computer. The army reserve recruiting poster was gone, as were those of assorted athletes and rock stars. The walls had been painted a dove-gray, and the NASCAR curtains had been replaced with something floral. Kyle closed his eyes, summoning the essence of Pete. Nothing. Finally he moved to turn off the lamp.

There—carved in the wooden surface of the table—were the initials PN and KB with the date—6/6/90. They had just finished fifth grade. Kyle remembered the day vividly. His father had come home drunk from the job at the fish cannery. In memory, Kyle could still smell his rank body and sour-sweet bourbon breath. Joe Becker had taken one look at the sink full of dirty dishes and turned on Kyle. “You worthless piece of shit,” he’d shouted as he slammed him into the wall of their shoddy trailer house. Over and over. Eventually Kyle had escaped and run as fast as he could to the Nemec home. He’d rapped on Pete’s bedroom window. Pete had come out into the yard and led Kyle silently down the hall and into the bedroom. This bedroom. Pete had left long enough to get an ice bag, some towels and analgesic. No medic ever treated anyone more tenderly.

Kyle studied the surface of the desk, then ran his finger over the carved indentations. It was that night they had become blood brothers, vowing to cover each other’s backs. The evidence lay in the paired initials staring up at him.

Sinking onto the bed, Kyle held his head in his hands, gritting his teeth against the howl that threatened to explode from his chest. One of us failed.

“SON, YOU ALL RIGHT?” Bruce stood in the doorway, frowning with concern. Son. From early on, Mr. Nemec had called him that. The word used to flow over him like warm honey, causing him to feel special, as if he belonged. Making him believe, at least for a pocket of time, that the ratty trailer house and the brute who lived there didn’t exist. But now the true son was dead, and Kyle was no substitute, no matter how warmly the Nemecs drew him into their lives. No matter how hard he wished he could fill the empty place where Pete should’ve been.

Raising his head, Kyle wondered what he could say. The truth was too painful. “I just needed a moment.”

“With Pete.” It was not a question.

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “There are times I still can’t accept the fact he’s gone.”

“I know what you mean.” Bruce strolled about the room, tracing the same path Kyle had taken earlier. “For a while, you know, we kept this room just as it was. If Janet had her way, it would have remained a shrine. But that wasn’t healthy. We had to move on.” He stopped in front of Kyle and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s been a long time. You need to move on, too.”

Kyle wondered if he ever could, living in this town, working as Bruce’s heir apparent, being embraced by the Nemecs in every possible way. Maybe he should bite the bullet and extricate himself from them. If he stayed in Eden Bay, what would be his role? How much did he owe this family who had accepted him as one of their own since he’d been a terrified little boy?

“I think Rosemary’s wondering where you are.”

There was his answer. He knew they were generous people who would understand if he couldn’t love their daughter, but shouldn’t he at least try? Yet if he did and things didn’t work out between him and Rosemary, he would have knowingly hurt another Nemec.

He rose to his feet. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to put a damper on the party.”

Bruce clamped an arm around his shoulder as they walked down the hall. “You didn’t, son.”

Afterward, Kyle couldn’t remember what had snapped within him. He only knew he had been helpless to control what he said next, as if the impulse had been building in him all week. “Bruce,” he said, and stopped at the end of the hall. “There’s something I need to tell you. It, uh, it’s not easy.” Then he uttered the words that removed any trace of celebration from the man’s face: “Annie Greer is back in town.”

ANNIE ROSE early Sunday morning, her nerves jangling. Today was the day. No longer could she put off the trip to town. They needed both groceries and medicine. So long as she had been sequestered at the cottage, she felt safe, as if nobody could see her through the fog that obscured sections of the coastline. Today, however, the skies were a brilliant blue. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, and bright sunlight glared off the beach sand. She could hide no longer.

After breakfast she helped Geneva to her chair. Annie had arranged for Frances to come while she was gone, but left her cell number on the pad on the table and made sure the phone was at her great-aunt’s elbow. “You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

Geneva huffed. “Frances and I will be fine. What about you?”

Annie chose to misunderstand the implication of her aunt’s pointed question. “I’ll be back in a jiff.” That, at least, was the truth. She’d strategized that Sunday morning would be the best time for this ordeal. People would be sleeping in, at church or maybe golfing. She could dart in and out of the store, unrecognized. Anonymous.

She drew the baggy University of Arizona sweatshirt she’d bought at a flea market over her overalls, covered her hair with a ball cap and put on her sunglasses. Maybe she’d look like a tourist. Certainly not like Annie Greer, Homecoming Queen.

To her relief, the supermarket was nearly deserted. A bored clerk stood at Register Two, and a pimply faced teen was replacing the baggies in produce. A couple of perplexed-looking men in sweats stood in front of the coffee display, and one elderly lady was picking each and every egg out of a carton, checking for cracks.

Annie grabbed a cart and made her way tentatively up and down the unfamiliar aisles. This store had not been here when she’d lived here, but it was the closest to the cottage. As a few more customers entered and the market grew more crowded, Annie felt the keen edge of panic. She had to get out of the place. She grabbed the last few items off the shelves, and it was only when she got to the checkout stand that she realized she’d selected the wrong brands of several things.

“Paper or plastic?”

She couldn’t think. Finally, she blurted, “Paper.”

By the time she paid and started for the car, her knees had turned to rubber. She had escaped. She imagined a comic-book bubble of dialogue floating above her head: “The invisible woman triumphs again!”

In the car, she turned on the radio and headed down the street toward the ocean and home. A radio evangelist’s voice filled the air. Annie twisted the dial again. This time it was gospel music. Granted, it was Sunday morning, but surely some station was playing pop or jazz. So intent was she on tuning the radio that she nearly rear-ended the last car in a long line of vehicles stopped at the Coast Highway light. Two highway patrol cars blocked the intersection. There must’ve been an accident. Traffic was being diverted. Northbound to the right onto a side street; southbound to the left. Annie inched along until she made it to the side street, which wound through a brand-new subdivision. Still fiddling with the tuner and paying scant attention to her whereabouts, she followed the line of detouring cars as it entered a more established neighborhood.

Maybe it wasn’t about the tuner at all. Maybe she’d been subconsciously trying to block out her surroundings. But when the line of vehicles—including her Honda—made the next turn, she saw the large hacienda-style house in the middle of the block—33 Kittiwake Road. With trembling hands she managed to pull over to the curb and open the car door before vomiting into the street, her vision blurred by tears.

HANDS FOLDED in her lap, Geneva sat quietly, waiting, worrying. She’d always tried to be a positive person. If only she could be positive about Annie and her future. Isolating herself here indefinitely was unhealthy. If Annie didn’t open up soon about what was worrying her, Geneva would have no choice but to force the conversation.

She remembered that morning after high school graduation when Annie had called her at the hotel in Bangkok and told her she had to get away. She’d begged her great-aunt to help her. When Geneva had pressed Annie for details, the girl had refused to say anything more. Yet there’d been no mistaking the panic in her voice. Reluctantly, Geneva had given Annie instructions, called her friend Nina and wired money to Bisbee.

From that time to this, despite Geneva’s frequent probing, Annie had never spoken about any of her friends, about her mother and George Palmer, her stepfather, or about why she had needed to flee Eden Bay. Geneva shuddered to think what hideousness lay beneath her niece’s refusal to talk.