Envy(29)

As she chugged along in her rented golf cart, she felt extremely vulnerable. The menacing woods intimidated her. They were as unfriendly as the man at the landing from whom she had rented the golf cart.

When she asked him for directions to the home of the local writer, he had responded with a question of his own. “Whada ya want with ’im?”

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Sure do.”

“Can you give me directions, please? He’s expecting me.”

He looked her up and down. “Is that right?”

She’d unfolded the crude map of the island, given to her by the pilot of the small boat she had hired to bring her over from the mainland. “I’m here, right?” She indicated on the map the landing where the boatman had docked only long enough for her to disembark. “Which way do I go from here?”

“Well, there’s only one road leading outta here, ain’t there?”

“I can see that,” she said with strained patience. “But according to the map the main road branches off in three directions. Here.” She pointed out the marking to him.

“You ain’t from around here, are you? You from up north someplace?”

“What difference does it make?”

He had snorted a derisive sound and spat tobacco juice into the dirt, then a stained, chipped fingernail traced the fork she should take. “You go along, hmm, ’bout three-quarters of a mile beyond the split. A turnoff to the left takes you straight to the house. If you wind up in the ’lantic, you’ve done went too far.” His grin revealed large gaps where teeth should have been.

She had thanked him curtly and set out on the final leg of her trip. The landing’s “commercial district” was limited to two places of business—the cart rental, and Terry’s Bar and Grill. So read a hand-painted sign nailed above a screened door.

Terry’s was a circular structure with a corrugated tin roof. The top two-thirds of the exterior walls were screened, but the interior lighting was so dim that all Maris could see was the glow of neon beer signs on the far wall and light fixtures hanging from the ceiling, the kind usually suspended above pool tables. Several vehicles, mostly pickup trucks, were parked at one side of the building. Recorded music emanated through the screened walls.

Out front, a man, presumably Terry, was cooking meat on a large grill while sipping from his longneck bottle of beer. Even after she drove past, she could feel his eyes boring holes in her back until she rounded a bend in the road and was no longer in sight.

She had the road all to herself. No cars or trucks had passed. It seemed the dock was the last outpost of civilization. Having endured this harrowing—and she felt that was a fair adjective—journey, she wished she could look forward to being graciously received when she arrived at the author’s home. Unfortunately, her expectations of how she would be greeted were very low.

Eventually she detected salt air over the dominant scent of evergreens. Realizing that the beach couldn’t be much farther, she began looking for the turnoff, but when she reached it, she overshot it. There was no sign to mark it. It was so narrow and so well camouflaged by foliage that had she not been specifically looking for it, she would have missed it altogether.

Executing a tight U-turn, she steered the cart into the lane. The roadbed was rougher than the main road. The cart jounced over potholes. Tree branches formed an opaque canopy overhead. The forest here was even thicker, more silent, more foreboding.

She was beginning to think that this venture was foolhardy, that she should be sensible and retreat to the safety of her hotel room in gracious and hospitable Savannah. She could have a room-service meal, a bubble bath, a glass of wine from the mini bar. Thus restored, she could call and try to persuade the author to meet her on neutral turf.

But then she caught her first glimpse of the house and was instantly enchanted.

It was beautiful. Poignantly so. Beautiful in the way that evokes sadness. An aging film star whose once-gorgeous face now evinced the passage of decades. An antique wedding dress, its lace now yellowed and tattered. A gardenia whose creamy petals had turned brown. The house showed visible signs of former grandeur now lost.

But with its obvious flaws softened by the waning light, it was as lovely as a watercolor painted from a faded but fond memory.

Maris stepped out of the cart and followed a pathway marked by twin rows of spectacular, moss-shrouded live oaks. She climbed the steps as soundlessly as possible. When she reached the veranda, she had a silly urge to tiptoe across it as Jem Finch had done in To Kill a Mockingbird, so as not to alert the spooky Boo Radley to his presence in a place where he was a trespasser, where he didn’t belong, and where he wasn’t welcome.

Instead she bolstered herself with a deep breath and walked boldly to the front door and reached for the brass knocker.

“Maris Matherly-Reed?”

Startled, she jumped. The knocker dropped against the metal plate on the door with a loud clatter. Following the direction from which the unexpected voice had come, she stepped back and looked down the long veranda. A face was peering at her through one of the tall front windows.

“So,” he said, “you really came.”

“Hello.”

He continued to stare at her through the screen, putting her at a distinct disadvantage. She was aware that he could see her much more clearly than she could see him, but she stood her ground. She had come this far.