Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(5)

‘Four-ish would be good,’ she says, looking at her book.

The door bell jingles.

‘That’s my next appointment,’ Jeanine says, rising.

I pick my backpack up off the floor and swing it over my shoulder, turning. But I’m not watching where I’m going and I crash into Jeanine’s client. I back away quickly and look up, ready to apologize.

He smiles, but there’s a question in his eyes. ‘Do I know you?’





THREE


A chain around a tree holds my bike securely as I make my way down toward the rocky beach, the wooden staircase twisting and turning to accommodate the terrain. The way down is easy; my feet fly as they maneuver the slats so familiar that they barely register what they’re doing. Every once in a while I look down to make sure they’re on the right track. My hand skims the railing, and I scan the Mohegan Bluffs that drop a hundred and fifty feet.

When I reach the bottom, I look up and revel in the craggy cliffs. I make my way across the beach, stopping occasionally to pick up a smooth rock that’s caught a glint of sunshine and is winking at me. I have glass jars full of these rocks all over my little house, reminders of these days when I wander without purpose. The jars mark my time here, dated carefully: my first visit to the Bluffs; my first, fifth and tenth anniversaries on the island; the day I started my bike tours. I don’t just come here on special days, but I only make a jar for those.

Today is a jar day.

The wind slides up my sleeve and touches my elbow, my shoulder, my chest before slipping out the other side. My backpack is heavy with stones, and I take deep breaths as I climb the wooden stairs back up to my bike. This is the hard part, going back up.

I have a message on my answering machine when I get home. I don’t bother with it right away. Instead, I unload the stones and take one of the sparkling, empty jars out of my pantry. Carefully, I slide the stones inside. There aren’t enough to fill it, only about three-quarters of the way, but I seal it anyway and take my marker and write the date on the bottom. I know where this one will go: on the bookshelf in the bedroom just next to the jar from my first visit to the Bluffs.

‘Meet me at Bethany’s for lunch.’ Steve’s voice echoes through my kitchen, bouncing off the tiles over the stove when I finally hit ‘play’ on the machine. The clock tells me it’s almost noon; the clouds tell me rain is coming. I’m not sure I want to take the bike out now. I have a can of tuna for a sandwich. I pick up the phone and dial.

‘Storm,’ I say abruptly. ‘Why don’t you come here for lunch? I have tuna.’

‘Too late. I’m already here, waiting for you. Where have you been?’ He pauses. ‘Forget about it. I’ll get a couple clam chowders to go and you can make a couple sandwiches. I’ll be there in a few.’ He hangs up.

I make the tuna methodically, spooning out small dollops of mayonnaise until it’s just like Steve likes it. I’m not fussy about my tuna, but he is, so I accommodate him. I find some rye bread in the freezer and stick four slices in the toaster oven to unthaw. Again, I wonder if I will tell Steve. I have wanted to, lately, more than ever. This need to talk about it has caused me to wake in the night feeling as if something heavy is sitting on my chest. But there is no guarantee that if I tell him the feeling will go away.

The knock is quickly followed by the sound of the back door opening and Steve’s hearty ‘Hello, hello!’ It is always the same greeting. He comes into the kitchen, puts the bag with the chowder in it on the counter and peers into the toaster oven. ‘Rye?’ he asks.

‘I’ve got lettuce, too,’ I say, showing him the leaves I’m rinsing in the sink.

He nods appreciatively.

‘Slow day?’ I ask.

‘It’s always slow until they come,’ he says. ‘And then I won’t have time for lunch.’

‘And I won’t have time to make lunch,’ I say.

Our summer days skip along so quickly, however, that it barely registers with either of us, and in September we will find ourselves at Club Soda wondering where the season went. The routine is comfortable, as is the sight of Steve chewing his tuna sandwich and taking alternate spoonfuls of chowder. I have managed to find some diet soda for him. I drink seltzer, and we don’t talk again until we have only crumbs on our plates. I pick them up and put them in the sink, throwing out the Styrofoam containers slick with remnants of chowder.

Steve has gone into the living room and is standing in front of the bay window, watching the raindrops slide down the glass.

‘It’s started raining,’ I say flatly, handing him another soda.

He takes it and turns to me, a frown on his face. ‘Nicole, there’s something I’ve got to ask you.’

I feel as if he’s hit me in the chest. I wait.

‘I mean, don’t take it the wrong way or anything, but I realized it yesterday when I went over to get that TV.’

I let out a little breath, like you do when you’re swimming underwater for a long time and you want to make sure you’ve got enough air until you can reach the surface.

‘Do you ever go to the mainland?’

My lungs can’t take it anymore, and I exhale. I shake my head. ‘No, no, I guess I don’t.’

‘Have you ever gone? I mean, since you’ve been here?’