A Letter for Annie Page 5

  “Annie?”

  “I’m in the kitchen.” She lowered the heat on the stove and went into the living room.

  “I must’ve dropped off. Did you have a nice walk?”

  Erasing the image of Margaret’s stony face, Annie nodded.

  “Could we eat in here on trays?”

  “No problem.”

  “After supper I want to give you more of the family history and it’s just easier to stay here to eat.”

  The truth, but not the whole truth, Annie suspected. Each day, in increasingly obvious ways, her great-aunt was failing.

  Famished from skipping lunch and walking on the beach, Annie wolfed down her supper. Geneva, on the other hand, moved fruit around on her plate before finally spearing a chunk of pineapple and eating it. She did better with the soup, but still left half a bowl untouched. “I’m finished,” she said, dabbing her lips with her napkin.

  “Auntie G., you need to keep your strength up.”

  “I’m trying. But who are we fooling? I’m not going to live forever.”

  Annie seized the opening. “What have your doctors said?”

  Geneva gazed directly into Annie’s eyes. “That I’m terminal. Complications from my weak lungs and congestive heart failure will ultimately make breathing nearly impossible and affect other systems.” She handed her tray to Annie. “That’s why we have to make the most of the time I have. Starting with tonight.”

  In the kitchen, blinking back tears, Annie rinsed the dishes and quickly loaded them in the dishwasher. Nina had tried to warn her and she’d understood the seriousness of Geneva’s situation, but hearing the word terminal from her great-aunt made the prospect unavoidably real.

  “Do you remember your grandfather at all?” Geneva asked when they were settled in the living room.

  “I saw him only a few times. When Daddy died, he came to the funeral. He brought me a doll. But I never played with it. It reminded me too much of the day of the funeral and the way the house smelled sickeningly of flowers and macaroni and cheese.” Annie recalled looking up at her tall, slender grandfather with his gray hair and sad blue eyes. The man who had come not just to comfort her with a doll, but to bury his son.

  Geneva stared into space before continuing. “When Caleb was born, I thought he’d been created solely for my entertainment. I was four and, from the beginning, mothered him. Summers here at the ocean were magical. I loved holding his little hand and leading him down to the beach for family picnics. As he grew older, he was a natural athlete who shared my zest for adventure. One day just before World War II we hiked so far down the beach we didn’t get home until nearly dark. Our mother was frantic.” She smiled at the memory, then was quiet for a moment, the hiss of the oxygen a reminder of how far removed she was from that time when she and her brother had romped at the shore.

  She shuffled through the photographs, handing Annie one of a skinny young man in a swimsuit balancing on a rock, waves crashing around him, a delighted grin on his face. “He was such fun. He had a talent for friendships and a wicked sense of humor.”

  “What about my grandmother?”

  “Jody? Like Caleb, she thrived on seeing new places, trying new things. They were married in 1951 just after they graduated from college.” She sorted through the pictures until she found one of her brother in a white dinner jacket gazing adoringly at a dark-haired young woman with short, curly hair and a pixie-like grin. “Here they are. During the Korean War, Caleb joined the Marines. While he was overseas, Jody lived here in the cottage.”

  “I never knew that.” Annie tried to picture the young woman living here alone, isolated, worrying about her husband.

  “Practically the minute Caleb returned home, Jody got pregnant and nine months later, along came your father. Shortly after John’s birth, Caleb was hired by a New York City bank and they moved.”

  “That explains why they didn’t often get to Oregon.”

  “One reason.”

  Something in Auntie G.’s tone grabbed Annie’s attention. “Another reason?”

  “You may as well know. Caleb and Jody didn’t care much for your mother. They found her attractive enough, but, well, somewhat superficial. Not well suited to John.”

  Annie wished she could defend her mother, instead of acknowledging the fairness of the judgment. “What about Daddy? Did he love her?”

  “Yes, I think so. He did everything he could to please Liz.”

  Annie knew the outcome before she voiced it. “But it was never enough for her, right?”

  “Oh, child, what are we doing probing into the long-ago relationships of other people? Marriages are what they are.” She paused, then sighed. “I’m so tired. Please help me to bed.”

  Annie assisted her great-aunt to her feet and followed close behind with the oxygen tank as Geneva slowly made her way to the downstairs bedroom.

  Once she had helped her into bed, Annie sat for a long time in the silence of the living room, poring over the photographs of her family—the family that now consisted only of her beloved Auntie G. and herself. She knew it was a matter of a few short weeks until that family would be reduced to one. Loneliness—so acute it was physically painful—washed over her.

  KYLE FINALLY GAVE UP trying to sleep. He’d been tossing and turning since four in the morning, the sheets a tangle around his legs, his pillow lumpy and warm. Bubba’s snores added to his insomnia. He’d had the nightmare again. The one about Pete. Damn Annie, anyway. Seeing her had been like picking at a scab and reopening a wound.

  He sat on the edge of the bed holding his head in his hands, once again picturing Pete pausing that fatal few seconds to look at Annie’s photo. Why couldn’t Pete have moved on? Forgotten the high school sweetheart who’d punted him without an explanation? But no. Pete had carried the torch up to the instant he was killed. Oh, sure, after they’d finished Guard training, Pete had tried to find Annie. He’d talked to everyone who’d ever known her, interviewed the bus station agent and pored over cab company records. But he’d gotten nowhere. Her stepfather, George Palmer, was as clueless as Pete. And since Geneva Greer had not been living in Eden Bay at that time, Pete had no idea how to contact her. It was as if Annie had dropped off the face of the earth. But Pete never gave up. He lived as if he expected Annie to turn up on his doorstep any day. And the hell of it was, Pete would have welcomed her, no questions asked.

  Kyle lurched to his feet. What in blue blazes was the matter with the woman? Seeing her here in Eden Bay infuriated him. Why had she waited so long to return? Crap, now he had to consider what to do about the damned letter.

  Stumbling into the kitchen, he made coffee and turned to see Bubba standing in the bedroom doorway yawning. “Yeah, I know. Too early. Sorry, buddy.” When he went outside to retrieve the morning paper, clouds scudded across the sky and a cool breeze ruffled the scraggly bushes in front of the mobile home. Kyle drew a deep breath before going back in. Bubba lay on the floor eyeing him curiously. Kyle shrugged. “Hell if I know why I can’t sleep, fella.”

  When the coffee was done, he poured a cup and settled on the sofa to read the Sunday ball scores. But he couldn’t concentrate.

  He kept replaying Margaret’s voice on the phone last night: “Kyle, what are you thinking working for the Greers? How dare Annie Greer show her face in this town! It would’ve been bad enough while Pete was alive, but now…? So help me God, I’ll never know why my brother couldn’t get over her.”

  And he kept seeing Annie’s face, her tortured hazel eyes dominating her pale, freckled skin, her auburn hair blowing in the wind. There was something hauntingly lovely about her.

  “Damn!” He threw down the paper and raked both hands through his hair. “We’re going for a run, Bubba.”

  It was still dark when the two started down the road for the beach. Kyle pumped his arms rhythmically, punching the air in front of him. He picked up the pace, his breath coming in tortured gasps. And all the while, with the regularity of his heartbeat, came one
word over and over. Annie, Annie.

  What in the name of everlovin’ God was that about? He didn’t need a replay of high school angst.

  LATER THAT MORNING, Kyle picked up the clipboard in his office and scanned the jobs in progress. He needed to check on the Swenson deck remodel and be at the Whites’ when the crew knocked out the kitchen wall. “Rita, I’ll be making the rounds today. You can catch me on my cell.”

  “Not going to the Greer cottage?” Her voice was studiously neutral, but the cocked eyebrow gave her away.

  “I’m sending Vince. Weather forecast looks good. He can repaint the front porch.” Geneva Greer surely wouldn’t expect him to handle that part of the job.

  “Have a good one, then.”

  He and Bubba headed for the truck. He fully intended to have a “good one.” Being as far away from Annie as possible assured it.

  The day went fast. He’d made a few suggestions to his man working on the Swensons’ deck and then headed for the Stevenson project. Damn good thing. The boys had encountered a few problems and his being on the scene meant they’d had no delay in overcoming them. Time was, after all, money, as Bruce Nemec frequently reminded his employees.

  Driving along the coast to pick up supplies from the lumberyard, he thought back to Friday night. He was going to have to do something about Rosemary. How did a guy say “Sorry, not interested” without hurting her and jeopardizing his relationship with her family? Somewhere out there was a guy who would adore her. But Kyle wasn’t that man and he needed to deal with the issue. Sooner rather than later.

  Perversely, with every mile he drove up the highway, his mind turned to what was going on at the Greer cottage. He pounded the steering wheel. Yes, that was exactly why he needed to put some distance between him and Annie. Every time he saw her he wanted to shake her and demand an explanation for what she’d done to Pete. But at the same time, damn it, he wanted to hold her and soothe away the worry lines etched in her face.

  He didn’t like this. Not one bit. He’d always thought of himself as an uncomplicated man. A relatively contented one.

  And then she had shown up to turn his life upside down.

  ANNIE SAT on one of the wicker porch chairs wrapped in a heavy blanket, the cup of coffee she held warming her hands. The sun was just rising, gilding the calm surface of the ocean. She’d had a restless night, worrying about Auntie G. and wondering about her own future. Living in Bisbee, waiting tables and making purses, had worked for these past years. But that wasn’t how she wanted to spend the rest of her life. Geneva’s legacy of the house gave her options she’d never been able to consider.

  She’d missed college, of course. Maybe she could rent the cottage and move to a university town, work part-time and take some classes. She’d always hoped to go into fashion design. Was it too late?

  She inhaled the fragrant steam rising from her coffee. No use spoiling these few weeks with idle speculation. There would be time enough for that after…after…She shrugged off the threatening tears.

  Shorebirds roused and set up their hungry cries as they strutted on the beach and wheeled low over the swells in search of breakfast. Annie watched them until she finished her coffee. Reluctantly she got to her feet. Mornings were so traitorously full of promise.

  In the kitchen, she set about making a bacon-and-cheese quiche, hoping she could tempt Geneva. While it baked, she ran upstairs for a quick shower. The oven timer went off just as she finished slipping into a sweatshirt and jeans. Racing into the kitchen, she shut off the timer and then checked on her great-aunt, who lay on her back staring at the ceiling, her breath labored.

  “I’ve made something special for breakfast.”

  “Smells good, honey. But I’m not hungry.”

  “Let me help you sit up.” Supporting Geneva, she plumped up the pillows and straightened her covers. “Better?”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be right back with your breakfast tray.”

  Annie thought she heard Geneva sigh as she left the room. Had it been only a week ago that Geneva had dressed before breakfast and eaten at the kitchen table? Annie filled the teapot with boiling water, put a slice of quiche on a plate and added some leftover fruit salad. Carrying the tray with care, she set it down in front of Geneva, then spread the blue-and-white-checkered napkin over her chest.

  “How did you sleep?”

  Geneva made a fluttering motion with her hand. “I don’t have time for sleep. Too much to think about.”

  Annie knew that wasn’t totally true since Geneva spent an increasing amount of her days and nights dozing. “Like what?”

  “The past.” She lifted a tentative forkful of quiche to her mouth. “So many are gone.” She chewed quietly as if reviewing the parade of friends and loved ones who had passed away.

  Annie could empathize. When she’d left Eden Bay, it was not only Pete she’d left behind, but friends, now scattered to the four winds, and not likely to welcome her even if she located them.

  “And about you.”

  Annie blinked. “Me?”

  “You need people. Love.”

  “I have friends in Bisbee, and Nina has been like a second mother.”

  Geneva swirled the tea bag in the pot and, with shaking hands, poured herself a cup. “That’s not the same.”

  “The same as what?”

  “Having someone who cares deeply about your welfare.”

  Pete’s adoring face swam before her eyes. “I know.”

  “It’s time to think about the future, not dwell on the past.”

  Annie swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m not sure I know how.”

  “Exactly my point. Before I march in with the saints, I intend to do something about that. If I can.”

  And what would that be? Annie hadn’t a clue.

  A loud knock on the door interrupted her reverie. “Just a minute, Auntie G. That must be Kyle Becker. Eat some more, please, while I’m gone.”

  For reasons she didn’t want to examine, she paused before the hall mirror and ran a hand through her hair, wishing she’d put on some lipstick. When she opened the door, expecting to see Kyle, she stepped back in surprise.

  “Good morning, ma’am.” A stout older man with a beard stood on the porch. “I’m Vince Rayburn. Kyle sent me over to paint your porch. I just wanted to let you know I was here.”

  “Isn’t he coming today?” She hated the disappointment she heard in her own voice.

  “No, he’s checking on some other jobs. Said it might be a day or two before he’d be back.”

  Annie thanked him and slowly closed the door, furious with herself. She was actually upset that she wouldn’t see Kyle. What was wrong with her? Deep down she knew the answer.

  Kyle Becker made her heart race.

  KYLE STRADDLED the bar stool, shoved the ball cap back on his head and ordered a lager. After work, he hadn’t wanted to go home to his empty house. The Yacht Club, comforting in its familiarity, was at the same time vaguely depressing. The changes to the place since he and Pete had drunk their first legal beer here were that Ollie, the owner, now had gray hair, and a new flat-screen TV, tuned to a soccer rematch, dominated the area above the bar. The dimly lit interior, stale smells and loud music blaring from the small dance floor made him wonder why he’d sought this particular refuge. The truth was…he was in a rut.

  “Here ya go.” Ollie placed the pilsner glass in front of Kyle. “How’s it hanging?”

  By a thread, he wanted to say. “Great.”

  “Don’t usually see you in here on a weeknight.” Ollie made a show of wiping down the counter. “Problems?”

  Nothing I’m going to share with you. “Nah. Just thirsty.”

  He could hardly tell Ollie about nightmares and betrayal. About the way soft hazel eyes avoided his or the lump in his throat whenever he thought about Pete and Annie. Or about the way he couldn’t stop thinking about her, no matter how hard he tried. For years anger at the way she’d treated Pete had
kept him sane, but every time he saw her now, it was harder to use resentment as a barrier.

  He drained his beer and ordered another. People came and went, slapping him on the back and giving him high fives, but he declined their invitations to join them. When Shellie Austin, a bleached blonde he’d known since high school, settled at the adjacent bar stool, he knew he was supposed to be interested. Might have been even a few short weeks ago.

  Suddenly everything—the woman, the bar, his life—seemed tedious beyond bearing. He stood, then laid several bills on the counter. “Hey, Shellie, your next drink’s on me.”

  Outside, he leaned against the truck, pulling in deep breaths of fresh air. Was this what his life had come to?

  Everything he’d ever wanted had always remained beyond his reach. A stable home with a mother and father who loved him. A lifelong friendship with his best buddy. And, difficult as it was to admit, a girl with hair like silk who loved another.

  Climbing into his truck, he paused, taking in the garish, flashing neon sign—The Yacht Club—symbol of all that was shallow and meaningless in his life. Not even Bubba’s enthusiastic greeting elevated his mood.

  TWO MORE DAYS PASSED and still no Kyle. Two days during which Geneva struggled to complete the family history—filling in the blanks with anecdotes and more photographs.

  By Thursday, Annie was increasingly concerned. Auntie G.’s feet were swollen, and she was eating like a bird and spending more time in bed. Most alarming were her spells of fighting for the next breath. Although her eyes were still bright with intelligence, now Annie noticed in them something she had never seen before—fear. After conferring on the phone with Carmen, Annie called the doctor, who scheduled a late-afternoon appointment.