He
didn’t think he could handle caring about someone else now. And Emma made him
want to care.
Charlie watched Jason. “You’ve buried yourself in grief.”
Jason looked down at his beer, focusing on his distorted
reflection in the side of the bottle. Taking a deep breath, he confessed, “I
miss Rose, Charlie. I miss her so much it hurts.”
“You and she were close. But she’s gone, Jason and you can’t
hide from life in the garden she planted.”
“I’m not hiding and she didn’t plant it. Mom planted it.”
Jason stared at the blossom-heavy bushes rustling in the sea breeze. “Rose just
took over from her.”
“And you took over from Rose.”
“After I killed her.” Jason took a long pull on his beer.
Charlie pushed out a patient breath. “You argued with her,
Jason. You didn’t kill her.”
“She didn’t hear that car over the tears she was crying
because of the things I said to her.”
“Things she needed to hear.”
“Maybe. But I could have gone easier on her.” He refused to
forgive himself. “She was just doing what I did, going through men like I went
through women, being stupid because she saw me being stupid. I set the example
and she followed it.”
Charlie didn’t respond. He’d heard it before and was
probably as sick of hearing it as Jason was of saying it. But it was the truth.
Charlie leaned down and placed his half-full beer bottle on
the deck. “It was a freak accident. When will you accept that?”
Jason ran his thumb over the reflection in his bottle. “I
doubt I ever will.”
“So you punish yourself. You bury yourself in work.” Charlie
sat back with his feet propped up on the rail beside Jason’s. “I’ve heard that
Emma St. Clair’s ex-husband was a philandering son of a bitch. I imagine she
would be gun-shy about a man with your reputation, anyway.”
Jason frowned and his image in the bottle distorted further.
“I don’t want her to be interested.”
“I wonder why I don’t believe you.”
Lifting his gaze, Jason stared out to sea and wondered why
he didn’t believe it himself. Maybe, just maybe, he had punished himself
enough. Or maybe caring about Emma was just a new, tougher form of punishment.
* * * * *
Emma stared out her office window but didn’t appreciate the
spectacular gold and pink of the sky as the sun set over the rocking waves in
the bay. Instead, her thoughts turned to the image of a dead man and the
possibility that she was losing her mind. After all, Great-Aunt Victoria was
spending the last years of her life in a nursing home, listening to voices that
no one else could hear and seeing people long dead.
Emma had certainly seen something today. Something
unbelievable. Something impossible. And yet it was something she wanted to
believe because of the only other alternative.
Desperate to prove to herself that she hadn’t inherited some
latent insanity gene, she’d hunted for any other explanation. A check of the
Clear Harbor phone book had revealed seven listings for Robert Harris. Nearby
Houston had more than twenty-five listings for that name. But did that prove
anything? Without calling every one of those numbers and describing the
deceased to whoever answered the phone, she couldn’t connect the dead man to a
real person.
Emma nibbled at her lower lip. Had she really seen ghosts? In
spite of the lack of physical or scientific evidence, could ghosts exist and
had her accident somehow given her the ability to communicate with them? What
had happened to Great-Aunt Victoria that had prompted her “communications”?
Pulling her cell phone out of her pocket, Emma pressed the
speed dial number for her parents. After only one ring, her dad’s familiar
voice boomed out, “Nick St. Clair.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Punkin! Hope, get on the extension! It’s Emma!”
Emma heard the clatter as her mother picked up another phone
and said, “Hi, honey! What’s going on?”
“Nothing much.” Emma closed her eyes in guilt.
didn’t think he could handle caring about someone else now. And Emma made him
want to care.
Charlie watched Jason. “You’ve buried yourself in grief.”
Jason looked down at his beer, focusing on his distorted
reflection in the side of the bottle. Taking a deep breath, he confessed, “I
miss Rose, Charlie. I miss her so much it hurts.”
“You and she were close. But she’s gone, Jason and you can’t
hide from life in the garden she planted.”
“I’m not hiding and she didn’t plant it. Mom planted it.”
Jason stared at the blossom-heavy bushes rustling in the sea breeze. “Rose just
took over from her.”
“And you took over from Rose.”
“After I killed her.” Jason took a long pull on his beer.
Charlie pushed out a patient breath. “You argued with her,
Jason. You didn’t kill her.”
“She didn’t hear that car over the tears she was crying
because of the things I said to her.”
“Things she needed to hear.”
“Maybe. But I could have gone easier on her.” He refused to
forgive himself. “She was just doing what I did, going through men like I went
through women, being stupid because she saw me being stupid. I set the example
and she followed it.”
Charlie didn’t respond. He’d heard it before and was
probably as sick of hearing it as Jason was of saying it. But it was the truth.
Charlie leaned down and placed his half-full beer bottle on
the deck. “It was a freak accident. When will you accept that?”
Jason ran his thumb over the reflection in his bottle. “I
doubt I ever will.”
“So you punish yourself. You bury yourself in work.” Charlie
sat back with his feet propped up on the rail beside Jason’s. “I’ve heard that
Emma St. Clair’s ex-husband was a philandering son of a bitch. I imagine she
would be gun-shy about a man with your reputation, anyway.”
Jason frowned and his image in the bottle distorted further.
“I don’t want her to be interested.”
“I wonder why I don’t believe you.”
Lifting his gaze, Jason stared out to sea and wondered why
he didn’t believe it himself. Maybe, just maybe, he had punished himself
enough. Or maybe caring about Emma was just a new, tougher form of punishment.
* * * * *
Emma stared out her office window but didn’t appreciate the
spectacular gold and pink of the sky as the sun set over the rocking waves in
the bay. Instead, her thoughts turned to the image of a dead man and the
possibility that she was losing her mind. After all, Great-Aunt Victoria was
spending the last years of her life in a nursing home, listening to voices that
no one else could hear and seeing people long dead.
Emma had certainly seen something today. Something
unbelievable. Something impossible. And yet it was something she wanted to
believe because of the only other alternative.
Desperate to prove to herself that she hadn’t inherited some
latent insanity gene, she’d hunted for any other explanation. A check of the
Clear Harbor phone book had revealed seven listings for Robert Harris. Nearby
Houston had more than twenty-five listings for that name. But did that prove
anything? Without calling every one of those numbers and describing the
deceased to whoever answered the phone, she couldn’t connect the dead man to a
real person.
Emma nibbled at her lower lip. Had she really seen ghosts? In
spite of the lack of physical or scientific evidence, could ghosts exist and
had her accident somehow given her the ability to communicate with them? What
had happened to Great-Aunt Victoria that had prompted her “communications”?
Pulling her cell phone out of her pocket, Emma pressed the
speed dial number for her parents. After only one ring, her dad’s familiar
voice boomed out, “Nick St. Clair.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Punkin! Hope, get on the extension! It’s Emma!”
Emma heard the clatter as her mother picked up another phone
and said, “Hi, honey! What’s going on?”
“Nothing much.” Emma closed her eyes in guilt.
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