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Sailing out of Darkness

By Normandie Fischer

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Chapter One

Black night’s emptiness, the bed reeks of nothing.
Cuckoo sings the melody, but no one hears.

Samantha Ransom smoothed her palm across the silky sheet, stopping when she touched a feathered mass of pillow. Just that movement roused a whiff of Jack’s aftershave, along with traces of sweat and man, and memories flashed—of his touch, of his fingers, oh, and of his kisses. They danced in her head, unbidden. Unwanted.
On a moan, she tossed the pillow to the floor and pressed a fist against the wrench in her gut. The sound oozed from her belly, growing louder as it hit the air.
Long minutes passed before her cries quieted to ragged breaths. She kicked free of the tangled top sheet and waited for a sleep that would not come. The minutes became hours as the cuckoo in her old clock intoned their loss.
Something crunched on the gravel outside her open window, sending her heartbeat’s thurump to double time. She balled her fists. An intruder would give her something to fight against instead of this self she couldn’t control.
But no one came.
The silence echoed off the walls, reminding her of childhood nights when she’d bit her lip and squeezed shut her eyes to keep the bad away. “Let it go,” she whispered now.
At the first gray of dawn, she eased out of bed, snatched at the sheets, and let them lie in a heap on the floor as she took her used body into the bathroom. Climbing in the shower, she tried to scour away the night and her misery with a lavender body wash.
The unscrubbable followed her to the laundry room, where she stuffed the sheets in the washer and turned the water temperature to hot. It settled on her as she ground coffee beans and placed the kettle on to boil.
Samantha’s, her coffee/kitchen shop, was closed today. Church would happen all over the Eastern Shore of Maryland, but she wouldn’t be there. Not today. Not this week. Not when her chest blazed its scarlet A, and God seemed un-found. Silent.
She wandered the downstairs rooms, waiting for inspiration, for something that would occupy her hands and perhaps her thoughts. She’d vacuumed, dusted, and polished during yesterday’s storm. She didn’t want to cook. Or pull weeds.
Perhaps she’d tackle her little boat’s brightwork. The rain had kept her from sanding the mahogany on the centerboard trunk or touching up those peeling spots of varnish on the bowsprit. Besides, working on the Alice II always calmed her.
Leaving the coffee untouched, she donned her grubbies and headed toward the river. The wind lay still. The sky shimmered a light blue as the sun rose higher in a day that ought to hold some joy.
With one hand on the rail that led down the bank, she glanced at the dock. And squinted as she looked again, because it couldn’t be.
Her boat’s mast listed a good thirty-degrees to port. Dashing down the steps, Sam tried to grasp the hows, let alone the whys. She always left enough slack in the lines to compensate for the rise and fall of the tide—unless she’d been careless when she’d last secured the boat. Because of those other things on her mind.
Alice strained against the dock. Thank heaven Sam had tied off the boom so it wasn’t dipping over the left side, adding its weight to the rest. The bailing bucket, lines, and a sponge slopped around in a cockpit half-filled with water.
Her pulse beat a jitterbug as she knelt and leaned out and over. Nothing there. Perhaps forward?
Lying on her belly on the hard wooden dock, she stretched to check under the raised gunwale near her. And there they were, a series of small holes just below what would normally have been the waterline. At each indentation, starburst cracks in the boat’s interior gelcoat radiated outward.
She pushed herself up, studying the outside of the hull to be certain Alice hadn’t hit barnacles or rubbed against a piling. But that wouldn’t explain the starburst cracks. Those meant someone had stabbed from inside the cockpit.
Thank God, she’d messed up the dock lines, tightening them instead of leaving them loose enough for tidal changes. If she’d cleated them properly, any holes below the waterline would have sunk Alice. Whoever had poked those holes hadn’t expected the short dock lines and the very low tide to keep the boat lopsided instead of at the bottom of the river.
Sam wanted to weep, but no tears came. She felt like retching, but what good would that do? About as much as railing aloud to an empty river.
The name flashed: India Monroe.
It must have been India.
She saw again India’s face, the binoculars dangling from her neck as Sam and Jack sailed back to the dock. She felt again the hurt when Jack leapt from the boat and went to India’s side to escort his old girlfriend away from his new girlfriend’s boat.
He’d phoned Sam after he’d settled India at home, after he’d soothed—or somethinged—India.
What was it, only days ago? Right now, it felt like years.
“We’re through,” Sam had told him then, her voice full of the tears that streamed down her cheeks.
“This isn’t working. I can’t see you anymore.”
“You don’t mean that.” Jack hadn’t even pretended to believe her. Instead, he’d smiled behind those words, hadn’t he, resurrecting a half-forgotten image of Jack-the-boy not taking her seriously and of herself, two years younger, stamping her feet at him.
She’d curled her toes and banked her frustration. “I do. This time, I do.”
“We’ve been through this, Sam honey. I’m not with India any more. You know that. I don’t live there. It’s you I love. It’s you I need.”
Why couldn’t he see? “I can’t be the person who makes another woman hurt like that. Imagine what she saw through those binoculars.” Sam bit back a moan that wanted to climb right out of her belly.
Memories of what they’d done, of what India might have witnessed…
“It’s wrong,” she finally said. “We’re wrong.”
India’s pain was only half of it. The smaller half. Still, it was obviously the half that had holed Sam’s boat. But neither India’s pain nor her own disgust at herself had stopped Sam from opening the door to Jack. She always opened to him.
A gull squawked and waddled at the end of the dock. With the tide coming in, she had to do something about those holes before the rising water loosened the lines and let the river sink her precious boat.
Sam found another bucket and line in the shed and prepared to bail. But no, she needed to fill the holes first, because an emptied Alice would bob upright, putting those holes under water. Into the bucket went epoxy, hardener, filler, and fiberglass cloth, along with sandpaper, thick gloves, solvent, tape, and a roll of paper towels.
From her awkward position on the dock, the prep work took hours. At forty-five, she was too old to be lying on her stomach, stretched out and over to sand and clean the affected area. By the time she’d mixed and slathered on thickened epoxy and added a layer of fiberglass for strength, patches of her skin were rubbed raw, and a few seldom-used muscles screamed for relief.
The repair job wasn’t pretty, but at least it would keep the water out. If only she could patch her own self as easily.
__________

Jack’s words when she phoned to tell him about Alice set her teeth on edge. “It’s got to be kids, though I admit this is getting way out of hand.”
Why wouldn’t he admit it might be about him? About them?
“Jack, really? You know it’s not kids. Besides the fact that none live nearby, why would anyone randomly pick me as a target—again?” She waited for him to get it and finally spoke into the silent phone. “What about calling the sheriff?”
“Sure. Maybe he can figure this out. In the meantime, you want me to send someone over to mend the boat?”
“Like you did when my tires were flat and my screens slashed?”
“I’d come myself,” he said, “but I told you, I’m heading out of town in about an hour. All goes well, I should be back next Sunday.”
“I’ve already patched Alice’s holes.” She kept her tone flat instead of the round and mad that stayed just out of reach.
“Well, good.”
“Jack.” Her voice had pancaked to the point that the stupidest person should have been able to see she was on the brink, and Jack wasn’t stupid.
“What?”
What did he mean, what? “You need to speak to India,” she said. “She’s the only one with a motive.”
“Honey, she wouldn’t. Look, I’ve known India Monroe for ten years. She’s got issues, but I can’t imagine her hurting you or anyone else.”
“Then you’re naïve.”
His loud sigh made her want to kick something. She’d have used his shins if he’d been nearby.
“Fine, I’ll call her. Hold off on the sheriff.”
“I will for now, but you need to tell her that won’t last. And don’t forget to assure her we won’t be seeing each other anymore. Maybe that’ll get her to leave me alone.”
“I can’t say that, because you know it’s not true.”
“It has to be. This time, it has to be.”
Three strikes, and you’re out. She’d had her three—and more.
“I’ll talk to her, but I’ll also see you when I get back.”
He didn’t wait for her answer.
Sam stared at the silent phone and slowly set it down. How had this disconnect happened? She said the words. He talked right over her and then walked right in. But could she blame him? Even the mess with her screens hadn’t stiffened her spine enough for her to bar the door.
She glanced over her shoulder at the back porch. It had been another morning like this one, sundrenched and clear. She’d padded into the kitchen to the scent of fresh brew and filled her mug before heading to the porch to welcome the day. She could still feel the burn from the sloshed coffee on her wrist and fingers.
Someone had ripped down her screens.
No, not ripped. Sliced. Knifed.
She’d set her mug on an inside table, dabbed her hand on her bathrobe to dry it, and stepped out.
Boards had creaked under her feet, but she’d focused on one particular section of screen where the red letters of half a word still hung straight, leaving a B and an I. Flopped toward the floor had been three more, their shapes distorted by the folds of dangling mesh, but still guessable. She hadn’t wanted to touch them, or touch anything at all.
The corner of a chair had hit her thigh as she’d backed away. Stumbling, she’d grabbed the wall, turned, and fled, locking the door behind her.
Now, on this morning of regret, she pictured blond hair surrounding a face contorted with anger.
The sting of tears replaced the slamming of heart against ribs. Because she’d known, then and now.
Only one person hated her enough to wreck such damage.
__________

Gray obscured the room when she woke the next morning, as if cataracts fogged her lenses. She rubbed her eyes to clear them and climbed from bed. The cuckoo in the hall reminded her it was time to get a move on. Work waited. The world waited.
She showered, dressed, and applied armor before she faced town: a dab of concealer under her eyes, a heavy application of blush, and a flick of waterproof mascara. She pulled a turquoise silk shirt off a hanger, slipped into black slacks and black flats, and added a pair of small gold hoops.
She packed a salad for lunch. Samantha’s offered baked goodies for those who came in looking for a tall cup, or who wanted new knives or blenders or a cookbook so they could stir-fry in their new wok. Maybe she needed fattening, but not with espresso brownies, because she couldn’t help thinking that once she got started, she wouldn’t be able to quit. And today was not the day to get started.
Not unless she wanted to turn into her daddy’s cousin Lulu, who’d blimped to 368 pounds when her husband ran off with his boyfriend. One brownie at a time had segued into one cake at a time and then into two cakes plus a gallon of ice cream. Lulu had died of heart failure before she hit forty-nine.
Maybe Sam’s heart hadn’t yet been completely shattered like Lulu’s, but it surely had fissures big enough to leak the life right out. And she’d carved a slew of them herself.
Still, she had both of her shops, the first of which she’d built from nothing before the coffeehouse craze hit Annapolis. And she had her beautiful little sailboat, her sweet, newly restored cottage here in Sussex. And, of course, the twins plus one and a half. Lulu’d had no one. Not even her cousin.
That one-and-a-half still took some getting used to. She liked her daughter-in-law and the prospect of that new life Cindy carried. But it wasn’t so very long ago that Daniel and his twin sister, Stefi, had been children on top of each other and her, their voices echoing, the thump-thump of their music swelling until it almost burst the walls of the house they’d all shared in Annapolis. Sometimes, when fixing breakfast for herself, she imagined the twins sitting behind her, begging for waffles: “Please, Mom, just one more?”
Her once-upon-a-time babies had morphed overnight, one into a husband and soon a father, the other, her sweet girl, into a design student in Florence, Italy. They were barely twenty-two.
Sam could feel wrinkles sagging her arms, her neck, her world. She was almost a grandmother.
Soon, she’d need bifocals. A walker. A wheelchair.
That image provoked a bark of laughter.
“Get over yourself,” she said, scrubbing harder at a splatter of oil on the counter.
Clouds darkened the sky as she finished putting away her lunch fixings, and the first spatters of rain hit the gravel as she headed out of her driveway and into Sussex. Good thing she’d fixed Alice’s holes before the rains returned.
Sam beat a tattoo on the steering wheel in time to the slosh of her wipers. She ought to get the radio fixed. Or put in a CD player.
She’d scheduled another training session for her Sussex assistant, Tootie, on some of the software both shops used, and Rhea was supposed to call with a report from the Annapolis Samantha’s at ten.
Her morning would be busy. Busy was good.
Busy might keep her from…what? Calling the sheriff? Banging her head against the wall?
__________

By closing time, Sam barely had energy to get herself home, like a horse that had been ridden hard and put away wet. “Yeah, right,” she told her Toyota. “I’m more like wrung out and hung up wet, and I’ll be wetter if this rain doesn’t slow.”
She picked up a ready-made spinach salad and an already roasted chicken at the grocery store, along with a loaf of freshly baked multigrain, and headed home. Where she found a voicemail from Jack.
“Missing you. I’ll be back Sunday, if all goes well. I love you.”
He loved her, but he hadn’t mentioned speaking to India. He loved her, but he wouldn’t stay away when she begged him to.
Well, of course not. Why should he believe she meant it?
She stabbed at her salad and tried to chew a bite that included greens and a chunk of goat cheese. It needed more salt. Pepper. Something.
She sipped her wine, which should have mellowed her, shouldn’t it? When the phone rang, she jumped but let it go to voicemail.
Another sip, another stab, and curiosity propelled her to check the message. It was Rhea’s voice this time, saying, “We need to talk.”
Sam hit the Call button. “You rang?”
“I did,” Rhea said. “Honey, you didn’t sound so good today. Oh, I know you didn’t mean to let me hear it. But this is me, remember?”
Sam picked up her glass and carried it to the couch. Sliding down against a fluffy pillow, she sighed. “Oh, Rhea. It’s bad.”
“Tell me.”
“I found holes in Alice yesterday. Looked like an ice pick had made them.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking? That it’s the old girlfriend up to her tricks?”
“Who else?”
“So, why’d she come after you this time? I thought you’d shuffled that man all the way out of your life.”
Sam twirled the wine in her glass, but she couldn’t bring herself to drink. Or to speak.
“You didn’t? Oh, honey. I told you what you gotta do.”
Rhea had. Rhea’d been steadfast when Sam’s Annapolis church friends had sent worried looks and cold shoulders, as if her divorce were catching. So, of course, Sam had clung to Rhea’s friendship.
And big-mouth Sam had told Rhea all about meeting up with her childhood best friend, Jack. About him working on her house. About how fun it was to play on Alice with Jack.
It hadn’t taken Rhea long to jab her finger on the tabletop when Sam had visited the shop and say, “Honey, you gotta flee.” Then those fingers had fluttered in a little wave as if to shoo Sam out the door. “The Lord’s really clear on this. You hear? Temptation like that? You gotta run fast as those legs of yours will carry you.”
She’d said it more than once since she’d learned the truth. But in the beginning of the mess, the voice in Sam’s head had whispered contrary messages. You can do it. You’re strong. Just say no.
Who’d ever come up with that platitude? Just say no.
Sure. Right. Great idea, and workable for a saint, which Sam obviously wasn’t.
No, Rhea’s had been the better advice: “Hightail it out of Dodge.”
“I know,” Sam said. “I wish I’d listened.”
“So, now what?”
“What do you mean, now what? I’ve made a mess of things.” Her voice quavered. She didn’t want to cry again. That’s all she seemed to do these days when Rhea called to check on her. Rhea was the One Who Knew All.
“Girl, are you closing off again?”
Sam didn’t answer.
“You stop that. Right now.”
“It’s so hard. I want to be good. I do.”
“Well, honey, you tell me how you’re gonna do that, right there in that town with him? A man you trusted ’cause he was your buddy way back when? And after all that mess with Greg?”
“I know. I know.”
“So, now what?”
“You already asked that.”
“I did. But you didn’t answer.”
How could she? She hadn’t a clue. “You said flee. But that’s not an option. I mean, I’ve got two shops and a house and a boat. And now I’m a grandmother-to-be.”
Rhea hooted.
Sam pulled the phone away and stared at it. “What’s so funny about that?” she asked.
“That baby’s not coming for a long time. And you think you’re indispensable at the shops? You think you haven’t trained me and that girl, Tootie, to do just fine without you hanging over our shoulders? What’s got into you? You’ve got Stefi studying in Italy, right there in that beautiful country. And don’t you try to tell me you can’t afford to go visit her.”
Sam pulled up her knees and hugged them to her chest. She hadn’t even considered traveling. And to Italy? Oh, my. “I always wanted to see Rome, Florence,” and on a whisper, “Venice.”
“You think I don’t know that? How many times did you tell me that fool husband of yours promised to take you? You think I wasn’t counting? That I didn’t see your face time and again when he disappointed you?”
Dropping her feet to the floor and letting out a breath from deep in her gut, Sam nodded to the room and to her glass of wine, which she tilted to her lips. The dark liquid slid down her throat. Maybe it would help her decide what to do.
“You think it’s really possible?” she asked, her voice smaller than she’d heard it in a while. “That I could leave everything?”
“Honey, it’s not just possible. It’s a got-to-do.”
“And you think Tootie could manage without me?”
“Why not? I’ll only be an hour away. I can help her with the bookkeeping and payroll. Didn’t you say you’d hired a part-timer?”
“Her fiancé’s older sister. I told you about Holland, the banker.”
“And how’s that working out?”
Sam laughed. “We’ll see, won’t we? At least Holland’s a good foot taller than his sister. He can stand at Tootie’s back if she needs him.”
This time, Rhea’s laugh loosed humor. “So, you go on and buy yourself a ticket. Get healed and free.”
The idea settled, took hold, and started to bud. “I’ll try.”
“Good. Now you call me with the details soon as you make them, hear?”
“Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. You just come back whole enough not to need some man to fill in the gaps.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sam disconnected and wandered outside to the top of the cliff. The rain had stopped, and the sun eased below the horizon, throwing everything in shadow. Alice bobbed below, salvaged, but not yet beautiful. If she left, someone else would have to take care of finishing that job. Or maybe she’d just haul her boat in for the season.
Was leaving really possible?
She turned on her heel and headed inside to her computer. She’d just check on fares and schedules.
Find out how much she had in her savings account. How much she could spare.
For healing.
Did ex-wives and ex-lovers attend some sort of twelve-step program? Or did they just evolve and explore until they found new ways to cope? New words to define themselves after all the old ones failed.
Maybe this could be her Betty Ford Clinic Abroad.

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