Rainshadow Road (Friday Harbor 2)

“Get out, get out!” Lucy had had enough. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was going to do next, but she didn’t want Kevin to be there when she did it.

He went to the doorway of the studio. “We’ll talk more later when you’ve had a chance to think about this, okay? Because I want us to stay friends. But the thing is, Luce … Alice is going to be moving in pretty soon. So you’ll need to find a place.”

Lucy was silent. She waited in shattered stillness for minutes after he left.

Bitterly she wondered why she was surprised. The pattern had never changed. Alice had always gotten what she wanted, took whatever she needed, without ever sparing a thought as to the consequences. Every member of the Marinn family put Alice first, including Alice. It would have been easy to hate her, except that at certain times Alice possessed a mixture of vulnerability and melancholy that had seemed like an echo of their mother’s quiet sadness. Lucy had always found herself in the position of taking care of Alice; paying for dinner when they went out, loaning her money that was never repaid, letting her borrow clothes and shoes that were never returned.

Alice was smart and articulate, but it had always been difficult for her to finish anything she started. She changed jobs frequently, left projects unfinished, broke off relationships before they went anywhere. She made a dazzling first impression—charismatic and sexy and fun—but she ran through people quickly, apparently unable to last through the mundane day-to-day interactions that cemented a relationship.

For the past year and half, Alice had been a junior scriptwriter for a long-running daytime soap. It was the longest time she had ever stayed in a job. She lived in Seattle, occasionally traveling to New York to meet with the head writers about overall story arcs. Lucy had introduced her to Kevin, and they had hung out on a few occasions, but Alice had never shown any interest in him. Foolishly Lucy had never suspected that the borrowing of her possessions would extend to stealing her boyfriend.

How had Alice and Kevin’s relationship started? Who had made the first move? Had Lucy been so needy that she had driven Kevin away? If it wasn’t his fault, as he had claimed, then it had to be her fault, didn’t it? It had to be someone’s fault.

She crinkled her eyes shut against the hot pressure of tears.

How did you think about something that hurt this much? What did you do with memories, feelings, needs, that didn’t belong anywhere?

Lurching to her feet, Lucy went to her vintage three-speed bike, which was propped near the doorway. It was a turquoise vintage Schwinn, with a flowered basket on the handlebars. She reached for the helmet that hung on a hook beside the door and took the bike outside.

Mist had settled on the cool spring afternoon, stands of Douglas fir puncturing a layer of clouds as light as soap foam. Gooseflesh rose on her bare arms as a breeze pressed a damp chill into her T-shirt. Lucy rode with no direction or destination, until her legs burned and her chest ached. She stopped at a roadside turnout, recognizing a trail that led to a bay on the west side of the island. Walking the bike along the rough trail, she came to a line of steep cliffs made of weathered red basalt and pods of pure limestone. Ravens and seagulls picked over the leavings of low tide on the beach below.

The island’s native population, a tribe of the Coast Salish, had once harvested clams, oysters, and salmon in their reef nets. They had believed that the abundance of food in the strait had been a gift from a woman who had long ago married the sea. She had gone swimming one day, and the sea had assumed the form of a handsome young man who had fallen in love with her. After her father had reluctantly given his permission for them to marry, the woman had disappeared with her lover into the sea. Ever since then the sea had offered, in gratitude, rich harvests for the islanders.

Lucy had always liked the story, intrigued by the idea of such encompassing love that you didn’t mind losing yourself in it. Giving up everything for it. But it was a romantic notion that existed only in art, literature, or music. It had nothing to do with real life.

At least not hers.

After lowering the kickstand on her bike, Lucy took off her helmet and made her way down to the underslung beach. The terrain was pebbled and rough, patches of gray sand bristling with driftwood. She walked slowly, trying to figure out what to do. Kevin wanted her to leave the house. She had lost her home, her boyfriend, and her sister in one afternoon.

The clouds lowered, smothering the vestigial layer of daylight. In the distance a thunderhead sent rain to the ocean in showers that moved like gauze veils over a window. A raven gained loft over the water, its black wing tips separated into feathery fingers as it rode an updraft and headed inland. The storm was heading this way—she should leave and take shelter. Except that she couldn’t seem to think of anywhere to go.

Through a salty blur, she saw a green glimmer among the pebbles. She bent to pick it up. Bottles thrown into the ocean from offshore boats were sometimes churned up and washed to the shoreline, tumbled by waves and sand into frosted pebbles.

Closing her hand around the piece of sea glass, she looked out at the water lapping against the shore in rough blankets. The ocean was a bruised gray, the color of regret and resentment and the deepest kind of loneliness. The worst part about having been deceived the way she had been was it made you lose faith in yourself. When your judgment was that wrong about something, you could never be fully certain of anything ever again.

Her fist was burning, a knot of fire. Feeling an odd squirming tickle against her palm, she opened her fingers reflexively. The sea glass was gone. In its place a butterfly rested on her palm, unfolding iridescent blue wings. It stayed only a moment before shivering into flight, an unearthly blue gleam as it flew away to seek shelter.

A grim smile tugged at Lucy’s mouth.

She had never let anyone know what she could do with glass. Sometimes when she experienced powerful emotions, a piece of glass she had touched would change into living creatures, or at least remarkably convincing illusions, always small, always transitory. Lucy had struggled to understand how and why it happened, until she had read a quote by Einstein—that one had to live as though everything was a miracle, or as if nothing was a miracle. And then she had understood that whether she called her gift a phenomenon of molecular physics, or magic, both definitions were true, and the words didn’t matter anyway.

Lucy’s mirthless smile faded as she watched the butterfly disappear.

A butterfly symbolized acceptance of each new phase in life. To keep faith as everything around you changed.

Not this time, she thought, hating her ability, the isolation it imposed.

In the periphery of her vision, she saw a bulldog making his way along the edge of the water. He was followed by a dark-haired stranger, whose alert gaze was fastened on Lucy.

The sight of him kindled instant unease. He had the strapping build of a man who earned his living outdoors. And something about him conveyed a sense of having been acquainted with life’s rougher edges. In other circumstances Lucy might have reacted differently, but she didn’t care to find herself alone on a beach with him.

She headed to the trail that led back up to the roadside turnout. A glance over her shoulder revealed that he was following her. That jolted her nerves into high gear. As she quickened her pace, the toe of her sneaker caught on the wind-scuffed basalt. Her weight pitched forward and she hit the ground, taking the impact on her hands.

Stunned, Lucy tried to collect herself. By the time she had struggled to her feet, the man had reached her. She spun to face him with a gasp, her disheveled brown hair partially obscuring her vision.

“Take it easy, will you?” he said curtly.

Lucy pushed the hair out of her eyes and regarded him warily. His eyes were a vivid shade of blue-green in his tanned face. He was striking, sexy, with a quality of rough-and-tumble attractiveness. Although he looked no more than thirty, his face was seasoned with the maturity of a man who’d done his share of living.

“You were following me,” Lucy said.

“I was not following you. This happens to be the only path back to the road, and I’d like to get back to my truck before the storm hits. So if you wouldn’t mind, either step it up or get out of the way.”

Lucy stood to the side and made a sardonic gesture for him to precede her. “Don’t let me hold you back.”

The stranger’s gaze went to her hand, where smears of blood had collected in the creases of her fingers. An edge of rock had cut into the top of her palm when she had fallen. He frowned. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in my truck.”

“It’s nothing,” Lucy said, although the cut was throbbing heavily. She blotted the welling blood on her jeans. “I’m fine.”

“Put pressure on it with your other hand,” the man said. His mouth tightened as he surveyed her. “I’ll walk up the trail with you.”

“Why?”

“In case you fall again.”

“I’m not going to fall.”

“It’s steep ground. And from what I’ve seen so far, you’re not exactly sure-footed.”

Lucy let out an incredulous laugh. “You are the most … I … I don’t even know you.”

“Sam Nolan. I live at False Bay.” He paused as an ominous peal of thunder rent the sky. “Let’s get moving.”

“Your people skills could use some work,” Lucy said. But she offered no objection as he accompanied her along the rough terrain.

“Keep up, Renfield,” Sam said to the bulldog, who followed with apoplectic snorts and wheezes.

“Do you live on the island full-time?” Lucy asked.

“Yes. Born and raised here. You?”

“I’ve been here a couple of years.” Darkly she added, “But I may be moving soon.”

“Changing jobs?”

“No.” Although Lucy was usually circumspect about her private life, some reckless impulse caused her to add, “My boyfriend just broke up with me.”

Sam gave her a quick sideways glance. “Today?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Sure it’s over? Maybe it was just an argument.”

“I’m sure,” Lucy said. “He’s been cheating on me.”

“Then good riddance.”

“You’re not going to defend him?” Lucy asked cynically.

“Why would I defend a guy like that?”

“Because he’s a man, and apparently men can’t help cheating. It’s the way you’re built. A biological imperative.”

“Like hell it is. A man doesn’t cheat. If you want to go after someone else, you break up first. No exceptions.” They continued along the path. Heavy raindrops tapped the ground with increasing profusion. “Almost there,” Sam said. “Is your hand still bleeding?”

Cautiously Lucy released the pressure she had been applying with her fingers, and glanced at the oozing cut. “It’s slowed.”

“If it doesn’t stop soon, you may need a stitch or two.” That caused her to stumble, and he reached for her elbow to steady her. Seeing that she had blanched, he asked, “You’ve never had stitches?”

“No, and I’d rather not start now. I have trypanophobia.”

“What’s that? Fear of needles?”

“Uh-huh. You think that’s silly, don’t you?”

He shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips. “I have a worse phobia.”

“What is it?”

“It’s strictly need-to-know.”

“Spiders?” she guessed. “Fear of heights? Fear of clowns?”

His smile widened to a brief, dazzling flash. “Not even close.”

They reached the turnout, and his hand dropped from her elbow. He went to the battered blue pickup, opened the door, and began to rummage inside. The bulldog lumbered to the side of the truck and sat, watching the proceedings through a mass of folds and furrows on his face.

Lucy waited nearby, watching Sam discreetly. His body was strong and lean beneath the worn bleached cotton of his T-shirt, jeans hanging slightly loose from his hips. There was a particular look about men from this region, a kind of bone-deep toughness. The Pacific Northwest had been populated by explorers, pioneers, and soldiers who had never known when a supply ship was coming. They had survived on what they could get from the ocean and mountains. Only a particular amalgam of hardness and humor could enable a man to survive starvation, cold, disease, enemy attacks, and periods of near-fatal boredom. You could still see it in their descendants, men who lived by nature’s rules first and society’s rules second.

“You have to tell me,” Lucy said. “You can’t just say you have a worse phobia than mine and then leave me hanging.”

He pulled out a white plastic kit with a red cross on it. Taking an antiseptic wipe from the kit, he used his teeth to tear the packet open. “Give me your hand,” he said. She hesitated before complying. The gentle grip of his hand was electrifying, eliciting a sharp awareness of the heat and strength of the male body so close to hers. Lucy’s breath caught as she stared into those intense blue eyes. Some men just had it, that something extra that could knock you flat if you let it.

“This is going to sting,” he said as he began to clean the cut with gentle strokes.

The breath hissed between her teeth as the antiseptic burned.

Lucy waited quietly, wondering why a stranger would go to this amount of trouble for her. As his head bent over her hand, she stared at the thick locks of his hair, a shade of brown so rich and dark that it appeared almost black.

“You’re not in bad shape, considering,” she heard him murmur.

“Are you talking about my hand or my breakup?”

“Breakup. Most women would be crying right now.”

“I’m still in shock. The next stage is crying and sending angry text messages to everyone I know. After that is the stage when I’ll want to rehash the relationship until all my friends start avoiding me.” Lucy knew she was chattering, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “In the final stage, I’ll get a short haircut that doesn’t flatter me, and buy a lot of expensive shoes I’ll never wear.”

“It’s a lot simpler for guys,” Sam said. “We just drink a lot of beer, go a few days without shaving, and buy an appliance.”

“You mean … like a toaster?”

“No, something that makes noise. Like a leaf-blower or chain saw. It’s very healing.”

That drew a brief, reluctant smile from her.

She needed to go home and think about the fact that her life was entirely different from how it had been when she woke up that morning. How could she go back to the home that she and Kevin had created together? She couldn’t sit at the kitchen table with the wobbly leg that both of them had tried to fix countless times, and listen to the ticking of the vintage black-cat clock with the pendulum tail that Kevin had given her for her twenty-fifth birthday. Their flatware was a jumble of mismatched knives, forks, and spoons from antiques stores. Flatware with wonderful names. They had delighted in finding new treasures—a King Edward fork, a Waltz of Spring spoon. Now every object in that house had just become evidence of another failed relationship. How was she going to face that damning accumulation?