Catherine Coulter: Riptide

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said, his eyes serious upon her face. “If your husband is after you, how do you know he didn’t follow you to the airport? I know New York traffic is nuts, but it’s not all that hard to follow someone, if you really want to.”

“It’s a good thing I’ve read a lot of spy novels and seen lots of police shows.” She told him how she’d changed taxis three times on the way to Kennedy. “When I got out at the United terminal, I was sure no one had followed me. My last driver was one of a vanishing breed-a native New Yorker cabbie. He knew Queens as well as he knew his ex-wife’s lover, he told me. No one followed me, he was sure of it. I flew to Boston, then on to Portland, and bought myself a used Toyota from Big Frank’s. I drove up here to your haven, and he’ll never find me.”

She had no idea whether or not he believed her. Well, all that about her escape from New York was the truth. She’d only lied about who she was running from.

“I sure hope you’re right. But I plan to keep an eye on you, Becca Powell.”

She managed to get him to talk about himself. He told her he was a computer consultant, a troubleshooter of sorts, and he designed software programs for major accounting and brokerage firms, “to track clients and money and how the two come together. I’m successful, Becca, and it feels good. You know, you were the only girl in college who didn’t look at me and giggle at what a jerk I was. You called me a nerd and a geek, but that was okay, it was the truth. Do you know we’ve got a gym in Riptide? I’m there three days a week. I find that if I don’t work out regularly, I get all skinny again, lose my energy, and want to wear a pocket protector.”

“You’re sure not skinny now, Tyler.”

“No,” he said, grinning at her, “I’m not.”

When she showed him out some fifteen minutes later, she wondered again if he’d believed her reason for coming to Riptide. He was a nice guy; she’d hated to lie to him. She was glad he was here. She wasn’t completely alone. She watched him get into his Jeep. He looked up and waved at her, then executed a sharp U-turn. He lived just one street over, on Gum Shoe Lane, but it was a good distance away.

Her house. That felt good. She slowly closed the front door and turned to look at her ancient furnishings. Her mother, the antiques nut, would have shuddered. When Marley Senior had furnished this house, she wondered if he’d ordered anything out of the turn-of-the-century Sears catalogue.

Now that she was settled in, her two suitcases emptied and tucked in the back of her bedroom closet, she decided to explore the town. She locked up the house, got into her car and drove down West Hemlock past one of Riptide’s half-dozen white-spired churches. It was a charming town, isolated, and unspoiled. Just being in such a quaint village made her feel safe.

When she turned her Toyota onto Poison Oak Circle ten minutes later, she spotted the Food Fort. Everyone there was friendly, including the produce woman, who handed her the best head of romaine lettuce in the bin. Since it was a fishing town, there was lots of fresh fish available, mainly lobster. Becca was eager to give everything a try.

Her evening was peaceful. She spent the twilight time leaning over the railing of the widow’s walk, staring out at the ocean. The water was calm; waves crested gently against pine-covered rocks that she could barely make out from where she stood. But Marley Senior had named the town Riptide. Was there a vicious tide that pulled people out to sea? She’d have to ask. It was a scary thought. She’d been caught in a riptide once when she was about ten years old. A lifeguard the size of Godzilla had managed to save her, telling her you had to swim parallel to shore until you were free of the strong current.

She wasn’t being sucked out now, dragged under to die a horrible death. She’d escaped, just as she had when she was ten. Only this time she’d saved herself. Like the ocean on this beautiful evening, her life was calm again. She was safe.

She looked to the left at the dozen or so fishing boats coming back into the harbor. Since it was summer, some tourists were out in their white-sailed boats, enjoying the last bit of the day. The deep scent of brine settled around her. She quite liked it. Yes, she was going to be safe here.

The phone installers were coming the next day. She’d changed her mind at least a dozen times as to whether or not she would even have a phone. In the end, she’d decided in favor of getting connected, perhaps as a gesture of confidence that her stalker would fail to track her down.

The next morning just after nine o’clock, Tyler appeared again at her door, a little boy at his side, holding his hand.

“Hi, Becca. This is my son, Sam.”

His son? Becca looked down at the solemn little face looking up at her. He didn’t look a thing like Tyler. He was sturdy, compact, with a head of very dark hair and eyes a beautiful light blue. Sort of like hers, she thought, and smiled. He looked all boy. He didn’t seem happy to be there. She opened the screen door and stood back. “Do come in, Tyler, Sam.”

He was so wary, she thought. Distrustful. Or was it more than that? Was there something wrong with this precious little boy? Was this Rachel Ryan’s Sam, the little boy she obviously adored? She smiled down at him, then slowly came down on her knees. “I’m Becca. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam.” She held out her hand.

“Sam, say hello to Becca.”

There was a slight edge to his voice. Why was that? She said quickly, “It’s all right, Tyler. Sam can do what he wants. I don’t think I was all that talkative, either, when I was his age.”

“It’s not that,” Tyler said, frowning down at his son.

The child just stared up at her, unmoving, so very still. She didn’t stop smiling. “Would you like a glass of lemonade, Sam? Mine’s just about the best east of the Rockies.”

“All right.” His voice was small and wary. Thank goodness she’d bought some cookies. Even wary little boys had to like cookies.

She sat him at the kitchen table, saying, “Do you have an aunt Rachel, Sam?”

“Rachel,” Sam repeated, and he gave her a huge smile. “My aunt Rachel.”

Sam said nothing more after that, but he ate three cookies and drank nearly two glasses of lemonade. Then he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. All boy, she thought, but what was wrong? Why didn’t he speak? And he looked so blank, as if his mind wasn’t focused on the here and now.

“Do come back, Sam. I’ll make sure there are always cookies here for you.”

“When?” Sam said.

“Tomorrow,” she said, giving him a big grin. “I’ll be here all morning.”

“What are you doing tomorrow afternoon?” Tyler said as he took his son’s small hand.

“I’m going to The Riptide Independent to see if they need a reporter.”

“Then you’ll be seeing Bernie Bradstreet, he’s the owner and the main contributor. A really nice older guy who has his finger in every pie in this town. He’ll probably be very impressed with you. Hey, it seems like you’re going to stay for a while.”

“Yes, I just might.”

“Ah, maybe I’ll see you later when Sam’s with his aunt Rachel. She’s not really his aunt, she’s just a really good friend and his baby-sitter.”

Becca pulled the brush through her brown hair. It was long now, to her shoulders. She pulled it back in a ponytail, then stared at herself in the mirror. She hadn’t worn a ponytail since she was thirteen years old. Then she hadn’t known what evil was. No, don’t think about him. He would never find her. She looked back at herself. The glasses changed her looks quite a bit, as did her darkened eyebrows.