Safe In His Arms

Chapter 3

Never before had she felt such animosity directed at her from another person.

Reeling from the impact of the exchange, Jessie could think of nothing but putting as much distance between her and the man on the dock as possible. In her haste she almost stumbled on a large shell half-buried in the sand. She caught herself as she tried vainly to concentrate on the strip of beach before her.

She’d sensed his presence even before she’d spotted him. There’d been a prickling of awareness, a buzz of anticipation in her chest, telling her that someone near was watching her. She’d recognized him immediately. There weren’t many men blessed with that devastating combination of sun-streaked hair, pale blue eyes, high cheekbones and strong jawline.

Jessie couldn’t believe her own foolishness. She’d been on the brink of saying hello, of letting bygones be bygones. And then she’d caught the look in his eye. That look of pure, unadulterated hatred.

What had she done to deserve his disdain? He didn’t even know her.

Frustration churned inside her. She pushed herself, running faster, faster, willing the image of the man on the dock to fade from her mind. Her feet pounded the beach. Wet, hard-packed sand slid beneath her tennis shoes. The salty air whipped her skin, stinging her eyes. At least, that’s the reason she allowed herself for the tears blurring her vision. All she wanted to do was to go back to the cottage, where she could hole up and wallow in privacy.

Breathless, her heart racing, she slowed to a walk when she finally came to the boardwalk that crossed the dunes to Gull’s Cottage. Sea oats waved in the light breeze. A squirrel darted across the walkway, startling her. Pressing a hand to her breast, she laughed at her own skittishness.

Stepping back, she watched the reckless rodent scramble up a nearby oak tree. Once he’d disappeared beneath a thick canopy of leaves, she turned around and nearly collided with a woman blocking her path on the walkway.

Jessie gasped, her heart leapfrogging into her throat. She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Instead, she stood rooted to the spot with fear, staring into the face of the other woman.

She looked to be in her midfifties. She was short and squat. Her hair was brown and straight, cut in an unflattering pageboy. Her face was wide and square. She wore round glasses that glittered in the sunlight as she studied Jessie’s face. When she spoke, her words were brisk and to the point, “So, you’ve come back, Jessie Pierce.”

“How did you know—” The words caught in her throat.

The woman smiled, seeming amused by Jessie’s flustered confusion. “Thelma from the grocery store called me this morning.” She nodded toward the wood and stone house a few yards down the beach. “I’m your neighbor. The name’s Dora Hawkins. I’ve been the caretaker of your house for over twenty years. Last night I noticed your lights on. Surprised me—I almost came over to check it out for myself. It’s been a long time since anyone’s stayed at Gull’s Cottage.”

“Yes, well…I’ve been living in Atlanta,” Jessie said, finally recovering her voice.

Dora took a moment to digest the news, then said, “I also heard you couldn’t remember anything about your mother, about Eve.”

Bad news traveled fast on the island, Jessie mused to herself. Sighing, she said, “No, I can’t. As a matter of fact, there’s not much about the first five years of my life that I can remember.”

“Nothing at all?” Dora asked, studying her curiously.

Jessie fought the urge to fidget beneath the woman’s scrutiny. She felt like a schoolgirl about to be caught in a lie. The troubling memory of last night’s panic attack flickered in her mind. Until she understood the cause of her fear, she could not share this information with anyone. She shook her head. “No, nothing at all.”

Abruptly Dora changed the subject. “How long are you staying?”

The conversation felt more like an interrogation. Jessie bit back another sigh at the woman’s tenacity. In the polite world where she’d been raised, Dora Hawkins would have been labeled as an eccentric. Which was a nice way of saying the woman was odd. Harmless undoubtedly, but still a kook.

Striving to be patient, Jessie said, “I’m not sure. Maybe for the summer. I need to get things settled here…decide what to do with the house.”

“So, you’re thinking of selling.”

Jessie shrugged. “Possibly. I live and work in Atlanta. There’s not much point in my keeping a house here on Prudence Island.”

“Probably for the best,” Dora said with a sniff. She cast a glance at Gull’s Cottage. “The house is full of bad memories. No need for you to become mired down by them.”

Uncomfortable with the conversation, Jessie searched for a quick way for it to end. She forced a smile. “I’d invite you inside for some coffee, but I forgot to buy any at the store yesterday.”

“No matter, I’ve got work to do,” Dora said, not seeming offended by Jessie’s dismissal. With a nod goodbye, she turned, the rubber heels of her shoes scraping against the wooden walkway. Then, with an abruptness Jessie was fast becoming accustomed to, she stopped, wheeling around to look at her. “How does it feel to be back in Gull’s Cottage?”

“I—I’m not sure,” Jessie said once again, taken aback by the woman’s brusqueness. “It’s quiet, a little spooky. I guess it’ll take a while for me to get comfortable.”

The woman humphed. “I’m not so sure about that, considering…”

Jessie frowned. This was the second time in as many days that someone had alluded to something that had happened in the house. After her panic attack of last night, she couldn’t allow another opportunity to answer the questions of her past to pass her by. “Considering what?”

Dora hesitated, seeming uncertain for the first time since their conversation began. Finally, looking Jessie straight in the eye, she dropped her bombshell. “Considering the fact that your mother was murdered in Gull’s Cottage.”

Your mother was murdered in Gull’s Cottage.

The words echoed hollowly in her mind as Jessie shifted her car into gear and stomped on the gas pedal, taking the rutted lane leading from the house much too fast. Somehow, after her conversation with Dora Hawkins, she’d found the strength to return to Gull’s Cottage, despite her instincts telling her to run…to run from the cottage, from the island, to run all the way back to Atlanta to her home where she belonged.

Home. Was there really such a place? It was as though her entire life had been built on quicksand. Everything that she’d thought was safe and solid was slipping away, crumbling beneath her feet.

When she’d set out on this quest to learn of her past, she’d never imagined just what she might uncover. Eugenia, her only remaining link with her parents, had told her there’d been some sort of scandal surrounding her birth mother’s death. She’d thought it had to do with Eve being so young. Never in her wildest dreams had she believed she would stumble onto a murder.

The air felt close, pressing in around her. Jessie inhaled deeply of the salty scent. She’d been on Prudence Island for only two days.

It seemed like a lifetime.

Now she understood the curious glances, the troubled reactions of the townspeople. Her mother had been murdered on their quiet island. In a community of this size, it must have caused quite a sensation. No wonder they weren’t sure what to make of her presence.

But it still didn’t explain the hatred she’d seen in the eyes of one of their residents—the stranger on the highway, the man on the docks. Why would her return evoke such a strong reaction from him?

The bottom of her car scraped the ground as she hit a deep rut. She slowed the car to a more manageable speed, forcing the troubling thoughts from her mind. She only hoped that she’d made the right choice.

Despite the shock, she’d decided to stay. Now more than ever she had to find out the truth. Her mother had been murdered…and she had no recollection of any of it happening. She was left with nothing but the dreams that haunted her and a crippling inability to trust others.

She needed to know why.

Turning onto the main road, she drove the short distance into town, slowing when she came to Main Street. She parked her car in a public lot near the city hall, then she strode across the town’s square to the brick building housing the library.

Even in a small town there had to be a local newspaper, Jessie reasoned. Her best bet of researching her mother’s murder was to check out the back issues. She climbed the steps to the entrance and pulled open the heavy wooden door. The library was small compared to the ones in Atlanta. But it held the same quiet hush, the same musty odor of old books. Her tennis shoes squeaked against the tile floor, unnerving her as she made her way to the front desk.

A young red-haired woman, looking to be close to her own age, greeted her with a smile. “Good morning. You’re up early.”

Despite the emotions churning in her stomach, Jessie managed a smile in return. At last, a friendly face. Someone who was too young to remember the scandal that had rocked the community nearly twenty-five years ago. “I need to do some research on a project. I was wondering if you had any back issues of the local newspaper.”

“We certainly do,” the librarian said proudly. “All the papers have been transferred onto microfilm. What year were you looking for?”

Jessie hesitated, uncertain how far back to look. Deciding to be safe rather than sorry, she said, “Would it be possible to get a five-year span, say between twenty and twenty-five years ago?”

“That’s a lot of research.”

“It’s a big project.”

The librarian laughed. “Let’s get you started.”

After directing Jessie to the right machine, she showed her how it worked. “Normally we have a thirty-minute use limit. But since it’s a quiet day, and no one else is here yet, I don’t think we have to worry. Take your time.”

“Thanks,” she said. As soon as the clicking of the librarian’s heels against the tile floor faded in the distance, Jessie loaded the first of the cartridges. Minutes passed slowly. Her head began to throb. Her eyes burned as the articles flew past in a blur. And still there was nothing in the newspapers about the murder.

Then, just as she was about to give up, a headline jumped out at her…Local Woman Murdered On Island.

Jessie stared at the picture of the woman who had been her mother. Her hair was long, past her shoulders, and dark, like Jessie’s. But her features were finer, her bone structure more slender. There was a delicateness about the woman, a fragility, that Jessie had never possessed.

Once over the initial shock, Jessie forced herself to read the accompanying article. It was a gold mine of information. Not only did it tell of her mother’s death, but it also gave her a valuable insight into her mother’s life. She was an artist, Jessie discovered—something they had in common. While Jessie chose a more commercial outlet for her talent, her mother apparently had been making a name for herself as a painter in the art world. A former resident of Charleston, she’d moved to Prudence Island shortly after the death of her husband, Jonathan Pierce. She had resided in Gull’s Cottage with her daughter, Jessica.

The account of the murder was sketchy, yet, at the same time, shockingly blunt. Schooling her emotions, Jessie scanned the description. Her mother was killed by a blow to the head in the early evening hours of May twenty-first. Her body was discovered by a Deputy Sheriff Gilbert Broward, who’d gone to the cottage after calls by a concerned friend went unanswered. Mrs. Pierce’s five-year-old daughter was found unharmed in the house. How much of the crime she had witnessed was unknown. Attempts to question her were unsuccessful.

For a long moment Jessie stared at the screen, forgetting to breathe. Her stomach roiled in protest. A bitter taste rose in her throat. She was afraid she might be sick.

Only now did she realize that the uneasy feeling of déjà vu, the terror that she’d felt entering Gull’s Cottage last night, had roots in reality. She’d been in the house when her mother had been murdered.

No one knew how much she’d seen.

The panic attack…was it triggered by a forgotten memory? Had she actually witnessed her mother’s murder? Or was her fear merely the result of the trauma that she’d surely suffered at the loss of her only parent? Frustrated, she realized there were still too many questions and not enough answers.

She still didn’t know who had killed her mother.

Her hands shook as she forced herself to continue her search, reading account after account of the progress of the investigation into her mother’s death. Until finally, a headline with an accompanying grainy photo leaped out at her…Local Man Charged In The Murder Of Evelyn Pierce.

With that single headline, the world dropped out beneath Jessie’s feet. It was as though time had stopped. He hadn’t changed at all in nearly twenty-five years.

Her hands shook as she reached to press her fingers against the grainy picture on the screen. She didn’t know how it was possible, but she’d met the man who was accused of murdering her mother…yesterday on the highway, this morning on the docks…the stranger, the man with the hatred burning in his eyes.

Now she had a name to go with the face…Samuel Conners.

Slowly, reason returned. No, it was impossible. The man in the newspaper, if he were still alive, would have to be nearly sixty years old. The man she’d met yesterday was in his early thirties. They couldn’t be one in the same.

But the resemblance was uncanny. The two men must be related—perhaps a father or an uncle.

Still feeling numb with the shock, Jessie scanned the rest of the articles. Her search turned up more information regarding the trial and the conviction of the man accused of murdering her mother. Once she’d finished, she copied the articles she had found. Gathering up the cartridges, she returned to the front desk.

The librarian smiled as she approached. “That was quick.” When she took a closer look at Jessie’s face, her smile faltered. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Jessie said, unable to stop the trembling in her voice. Clearing her throat, she asked, “Would you happen to have a phone book?”

“Sure, it’s right here.” She reached behind the desk, pulling out a thin yellow book. Her gaze lingered on Jessie’s face. “Are you sure everything’s all right?”

“Positive,” Jessie said, forcing a quick smile. Her hands shook as she riffled through the pages, belying her claim. Aware of the other woman’s hovering presence, she quickly flipped through the book until she came to the Cs. Running her finger down the column, she froze when she found the name she sought.

There was a listing under the name of Samuel Conners.

She stared at the book, her suspicions confirmed. Fumbling in her purse for a pen and paper, she scribbled down the phone number and address. Thanking the librarian, she stumbled out of the building and into the brilliant sunlight. For a long moment she stood looking out at the town’s square. A thick carpet of green grass covered the courtyard. Beds of pink begonias bordered the sidewalk. A flag whipped the air, dancing in a steady breeze. Everything seemed so normal.

Yet, her entire world had been turned upside down.

A gray-haired couple walking hand in hand passed her by, studying her curiously, reminding her that she hadn’t moved. She descended the stone steps. The truth was that little by little she was uncovering a mystery. But the more she learned, the more uneasy she became.

As she strode across the square, she recounted her meeting yesterday on the highway with Samuel Conners. He’d seemed polite, almost friendly and ready to help her…until she’d told him that she was staying at Gull’s Cottage. When she’d told him her name, he’d left abruptly, abandoning her without a word of explanation.

On shaking legs she crossed the street to the parking lot, ignoring the glances of passersby. At first she’d attributed Samuel’s actions to rudeness. Now she believed recognition had played a role in his behavior. It would certainly explain his reaction to her identity—he’d been shocked.

Distractedly she unlocked the door of her car. Climbing inside, she started the engine and pulled out of the lot, not exactly sure where she was going. Then, as though the car had a mind of its own, she found herself searching the island for the address listed in the phone book.

Eventually she found Samuel’s house on the outskirts of town, near the docks. She slowed her car to a stop, her curiosity getting the better of her. It was an older home, but well taken care of. It was painted a creamy yellow, with dark-green shutters. Bright, multi-colored flowers spilled out of the window boxes lining the front of the house. A rustic brick walkway led to the door.