The wolfden, p.9
The Wolfden, page 9
There was nothing but silence from inside the house. “Did she maybe get up and walk to the beach?” I asked helpfully. “You said she’s an early riser. Does she have a dog she takes out for walks or anything?”
“No, no dog,” Roberta answered. “She does have a cat. But he stays at Guthrie’s most of the time.” I thought back to the mangy looking cat I’d seen on Guthrie’s front porch what seemed a lifetime ago. “I doubt she’d be down at the beach this early, especially in winter. It’s so cold…” She frowned and knocked again. “Renee! Renee, are you home?”
“She’s clearly not here, Roberta,” I said after another minute. “Why didn’t we think to call first?”
“I didn’t call because Renee doesn’t do phones,” Roberta explained. “She has one because Guthrie made her buy it, but she keeps it turned off, like, all the time. Especially if she’s at home or at his place. She only uses it in emergencies because she’s convinced if she leaves it on it’ll use up all her minutes. It doesn’t matter how many times you explain it to her.” She rolled her eyes.
“So we can’t call her, and she’s clearly not here,” I said, exasperated. “Maybe we should just head back.”
“What the hell,” Roberta said, kicking at the garbage bag. “I know she’s not at Guthrie’s. I went by there again last night after I left you to pack, just to make sure. So if she isn’t on Jekyll, and she’s not on Tybee, where the fuck is she?”
I looked down at the bag she’d kicked. “She clearly brought her trash out, though…so maybe that’s a good sign? That she was here very recently?”
Roberta didn’t seem to share my optimism. Her face was grim. “But she didn’t even take it to the curb, though. Like I said, she rents this place out a lot. She’s meticulous about keeping it neat and tidy. This is careless, even for someone as flaky as her.” She bit her lip. “It’s like…like she left in a hurry.”
Wordlessly, I followed Roberta as she stepped off the porch and trudged back into the car. She put the key in the ignition and turned to me with a frustrated expression. “Here’s the thing, Stormy: Renee doesn’t just flit around town. If she’s not here, she’s renting the place, and she stays at Guthrie’s. If she’s not there, she’s at the farmers’ market. That’s not open except on weekends. She doesn’t go anywhere else. So if she’s not there, and she’s not here, where is she?”
I shrugged. “With other family, maybe?”
“She doesn’t have much family. Just Guthrie, Lee, Lydia…” Roberta said, her voice trailing off. I wondered if she’d been about to say someone else. “All three of whom are currently MIA.” She bit her lip. “Which means Renee is, too.”
“Why don’t we check out the beach, just really quick,” I offered, trying to be helpful, though the sinking feeling in my gut no doubt matched her own. “Just to rule out she isn’t there.”
“Okay,” Roberta said, backing the car out of the drive. Her voice was low as she looked into the rearview mirror. “But I think…I think this is bad.”
* * *
Ω
* * *
The waves on Tybee Beach were rough and choppy. I could see them as I crossed the public parking lot and headed towards the pier, past the marine museum with the huge ceramic frog out front that I remembered from my childhood. Somewhere, there was a picture of a snaggle toothed, pigtailed version of me sitting on that frog, from one of the few times my parents and I had gone on vacation. The salt smell in the air was strong, and I could feel drops of spray on my face even though I was many yards away from the water. There was probably a storm coming later in the day. The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but I could still see the ominous gray of the horizon.
Roberta and I were going to walk down the pier and scope the beach for Renee, just in case she might be there, though we both knew she wasn’t. The truth—that she’d gone missing, too—lay thick between us. The air was frigidly cold, colder than November in South Georgia usually was, but also clammy and full of moisture. It felt gross on my skin, so I pushed my jacket sleeves down and crossed my arms as we walked up the ramp and out to the sea.
There were a couple of hardened fishermen out enjoying the solitude, but the pier was largely empty. The big, open, octagon-shaped pavilion where locals sold pizza, sno-cones, and fishing bait to hundreds of tourists were all shut-up and silent. There was no music piping from the ceilings, no lifeguards patrolling the beach. Other than a few early rising year-rounders stumbling around in the sand, Tybee was deserted. Roberta and I passed through the pavilion and down to the wharf, where we walked quietly, both of us lost in thought. A large black crow was perched on the railing, regarding me silently, his head cocking back and forth, one large black eye peering at me quizzically as I walked by. I held eye contact with the beautiful, inky-black bird until he was behind me.
“The place is a ghost town,” Roberta said to me as we neared the end of the wharf, which opened into a rectangular area where people fished; it was where the all-day fishers congregated, the ones who were serious. There were only a couple of guys out, lines cast, sitting on benches with their hats down over their eyes. Not much biting today, apparently.
I meandered over to the railing and leaned over it, my arms resting on the splintered wood. The sea at Tybee was always the most interesting shade of murky gray-brown, due to the water from the Savannah River that mixed with the sea. Jekyll Island also boasted murky gray seas, but they were less warm, more desolate and subdued. It was a difference almost imperceptible to anyone who hadn’t grown up in the area, but I could tell. I watched the waves gently licking at the sand, the seagulls swaying on heavy wind gusts, and smiled. It had to be in the mid-forties, and the sun, coming up over the horizon, deep orange and moody, wasn’t providing a lick of warmth. One lone surfer crested a big wave before succumbing to the icy water and exited with his surfboard under his arm. How on earth anyone felt like surfing at six a.m. in frigid, winter seas was beyond me, but I envied him his passion and energy. An older woman and a man I assumed was her husband, both white-headed under their straw hats, hobbled along the beach, the surf occasionally coming up to their ankles, stopping here and there to pick up shells. A teenage girl leaned against the abandoned lifeguard stand with a pad in hand; it looked like she was sketching. I wondered if she was skipping school, and what she was drawing—the dark, dreary waves, the freight ship off in the distance, hulking and red, the swaying seagulls, or—
My mouth dropped open as my eyes came to rest on the figure the girl was drawing: It was a man, emerging from the water after a swim, droplets of white flying off his shoulders and his jet-black, shaggy hair as he shook himself off. His legs were long and muscular, and as he exited the water, he almost appeared to be dancing, his movements in tune with the waves crashing behind him. Letting his ankles stay submerged, he ran his hands back through his hair, squeezing it to get rid of the water. He wiped at his face, and looked up towards the pier, his dark eyes seeming to flash with glimmers of the morning sun.
“Holy crap,” I yelped, jumping back from the ledge, a bolt of lightning shooting through my heart. “It’s him!”
“Who?” I heard Roberta exclaim behind me, but I didn’t take the time to answer.
I bounded back down the pier, heading for the stairs, which were yards away. When I finally reached them, I took them two at a time, almost tripping over my own feet and plummeting into the cool sand. I ripped off my Vans, knowing they’d only slow me down, and bounded through the sand towards the stretch of beach where I’d seen him emerge. The girl was still leaning against the stand, drawing. I ran towards her, and as I crested the small hill, my heart began to pound. It was him. He was here. I had no idea how, but he was here.
By the time I reached the water, I was out of breath. I scanned all around me, my hand over my brow, looking. There was nobody there. The elderly couple had disappeared down the beach, heading towards the dunes. Everyone was gone. But I knew I’d seen him.
“Stormy, what the hell?” I turned to Roberta, who was clumsily traipsing through the sand, holding my shoes. She held them out to me. “What on earth had you running like a madwoman without shoes in the middle of winter? Did you see Renee?”
“No, not Renee. I thought I saw…no, I know I saw him,” I said, taking the shoes, my heart sinking in my chest. “I know I did. He was right here, swimming. And then he came out of the water, and I know it was him because he shook himself off and dried his hair exactly like he did at Jekyll—”
“Stormy, what are you talking about? Who did you see?”
“Phillip,” I said miserably. “I saw Phillip.”
She looked confused. “Your boyfriend? I thought he lived in Boston.”
“He did, or does, or does again… I don’t know.” I threw up my hands. I felt like I might cry. I had seen him. I was certain of it.
“It was probably a trick of the light. I saw a guy, too, but it was a surfer. That was probably who you saw.”
“No, it wasn’t the surfer. I saw him too, but Phillip was closer to the wharf.”
“I didn’t see anybody else, Stormy,” Roberta said.
“I know I saw him.” Desperate, I ran over to the girl at the lifeguard stand, who was still drawing. She had earbuds in her ears and didn’t notice me. I had to wave my hand in front of her to get her attention. Reluctantly, she pulled her jacket hood down and took the buds out of her ears.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, feeling ridiculous. “I just saw a man out there, swimming. But when I got to the beach, he was gone. I was wondering if you saw him? That’s who you’re drawing, right?”
The girl’s brow furrowed, and she turned her drawing pad around to show me. My heart sank. She’d been drawing the huge freight liner off in the distance, and above it, the gray horizon. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see any guy. Unless you mean the surfer?”
“No, not him,” I said. “A guy with black hair, green eyes. I think he was wearing black swimming trunks. Really handsome.”
She shook her head. “Locals wouldn’t swim in this weather. Only the surfers are stupid enough to get in. Sorry.” She put her earbuds back in and resumed drawing.
My shoulders sank and Roberta cuffed me on the arm. “Look, you’re distraught. And tired, and stressed, and we just hit a dead end. I’m sure you just…thought you saw him. It’s totally understandable.”
“I guess so,” I said reluctantly, but she was wrong. I hadn’t imagined it. I hadn’t imagined Phillip.
“Let’s head back to Savannah,” Roberta said in a kind voice. “There’s nothing left to see here. We’ll check out, pack up the car, and I’ll treat you to a coffee on River Street before I take you to work. If that doesn’t fix you up, nothing will.”
Nothing will, I thought glumly, but I pasted on a fake smile and followed her, shuffling through the cold sand, barefoot and freezing, toward the parking lot. Phillip had been here; I’d seen him, felt him. But there was nothing to do but go home after such a fruitless trip.
I turned to look at the stretch of cold, gray beach one more time, scanning desperately in the hopes of seeing a streak of black hair or pale skin—but the beach was as desolate and empty as my heart. I suddenly no longer felt like hitting up the gym; instead, I wished I could crawl into bed and sleep forever.
8
I was in the process of bouncing a check to Walmart.
I didn’t get paid until Friday, but it was Wednesday and there wasn’t a crumb of food in the house. I’d spent the last five dollars to my name paying for a fancy coffee on River Street with Roberta two days before. She’d offered to treat, but I’d refused, not wanting to be indebted to her. I’d been rattled, after seeing what must’ve been a ghostly apparition, or figment of my imagination on the beach—it couldn’t have been Phillip; I knew it was impossible—but the feeling of unease hadn’t gone away.
Adding to my frayed nerves, I’d run smack into someone when we were checking out of the hotel. I’d been staring down at my phone, hoping for texts from Phillip, not paying attention, and had walked headfirst into someone standing there—a man with piercing, cold eyes who had been none too pleased when I accidentally knocked over his briefcase. Papers had spilled out and he’d scrambled to pick them up, rudely shaking off my arm when I’d moved to help, ignoring me as I apologized profusely. The chilling glare he’d given me had sent chills up my back and left me in a funk that had been hard to shake. Buying overpriced coffee and candies on River Street with Roberta was my attempt to salvage the morning, but it hadn’t really helped. I’d just ended up with a bunch of leftover fruit slice candies that I’d given to my boss, Jean, and a bad case of heartburn. To say nothing of the vague sense that I was losing my mind, and my now-empty bank account.
Savannah sure was expensive to be so cheap, to quote everyone’s favorite southern heroine, Dolly Parton.
I’d known my finances were in dire straits ever since Boston, when I’d been with Phillip, but I’d stubbornly refused his help then. I thought back to the bag of cash he had unearthed from his old house and admonished myself. I didn’t have to take any extra, but he had been trying to pay me back. Add being totally broke and starving to the list of things my stubborn pride had caused. Why did I push people away so much? Why did I insist on being so stubbornly independent, knowing how it messed up my life?
I adjusted the basket on my arm and stared into it, frowning. I didn’t even like to shop at Walmart—I was morally against the big box store—but my champagne tastes were a no-go until I could build my bank account back up. So there I was, buying tofu, rice and beans, tortillas, apples, and an ill-advised family sized package of Oreos at Walmart with a check I knew I didn’t have the funds to back up. Memories from my childhood swirled behind my eyes as I remembered standing in the Winn Dixie with Mama more than once, watching her write checks for SpaghettiOs and beer with money she definitely didn’t have.
I had officially hit rock bottom.
My phone buzzed in my pocket as I signed the check and slid it towards the cashier, hoping she couldn’t glean from my expression that the check was bad. I pushed the phone further into my pocket, holding my breath as she fed the check through the little machine. I hoped it wasn’t one of those newfangled machines that automatically deducted the check amount from my bank account like a debit card. The stodgy old Brunswick Walmart hadn’t been remodeled—or cleaned, from the looks of it—in decades, so it was probable that they’d still be using outdated technology and depositing their checks at the bank every few days like it was still the 1990s. Still, I held my breath. The check printer was loud and slow, and my heart raced as I waited, clutching my ID so hard I could feel it cutting into my skin. I had every intention of depositing my check in the bank Friday to cover the overdraft, so it wasn’t technically stealing, right? My heart pounded.
Finally, the cashier presented me with the check and a receipt, smiling brightly, and I exhaled, grabbing my bag of sort-of-stolen loot and scrambling out the door as if someone might follow me and demand I give it all back.
Once I was back at the truck, I grabbed my phone, hoping for a message from Phillip, whose absence was becoming unbearable. A small part of me had assumed I’d hear from him after a day or two, that his missing me would be too great, but there had been nothing but silence. It was beginning to creep into my head. I wished I would hear from Lee, that he’d crop up and say everything was fine, that it had all been a misunderstanding. Hell, at this point I’d even welcome a message from Sloan.
But the text wasn’t from Phillip, Sloan, or Lee. It was Roberta again. I frowned.
“Still no news,” the text read. I scrolled down to the next message. “I’m guessing you haven’t heard from Lee, either.”
“No,” I tapped out with my thumb. “I’ll let you know if I do.”
I got into the truck and put the keys in the ignition with a deep sigh. I wasn’t looking forward to going home for yet another night alone. It was wild to think I’d felt so lonely before everything had happened, before Phillip, Lee, and the rest of them had come into my life. Truth be told, I really hadn’t been. I’d hung out with Sloan most nights, had other friends on stand-by, had gone on a date every now and again. The loneliness I’d thought I felt then paled in comparison to what I felt now.
I plugged my phone into the auxiliary and hit “shuffle” on Spotify, simultaneously hoping and not hoping that the Bloomer Demons would come up on my playlist. Hearing Phillip’s beautiful, razor-sharp baritone would be painful, but it was the kind of pain I craved. I kept seeing him emerging from the water on Tybee, the droplets clinging to his newly shorn black hair, his eyes flashing in the early morning sun. I hadn’t imagined him; I couldn’t have.
Right?
I sighed with relief and disappointment as the first few bars of Queens of the Stone Age came on. It was entirely possible that I was losing my damn mind. So much had happened in such a short time; it was putting me under an insane amount of stress. I didn’t want to admit that Roberta might be right, that I’d hallucinated him out of thin air. But it was the only logical explanation, wasn’t it? Why would Phillip, who had gone back to Boston, suddenly turn up on Tybee, swimming at six a.m. in the middle of winter? It made no sense.
Josh Homme was singing in his sultry, booze-soaked voice, “I sat by the ocean, and drank a potion, baby, to forget you…”
If only I had such a potion. Well, I was a witch, wasn’t I? Maybe I should learn how to make one. One that would make me forget all of this so I could go back to the life I had before. One that could make me forget my heartbreak.
Fastening my seatbelt, I decided to try and put Phillip Deville out of my mind, potion or not. There was no way to explain it in a way that made sense. Roberta was right. I’d just imagined Phillip on Tybee. He was back in Boston with his friends, rekindling his old life, and I was here, and that was that. No sense dwelling on things that were impossible. Especially when there were more pressing matters to attend to.
