Sanctuary (14 page)

  
Chapter Seventeen
  

IVANOV COMPOSED HIMSELF during the drive toward Connecticut. Confused and shaken by the events of the night, he wondered just what had happened at the little house on the deserted lane. But his mind remained vacantly unaware, as if he were just now coming out of a trance.

He considered turning the car around, waiting for daylight, and making another attempt to approach the house. But thinking of the Denlinger home and the Amishmen caused a cold sweat to break out.

No matter. Ivanov was a resourceful man. In a few hours he’d be back in Mystic, Connecticut. It was time for a surprise visit with Melissa’s husband.

Silently, Ryan slipped out the back door, methodically working his way around the gardens to the peaceful cove, coffee cup in hand. The steam curled and rose into the unseasonable coolness of early morning as gray-backed terns flitted about.

In the distance, the sea was pewterlike—a stunning contrast to last night’s moon-dappled waves. Their sailboat,
Mellie
, shifted with the gentle lapping of waves, air still as death. Just as sunbeams winked over the horizon—a show of gold on Fishers Island Sound—an unexpected gust came up. He turned his face toward wind and sun, experiencing the dawning of a new day, a sunrise that held little hope.

Slowly draining his cup, he considered his next course of action. Three raucous terns interrupted his thoughts, swooping toward the dock and landing on posts. Waiting.

She’s not here
, he thought.
Come again another day
.

Overwhelming sorrow encompassed him anew, and he turned back toward the house. Where the rise leveled off, he paused to look at the sundial, the focal point in Mellie’s miniature rose garden. Abundant with peach-colored thimble-sized blooms, each twelve-inch plant nearly smothered itself in tiny but perfect rose blossoms. Mellie had chosen this classification of rose because of its undemanding nature. “Anyone can grow these,” she’d said, laughing out loud as they worked together.

The color, peach, had been Mellie’s idea. “A peach-hued rose is delicate and stands for admiration. Its Victorian Era meaning was ‘Please, believe me,’ ” she gaily informed him as they planted each one.

“‘Believe me’ … about what?” he’d played along.

“Oh,
you
know.” She stood, wiping her brow and grinning her irresistible grin.

Playfully, he’d run to her, held her close, and whispered, “Believe that I’ll love you for always?”

She nuzzled against him silently. Then, stepping out of his embrace, she pointed to the circular bed where the sundial would eventually stand at center stage—
their
rustic sundial discovered in New Hampshire at the Americana Celebration Antiques Show months later.

The horizontal stone dial was etched with the equation of time, boasting a metal gnomon and, at the center, a single rose. He recalled her squeal of delight at finding such a prize, and on the drive home, she spoke of nothing else. “We own a true masterpiece,” she’d said. “Nearly as ancient as mankind itself.”

“Pretty profound,” he’d teased. “Sounds like you’re a poet today.”

Mellie had laughed with glee, snuggling close to him in the car, humming a happy song and reliving their day in New Hampshire. “Can we go back sometime soon?” she asked.

“Just say the word.” He would take her to the ends of the earth and beyond if she so desired. Whatever brought a smile to Mellie’s face was worth any amount of hassle, aching feet, and empty wallet.

Returning to the house, he was met with sounds of Denny banging around in the kitchen. Apparently, his guest had decided to cook.

“So … you didn’t like
my
eggs?” Ryan mocked.

“Don’t make me answer that,” Denny shot back. “I value your friendship.” He dipped his head beneath the counter, searching for the frying pan, no doubt.

“Over there.” Ryan pointed to the wide drawer under the range and left his friend, going to the living room to phone the office. He left a short message for Marge. “I’ll be a half hour late today,” he said, recoiling at what awaited him upon his arrival at work—having to fill Marge and Bernie in on Melissa.

When Denny called him to breakfast, Ryan was pleasantly surprised with the results. Denny had whipped up creamy omelets and plenty of bacon. The food was good, albeit lethal.

“A few more meals like this and I’ll be dead by next year,” he said, picking up his fork.

“Admit it. You like it.” Denny grinned.

“That’s the problem. I should get back to granola and fruit.” He bit into his toast. “By the way, I have to make an appearance at the office, for a couple hours at least.”

“Not a problem.” Denny tossed a bit of egg Daisy’s way. The dog seemed to inhale it in one sniff. Wiping his hands on a napkin, Denny regarded Ryan uncertainly.

“I thought she’d call by now,” Ryan said flatly. “I guess it’s time to pull a trace on her credit cards and call the cell phone provider. I’ll do that from the office. You gonna hang around here?”

“Sure,” Denny replied. “I’ll read a little. Maybe I’ll look around a bit, if you don’t mind.”

“Make yourself at home, Investigator Franklin.” Ryan rose to clear off the table. Together they loaded the dishwasher and wiped the table.

Ryan marched through the anteroom door to a cheerful secretary. Marge grinned, eyes sparkling.

“What’s that look?” he quizzed her.

“How was your weekend with the preacher man?”

He exhaled audibly. “You know … we could all use a little church around here.”

“Oh my. He
is
getting to you.”

He shrugged. “Any calls?”

“Bernie left you a note.”

He felt a surge of disgust, grabbed the folded note paper, and hurried to his office door.

Marge called after him, “Say, I almost forgot. How did Melissa like the necklace?”

“Don’t ask.” Not ready to broach the subject, he closed the door to his office. Seated at his desk, he removed the key from his pocket and turned the lock, opening the drawers. He rubbed his face with both hands. Already he felt drained, wished he could turn around and go home—forget the day.

A flick of a central switch and all computers and monitors in the room buzzed to life. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes till the market officially opened. Premarket was already in full swing. Clutching Bernie’s note, he cringed. The stock tip was comprised of a mere four letters—a basic stock symbol—
the
stock for the day.

He’d come to despise this aspect of his job. Utilizing the keyboard at his desk, Ryan accessed information on the Internet for the stock’s recent technical pattern and the company fundamentals. Last Friday the stock had closed at 981?2. Contacting his market maker electronically, he placed an order to short twenty thousand shares.

Then, glancing at the corner of his home page, he saw what he had somehow missed upon first booting up. A single e-mail message—originating from his own address.
Strange
. Assuming it was a mistake, his finger involuntarily reached toward the delete key. But just before touching it, instead he clicked the icon.

The note was from Melissa.

Ryan,

I had to let you know I’m okay. Someday soon I’ll make you understand. I promise.

Miss you terribly,

Mellie

He kicked himself mentally. Why hadn’t he realized she might send a note via e-mail? At least he was relieved to hear that she was safe. Also that her leaving wasn’t about
them
. But if not, then what?

Lela thought surely she had time to dash over to Lapp’s General Store, less than half a mile away, before midmorning chores. Hezekiah Lapp never turned away early-bird shoppers, even up to an hour or so before the store officially opened at nine o’clock of a morning.

She was planning a special dinner at noon for Melissa, who’d been in a strange slump before breakfast. The phone call she had been eager for had simply not come.

Some rhubarb tapioca and Mama’s old-fashioned chicken loaf with pimentos and melted butter might help
, she thought.

But she’d run out of a few of the necessary ingredients and decided, since it was another nice day, to bicycle down to the store bright and early. The sky was bluer than yesterday, hardly a cloud, though she could see some building up on the horizon to the north. Still, she was ever so glad to be running errands on behalf of a wounded soul.

Arriving at Hezekiah’s grocery shop, she parked her bike in one of the parallel spots, putting the kickstand down. A shiny blue car was parked at the end of the row. She entered the store, the tinkle of the bell greeting her.

“Hullo there, Lela,” called Hezekiah. “I see you’re out right early today.”

She smiled back. “Need some pimentos for dinner,” she replied, spotting another customer, a man whose back was turned to her, in the bulk foods aisle.

“Let me know if I can help you find anything,” Hezekiah said, glancing over at the man. “And you, too, sir.”

That’s when she noticed the familiar profile, though it had been quite some time since she’d laid eyes on Paul Martin. Nevertheless, he was as handsome today as he had been back in high school. Her heart twitched a bit at the memory of those long-ago days. The demise of their love, due to the woman he’d chosen over her. Deceased now. The irony of it all.