Sanctuary (21 page)

  
Chapter Twenty-Five
  

THE WATERFRONT HOUSE lay at the far end of the road, set apart from the other homes by ample landscaping and trees. Hand in hand, they strolled up the stone walkway, Ryan grinning from ear to ear. Melissa wasn’t quite sure why her husband had brought her here, having picked her up from the florist shop, her new workplace, and whisking her off to Lord’s Point. “Whose house is this?” she asked, innocent as to what Ryan had planned.

“Ours.” He opened the door for her.

She was amazed at the spaciousness, the open, light feeling as she stepped over the threshold and into the home facing the water. “You’re kidding, right?”

Leaning against the door, he folded his arms over his chest. “I bought it with you in mind.”

She had no reason to distrust him; he’d never lied to her before. “But we don’t have money set aside… .”

He caught her and pulled her close, kissing her lips. “We have money you know not of,” he teased. Then, turning toward the kitchen, he led her through the house. “So what do you think?”

What did she think … well, she could scarcely get the words out. “The truth?”

“And nothing but.”

Standing in the middle of the sun-room, windows wide and wonderful, she claimed the place immediately for her art studio. “I love this room,” she whispered, tears threatening to blur her vision. “Are you sure … this is really ours?”

“Every square inch.” Ryan crossed the room to her. “Wait till you see the backyard.”

She’d already glimpsed the garden area, the rolling lawn, and the private dock not many yards from the back door. Together they meandered about the place, pointing out perfect locations for various flower beds and Melissa’s dream come true—her very own rose garden.
I’ll have gardens like Mrs. Browning’s
, she thought, relishing the idea, wishing above all she could share the truth of her past with her dear husband.

On several occasions she’d started to tell him, but each time decided to wait. Once, while Ryan was watching a television program depicting the dealings of the Mafia, he had laughed out loud, discouraging her further. “Is this for real?” he said, obviously surprised at the facts presented by the commentator. So Melissa withdrew, waiting for the right moment, which never seemed to come.

They moved in promptly, decorating the house from a seemingly bottomless account Ryan said he was glad to share with her. “Been saving up for something like this for a long time,” he told her.

She was frugal in her decisions, however, choosing colors and fabrics, furnishings that met her liking. She included Ryan in the decision-making process, though he wanted
her
to do as she pleased. He made it very clear that this was more her home than his, “only because I know you’re an artist and a woman.” She had let him sweep her into his arms at that remark. “Women have a knack for making a house much more than just a place to hang a hat,” he whispered, his face buried in her hair.

Laughing, she freed herself, reaching for his hand and taking him upstairs. “I want you to see where I’ve hung some of my paintings.”

He obliged, and she was proud to show him the canvas displaying the friendly swan. “I thought this wall was best for it,” she said.

“It is.” He paused, studying the painting.

“Remember that day?”

He drew her near to him. “How could I forget?”

So the framed canvas remained in the hallway, across from the door leading to the master bedroom. “You can’t miss it, coming and going.”

“It’s perfect,” said Ryan. “Like you.”

The Amtrak train to Manhattan was always prompt, and that day Ryan ran ahead, glancing over his shoulder to see that she was close behind as they approached the platform. They had planned a weekend in the city, making the rounds of various art museums. “It’s your birthday, so we’ll do what you enjoy today.”

May seventh
—her first encounter with the new birth date. Disorienting at best. Having been accustomed to an autumn celebration for as long as she could remember, the springtime event fell flat.

“What’s wrong, honey? Aren’t you having a good time?” Ryan asked as they grabbed a salad at a nearby deli.

She couldn’t bring herself to tell him that the day was an ordinary one, in fact,
not
her birthday at all. The whole situation seemed rather silly now that she felt perfectly safe as Ryan’s wife, living in an out-of-the-way place like Lord’s Point. Their home was nestled on a promontory, bordered by Quiambaug Cove and Fishers Island Sound. The cape was sparsely populated, a plus for someone yearning for peace.

“I’m fine,” she answered, presenting him with her most endearing smile. “What a fabulous place to celebrate a birthday.” She considered the little girl, Melissa Leigh Nolan—the
real
girl—long-since buried. Not only had she stolen the child’s name and birth date to escape to freedom, to a life worth living, she had chosen to continue the lie. Playacting, of sorts. But what else was she to do?

It was a Friday morning in mid-August when her good friend Ali Graham called Melissa at work. “Can you get away for an hour or so?” Ali had asked.

Melissa knew she could. Her boss recognized a loyal worker when she saw one. Melissa was certainly all that and more, a conscientious florist’s assistant.

“It’s been forever since we’ve had salad and a good face-to-face,” Ali said, using their catch phrase.

“A face-to-face, eh?” She laughed, glad her friend had called. “I’ll meet you there.”

S&P Oyster Company, located beside the drawbridge, was crammed with hungry noontime patrons. Melissa gave her name to the receptionist and was told the wait would be “about ten minutes.” Okay with that, she and Ali chatted, catching up on each other’s lives. She noted the maroon awning above the outside deck, where small white lights twinkled over flower boxes, night and day.

Expansive windows on the entire west side of the restaurant looked out to the river. Private yachts and the
Mystic Belle
were docked nearby.
The Sabino
, a steam-powered passenger vessel, formerly an island steamer in Casco Bay, Maine, transported tourists to and from Mystic Seaport, a maritime museum.

“Did you and Ryan get to the outdoor art festival last weekend?” Ali asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it. Great stuff.”

Ali said that she and her husband had gone to Boston for a play. “Sometime the two of you should go with us.”

“Sounds like fun.” Melissa felt a bit overwhelmed by the crush of the crowd waiting for tables. “Maybe we should go somewhere else to eat,” she commented.

They were about to leave when her name was called. They followed the hostess down the step to a table for two near the window, overlooking the water. Once seated, she said, “Glad we stayed?”

Ali agreed. “With a waterfront seat? Sure am.”

They quickly ordered from the menu, glad for the opportunity to visit.

Midway through lunch, Melissa noticed a man seated across the room from them. Curious, she stared at him. His angular, square chin and piercing eyes drew her attention. Then it came to her.

“Ivanov,” she whispered. Here, on
her
turf, was the man who’d claimed to be with the FBI in Denver, using the name Galia.

“What?” Ali said, obviously confused.

Melissa watched him a moment longer. She didn’t think he had seen her. But it was only a matter of time before he did. She turned in her seat, shielding her face from his view.

Now what?

“Are you okay?” Ali asked, frowning.

“I don’t feel good. I … I’d better leave.”

Ali looked worried. “I’ll drive you.”

“No.” She rose from her seat, grabbing her purse. “I’ll see you later. I’m sorry.”

“Mellie …” Ali called after her.

Outside, she stood across the street, waiting … watching the entrance. From her position she could see the entire restaurant. Several couples emerged during the few moments she waited. But Ivanov did not.

When she could wait no longer, she turned and headed up the street toward her parked car.
How foolish of me!
she thought as the realization of her precarious situation sank in. Why did she have to handle things herself? Her way?

At home she wasted no time locating the business card for the FBI’s Agent Walsh, the kind man who had offered her protection back in Denver. The man whom she had not so politely refused.

Fingers shaking, she dialed the agent. Thankfully, he remembered her. “I wondered what had happened to you,” said Agent Walsh. “You were going to keep in touch.”

Quickly, she told her story, that for three years she’d been living in the Mystic area under an assumed identity. “But today I saw Ivanov at a restaurant downtown. I don’t know what to do.”

“Did he see you?” he asked, his voice suddenly tense.

“I’m not sure.”

“I don’t like the sound of this. And I don’t believe in coincidences. Do you think it’s possible he followed you to the restaurant?”

“I just don’t know. How could he have found me?”

“That’s what troubles me,” the agent replied. “Think carefully. Did he follow you home?”

“I don’t think so. I waited for him to follow me out of the restaurant, but I didn’t see him come out.”

The agent sighed.

“Should I call the police?”

“That may not be the best course,” he replied. “That would only make you an easy target. This man is very dangerous. Unfortunately, I don’t have an agent in the area right now. Let’s go over this again… .” He asked her a few questions, starting with her address, whether she had kept in touch with her old friends and relatives, and whether or not she had ever married.

“My husband works for New England Asset Management,” she told him.

A sudden pause. “Melissa,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “You must do exactly as I say.”

The terror, that all-too-familiar response, rose in her chest, blocking her lungs, making it difficult to breathe or to think.

“You must leave the area immediately … don’t say a word to anyone.”

“I don’t understand.”

“We have no time to debate this, Melissa. Find a safe place, a
new
location. Make sure you’re not followed. When you arrive at your destination, call me again. Do not use your cell phone, except in an emergency.”