Page 49 of The Summer House
Eighteen
Callie’s handswere sweaty as she drove the hour-long drive, the lockbox and Alice’s journal on her passenger seat. She hadn’t told Olivia what she suspected about Luke or what was drawn in the sketchpad.
She’d asked Frederick to come to The Beachcomber, but he’d said he didn’t feel like he could. He just wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t face the house and all its memories. Now she understood why—it was more than just losing Alice. Callie wrestled with whether or not to mention her suspicions about Luke to Frederick. How would she bring something like that up? Her stomach churned. She could just give him the box and be on her way. But didn’t Gladys always say that the truth would set you free? Yet what good could come of this truth?
As Callie drove, the sky was a threatening shade of gray, lightning flashes radiating through the clouds. The forecasters were watching a fast-moving category four hurricane off the coast of Kingston, Jamaica. It was headed for the East Coast, but they weren’t sure if it would move off to sea. She didn’t want to worry unnecessarily—storms like this were more common in autumn and residents knew how to prepare for them, but it wasn’t losing strength as it moved, and being late summer, it was very early in the season to have this type of storm. It was projected that if it made landfall in the US, it could hit the Outer Banks directly. While The Beachcomber’s porches wouldn’t be finished before the hurricane hit, the walls would be completed out back and they’d installed the latest hurricane window shutters throughout to protect the house. It had stood strong in storms for decades.
The rain began to fall on Callie’s windshield: First one big drop, then two, then a few more as if the clouds were holding on for dear life, their grasp slipping. Then suddenly a sheeting rain came pouring down, making it difficult to see. Thunder clapped loudly as Callie clicked her windshield wipers on high and turned on the headlights. The rain was coming at a slant and nearly clouding her view completely. She put on her flashers and slowed down, both hands on the wheel.
Worried she’d miss the next turn since she’d never taken this route before and visibility was low, she decided to pull off for a minute and let the worst of it pass. Callie looked over at the items in her front seat.What am I doing?she thought.
Her mind went to Luke. He’d had no say in this matter so far. Did he even have an inkling about any of it? He’d told her how difficult things had been with his father, Edward—surely this would damage that beyond repair. Maybe she should just leave the lockbox on the doorstep and forget she ever knew a thing. Yes. That was probably best. If Frederick wanted to be in Luke’s life that was his choice to make, not Callie’s.
She was almost there, the rain was already letting up, and yet she sat paralyzed. But then she remembered Alice’s words in the journal:He allows his heart to lead him, he’s too honest, and he jumps before he realizes the consequences.Callie checked for traffic and then pulled off, the air thick with humidity.
She made the last few turns and pulled up outside a small house. It was a brick rancher with a minimal but tidy amount of landscaping. She pulled into the paved drive and parked behind a white sedan. The rain had tapered off to a continuous drizzle. It clouded her windshield as she deliberated one last time. Then, with a deep breath, she gathered the items in the passenger seat and got out of the car, jogging up to the front door and setting the lockbox on the stoop. She placed the journal on top of it, nerves making her stomach uneasy.
The door opened and she jumped, facing a tall man with dark hair graying at the sides, his bright blue eyes inquisitive as he smiled at her with a familiar smile. She’d seen it so many times on Luke’s face; this confirmed her suspicions completely. She tried to control her breathing as the panic welled up again.
“Are you Frederick McFarlin?” she asked, although she already knew the answer just by looking at him.
“Yes.” His smile faded to a look of trepidation as he focused on the lockbox at her side. Then, as if snapping out of it, he came back up to her face, producing another smile.
“I’m Callie Weaver—”
“Please. Come in.”
“Oh no, it’s fine. Don’t let me trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble. Let me make you a drink to thank you for coming all this way.”
“I shouldn’t—I have to be getting back to the house.”
“Oh.” His face fell a little. “You sure? It’s really no trouble.”
Callie knew she should leave, but his kind eyes made her relent and she picked up the lockbox and journal, and followed him in. She didn’t know why, but she’d expected an artist’s studio or something. The décor was eclectic—he had wooden artwork displayed above the sofa, pieces of driftwood carved into waves and fish; there were photos of waterfalls and an aerial one of a shoreline. She walked over to a painting but, judging by what she’d seen of his drawings, it didn’t look like one of his—she couldn’t really tell, though.
“How about that drink? Would you like coffee? Or water, tea…”
“A glass of water would be nice,” she said.
Frederick left the room and Callie looked around, hoping to find some evidence of his life that could give her answers. He had a few framed photos on the wall but they were of places—maybe locations he’d visited. There was a magazine rack in the corner filled with books. The mantle on the small, brick fireplace was empty.
He returned, set a glass of iced water on the coffee table, and sat back down in the recliner, next to the box. “So, you’ve bought my sister’s place.”
Callie perched on the sofa opposite him. “I’ve admired it since I was a little girl.”
“You going to open it back up again?” He ran his hands back and forth along the arms of the chair and Callie wondered if it was a nervous gesture.
She nodded. “We plan to. My best friend Olivia Dixon owns it with me. Did you ever meet her? Gladys Dixon’s granddaughter.”
“Gladys Dixon?” He was settling into the conversation now, his shoulders falling a little, and Callie could feel her own body relax in response.
“She’s lived across the street from Alice for thirty years.”
He smiled. “Oh, Gladys! She’s a nice lady. I wasn’t around the house a lot in those days.” His gaze rested on the lockbox.
“Oh, well, I think you’d love what we’ve done with the place. We’ve cleaned it all up. We’re putting porches on all the back rooms, repainting everything. I’d like to get a mural painted in the front room. I haven’t arranged to have anyone come out but I have someone in mind.”
