Appointment at Christmas Bay Read online




  Appointment at Christmas Bay

  by Diane Chase

  Text Copyright©2013 Diane Chase

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover design courtesy of www.fotoflexer.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This novel takes geographical liberties for entertainment purposes and is not meant to reflect specific locales or persons within those contexts.

  To the Lord for His Glory

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Most days the Gulf of Mexico was a fair companion to Paul Quinn. Seagulls and pelicans fluttered over her gentle, gray waters and solitary beaches stretched for miles east and west. He needed her more as the years went by, found the peaceful vista pulled his thoughts from the shadows and into God’s majesty. But this morning his Gulf wrestled a giant.

  Near gale force winds churned her waves into frothy swells and sent them crashing to shore, yards beyond the usual boundary. Dark clouds menaced the horizon, likely reloading more pellets of rain presently on leave. “A thunderstorm on steroids,” the forecast should have warned instead of “locally heavy rainfall.”

  Paul sucked in a breath of briny wind gusting through the carport. He hoisted the last cinderblock over the corner of Visqueen covering a stack of sheetrock, soggy on the edges but salvageable. His muscles registered the burn of chasing airborne resin chairs, fishing nets, boxed lighting fixtures, and other gear that last night seemed safe enough in the lower level of his beach house.

  Except for a bag of insulation lodged against the oleanders next to the gravel driveway, he’d done what he could. The railing to the back deck stairs hung by a few nails, but it, like a dozen other projects, needed tending long before the squall hit.

  He dragged the insulation to the storage room. With serious damage averted for now, he needed to head over to Sunset Marina and check on his excursion boat, Della Rae. All was well an hour ago, according to Casey McAllister, the marina owner and his friend. Since the service at The Hook was cancelled, a few guys had already gathered at Casey’s place.

  Paul stashed the insulation atop a barbecue pit. Glad to be finished, his limbs relaxed. His stomach growled from a missed breakfast, but the guys would want to eat, no doubt. As he checked the rescued fixtures—those and the sheetrock precious overflow from a contractor friend—he thought about what he had on hand to take to the marina. Eggs, sausage, a loaf of bread to toast. Before he left, he’d call Casey, make sure he still had power and see—

  Paul sensed the Lord’s touch.

  It’d been so long. Months. He’d fasted and prayed, studied and pleaded for direction, felt especially pitiful on his thirty-fourth birthday a few weeks ago.

  Along the way, God’s comfort came but not answers. So, he’d begun to rely on his own reassurance, hadn’t he? Said the sport fishing business would pick up, that he’d offset the losses from the recession, even afford supplies for the ramshackle beach house. But, in truth, the Lord promised no such specific provision.

  Paul sank to one of the resin chairs in the storage room. Sweat poured down his temples while the uncomfortable notion swirled in his thoughts. Then it came.

  Not the still small voice that soothed his distress, but a boom in his spirit like the storm in the Gulf. Paul turned over the two words he heard, his heart pounding. The idea of God abiding with him often blew his mind. But this?

  Christmas Bay?

  Nevertheless, he should go there. The shallow body of water sat just a few miles down the road, a place suited to kayakers and wade fishermen. Curious several years ago, he toured its banks in his johnboat but had never returned.

  Paul turned out the storage room light and dashed up the front stairs against the blustery gusts and drizzle. The faded blue pickup he kept as a spare was gassed up as best he remembered. Selling his primary vehicle, a late model Ford truck, was still an option to meet expenses, but he pushed that anxiety aside easier than usual.

  He skipped the shower, changed into jeans and a t-shirt, and coaxed the old truck to life. A short road from his place intersected Bluewater Highway, and Paul waited for a van to poke down the waterlogged road.

  Across the street, the wind thrashed low palms and pampas grass, but the way looked clear enough. He drove about a mile with sand gusting in his path and eased through puddles hoping he got it right. It had been God, hadn’t it? Not his imagination or desperation. Paul threw on the brakes.

  A tidal pool rippled across the road. Should he really continue? On his right, the ocean roiled, and left, the bay lapped the pavement. Between them, Bluewater Highway seemed to drift like a thin, concrete ribbon. The tides hadn’t been this high in years.

  Paul massaged the knot at the back of his neck. What was he doing out here? He unclipped his cell phone from his belt to call Casey. Della Rae had to be rocking in her berth all morning. His buddy said he’d call if a problem arose, but one of the lines might have weakened and—

  Should I get someone else?

  Paul pushed his shoulders against the seat. The words spoken to his heart came unmistakably and shamed his wavering.

  “No,” he whispered. He let out a long exhale, relieved he wasn’t forgotten or crazy.

  The painted line flickered beneath the puddle and gave the go-ahead. He eased through and before long coasted freely down the center of the road. As Paul passed the network of swollen bays, he prayed for a scatter of homes on pilings. Their roads were flooded, and some had mostly-submerged vehicles in their carports. He shook his head. Man, they’d all been ambushed this morning, but these folks suffered worse.

  He slowed through another puddle and gazed at the dark bay waters, probably Christmas Bay at this point, although its banks usually stopped a good mile back. Somewhere underwater, a slim, sandy road sliced the marsh grass and led to his only tour of the place.

  Paul spotted a dark car parked bayside. At closer range, his heart raced. A second vehicle was lodged in the marsh, maybe thirty or forty yards out. He pulled behind what turned out to be a maroon Taurus and clicked his emergency lights. He dashed to the red car. There were no dents, no signs of life, except a red purse on the passenger seat. A woman alone? Had she ventured to the car in the marsh?

  He lit into the warm, murky water and splashed toward the compact car. It sat perpendicular to the road, submerged eighteen inches, more or less. The front-end pitched slightly forward as if it hit a dip in the terrain.

  Adrenaline and a southerly wind pummeling his back fueled Paul’s steps. His eyes pinned the car, but muck covered the windows. Panting, he arrived within a few yards of the car when the passenger door flew open.

  Short legs with teal pants and tennis shoes swung around
and splattered into the bay. Paul took two long strides and nearly knocked over the tiny woman struggling to gain her footing. When he offered his hand, she clasped it with the strength of most men.

  She wore a white blouse smeared on the front and left sleeve with blood. The wind blew her curls straight back revealing deep lines furrowing her dark face. In her eighties maybe. She squinted up at him.

  “My glasses, son,” she said, pointing to the passenger floorboard.

  Paul gingerly gripped her forearm while he contorted to reach the glasses. His eyes bugged at the young woman behind the wheel in her late twenties. Rusty red stains smeared her pale yellow blouse, the dash, and window. She glanced at him and then closed her eyes.

  The elderly woman tugged him back outside. “You’ll need to help me to the road, son,” she said, pointing that direction.

  “Is that woman okay?” Alarm pounded in Paul’s chest.

  “My oh my, yes.” The woman pushed the door, and it slammed shut. “You can come back in a few minutes.”

  There seemed to be no choice but hers. Paul gripped her arm, and they sloshed toward the road.

  “What about you?” he asked.

  “Fine, just fine.”

  Paul strained to hear her with the wind howling and leaned closer. “What happened? Was there an accident?”

  “I don’t know, son. But I assure you this is no accident.”

  Paul grinned, perplexed but relieved. He held the woman’s arm as she slid into her car. Her left sleeve was bloodstained more than the rest of her white blouse. He wanted to run back to the other car, but the lady angled her body at him. Her bright, coffee-rich eyes sparkled, a contrast to her aged skin, and Paul found himself smiling.

  She reached for the door and nodded for him to step aside. “Bless you, son,” she said just before it closed. An odd feeling washed over him while he watched her taillights dim down Bluewater Highway.

  With renewed urgency, Paul waded back to the stranded vehicle. He opened the door, wind ripping through the interior, and as much as he hated to be trapped in the gory scene, he closed the door. Seeing the young woman’s soiled garments, a simple cotton top and Bermuda shorts with a kind of Chinese garden print, gave him the willies.

  A bloodied towel lay on the console, and Paul jerked his arm to his side. His legs crooked at an odd angle in the cramped interior, but boxes piled in the backseat prevented him from gaining more room. Oxygen was quickly in short supply.

  “Ma’am, can you make it to the road? I could give you a ride to Surfside,” he offered, thinking he might have to carry her.

  “Surfside?” She rubbed her nasty left fingers over her lips. “Yes, maybe it makes sense to go back there. Or Galveston.” She gazed ahead although the windshield was covered in slime.

  Paul wondered about Bluewater Highway further east. “Do you know anyone in Surfside? I wouldn’t mind taking you to Galveston, but the road’s clear the other direction. I think we should go soon.”

  “Yes, okay.” Her eyes creased with worry. “To Surfside. I’m afraid you’ll need to open my door.”

  When he came around and offered his hand, she took it briefly. Her other hand clutched the bloodied towel. A headband or long sash partially held back her shoulder-length brown hair, and the rest whipped around her face.

  He tried to smile a little for her sake, and he asked, “What else do you need from the car?”

  “A duffel bag. It’s in the trunk.” Her face showed no expression, a sign of shock perhaps.

  Paul took the key and fished her bag from another stash of boxes. The contents were safer here than in his truck bed if the rain returned. Just then, thunder crackled, and a few raindrops splat the surrounding flood waters, affirming the choice.

  By the time he shouldered the bag, the woman was heading to the road. Slim with strong legs and a confident stride, she picked up her pace as the water became shallower. When he arrived, she was staring out her window.

  “Thank you,” she said finally as he u-turned on the road. She fumbled with the duffel zipper and brought forth a cell phone.

  “Was there somewhere in particular you’d like to go?” Paul kept his eye on the torrents of rain that blinded all but twenty yards of the highway.

  “Isn’t there a store?”

  “Yes. It should be open.” Since she wasn’t making a phone call, he asked, “What happened back there?”

  “I’m not sure how to explain it.” She sighed louder than the wind. “I’m Juliette Prescott, by the way.”

  “Paul Quinn. I live a few miles ahead.”

  He’d already noticed the huge, blood-encrusted diamond on her left hand. Talking to her husband made more sense than explaining things to him, but she wrapped her arms around her waist.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what do you think happened? Was the red car involved in the accident? I didn’t think to get a license plate number.”

  She let out a tiny spurt of air, almost a laugh. “No, I did this all by myself.” He hoped she might continue, but instead she asked, “Do you know Marcie and Keith Graham? They own a home on Bluewater Highway, three-story, white.”

  “Double lot with landscaping and a flag pole? I know the place but not the folks. Would you like to go there?”

  “No, thanks. But you must know other people in town.”

  “In Surfside? Most everybody.”

  “What about the lady who stopped?” Her features had relaxed, but her eyes glistened with tears.

  He pictured the taillights of the red sedan disappearing down the road. “No, I’ve never seen her.”

  “Do you believe in God, Paul? I’m sorry to ask these questions. I want to explain what happened.” She shook her head. “It’s just…”

  “I’m good. And yes, I believe in God.”

  She leaned against the seat again and pressed her palms under her chin in a prayerful pose. “This is going to sound crazy.”

  “Maybe not.” If she didn’t get on with the story, he wouldn’t hear it anyway. They’d be in Surfside by now if not for the rain.

  “I was going faster than I should have been,” Juliette began suddenly. “I wanted to take Bluewater Highway back to Galveston and not this detour Harry advised. Everything was fine, and I was going to call him as soon as I got the phone, which, as you know, was in the trunk. Anyway, the road was fine except in spots, and I’m gaping at all these flooded homes. Terrible.”

  She went on to explain how she’d been anxious to flee the Grahams before another rain band pounded through. When she restated how the stretch of road cleared, and she ogled the flooded homes, Paul nodded.

  “Then the tires crunch over something, a branch or buckled pavement. And the backend fishtails, and the car spins completely out of control. It sloshes across the marsh then dies where you saw it. But I’m not hurt.”

  Juliette turned to him and thrust out her hands, turning them over. She said she feared trudging barefoot to the trunk. When she paused, Paul glanced at her. Her hand covered her mouth, and her eyelids fluttered as she stared straight ahead.

  “So, I muster the nerve to open the door, and just as fast, reconsider. I can’t tell how deep the water is. I’m imagining slimy things and snakes. I think, I’ll try in a few minutes so I’m closing the door. But the wind cocks it open. I tug with my left hand and lean out. I yank it, and it gives way. But the wind catches it. The next thing I know…” She leaned forward and hugged her knees.

  “You’re stopping there?” Paul couldn’t suppress a light chuckle.

  “Okay, the next second the door slams. Then…You won’t believe it.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “No one will.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Paul said, surprised by his commanding tone.

  “My arm’s dangling. My fingers are trapped in the frame.” Juliette seemed surprised at her own words. “I open the door right away. Honestly, how can I do that? I don’t know. Oh, it’s terrible…I can’t believe…”

&nbs
p; Juliette rested elbows on her knees and covered her face with her hands. Paul resisted the urge to pat her back and also to urge her on. She sat up in a few minutes and drew a line across her fingers above the knuckles. “They were off, just hanging by sinew, threads.” She shook her head. “And I’m left-handed, ruined.”

  Paul had decided where this was going. The young lady sat there bloody but uninjured. The elderly woman had been undaunted, mysterious even. He listened as Juliette resumed the story, a catch in her voice now and then but no tears.

  She explained how she wrapped the injured hand in a beach towel, how the pain shot through her body like a hundred bullets. She’d been screaming and writhing when the world faded into utter darkness, like floating in space.

  “The agony just stops or it’s far away, anyway the intensity ends,” she said. “Harry…did I already mention he’s my fiancé? We’re on the patio grilling burgers, and when he drops one, Skipper takes off with it.” She smiled like it really happened that way. “We’re laughing, but I wonder, why can’t he see my hand is injured?”

  “You passed out, perhaps.”

  “Yes, I’m not sure how long. This wild wind swooshes all around, and the pain slams back in my body. Someone gets in the car, and I yell, ‘Harry!’”

  “But it was the little lady.”

  “Yes, she’s praying, and I scream at the top of my lungs, ‘Call 9-1-1! Call Harry!’” Juliette grew stronger and pushed her stooped shoulders back.

  She explained that they tussled, that the woman insisted she hold the towel-wrapped, tender hand, and that her throaty prayers rang out in the oppressive heat of the car. They’d battled a time like that until Juliette realized the pain was subsiding. A type of electrical current charged the car while the woman shouted prayers. Finally, too weak to resist, Juliette allowed the woman to peel the towel away.

  “And there it was, my mended hand.”

  “Amen.” Paul imagined the scene in that tiny, oxygen-deprived space, but couldn’t quite get his head wrapped around something so strange.