Appointment at Christmas Bay Read online

“I’m not a God-fearing person,” Juliette said.

  “Until today.”

  She removed her head sash and twisted it around her wrist. “I guess I better call Harry,” she finally said. “Hopefully, he’s not still at the Grahams.”

  Why didn’t she want to go there if she knew them? The missing pieces of her puzzle didn’t matter any more than the missing pieces of his. Paul tried not to eavesdrop as she made her call but detected the man in question had already made it halfway to Houston and was on his way back.

  When they arrived at the store, Paul decided to stay in the truck. The clerk’s rusty Toyota was parked out front, and he’d take care of her. Juliette seemed to prefer it that way, too. She had the duffel bag looped over her shoulder and the towel tucked between the straps before the truck stopped. She thanked him and without delay scurried inside.

  Paul pulled away from the store, caught the yellow light at the intersection of the beach entrance, and headed back down Bluewater Highway. If Juliette Prescott had been alone, he could understand going to Christmas Bay. But the little lady could have given her a ride.

  Paul didn’t usually ask why, but it hammered his thoughts on the short drive home.

  Chapter Two

  The detour back to Galveston took an extra hour, but along the way the rain slackened, and the overcast sky finally brightened. Ahead, the mammoth causeway loomed over the gray waters of West Bay, a serene waterscape that already forgot the storm.

  Juliette wanted to forget this day, too, some of it anyway, including the ride home with Harry. She kept her face pasted to the window to avoid him.

  The freeway transitioned to Broadway on the island where evidence of the fierce weather abounded. Palm fronds and oleander blossoms littered the center of the boulevard, and water still pooled in low spots along the stretch of homes and businesses.

  Maybe they wouldn’t talk until they reached her parents’ home, and maybe not even then. She replayed the conversation that sounded like a prosecutor’s cross-examination. A lawyer, Harry worked for Graham, Hamilton & Smith, tinkering with entertainment contracts until his contract expired in December. She’d felt like a hostile witness, slumping on the stand.

  You said you changed clothes at the store and washed up, Ms. Prescott. We haven’t seen that evidence. (He’d ignored her pleas to pull over and get her bag with her clothes from his trunk.) Isn’t it more probable the stains on the towel and the clothes you described are clay or sand or tar, ordinary dirt? Dirty marsh water? You passed out, didn’t you, Ms. Prescott? There was no injury or elderly woman as you described. In actuality, you suffered a concussion and hallucinated, maybe in this condition wandered into the marsh and fell which explains the soiled clothes we’ve yet to see. Hold out your hands, Ms. Prescott. I ask you, ladies and gentlemen, do these fingers look like they’ve suffered an injury? The prosecution rests, Your Honor.

  Harry’s well-spoken argument hadn’t gone exactly like that. Even so, she’d surrendered, feeling no match for his strength. After a bath and rest, maybe in a day or two when she’d formulated an explanation, she’d make him understand. Right now, she didn’t get it herself.

  Despite the crosswise discussion with Harry, returning to Galveston reminded Juliette of their summer of promise. During the miserable comps all spring, this sabbatical was all that kept her going. She was ABD—that sweet place known as All But The Dissertation. Finally, after what seemed like forever, her doctorate in art history was actually within reach.

  Just a few more steps. She had to deliver a ten-page Summary of the Problem to Dr. Kim Cabot, her advisor, in July and after that, the full dissertation proposal late summer. She’d have a solid start on her doctorate in time for the wedding September 28.

  Still silent, and wisely so, Harry made the left from Broadway onto 19th Street toward the historic Strand District. Her parents’ stately home with porches upstairs and down was the postcard image of her summer dreams, except at the moment her father’s car was parked in the driveway. They lived in Houston and hadn’t mentioned coming into town.

  Without comment, Harry got out of the car, and she met him on the curb. He dropped the duffel bag on the sidewalk and brushed her cheek with his smooth hand. His short, sandy hair was on end, and his golden brown eyes gazed into hers.

  “Did you call them?” he asked of her parents.

  “No. I guess better see what’s up.” When she shouldered the bag, her heart fluttered at the towel on top.

  “Listen, Juliette,” Harry said looking at the bag. “I’m exhausted. Let’s talk about this in—”

  “Yeah, that’s best.” She sighed and accepted his peck on her lips.

  She headed to the low, wrought iron gate circling the property and didn’t look back when his BMW U-turned on 19th Street. The front yard showed signs of the storm, mulch and wet crepe myrtle blossoms littering the sidewalk.

  She was approaching the front porch when from the side yard, Lexi emerged toting a rake. Skipper, Juliette’s little terrier mix, dashed around the same corner.

  Last Wednesday, they all arrived in Galveston—Juliette with the dog and Connie Lin with her eleven year-old daughter, Lexi—and from the beginning the girl sulked around. Hopefully, that didn’t mean their little setup was doomed. Her father suggested it when he learned Connie, an associate history professor and former colleague of his, needed a quiet workplace to finish the edits of a book and some other writing ventures.

  Asian-American and recently divorced, the thirty-something mother didn’t mention how her daughter planned to entertain herself this summer.

  “Was that Harry?” Lexi asked. She scraped the rake across the sidewalk gathering petals and twigs.

  “Yes.” Juliette crouched down to the wiggling, muddy dog and roughed up her wiry coat, sides and back. “You’re a mess, little girl.” Skipper’s nose twitched and snorted at her legs, and then she sniffed and pawed the duffel bag at Juliette’s feet.

  Lexi lifted the towel with the rake, and the dog followed it with her nose. “Ew, what’s that? It looks like blood.”

  “It is.” Juliette lifted it by the corner and cringed.

  “Are you a vampire or something?” Lexi pushed her wire-framed glasses up her nose.

  “Yeah, so you better watch out.” Juliette narrowed her eyes at the slip of a girl whose long black hair caught the sunlight peeking through the clouds.

  “Huh?” Not a muscle flinched on the kid’s pretty face. “I know how to get blood out of cotton.” She raked the storm debris into a small, neat pile. “Peroxide. Do you have more laundry? I know all about stains.”

  The kid hadn’t smiled since she got to town and said more in two minutes than in the two days she knew her. Juliette passed her the beach towel. “Go for it. So, where are my parents?”

  Lexi followed her up the porch. “Resting, I think. They got here about thirty minutes ago. Was Harry in the wreck, too?”

  Juliette spun around. “How do you know about that?”

  With wide eyes, Lexi backed down a step. “Your parents told Mom and me. Are you mad or something?”

  “No, no. Just surprised.” If only she had a little more time to figure out what to tell them. She opened the door to the thunder of her parents on the pine stairs and practical collapse into the foyer.

  “Oh, you’re safe! We were frantic!” her mother said. She flung her arms around Juliette, and her father stroked her back.

  “I’m okay, Ma.” She took her mother’s tiny, trembling hands into hers and held them. “How did you find out about the accident?”

  “Oh, it’s the strangest thing. Tell her, Louis.” She shook her head and frowned at her husband.

  “Well, darling, Mother called to make sure you were safely on the road given this storm—” Daddy began.

  “Finally, a man answered. What was his name?” She looped her arm through Juliette’s and held her close.

  Her father’s wrinkled, button-down shirt and khaki slacks looked like he slept in them. A
good head taller than Juliette and her mother, he stooped more than usual. “Paul Quinn. He said you left your phone in his truck. He told us about the incident and insisted you were fine.”

  “Naturally, we came straight into town anyway.”

  “I am fine.” Juliette gripped her mother’s arm still entwined in hers. “Just tired and thirsty at this point.”

  Her parents led the way through the dining room. At the table, Lexi hunched at her computer with magazines and a few books scattered around her. Nothing seemed right—their unexpected visit and the consolation for the calamity she hadn’t absorbed, all the while a short stranger in their midst spying from the corner of her eye.

  In the kitchen, Juliette and her father settled at the round, pickled-oak table. Her mother got a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator. At the cabinet with the glasses, she gasped.

  “What in the world?” she said. She braced herself over the sink.

  “Evelyn?” Louis Prescott hurried to his wife’s side. He glanced at Juliette over his shoulder. “Is this yours, darling?”

  “It’s a towel,” Lexi called from the dining room. “I’m soaking the blood stains.”

  “That’s blood? Oh, dear. From whom?” Mrs. Prescott stumbled away from the counter.

  “Let me get the lemonade, Evelyn. Go sit down.” Juliette’s father brought glasses with ice and the pitcher to the table.

  Juliette rubbed her face to avoid their alarmed expressions. “Mother, Daddy, did that Paul guy mention anything about me being hurt?”

  Wide-eyed, they shook their heads.

  She sighed. “Well, I was.”

  Lexi wandered in from the dining room and joined them at the table. Her father got another glass of ice and poured her some lemonade.

  When he sat down, Juliette barely looked at the three of them, their elbows on the table and drinks untouched. Words failed to describe the flashback, the blood in the car, the shock and pain of her injury, the woman so strange and petite, and the fresh scent of oranges and coconuts wafting in the hot car. The forgotten fragrance seemed right in her nostrils. Detergent? Cologne?

  “Darling,” her father said. “We’re waiting.”

  Juliette snapped back to their stares. “Yes, sorry.”

  She sighed deeply and began with the accident itself, quick as it was. She downplayed her pain for her mother’s sake but detailed the wounds, the woman, and her prayers. Trembling, she sat back and noticed her parents exchange glances.

  Lexi folded her arms. “What did Harry say?”

  Juliette flushed and narrowed her eyes. “What do you say?”

  “Weird. I need to rinse the towel.” She shrugged and strolled to the sink.

  Her mother reached across the table and caressed Juliette’s left hand. “I say you need to go to a hospital, darling.”

  “Mother’s right. We should go now,” Daddy said. He put the glasses on the counter and glanced once more in the sink.

  “But I’m fine. I know it must seem strange, but—”

  “Darling, we just think a doctor should have a look.” Her father coughed and cleared his throat for a full minute.

  Juliette eyed one then the other. At twenty-eight, she still lived at their Houston home while she finished graduate school. The three of them had always been so close. Why couldn’t they hear her now?

  “Wait a minute.” She ran to the foyer, brought back the duffel bag and pulled out the wadded, bloody shorts and top. They smelled rancid, and the rusty-red splotches shocked her all over again.

  Her mother groaned, and Lexi turned off the faucet.

  “Which makes it even more imperative to get a professional opinion,” her father said, his hand on the back of her mother’s chair.

  Juliette dropped the clothes on the bag and laced her fingers behind her neck. About to bust with frustration, she forced a level voice and asked, “Isn’t anyone getting what happened?”

  “Oh, darling.” Her mother shook her head like Juliette lost her mind.

  “Okay, let’s go to the doctor if that’s what you want.” Why couldn’t they believe her? She marched through the dining room and out to the porch.

  Lexi joined her on the steps and so did Skipper who popped out of the garden and into her lap, stamping her with muddy paws.

  “Want me to get a washcloth?” Lexi asked.

  “No thanks.” What would Connie think about her daughter’s involvement in all this? Where was she, anyway?

  “While you’re at the hospital, I could wash the clothes you showed us.”

  Juliette scratched behind the dog’s ears when she settled between them. “I’ll probably just throw them away.”

  “Well, leave your dirty clothes in the laundry room from now on, and I’ll wash them.”

  What kind of kid had a laundry fetish? This day got more bizarre by the minute. Her parents finally ambled out, arm-in-arm. Her mother looked paler outdoors. Neither of them said a word as they passed by.

  “Can you keep Skipper out of the house until I can clean her up?” Juliette asked Lexi.

  “Sure, she likes me. My dad said I can have a dog at his place.” Lexi gathered Skipper by the underbelly and laughed as she tried to wriggle free.

  Juliette smiled until the automatic gate rattled. So, her parents really intended to follow through with the bogus hospital trip. Out of respect, she’d comply. She headed across the flagstone path and slid across the backseat.

  “Let’s get the doctor’s opinion, Gwyneth,” her mother said without turning around.

  Juliette caught her father’s glance in the rearview mirror, and his eyes lingered there.

  “Evelyn, you mean Juliette,” he said tenderly.

  “That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

  Her mother fiddled with her purse, and when Daddy pulled onto Postoffice, she warned him to slow down. This wasn’t an emergency.

  Juliette thought of the mix-up with names, another twist to an already surreal excursion. Six years ago, her older sister Gwyneth, a heroin addict, died in a motorcycle accident. Every year since, her mother’s fragility worsened.

  If she wanted to dwell on it, it’d have to wait. The hospital was just down the street, and they arrived in minutes. Despite the packed emergency room, the triage nurse saw them right away, pinched Juliette’s fingers, and asked her to flex them. She recommended Juliette see their family doctor next week if they were still worried.

  Their trio returned home minutes later. Rather than cook, her father suggested they order pizza and salads from Angelino’s. There was no sign of Lexi or Connie, and their car was gone.

  Juliette retreated upstairs and sorted through the clothes she’d taken for a weekend at the Grahams. Among them was a favorite, vintage sundress she sewed from a retro floral, circa 1930s, in the softest cotton. Quaint, Marcie, the fourth wife of Harry’s boss, said last night. Hard to believe it wasn’t even twenty-four hours ago. Harry’s dream of a permanent position with Graham, Hamilton & Smith had overnight become her worst nightmare.

  She tossed the dress into the laundry basket in the closet. At least, she’d unpacked most of her clothes, now hanging pressed and fresh unlike the rest of her things in the car. Her last look at her vehicle lodged in the marsh made her shudder. On that long drive to Surfside, she hadn’t noticed the Graham’s home or even asked Paul Quinn where his place was. She released a long breath.

  What had he been doing out in such terrible weather? His manner had been softly reassuring. Her mind struggled to remember his features. He’d been slim and average height. Dark, short hair and some stubble. Pale, for a beach resident. His interest in her story was reassuring, even now. Tomorrow, when he returned her phone, she’d thank him properly.

  The ringing doorbell brought back the reality of sharing pizza with her parents. Juliette headed downstairs, passed her father at the front door with the delivery guy, and in the dining room, met her mother who was moving Lexi’s books and laptop to one end of the dining room table.

&nb
sp; Juliette put her arm around her mother’s waist. “I’m sorry for your worry today.”

  “Darling, it’s hard when you don’t have answers for your children’s experiences.” She gripped the chair back and tilted her head as if she’d continue, but Louis came in with two large pizzas topped with several smaller Styrofoam boxes. Her mother had already set plates and silverware at their usual places. Her father sat at the head of the long, rustic table.

  Suddenly fatigued, Juliette watched her parents serve themselves pizza slices while they commented on the aroma. There’d never been a serious disconnect, an impasse, with them. The sickening feeling lingered that this one wasn’t yet settled.

  She folded her hands on the table and closed her eyes. From some deep well, rose the words that covered today’s events. Thank you. Strange to address God. Isn’t that who heard her? How was that possible, a real God and maybe a miracle?

  Her mother interrupted her thoughts, and Juliette blinked her eyes open.

  “Salad dressing, darling?”

  Chapter Three

  The old-world Florence apartment felt damp and somber, all shades of brown and gray somehow. Through the only window, dust particles floated in one dim sunbeam. Juliette leaned closer to the artist’s small desk and watched him sketch the base of a column. He already drew several on the same page.

  Without looking up, he whispered in Italian while he worked. “A spider web…in my one ear, while…all night…chirrups in the…”

  “What, Michelangelo?” Speak up. Please, sir. Embedded dirt lined his fingernails, and he smelled musty.

  A phone rang, an earsplitting intrusion right on top of them. Only, where was the thing? As she searched for it around the desk, a dense fog enveloped the apartment.

  “Michelangelo! Where are you?”

  “A spider web lies hidden in my one ear … ,” he murmured.

  She flailed her arms in the haze and snatched his beard. “Go on, sir. What is the rest?”

  Silent, he licked her hand.

  Licked her hand? Juliette squinted enough to see a blurry Skipper under her arm bathing her fingers.