Distracted Page 2

  She drove on.

  “In 500 feet turn left onto Back Road,” Becky piped.

  Erin glanced to her right and noted a small, rundown cottage. Folding chairs were stacked on the porch. A live oak’s limbs stretched over the structure, shading it well and inhibiting any grass that may have taken root. A rusted blue truck and a trailer hauling a white bass boat were parked in the driveway. A hand-lettered sign offered nightcrawlers and cut bait.

  “Hmmm… Spence’s neighbors aren’t that fashionable.”

  On the left she noticed a small cemetery bordered in a gray, weather-beaten wood fence.

  “Hence the name ‘Cemetery Road,’” Erin said aloud, having started to converse with Becky the previous afternoon. Becky had no reply.

  She stopped the SUV in the middle of the road and looked at the headstones. Most were small, thin eroded stones, discolored with black and green mildew. The trees at the back of the cemetery were stunted, windswept oaks.

  She drove on, passing more houses. “The neighborhood’s improving,” she told Becky.

  She braked the SUV to a crawl and turned onto Back Road. On her right, an octagon, cedar-sheathed house contrasted with an elegant, older house covered in white-washed siding and with a large wrap-around porch. Erin noted that most of the houses on the island were situated on pilings, probably because of rising seawater during tropical storms and hurricanes.

  “Continue point four miles, then turn left at State Road 1341,” Becky monotoned.

  Erin drove through more of the same: an unmarked paved road bounded by rustic cottages mixed with newer construction, shrubs, sawgrass, palmettos and stunted oak trees.

  “Drive point three miles, then turn left onto unnamed road.”

  “No name, eh?” Erin squinted into the sun as she searched for her turn.

  “Satellite signal lost,” Becky announced, and the little cartoon car on the GPS screen became a question mark.

  “Thanks a lot, Becky.” Erin slowed even more after checking the rear-view mirror and seeing nobody on the road. She had to be close. In the distance, she could see houses. Most were three-story wooden and glass sentinels amid the saw grass. They all faced Pamlico Sound.

  “Ahhh, here’s the money,” Erin noted.

  She passed two unmarked, black-topped roads and decided to keep looking. Ahead, on the left, she saw a battered, unmarked mailbox. Just beyond it she saw the edge of a narrow, unpaved road -- a trail really. She imagined the entrance to Spence’s property would be somewhat grand, like some of the houses she passed earlier. It seemed unlikely that the rusting mailbox, impaled by an unpainted wooden post and set in a five-gallon bucket filled with concrete, would belong to a famous artist. “And playboy," she thought.

  “Probably not the road I want to take, right Becky?” she asked the GPS receiver. No answer, of course. Becky’s screen only showed the question mark. “Afraid to commit, are we?”

  She smiled and accelerated past the mailbox, then braked to an abrupt stop. Numbers or letters on the box were more likely to be on the right side, so the postal carrier could see them when delivering the mail. She could at least see if she had passed the address.

  Erin pressed the button to lower the window, leaned out for a better look at the box. It bore only stick-on letters that announced: “S_ence.”

  “You would think a guy like that could afford a decent mailbox,” she said. After checking the mirrors for oncoming traffic, she put the SUV into reverse, backed up a few yards, then shifted forward and turned onto the sand and gravel trail.

  Erin drove slowly and admired the change in topography. There was much more open space now, although it was still swampy.

  “Arriving at destination on left,” Becky chimed, having regained her bearings.

  Erin stopped in front of a massive gray house that floated in the field of sea grass. Unpainted and also on pilings, the wood-shingled house featured a gabled roof and long engaged dormers. Hinged, wood-batten shutters were held open with a stick, protecting the old-fashioned sash windows. The house was encircled by a wrap-around porch and behind it she glimpsed a long stretch of white beach and blue water.

  She didn’t see a driveway, so she stopped her truck close to the edge of the road. She checked her watch. It was just after noon and, according to Patricia, Spence expected her. She hiked the fifty yards to the front door, wading through the sea oats and saw grass that whipped and scratched her bare legs.

  “Shoot,” she hissed, licking a finger and rubbing it on a long, bloody scratch. “I should have worn pants.”

  After plucking sticker burrs from her shorts and shaking sand from her sandals, Erin pressed the doorbell. She waited a minute or two before pressing it again. After a few more minutes, she tried knocking on the door. There was no answer.

  She frowned. Spence knew she was arriving today, so he wouldn’t have left town, she reasoned. After peeking in the windows and detecting no signs of life, she knocked harder, calling, “Mr. Spence. Hello. Mr. Spence?”

  She considered calling Patricia and asking for the artist’s telephone number, but decided she couldn’t give up that easily. Looking for another entrance, Erin walked around the side porch but a locked screen door barred access. She retraced her steps to the front, went down the steps and around the porch. Just past the screen door the land sloped downward. With no stairs in sight, she decided to climb through the railing while she could still reach it. She tossed her purse first. Then, using the railing as a ladder she scrambled up and slithered onto the porch.

  She leaned against a gray piling and studied her surroundings. A few feet away, swinging slowly in a white, cord-twisted hammock was a man. He was wearing faded, ragged shorts and sunglasses. A pair of flip flops and three empty beer bottles on the deck beside him completed the vignette. The mailbox seemed appropriate now, Erin thought.

  She stood up slowly, brushed sand off her shorts and walked towards the sleeping man. She hesitated waking him. Instead, she spent a few heartbeats assessing him. He was tall and tanned. His wavy, sun-streaked hair was a bit long and unkempt. He had a broad forehead and a wide mouth. He kept in shape, she noted. His arms were large and heavily muscled. He had a spare tire, however, so if this was Spence he had forgone the crunches. The hair on his arms and legs was thick. A thatch of copper hair traced down his chest, snaking into the waistband of his faded Bermuda shorts. His feet were long and his large toes splayed and tanned. He must not wear shoes often, she thought.

  “Do I know you?”

  His slow, Southern drawl caught her by surprise. She thought he had been sleeping. Playing opossum instead. She took a step back.

  “Mr. Spence? I’m Erin Andersen. I’ve been sent by Patricia McDowell to help you with your book.”

  He slowly lifted his sunglasses. Steel blue eyes squinted in the morning sun.

  “Hey, move over here, would ya? Can’t see who I’m talkin’ to.”

  Erin picked up her purse and moved to the far side of the hammock, the afternoon sun shining on her face. Spence took in her sandals, her legs, shorts, and shirt. He stared at her chest a few seconds before moving up to her face. Then he grinned. His teeth were bright white against his dark skin.

  “Well, howdy. I forgot you were coming. You want a beer?”

  Erin hesitated, then decided she needed to make friends fast.

  “Sure. It’s been a long, thirsty trip,” she lied.

  Stephen Spence pointed to a bar against the back of the house and said, “Me too. Why don’t you grab us a couple. What’d you say your name was?”

  He hadn’t moved out of the hammock. Just pointed a finger and dropped his sunglasses back into place. Erin placed her purse on the deck and walked to the bar. Behind it, she discovered a small refrigerator. She had to bend over to open it. Inside were Coronas -- at least two dozen and nothing else -- so cold they formed ice crystals when she pulled out two bottles.

  “Opener’s on the counter there. Limes, too.”

  She picked up
the bottle opener. It was ancient and rusty. Glad I’ve had a tetanus shot recently, she thought. On the counter was a basket of limes. Recalling college days with tequila shots and lemons, she rolled the lime, softening its rind so the juice would flow. She pulled open a couple of drawers until she found a sharp knife. She thought about neatly tucking the sliced lime into the opening but decided she should just shove them into the long necks. Lime pulp clung to the inside of the bottle and the beer fizzed. She walked over to Spence and handed him one. The other, she upended. She was amazed at how good it tasted.

  “Ahh, be still my heart,” he said and drained half the bottle.

  Fascinated, Erin watched as he licked the lime from his lips and smiled at her.

  Well, I’m off on the right foot, she thought. She searched for a chair and, not finding one, headed back to the bar, brushed off a few stray crumbs and hoisted herself up onto the counter. Obviously, this was a one-person deck and guests had to make do. If he wasn’t going to provide a chair, she would have to find her own seat.

  “You know, sometimes that’s my kitchen table.”

  “I don’t mind. These are old shorts,” she lied again. She lifted the bottle to her lips. Another shot of courage, she thought.

  She heard him chuckle, a low rumble. “You’re kind of feisty, aren’t you?”

  “Not really, Mr. Spence. I’m your assistant. I’m here to do whatever it takes to help you write your book.”

  She waited. She had learned that sometimes, in situations where the client didn’t appreciate professional intervention, reaction was better than proaction. She would bide her time.

  Unfortunately, Stephen Spence was the kind of guy who didn’t mind the time spent biding. The hammock rocked gently as he occasionally put one of his big feet against the deck and pushed.

  Erin was nearing the bottom of the bottle when she finally gave in. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Nope.”

  He upended his beer, savoring the last of it. He shook the bottle at her expressively and then set it on the deck beneath him where it joined the other three empties.

  Erin exhaled a bit forcefully, blowing wayward tendrils off of her forehead. She lifted her bottle and drank its contents in a series of chugs, then licked the lime pulp off her lips. After setting her bottle to the side, she jumped off the bar and once again bent over to open the fridge. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Spence lift his sunglasses.

  “Are you checking me out?”

  “Yes ma’am. You sure have nice legs.”

  Erin shuffled her feet to the left, giving him a profile of her rear instead of full-on view. “Perv,” she muttered. She pulled two more beers from the ice box and, again, slid lime slices into bottles. She walked to the hammock and put the icy beer into his hand. Then she picked up her purse and went back to the bar. She lifted her long neck bottle in salute and took a deep pull before hopping back up.

  “I’m told you’re having problems meeting your deadlines.”

  Spence did not reply, just rocked slowly in the hammock, the cold beer cradled in his right hand.

  “You do understand why I’m here, don’t you Mr. Spence?”

  “Spence.”

  Erin felt a flash of impatience. “You do understand why I’m here, don’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  She pulled a small notebook out of her purse and clicked her ink pen, the tip poised over a fresh sheet of paper. “I think the first thing we should do is make a schedule.”

  Spence snorted softly and raised his beer to his lips.

  “You think that’s funny?”

  He lifted his sunglasses and winked at her. “Honey, I don’t have a schedule.”

  “Well, now you do, Mr. Spence. You’ve signed a contract to produce a book, and there are deadlines to meet. I’m here to make sure you do. And,” she added, “I’m not your ‘honey.’”

  “Touchy, eh? You married?”

  “No. Not that it’s any of your business,” Erin said, stonily staring across the wetlands.

  “Relax, sweetheart. Just don’t want some angry husband knocking on the door next week.”

  “Well, you won’t. And don’t call me sweetheart, either.”

  “Don’t you like men?”

  Erin sputtered angrily. This conversation is getting way out of control, she thought. “Mr. Spence …”

  “Spence.”

  “Mr. Spence! I’m here to do a job. My sexual preferences are none of your concern.”

  “So hands off, huh?”

  “If I want a relationship, I’ll get a puppy,” she snarled.

  “Hmmm. Sounds like the voice of experience,” Spence observed.

  Erin frowned. In the distance, the Pamlico Sound shimmered.

  * * *

  Four beers later Erin was sitting on the deck, her legs stretched in front of her, burning in the mid-afternoon sun. She felt loopy. Her continental breakfast had consisted of a plain bagel and a Styrofoam cup of bitter orange juice. She missed dinner the night before. She began chewing on lime rinds and peeking into the cracks of the deck for stray peanuts.

  So far she had learned that Stephen Spence rarely got up before noon, and it was only because he fell asleep in the hammock late last night that she had the pleasure of his company now.

  He also talked a bit about Ocracoke, telling her how his family came to the small island.

  “I was born here. There’s not many of us; about 800 or so year-round residents. My folks came to the Outer Banks in the ‘60s and opened one of the first dive shops in the area. My dad was in the Navy and learned how to dive. He taught my mom, and they worked together for years.”

  Erin nodded gently, relaxing at his soft, Southern accent.

  “How long have they been married?”

  “My dad is gone now. He died a few years ago.”

  “Oh, sorry to hear that.”

  Spence sobered. “He died of emphysema. He smoked.”

  “What about your mom? How is she?”

  “She gets along. Still runs the dive shop. She’s a tough old lady.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Well, I’m the youngest, and she had me late. She was in her forties, I think. Surprised as hell when I came along. She’s in her seventies now, but she doesn’t act like it.”

  Finally, he swung his legs out of the hammock and walked over to his guest. She licked her lips. They felt swollen and more hairy than the kneecaps in front of her. He offered his hand. She put her left hand into his and waited.

  “One, two, three.”

  He pulled her to her feet at “three” and smiled. Devastating, she thought, her gut clenching at his brilliant, white smile.

  She leaned against the bar and burped.

  “Oh, my gosh! Excuse me,” she said. “I’m not used to drinking beer for lunch.” She valiantly swallowed the next burp.

  “Don’t apologize. I’m impressed. “ Stephen Spence smiled again, disarming her. “Let’s go inside. You’ve had too much sun.”

  He picked up her purse and slung it over his shoulder. Then he put a hand on her shoulder and steered her towards a sliding glass door. Once inside, her head began to clear. It was at least ten degrees cooler and she spied a large, white sofa.

  “Sanctuary!”

  “I take it you’re not from the South?”

  Erin slumped on the couch and, uninhibited by the alcohol, stretched out and sighed.

  “No. I live in D.C. but I’m from Pennsylvania.”

  “You tired?”

  “Mm hmm.”

  “How ‘bout I let you take a nap while I shower? You mind if I leave you alone for awhile?”

  Erin snored softly.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  He stood in the middle of his living room a few moments and watched her sleep. Honey blonde hair spilled out of her ponytail and covered her face. He was tempted to brush it back.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Erin woke up and reali
zed she had to pee. She sat up and immediately felt woozy. Whoa, she thought, what have I done? No matter; her bladder was more important. She walked slowly down the hall and opened every door she came to. She found the bathroom on the fourth try. She frantically pulled her shorts down and sat on the toilet. Relief was immediate. She put her elbows on her knees and began rubbing her eyes. They were filled with salt.

  “Could you hand me that towel?”

  Her head snapped up and she looked towards the shower. Stephen Spence, half hidden behind a fogged glass door, had turned off the water and noticed that his guest had found him once more.

  She hid her face in her hands and muttered, “Good lord.” She shook her head slightly then, reaching to her left, picked up the towel he had asked for and proffered it in his direction.

  “Thanks. ‘Preciate that.”

  He closed the shower door and turned away, whistling “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?”

  Erin peeked through her fingers and watched through the foggy glass as he rubbed down with the towel, his back to her. Despite her best intentions, she let her eyes slide down, taking in the wet curls against his neck, the broad expanse of his back tapering into a slim waist. A few seconds later, she was slipping through the door but not before stealing one last peek at the man in the shower. He finished drying off and wrapped the towel low around his waist. As he stepped out of the shower, she quickly closed the door and sprinted towards the living room.

  Spence didn’t bother dressing. He followed her into the living room and collapsed into one of the large armchairs. He exhaled loudly.

  “That’s a chore. You ever notice that taking a shower is a lot like work?”

  Erin looked away.

  “No. I, um, generally take showers early. I find it very refreshing.”

  “That so? I don’t generally get up early.”

  Erin laughed. Embarrassed, she attempted to act and converse normally, though she still looked away. “Mr. Spence, I apologize. I didn’t mean to intrude. I had to use the bathroom and didn’t realize you were there also.”