* * *
“You should stay away from it. It’s ready to fall down,” Mike told Maris as he took a swipe at the mantel with a piece of fine sandpaper.
“If it’s that dilapidated, is it safe for Parker to go there alone?”
“Of course not. But try telling him that.”
“Mike…”
Sensing her hesitation, he turned toward her.
“Never mind,” she said. “It wouldn’t be fair to either you or Parker for me to ask.”
“About…?”
“His disability.”
“No, it wouldn’t be fair.”
She nodded, shook off the solemn mood, and asked, “How do I get there?”
“It could be dangerous.”
“I promise to run if it starts to fall down.”
“I wasn’t talking about the building. I meant you could be in danger from Parker. He doesn’t like to be disturbed.”
“I’ll take my chances. Is it close enough to walk?”
“Do you walk a lot in New York?”
“Every day, if the weather’s good.”
“Then it’s close enough to walk.”
After giving directions, he cautioned her once again. “He won’t like it when you show up.”
“Probably not,” she replied, laughing lightly.
She had spent all day indoors, reading until her eyes felt strained. It was good to get outside, although by no stretch of the imagination could this be referred to as “fresh air.” The heat was impossible, the humidity worse. The sunlight was glaring and relentless, but even shade offered little relief from the sweltering heat.
Still, the island was exotically beautiful, and the climate was essential to it. The live oak trees had an ancient, almost mystical dignity that was enhanced by the curly Spanish moss draping their limbs. The dense air smelled of salt water and fish, not altogether unpleasant when mingled with the intoxicating perfumes of the flowering plants that bloomed in profusion.
Maris passed a house that was set well back from the road. Children were playing in the yard. The boy and girl were young enough to dance around the lawn sprinkler without self-consciousness. They squealed in glee as they took turns leaping over the oscillating spray.
At another house, she spotted a large dog lying in the shade of a pickup truck. She crossed the road and watched him warily as she moved past, but she needn’t have worried. He raised his head, looked at her with disinterest, stood, stretched, made three tight circles in the dirt, then resumed his original spot and closed his eyes.
She met no cars on the road. Her only company were the cicadas that buzzed loudly but lazily under cover of the thick foliage.
The abandoned cotton gin was located right where Mike had said it would be, although if his directions hadn’t been so precise she might have missed it. The forest had reclaimed the structure. From some angles, it would have been totally camouflaged by the greenery that enfolded it.
To reach it from the road, one had to take a crushed-shell path. It wasn’t much of a path, however. Maris regarded it dubiously. It was no more than a yard wide, at most. Tall weeds grew on either side of it. Looking down at her bare ankles, she seriously considered passing up the gin in favor of the island’s other points of interest that Mike had recommended.
“ ’Fraidy-cat,” she muttered.
She looked around for a stick, and when she found one that was suitable, she started up the path, reaching far out in front of her to beat at the tall weeds. She wanted to alert any varmints, reptilian or otherwise, to her presence and give them an opportunity to relocate before she saw them.
Thankfully, she made it up the path without encountering any local fauna. She dropped her stick, dusted off her hands, and took a good look at the hulking building. It was, as Mike had described, a structure on the brink of collapse.
The wood was gray and weathered. The tin roof had been corroded by rust. Large patches of the exterior and part of the roof were covered by an impenetrable carpet of vines. One species bloomed bright purple flowers that seemed incompatible with the overall feeling of dilapidation and abandonment.
With misgiving, Maris approached the wide door that was standing open. The interior was even larger than indicated by the exterior. It was cavernous and dark inside, with only an occasional stripe of sunlight shining through a separation in the vertical wooden slats that formed the walls or a miniature spotlight cast on the dirt floor by a hole in the roof.
The rear half of the lower story was covered by a loft. The ceiling of the overhang was built of massive wood beams. A large wheel about ten feet in diameter was situated just beneath this ceiling and was connected to the dirt floor by a wood column as big around as a barrel. Maris had never seen anything like it.
She blinked to adjust her eyes to the gloom. “Hello?” Receiving no answer, she stepped inside and took a few hesitant steps forward. “Parker?” After a moment, she repeated, “Hello?”
“Here.”
She jumped and flattened her hand against her heart, coming about quickly. He was in a corner behind her, invisible except for one ray of sunlight coming through the roof and reflecting off the chrome of his chair.
Recovering, she asked crossly, “Didn’t you hear me?”
“Are you serious? All that thrashing? You’d never make it as an Indian brave.”
“Then why didn’t you say something?”
“How’d you get here?”
“Walked. How’d you get here?”
“How do I get everywhere?”
“You can roll your chair along that path?”
“I manage.”
He remained where he was, but she could feel him looking at her and realized that she must appear only a silhouette against the square of light behind her. She advanced farther inside but only a few steps.
“Where’d you get the clothes?”
She glanced down at her casual skirt, shirt, and sandals as though she’d never seen them before. It was an outfit she usually took to their country house for a summer weekend of cookouts and antique shopping. She’d packed it herself in New York just two days ago, but it seemed much longer ago than that and much farther away.
“Mike arranged for my suitcase to be picked up at the hotel and sent over. He went to the dock and met the boat.”
“He’s gone dotty.”
“Pardon?”
“He’s got a crush on you.”
“He’s just being nice.”
“We’ve had this conversation already.”
They had. She didn’t want to repeat it. The last time, it had ended… She didn’t want to think about how it had ended.
A silence ensued. Her eyes had adjusted to the dimness, but she could still barely see him where he remained in the deep shadows of the corner. To fill the awkward silence, she said, “This is a picturesque building.”
“Which you accidentally happened upon?”
“Mike gave me directions.”
“Mike talks too much.”
“Not that much. He gives away none of your secrets.”
“Until a few minutes ago this building was my secret. I come here to be alone.”
She ignored the implication that he didn’t welcome her company and took a look around. The dirt floor was littered with animal droppings and trash. At one time, someone had built a fire. Traces of ash and charred wood were still scattered about. A staircase attached to one wall led up to the second level, but many of the steps were missing, and those that remained appeared incapable of supporting anything heavier than a beetle. All in all, it was a spooky old place, especially the rear portion with its low overhang and antiquated industrial apparatus that looked to her like something an evil giant might use to physically torture an enemy giant. She couldn’t imagine why Parker chose to spend time here.
“What’s its history?”
“Do you know anything about cotton?”
Cheekily she quoted a popular TV commercial. “ ‘It’s the fabric of our lives.’ ”
To her surprise, Parker laughed. A real laugh, not that scornful sound that usually served as his laugh. Taking advantage of this rarity, she added, “It’s also useful when it comes to removing nail polish.”
His laughter subsided, making the resulting silence even more noticeable. Then he said gruffly, “Come here.”