“Guess what I did,” he said. “I got the lock open on the lockbox for you. There’s stuff inside.”
Callie stared at him, her hands still, all her questions from last night slamming back into the front of her mind. She was suddenly unsure of how she wanted to proceed. She wasn’t certain she wanted to pry into Frederick’s life now. She knew why: She was really afraid to find out any more about that baby boy. Callie swallowed her worry, took off her gardening gloves, and slowly stood up.
“Come on!” Wyatt grabbed her by the arm, pulling her up the walk.
When she got inside, Callie protectively looked in on the contents of the box, not wanting to disturb anything. Olivia came over and peered down at it curiously before congratulating Wyatt on getting it open. Carefully, Callie pulled out a small sketchpad, setting it delicately on the table. There was a local high school graduation program… She reached into the box again, taking out a stack of newspaper and magazine clippings, and—she stopped breathing—all of them were about the Sullivan family.
Confusion swam across Olivia’s face. “That’s weird,” she said, but her attention was pulled away when Wyatt asked a question. Callie wasn’t listening. Slowly, her breath shallow, she set them down and retrieved the sketchpad. She swallowed and opened it. Her heart rose into her throat as she saw drawings. One was of a dog on a street. She turned the page: an ocean landscape. They were so good. “He’s an artist,” she whispered to herself, still trying to find her breath.
Wyatt wanted to show Olivia something that he’d made. “I’ll be right back,” she said as he pulled her away.
Callie turned the page and had to hold on to the chair for support. It was a pencil sketch of the wild horses and a woman looking out at the ocean, only her back visible, with a small boy by her side. Callie could still hear Luke’s voice when he’d told her about the beach with the horses: My mom used to bring me here when I was a kid.
She shut the sketchpad, needing a moment to process all this, her skin cold.
She shoved everything back into the lockbox, and shut it, wriggling the latch until it had closed. She inspected it to make sure it didn’t look like anyone had pried into it, and it looked fine. Her heart raced in her chest, her fingertips like ice despite the heat, her mouth dry. She pushed the lockbox back into the pantry and shut the door. Her hands lingered on the knob as if she had to keep the box from escaping. A loud clap of thunder boomed, shaking her to the core.
Eighteen
Callie’s hands were 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.”