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Seattle, One Year Later
I NEED A DRINK. Stuck in rush-hour traffic, Harrison
Kincaid turned on the radio and gazed at the car in front of him without really seeing it. His SUV was cocooned in fog, giving him the seductive illusion that he and his vehicle were an island, adrift from the world around them.
His entire day, though he'd spent most of it in his brightly lit office surrounded by people, had felt like this. Hazy and surreal.
Even signing the acquisition papers for the Torsun deal hadn't given him the usual buzz of accomplishment. He'd left the mergers and acquisitions group celebrating with a bottle of champagne at five o'clock, without even a trace of regret.
He needed to get home. He needed his scotch. Maybe Aidan had been right that he shouldn't have gone to work at all today. But if he'd stayed home, he'd be plastered by now. And besides, going to work gave him less time to think about what had happened one year ago today.
This was not the sort of anniversary he'd counted on marking when he'd married Simone six years ago.
Why did she do it? Why, why, why, why?
The question had become the sound track to his life. It ran through his mind constantly, taunting him with its essential insolubility.
The only person who could tell him why Simone had killed herself, was Simone herself. And her suicide note, such as it had been, hadn't provided any answers.
Trust Simone to leave a cryptic, poetic missive as her final words to the world. There'd been nothing personal in there at all. Not a word to her husband.
Or to her daughter.
Harrison's mood sank even lower at the thought of Autumn. The five-year-old had seemed okay in the months immediately following Simone's death. She'd missed her mother, of course. But Simone had often been gone for weeks at a time when she was on tour. So her loss hadn't really sunk in for a while.
But that respite had ended. Increasingly Autumn was becoming more anxious, clingy and just generally unhappy. He could see all that. He just didn't know what to do about it when he could barely keep himself afloat these days.
It wasn't just missing Simone. That pain had been slowly easing over the last few months. It was the guilt that was killing him.
He supposed blaming yourself was part of the package when someone you loved took her own life. But was it normal for the guilt to grow over time, rather than lessen? To feel, more and more, that you had let the other person down and were still, somehow, letting her down?
The faint glow of taillights ahead of him receded and he correspondingly inched his vehicle forward, keeping his place in line.
He found himself thinking of the old gang on Summer Island. How were Jennifer, Emerson and Gabe marking the anniversary of Simone's death? Would they get together? Or did they even see one another anymore? He knew Aidan, like himself, hadn't been in touch with any of them since Simone's memorial service.
He dreamt about them, though. In his dream they were kids again, roasting marshmallows around a bonfire late at night on Pebble Beach. As usual, he sat between Simone and Aidan. Looking into the faces of his friends, at first he felt happy. Incredibly peaceful and content.
But slowly something dark and fearful grew inside him. The faces he loved became the faces of strangers.
He always woke up from that dream breathing heavily and perspiring and not even knowing what it was that had him so upset.
Harrison shifted in the leather seat. He was sick of his thoughts, thoughts that went round in circles and never ended up anywhere. He reached over to turn up the radio. The announcer was finishing the weather report, and it didn't sound good.
More rain. More fog. Where was the summer sunshine? Maybe next week, the announcer tentatively promised.
The traffic report followed and like the weather, it was full of doom and gloom. Clogged highways, construction zones and traffic accidents. Big surprise at this time of day. "Drive careful out there, folks," the traffic reporter concluded.
"Thanks, Bob," the afternoon DJ said. "Hard to believe it was a year ago today that the world lost the beautiful and talented Simone DeRosier."
Harrison's heart thudded. Damn, he should have expected they would be talking about her today. The car behind him honked. He'd taken his foot off the gas and a big gap had opened up between his SUV and the vehicle in front of him. He put his foot on the accelerator and tightened the space.
"Simone shot to fame shortly after she recorded her all-time biggest hit, "Forget Me Not, Old Friend' when she was just twenty-two years old. In her song she begs her one true friend to remember her for always. No one has ever been sure who she wrote that song for, but I know I'm speaking for all her fans when I say, don't worry, Simone. We haven't forgotten you. And we never will."
The song must have been queued up and ready to go because before Harrison could reach over and turn off the radio, the music started.
And suddenly she was alive again. His own lovely, magical Simone, crooning the words of her signature song, the Grammy winner that had made her famous.
"You see a comet cross the sky, you make a wish, it passes by; but will you remember me at the brilliant end? Forget me not, my one true friend."
How many times had he heard this song? Too many to count. Once she'd told him she'd written it for him and while he wanted to believe her, he knew better.
God help him, when it came to Simone, he'd always known better.
Summer Island
NESSA KINCAID BROOKE could no longer hear the
rhythmic pounding of ocean against rock that usually, finally lulled her to sleep at night. Her husband's tense, uneven breathing had become her only focus. It was two o'clock in the morning. Her right arm felt numb — she must have been in this position too long — so she shifted onto her back.
Gabe hadn't arrived home until an hour ago. She'd smelled the beer on him, felt the weight of his body as he rolled onto his half of their king-size bed, even though he tried not to disturb her.
He hadn't ventured near her. He didn't most nights, and he especially wouldn't tonight, on the anniversary of Simone's death.
This should have been the best year of Nessa's life. At last, she'd been rid of the woman who had caused her — and her marriage — so much grief.
But the sad fact was, Simone's passing hadn't changed much between her and Gabe. Since the memorial service, her husband had been lethargic and depressed...and he didn't seem to be getting any better. Oh, he had lots of energy when it came to his work, especially his responsibilities on the Island Trust. But by the time he arrived home — which was almost always after dark — he had nothing left for her.
It was so unfair. She tried to make him happy and to make their home comfortable. She'd loved him forever. Why wasn't it enough?
Was she too boring? Too ordinary-looking? Too ordinary, period?
But then, why had he married her? The usual insecure answer lurked painfully, obviously in front of her. Gabe had married her because he couldn't have Simone.
Nessa balled the sheets with her fists. If only Simone's father had taken her to a different island for a vacation. Nearby Saltspring was much more popular with the tourists. If Gabe had never met Simone, Nessa knew the two of them would have found happiness together.
She'd never been interested in any other guy but Gabe. He was one of those people who changed a room just by entering it. Not just because of his stunning, blond good looks. He had an easy charm, an undeniable grace.
Though he'd inherited his business properties on the Island from his father, both the real estate agency and the local newspaper were thriving as never before. His tennis game was a match for the club pro. In fact, everything Gabe did, he did well.
Except being married to her.
Right from the start there'd been something wrong, something missing. The first night of their honeymoon Nessa had lain alone in their bed and listened to her husband whisper on the phone in the next room. She'd known it was Simone on the line.
She'd prayed children would make the difference. But her first pregnancy had miscarried and she hadn't been able to conceive a second time.
Nessa stiffened as Gabe suddenly rolled over, then sat up.
"Honey?" she whispered. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Nessa. Go back to sleep." The mattress sank, then lifted. She watched his dark form move across the room and out the bedroom to the hall. A moment later, the stereo came on downstairs. She couldn't make out the tune or the lyrics, but she didn't need to.
She knew Gabe was listening to Simone's music, again. To that one song Gabe secretly believed had been written for him. He'd admitted as much to her during one of their rare, intimate conversations.
Nessa gripped the sheets again and let the tears she'd been holding back spill from her eyes.
Damn that woman. Even from the grave, she wouldn't let go.
THE KINCAIDS' HOUSE ON Summer Island had always held a certain mystique for Justine Melbourne. As a kid, she'd spent a lot of time there with Nessa. Back then the home had seemed fairy-castle perfect. A repository for happy-ever-after dreams, the kind she'd believed in as a child. The kind they'd all believed in.
Unfortunately happily-ever-after hadn't come to either of the children who'd grown up in that house. Not to Nessa and certainly not to Harrison either.
Pulling in behind the police cruiser parked in the driveway, Justine stopped her car, then checked over her shoulder. Commander Dex Ulrich, tall and imposing in full RCMP uniform, waved at her from across the street. He was waiting at the front door of the only other home on this stretch of road, a cottage that had been vacant for years until Justine had sold it last month.
What was Dex doing over there when he'd asked her to meet him here? Justine waved back at him, then gave the Kincaid house a closer look. She couldn't see any signs of vandalism. What had that note said again?
She pulled the pink slip of paper from her pocket and reread Flora's handwritten message: Meet Dex Ulrich at the Kincaid house at five o'clock. Possible break-in last night.
Justine's stomach tightened. She was responsible for this house. There better not be any serious damage. She stepped out to the cobblestone driveway, straightened her jacket and smoothed back her hair. With the summer solstice only just past, the day was still bright even though it was after five. She walked by the discreet Property For Lease sign on the Kincaids'front lawn, resisting the childish urge to give it a kick.
It wasn't for want of effort on her part that the place was currently vacant. Unfortunately suicide had a way of tainting a property. It didn't help that everyone in the world, it seemed, knew of Simone DeRosier and the tragic details of her death.
Justine swept a professional eye over the place. Emerson's landscaping crew had been doing their usual excellent job. The lawns were clipped short, the laurel hedges neat and the flowers in the beds at the front of the house fresh and abundant.
The house was well maintained, too, with clean windows and freshly stained siding. The wide front porch promised hospitality, warmth — all the comforts of home. The structure's generous proportions and professionally designed grounds spoke of prosperity. And the turret on the second floor added a hint of gothic mystery to the mix.
