Circling The Shadows Read online

  Coming Soon

  Forever Falling

  Book Two in the Series

  Sunshine And Moonlight

  Circling

  The

  Shadows

  Book One in the Series

  Sunshine And Moonlight

  Paige Randall

  © 2015 Paige Randall

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the writer permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All character in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Photography by Paige Randall

  ISBN: 978-0-9961523-0-3 (kindle)

  ISBN: 978-0-9961523-1-0 (paperback)

  Dedication

  To my family… always.

  One

  “sex is the consolation you have when you can't have love”

  - Gabriel García Márquez

  John Halloway walks directly from the airplane into the men’s room and vomits into the toilet. More disgusted with touching the airport toilet than puking into it, he scrubs his hands with hot water, splashes cold water on his face, and shoulders his black bag. Considering how long he’s been gone, the bag seems too light. John decides to pick up a cab to the hotel. He’s not sure if it’s the being here or the booze, but he needs to sleep this off before he can drive. When he gets to the hotel he decides it’s the being here. He finds a seat at the polished wooden bar and orders a double bourbon, straight up. Silently, he toasts the good ole’ USA before downing it and ordering another. He’s been away for a very long time.

  Anna Hinton pulls into the driveway too fast, distracted by reading house numbers along the road. She hits the brakes hard, stopping the car with a jolt. She grabs her handbag and the envelope with keys, and gets out of her small blue SUV, slamming the door. She stares at the house in front of her. This is not at all what I expected. With a slow, surprised smile, she stretches up onto her toes, easing the stiffness in her long legs. She approaches the house with the excitement of a child approaching the tree at Christmas.

  To call it a house wouldn’t really be adequate. It is a haven, a sanctuary, an escape from the city, the hospitals—the life she left behind. Even from this side of the house, the sound of the ocean beating against the shore welcomes her to this new world. Long, blonde curls whip against her face in the salty breeze. She tucks a lock behind her ear and lifts her sunglasses like a headband to control the rest. She walks the driveway, sandals crunching on crushed seashells, taking it all in.

  The small Wedgewood blue house has white shutters and a wide white staircase. The front door sits atop the stairs, the best flood protection in these parts. The car should be parked under the house, but she leaves it at the end of the driveway, too excited to bother moving it.

  She climbs the steps slowly, savoring the moment. A hibiscus grows in a clay pot at the top of the stairs, and an intricate spider web stretches between railing rungs. She takes the key labeled 517 from the envelope and decides to read over the check-in literature later. Her phone vibrates lightly from inside her handbag to the tune of “Here Comes The Sun.” She debates ignoring it, but checks who is calling, and answers.

  "Well, hello, crazy lady!" she greets her best friend, Pemberley, with a smile in her voice.

  "Are you there yet? How’s South Carolina?" Pemberley asks, ignoring the barb. She rarely asks one question at a time.

  "It’s absolutely lovely. I have the key in my hand and I’m just walking in as we speak. Your timing is excellent." Anna sits on the white steps, already enjoying the feeling of chatting with her best friend, on her very own steps, at her very own beach house. She sits on the side without the spider web.

  "Look, doll. One last pep talk. No bullshit."

  She smiles at Pemberley's easy chatter. "Listening."

  "No bullshit. The first hot man you see, you are sleeping with him. Period. Don't play hard to get. Don't beat around the bush. Ha, get it? Don't question yourself. Just get down to some real, raw, fundamental fu—Hey, are you there?"

  "I am. You were on a roll. I didn't want to interrupt."

  "So?"

  "Message received. Loud and clear. Guilt-free fucking," Anna says in as serious a tone as she can manage.

  "Good. Go make some magic happen. Stop killing yourself over every little thing. Relax. Let this happen. It is biological and natural and it is what you want. Just do it!”

  “Okay, Madame Nike. Thanks for the sex campaign.”

  “Are you sure about all this? You could just go to a sperm bank.”

  “Of course I could, but I don’t want to. I want a living, breathing man. And frankly, I wouldn’t mind getting laid. It’s been a very long while.” Despite having avoided England for the past eighteen years, her accent chimes almost as clearly as the day she arrived in Maryland as a seventeen-year-old college freshman.

  “Just be careful and keep it light,” Pemberley advises. “I love you.”

  Anna sighs in silent agreement. The last few years have been very far from light. "I love you too. I'll see you for the Fourth?"

  "Wild horses, baby. Got to run for now. Kisses and bye-bye."

  Anna smiles, thinking over Pemberley's simple perspective. Just sex, no strings. She wants to—no she needs to—get pregnant and relax in the summer sun, then she will settle in New York and start a whole new life, finally with a baby. It really is just that simple. She gets up and brushes off her bottom and sees a small black sports car pulling into the next driveway. Well who knows, maybe that’s my baby daddy pulling in already. Anna chuckles to herself and puts the key in the lock. She expects a pleasant blast of A/C and a mild smell of disinfectant from a freshly cleaned house. She gets nothing. The key slides into the lock but won't budge.

  John parks under the large house, gets out of the small, two-seater and stretches, admiring the familiar view of lush green lawn, tall trees and blue surf in the not-too-far-off distance. The South Carolina afternoon sunshine seems impossibly bright and hot after hours sitting in the heavily air-conditioned car, wearing darkly tinted sunglasses. He hasn’t been here in years. He breathes in the salt air that smells of happy childhood summers. The dark, weathered wood is rustic, but welcoming. Palm trees and palmettos covered in Spanish moss dance in the breeze. Flowers in small pots line the front porch and a swing for two sways gently. The house has been cared for well. He checks the soil in the flowerpots, then pulls out the nearby blue coiled hose and gives them a drink. Summers get hot here.

  He smiles to himself and climbs the stairs to his house, thinking just how much he really needs this. Maybe coming here will finally change things for him. The porch swing reminds him of the glider they used to rock Clara in after her bath. She would stare into her Mommas eyes, like the sun rose and set there. He hopes she stares into Stephanie’s eyes the same way now. An aunt can be as good as a mother, when there is no mother. He shakes off the thought and slides the key into the lock. It doesn’t turn. It just keeps him from whatever comes next.

  His phone vibrates in his pocket. He knew his family would reach out to him when he got here, but that is ridiculously fast. He sees a local number he doesn't recognize. "Hello?"

  "Hi there. This is Lynn back at the real estate office,” she says.

  John thought the clerk looked familiar when he went in to pick up his keys. Over the phone, her voice sounds even more familiar. He racks his brain to figure out who she is.

  “I am so sorry,” she continues, “but there seems to be some sort of sit
uation with your key and your next door neighbor's key. She just called the office. 516 was somehow placed on the ring for 517 and so forth. I can come right over there and switch your keys or if you prefer, perhaps possibly…"

  She has unusual speech patterns, like bad poetry, but he ignores it. He shades his eyes, wondering where he left his sunglasses, and turns his attention to the yellow house on his right.

  "It’s 517, the blue house to the south,” she says, even though she can’t see him. “The house with the white stairs."

  He turns left and sees a golden-haired woman sitting on the white stairs, framed by the light blue house. She leans against the railing, eyes closed, chin raised to the sun. If she had a parasol, she’d looks like a painting, maybe a modern Monet.

  "Lynn… It's Lynn, right?" he asks with a slight southern drawl.

  "Yes, that's me. Maybe I might come over, John. I mean Mr. Halloway?"

  "John is fine. No need. I'll just go over and trade the keys," he says, pushing back his long, dark hair. He has let it grow these last few months, as well as his short beard dotted with gray. The style suits him.

  "Perfect. Please tell 517 that I am positively sorry and that if she is partial to receiving maid service more than once per week during her stay, she can please call the office. I doubt she will though, since she’s a one."

  "A one?"

  "Alone for the summer. Just like you."

  "Okay, Lynn. I'll pass that on. Thank you." He ends the call before she can continue. John isn’t used to talking to women. For the last year and half, he has worked very hard not to talk to women at all. Taking a breath, he straightens his collar, then cuts through the flowerbed that separates him from 517.

  When he gets close enough to really see her, he thinks his neighbor might be asleep. She is fair-skinned and probably hasn't seen the sun in a while. Her narrow shoulders show from under her white tank top, and she wears simple khaki shorts. John stops at the bottom of the stairs, enjoying the sight of her. After a few seconds, he clears his throat. She startles but not much. Nice looking neighbor, he thinks and the thought surprises him. He hasn’t looked at women that way in a long time. Wanting to look can’t be a bad thing.

  "You must be the infamous 516," she says, stretching like a sated cat. "The man with the key."

  Her blue eyes squint in the sun. She looks like she’s meant for easy Charleston living, in a big house with a veranda, sipping iced tea. She also looks as though she could be at home serving drinks in a busy bar. He can't quite get a handle on her. Her accent sounds British.

  "Guilty as charged." John has the feeling he wasn't really meant to pass on Lynn's message about the maid service. Lynn wanted him to know Anna is alone, just like him. She certainly made a point of it. Maybe Lynn is setting him up—which means she called his parents. No big surprise there. When he called Lynn to tell her he wanted the house for the summer, he knew she would call his parents to ask their permission. They do own the house. They haven’t used it in years, but it is still theirs. "516. Happy to meet you."

  Anna stands to shake his hand. They hold on for a moment or two longer than necessary. Attraction is so easy sometimes. Other things are more difficult…intimacy, honesty, trust. John notices the faint line of a recently removed wedding ring on her hand. He thinks she notices him noticing.

  "May I?" he asks, holding up the key marked 516. His manners are well ingrained.

  She nods and steps aside. The key slides into the lock and the latch glides easily from its home. He opens the door to cool A/C and the fresh smell of a clean house.

  Anna steps in and within one second has a very complicated conversation inside her own head. This man is gorgeous. Southern accent? Six foot two or taller and built like a brick shithouse. No, that’s not what that means. Lovely eyes. I’ve got to see him shirtless. Bottomless too… That was quick. Where the hell did he come from? Am I awful? Guilt-free. Is he married? No ring. How is this done? Ask him in for a drink? I have nothing to drink. I have to pee. I hope there is toilet paper. She glances next door and confirms the small sports car is parked alone under the house—no minivan full of kids.

  "Thank you so much, neighbor," she says, handing him the keys marked 517. When their hands touch again, she feels a spark she hasn’t felt in a very long time. How is this possible? It has been ten minutes. She obviously has to do something.

  "Want me to take care of that spider web for you?" he asks before she has a chance to do anything.

  She steps back out to examine the web. "Actually, I rather like it. Surprisingly. I'm not much for spiders, but it is sort of extraordinary."

  They stare at the complicated rotation of circles and lines that creates the snare, meticulously laid to trap the spider’s prey. Anna tries to ignore the metaphorical value. They stare together for longer than one would usually stare at a spider web. Looking at this gorgeous man in front of her, she has a quick stab of guilt. To consider taking this from a man, taking something so personal, it really is criminal. She knows it is. But she also knows that she can look beyond it and force herself not to care. After what she has been through, she fucking deserves it. Throughout history, how many men have knocked up a woman and hit the road, never to be heard from again? Millions, billions, zillions. She is just doing the same thing, really.

  She quickly runs through her options. Pull him inside for quickie? Dinner and dancing? Quick is better. No attachments. She can seduce him today, maybe fuck his brains out all week, and then he’ll be gone next Saturday. Most of these houses are weeklong rentals. She got an amazing deal on her house by renting for the whole summer.

  "Any interest in a beer on the beach?" he asks. His manner is not flirtatious, just friendly, neighborly.

  Well done, she compliments him silently. That will buy me some time to get my nerve up. "I'd love that."

  "I brought a few things in a cooler. I thought I'd wait a day or two before showing my face in town," he says.

  She wonders if he has been here before. This is her first time on Osprey Island. She saw a postcard on a friend’s refrigerator and decided this was the place to spend her first summer as a free woman, and hopefully her last summer without a baby.

  "I'll go check and make sure my key works, then meet you around back." He spins the key ring on his index finger.

  My god he is good looking. "Perfect," she says, plotting her next steps.

  He walks down the stairs backwards, slowly, like he is not ready to take his eyes off her yet. "I don't know your name."

  "I don't know yours either," she says with a sly smile and closes the door.

  Anna finds the bathroom and is pleased to find toilet paper, too. Then she makes a quick run back to the car for her makeup bag. She'll unload and unpack later, but a ponytail and deodorant refresher are critical in this heat.

  At first glance, the house is perfect—two bedrooms, comfortable yet elegant furnishings, lots of neutral tones accented with blues and reds. The TV is large, the kitchen well-appointed. Anna promises herself a leisurely exploration later and walks out onto the back deck. She finds a brand-new grill, two well-stuffed blue-and-white striped lounge chairs, a wrought-iron table with chairs for four and a blue pot of pink petunias. She checks the soil and immediately fills a glass from the kitchen to give this poor thing some relief from the late afternoon sun.

  Looking at the distance between his deck and hers, maybe one hundred feet, Anna can’t believe her luck. She doesn’t really believe in luck though. There must be some external force at work here, mortal or otherwise. He's definitely only here for a week. I'd better make it a really good week. She laughs at the thought. That is Pemberley talking.

  John steps out onto his deck. He grabs two longneck beer bottles from his cooler and wonders if this is a good idea. He looks up to find her watching him, maybe a little intently, from her walkway. She is beautiful and not at all something he expected to find here this afternoon. He gives her a wave, not knowing what else to do, and joins her at the end of
her walkway, which joins with his, and makes its way straight to the beach. He passes her a cold, open beer.

  "Thank you," she says, sipping delicately.

  They walk straight through the warm, soft sand and step right into the surf. Warm water licks their ankles. He sinks into the wet sand as the current carries the waves away. She grazes her toes along the surface of the water.

  “It is fucking fantastic here,” she says, more to herself than to him.

  He appreciates her easy use of the word fuck, and he laughs. His laugh feels a bit rusty, underused, but it feels good too. Still, he wonders if this is a good idea as they move to sit in the dry sand. He tries to remember how people do small talk. What is she going to ask? Where are you from? What do you do for a living? Do you have a wife and kids? Shit.

  They sip their beer, staring at the ocean. As the minutes pass, John is surprised by her comfort with silence. Not that he minds some conversation, but he hasn’t had a meaningful one-on-one with a woman in a long time. Every possible conversation starter he can think of ends with the story of his dead wife and displaced daughter. No thanks. Not topics for a beachside chinwag just now.

  “Weather is lovely,” she says. “Hot but breezy.”

  He doesn’t exactly grunt but almost. Okay, his turn. “The sky sure is blue.” Good enough? He wonders.

  She looks up and nods.

  Good enough. He waits for the questions, considering what he will say, but the questions don't come. After a while, he relaxes, feeling strangely at ease sharing space with this woman he has known for less than thirty minutes. She seems as disinterested in conversation as he is.

  Occasionally, she looks at him and smiles, commenting on the surfers or the sweet little girl running with her kite. He likes her smile. John is sure that Lynn switched the house keys on purpose. He doesn’t know why, but something feels too tidy here. He wonders what the hell is going on. He sets that question aside for later. Looking at this woman, he feels a stirring he hasn't felt in a long time. The feeling is a little foreign, and he’s not sure if he wants to feel that stirring or not.