Summer's Child. Diane Chamberlain
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an old incident I want to research here for True Life Stories. Want to hear what it is?”
Zack shrugged.
“When I was fourteen, a baby was found on the beach close to my cottage. She was a newborn. The little girl across the street found her early in the morning and brought her back to her cottage. The police got involved, of course, but they were never able to figure out who had left the baby there. A few months ago, I received a letter from the baby, who’s grown up now, of course.”
“What did she want?” Zack actually sounded interested.
“She said she knows I try to solve old mysteries on True Life Stories and that I’d lived near where she was found. She said she always wanted to know who her mother was and asked if I could try to figure it out.” He glanced at Zack again. “The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to do it,” he continued. “I’d always wondered about that incident, especially lately. You know how we’ve been hearing about all these teenage girls having their babies and trying to flush them down toilets or leave them in Dumpsters as if they were nothing more than a Popsicle wrapper? Doesn’t it make you angry when you hear things like that?” He didn’t wait for a response from Zack; he didn’t expect one. “It’s impossible for me to imagine that sort of cruelty. When I hear those stories on the news, it makes me remember that baby. Shelly, her name is.”
“So, where does this…Shelly live?” Zack asked.
“She was adopted by the family of the girl who found her, and apparently she still lives in the house on the cul-de-sac.” He tried to remember the name of that cottage, but failed. “At least, that was the return address on the envelope.” Shelly had given him very little information. It had been a short letter—more of a plea, actually. “She was only about three years old the last time I saw her.” Rory remembered a slender little girl with long platinum hair and large, brown eyes. Even as a teenager, he’d thought it was odd to see that leggy little waif living in the midst of the dark, exotic-looking Cato family. He’d forgotten her name until receiving the letter, remembering only that it was Sandy or Shelly, something to do with the beach. “I never wrote back to her,” Rory said. “I thought I’d surprise her, instead.”
The long bridge across Currituck Sound was directly ahead of them, and Rory felt a rush of excitement. “Kitty Hawk is on the other side of this bridge,” he said to Zack. “And right next to Kitty Hawk is Kill Devil Hills.”
After crossing the bridge, Rory spotted one of the milepost markers along the road and smiled. “People here locate things by the milepost markers,” he said. “Watch the side of the road, there. The next marker should be 3. Our cottage is between milepost 7 and 8.” He was secretly glad of the markers. He wasn’t sure he could remember where to turn, especially since the landmarks had changed drastically since he’d last been here.
“There’s 3,” Zack said.
“Uh-huh.” Rory could not help but feel some disappointment at what he was seeing. This portion of the Outer Banks was overgrown. The landscape was dotted with the trademark cottages on stilts, the main road was littered with shops and restaurants, and there were far too many people and cars.
“What’s that?” Zack pointed ahead of them in the distance and Rory saw the obelisk jutting up from one of the hills after which Kill Devil Hills was named.
“It’s the Wright Brothers’ Memorial,” Rory said. “This is where they took their first flight, over a hundred years ago.”
“That’s cool,” Zack acknowledged, as if finally admitting there might be some small reason to like this place.
After passing milepost 7, Rory turned the Cruiser toward the ocean and drove a short distance to the beach road. He turned right, hoping that was the correct choice, and in a moment he saw the cul-de-sac on his left.
“Here we are,” he said, turning into the short, broad cul-de-sac. After the jarring sights on Route 158, he felt enormous relief. The cul-de-sac looked the same as it had when he was a child, and nostalgia washed over him. The same handful of cottages was there—less one. The cottage at the end of the cul-de-sac, the one built right on the beach, was gone. Cindy Trump’s cottage. He could picture her even more readily than he could her cottage. She’d been a couple of years older than him, with sun-bleached hair, a killer tan and the skimpiest bikini in Kill Devil Hills.
His eyes were drawn to his old summer home, the last of the three cottages on the right. He laughed. “Well,” he said to his son, “looks like we now own beachfront property. There used to be one cottage between ours and the beach, but that’s gone.”
“Gone where?” Zack asked.
“Into the sea, I’d imagine,” Rory said. “Probably went in during a storm.”
Rory pulled into the driveway of his old home. The cottage looked the same, except cleaner, freshly painted. The rental agency was doing a good job taking care of it.
“Poll-Rory.” Zack read the sign above the front door. “Was that you and Aunt Polly?”
Rory looked at the sign himself. It was not the same old wooden sign from his youth; this one had white lettering on a blue background. But it surprised him to see any sign at all after so many years.
“That’s right,” he said. “My parents named the cottage after us.” He felt a pinprick of pain in his heart. Staying here was going to bring back many memories of his sister.
Looking across the cul-de-sac at the Catos’ cottage, he saw that a sign still hung above their porch door as well. The Sea Shanty. Yes. That had been the name of their cottage. It was no shanty, though. It was the largest cottage on the cul-de-sac, rising three stories above its stilts, and stained a light taupe color. Above the third story was the widow’s walk, where he and Daria used to play when they were small.
“God, we’re right on the beach,” Zack said, opening the car door. “I’m going to go check it out.” He took off toward the water, and Rory let him go.
Getting out of the Cruiser, Rory noticed the two cars in the Sea Shanty driveway and wondered who they belonged to. Were Mr. and Mrs. Cato still living? How did they feel about Shelly’s desire to track down her roots? Would Chloe be around? Growing up, Chloe had been clearly out of his league. She’d had a bunch of boyfriends, all of whom Rory, in his adolescent yearning, had envied. Three years older than him and in college by the time she was sixteen, Chloe had been knockout gorgeous, with dark eyes and long, wavy black hair. All the Cato girls had that same thick, dark hair. Ellen—she was the cousin, if he was remembering correctly—had been pretty as well, but her cute facade had hidden a mean-spiritedness that had scared him at times. He suddenly remembered an incident he hadn’t thought about in years. He’d been about thirteen, sitting with Ellen and a group of kids on the beach. He was watching an attractive girl walking along the water’s edge, when Ellen saw fit to point out to the rest of the group that he had an erection. He’d rolled rapidly onto his stomach, hating Ellen and her big mouth. Even now, he cringed remembering that moment.
Then there had been Daria, his little buddy, the girl who could run faster, swim better and catch bigger fish than he could. She’d been three years younger than him, but she’d been his competitor, nevertheless. He’d always pretended that he was letting her win at whatever they attempted. Inside, though, he’d been filled with admiration for her. He wondered what had become of the three Cato girls.
He opened the back of the Cruiser and pulled out two of the suitcases. He carried them up to the porch, then took a moment to look toward the ocean himself, breathing in the still-familiar scent of the beach he loved. It would be a good summer. He was in one of the finest places on earth, about to delve into an intriguing story, and he had Zack with him. Zack would come away from this summer with a healthy tan, sun-kissed hair and his good values restored. And with, Rory hoped, renewed love for his father. He could hope for the moon, couldn’t he?
3
THE LAUNDRY BASKET WAS FULL OF DARIA’S CLEAN WORK clothes—several