Scarred Read online

  “What kind of pace is that?” she asked, trying to sound interested.

  “I’m a meanderer. Smell-the-roses type of guy.”

  She picked up a touch of a New England accent with the broad vowels and tried to remember from his profile information where he was from. Ask. Make conversation. Be charming.

  “Remind me where you’re from,” she said. I can’t recall because I’ve gone on a stupid number of dates.

  “Just outside of Boston. Go Red Sox.”

  She gave him another smile, feigning interest. “Do you like sports?”

  “Sure. Doesn’t everyone?” he asked.

  Not really.

  Zane arrived with their drinks. After initial sips, they fell into an awkward silence.

  “What about you?” Troy asked finally. He wiped the condensation from the pint glass with a napkin.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Do you like sports?”

  “Oh, sure, yes. My brothers love football.” I love watching football with Trey.

  He tugged on his ear. “Is it true Brody Mullen lives here?”

  She tilted her head, watching his buttered-toast face carefully. Was he making conversation or fishing to see if she knew Brody Mullen? Brody had once been the best quarterback in professional football until an injury a few years ago took him out of the game. Now he was a color commentator for one of the sports channels. She did in fact know him. He was one of Kyle’s best friends. The Mullens were fiercely private about their personal life. Kara was never photographed with her famous husband. She made sure their baby boy was kept from the public as well. Kara was currently pregnant with their second child—a girl they would name Ruby Sloan Mullen. Autumn thought that was about the cutest name she’d ever heard. She’d struggled not to feel jealous when Kara had told her, but she had been. Terrible and ugly jealousy had burned her stomach. She disliked herself for it, but really, how much could a girl endure? Everyone was getting married and having babies. Meanwhile, she was on yet another online date, praying to God that he might be the one.

  Autumn was sometimes invited to the Mullens’ house for parties or dinner because of Kyle’s close friendship with Brody. She’d been there just last night with Trey. Celebrating his latest beautiful design.

  Do not think about Trey.

  “Who’s that now?” she asked, pretending she hadn’t heard him right.

  “Brody Mullen. You don’t know who he is?”

  “Football, right?” she asked.

  “Yes, football.” A note of ridicule edged his voice. “I’m pretty sure he lives here.”

  Once again, she studied her companion carefully. Most likely he was simply curious if the rumors were true and wondered if she had any inside scoop on the famous athlete. Yet her instinct told her to stay away from this topic. “I don’t think so. It’s just a rumor as far as I know.”

  He looked disappointed. “That’s too bad. I was hoping to run into him. Huge fan.”

  “This is a small town. The people here are very private. So even if he did live here, no one would tell you.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “So maybe he does live here, and you just don’t know it.”

  “Could be. I haven’t lived here that long. The natives are protective of their own. They hate that it’s become such a popular vacation destination.” Thanks to Kyle’s lodge and spa, the town was busier with tourists than it had ever been. “Tell me about your work.” Anything to get off the subject of Brody Mullen.

  They chatted for another fifteen minutes. The conversation grew easier as time passed. However, the more he talked, the more confused she became about his profession, until it finally occurred to her that he was not an attorney, but a legal secretary. Had he out-and-out lied about that on the profile, or had she just assumed it by something she read? How subtle wording could be.

  “What’s up with your leg?” he asked as he finished the last of his beer. “You mentioned in your profile that you walk with a limp and there’s some scarring. Did you say it was because of an accident?”

  “That’s right. A car accident when I was fourteen.” She sat on her hand to keep from touching the scar on her cheekbone.

  “Sorry to hear that. It sure isn’t obvious with what you’ve got on.”

  “No, but I like to be up-front about it on the dating sites. It’s a deterrent to some.”

  “Well, they must be pretty shallow.”

  She’d love to test this guy right here and now. She imagined lifting her pant leg to show him. No one had ever brought it up on a first date.

  “I mean, like, how bad is it?” he asked as he motioned to Stephanie for another round.

  No one had ever asked her that question, either. “Bad enough that I don’t wear short skirts.” The shame crept up her neck and heated her cheeks. Who did this guy think he was to ask her such intimate questions on a first date?

  A muscle in his neck twitched. “We could go back to your place and you could show me. You’re super pretty. I wouldn’t care much about a little scar on a leg, trust me.”

  Stephanie brought their drinks, giving her an opportunity to think through her escape. When the girl left, Autumn took a long drag of her wine, then set it down and fixed her eyes upon him. His earnest face didn’t match his heart. He was a man hoping to get laid by the woman with the lame leg, figuring it was a sure bet. He’d probably ask her to turn off the lights. It was a good thing there was no silverware on the table. She’d love to stab him with a fork.

  Instead, she reached for her purse and pulled out enough cash to cover her own drinks. She set it on the table and turned back to Troy. “When I was a kid, we lived near a pig farm. If you haven’t ever seen a pig close up, you might be surprised to know they’re cute, with their dumb pink faces and fuzzy ears. But nothing could disguise the foul smell that hovered over that farm. You can be outwardly nice-looking, but nothing can hide the stench that comes from being a pig. And you, my friend, are a pig.” She stood and clutched her purse to her chest. “I’ll be going. Don’t bother to call.”

  Later, she let herself into her cottage and slipped out of her sandals. She should make something to eat but didn’t know if she had the energy. She thought about calling Sara to see if she wanted to come over with Harper Reese, but she was probably in the middle of dinner and bath time. They’d always been so close, but lately, the divide between them seemed large. Sara was a mother. She had a little person who needed most of what she had to give. Sara didn’t have time for Autumn.

  Autumn had time. Way too much time.

  She wandered around the cottage, turning on a few lamps and adjusting throw pillows that didn’t need attention. Built in the forties when Cliffside Bay had been a small fishing town, her cottage was nestled at the foot of the southern hill. Back then, the style had been small, enclosed rooms. Trey had suggested they knock down the walls and make one great room. She’d agreed to that as well as installing a set of French doors out to the patio. Doing so had given it an open, airy feel, despite its fairly small footprint.

  There was not a day that she didn’t stop for a moment and take in the beauty of her cottage. Her home. Trey had been so instrumental in helping her decide what they should keep and what they should change. Not much had stayed.

  She’d made sure he knew from the beginning that any hint of dark or dingy was unwelcome. Nothing that would remind her of the trailer they lived in as children. During their initial meeting, he’d nodded and taken notes without comment. When they met a week later, he had an entire proposal drawn out with paint and color swatches. His suggestions for the furniture were done in pencil drawings.

  They’d gone with simple decor, since the space could easily look cluttered. The walls were a pale green with cream trim. The same cream had been used on the cabinets in the kitchen. Counters and the island were covered with white granite. Sea-glass green and black were used for accent colors. Flooring had been cut into wide planks salvaged from an old barn. A restored farmhouse table jus
t off the kitchen looked out to the view. Soft, comfortable couches and chairs were arranged around a gas fireplace in the sitting area.

  The small square footage was of no consequence to her. She was only one person, and compared to the house she’d grown up in, this was her own version of a mansion. Also, there was the view of the sandy beach and ocean from her back windows. From almost everywhere in the great room, she could see the cement walking path that ran the length of the beach. Some might not like being so close to so much activity, but she found it comforting. She loved to sit on her wood patio and watch the runners and walkers go by or surfers catching waves. Being here made her feel part of something instead of the isolation she’d experienced for so much of her life.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her that she was hungry. She changed into sweats and a T-shirt, then heated a frozen dinner in the microwave. She sat at the table to eat and watched the sunset in her sliver of the world. Some nights, mother sun painted the sky in pink and orange as she played with the clouds. Tonight, though, she was a round golden globe of polished glass hovering between the blue sky and sea.

  In her peripheral vision, she noticed a movement in the sliver of space between two of her tall flowerpots. She turned toward the far left corner of her patio, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the little boys from next door. A family with four boys stayed in the house during the summer months. Autumn knew the mother only by sight and a wave here or there, but she seemed nice and definitely kept to herself. Given the Range Rover and Mercedes in their driveway, she assumed they were a wealthy family from San Francisco. The husband stayed only on weekends, most likely working in the city during the week.

  City ordinances made fences illegal for the houses built so close to the boardwalk and beach. A four-foot patch of grass separated her patio and the cement boardwalk. Her neighbors’ yards began where her patio ended. To give herself a little privacy on either side, Nico had suggested tall blue planters. Filled with annuals, the splashes of pink, purple, and yellow flowers contrasted nicely with the sand, grass, and sea. Although they didn’t provide privacy from the people who strolled along the boardwalk, they helped to give a sense of some separation from her neighbors while she enjoyed her outdoor seating.

  She rose from the table and went upstairs to investigate further from her bedroom windows, which overlooked the small yard. Several times from this vantage point, she’d seen the little boys crouched in the shade of the planters playing with their cars. She fully expected to see them in the same patch of grass now. But instead of seeing one of the boys behind the pots, she saw a man crouched there. Had he dropped something?

  He stood and looked around, as if making sure no one had spotted him. A baseball cap and dark glasses hid most of his face. He wore long shorts and a T-shirt, like most of the beachcombers. Nothing unusual there. He was tall enough to see over the planters. He looked toward her house and squinted. Alarmed, she brought a hand to her throat. Why was he looking at her house? A second later, he dropped to his knees and started feeling around in the grass. He must have dropped his keys. That was all. He brushed his hands on his shorts and then walked toward the boardwalk. Once there he strode away at a pace just under a run.

  She shrugged it off and went back downstairs.

  She ate the rest of her dinner, enjoying her view. Many evenings were like this. This was her life. Simple and without fuss, surrounded by beauty. She had more than most: a good job, lovely house, great friends, her brothers and nieces and nephews. Complaining, even to just herself, seemed wrong. Yet she was lonely. Perhaps admitting that wasn’t a crime even if she should be only grateful, without further requests from God. But if she had someone to share her blessed life with, everything would be that much sweeter.

  Months before, she’d made it a goal to at least try to meet someone. Thus, the online dating site.

  She’d gone on at least a dozen first dates over the last few months. Most of them were with decent men, but there was no chemistry. A few had asked her out again, but she’d declined. This one tonight was one of the worst. She had to ask herself, was it worth it to try to meet someone? Maybe there weren’t any decent guys left. All the good ones were taken. At least in Cliffside Bay. Had it been a mistake to move here from Denver?

  No. She was with her brothers. After all the time they’d lost, being near them was a priority.

  She finished the dinner and pushed aside the plastic container. The sun slipped beneath the horizon, and the sky shed an orange glow over the beach.

  Tonight, she would delete her dating site profile. There was no reason to keep doing this, especially given the odds stacked against her. She moved her hand down her left leg until she reached the cuff of her sweatpants and pulled the fabric up to her knee. In the dim light, the red scars weren’t as noticeable, but the dent in her calf was. After what happened with Darren, it would take a special man for her to trust again.

  Her thoughts drifted to her mother, as they so often did these days. Valerie Hickman had disappeared from their lives when Autumn was four years old. Her brothers had been six and eight. Their mother had suddenly shown up in town last fall, begging forgiveness and confessing to the murders of the boys who’d tortured Kyle and caused the accident that almost killed them both. She’d set fire to their house with them inside.

  Their mother was back in their lives. And she was a murderer. Kyle and Stone had forgiven their mother with such rapidity that it left Autumn reeling. She found forgiveness difficult, especially since she had no memories of Valerie Hickman ever being in her life.

  Maybe it was the setting sun that made her think of her mother. The sun was gone. It was as if it had never been here at all and had not showered the trees and plants with its glorious power that caused the new spring growth on the pines and the buds of the apple trees and the tulips that rose out of the earth in their jaunty splendor. This was like her mother. She made them, and then she left. Leaving Autumn to wonder, had she ever existed at all?

  Growing up, she always told people she had no mother. The Hickman kids had raised themselves with little help from her drunk but harmless father. When she thought about her mother now it was like trying to remember something you once knew, some fact that you’d memorized but was now gone. Void of all emotion. Not love or hate or disdain or grief, because how could you feel anything for someone you’d never known?

  A ping from her laptop drew her attention away from the windows. She’d left it on the coffee table, having had it open before she left for the date. That ping was the particular sound of the dating site, letting her know she had a new message. Great. One more temptation.

  She disposed of her plastic dinner container and drank a glass of water before sitting on the couch with the computer on her lap. With her legs spread out on the coffee table, she brought up the dating app and clicked on the message from Artyboy34. His profile picture was of a cubist painting, perhaps a self-portrait. Given his name and profile photo, she assumed he was an artist. Kind of interesting. Maybe. Probably not.

  * * *

  Dear Autumn007,

  Your profile crossed my path and although I’m not sure this online thing is for me, I felt compelled to write to you. I’m currently on an extended job in Paris working on a commissioned series of paintings for a bored countess and her fleet of dogs. I’ll be here for some time, so I won’t be able to meet you in person. So why write, you ask? Good question. I’m writing because, despite the miles between us, I felt a kinship with you.

  As you can see from my profile photograph, I have a rather unconventional picture. The reason for this is because one side of my face is scarred from an accident. The cubist self-portrait painting captures a little of what I look like, at least to myself. I don’t go out much. When I do, I always wear a low-brimmed hat and sunglasses, but still, people stare. I can almost hear them asking—what happened to you?

  I’m sure your friends will warn you against someone without a real photo. I don’t blame them. If I were your
friend, I would do the same. But I’m a real person, not one of those catfish people. I think that’s what you call them, right? Anyway, I just wondered if you’d like to write back and forth and maybe be a support system of sorts? Recently, I met a woman who I really like but we’re only friends. I have no idea if she’d be open to more, but I’m too scared to ask. If she rejected me because of my appearance, it would crush me.

  I’ll close now. I don’t expect to hear from you because this is such a weird letter. I’ll just have to hope you’re the one-in-a-million type who might respond to a man trapped behind his face.

  If you do answer, tell me why you chose 007 for the end of your name.

  Art

  * * *

  She sat staring at the screen, stunned. What a strange letter. What an odd request. Yet it called to her in a way both familiar and exciting, like this was a person she already knew and cared for.

  Sara had told her recently she was considering attending a grief support group to help cope with the loss of her husband. Could this be the same, only made up of a group of two, formed by people who lived a continent apart? He’d reached out to her, obviously thinking she would understand in ways no one else could. This was true. She understood perfectly. Why not write him back? No harm could come from a correspondence. If he asked for money, she’d know he was a con artist and not a real artist. She would write back to him, once, and hope her instincts were right. This was a real person on the other side of the computer.

  * * *

  Dear Art,

  I’ve never had this kind of message waiting for me on this site. Thank you for writing to me. I hope my inclinations are correct and you’re not some con artist trying to get my money. If so, you’ll be sorry to know I don’t have much. All my savings has been poured into the renovation of my cottage, so if your plan is to bilk me of money, then you’re out of luck.