Boardwalk Cottage Read online

  Kyle handed the gun to Hallie. "Watch her," he said. She nodded.

  He grabbed Zac, hugged him quickly, then cut his zip-ties with a knife and helped him to his feet. He handed Zac his keys, then took him by the shoulders. "Go to Tom's office and call Joe Serrano and an ambulance." Zac took off running. Kyle knelt beside Tom.

  Hallie sank down on the floor and leaned her head back against the vampire's legs. She kept the gun pointed at Charlie, but there didn't seem to be much need. Charlie sat with her head in her hands, sobbing as if her life had ended. Don't cry. Shooting Julian was probably the first smart thing you've done in a long time.

  Tom coughed. Kyle bent over him, whispering and holding his hand. Tom clenched his hand and opened his eyes.

  Windy got down on her knees beside Kyle on the floor.

  Tom tried to sit up.

  Kyle pushed Tom gently back down. "Just lie still. Everything's going to be all right."

  Tom gripped his hand. "I'm sorry, Kyle. For everything."

  Kyle shook his head. "I'm the one who's sorry," he said. "You're family. I should have believed in you."

  "No," he whispered. "It was my fault, all my fault."

  Kyle looked confused. "How could it be your fault, Tom?"

  Tom closed his eyes. "I was too slow, too slow," he muttered. He turned his head away, and mumbled under his breath.

  Kyle and Windy looked at each other, then back at Tom. Kyle bent his head down near Tom's face. "I don't understand, Tom," Kyle whispered. "What do you mean?"

  Tom kept muttering to himself, eyes shut tight against some image only he could see. "Too slow," he whispered.

  "Tom," Kyle said firmly. "Talk to me."

  Tom opened his eyes. He swallowed hard, and Hallie saw tears welling up in his eyes. He gripped Kyle's hand tighter. "I let you down. I let you all down. Jonathan and Emma...." His voice trailed off. "I was too slow...."

  Windy bent her head down to Tom's. "You ran to get help and they died before you could get back," she said.

  Tom shut his eyes and nodded. He raised his uninjured arm up as if to brush away the image before his eyes. "I know you hated me for it, Kyle," he whispered, eyes still closed. "I hated myself for it, too. I was too scared to go back into the building. I just stood there and waited for the fire engine. I just stood there...."

  "Listen to me," Windy said.

  Tom opened his eyes. "Windy?" He looked confused. "But you're missing."

  Windy smiled. "Not any more. Listen to me, Tom. It wasn't your fault."

  Tom looked away. "I killed your parents," he whispered.

  "No you didn't," Windy said firmly. "I read every detail about the fire. The fumes from the burning fiberglass must've knocked them out in seconds. If you had gone back into the building, you'd have died too. One of the news reports said you had to be hospitalized for smoke inhalation, isn't that right?"

  Tom nodded.

  "If you had gone back in you'd be dead. You couldn't have saved them, Tom."

  A glimmer of something like hope flashed in Tom's eyes.

  Kyle sat back on his heels, a look of sudden comprehension on his face. "You did the best you could—no one could have done more," he said. "Dios mío, I never said that to you."

  Tom said hesitantly: "It wasn't my fault?"

  Kyle gripped his hand. "It wasn't your fault."

  Hallie heard a truck pull up outside. She peeked out the door. "It's the police."

  "It's all over," Tom whispered, a look of relief on his face. He had been unconscious through most of the nightmare that had taken place here tonight, Hallie realized. But he'd been living with his own personal nightmare for thirteen years.

  Hallie looked around at the haunted house: a carousel pony on its side by the door, Charlie sitting dazed beside it, Tom lying on the floor. "All the nightmares are over," she said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hallie put the last of her things in the box and shut the lid. Her two little boxes were packed now. The attic bedroom was empty of every last trace of her presence. It was time to go.

  The week since they'd caught Charlie and Julian had passed in a daze. Windy was back home safely. Zac's shoulder was dislocated, but Dr. Lil said he'd be fine after some quiet rest—which he was loudly protesting. Tom was expected to be as good as new—maybe even better than new now that he and Kyle had started to talk again. Now the Madrigal family was complete once again, and it was time for Hallie to get back to her own life. Windy had insisted that Hallie was welcome to stay, but Hallie knew she couldn't.

  She could picture herself staying here forever, though. She could close her eyes and see herself here; she could easily see Kyle walking through his fields with a couple of little Madrigals in tow, little ones with her unruly dark hair and his vivid emerald eyes. And his smile. She could see it all, and it scared the heck out of her. All her life she'd been a foolish dreamer and not one of her dreams had ever come true. This one wouldn't either.

  She looked out the window. Outside, Kyle's red pickup sat parked out by the barn. She couldn't help smiling as she remembered the way Kyle had gently teased her about the barn bats swirling through the night air. It all felt so right here on the mountain, with the old adobe house, the fields and forests surrounding them, and... Kyle.

  But this wasn't her home. She had been just a guest here, and now it was time to leave, time to leave before her heart broke inside her. All her life she'd been rootless, drifting, going from one foster home to another. Those years had taught her the lesson. And her disastrous marriage had brought the message home. She wasn't going to have the roots the Madrigals had. She wasn't going to ever have the kind of history and family support they had. She had to leave now, because she knew how much more painful it would be if she stayed. Each additional day her hopes would rise further, and then the ending would tear her to pieces.

  She had to get out of here before her silly childhood dreams destroyed her. She didn't think she could survive another broken dream. It was better to let go now before things went too far.

  Hallie picked up the box and carried it downstairs and out to the pickup, ignoring the ache in her hands. Dr. Lil had insisted on giving her a brochure for a physical therapy retreat—one she could never afford on a college student's budget. Another dream out of her reach.

  So she put the box in the truck bed with the rest of her things, then stood back to take one last look at the old adobe, memorizing the crack in the face of the little saint under the peak.

  She turned toward the bay. It was one of those days where the air was clear and the land stretched away from Pajaro Mountain all the way to the sea. She imagined she could make out the tiny shapes of the roller coaster and Ferris wheel down by the beach. Closer, only a few feet away, she watched one last time while Halloween pounced on a blade of grass. This was Kyle's world, and it would never be hers.

  She heard a rustle behind her, and turned around.

  Kyle was putting the lid back on one of her boxes. He wore dark pressed jeans, a clean white shirt with a bolo tie, and a black suit jacket. The California rancher version of a business suit, she guessed. His hair was still damp from the shower, and he'd brushed it back, which emphasized the tiny lines around his eyes. He looked tired, almost as tired as he had when the kids were missing. Hallie wondered what he had to worry about now. Well, it wasn't her problem.

  "Ready?" he asked.

  She nodded, not daring to speak. He opened the passenger door of the truck. She got in without touching him. If she could just get to the bus station without touching him, without speaking, maybe she wouldn't cry and make a fool of herself. His life was full, complete without her, and there was no reason for her to waste her time imagining things she couldn't have.

  They drove in silence down the mountain. They both looked without comment when they passed the new metal railing that marked the spot where Julian had pushed Windy's Bug into the berry field. Now Hallie was a part of the local history, just like Paco's Bluff and Great-Grandm
other Rose with her cherry trees, and all the rest. At least that was something she could take with her.

  Kyle stared at the road ahead as he drove, not even acknowledging the waves from neighbors as they passed through town. He seemed lost in thought.

  Kyle drove without really seeing the road. All his attention was on the silent woman on the seat beside him. He had something to say for every situation, but not this time.

  He knew what he wanted to say; he'd been up the last five nights practicing the words.

  We can make this work, he wanted to say. Everything you dream of can come true if you stay, if you open up to what's right in front of you. It'll be hard, but I'll be there for you, and together we can make a life... a life together.

  But whatever words he practiced in the mirror, they never sounded right.

  I'll take care of you wasn't a promise to someone like Hallie, it was a threat. In her life no man had given her anything without attaching a price tag. The man who'd claimed to love her had used love as a cloak to disguise his need for power and control. She'd paid a terrible price for giving up control, and she wasn't stupid. She'd never do it again.

  She saw him as a threat to her freedom, he'd finally realized. She thought he was just one more man who would lock her in a cage and destroy her dreams. He would never hurt her the way David Cooper had, and he knew, in spite of her fears, that Hallie must realize that. But she was still afraid—afraid to wish for something more.

  Over the last few nights he'd thought of a hundred ways to explain to her that he wouldn't take away her freedom, that he wouldn't try to control her life, that dreams really could come true, but the words all sounded hollow.

  He took the exit for the amusement park.

  The problem wasn't him. It was her. He glanced at her, sitting ramrod-straight in the seat beside him. She couldn't see in the mirror what he saw when he looked at her. And until she did, all his words meant nothing.

  He looked at her: the scared little mouse, so tiny and fragile-looking, knocked around by life, and his family problems had only added to the burden of fear and doubt she carried around with her. He ached to sweep her up into his arms and make everything better, but he knew he couldn't. He wanted to shout out his love for her, but he knew with a sinking heart that it wouldn't work. She didn't doubt him, she doubted herself, and there was nothing he could say to make her believe she was entitled to happiness.

  She had an incredible strength inside of her—she'd faced down difficulties that would have destroyed a lesser person: she'd survived a sad childhood and an abusive marriage, and she'd outwitted a mad man and saved them all from tragedy. But still she doubted herself. She thought of herself as fragile and delicate, even cowardly. She seemed fragile on the surface, but he knew better. He'd known from the moment he first saw her sitting calmly in the wrecked Beetle that he was a goner. Her combination of gentle artist and steely-eyed pragmatist bewitched him, haunted him night and day. And now she wanted to leave.

  He'd paced the floor for a week trying to figure out what to do, but the solution had finally come to him. She needed her dreams to make her whole—so he was going to force her to do a little dreaming, whether she thought she was ready or not. He'd plotted with Dr. Lil to plant the seed, and now he had one final chance to make her see the truth.

  Okay, it would take her some more time to find herself. But there was no reason she couldn't find herself right here in Pajaro Bay....

  "Wait a second," Hallie said. Where were they going? The truck passed under the supports for the roller coaster. "Hey," she said, "you missed the exit for the bus station."

  "I know," Kyle said. He turned onto the maintenance road and pulled to a stop behind the haunted house. "I told Windy and the guys I'd bring you by before you caught your bus," he said. He was out of the truck before she could protest.

  Hallie sighed. She'd already said goodbye to them at the house. Why did they have to drag this out? Kyle came around to the passenger side and opened the door. When she didn't get out, but just sat there, he cleared his throat. "Please?" he said. "They're expecting us."

  She got out. The back entrance to the building was locked, so they walked around to the front.

  Tourists stood in line for the rides, laughing and having a good time. The roller coaster roared past overhead, the clatter of the train on the track mingling with the riders' screams. Kyle walked past the crowds, not saying a word. The place smelled of popcorn and cotton candy and salt air, and Hallie swallowed hard to keep from crying.

  Boardwalk Cottage closed until further notice, the hand-lettered sign in front of the haunted house still said. Kyle lifted the rope that now closed off the entrance, and Hallie slipped under. He followed.

  They walked along the track leading into the haunted house. Inside all the lights were on. They walked past King Kong and the vampire and then to the flying saucer, its crew of little green aliens piled up next to it. Downstairs, through the open trap door, they could hear voices and the raucous music of the out-of-tune band organ, mercifully turned down to a more reasonable volume.

  They followed the music and voices down into the basement.

  Windy and the boys were in a corner, giggling about something. Hallie started to make her way past the junk toward them, but Kyle took her by the arm. "Why don't you look around a bit," he said. He handed her a notebook. "We've got plenty of time before the bus leaves." He walked away. She looked down at the notebook he'd handed her. It was her sketchbook.

  She looked quizzically toward him, but he had gone across the room to talk to the kids. She opened up the sketchbook. Each page brought back a memory of a time and place from her past. She remembered the old dog, Blue, who'd calmly posed for hours on the back porch of one foster home. Misty, the fat little shetland pony who'd belonged to a friend in grade school.

  She closed the sketchbook. The boys were involved in an animated discussion across the room, and Kyle talked quietly with Windy near them. She didn't feel ready to face any of them, so she looked around her, and gasped.

  She'd been so worried about leaving, and about saying goodbye to Kyle, that she hadn't even noticed her surroundings. The room was filled with sculptures as wonderful as those she'd imagined as a little girl. She stood for a moment, trying to absorb all the faded beauty around her. Carved horses were propped up against the walls, and others lay on their sides on tarps on the floor. She was surrounded by a sea of dappled grays and pintos and snow-white prancers that would make a child giddy with delight, every horse with a golden mane and fancy trappings, no two alike. She hadn't had a chance to really look at the horses when they'd last been here, fighting for their lives.

  Before long she found herself walking from horse to horse, marveling at the individual features of each hand-carved creature. She thought Kyle watched out of the corner of his eye when she gently ran her fingers over the gilt mane of a golden palomino. It was actual gold leaf—worn away in spots from countless young riders, but the mane was of real gold, and the stallion's saddle blanket was still lavishly outlined in gilded fringe. A tiny cherub peeked over the back of the saddle, watching her inspection with a cheeky little grin on his face.

  One horse was propped up against King Kong, and she went closer to investigate.

  "Oh, no," she muttered. She was down on her knees in front of the carving. The prancing yearling's near foreleg was broken off just above the knee. She flipped through her sketchbook, and stopped on a page of perspective drawings of horses' legs. She'd been trying to carve a pony that day, and had gone to the racetrack to figure out why the legs didn't look right. She must have made a hundred sketches of thoroughbreds before she'd finally understood the connection of bone and muscle and sinew that made up the leg. She looked from her sketchbook to the carving. Yes, she could picture what someone would need to do to make the little horse whole again.

  She set down her sketchbook and ran her hands over the horse. The paint was chipped in some spots, and worn away in others, but there was n
o mistaking the beauty of the carving. "You poor thing," she muttered. "You must have been something in your day." Gilding still glittered on his sweeping mane, and his saddle was trimmed in golden braid. But this horse was different from any other she'd seen. Across the breastplate and down the saddle blanket were intricate carvings of flowers. How many? Twenty? Fifty? Hallie stopped counting. She stood in front of the horse and touched the roses intertwined in its forelock. The lifelike glass eyes stared out at Hallie, and touched her soul. "You deserve better than this dusty cellar, Beauty," she whispered.

  "He certainly does," a voice said from behind her.

  Hallie turned around. A gray-haired man stood there. He carried a small notebook in one hand, and he stopped to write in it before continuing. "Magnificent, isn't it? The American Beauty horse is certainly one of the best examples of an M.C. Illions outside-row stander I've ever seen. And to find an entire Illions Supreme carousel out of the blue like this—well, of course, you would understand how it feels."

  "I...what do you mean?"

  "Oh, excuse me. I should have introduced myself." The man handed her a business card. Jeremiah Smythe, Associate Director, The Foundation for the Preservation of American Folk Art. "When your Mr. Madrigal called us," the man continued, "we were thunderstruck, simply thunderstruck. Of course we'd all assumed that this carousel was the one destroyed in the fire thirteen years ago. Why, they'll have to rewrite the textbooks on this one. But I guess we'll have to wait and see how the ending will be written. I have my opinions, of course, but it's up to the owners to decide what they feel is best."

  "What's best?" Hallie asked, ignoring the man's comment about her Mr. Madrigal. "What do you mean, 'what's best'?"

  "Well, I guess from your point of view it comes down to a choice between profit and sentiment. Either way, we all win, whether the set is broken up and sold at auction to collectors who'll preserve the horses as the works of art they are, or—"