Page 110 of It's One of Us
When she finishes the tea, she goes for a walk. This has become her routine—early to bed, early to rise, tea, walk. She’s doing some of the best work of her career on Annika’s place. Design is an art form like any other, and she recognizes the stages. She’s moving into a new phase of her career, and she likes how it’s going. If Picasso could go blue, so can she.
The sand is soft under her feet, packed perfectly for walking but fine-grained, like sugar. There is the tiniest hint of chill in the morning air, dew sparkling on the webs strung between the sea oats. Soon enough she’ll need shoes for her rambles, but for now, she relishes the cool water and delicate sand. Seagulls swoop and scold overhead, and the sand pipers are out in force, tearing madly across the strand, zigzagging to and fro; there must be a huge field of periwinkles for their morning feast. She’s been using the soft translucent pastels of the tiny mollusks’ wet shells as her inspiration for the colors in the renovation. The breeze, gentle when she started out, has picked up, shifting to a more southern flow, eliminating the chill but causing her hair to whip, tangling around her neck and into her mouth. She’s forgotten a ponytail holder, tucks it behind her ears and down into her shirt and soldiers on.
It is a mile and one half to the next major boardwalk, which is her usual turning spot. The sun is climbing steadily now, and she’s broken into a light sweat. The outdoor shower will feel so good, and then she’s going into town for supplies—the marble she ordered is in, she wants to take a look at the slab before she has it delivered, and the French oak for the ceiling should be in, too. She started in the kitchen and has been working her way into the rest of the house like spokes of a spiderweb.
The rug for the living room is next up. It gave her fits, but she’s settled on a soft cerulean-and-cream antique Turkish from a store on the mainland; it will anchor the palette of the room and allow her to build off the look. The new doors open accordion-style onto the water view, and she’s had four new windows framed and installed and painted the interior walls the same Greek white as the outside to make the space as bright and airy as she can.
A shell catches her eye, and a piece of sea glass next to it. Gasping with pleasure at the find, she scoops it up. It is a big piece, exactly the shade of Perry’s eyes, the softest gray with a hint of blue, like the feathers of a tiny bird.
So is the rug.
So is the veining in the marble.
Shit. There she goes again. She’s recreating her ex-lover’s gaze in textiles.
She’s so lost in thought about the color scheme that she doesn’t notice the man sitting on the steps of the house’s boardwalk until she’s almost to the stairs.
“Olivia.”
She jerks into awareness, gasps aloud to see Perry Bender in the flesh, as if she’s conjured him out of salt and sand and wistful remembrance.
“What are you doing here?”
“Hello to you, too,” he says, amusement in his voice. He doesn’t move—not to touch her, not to get out of her way. He just sits there with that crooked smile she’s been dreaming about in between the nightmares.
“I thought you’d be at the top of the Matterhorn by now.”
“I thought I would be, too. But something came up.”
“More important than work?”
She sounds sharp, she knows it, but he’s caught her so off guard.
“Yeah.” His face goes blank. “I need to talk to you about something.”
“Come up to the house,” she says, playing it cool, when inside her heart is throwing a raucous party, yelling and screaming. He’s come for her. Perry has come for her.
The man she wanted to show up, finally has. And she has no idea what this means.
He’s brought coffee and croissants from the bakery down the street, the pastry still warm in their bag. She pulls butter and jam from the refrigerator while he grabs plates and mugs. Their movements together are easy, comfortable, as if they’ve been satellite people rotating around a kitchen sun their whole lives.
The croissants are flaky and delicious, but she has no appetite. Perry looks drawn. Tired. She doesn’t, she knows. The past few weeks have been good to her. Being away from Nashville, from Park, from the horror show their life had become is healing her as much as the clean food and exercise and sunlight.
“Have you been paying attention to the news at all?”
Olivia shakes her head. “I have been blissfully unaware of everything and everyone. On purpose.”
“They’ve found Annie Cottrell. Her remains, at least. In St. Louis.”
“You’re kidding. After all these years? Where?”
“A drainage ditch by the baseball field. Buried deep in a septic hole. They would never have found her if someone hadn’t talked.”
Dread parades up her spine. “Someone, like who?”
“An excellent question. The police got an anonymous tip.”
She tears off a piece of croissant. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it? Her parents must be so relieved to have an answer, finally. I can’t imagine anything worse, not knowing where your child is for all those years.” She shudders. “You came down here to tell me this?”
