Deanna went on, refusing to let the woman get a word in edgewise. She told her how scared she had been and how much it had meant when Garrett had come to their rescue. Then, after flattering the woman about how nice people were in the South and Wilmington in particular and how she wanted to do a story on southern hospitality and the kindness of strangers, the woman was more than willing to help. “Since you’re just verifying the information and not asking for anything you don’t know, I’m sure it won’t be a problem. Hold on for a second.”
Deanna drummed her fingers on the desk while the sounds of Barry Manilow wafted through the receiver. The woman picked up again.
“Okay. Let’s see now . . .” Deanna heard tapping on a keyboard, then a strange beep. After a moment, the woman said the words that both Deanna and Theresa hoped she would.
“Yes, here it is. Garrett Blake. Um . . . you got the name right, at least according to the information we have. It says here that the boat is named Happenstance .”
Deanna thanked her profusely and asked for the lady’s name, “so she could write about another person who epitomized hospitality.” After spelling it back to the woman, she hung up the phone, beaming.
“Garrett Blake,” she said with a victorious smile. “Our mysterious writer is named Garrett Blake.”
“I can’t believe you found him.”
Deanna nodded as if she’d accomplished something even she doubted she could do. “Believe it. This old woman still knows how to research information.”
“that you do.”
“Anything else that you want to know more about?”
Theresa thought for a moment. “Can you find out anything about Catherine?”
Deanna shrugged and readied herself for the task. “I don’t know, but we can give it a try. Let’s call the paper to see if anything is in their records. If the death was accidental, it may have been written up.”
Again, Deanna called the paper and asked for the news department. Unfortunately, after speaking with a couple of people, she was told that newspapers from a few years back were recorded on microfiche and couldn’t be accessed easily without a specific date. Deanna asked for and received a name that Theresa should contact when she got down there, in case she wanted to look up the information on her own.
“I think that’s about all we can do from here. The rest is up to you, Theresa. But at least you know where to find him.”
Deanna held out the slip of paper with the name. Theresa hesitated. Deanna looked at her for a moment, then set the paper on the desk. She picked up the phone one more time.
“Now who’re you calling?”
“My travel agency. You’re going to need a flight and a place to stay.”
“I haven’t even said I was going yet.”
“Oh, you’re going.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m not going to have you sitting around the newsroom for the next year wondering what might have been. You don’t work well when you’re distracted.”
“Deanna . . .”
“Don’t ‘Deanna’ me. You know the curiosity would drive you crazy. It’s already driving me crazy.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” She paused for a moment, and her words came softer. “Theresa, remember—you’ve got nothing to lose. The worst that could possibly happen is that you fly home in a couple of days. That’s all. You’re not going on a quest to search for a tribe of cannibals. You’re just going to find out if your curiosity was warranted.”
They were both silent as they stared at each other. Deanna had a slight smirk on her face, and Theresa felt her pulse quicken as the finality of the decision hit her. My God, I’m actually going to do this. I can’t believe I’m going along with this.
Still, she gave one last halfhearted attempt at denial.
“I don’t even know what I would say if I finally met him. . . .”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Now, let me take care of this call. Go get your purse. I’m going to need a credit card number.”
Theresa’s mind was a whirl as she started back to her desk. Garrett Blake. Wilmington. Island Diving. Happenstance. The words kept rolling through her head, as if she were rehearsing for a part in a play.
She unlocked the bottom drawer where she kept her purse and paused for a second before going back. But something else had taken hold of her, and in the end she handed Deanna a credit card. The following evening she would leave for Wilmington, North Carolina.
Deanna told her to take the rest of that day and the following off, and on her way out of the office, Theresa sort of felt as if she had been cornered into something in the same way she had cornered old Mr. Shendakin.
But unlike Mr. Shendakin, deep down she was pleased about it, and when the plane touched down in Wilmington the following day, Theresa Osborne checked into a hotel, wondering where all this would lead.
Chapter 5
Theresa woke early, as was her custom, and rose from the bed to look out the window. The North Carolina sun was casting golden prisms through an early morning haze, and she slid open the balcony door to freshen the room.
In the bathroom, she slipped out of her pajamas and started a shower. Stepping into the stall, she thought about how easy it had been to get here. A little less than forty-eight hours ago she had been sitting with Deanna, studying the letters, making phone calls, and searching for Garrett. Once she got home, she had spoken to Ella, who again agreed to watch Harvey and pick up her mail.
The next day she went to the library and read up on scuba diving. It seemed like the logical thing to do. Her years as a reporter had taught her to take nothing for granted, to make a plan, and to do her best to prepare for anything.
The plan she finally came up with was simple. She would go to Island Diving and browse around the store, with the hope of getting a look at Garrett Blake. If he turned out to be a seventy-year-old man or a twenty-year-old student, she would simply turn around and go home. But if their instincts were right and he seemed to be approximately her age, she decided she would try to speak with him. That was why she had taken the time to learn something about scuba diving—she wanted to sound as if she knew something about it. And she would probably be able to learn more about him if she could talk to him about something he was interested in, without having to tell him too much about herself. Then she’d have a better grasp on things.
But after that? That was the part she wasn’t exactly sure about. She didn’t want to tell Garrett the complete truth about why she came—that would sound crazy. Hi, I read your letters to Catherine, and knowing how much you loved her, I just thought you might be the man I’ve been looking for. No, that was out of the question, and the other option didn’t seem much better—Hi, I’m from the Boston Times and I found your letters. Could we do a story on you? That didn’t seem right, either. Nor did any of the other ideas that filtered through her mind.
But she hadn’t come this far to give up now, despite the fact she didn’t know what to say. Besides, as Deanna had said, if it didn’t work out, she would simply return to Boston.
She stepped out of the shower, dried off before putting some lotion on her arms and legs, and dressed in a short-sleeved white blouse, denim shorts, and a pair of white sandals. She wanted to look casual, and she did. What she didn’t want was to be noticed right off the bat. after all, she didn’t know what to expect, and she wanted the opportunity to evaluate the situation on her own terms, without having to deal with anyone else.
When she was finally ready to leave, she found the phone book, thumbed through it, and scribbled the address of Island Diving on a piece of paper. Two deep breaths later, she was walking down the hall. Again she repeated Deanna’s mantra.
Her first stop was at a convenience store, where she bought a map of Wilmington. The clerk had also given her directions, and she found her way easily, despite the fact that Wilmington was larger than she had imagined. The streets were packed with cars, especially as she passed by the bridges that led to the islands right off the coast. Kure Beach, Carolina Beach, and Wrightsville Beach were reached by bridges that crossed from the city, and that was where most of the traffic seemed to be headed.
Island Diving was located near the marina. Once she made her way through town, the traffic became a little less congested, and after reaching the road she needed, she slowed the car and looked for the shop.
From where she had turned, it wasn’t far. Just as she had hoped, a few other cars were parked on the side of the building. She pulled into a space a few spots from the entrance.
It was an older wooden building, faded from the salt air and sea breezes, with one side of the store facing the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway. The hand-painted sign hung on two rusty metal chains, and the windows had the dusty look of a thousand rainstorms.
She stepped out of her car, brushed the hair from her face, and started toward the entrance. She paused before opening the door to take a deep breath and collect her thoughts, then stepped inside, doing her best to pretend she was there for ordinary reasons.
She browsed through the store, walking among the aisles, watching assorted customers pull and replace items from the racks. She kept an eye out for anyone who appeared to work there. She glanced furtively at every man in the store, wondering, Are you Garrett? Most, however, appeared to be customers.
She worked her way to the back wall and found herself staring at a series of newspaper and magazine articles, framed and laminated, hanging above the racks. After a quick glance, she leaned forward for a closer look and suddenly realized she had stumbled across the answer to the first question she had about the mysterious Garrett Blake.
She finally knew what he looked like.
The first article, reprinted from the newspaper, was about scuba diving, and the caption beneath the photo read simply “Garrett Blake of Island Diving, readying his class for its first ocean dive.”
In it, he was adjusting the straps that held the tank to one of the student’s back, and she could tell from the photo that Deanna and she had been right about him. He looked to be in his thirties, with a lean face and short brown hair that seemed to have bleached a little from hours spent in the sun. He was taller than the student by a couple of inches, and the sleeveless shirt he was wearing showed well-defined muscles in his arms.
Because the picture was a little grainy, she couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, though she could tell that his face was weathered as well. She thought she saw wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, though that could have been caused by squinting in the sun.
She read the article carefully, noting when he generally taught his classes and some facts about getting certification. The second article had no picture but talked about shipwreck diving, which was popular in North Carolina. North Carolina, it seemed, had more than five hundred wrecks charted off the coast and was called the Graveyard of the Atlantic. Because of the Outer Banks and other islands directly off the coast, ships had run aground for centuries.
The third article, again without a picture, concerned the Monitor , the first federal ironclad of the Civil War. En route to South Carolina, it had sunk off Cape Hatteras in 1862 while being towed by a steamer. The wreck had finally been discovered, and Garrett Blake, along with other divers from Duke Marine Institute, had been asked to dive to the ocean floor to explore the possibility of raising it.
The fourth article was about Happenstance . Eight pictures of the boat had been taken from various angles, inside and out, all detailing the restoration. The boat, she learned, was fairly unique in that it was made entirely of wood and had first been manufactured in Lisbon, Portugal, in 1927. Designed by Herreshoff, one of the most noted maritime engineers of that period, it had a long and adventurous history (including being used in the Second World War to study the German garrisons that lined the shores of France). Eventually the boat made its way to Nantucket, where it was bought by a local businessman. By the time Garrett Blake purchased it four years ago, it had fallen into disrepair, and the article said that he and his wife, Catherine, had restored it.
Catherine. . .
Theresa looked at the article’s date. April 1992. The article didn’t mention that Catherine had died, and because one of the letters she had was found three years ago in Norfolk, it meant that Catherine must have died sometime in 1993.
“Can I help you?”
Theresa turned instinctively toward the voice behind her. A young man was smiling behind her, and she was suddenly glad she had seen a picture of Garrett moments before. This person obviously wasn’t he.
“Did I startle you?” he asked, and Theresa quickly shook her head.
“No . . . I was just looking at the pictures.”
He nodded toward them. “She’s something, isn’t she?”
“Who?”
“Happenstance. Garrett—the guy that owns the shop—rebuilt her. She’s a wonderful boat. One of the prettiest I’ve ever seen, now that she’s done.”
“Is he here? Garrett, I mean.”
“No, he’s down at the docks. He won’t be in until later this morning.”
“Oh . . .”
“Can I help you find something? I know the shop’s kind of cluttered, but everything you need to go diving you can find here.”
She shook her head. “No, I was just browsing, actually,”
“Okay, but if I can help you find something, let me know.”
“I will,” she said, and the young man nodded cheerfully, then turned and started toward the counter at the front of the store. Before she could stop the words, she heard herself ask:
“you said Garrett was at the docks?”
He turned again and kept walking backward as he spoke. “Yeah—a couple blocks down the road. At the marina. Do you know where that is?”