Sanctuary(2)

And she was nearing the age her mother had been when she had left the island. Disappeared, abandoning her husband and three children without a second glance.

Had Annabelle ever dreamed of coming home, Jo wondered, and dreamed the door was locked to her?

she didn't want to think about that, didn't want to remember the woman who had broken her heart twenty years before. Jo reminded herself that she should be long over such things by now. she'd lived without her mother, and without Sanctuary and her family. she had thrived-at least professionally.

Tapping her cigarette absently, Jo glanced around the bedroom. she kept it simple, practical. Though she'd traveled widely, there were few mementos. Except the photographs. she'd matted and framed the black-and-white prints, choosing the ones among her work that she found the most restful to decorate the walls of the room where she slept.

There, an empty park bench, the black wrought iron all fluid curves. And there, a single willow, its lacy leaves dipping low over a small, glassy pool. A moonlit garden was a study in shadow and texture and contrasting shapes. The lonely beach with the sun just breaking the horizon tempted the viewer to step inside the photo and feel the sand rough underfoot.

she'd hung that seascape only the week before, after returning from an assignment on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Perhaps that was one reason she'd begun to think about home, Jo decided. she'd been very close. she could have traveled a bit south down to Georgia and ferried from the mainland to the island.

There were no roads to Desire, no bridges spanning its sound.

But she hadn't gone south. she'd completed her assignment and come back to Charlotte to bury herself in her work.

And her nightmares.

she crushed out the cigarette and stood. There would be no more sleep, she knew, so she pulled on a pair of sweatpants. she would do some darkroom work, take her mind off things.

It was probably the book deal that was making her nervous, she decided, as she padded out of the bedroom. It was a huge step in her career. Though she knew her work was good, the offer from a major publishing house to create an art book from a collection of her photographs had been unexpected and thrilling.

Natural studies, by Jo Ellen Hathaway, she thought as she turned into the small galley kitchen to make coffee. No, that sounded like a science project. Glimpses of Life? Pompous.

she smiled a little, pushing back her smoky red hair and yawning. she should just take the pictures and leave the title selection to the experts.

she knew when to step back and when to take a stand, after all. she'd been doing one or the other most of her life. Maybe she would send a copy of the book home. What would her family think of it?

Would it end up gracing one of the coffee tables where an overnight guest could page through it and wonder if Jo Ellen Hathaway was related to the Hathaways who ran the Inn at Sanctuary?

Would her father even open it at all and see what she had learned to do? Or would he simply shrug, leave it untouched, and go out to walk his island? Annabelle's island.

It was doubtful he would take an interest in his oldest daughter now. And it was foolish for that daughter to care.

Jo shrugged the thought away, took a plain blue mug from a hook. While she waited for the coffee to brew, she leaned on the counter and looked out her tiny window.

There were some advantages to being up and awake at three in the morning, she decided. The phone wouldn't ring. No one would call or fax or expect anything of her. For a few hours she didn't have to be anyone, or do anything. If her stomach was jittery and her head ached, no one knew the weakness but herself.

Below her kitchen window, the streets were dark and empty, slicked by late-winter rain. A streetlamp spread a small pool of light-lonely fight, Jo thought. There was no one to bask in it. Aloneness had such mystery, she mused. Such endless possibilities.

It pulled at her, as such scenes often did, and she found herself leaving the scent of coffee, grabbing her Nikon, and rushing out barefoot into the chilly night to photograph the deserted street.

It soothed her as nothing could. With a camera in her hand and an image in her mind, she could forget everything else. Her long feet splashed through chilly puddles as she experimented with angles. With absent annoyance she flicked at her hair. It wouldn't be falling in her face if she'd had it trimmed. But she'd had no time, so it swung heavily forward in a tousled wave and made her wish for an elastic band.

she took nearly a dozen shots before she was satisfied. When she turned, her gaze was drawn upward. she'd left the lights on, she mused. she hadn't even been aware she'd turned on so many on the trip from bedroom to kitchen.

Lips pursed, she crossed the street and focused her camera again. Calculating, she crouched, shot at an upward angle, and captured those lighted windows in the dark building. Den of the Insomniac, she felt dead. Then with a half laugh that echoed eerily enough to make her shudder, she lowered the camera again.