Read Online Cast into Doubt by Patricia MacDonald - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia MacDonald
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between them, looked out on the street below. Through the palm fronds of the tree in front of the building, Shelby could see people moving lazily along the gas-lit street, calling out to one another, or quarreling or laughing.
Shelby felt the tropic breeze envelop her and she felt a sudden longing for someone to lean on. She thought that she was used to being alone. She had lived alone ever since Chloe moved out, and in some ways she enjoyed her solitude. But she had never in her life felt as alone as she did this night. Through the spaces between the buildings across the street she could see the twinkling lights along the harbor and the blackness of the sea beyond. Somewhere, in that sea, her only child was lost.
Shelby began to shiver, although the night was warm. She had rushed to get to this island in the grip of a superstitious agitation that her presence on the scene would somehow rescue Chloe from peril. It was irrational, of course, but it was part of being a mother – the belief that you could protect your child if only you could reach them. It didn’t matter how many mothers could testify that this was untrue and that fate was implacable. The belief persisted. Though she was no sailor, there was a part of Shelby that wanted to flee from this narrow room, and run to the harbor. She wanted to hire a boat, clamber in, and set out to sea. She imagined herself in the prow, calling Chloe’s name. Somehow, her voice would drown out the sound of the motor, and the trade winds, and reach to the middle of the vast sea, to where Chloe floated, waiting for rescue. Shelby could almost picture Chloe there, bobbing impatiently on the shifting waves, wondering what was taking her mother so long. The image made her smile, and then her smile faded and the image dissolved. Chloe was not suspended there awaiting her, safe from the elements, the creatures of the sea. She was gone.
Shelby turned her back on the open window. She could not bear to look out at the lights of St Thomas’s capital: Charlotte Amalie. The sight of them made her feel short of breath, as if she could feel her daughter’s panic. Shelby’s stomach heaved as she imagined Chloe falling overboard, hurtling into the water. Despite what everyone had told her, she continued to wonder if perhaps Chloe had survived the plunge from the deck to the water. And then . . . what? Had she struggled to the surface only to see the huge ship, unaware of her plight, steaming on its way to the next port, deaf to her cries? Perhaps, frightened and desperate, Chloe saw those faraway lights of the harbor and tried to swim towards them, barefoot in her yellow dress, her curly hair streaming behind her. Did the hopelessness of her situation dawn on her as she swam, her arms weary, her heart heavy, as she made little progress? Was she full of regret, like a mermaid who realized too late that she had foolishly traded her tail for the dream of love with an indifferent mortal? At the thought of it, Shelby’s soul could not contain her anguish, and she let out an unearthly groan of pain and misery.
A rap on her door turned her groan to a cry, and she stared fearfully at the door.
‘Mrs Sloan?’
Shelby walked to the door and opened it. The innkeeper, Christophe, stood at her door holding a tray. There was a bowl of fragrant soup, a glass of wine and a basket with some bread.
‘But, I didn’t . . .’
‘Chief Giroux said to make sure you had something to eat,’ said Christophe firmly. He did not ask if he could come in, but simply walked past her, crossed through the room and set the tray down on the small table on the balcony.
‘There,’ he said. ‘It’s soup. It will go down easily.’
Shelby looked around, flustered, for her purse. She didn’t know whether to offer the man a tip or not.
Christophe understood what she was doing and strode past her into the hallway. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Accept our hospitality. This is a terrible day for you. Perhaps when you
Shelby felt the tropic breeze envelop her and she felt a sudden longing for someone to lean on. She thought that she was used to being alone. She had lived alone ever since Chloe moved out, and in some ways she enjoyed her solitude. But she had never in her life felt as alone as she did this night. Through the spaces between the buildings across the street she could see the twinkling lights along the harbor and the blackness of the sea beyond. Somewhere, in that sea, her only child was lost.
Shelby began to shiver, although the night was warm. She had rushed to get to this island in the grip of a superstitious agitation that her presence on the scene would somehow rescue Chloe from peril. It was irrational, of course, but it was part of being a mother – the belief that you could protect your child if only you could reach them. It didn’t matter how many mothers could testify that this was untrue and that fate was implacable. The belief persisted. Though she was no sailor, there was a part of Shelby that wanted to flee from this narrow room, and run to the harbor. She wanted to hire a boat, clamber in, and set out to sea. She imagined herself in the prow, calling Chloe’s name. Somehow, her voice would drown out the sound of the motor, and the trade winds, and reach to the middle of the vast sea, to where Chloe floated, waiting for rescue. Shelby could almost picture Chloe there, bobbing impatiently on the shifting waves, wondering what was taking her mother so long. The image made her smile, and then her smile faded and the image dissolved. Chloe was not suspended there awaiting her, safe from the elements, the creatures of the sea. She was gone.
Shelby turned her back on the open window. She could not bear to look out at the lights of St Thomas’s capital: Charlotte Amalie. The sight of them made her feel short of breath, as if she could feel her daughter’s panic. Shelby’s stomach heaved as she imagined Chloe falling overboard, hurtling into the water. Despite what everyone had told her, she continued to wonder if perhaps Chloe had survived the plunge from the deck to the water. And then . . . what? Had she struggled to the surface only to see the huge ship, unaware of her plight, steaming on its way to the next port, deaf to her cries? Perhaps, frightened and desperate, Chloe saw those faraway lights of the harbor and tried to swim towards them, barefoot in her yellow dress, her curly hair streaming behind her. Did the hopelessness of her situation dawn on her as she swam, her arms weary, her heart heavy, as she made little progress? Was she full of regret, like a mermaid who realized too late that she had foolishly traded her tail for the dream of love with an indifferent mortal? At the thought of it, Shelby’s soul could not contain her anguish, and she let out an unearthly groan of pain and misery.
A rap on her door turned her groan to a cry, and she stared fearfully at the door.
‘Mrs Sloan?’
Shelby walked to the door and opened it. The innkeeper, Christophe, stood at her door holding a tray. There was a bowl of fragrant soup, a glass of wine and a basket with some bread.
‘But, I didn’t . . .’
‘Chief Giroux said to make sure you had something to eat,’ said Christophe firmly. He did not ask if he could come in, but simply walked past her, crossed through the room and set the tray down on the small table on the balcony.
‘There,’ he said. ‘It’s soup. It will go down easily.’
Shelby looked around, flustered, for her purse. She didn’t know whether to offer the man a tip or not.
Christophe understood what she was doing and strode past her into the hallway. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Accept our hospitality. This is a terrible day for you. Perhaps when you
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