Resentment: A Psychological Thriller - 1. Episode 1

Thomas

Before the story of the five dead sailors reached the front page of The Roc City Gazette, the existence of Adermoor Cove was irrelevant to me; you heard it mentioned in conversation from time to time, but nothing truly interesting was ever said about it. Had Arthur not phoned to tell me about it, calling it a tragedy of “Greek proportions", I might have never stepped foot on the island.

At first I had no intention of reading the article. Arthur had no right to make a request like that of me, but then the wounded-child part of my ego that yearned for connection kicked in. Why not? Indulge him. Reluctantly, I bought a newspaper and read the article for myself.

Tragedy Strikes Adermoor Cove

Tragedy has struck the island of Adermoor Cove, a small community thirty-two miles north of Roc City. On September 1st, five fishermen set sail on The Lady’s Corset. “It was supposed to be a short trip,” says Cara Belfor, the widower of Captain Stephen Belfor. “He said they would be back well before the storm hit. Usually if a storm is comin’, the men will wait for it to pass before they take the boats out, but money has been really tight lately.”

The other four men on The Lady’s Corsette were: Henry Sullivan, Scott Harker, Dylan Crocker, and Ted Hardy. “These were all church-going, god-fearing men,” says Mayor Joseph Andino, “who were just trying to make a living. Around here the best way to do that is through the fishing industry. Unfortunately, the sea is treacherous and has a mind of its own. Out there anything can happen.”

The tragedy is made worse by the fact no bodies were recovered from the wreckage. “It’s bad enough my unborn daughter will never be able to meet her father,” says Lucy Crocker, in the final trimester of her pregnancy. “But there’s nothing to bury. Nothing to give us closure.”

Agamemnon Apaulos III, owner and chairman of Apaulos Fishing Industry, and his wife, renowned actress Roxanne Lockhart, will be making an appearance at the funeral. Mr. Apaulos has been given permission by the families of the deceased to share an eulogy he’s written. “It only feels right that I should say something in celebration of the lives of these courageous men,” says Apaulos. “They were more than just my employees…they were family. That is what everyone on this island is to one another: family.”

While the island of Adermoor Cove may be reeling in the face of this tragedy, there is no doubt they will find a way to comfort one another and move on.”

[End of the article]

Afterwards I felt the strange and sudden need to visit the island. I wanted to witness for myself how the death of these men had affected the rest of the town of some three hundred people. It could just be the inspiration I needed to begin working on the new book. And to be honest, I simply needed a change of scenery. So, I threw a week’s worth of clothes, my typewriter, and several notebooks into two suitcases, and left my parents a voicemail to let them know I would be leaving town for a bit, and I fled.

Two hours later I pulled my Mustang onto the side of the Cove’s Main Street, left the engine idling, and stepped out beneath the denim-blue sky.

I spotted two men leaning against an old pickup truck that had seen better days, smoking pipes. I cut off the voice in my head that said I’d made a mistake in coming to this place and approached them out of desperation. When they saw me coming, they stopped their conversation immediately. I bolstered my courage and kept walking; I did not come all this way just to turn around in defeat. “Good afternoon.” I greeted them with my most winning smile. “I just got off the ferry. I’m looking for a place to stay.”

“You a visitor?” the fellow on the right asked.

"Yes," I said with more courage than I felt.

"Why would you want to visit a place like this?" the other man asked. He eyed me suspiciously. He had a particularly rough look to him, with his tangled dark curls mopped back from his brow. His beard clung to his face in uneven patches. "Ain't nothin' to around 'ere except haul fish and drink."

I shifted my suitcase from one hand to the other; the second suitcase rested on the tarmac at my feet. I asked if there was a hotel close by.

"There's a bed and breakfast down the street." The other man, who seemed far more friendly than his beady-eyed companion, turned around to nod in the opposite direction. "It's the only place we got. We dunna get visitors much, y'see?"

I got back in the Mustang, both grateful for the directions and to have a car door between myself and them. Maybe this was a mistake. I shoved the thought stubbornly aside before following the main road deeper into the village. I passed a farmer's market, the general store, and a pub called the Netted Eel. Several vehicles crowded the tiny parking lot of the establishment. All the buildings were small and arranged in a way that made me think of a child's toy model. Ain't nothin' to around 'ere except haul fish and drink.

I thought of all the small-town soap operas Ma liked to watch on TV. If everyone on the island was as close as the article in the Gazette depicted, I could see why. Each other was all they truly had.

In a town with one main road, it didn't take me long to find the bed-and-breakfast. It sat at the base of the hill, where the road veered left before ascending upwards; at the top of the hill was a church with a bl tower. The inn, named The Clam's Pearl, was set in a Victorian house with a wraparound porch. With both suitcases in hand, I passed through the gate to the freshly painted door with a crescent-shaped crystal glass window. A sense of relief stole over me. I would have somewhere to sleep after all.

An attractive middle-aged woman walked up as if she’d sensed my entry through supernatural means. In her hands she carried a tray with dirty dishes on top. She smiled warmly, setting the tray on a small table. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I’m looking for a room.”

“Are you visiting? I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“Yes.” It seemed I would be asked this question a lot while I was here.

“Can’t imagine why you would want to visit a place like this, but I’m glad you’re here all the same. My name’s Margaret. I’m the owner of The Clam’s Pearl.”

“It’s lovely,” I said, and meant it.

“I am quite proud of it myself. Of course, without the help of Agamemnon Apoulos I would never have been able to get it up and running. God bless ‘im.”

I frowned; I remembered the name from the article but couldn’t recall who he was at the moment. “Who?”

“Agamemnon Apoulos!” She took a feather duster and began wiping along the front of a bookshelf as if she were a Stepford Wife. “He’s the owner of the fishing industry here. His father owned the company a couple decades back. He’s speaking at the service tomorrow...in the church on the hill. I’m sure you saw it on the way in.”

“I did.”

Margaret picked up the tray with dishes on it. “Let me check on the Hammonds and we’ll get you that room. They came here a week ago from New York. Mr. Hammond is an investor from Roc City”—Roc came out sounding like Rawwwkkk— “and his wife is just taggin’ along for the hell of it.”

I took a moment to look around the room: at the grandfather clock standing up against the wall by the fireplace, the lounge area with two sofas, an armchair, and potted plants. It made me think of Ma and the boxes of cheap dollar romance paperbacks treasured beneath her bed. For a moment I was a child again, running my hands through the yellowed pages while she sat tucked away on the futon. She didn’t live then like she and Alexander do now, tucked away in their own universe. Keep it back home, Thomas. You give them enough of your time as it is.

When Margaret returned, she led me into her office, a well-kept room with a square desk. The keys were tucked in a wall of slotted panels. I signed a sheet of paper and paid enough to keep the room for a week. Then she led me out of the office and up a flight of stairs. The second floor had six bedrooms. She grabbed two sets of towels and washcloths and unlocked the door to the sixth room.

“I hope your stay is comfortable,” she said from the doorway. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be leaving in a couple of hours, but another girl named Charlene will take over. She’s very nice.”

The room was spacious yet cozy. The wallpaper was green with bright pink and red rose heads that sprouted along the wall. A window overlooked a postcard view of the ocean. Everything was spotless. After inspecting all of this I stopped in the doorway and looked at the bed. Sudden exhaustion flooded me. I dropped my suitcases and collapsed on the bed.

I slept for four hours. By the time I woke up and looked out the window the sun had begun to sink, so that the sky bled orange. I groaned. I slept way too long. I'll be lucky if I'm able to go to bed tonight.

I looked down at the phone provided by the inn. It was time to call Ma. I could already hear her voice in my head as I lifted it from the cradle. Authur says hello… I dialed out of the inn, then punched the numbers for Mom's apartment. She picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Oh Thomas! Your father and I have been worried sick about you! I tried to get a hold of you, but the machine went straight to voicemail. Where have you been?"

Authur isn't my father. "I'm in Adermoor Cove. I got off the ferry not too long ago."

"What on earth are you doing there?"

The alarm in her voice made my head hurt. I struggled to find an answer. "I just need a break, you know? I figured I'd stay here and work on the new book, and maybe catch my bearings in the process.

"Because of what happened with Louis. I understand."

No matter how things might have changed between us, Ma knew better than anyone. For a moment I felt incredibly homesick. What am I doing here? "You do?"

"I do. You loved Louis and then he left you without an explanation, without closure. Then you became angry. To be angry with someone and in love with them is a bad combination. God knows love can make us do crazy things. But Thomas, the hearing is over and now that things have slowed down, you realize you can finally move on, have a fresh start…right? Even though right now it hurts and isn't fair."

There was no stopping the tremble in my voice. The phone shook in my hand. "I know, Ma."

Sometimes I dreamed the hearing had all been one big nightmare, or that he would come to me and realize he’d made a big mistake. But I was the one who had snuck into his apartment, shattered all the pictures of us together, and slashed his tires in a fit of rage. The result was a restraining order.

No, Louis and I were done with each other.

Jude

The first time I saw Adermoor Cove I thought it looked like something on the front of a postcard: white sails beneath a denim-blue sky, seagulls soaring through the air. It all looked too perfect. I didn't trust what my eyes were showing me.

I stood at the front of the ferry with the sea spread out before me in aquamarine ruffles. At conflict with my surroundings, I felt circumstances would send me tumbling over the railing. I could already feel the sensation of plunging through the air for a second or two before hitting the water. I gripped the railing so tight my knuckles had turned white.

I took a moment to study the people around me. I watched the young mother guiding her daughter by the hand across the deck, her long gown blowing in the wind; the older couple sitting on the bench, savoring their ice cream cones; they looked perfectly happy and content with one another. Duane appeared at my side with two coney dogs, a tray gripped in each hand. "I figured we better eat something," he told me. "Breakfast was a while ago."

"Thanks." I looked down nervously at the conglomeration of coney sauce, mustard, and onion.

Duane looked up at the sky, looking equanimical. I decided not to ruin the moment by pointing out the smear of mustard on his chin. I was beginning to wonder if I should simply wipe it off myself when he said, "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." I smiled for his benefit. I wanted - no, I needed this trip to be a pleasant experience; we both did.

He must have heard the uncertainty in my voice all the same. He looked at me, his face softening. He carefully reached over, pushing my glasses up off the bridge of my nose. I wasn't even aware they had begun to slip. I hated wearing them, but could never bring myself to wear contacts. "We need this, Jude," he said. His voice sounded thick and husky.

These trivial, yet intimate gestures always surprised me, even after all the time we’d known each other. Like him calling me Jude instead of Judas; my sister Lisa was the only one who called me Jude to my face. Small gestures that spoke volumes. Did he know that when he did these things he was leading me out of the dark? And yet none of these gestures held the meaning that they used to. Is he truly being genuine or is he just trying to patch things up to alleviate his guilt? Or am I?

His fingers were warm and reassuring, entwined with my own like a knot. I tilted my head up so I could look into his dark brown eyes. Much like the sea, it was hard not to get lost in them. His skin had begun to darken due to exposure from the sun. "I know we do," I said, and gave his hand a squeeze.

Once the ferry reached the pier, Duane and I climbed into the Jeep. Duane insisted on taking the wheel - admittedly I'm not the best driver. "Can we walk around for a bit? After the ferey ride I was eager for a chance to stretch my legs.

"Absolutely!" Either Duane was just as excited as I was, or he was relieved that I was going along with this crazy trip.

Duane pulled up beside a parking meter. I was the first one out of the vehicle, already fishing change out of my wallet. We walked along the pier, heading towards the shops and restaurants. A cool breeze blew in from the ocean. There were booths manned by vendors everywhere, selling handmade jewelry, and baked goods.

Duane said he wanted to get a souvenir, so we stepped inside a gift shop. Most of the items were geared toward kids: stuffed animals, board games, books with popup pictures, and sailboat models. Eventually Duane was pulled towards a shelf of coffee table books while I checked out the rack of postcards. I'd always wanted to send someone a postcard. I'd found one I wanted with a painted portrait of the island much like the view I'd seen on the ferry. Now was the perfect time to send one. The only problem was the perfect time to send one. The only problem was figuring out who to send it to. I had a few college friends I went out with on occasion, but most of them were busy with establishing careers or raising families. I wasn't sure if any of them would care about getting a card when you could just send them a text message.

That left my mother, and Lisa. I grabbed the envelope tucked away behind the car and went to the register to pay for it. I stood off to the side to write down something, but the words kept flying out of my head like a kite caught in the eye of a storm. Why is it so much easier to write a novel than it is to write something meaningful for family? I asked myself. If I were to ask Duane he would just say something well-meaning but cliched like, Write what’s in your heart.

What was in my heart?

I began to write the first words that came to mind; they would have to do.

Dear Lisa,

Sorry it’s been long since I called. You know how I get sometimes. I’m on vacation at a strange little place called Adermoor Cove. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. It’s just a ferry ride away from Roc City. I’m with Duane—it’s a long story, so don’t ask. Anyway, how’s school going? We should talk soon.

Your brother, Jude.

…

Once the Clam's Pearl Inn had been beautiful. Now it reminded me of the old Victorian style homes from the ghettos of Roc City. I'm talking about the kinds of neighborhoods Ma grew up in as a child, back when they were nice.

The Clam's Pearl needed a fresh coat of paint or two. The rose bushes needed trimming, the sidewalk swept. The exterior of the house looked like it had been sanded down by time. It looked like the type of place I wrote about in my novels.

Duane did not look impressed. "Maybe we should try somewhere else; this looks nothing like the pictures on the website.

"I like it."

"You would."

Once out of the Jeep, I looked up at the inn. The exact moment I craned my head back, a shadow fell across the house, darkening the windows. A terrifying dizziness pulsed through my head like a shockwave. The world tilted. If I hadn't leaned back against the Jeep I would have landed on my ass, in the dirt. Something warm and wet began to trickle down my face from my nose. What the fuck?

"Are you okay?" Duane came to my rescue, a napkin in hand. He pressed the napkin to my face, fingers clamping gently over the bridge of my nose. When he pulled the napkin away, fresh shocks of pain shot through my skull.

"I'm okay, I just need a sec," I reassured him.

"It's just a nosebleed and a little bit of dizziness." Already the bleeding had stopped, almost as quickly as it had begun.

"I haven't seen you have a nosebleed like that in a long time."

"I used to get headaches and nosebleeds all the time in college, remember? Another thing, I just had the strangest moment of deja vu, like I've been here before."

He gave me a wicked smile. "Maybe you have…in another life."

Duane was teasing me. I'd made a living out of writing tales about houses with peeling wallpaper. I was good at writing those kinds of tales and it had made me a lot of money. It was only recently I had begun to believe the things I wrote about actually existed.

I kissed him on the cheek. "Let's find out."