Chapter Seven
Tybee Island, Georgia
“This sunset is as gorgeous as the one we saw yesterday.” Vicki stood at the railing on the third-floor balcony of Becca’s home. The immense orange sun drifted below the horizon while a contrasting cool breeze caressed her skin. “And your house, right here on the ocean. It’s perfect.”
“I know.” Becca stood next to her, sipping a glass of white wine. “I found this place three months ago, and I knew I had to have it. Fortunately, I’d sold enough paintings for the down payment.”
Vicki peered over her shoulder at the huge window, behind which lay a well-stocked art studio. Her friend was right. It was as though the house had been built for her.
“So, did you bring it?” Becca’s eyes glittered with anticipation.
Vicki’s insides curdled. She’d managed to sidestep it the day before, but today there was no getting around it. “Yes.”
Becca dropped onto the nearest overstuffed patio chair, tucked her long, sun-kissed legs beneath her, and smoothed her ankle-length gypsy skirt over her knees. Her myriad bracelets rang as she held out her hands and smiled. “Gimme.”
Vicki flopped onto the chair next to her, the wine in her glass nearly sloshing over the rim. She’d dreaded this from the moment she’d spoken with Becca on the phone and explained why she wanted to stay with her for a while. “It’s not as glamorous as you think.”
“Gimme.” Her imperious hand remained outstretched, the last vestiges of the molten sun sparking multi-colored lights in her rings and bangles.
“It’s pretty awful.”
“Oh, for goodness sake.” Becca sighed with mocked annoyance. “Gimme!”
Vicki dug into her oversized tote and brought out the magazine. She flipped to the article Lenny Johnston had written about her and handed it over.
“Oh, wow,” Becca murmured.
“See what I mean?” She ran a hand through her hair. “I just can’t believe it.”
“I know.”
Something about her tone encouraged Vicki to glance over, but she found it difficult to decipher her friend’s wide-eyed expression. “What?”
“You’re famous.”
The simplistic declaration sent arrows of shock through her core. Famous? That was the last thing she’d expected her to say.
“The guy is making me out to be some kind of monster. You make me sound like a celebrity.”
Becca’s slender shoulders rose and fell. “You kinda are a celebrity. Your picture’s in a magazine.”
“I’ve been trying my whole life to avoid this type of attention. I’m a freak of nature. I don’t need to see it in print.” She gestured toward the magazine with her glass, the wine splashing over the side and onto the deck. “Damn it.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Her friend dismissed the accidental spill with a wave of her hand. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry I upset you.”
“This is why I left Charleston. Why I came here.”
She’d packed up her belongings and scurried to Becca’s house. But had she chosen Tybee Island because it was where her friend lived, or because of its proximity to Savannah and the fact she’d had a vision about a girl who drove a carriage there? Or did my curse somehow manipulate my subconscious decision to come here? Her insides knotted.
Not only had Vicki ensconced herself in Becca’s guest room, she’d also had a vision about her destiny that was somehow tied to the girl in Savannah. Fear gripped her chest. In two short weeks, everything would change. Less than two weeks now. Thirteen days.
“I need you to understand.” The guilt of the secret she kept softened her tone. “The guy who wrote those lies—Lenny Johnston—he literally stalked me. Followed me around, for who knows how long, until something happened. And he got a story for that piece of crap magazine.”
“I’m really sorry.” Becca stared at her, regret clear on her face.
“It’s okay. You saved me.” She reached over, squeezed her friend’s hand. “I needed a place to hide, and you didn’t hesitate.”
“You stay as long as you need.”
“Thank you.” The truth she harbored produced an intense ache in her heart, a knife twisting in her chest. “If I didn’t have you, I don’t know what I would do.”
“Well.” Becca dabbed the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. “Your refuge comes with a price.”
“Anything.” Vicki prayed it might ease the guilt. “Name it.”
“You have to be up and ready to go by four.”
“You mean a.m.? As in, four in the morning?”
“Yes.” Becca’s natural effervescent personality reemerged with Vicki’s squawking inquiry.
“Okay.” She gulped the last bit of wine in her glass. “I’ll be ready. Can I ask what we’ll be doing instead of sleeping like normal people?”
“Sure.” She gestured toward the large window behind them. “We’ll be delivering some paintings to a gallery in Savannah. I have a show tomorrow night and was supposed to deliver them earlier today. You’ve been busy moving in, and I didn’t want to run off and leave you.”
Vicki nodded. That was just like Becca—always putting others before herself.
“I hope jeans and a T-shirt are acceptable delivery wear.”