Chapter 17 Nina

Chapter 17

?Nina

When I finally emerge from the excavation company's building, daylight hits me once more, and I am momentarily blinded by the midday sun.

Blinking and dazed, I head to the marina railings and grab a firm hold—the solidity of it reassuring. I let the cool sea breeze hit me, the low hum of harbor life, the gentle slapping of waves on the hulls of the ships quieting my fevered thoughts.

I try to put what I have just found out into focus.

The discovery of the existence of more house beneath Anderssen's Opening is deeply unsettling in itself, but the thing my thoughts snag on more is who on earth has been pretending to be me for months. I cannot help but wonder if this woman, whoever she is, has contacted other people under the guise of Nina Hepworth.

I didn't even know about the house, so she had free rein for months to do as she pleased without even raising suspicions. And my father was still alive for some of that time; how did he not know? I can't help wonder what else there might be that I still do not know about that she may have gotten to before me.

And the question of who she is or what she might hope to gain from any of this is truly baffling.

Suddenly, something Oksana said that morning flashes back to mind. She had never met my father but she mentioned seeing someone else at the house: a woman, a woman about the same age as me. Could that have been this other mysterious Nina?

But I do not get to follow the thought as a hand lands on my shoulder and with a yelp of surprise I spin abruptly around to face the figure behind me.

Joe Loman, Mick's son, looks down at me, a surprisingly handsome, apologetic smile spreading across his face. Caught unprepared for the realization that Joe is actually an incredibly attractive man, on top of the fact that he just scared the bejesus out of me, it takes me a second to tear my eyes away from his deep-brown ones.

"Sorry, probably should have just cleared my throat or something," he says with a laugh. He extends something in his hands toward me and I see it is my sunglasses. I must have left them in their office.

"Oh, thanks," I blurt, totally unaware I was missing them until now. I take them from him and to my eternal embarrassment, I somehow manage to fumble them and they drop to the ground. One tinted lens pops clean out of the frame andsprings toward the marina railings before skittering over the edge and into the water. We both lean over the railings and watch it bob for a moment on the water's surface before inevitably sinking out of sight.

"Fuck," I splutter, with more weight of meaning than a pair of airport sunglasses could ever really warrant.

Joe bends to pick up the broken frame, one winking lens still intact, one empty.

"Not a great day, I'm guessing?" he asks gently, proffering me the broken carcass. "Judging by the bits I've been involved in, at least." I accept the wire frame and lean past him to pop it straight in a recycling bin.

"No, not a great day, week, month, or year really. You know? Not that one should ever complain. We have our health, so—" I break off, suddenly exhausted.

"That we do," Joe concedes. "But I don't think anyone could be blamed for aiming a little higher." He looks back toward his father's building, unsure if he should leave me in my current mood. I try to rally with a smile but my hands are trembling.

"Hey, listen. It's lunchtime. I have an awful sandwich back in there that I have absolutely no desire to eat—so can I buy you lunch somewhere? Or a coffee, or something? Milos is really nice."

"Oh God. You feel sorry for me, don't you? Listen, that really was not my intention. Please, have your sandwich, I'm fine. I'm a grown woman. I can lunch alone."

"I know you can lunch alone. I've seen people do it, it's an impressive sight. But I would like to have lunch with you because I like you," he says with disarming straightforwardness.

"Well, you don't know me," I bat back quickly.

"You just found out there's another house under your house. You're dealing with it in a pretty incredible way. So unless you're unnervingly good at subterfuge I think I've got a pretty good measure of your character. And you're beautiful and funny." He winces at his own words, before asking, "Too much?"

I laugh for the first time in a while. "Yes, too much. And I'm not funny, I'm just grumpy and British."

He grins. "Okay, noted. So, lunch?"

"Okay, lunch."

—

Joe leads us across the marina to Milos, a chic seafood bistro with white tablecloths and silver cutlery. He shrugs off his well-worn high-vis overshirt to reveal a surprisingly spotless white T-shirt beneath, and as we head into the restaurant it is clear he is a local figure. I bask in the warm glow he seems to elicit from the staff and a few friends he bumps into.

On his recommendation we order a selection of seafood tapas and sip some cool drinks as I watch the world flow by below. The marina is beautiful, as Oksana described, and blessedly full of people, life, and distraction. I let it wash over me from the safety of the terrace.

Below us families sightsee, couples wander hand in hand along the lower terraces, and lone travelers solo lunch.

A pleasant, sleepy calmness pervades everything.

"How long have you lived out here?" I ask Joe, after catching him looking at me in silence.

"Since high school. Long story, but my mom got sick. We moved out of Chicago. They'd honeymooned here and loved it—he thought it would make her better. And then we just stayed here."

"And did it make her better? Out here?" I ask, hope evident in my voice.

Joe is silent for a moment, before he grins. "Yeah, she went into remission. Full recovery. Signed off. It worked. But then she divorced Dad a couple of years later and moved back to Chicago. We stayed here, though. All my friends are here, you know, and Dad's company, our company. Nothing back in the US now."

"Wow. She divorced him after. That's not how that story usually goes, right? Wow, I'm sorry. I can understand you wanting to stay, though."

He smiles. "Yeah, it's beautiful, obviously, and life is pretty simple but—I'll be honest, you don't see a lot of new faces."

I let out a bark of laughter. "Well, I guess that explains lunch then."

He grins. "Yeah, maybe it does." He looks at me again curiously. "And you, why are you here?"

"At lunch or on Gorda," I ask.

"Both I guess?"

I sober as I consider. "My father died. He left me a house. It's all very bizarre and confusing and it just seems to be getting weirder, to be honest. I didn't know there even was a house out here until last week."

"He left it to you, no explanation?"

"Exactly, and as you can see it is a very weird house. And now apparently it comes with a giant subterranean locked room, unknown others, and apparently a random woman who has been pretending to be me for months. Oh yeah and this."

I pull the note from my bag and smooth it on the white tablecloth.

You need to leave. Now.

He reads it then looks up at me, eyebrow raised. "I hate to agree with your bizarre and terrifying death note, but they might have a point. No?"

"That I should leave?"

"Yeah, one hundred percent." He chuckles. "I would be gone so fast. Sell, sell, sell. That's prime real estate."

I take a sip of my drink and try to couch my—clearly unorthodox—reasoning for not immediately flying home in terms that another human might understand.

"This is a lot for a first date, or whatever the hell this is, but I feel we've been through some stuff already. Fast-tracked or whatever. So the truth is: this is all I have left, of him, of my dad. And I don't understand it. And I feel like he wants me to understand it. I have this great job back home—overshare—but I don't have much else, and I can't go back there empty-handed."

Joe takes a moment to digest what I've said before nodding. "I get it. I think we never left here because this was the last place we were all happy together before she left. You know. Even though I outgrew this place years ago. Yeah, I get what you're saying." He smiles a sad smile. "Thing is this house. This house your dad left you, but never told you about, the one you're certain he wants you to understand. You might not find what you're looking for. You know that, right?"

"Well, good or bad. I'd rather know."

His expression breaks into a warm smile again. "So I guess you'll be sticking around for a bit then?"

"I guess so."