CHAPTER 4

Jake woke to the familiar screech of shorebirds soaring over and dropping into the river. He smiled, still in a state of half-sleep, as out on the water someone fired up a small outboard motor and cut a gash across the tide, heading out toward clots of cobia, redfish and trout.             

He opened his eyes and examined the room he hadn’t occupied for over twelve years, recalling the days when the walls had been covered with posters of the Beatles, the Stones and a bevy of sensuous, young blondes in skimpy outfits or, better yet, no outfits at all.  He showered, dressed for the day, sat on the edge of the bed and opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand and pulled up short. It was still there, buried in back, a polished mahogany box, chock-full of Jesse Cochrane. Mementos of high school days: hormone tortured love letters, theater tickets, prom photos, his high school ring.  “Damn, what a sap you are, Slaughter.” He closed the drawer and walked downstairs, running an index finger along the scar on his stomach. 

He filled a coffee cup, fired up the pickup and headed into town. He stocked up on groceries at the Winn Dixie and then motored along the town’s quiet, shady streets, little surprised that he remembered the area so well after twelve years. Still, Old Point in Beaufort’s Historic Downtown with its two hundred public and private buildings now included a marina, a waterfront park and a revitalized business district awash with art galleries, bookstores and restaurants. This was a quiet romantic town, where the differences between the mid-1800s and the present seemed trivial. Visitors felt either desperately out of place or home at last. Jake wasn’t yet sure into which camp he fell.

He avoided all the old haunts but still managed to drive by a half-dozen women he thought he recognized and an occasional old high school friend. He realized he wasn’t yet prepared to stop and reintroduce himself.

He arrived back at the beach house at three o’clock and spent the rest of the afternoon readying his camera equipment. Afternoon thunderheads streaming in from the west augured a spectacular southern sunset and he would be prepared.          

By eight-thirty he was set up atop a knoll at the edge of the Morgan River, a four-by-five field camera fitted with a wide-angle lens ready to go. Satisfied, he sat back against a large Water Oak, sipped Scotch, closed his eyes and inhaled the pungent scent of summer pine, warmed and salted by a soft breeze. He loved this place, was enamored by the brackish creeks and marshes, the mist drifting in off the water and the flat expanse of the river. 

“Going to be another biblical beauty, isn’t it?”

His heart skipped a beat. “Jess,” he muttered, opening his eyes and peering up beneath the brim of his Stetson.

“Hi there.”  Her voice was soft and mellifluous. Short-cropped, curly blond hair framed her face, a face whose most startling feature was the eyes, an astonishing pale blue, the color of a cloudless Arctic sky. She was dressed in a white jogging suit, a towel wrapped around her neck, and white jogging shoes. “Haven’t seen you around here before,” she said and held out her hand. “Name’s Darcy Winthrop.”

Years of training had taught him to proceed cautiously, which allowed for only a veneer of sociability.

She cocked a polar eye at him, hands on her slim hips. “The correct response is ‘Nice to meet you, my name is…’ ” When he still didn’t answer she added, “You’re new around here, huh?”

He pushed up the brim of his hat and sighed. “You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?” He thought for a moment, watching her stare down at him. He’d forgotten the southern way, slow, laid back and proper, overly so at times. “Name’s Jake,” he finally said. “Jake Slaughter.”

A smile touched her mouth. “There now, that wasn’t so difficult was it?” She glanced toward the horizon. “So, how will you know when it’s time?  You know, the perfect moment to trip the shutter?”

He scanned the landscape. “A wise man once said, ‘be still with yourself until the object of your attention confirms your presence’.”

“Minor White, one of the exceptional photographers.”

“That’s right.” His grey eyes found hers, stayed for a moment.        

“Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “Good luck. Nice to meet you Jake Slaughter, see you around.”  She ran off along the edge of the river and waved back at him over her shoulder.

He watched after her for a moment and then turned back toward the western sky.