Danger in a Red Dress by Christina Dodd Page B

his voice. Cynicism, she guessed. But she assured him, “He was a good guy. I think Dr. McAllister did it because he knew how much Mom wanted to go. I think it was the best time of her life. I know it was the best time of mine.” Without warning, Hannah choked up.
    The memory of that time flashed so brightly in her mind: sitting in a small bistro, smelling the blooming lavender, watching her mother turn her face up to the warm sun and smile. . . .
    Hannah stopped running, turned and faced the oncoming storm, hoped the ragged edge of her breathing sounded like panting.
    Trent waited just long enough for the constriction in her chest to ease. “What happened to her?” He didn’t sound curious; he sounded kind and as if he really wanted to know.
    That hand again, caressing her back, easing her pain.
    Directly below her, the thin slip of sandy beach stood exposed by low tide. The dark turmoil of the waves called to Hannah, and a narrow path twisted its way through the rocks and the bearberry. Defying nature, she stepped off the paved path and into the wild. “She suffered from rheumatoid arthritis.” Hannah slipped a little in the gravel, caught herself, kept going.
    “Hannah?” Trent sounded worried. “Are you still running?”
    “I am really, really running.” The beach got closer. The wind picked up. The ocean got wilder. And Hannah kept talking. “Mom’s last hip replacement was difficult. She’d had so many, you know, and we always existed on the edge of disaster. Her boss was not understanding—in fact, Mr. Washington would have fit well as a character in a Dickens novel—and Mom went back to work too soon.” The path ended three feet above the sand. Hannah jumped. Landed. Let the brief triumph sweep away the bitterness of her words. “She was running his errands, fell down his stairs, and died.”
    “Good God, that’s horrible.” Trent sounded blankly astonished. “How old were you?”
    Hannah walked up the beach, the damp sand hard-packed beneath her shoes. “Sixteen, but believe it or not, I was quite capable and survived very well.” She was proud of that.
    “How? How does a sixteen-year-old with no parents manage to get herself a bachelor’s degree in nursing?”
    “Scholarships, mostly. Mr. Washington was persuaded to settle a small sum on me, also, but that barely covered my living expenses. He was a respected lawyer, you know.” The spray splashed on her face. The clouds grew taller.
    “You have to be resentful. You must want revenge, if not on him, then on other men who are indifferent bastards.”
    She didn’t like that. Trent sounded like some radio personality with a pop-psychology degree. “It’s hard to avoid hoping that someday Karma catches up with Mr. Washington, but I don’t dwell on it. My mother had her reasons to be bitter, too, but she refused. She said, ‘We have to live a little, make ourselves happy, or what’s the use of all the suffering?’ And she was right. I know she was.” Ahead of her, the rock cliff, dimpled with shallow caves, swung far out into the waves. Hannah didn’t want to take the short, steep path that led to the top, back to civilization, to Balfour House, to Mrs. Manly, her illnesses, her challenging request and Hannah’s unbearable responsibilities.
    But what else could Hannah do? She was running out of room on the beach. The storm surge was driving the tide higher and higher. If she stayed here, she’d be swept away.
    So she climbed.
    “I hear the ocean. Are you still on the path?”
    “Why wouldn’t I be?” She glanced up when she stepped onto the pavement, and caught sight of the birdwatcher, standing on the rocks on the highest spot on the estate, his binoculars sweeping the area. The binoculars found her and stopped, almost as if he’d been looking for her. Then they moved on.
    She wanted to tell the fool that with this storm, even the seabirds were going to ground. But he was too far away, and as she watched, he seated himself