Wind Chime Summer: A Wind Chime Novel Page 7

  Five minutes later, when they rolled to a stop in front of the inn, she was still lost in thought.

  “Izzy Rivera?”

  Stepping out of the van, Izzy glanced up and spotted a woman in the driveway who looked to be in her mid-forties. She was wearing a long, flowing cardigan over a soft knit top and linen trousers. Her strawberry blond hair fell in soft waves around her slim shoulders, and a pair of rectangular-shaped eyeglasses framed a pair of striking cobalt blue eyes. “Yes?”

  The woman held out her hand. “I’m Erin Delancy, the social worker Colin and Will hired to meet with everyone.”

  Izzy stiffened. Glancing over her shoulder, she searched for someone to use as an excuse to slip away, but there was no one else in the driveway. She’d been the last one to get off the van.

  “Hello,” she said guardedly, taking the social worker’s hand. The rest of the vets climbed the steps to the porch, disappearing into the inn. Behind her, the van pulled away with a crunch of tires on oyster shells, leaving the two of them alone.

  “I was hoping we could set up a time to meet,” Erin said, smiling.

  Izzy released her hand. “Maybe later this weekend.”

  “All my slots for the weekend have already filled up. Any chance you have time now?” Erin glanced at her watch. “I could squeeze you in before my six o’clock.”

  No, Izzy thought. She’d let her guard down today and too many emotions were rising up to the surface. It was one thing to try to hide the truth about what had happened nine months ago from the other vets; it was another to try to hide it from a trained professional. “I need to take a shower,” she said, gesturing to her dirty clothes. “I’m covered in mud.”

  “From the look of the group who walked in before you, the showers are going to be tied up for a while.”

  That was true, Izzy thought, racking her brain for another excuse. A movement on the porch drew her gaze up and she saw Colin step into the doorway. He gave her a pointed look and crossed his arms over his chest. He must have found out that she hadn’t signed up for an appointment yet. He’d made it clear on their first night that the sessions were mandatory. If she didn’t follow all the rules, he could report her to her probation officer and she could lose her place in the program.

  As much as she didn’t want to be here, it was better than going to jail.

  “I promise it’ll be painless,” Erin said, her smile friendly and inviting.

  Izzy took a deep breath. You can do this, she told herself. You don’t have to tell her anything you don’t want to. It’s only one hour. Just get it over with. “Okay,” she said. “I can meet now.”

  “Great,” Erin said, motioning for Izzy to follow her across the lawn to the three private cottages by the water—far enough away from the main house so that no one would be able to hear them speak. They stepped into the one surrounded by pale pink peonies and Erin led her through the cozy living area to a small sunroom overlooking the Bay.

  Izzy took in the plush blue sofa and matching armchair. Late afternoon sunlight reflected off the tiny sea glass and silver mobiles spinning from the ceiling. A book of glossy photographs lay open on the coffee table, inviting visitors to leaf through the shots of workboats, marsh scenes, and wildlife.

  Everything about this cottage mimicked the feeling of the Bay—calm, peaceful, and serene. But it did nothing to put Izzy at ease.

  Erin gestured to the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  Izzy sat, awkwardly, perched on the edge.

  “Would you like some water?” Erin asked. “Tea?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Erin walked into the kitchen, and came back out with a cup of tea and a glass of water. She set the water on the table in front of Izzy. “Have you ever spoken to a counselor before?”

  “Not outside the Army,” Izzy said, making the clarification because she knew there was a difference. The mandatory post-deployment sessions for military personnel were often just procedure, another box to check on a form where the counselor was more concerned with relieving the Army from any further responsibility than finding out if the service member was in actual need of support.

  She had a feeling Erin had been hired to dig a lot deeper than that.

  “Well,” Erin said, settling into the chair across from Izzy, “we have a whole hour and we can talk about anything you want.”

  Izzy uncrossed, re-crossed her legs. She shifted on the sofa, running her hands along the seams of the cushion until she found a loose thread. She wrapped it around her index finger. Unwrapped it. Wrapped it. Unwrapped it. She looked up, met Erin’s eyes, and immediately looked away—at the floor, at the ceiling, out the windows. Anywhere but at the woman across from her.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your day?” Erin suggested, taking a sip of her tea.

  Izzy let go of the cushion, folding her hands in her lap. They were pretty beat up after spending most of the day making cages. Her knuckles were covered in nicks and scrapes. There was dirt caked under her fingernails. And streaks of mud ran up both her arms. But she would have happily traded eight more hours of making cages for a single minute in this room. “It was fine.”

  “Fine?”

  Izzy nodded.

  Erin paused, waiting for her to elaborate. Outside, an osprey circled the shallow waters near the shoreline, its cries piercing the silence. When it dove, striking the surface with its claws, Izzy watched, fascinated, as it lifted an impossibly large fish out of the water and carried it over to a nest on top of a channel marker.

  “Pretty amazing, huh?” Erin asked.

  “Yeah,” Izzy said, forgetting for a moment that she wasn’t supposed to be interested in anything.

  “I still remember the first time I visited this island,” Erin said. “I was sixteen and my father dragged me out here from D.C. to go fishing. I’d been getting into some trouble at school and he thought it would be good for me to get out of the city for the weekend. I was a typical surly teenager. I spent most of the two-hour drive giving him the silent treatment. It wasn’t until we got out on the boat and the captain handed me a rod with a fish on the end of it, that I realized how badly I had needed to get out of the city. Suddenly, all the things I’d been rebelling against didn’t seem quite so important anymore. All that mattered was catching another fish.”

  Izzy had a hard time picturing the crisp, cool professional across from her out on a fishing boat. But she liked the direction this conversation was taking. Maybe, if she could keep the questions focused on Erin, and away from her, the next fifty-seven minutes wouldn’t be so terrible. “Do you still live in D.C.?”

  “No,” Erin said, taking another sip of her tea. “I live in Annapolis. My office is only a few blocks away from the Naval Academy.”

  That must be how she’d met Will and Colin, Izzy thought. She’d heard that Will was a Naval Academy graduate and that Colin had been living in Annapolis for the past year since he’d left the SEALs. “Do you still like to fish?”

  “I do,” she said. “I run a small charity that organizes weekend fishing trips for wounded warriors. It’s one of the first things I recommend to new clients when they come to see me.”

  “Do you see a lot of vets?”

  Erin nodded. “My practice focuses mainly on veterans, their families, and post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  Izzy reached for the water on the table in front of her, trying to appear relaxed. “How come?”

  “My husband was a Marine. He served two tours in Iraq. When he returned from the second tour, he struggled to cope with the things he’d seen, but he refused to get help. He signed up for a third tour—Afghanistan, this time. The morning he was supposed to ship out, he swallowed a bottle of pills and never woke up.”

  Izzy slowly lowered the glass back to her lap.

  “But we’re not here to talk about me, are we?” Erin asked, her tone shifting from friendly to no-nonsense professional. She reached for the folder that was lying on the table beside her, making
it clear that the small talk was over. “I have a copy of your service record, Izzy. And I’ve spoken to both your probation officer and the lawyers who handled your case last month.”

  Erin opened the folder, revealing a thick stack of papers. “You were in the Army for twelve years. You served in both Iraq and Afghanistan. You were promoted to the rank of Sergeant within three years, and rose to the rank of Sergeant First Class before you retired. You have a Purple Heart, an Army Commendation Medal, and a Bronze Star for your bravery during an attack in Afghanistan, where you saved the lives of three officers—including a lieutenant colonel who’d been badly wounded—after securing the safety of your kitchen staff.”

  Izzy looked away. She didn’t want to hear about the soldiers whose lives she’d saved. Those medals meant nothing to her now.

  But Erin wasn’t finished.

  “After your tour in Afghanistan, you served as a personal chef for a four-star general, chosen from an extremely competitive pool of applicants. You earned an undergraduate degree by taking night classes while you were working full time. And, three years ago, you were selected to join the Army Culinary Arts Team, where you won a gold medal for the U.S. at the World Culinary Olympics in Germany.” Erin held up the folder. “This is a very impressive résumé.”

  Yes, Izzy thought. It was. And hearing it all out loud only made it hurt that much more.

  “Here’s what I don’t understand,” Erin said. “After twelve years of exemplary service, you decided not to reenlist. With no plans for the future, you returned to Baltimore, where, according to your probation officer, you were fired from three different jobs in six months due to anger management issues. Then, on March 27th, you were arrested for assaulting someone.” She held Izzy’s gaze. “Something doesn’t add up here.”

  No, Izzy thought. It didn’t.

  “Care to connect the dots?” Erin asked.

  Izzy stood abruptly and walked to the south-facing windows. Flecks of sunlight dappled the water. A yellow fishing boat, with three men on board, had anchored near a crooked lighthouse. She watched the men reach for their rods, cast their lines into the water, and patiently wait for the fish to bite.

  Izzy wished she were with them. She wished she had a rod in her hands. She wished she had something to do besides sit here and answer this woman’s questions. Because she didn’t have any answers, at least not ones she could give without causing harm to someone else.

  “You know that these sessions are confidential,” Erin said from behind her. “Nothing you say will ever leave this room.”

  The only way to keep anything confidential, Izzy thought, was to say nothing, and to trust no one.

  “Will you take me through what happened on the night of March 27th?” Erin asked.

  “You have my file,” Izzy said, her voice blank, devoid of emotion. “You can read my statement.”

  “It says you pled guilty to assault with a deadly weapon—that you shot a man three times.”

  Izzy said nothing, continuing to gaze out at the water.

  “Did you do it?” Erin asked. “Or did you just plead guilty to get the deal the prosecution offered so you could stay out of jail?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes,” Erin said quietly. “I think it does.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the person who committed this crime doesn’t match the one who’s described in the first three-quarters of this file.”

  That was true, Izzy thought. But the person in the first three-quarters of that file didn’t exist anymore. She would never have that same hope, that same belief in herself, that same hunger to succeed. Her bright future was gone, and with it, the dream her mother and grandmother had come to this country with so many years ago.

  She would never again be the woman who enlisted in the Army to give her family a better life. She would never again be the woman who put on a uniform for the first time and stood in front of the mirror with such unbridled pride, believing she could accomplish anything if she worked hard enough.

  “Izzy,” Erin asked. “Why did you decide to leave the Army?”

  She could feel herself shutting down again, the emotions that had begun to unravel earlier tucking themselves away, like black thread rewinding on a spool. “I just decided it was time to get out.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t really care what you believe,” she said, reaching for the anger that simmered like a lifeline on the edges of despair. Anger was easier. Anger she could control. Anger was the only rudder she had in this shit storm of loss. “Are we done here?”

  “It’s only been fifteen minutes, and we still have a lot of ground to cover.” Shifting through the papers, Erin pulled out a page in the middle of the file. “Why don’t you tell me about your tour in Afghanistan, the one where you earned the Bronze Star? I think one of the men whose lives you saved was stationed at the same base where you were working in North Carolina last year.” She glanced down at her notes. “Bradley Welker.”

  At the sound of his name, every muscle in Izzy’s body tensed. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  Erin looked up, surprised. “He’s been very complimentary of you.”

  Izzy turned slowly back around to face her. “You’ve spoken to him?”

  Erin nodded. “I wanted to know if he had any insight into why you decided to leave the military.”

  Insight? The room started to pulse. Her therapist had asked her attacker if he had any insight into why she’d decided to leave the military? The air felt thick, like glue in her throat. “What did he say?” she asked, forcing the words out.

  “He said that your performance had started to slip in the months after you decided not to reenlist, that he suspected there was a personal matter you were struggling with.”

  Izzy’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. “A personal matter?”

  Erin nodded again. “He said he thought it might have something to do with your family.”

  Her family?

  Izzy couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t stay here and listen to these lies. Without another word, she turned, walked out the door, and slammed it behind her. Taking one look at the group of vets gathered on the front porch, she started to run in the opposite direction.

  “Izzy?”

  She heard a man’s voice—Kade’s voice—call after her. She ignored him. She needed to be alone. She didn’t know where she was going, but she couldn’t stay here.

  She slipped through a gap in the blackberry hedges and came out on the other side. She couldn’t go back to the inn right now. It was filled with people. Everywhere she went, all day, she was surrounded by people. She felt like she’d been dropped in a fish bowl, and every move she made was being watched, judged, recorded.

  It was enough to make anyone want to run away.

  She heard footsteps behind her—heavy, masculine footsteps. “Go away, Kade.”

  “I saw you get ambushed by that therapist,” he said. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

  She ran faster. “I’m not talking to you.”

  “Fine,” he shot back. “I don’t want to talk to you anyway.”

  They ran in silence, past the school and the village and over the drawbridge, until there was nothing but cornfields and wildflowers lining the long stretch of road before them.

  “I’m not going to stop anytime soon,” Izzy called back over her shoulder.

  “I’m a Marine, Izzy. I can do this all day.”

  He stayed with her, stubbornly following her for miles. She didn’t know when she slowed down enough for him to catch up and start running beside her, or when he pulled ahead and began to lead. But when he turned down a long lane toward an old abandoned house overgrown with weeds and ivy, she followed.

  “Where are we?” she asked, slowing down to a walk and breathing hard. “What is this place?”

  Kade said nothing, leading her around to the back yard. A red punching bag hung from a tree branch. It was wea
thered and misshapen from years of neglect. He walked over to it and positioned himself behind it, holding it out for her. “Go ahead,” he said. “Get it out. All of it.”

  She hesitated, just for a moment, before walking over and punching it. Hard. Dust and mold puffed out from the bag and her knuckles stung from the impact. But it felt good. Really good. She punched the bag again. Harder.

  “Come on,” he said. “You can do better than that.”

  She punched it again. And this time she pictured him—the man who had raped her. The man who had made her feel like she was nothing. The man who had stolen twelve years of her life in one vicious act of revenge.

  She punched it again. And again. And again. The anger rose up, pouring out of her, until she heard something like a battle cry come out of her lungs, and she lunged at the bag, swinging at it with both arms until she fell to her knees in the grass. Sweat rolled into her eyes. Or maybe it was tears. Or both.

  She didn’t know. She didn’t care anymore.

  “Feel better?” Kade asked.

  She knelt, breathing hard, her palms pressing into the earth. “I used to be strong,” she said, her voice breaking. “I used to believe in myself. I used to know what I wanted to do with my life.” Her arms ached, shaking with exhaustion. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

  “You’re Isabella Rivera. And you’re here.”

  Her vision blurred, each blade of grass melting into a sea of green.

  “You’re here, Izzy. That’s the first step.”

  “I didn’t even choose to be here.”

  “So what? You’re here. That’s all that matters.” He held out his hand.

  She looked up at him. At this man who had come running with her, who had offered to switch jobs with her, who had washed her sheets for her, and who was giving her his hand to help her back to her feet, because God knows she was just beginning to realize that she couldn’t do this on her own. “Why are you here?”