Sanctuary by Nora Roberts Page B

if he was crazy coming back here, exploring the past, in some ways repeating it.
    He’d left New York, packed everything that mattered into the Jeep. It was surprisingly little. Then again, he’d never had a deepseated need for things. That had made his life simpler through the divorce two years before. Maureen had been the collector, and it saved them both a great deal of time and temper when he offered to let her strip the West Side apartment.
    Christ knew she’d taken him up on it and had left him with little more than his own clothes and a mattress.
    That chapter of his life was over, and for nearly two years now he’d devoted himself to his work. Designing buildings was as much a passion as a career for him, and with New York as no more than a home base, he had traveled, studying sites, working wherever he could set up his drawing board and computer. He’d given himself the gift of time to study other buildings, explore the art of them, from the great cathedrals in Italy and France to the streamlined desert homes in the American Southwest.
    He’d been free, his work the only demand on his time and on his heart.
    Then he had lost his parents, suddenly, irrevocably. And had lost himself. He wondered why he felt he could find the pieces on Desire.
    But he was committed to staying at least six months. Nathan took it as a good sign that he’d been able to book the same cottage his family had lived in during that summer. He knew he would listen for the echo of their voices and would hear them with a man’s ear. He would see their ghosts with a man’s eyes.
    And he would return to Sanctuary with a man’s purpose.
    Would they remember him? The children of Annabelle?
    He would soon find out, he decided, when the ferry bumped up to the dock.
    He waited his turn, watching as the blocks were removed from the tires of the pickup ahead of him. A family of five, he noted, and from the gear he could see that they would be camping at the facility the island provided. Nathan shook his head, wondering why anyone would choose to sleep in a tent on the ground and consider it a vacation.
    The light dimmed as clouds rolled over the sun. Frowning, he noted that they were coming in fast, flying in from the east. Rain could come quickly to barrier islands, he knew. He remembered it falling in torrents for three endless days when he’d been there before. By day two he and Kyle had been at each other’s throats like young wolves.
    It made him smile now and wonder how in God’s name his mother had tolerated it.
    He drove slowly off the ferry, then up the bumpy, pitted road leading away from the dock. With his windows open he could hear the cheerfully blaring rock and roll screaming out of the truck’s radio. Camper Family, he thought, was already having a great time, impending rain or not. He was determined to follow their example and enjoy the morning.
    He would have to face Sanctuary, of course, but he would approach it as an architect. He remembered that its heart was a glorious example of the Colonial style—wide verandas, stately columns, tall, narrow windows. Even as a child he’d been interested enough to note some of the details.
    Gargoyle rainspouts, he recalled, that personalized rather than detracted from the grand style. He’d scared the piss out of Kyle by telling him they came alive at night and prowled.
    There was a turret, with a widow’s walk circling it. Balconies jutting out with ornate railings of stone or iron. The chimneys were softhued stones mined from the mainland, the house itself fashioned of local cypress and oak.
    There was a smokehouse that had still been in use, and slave quarters that had been falling to ruin, where he and Brian and Kyle had found a rattler curled in a dark corner.
    There were deer in the forest and alligators in the marshes. Whispers of pirates and ghosts filled the air. It was a fine place for young boys and grand adventures. And for dark and dangerous secrets.
    He passed the