Ashes and Bones: An Emma Fielding Mystery - By Dana Cameron Page 0,2

deeds escalated in evil and violence.

So I didn’t think it was a fantasy. I just don’t believe in that many coincidences.

Brian sighed, studied the sand that he’d scooped into a pile in front of him. “Look, even if someone else is behind this, fine, it’s important to be careful about that sort of thing. I want you to be careful. And if they’re smart enough to dig around and find out about your…history with Tony and Pauline’s murder out at Penitence Point, and make something of that, then yes, we should be cautious. But we’ve told the police at home in Massachusetts, we’ve warned the Maine cops at Caldwell College, so if it is someone on campus, they’ll be aware of it. I just don’t know why you need to keep dwelling on this.”

I shrugged. “First I’m sleeping too much, then I’m dwelling. Make up your mind.” I got the tone just right that time, just the right balance of humor and reconciliation. I wasn’t sold, but I was tired of arguing.

“You know what I mean.” He hesitated, then said, “You know, you could see someone about it.”

I stared out at the water; the sun was heading for the horizon. “About what? I’m fine. You’re the one who seems to be obsessed with something.”

“I mean, maybe it’s some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder, reawakened by the postcard. Maybe it’s some old fears that you haven’t quite uprooted, yet. Or maybe it’s last semester.”

I thought about that. If I didn’t entirely believe Brian’s reasoning, it did make a certain kind of sense. I could certainly use it to make the present disagreement go away. “I don’t think it’s that bad, Brian. I mean, I suppose I’ve been feeling a little flaky lately, but I just figured it was unwinding after the end of semester and, you know, working through some stress. It actually takes time to get used to being on vacation, too, and I don’t think jetlag does anyone any favors.”

He reached for my hand. “I’m just asking you to maybe think about what I’m saying. Okay, babe? I don’t want to ruin our vacation, but if something doesn’t seem right with you, I want to deal with it, you know? I’m concerned, that’s all.”

“I know. And I don’t want to be a poop at your parents’, when we get there tomorrow. I’m looking forward to seeing them.”

“Me too. You should hear what Ma said she was going to cook for dinner.” The way to Brian’s heart had always been through his stomach.

I smiled, with genuine warmth this time. His folks are great. “I can’t wait.” I flipped over onto my stomach and picked up my beach reading, a popular autobiography of a noted forensic anthropologist.

The drive back to the hotel, like every drive we’d taken on Kauai, was a revelation. In New England, I was used to turning, twisting roads, but the variation of scenery here, in such relatively short distances, was enough to keep me gaping every minute. Around every turn was another staggering view of sand or trees or water that simply delighted. And amidst it all was the completely recognizable: drugstores, coffee shops, supermarkets, and fast food places that could have been uprooted from anywhere on the mainland and plopped down here. I avoided chains as far as I could at home, trying to support small local businesses, but I always went into at least one while traveling anywhere, because it was fascinating to see the variations even within familiar edifices. Walk into a drugstore and instead of seeing old Van Halen tapes, Red Sox gear, and maple candy, you find “Iz” Kamakawiwo’ole CDs, beach mats, and sunblock right out in front, along with macadamia nuts in every form. A treat at home, around here the nuts were so common you’d almost think they grew on trees, I thought with a grin.

The ride back did exactly what the whole rest of the trip had been designed to do: give me a break, recharge my batteries, make me count my blessings. I’d gotten to a point in my life that I couldn’t have imagined actually happening five or ten years ago, even though I’d been dreaming of it since I was a kid. The holy grail of job security, in archaeology, as a professor at a well-respected college. Our marriage had survived not only graduate school and our first angst-ridden job searches, but house hunting and, recently, jointly owned cats; despite my earlier mood, Brian and I