Not Mine to Take

by C B Cox

  We honeymooned on Charles’s private yacht: The Storm Petrel. Sailed the Maine coast. Drifted around picturesque islands and coves. I spent the entire trip reclining on deck, imagining myself as Grace Kelly in Capri pants, twin-sets and espadrilles. Swooning to the tune of Bing Crosby’s True Love.

  It was heavenly.

  One evening, just before sunset, we anchored in the cove of an uninhabited island and hopped into the yacht’s motorized launch. Reaching the shore, we dragged the launch out of the ocean and collapsed into a heap on the soft golden sand, laughing ecstatically with relief. We collected driftwood and made a campfire. Ate a simple picnic of bread and cheese. Shared an expensive bottle of champagne while watching a glorious sunset.

  At sundown, we took a walk, to shake off the effects of the champagne, and explore our ‘secret little island.’ We wrapped blankets around our shoulders, scrambled through crisp bracken and followed overgrown paths meandering through tall pines. At an opening in the pines, we came across a rundown cabin. Role-playing Indiana Jones, Charles pushed against the rickety door. The hinges strained, but the door held firm. He set his shoulder against the door and shoved hard. The door ground open against the floor. He turned, took me by the hand and led me over the threshold. Stepping inside, the sour aroma of animal scat assailed my nostrils. Damp clawed at my skin.

  “Scared?” Charles said.

  “Not when I’m with you,” I said, hanging onto his elbow.

  I hesitated to let my eyes grow accustomed to the semi-darkness. I gazed over a ten feet square timber cavern. The remnants of a smashed up table and chair were strewn across the floor. A wicker fishing basket – half-gnawed by rodents – lay alongside a rusty bed frame positioned against the far wall. A plastic wrapped mattress lay diagonally across the bed frame. A dusty china mug hung on a hook above the bed. A cracked mirror was screwed to the wall above a porcelain sink half full with twigs and matted debris.

  Charles stepped over to the bed, straightened the mattress, brushed off the dust and sat down. The old springs complained under his weight. He patted the mattress for me to join him.

  “Let’s stay here tonight. It’ll be fun. Someone had the presence of mind to protect the mattress.”

  “What if someone comes?”

  “Chill, babe. You worry too much. This place is deserted.”

  “It’s dirty and smelly. There’ll be bats. Spiders. Christ knows what else…” I stepped back, pulled the blanket tight around my shoulders.

  “It’ll be fine. Come here,” he said, removing the plastic sheeting from the mattress.

  I shook my head. Grimaced. He guffawed, rose, strode over and lifted me off my feet. Carried me over to the bed and laid me down.

  “Where’s you sense of adventure? Why don’t we pretend to be forbidden lovers in one of your silly little novels? Get lost in each other. I’ll be your, Romeo…”

  “And I’ll be your, Juliet… A little corny don’t you think?”

  “Not at all, it’ll be fun.”

  “I’m not sure, Charles… This place … it’s gross.”

  “It’s not so bad. Don’t be such a wuss.”

  Despite my protestations, that night we made love on the filthy old mattress in the dirty old cabin. Afterwards, exhausted, Charles slept like a baby. I spent the night clinging to the blanket, hanging onto every sound.

  As dawn broke, the full horror of where we’d slept became clear. Cobwebs the size of backyard hammocks spanned from the bedstead to the ceiling above my head. Intricate lace patterns shimmered and danced in the low sun, as unsuspecting prey fluttered to horrific deaths in the mandibles of a spider the size of my fist. Roaches, setting about their daily toil, scurried across the floor.

  “Charles, wake up… This place … it’s … alive!” I pulled my knees under my chin. Shook him awake.

  He stirred. Lifted up. Ran his hand over his face. Came to. He took me in his arms.

  “Come on scaredy-cat, let’s go find breakfast.”

  We left the cabin to the bugs and spiders.

  “You ain’t no country girl, Hope Madison,” Charles teased.

  “I’m a city girl and proud of it. I like sanitation and clean linen, that’s all.” I jabbed him in the ribs. “Let’s get out of here. Please.”

  “Huh. If we must,” he said, tucking his shirt into his shorts, preening sun-bleached hair.

  We headed off for the cove and the launch. Fresh dew and pine replaced the fetid air of the cabin. I sucked deep, invigorating breaths; filled my lungs with cool air. My relief was short-lived. A sharp pain shot through my right foot.

  “Ouch,” I cried, hopping dramatically, taking a firm grip of Charles’s forearm.

  “For crying out loud woman, what the hell’s a matter, now?”

  “My toe. I’ve kicked something.”

  A two-inch square timber post projected from the undergrowth. Charles bent over and lifted it out. Attached to it was a faded realtor’s signboard:

  FOR SALE

  TERN ISLAND

  ENQUIRE JACKSON RESIDENCE

  “It’s a sign,” he quipped.

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  “No. Hope. It really is a sign,” he said, erasing a thin layer of detritus from the surface of the signboard, holding it aloft.

  “It’s decided. I’m buying it. Tern Island. I love it.”

  My jaw almost hit the forest floor. “That’s a joke, right?”

  “No. I’m serious. I’m going to do the deal. Today.”

  He had made up his mind. To my bewilderment, later that day he shook hands on a knockdown price with Carl and Angela Jackson and set the wheels in motion with his attorney to buy the island. I overheard him instructing the attorney to register the title deeds in my name.

  He lowered the cell phone from his mouth. Switched it off.

  “Charles, have you gone crazy?”

  “Consider it a wedding gift, darling.”

  “It’s too much,” I protested.

  “Nothing is too much for you, darling. I’m going to build the most beautiful lodge on the site of the cabin. We’ll vacation here every summer. You can come to write. It’ll be your own private sanctuary.”

  That was that. There was no point in arguing. Charles had seen and acquired Tern Island in an instant, in just the same way he had acquired me.

  True to his word, within months, Charles employed a local contractor to build an idyllic, white painted clapboard lodge, complete with porch and writing study overlooking the bay.

  We named the house Tern Lodge.

  From then on, we spent many romantic summers, Thanksgivings and Christmases vacationing on Tern Island, but I never stayed there alone, or wrote a single word there, until that is, now.

  Later, I learned that the Island had been in the Jackson family for centuries. Carl Jackson’s investment portfolio was wiped out in the crash of 2008. It had forced the Jacksons to sell the island so they could continue to live in the ‘big house’ and pay school fees for his fifteen-year-old son.

  It must have been a massive source of anguish for them at the time. Charles somehow convinced himself that he’d done the Jacksons a favor.

  I was never so sure.

  Chapter Eight

  The GPS indicates Tern Island is three miles ahead.

  “Not far now, Bella.”

  With Sheryl Crow and my daydreams on loop, the Explorer has gobbled up the miles. After several comfort breaks, we reach our destination. I bring the Explorer to a halt on a gravel area across the track from the house overlooking the island. From my raised position, I glimpse Tern Island at the far end of a narrow, rocky causeway. In the rearview mirror, the big house dominates the vicinity. The dashboard clock reads 8:05 p.m.

  I unbuckle Bella from the harness and open the door. She springs out and performs a perfect upward dog stretch. My neck and shoulders crack as I follow suit. I stretch my arms and legs; wiggle my fingers and toes. The ground under my feet feels solid. I sway from the journey: t
he after-effect of ten hours of forward motion. I take a moment so the fluid swishing around my ear canal can settle.

  The big house sits in complete darkness. I can’t deny feeling a little disappointed not to have a welcoming committee. There’s no point knocking to tell Mr. and Mrs. Jackson that I’ve arrived and plan on staying for the foreseeable future at Tern Lodge.

  The world falls silent. I sense the approaching darkness. My bottom lip trembles.

  “We’ll catch up with them in the morning, Bella. No point disturbing them, tonight.”

  I amble over and check the tide times on the community noticeboard. I whistle with relief. It’s several hours till the next high tide and around a half hour until sundown. More than enough time to unpack the Explorer and carry my baggage over to Tern Lodge, before it’s too dark to walk across the causeway and the tide comes in.

  I’ve already decided that the Explorer will remain right here for the duration of my stay. I plan on walking and cycling. It will form part of my healing ritual.

  Tern Island is a tidal island. At low tide the island is connected to the mainland by a natural raised area of seabed hewn into a narrow causeway, centuries ago by persons unknown. Vehicular access by car is impossible. Twice, sometimes three times a day at high tide, the causeway is submerged by the ocean cutting off the island and its occupants from the mainland.

  If it’s solitude I need, then I’ll find it here. Of that, I can be sure.

  “C’mon on Bella. Time to unpack. Then, we’ll grab some sleep.”

  Aware of the impending tide and the impenetrable darkness which will envelop the island as sunset hits fast forward, I sling my purse over my shoulder, tuck Bella’s bed and blanket under my arm, and check to see if there’s anything else I can carry.

  Nope.

  I’ll come get my remaining possessions in the morning.

  A fleeting orange glow flickers in the corner of my eye from a second-floor window in the big house. I turn to face the house. Narrow my eyes against the gloom. The light – if it were there at all – has disappeared.

  Are the Jacksons around? Did they hear me arrive?

  I wait a beat. Wonder if I should knock, but the house is absolutely still. I must have been mistaken.

  I close the driver’s door with a flick of the hips. Blip the locks. Hitch up my baggage. Bella pads behind me as we descend the eight weather-ravaged wooden steps leading down to the causeway. The ocean laps gently against the rocks. I step carefully across the causeway in half light. Salt stings my lips. Inside, I buzz with anticipation. It’s been almost a year since I’ve visited Tern Lodge. We’d missed Christmas. I’d put it down to Charles simply being bored with routine. They say hindsight is a wonderful thing, don’t they?

  We trudge across the twenty-five yards of causeway. Exiting the causeway, the ground under the soles of my sneakers turns from rock to soft earth. I adjust my load, and set off along the cobbled path leading to Tern Lodge.

  Rounding a stand of pines, I see the familiar outline of Tern Lodge. Pretty and white. Neat and tidy. I climb three steps onto the porch. Bella follows behind.

  “Come on girl.”

  I release the dog bed and blanket. They land silently on the deck. I hang my purse over the back of the rocking chair next to the door. I turn around. Satisfied that I’m alone, I reach up to the underside of the porch roof and unclip the front door key from its secret cubby hole hidden at the junction of rafter and wall cladding. I jingle the key and beam like a child on Christmas morning. Bella sits at my feet, gazing up at me, unimpressed.

  On the welcome mat, I stand and face a painted image of soaring albatrosses silhouetted against an ocean sunset. Ornate calligraphy above the image exclaims, ‘Tern Lodge.’ I draw a deep breath. Exhale. Put the key in the lock of the sapphire blue painted door and apply clockwise pressure.

  My heart enters my mouth as the door swings forward. Reaching inside, I fumble around in the darkness for the light switch. I’ve never felt so alone. I squint against the darkness. I flick the switch. Stark white light cast from the ornate wooden chandelier illuminates the interior. I step inside. Launch the dog bed over the threshold with a sneakered toe. Kick the door closed with my heel. Bella bounces in and re-acquaints herself with her surroundings. She sniffs around. Her tail rises. Wags.

  Faint whiffs of stale cigar smoke, and desiccated firewood tickles my nostrils. There’s a bone chilling dampness to the air. I drop my purse on the floor. Slump into my favorite squishy armchair. Close my eyes and succumb to the stillness of Tern Lodge. The roar of the Explorer’s V6 engine fades from memory.

  Overcome by exhaustion, I haul myself up, shuffle into the kitchen and take a tall glass from a cupboard. I turn on the faucet, the pipes complain and shake. Water splutters and spits, becomes a steady stream. I let it run, fill the glass and take a long drag. I stand for a while with my eyes closed. Tip my head back. A quarter of a minute later, I open my eyes and bat away the sleepiness. Think about making coffee.

  But I’m dead on my feet.

  Bella appears at my feet, addresses me with puppy dog eyes, nuzzles her nose against my leg. I fill her bowl with fresh water and add dry kibbles from under the sink. She gobbles at the food, eyelids batting. When she’s had her fill, we creep up the polished wooden stairs together to the mezzanine and the master suite. A huge ornately carved sleigh bed dominates the room. I don’t protest when Bella leaps up. She circles twice, flops at the foot of the mattress, and rests her face along her paws.

  The sheets are cold and damp. It’s only to be expected. Delicate notes of leather, wood and tobacco enter my nostrils. Familiar smells. I recognize it as Charles’s cologne.

  His ghost haunts this place. In the coming weeks, I’ll do everything I can to exorcise it.

  Tomorrow will mark a new start and with luck, a new chapter in my life.

  This is my house.

  I sleep soundly till sunrise.

  Chapter Nine

  Day 1

  A black bat flaps around my head. As I shoo it away, a scarlet tongue flicks out from a furry face towards me. It hisses. Bares sharp, white teeth. Flaps off into the rafters.

  My eyelids spring open.

  Rivulets of sweat run down my cleavage. When the nightmare subsides, I stretch and yawn. Untangling myself from the damp sheets, I ease out of bed and pad over to the bathroom. I watch Bella rise, stretch and walk in exaggerated pointy-toed steps, to join me in the bathroom. She sits, cocks her head on one side and watches me pee.

  “Yes?” I ask. My dog has a way of twisting me around her paw. “Let me take a shower. Get coffee. Then we’ll go for a walk.” I tell her.

  I step into the shower. Beads of ice-cold water hammer my shoulders. The soap won’t lather. The shower door grates on dry runners. The towel is absent from the rail.

  Damn, I forgot the heater.

  Dripping wet and shivering, I drag out a fluffy towel from the bathroom closet and wrap it tightly around me. Tucking in one corner of the towel at the top, I flick on the hot water switch and reach for my electric toothbrush. I release a smidgeon of ice-blue toothpaste onto the round head and depress the button. Nothing happens. It’s dead. I elect to manual brush.

  “Don’t tell my hygienist.”

  Bella sits at my feet, observing my foaming blue mouth, with her head cocked on one side.

  From the walk-in closet, I select a pair of cropped blue jeans and a baby-pink sweatshirt with a silver-star motif. For the moment, I ignore the neat rows of Charles’s slacks, shirts and blazers.

  I’ll deal with them, later.

  I slip on a clean pair of panties, pull on jeans and sweatshirt. Slip on sneakers. Run dampened fingers through unruly curls.

  Leaning on the mezzanine rail, I gaze out through the full-height window at the vista beyond. It’s like I’m viewing an enormous painted canvas. At the top edge of the ‘canvas’, the silver-blue ocean meets the horizon. Half way down, land meets ocean in a sweep of green at the cliff top. Tall pi
nes wave serenely in the middle distance. This place is beautiful. I totally understand Charles’s infatuation with it.

  In my mind’s eye, I see a yacht – the Storm Petrel – gliding effortlessly across the ocean with its white sails billowing forward past the bow, under the hand of the wind. A long sigh escapes my lips.

  “Oh, Charles,” I say aloud. “What have you done?”

  Bella nudges my thigh with her cool, wet nose.

  “I know. It’s just us girls, now. Right?”

  Bella wags her tail and leads me downstairs to the lounge.

  Two, three-seat brown leather sofas with red and green tartan cushions, sit opposite one another across an oak occasional table. A tartan rug protects the polished wooden floor under the table. A squishy, brown corduroy armchair flanks a stone fireplace. Charred logs and a layer of gray ash teeter on the grate.

  I’d given Charles free rein to brief the interior designer, but had drawn the line at petrified antlers and stuffed moose heads.

  A photograph of two lovers wearing champagne colored rough silk, hangs above the mantle in a dark oak frame. A heart-shaped bouquet hangs from the woman’s midriff. A ring of white flowers is pinned in her golden curls. The man towers over her. His arms are looped around her waist. She gazes demurely at the ground. He stares down the lens, lips curling at the edges. The flowers are gardenias.

  It was our wedding day.

  “I’ll deal with that later,” I say aloud.

  Coffee. I need coffee.

  I rinse the percolator under the faucet. Take a foiled bag of grinds from the refrigerator. Set the brew on the stove and wait.

  The ding of an incoming text message interrupts my torpor. I look up from the coffeepot.

  “Damn it, Bella. I didn’t let Martha know we’ve arrived.”

  I retrieve my cell phone. The icon tells me I have one new message. It’s from Charles.

  Good morning beautiful. Safe journey? Don’t forget to fire up the water heater and stock up the log basket. Cold nights this time of year!