Crystal Cove

by Lisa Kleypas

  “No heaven or hell,” Justine said slowly, “no Valhalla, Summerland, or underworld … just ‘poof’ and you’re gone for good?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ve always wondered if they don’t sense it deep down,” Sage mused aloud. “People without souls rarely seem to reach old age, and they tend to live so very intensely. As if they’re aware of how limited their time is.”

  “It reminds me of that little poem you’ve always liked, Sage. The one about the candle.”

  “Edna St. Vincent Millay.” Sage smiled as she recited, “‘My candle burns at both ends; / It will not last the night; / But ah, my foes, and oh my friends— / It gives a lovely light!’”

  “That describes the soulless perfectly,” Rosemary told Justine. “They are driven to experience everything they can before the ultimate demise. Voracious appetites. But no matter how much success they achieve, it’s never enough … and they never understand why.”

  “How does someone end up without a soul?” Justine asked in a hushed voice.

  “Some people simply aren’t born with one. It’s a trait just like eye color or the size of one’s feet.”

  “But that’s so unfair.”

  “Yes. Life is often unfair.”

  “How can this be fixed?” Justine asked. “How could a person manage to get a soul if he doesn’t have one?”

  “He can’t,” Rosemary replied. “It’s not possible. Or at least I’ve never heard of such a thing happening.”

  “But if they realize they are soulless,” Sage said, “that’s when things become precarious. Every living creature is compelled to preserve its own existence. Is there anything a man like Jason wouldn’t do for a chance at eternity?”

  No. He would stop at nothing.

  Justine’s hand crept to the center of her chest, where the little copper key was hidden beneath the bodice of the nightgown.

  Rosemary glanced at her with compassion. “I see that you understand now. Associating with a man like Jason Black could turn out to be a dance with the devil.”

  “Could Jason ever love someone if he has no soul?”

  “Of course,” Sage said. “He still has a heart, after all. What he doesn’t have is time.”

  * * *

  After seeing to the boat, Jason made the long, slow climb back to the lighthouse. The ancient stone steps had settled badly, some of them diagonally slanted, many of them cracked. The center of each step had been worn into hammock shapes by the tread of countless shoes. Rain had made all of them perilously slick. Wind gusts struck from different directions, challenging his balance. He still didn’t know how he’d managed to carry Justine up the stairs without falling; he’d been too jacked with adrenaline to think about it at the time.

  He doubted he would ever recover from the sight of Justine struggling in the ocean, her face gray with the resignation of someone who was on her way to dying. He would have done anything for her, risked anything, without question. He would have given her his life, fed his own blood directly into her veins, if that would have saved her. And to say the least, self-sacrifice was a new concept for him.

  The strangest part was that he wasn’t trying to reason himself out of it; he didn’t even want to. The way he felt about Justine was something he had no choice in, just as he had no choice about whether he wanted to breathe or sleep or eat. It was too soon to be this certain. But that didn’t matter, either.

  His past relationships had ended when they became inconvenient or stale. And each time Jason had gone on his way with the arrogant conviction that love would never get the better of him.

  What an idiot he’d been.

  Now he knew that it was only love when you knew there could be no end to it. When it was as inevitable as gravity. Falling in love, a helpless descent in which the only way to avoid being hurt was to keep going. Keep falling.

  As he neared the top of the stairs, he took a good look at the lighthouse. It was a turn-of-the-century design, constructed of limestone and wood shingles, with surrounding porches braced by wood columns. The octagonal tower, integrated with the keeper’s cottage, overlooked the steeply pitched and gabled roof.

  Passing a fog bell mounted on the front porch, Jason shouldered his way past the door and closed it against the storm. He removed his jacket and hung it on a hook, and took off his sodden boat shoes. His T-shirt, which he’d put back on before going down to the dock, was cold and clammy. His board shorts had dried, but he felt sticky and sea-brined. The smell of baking bread filled the house, making his mouth water. He was starving.

  “Mr. Black.” Sage hurried to him with an armload of white towels, her silver curls dancing like butterfly antennae. “Here you are,” she said brightly.

  “Thank you. Please call me Jason.” He scrubbed the towel roughly over his hair and the back of his neck. “How is Justine?”

  “She is sleeping comfortably in our bedroom. Rosemary is watching over her.”

  “Maybe I should check on her,” Jason said, trying to contend with a tight feeling in his chest, iron bands around his heart. Worry. Another new feature on his emotional landscape.

  “Justine is a healthy young woman,” Sage said gently. “A little rest, and she’ll bounce back to her usual self.” She gave him an arrested glance, as if something in his face had surprised her. “You were very brave to do what you did today. I understand what it means for a man in your position to take such a risk.”

  A man in his position? Jason held her gaze, wondering exactly what she had meant.

  “Let me show you to the guest bathroom,” Sage said. “You can take a nice hot shower, and put on some dry clothes.”

  He grimaced. “Unfortunately I don’t have a spare shirt or—”

  “Not to worry, dear boy, I have set out some things that belonged to my late husband. He would be delighted for someone to get some use out of them.”

  “I wouldn’t want to…” Jason began, uncomfortable at the prospect of wearing old clothes that had belonged to a dead man, but his attention was seized by the phrase “late husband.” “You were married?”

  “Yes, Neil was the lightkeeper here. After he passed, I assumed his post. Follow me to the guest room—we’ll take a roundabout path so you can see the house along the way.”

  “The lighthouse isn’t active now, is it?”

  “No, after it was decommissioned in the early seventies, the Coast Guard sold it to me for practically nothing. And in return for maintaining the house, I’ve been awarded a life pension from a private historic preservation foundation. Later you’ll have to go up to the top of the tower—the original Fresnel lens is still there. It’s made of French crystal. Very beautiful, like an Art Deco sculpture.”

  The rooms were painted in delicate shades of robin’s-egg blue and sea green, and filled with cozy upholstered furniture and polished woodwork. The main room opened into a large kitchen, and a smaller room that served as a multipurpose area. “This is called the keeping room,” Sage said. “Most of the time we use it for craft projects, but when we have guests, such as tonight, we put an extra leaf in the table and make it into a dining room.”

  Jason went to the corner of the room, where an antique bronze diving helmet had been set on a built-in shelf. The helmet had a glass front door, a dumbbell lock with a chain and pin, and a leather gasket. “This is like something out of a Jules Verne novel. How old is it?”

  “It was made in nineteen-eighteen, or thereabouts.” Sage gave a wondering laugh. “Neil said the same thing when he bought it—it reminded him of Jules Verne. Have you read any of his novels?”

  “Most of them.” Jason smiled. “Jules Verne managed to predict a lot of inventions that eventually came true. Submarines, videoconferencing, spaceships … I’ve never been able to decide if it was genius or magic.”

  She seemed to like that. “Perhaps a little of both.”

  Sage showed him to the guest room at the lower level of the tower. It was a fairy-tale room, octagonal with bay windows a
nd upholstered benches set in nearly every wall. The only furnishings were a spacious iron-framed bed placed in the center of the room and a tiny painted wooden table next to it. Although the room would be cold at night, the bed was layered with ivory quilts and pillows piled three deep. A simple button-down shirt and a pair of trousers had been laid out. “I’m afraid we have no socks that will fit you,” Sage said regretfully. “Until your shoes dry out, you’ll have to go barefoot.”

  “I went barefoot all the time in my grandmother’s home in Japan,” Jason said.

  “You’re part Japanese?… Ah, that explains those cheekbones and lovely dark eyes.”

  He laughed quietly. “You’re a flirt, Sage.”

  “At my age, I can flirt all I please and it causes no trouble.”

  “I think you could cause plenty of trouble if you wanted to.”

  Sage chuckled. “Now who’s the flirt?” She gestured to a small bathroom with an old-fashioned shower. “The guest toiletries are in the basket under the sink. There’s more than enough time for a nap—you may rest up here, and no one will bother you.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t usually take naps.”

  “You should try. You must be tired after your heroics today.”

  “I wasn’t heroic,” Jason said, uncomfortable with the praise. “I just did what was necessary.”

  She smiled at him. “Isn’t that the definition of a hero?”

  Thirteen

  Jason went downstairs three hours later. He had showered and shaved, and had taken Sage’s advice about trying to rest. Although he had always found it nearly impossible to nap, he had fallen asleep within a couple of minutes after lying down. It was something about the tower room, he decided. Sleeping in a place so high and isolated, surrounded by storm and ocean, had allowed him to relax as deeply as if he’d spent hours in meditation.

  The clothes Sage had set out for him were soft and comfortable, with none of the mustiness or discoloration he would have expected. A crisp scent of cedar permeated the fabric. He owned handmade shirts from London and Hong Kong that didn’t fit him this smoothly. These could have been made specifically according to his measurements. Which didn’t strike him as coincidence.

  So far, Jason thought wryly, he was enjoying the company of witches far more than he would have expected.

  He reached the bottom floor and found the main room empty. Appetizing smells hung in the air. The sound of voices and clanking utensils resonated from the kitchen. Pausing at the threshold of the keeping room, he saw that the table was covered in white linen and set with flatware and sparkling glassware.

  Justine was lighting candles, her back turned to him. A thin blue sweater and a long flowered skirt followed the slender lines of her body before flaring gently. She was barefoot, sexy, her hair loose and rippling. Still unaware of his presence, she clicked a long-necked butane lighter repeatedly but couldn’t get a flame started. The shoulder of the sweater sagged away from an ivory shoulder, and she hitched it up impatiently. Setting aside the lighter, she snapped her fingers in front of each candlewick. A succession of brilliant flames appeared.

  More witchery. Although Jason didn’t react outwardly, he was startled by the sight of Justine creating sparks with her fingertips. Jesus Tap-dancing Christ. What else was she capable of? Staring at her, he slid his hands in his pockets and leaned casually against the side of the doorjamb.

  At the sound of the floor creaking beneath his feet, Justine started and whirled to face him.

  She turned white and then flushed, her velvet-brown eyes wide. “Oh. I…” One hand made a fluttering gesture to the table behind her. “Trick candles.”

  His mouth twitched. “How do you feel?”

  “Fine. Great.” Justine sounded breathless. Her gaze took a swift, nervous inventory of him. “How about you?”

  “Hungry.”

  She motioned in the direction of the kitchen, nearly knocking over a candlestick. “Dinner’s almost ready. Those clothes are great on you.” She hitched up the side of the sweater again.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Better since you put me on a defrost cycle.” Her color deepened. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t mind thawing you out,” Jason said, reaching out to stroke his fingers through a few of the wavy, shiny locks of her hair. Gently he tugged the sweater down her shoulder, caressing the silky exposed curve with his palm. He heard her breath change. He thought about the things he wanted to do to her, all the ways he wanted to penetrate, pleasure, possess her. And he forced himself to let go of her while he was still able. Justine wandered into the kitchen, seeming dazed, while Jason went to the front door and opened it.

  Standing in a blast of cold air, he tried to create a peaceful scene in his mind … an Alaskan glacier, a snow-topped mountain. When that didn’t work, he thought about foreign debt crises. Piranhas. Oompa-Loompas. When that didn’t work, he began to list prime numbers in his head, backward from one thousand. By the time he reached 613, he was able to return to the keeping room.

  Justine was setting bowls of vegetable soup on the table. She glanced at him, her cheeks pink.

  “Can I do something?” he asked.

  Rosemary replied as she carried baskets of bread from the kitchen. “All taken care of. Have a seat, please.”

  He went to help Rosemary and Sage into their chairs, and took a seat next to Justine.

  Rosemary blessed the meal, praising the earth for growing the food they were about to enjoy, thanking the sun for nourishing it, the rain for quenching its thirst, and so forth.

  “Jason,” Sage invited when the blessing was finished, “tell us about your foreign relatives. I find that so intriguing. Were both your grandparents Japanese?”

  “No, my grandfather was an American serviceman, stationed at Naha Port—a logistical base in Okinawa—during Vietnam. He married my grandmother against her family’s wishes. Not long afterward he was killed in action, but by then my grandmother was pregnant with my mother.”

  Justine passed a basket of bread to him. “How did your mother end up in America?”

  “She visited Sacramento when she was a teenager, to get to know some of her American relatives. She ended up staying here for good.”

  “Why didn’t she go back?”

  “I think she wanted the chance to live independently for a while. In Okinawa, her family had kept a close eye on her, and they all lived under one roof: my grandmother and assorted aunts, uncles, and cousins.”

  “Heavens to Hecate,” Rosemary exclaimed, “how large was the house?”

  “About three thousand square feet. But it allowed a lot more room than the American equivalent. Not much furniture, and no clutter. The interior could be made into different rooms with all these sliding paper doors. So when it was time to go to sleep, everyone laid their futons on the floor and pulled the doors shut.”

  “How could you stand the lack of privacy?” Justine asked.

  “I learned that a sense of privacy doesn’t have to depend on walls and doors. At least not external ones. Two people could sit in a room and read or work separately without ever breaking the silence. It’s an ability to put up walls in your mind, so no one can get through.”

  “And you’re good at that, aren’t you?” Justine asked.

  Relishing the challenge she presented, he gave her a level stare. “Aren’t you?” he countered.

  Her gaze was the first to fall.

  Jason turned the conversation to Sage, asking what life had been like on Cauldron Island when she’d first moved there. She described the years she had been employed as the island schoolteacher, with approximately a half dozen students. They had all met every morning at a one-room schoolhouse at Crystal Cove, not far from the lighthouse. Now the only families who lived there were retirees or part-timers, so the school had been closed.

  “We still use the schoolhouse from time to time,” Sage volunteered. “The building is in perfect condition.”

  “What do you use it for
?” Jason asked, and felt Justine’s toes in a warning nudge against his ankle.

  “Social gatherings,” Rosemary said briskly. “Are you enjoying your dinner, Jason?”

  “It’s terrific,” he said. The soup was hearty and fresh-tasting, made with potatoes, kale, corn, tomatoes, and herbs. Honey-sweetened Dark Mother bread was served with homemade apple butter and slabs of local white cheese.

  Dessert consisted of an eggless breadcrumb cake sweetened with molasses and dried fruit. According to Sage, the recipe was from the Depression era, a time when eggs and milk hadn’t always been available.

  The elderly women were like an old married couple, reminiscing about their life on the island. They told stories about Justine as a child, such as the time she had been so determined to have a surprise birthday party for herself that she had planned it out and given Rosemary and Sage meticulous instructions. They had thrown it for her, of course, and had called it Justine’s unsurprise party.

  And during one winter visit, Justine had complained about their pagan Yule traditions because she had wanted a Christmas tree.

  “I explained to Justine,” Rosemary said, “that our tradition was to put a straw Yule goat out in the yard. She asked what tradition we would have if it weren’t for the goat, and I said I wasn’t certain. And the next morning”—she paused as Sage chuckled and Justine buried her head in her hands—“I looked out the window to discover that the Yule goat was gone. There was only a smoldering pile of ashes on the ground. Justine denied all responsibility, of course, but she said with great enthusiasm, ‘Now we can have a tree.’”

  “You burned the Yule goat?” Jason asked Justine, amused.

  She explained with chagrin, “It was a ritual sacrifice. He had to go.”

  “We’ve had a Christmas tree every year since,” Sage said. “Even when Justine wasn’t with us.”

  Justine reached out and put her hand on Sage’s shoulder. “I visited every holiday I possibly could,” she said. “We haven’t missed one for a while, have we?”