The Riverhouse

by G. Norman Lippert

  He followed her, looking around warily. If they had been on their bikes, this would have been much easier. She never would have been curious enough to interrupt their ride, especially if they were racing. Now, Shane felt a cold apprehension that had nothing to do with the gray stormy air. After all, if Marlena wasn’t haunting the cottage anymore, then this was probably where she had retreated to.

  Shane caught up to Christiana and walked alongside her, watching the trees on either side of the yard, and especially watching the dead dirt of the Riverhouse’s old foundation. He was pleased to see that the strange, ghostly shadow of the house was not in sight. Even so, nothing had yet begun to grow in the dry dirt of the foundation, not so much as a single weed or bloom of crabgrass. The yellow bulk of the front loader sat on the remains of the brick driveway, its bucket raised to the sky, a black stain of oil glistening on the weeds beneath it. They passed it slowly and Christiana broke away, angling toward the portico.

  “I recognize this much of it, at least. From your painting. How did you know how to paint it?”

  “Well, I’d seen it plenty of times before they tore it down, riding past on my bike.”

  “Maybe, but I bet it didn’t look like it does in your work. Did you research it?”

  Shane shrugged, but Christiana wasn’t looking. “Yeah, sort of. Most of it just, sort of, came to me.”

  She glanced back at him, her brow slightly furrowed. She had one foot on the lowest step of the portico. “This place has a hold on you, doesn’t it?”

  Shane felt his blood cool. He began to follow her. He opened his mouth to answer, but she interrupted him, turning to climb the shallow stone steps.

  “I guess that’s how it is with all artists and their subjects. I can see how an artist’s wife could get jealous of him and his work. Especially if he painted other women.”

  “I hardly ever use live models,” Shane said inanely, following Christiana up the portico steps. The circular scars of the pillars looked up at the sky, two on either side of the long expanse, like the ghosts of gargoyles. “I use pictures, mostly, and my imagination. I find most of my resources online.”

  “But not all of them,” Christiana said, turning back to Shane and smiling. “You painted this place. It’s real, or at least it used to be. You’re not above using real live models.”

  “Well, like I said, that was pretty unusual,” Shane said, stopping on the gritty floor of the portico as Christiana approached him again. “Most of the time I—”

  “Would you paint me?” she asked playfully, and struck a pose there on the stage of the portico, cocking her hips and raising both arms, clasping her hands behind her head. She looked out over the Riverhouse foundation, toward the river, her chin raised and her eyes sleepy, half-lidded. Shane couldn’t help smiling.

  “You’ve seen too many movies,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not like that. Posing is hard work, believe it or not, especially for a painting. You have to maintain the pose for hours.”

  “I could do that,” she said, dropping her arms. “I’m patient.”

  Shane nodded and shrugged, but before he could reply, she had stepped into his arms. A thrill of sudden delight welled up in him as she wrapped her arms around him, pressing herself against him. She rested her head against his shoulder and he curled his arms around her.

  “I’m patient,” she said again, more quietly.

  Shane nodded. He knew what she was talking about. He was afraid to say anything in response, lest he say too much and spoil the moment. The fact was, they were both being patient, waiting to see what was really happening between them, unwilling to force it or even acknowledge it. After all, Randy had not even been dead for a month yet. It wasn’t that Christiana needed to get over him or grieve for him, and yet some grief had seemed necessary—grief for all the lost time, for all the humiliations and shameful secrets.

  Shane knew that. He’d expected it to take months for Christiana to become ready to move on. And what about he, himself? It had only been a year since the loss of his pregnant wife. Could he possibly be ready to move on?

  Maybe this was a mistake, whatever this was that was happening between himself and Christiana. Maybe they were both simply clinging to each other because it was better to cling to someone—anyone—than to be alone with the memories. That was hardly a basis for a healthy relationship, was it? The responsible thing to do would be for him to end it before it even began.

  He pushed Christiana away slightly and looked down at her. She raised her face to him, stood on tiptoes, and kissed him.

  It wasn’t a long kiss, but it wasn’t a peck, either. Her lips were cool and soft, the breath from her nose warm on his cheek. With that kiss, all of his concerns suddenly vanished. It was as if a gust of wind had come and blown every thought clean out of Shane’s head.

  He knew it was foolish. He was making the age-old mistake, believing the lie that because something felt good, it was good. But maybe sometimes it wasn’t a lie at all. Maybe some things really were as simple as they seemed. It was good that Shane had found Christiana, and that she had found him. In the fleeting moment of her kiss, Shane realized something rather shocking. All of his fears and worries about them, about this secretly growing relationship, all came down to one simple thing: he was terrified of allowing himself to fall for her, because falling for her was the first step toward losing her. He’d already lost one woman he’d loved, her and the baby inside her. If something like that happened again…

  But the kiss swept it all away. It didn’t make the fears insignificant—just the opposite, in fact—but it made them inevitable. Shane could no more stop himself from falling in love with Christiana than he could stop the river from flowing along the bluff beneath his cottage. All he’d needed was to know that she felt the same way.

  When their lips parted, Shane looked down at her. There were tears standing in her eyes. She swiped them away impatiently and pressed her face against his shoulder.

  “Why the tears?” he asked curiously.

  She shook her head against his shoulder. “I don’t know.” She sighed briskly, and her breath was hot against him. “I don’t know. I didn’t know if you…” Her voice trailed away.

  “You didn’t know if I what?”

  She looked up at him again, smiled, and then looked away. “I didn’t know if you felt the same way I did. I’m… I’m kind of damaged goods. You know? I wouldn’t have blamed you for…”

  “You’re serious,” Shane said, wonderingly.

  “Of course I’m serious. I’ve been waiting and wondering. I mean, you’ve been so good to me, but maybe you’re just, you know… the nice guy. Maybe I’m just the hurt little bird. Maybe when my wing heals up, you’ll just put me out and expect me to fly away.”

  Shane studied her face. He wished this was a movie. If it was a movie, he’d have the ideal words to say, something that perfectly summed up his feelings for her, the ever expanding width and breadth of her in his heart. He had a feeling that if he tried to come up with something on his own, some pithy, romantic response that would explain everything to her and put all her fears to rest, it would come out sounding silly and contrived. Some things, he thought, were just too big to cage with words.

  Christiana misunderstood his long gaze. She dropped her eyes and stepped back. “It’s all right. I understand—”

  Shane caught her this time, pulled her back to him. He cupped her face in his hands, tilting her head back, making her look into his eyes.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  She looked. She shook her head slightly in his hands. “I don’t… I see…”

  Shane kissed her this time. It was a longer kiss, but softer. He’d been longing to do that for weeks, probably even from the moment he’d first met her, on the day she had arrived to pick up the matte painting. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around him again, clinging to him. When their lips parted this time, she was smiling slightly. She touched her forehead against his.

&nb
sp; “What do you see now?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what I see,” she replied, her smile turning to a grin. “But what I feel is a randy man pressed up against me.”

  Shane grinned back at her. “Actions speak louder than words, I guess.”

  She laughed with delight, and then stepped away from him, turning on the spot in a small, happy pirouette. “So what do we do now?”

  Shane shook his head. “We finish our walk home, I guess. I’m getting hungry.”

  “Oh, you’re hungry all right,” she teased good-naturedly. Suddenly, she pranced away from Shane, out onto the dirt of the house’s foundation.

  The grin evaporated from Shane’s face as Christiana jumped into the middle of that dead, gray space, raising her hands like a girl waiting to be picked up by her daddy. She let out a girlish whoop of joy, and suddenly, noiselessly, lightning flickered over the river, illuminating the day like a flashbulb. It flashed on the trees bordering the yard, on the brown face of the river, on Christiana herself, standing in the middle of the Riverhouse’s foundation with her arms raised over her head.

  To Shane’s horror, the lightning also illuminated the Riverhouse itself. It surrounded Christiana, ghostly but complete, right down to the furniture. And worst of all, revealed in that flash, standing directly behind Christiana, was Marlena. She seemed unnaturally tall, her face pale and severe, filled with hate, her hands raised into hooks, looking down at the living young woman in front of her.

  Shane gasped and leaped forward, filling his lungs to shout a warning, but a moment later the flash—and the awful vision—was gone, leaving only its after-image burning greenly on Shane’s retinas.

  Christiana stood alone in the gray dirt, arms still raised. She hadn’t seen the ghostly house, or the malignant specter standing over her. She hadn’t even noticed Shane’s startled response. He exhaled harshly, shakily, and she turned to look at him, her eyes still smiling. She looked beautiful in the stormlight. Beautiful and naked, somehow. Vulnerable.

  What have I done, Shane thought, fleetingly, a little hopelessly. Oh God, what have I done?

  Whatever it was, it was too late now. He’d been thinking about it only a minute earlier, hadn’t he? He could no longer stop himself from falling in love with Christiana than he could stop the course of the river that flowed even now behind her. The kiss had done it. There was no turning back now, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t.

  But I can protect her, he told himself, composing his face, straightening his back, forcing himself to smile back at her. I can keep her safe. She’s not a rabbit on my lap. She’s the woman I am falling in love with. I can watch over her. Marlena… Marlena…

  But that was where his thoughts stopped. He couldn’t go on, because he just didn’t know what she, Marlena, was planning, or what she was capable of. Christiana was the gorgeous canyon vista, but Marlena was the fog; secretive, silent, and capricious. There was just too much he didn’t know about her, too much she wasn’t telling him.

  But Shane could find out, if he really wanted to. His smile hardened at the edges, turned brittle and determined. He could find out. Whether she wanted him to or not.

  “What is it?” Christiana asked, coming back toward Shane, reaching to touch his hand.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing I can’t handle. Come on. Let’s go back before the storm gets here.”

  Lightning flickered again, and this time a grumble of distant thunder followed, rolling across the sky like a freight of cannonballs. Shane walked with Christiana down the porch steps, across the yard, past the front loader, and into the darkening stormlight.

  When they got back to the cottage, the wind was picking up, switching violently, like the tail of a stalking cat. Shane walked around to the side yard to close the shed doors before the wind caught them and pulled them off their old hinges. Above him, he could see the candle burning in the circular window, almost hidden behind the swaying branches of the magnolia. It beckoned him, teased him, but this time he ignored it. He had a feeling that his love affair with the muse was very nearly over.

  Worse, he was pretty sure that she knew it, too.

  Part III: The Sleepwalker

  Chapter Sixteen

  That Friday, while Christiana was at work, Shane went for another bike ride into Bastion Falls. He wore an old green backpack, empty except for a scattering of ancient beach sand, a ticket stub from a Bonnie Rait concert, circa nineteen ninety-seven, and a twenty dollar bill stuffed into the front zipper pocket.

  The day was cool, but bright with a hard diamond sun. It had been raining off and on all week, and the weather guys on KMOX were starting to talk potential flood in the coming few weeks. Shane’s cottage would be fine if that happened, as high as it was on the bluff, but it wouldn’t hurt to stock up on some groceries anyway, just in case the Valley Road got washed over. Maybe he’d take the truck down to the IGA this weekend. Maybe he’d even take Christiana with him. He’d enjoy introducing her to Brian, and maybe even old Earl Kirchenbauer over at Denny Acres.

  He smiled to himself. It was funny, because he knew he was acting a little like a teenager with a new girlfriend, wanting to tour the mall with her on his arm, showing her off to all of his friends and rivals. It was silly, but he decided to give himself a pass. After all, he hadn’t had many chances to do that when he was in high school.

  And Christiana was attractive. Earl would probably flirt with her. He was just that kind of old man. Shane could imagine it, the little twinkle in Earl’s eye, the knowing smile, the obvious double entendres. It would probably be Earl’s way of stamping his approval on her. And then, on the way home, he and Christiana would chuckle about it. It would become a memory, the sort of thing they’d talk fondly about years later: remember old Earl at Denny Acres? Remember the way he looked you up and down? Good old Earl…

  But that was for later. Shane wouldn’t be stopping in to see Earl or Brian today. For now, he had a different errand in mind.

  At the end of the city’s short main street was an old Revco drugstore. Shane parked his bike in the rack out front, clipped on the chain, and walked inside. It was cooler inside than outside, as if nobody had remembered to turn off the AC when summer had gotten over. Muzak wafted from hidden speakers, competing with the sound of a whining toddler hidden in one of the aisles.

  “But I waaant it,” the voice droned. “Pleeeeze?”

  “I didn’t bring enough money, Kyle. Come on, now.”

  Kyle ramped up his pleas, inching toward full-fledged tantrum status. Shane sympathized with the mother, but only a little. He had the minor luxury of believing that, if he’d had kids, they’d never have had tantrums in drugstores. He knew it was a foolish thing to think, but it was better than the thought that followed. He tried to shut it off, but it was too late. If that was my son, the voice in his head said wistfully, I’d buy him whatever he wanted. Whatever stupid little plastic trinket he had his eye on. Why? As a thank you present. Thanks son, I’d say, thanks just for being alive. Thanks for not being dead, tiger. You wanna go get some ice cream?

  Shane wandered the aisles and finally found what he was looking for. Rows of pens and markers were hung on hooks. Shane passed these, scanning them idly, and stopped near the end of the aisle. He reached and plucked a small box off its metal hook. Big Crayons, the label on the front read, spelled with letters contrived to look like they’d been drawn by a child. The B was backwards. There were only eight of them, but Shane thought they would do. They were very nearly perfect, in fact. Below the racks of crayons and poster paints was a shelf crammed with notepads and sketchbooks. He squatted and picked one of them up. The front showed a drawing of fish and a mermaid, rendered in bright, primary colors. Above the picture, written in fat, balloon-like letters, were the words DOODLE BOOK. The paper inside was cheap, mere newsprint, gray and grainy. Shane nodded to himself and pressed his lips together.

  On the way out, he picked up a Coke from the cooler by the registers.

/>   “Gonna do some drawing?” the old woman manning the checkout counter said, swiping the notebook and crayons over her scanner. She was joking, of course.

  “Indeed I am,” he replied, grinning. She probably thought he was joking as well.

  He drank the Coke while sitting on a bench in front of the store. Traffic tooled by sporadically on main street, mostly pickup trucks and minivans. When the can was empty, Shane belched on the back of his hand, tossed the can into a brown garbage bin by the front doors, unlocked his bike, and wheeled it out to the street. A minute later, he pedaled through the single stoplight on the corner by the IGA. He turned left and picked up speed, heading toward the open floodgates at the end of town. Those gates would probably have to be closed in the coming few weeks, he thought idly, looking up as he passed through them. It wouldn’t matter to him, of course. He’d be high and dry in the cottage, his cupboards stocked, maybe even with Christiana there, flooded in, forced to stay over. He was fairly sure she wouldn’t mind. Thinking that, he stood on the pedals, pushing forward, wanting to get back as soon as he could. He had things to do before she came over that night.

  In the backpack, Shane’s new notebook and crayons rocked back and forth, the crayons knocking hollowly in their box. Shane heard them as he pedaled. To him, it almost sounded like they were anxious.

  Like they were waiting impatiently to be let out.

  He parked the bike in the shed and closed the doors. He’d intended to go into the cottage, but for some reason he found himself walking around to the back patio. The stone floor was covered with leaves again, forming a thick carpet that crunched under his feet, releasing a dark, October scent. Shane pulled back one of the deck chairs and plopped onto it, slipping the backpack from his shoulders.

  He stopped for a moment. His heart was thudding hard in his chest, so much so that his head sang and his spit tasted weird, like old pennies. The air seemed to have changed around him, become thick and electric, expectant. He looked around, without really knowing why. Tom the cat was watching him from a sunny spot on the low stone wall, his eyes half-lidded, bored.