Wolfhowl Mountain

by Dian Cronan

  I sit next to Liam with a bright smile, bursting to tell someone about my day. “How was your day, squiggle worm?”

  Liam shrugs. “Okay.”

  I deflate a little. “Just okay?”

  “Kelly wasn’t there,” he says. “She’s one of my friends.”

  “A girl-friend?” I ask with a wink.

  He scrunches up his face, “No!”

  “Oh, well, why’s that got you down? Is she sick?”

  Liam pauses, his blue eyes sinking away from mine. “I dunno. There’s a box for you,” he says, changing the subject. “It’s on your bed.”

  Remembering what Ronan said about a dress, I leap from the room like a gazelle without another thought about Liam or his little girlfriend. A large gift-wrapped box tied with fancy red ribbon lies on my bed. I pounce on it and tear the wrapping away, gasping with glee when I see what’s inside.

  I stand in front of the mirror, holding the dress up to my shoulders and admiring my reflection. It’s so perfect my eyes water. It isn’t so old-fashioned that it needs layers of crinoline, nor is it so modern that it looks like a cheap costume. The long lacey sleeves will reveal the pale, alabaster skin of my arms. The plunging neckline is much too low for Elizabeth Bennet’s taste, but it’s perfect for me. The high waist is outlined with a blue ribbon that laces up the back. The smooth, off-white silk falls flows to the floor like the skirts of a Greek goddess. I’m so in love with this dress that the perma-smile on my lips hurts my cheeks.

  As I twirl around the room with the dress, contemplating how I’ll accent it and what I’ll do with my hair, I pay no attention to the diary on my nightstand. I don’t notice it’s open, pen lying beside the once naked pages. I don’t see the new entries, entries I don’t remember writing.

  An unseen breeze flips to a new blank, yellowed page. Scrawling black ink appears as if oozing from the diary itself like venom. First a word, then a sentence, a paragraph. More paragraphs. Another unseen breeze, another filled page, another entry…

  ***

  Once I see the dress, everything else disappears. My eyes are dazzled with images of ruling over the dance, Queen Rose and King Ronan. I don’t need to check with Mother about going out on short notice; that’s not Texas Rose’s style. I don’t need to check in with Liam; he’s being taken care of. With those two small weights off my mind, I’m free to be who I want, who I truly am. For the first time in months, the world is tilting back onto its normal axis and I finally feel like myself.

  I finish primping right before the doorbell rings at seven sharp. I’ve accented my new dress with a string of pearls and matching earrings from my great-grandmother, and a dainty gold bracelet, a sweet sixteen present from my parents. My hair is swept into a dramatic up-do with a few soft curls falling from the tight bun at the back of my head. My face is made up in the perfect Texas Rose fashion with dark mysterious eyes and velvety red, kissable lips.

  I slip into my low silver heels so I won’t tower over Ronan, who’s a shade shorter than me, on the dance floor, and try to slow my beating heart. I’m excited, thrilled even. I can’t remember the last time I felt so alive. I’ll show up to the dance with Ronan, the most sought after boy in school. I’ll be radiant, beautiful. All of those small town bitches will be jealous of me for once, and I’ll delight in their envy. It’ll be perfect.

  But I don’t want Ronan to know how eager I am. He’s the one who should be excited to attend the dance with me. He’s the one who should feel lucky, like his prayers have been answered. So as I waltz slowly down the stairs, I take several deep breaths and master a look of calm, cool detachment.

  Ronan presents me with a broad smile and a small carnation wrist corsage, which he places gently around my wrist. He’s wearing the same outfit he wore for his grand invitation at lunch, but has accented the dark blue fabric of his suit jacket with a small red rose peeking out of the front pocket. He seems startled when he finally looks at me, like he’s been expecting someone else. My beauty has stunned him, I realize with relish.

  “Uh – erm, my lady,” he says, bowing before me.

  I giggle despite myself and curtsy in return. “Good sir.”

  “Our chariot awaits!” He stands tall and motions toward the familiar black BMW SUV.

  I reach for my scarf and coat, which Ronan helps me slip into like a perfect gentleman, and then close the door behind us.

  As Ronan helps me into the car, I’m not thinking about Mother, or Liam, or the house. I’m not wondering why there isn’t a thin spire of smoke coming from the O’Dwyre chimney. I’m not thinking about Letta and her empty house. I’m thinking of nothing save for all of the green, envious eyes that will greet me at the dance.

  ***

  True to his word, Ronan treats me to an elegant dinner. Between Port Braseham and Bar Harbor is one lone restaurant, Borachio’s Cucina. It’s a small shack on the outside, a place I wouldn’t have looked at twice, but it’s incredibly opulent inside and crowded with couples from all over the island, being well known for its authentic cuisine. The menus are entirely in Italian and with a discreet nod from the maître d as we arrived, I have the feeling Ronan is well known here. I wonder how many candlelit dinners he’s enjoyed here with Mary. Was this their place? Well, even if it was, it doesn’t matter. I’m the one who’s here with him now.

  We’re seated at a small table in front of a large window overlooking the water. The sun has set and the water is a roiling black mass twinkling here and there with the light of the full moon.

  “So,” Ronan says, somewhat awkwardly.

  I look at him, refreshing my memory on how attractive he is. Glossy, dentist brochure smile, gym sculpted muscles, light chestnut hair… An Adonis. I smile, but let the silence grow between us as I think of how many times I’ve misjudged him. Initially I’d pegged him as an ally, a way to raise my own stature in the Port Braseham high school politico. Then I’d found him to be an egotistical manwhore. But at the storm party he’d revealed what I thought was a sensitive underbelly. And here he is, mixing up my thoughts all over again, being sweet and romantic – but I don’t trust him. There’s something slick and oily beneath his gentlemanly demeanor. So, let him sweat it out.

  “Do you like the dress,” he finally asks, after the waiter bows obsequiously and slips away with our menus. Ronan ordered for both of us in flawless Italian, impressive, even if he’s only flaunting it to impress me.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, trying not to gush as my hand absently runs over the smooth fabric in my lap, and then I ask him a question that’s been bugging me all afternoon. “How’d you know I liked Pride and Prejudice?”

  He laughs, but then leans toward me conspiratorially. He slides a lotioned hand across the table and lifts mine from the stem of my water glass, cradling it gently. “It’s not a big secret is it? You only carry it with you everywhere. I’ve seen it mixed in with your books more than once, and a few times on the table at lunch.” He shrugs. “I took a shot.”

  Took a shot. Pfft. As if the great Ronan Quinn ever just improvises. No, it was a calculated move. I wonder what exactly he’s planning.

  “Have you read it?” I ask hopefully, and a tinge of red flushes his cheeks.

  “No, actually.”

  “Isn’t it required reading for junior year?”

  “Yeah,” he admits with a sheepish smile. “Mary and I had the same teachah last yeah, and she read it, so…”

  I stiffen at Mary’s name. I wonder if this is all some kind of game to him, if I’m just some new conquest to add to his belt. My guard rises like hackles.

  “Why do you like it so much?” he asks, and he sounds genuine. “A bunch of old Victorian stiffs vyin’ for the hearts of silly little tarts? Sounds awful.”

  “It’s romantic,” I reply defensively. “Two people who seem to hate each other, from opposite sides of the tracks, who fall victim to their own hypocritical beliefs and pride. In the end, they realize they’re wrong, that they were really falling in love
without even knowing it. I think it’s beautiful.”

  “So is that the secret tah your heart, Rose Delaney?” Ronan’s eyes are now piercing mine, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. “Wistful, Victorian romance?”

  I control the urge to laugh. He’s trying so hard to woo me, but it’s awkward for him. No doubt I’m his first real challenge in a town where most girls are dying to go on a date with him. And I’m certainly not going to throw him a bone. It’s fun to be chased again, to see someone so confident struggle a little bit, to feel power over someone. “I’m afraid it’s a lot more complicated than that. The secret to my heart is just that,” I say coyly – two can play this game – and pull my hand away from his, “a secret.”

  “We’ll see ‘bout that,” he murmurs as he lifts a goblet of ice water to his thin lips.

  Before I can respond, the waiter returns with our appetizer, which he lays before us with a flourish of his wrists, as if presenting a great feast.

  ***

  I eat quietly, listening to Ronan, who likes the sound of his own voice. He tells me more of the town’s history, mostly related to his own family, especially his father as head of the historical society. I try to appear interested, but I don’t want to talk about history. I want to enjoy this night away from the house, spend my night trying to remember who I used to be, the strong and powerful Texas Rose who didn’t take no guff from nobody. Eventually Ronan asks me about myself, about Texas, my family, my hobbies; but it’s a perfunctory effort. I’m aloof and careful with my responses. Let him work for it; if he’s being genuine, he won’t mind.

  Ronan tries convincing me to split some tiramisu, but I decline. I wasn’t really hungry to begin with and don’t want to feel fat in my beautiful dress. Ronan snaps his fingers for the bill and leaves a very generous tip. He lets the billfold sit open an extra beat, pretending to check his math, to make sure I notice.

  We arrive at the dance fashionably late. Judging by the cars in the parking lot, Ronan and I are the only ones still missing. No doubt everyone’s anticipating our arrival, dying to know what I’m wearing, how I look. Ronan, playing the part of Perfect Gentleman, helps me out of the car, and walks me to the doors of the gym with care, making sure the hem of my dress doesn’t drag through the mud puddles.

  My heart flutters as we approach the doors. This is it, I think. This is my moment. This is the moment when everyone will realize how wrong they were to judge me.

  Ronan opens the squawking gym doors just as a song is ending. All heads turn in our direction as he hooks his arm through mine and we make our grand entrance. The collective gasps of the girls are audible as they see my perfect beauty. Immediately my eyes search out Mary, finding her on the dance floor with her usual cronies. Her jaw clenches in silent fury, her fists as tight as screws. I have to admit she looks pretty good, even if a little clichéd, in a short, black number. She’s ordinary compared to me and her girlfriends know it. They pat her shoulders in consolation, as if to say Better luck next time, Mare. A devilish smirk slides onto my lips and I wink at her.

  Drown, I think. Drown in your jealousy. Drown in your envious, green ocean.

  Sound fills the room again as a slow song warbles from the D.J.’s speakers and couples head for the dance floor. With a huge smile, Ronan leads me to the center of the floor, holding our hands high, as if showing me off to everyone. We stop amid the other couples who are now slowly swaying to the music. Ronan twirls me toward him and pulls me close. His cool hand slips around my waist and rests on the small of my back while the other guides my hand to his shoulder. We dance, face-to-face, eye-to-eye. His russet doe eyes cry innocence, but his crooked smile says something else entirely. As his other hand slides lower, I conjure the image of a tightly coiled snake ready to spring.

  “You’re beautiful, Rose Delaney,” he says, looking deeply into my eyes and then leans his head forward.

  “I know.” I look away and put my cheek on his shoulder, avoiding his impending kiss. His step falters only a moment before his muscles relax and he pulls me closer so our hips almost touch.

  I survey the scene as we casually drift in a spiral. The gym looks basically the same as it always does despite a large disco ball hanging from a rafter, and a sprinkling of patio tables and chairs with little paper lanterns on top. Students have gathered together in their usual social circles around the dance floor, which is sparser, with perhaps ten couples daring to slow dance along with us. As we turn, I catch sight of Patty and Shane.

  Patty wears a short canary yellow, A-line dress. With a yellow headband, a pair of opal earrings and a matching necklace, she’s the perfect fifties or sixties beauty. Shane wears a tight fitting hipster suit with a red bowtie and a small carnation peeking from the lapel. Patty rests her head on Shane’s chest as he rests his chin on her soft hair. They wear lazy, blissful smiles. It’s an adorable sight and my heart trills for them.

  Ronan and I continue shuffling our feet, and Patty and Shane disappear. A few groups are obviously gossiping about Ronan and me. A young couple paws other next to the bleachers before being pulled apart by a chaperone. It’s a typical high school dance: gossip, jealousy, and hormones. God, I’ve missed the normalcy that accompanies something as simple as a school dance. I’m reminded of my old girlfriends in Texas. Did they miss me at Homecoming? How’s the cheerleading team doing without my leadership? Did I leave any real impact on them at all?

  Screw them. They don’t matter. They’re nothings. I’m the star tonight. All I have to do is look at Mary’s pretty face, made ugly by her envy; I’m finally beginning to leave my mark on Port Braseham. They’ll remember Rose Delaney. As our eyes meet, I allow myself a slow wink at Mary. Her cheeks flush and she whirls away in a blur.

  I’m facing entrance to the gym again and notice shadows moving beyond the doors a second before they open with a loud and ominous squeeeeaaaakkk.

  My thudding heart comes to a cold stop, and my face drains of blood. I’m shocked, confused, angry; I can’t even process what I’m seeing.

  Beckan has stepped out of the darkness beyond the doors and into the dim light of the gym. He wears a buttoned up long-sleeved dress shirt, simple and plain, tucked into a pair of dark slacks that run a little long. The hems crumpl on top of black dress shoes, dulled with age. He’s clean-shaven for the first time since we met. His bottle green eyes dance with gold specks in the sparkling light of the disco ball. His reddish brown hair is trimmed and neat with a little gel to keep it out of his face. He’s the most handsome I’ve ever seen him, and I suddenly remember how his strong arms pulled me away from the cliff, how his soft eyes comforted me when I told him about my father, and most vividly, how his warm hand felt leading mine through the park.

  Beckan locks his eyes on mine immediately, as if he’s been looking for me for his whole life. I raise my head off of Ronan’s shoulder, my heart suddenly beating again. He starts to smile, but falters when he sees I’m shaking with pure fury.

  Because right there, clinging to Beckan’s arm, is Letta.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  What Happened to Eileen

  The music fades as the doors clatter closed. Letta is her usual, tiny, pixie self. Her dress is a short, simple baby pink number, and despite the height difference between them, she wears a pair of black ballet flats. She smiles awkwardly and, taking Beckan’s huge lion mitt in her tiny kitten paw, walks toward me.

  My head is filled with angry white noise and the edges of my vision blur.

  “Rose?” Ronan’s voice breaks through the haze. “You okay?”

  “What? Yeah. Yes,” I stutter. “But, um, would you excuse me a minute?”

  “Um, sure,” he says, a hint of displeasure in his voice.

  “Be right back.” I retreat from the dance floor and dart across the gym, fleeing Beckan and Letta as fast as my shoes will allow. I burst into a darkened hallway and slip into the girls’ bathroom. I press my back against the closed door and take a deep breath, trying to ward off the sudden
urge to cry. What’s wrong with me?

  “Hello? Is someone there?”

  Startled, I gather myself and round the privacy wall. Eileen stands in front of a sink, several pieces of toilet paper crumpled up in the basin. Her classically beautiful face is red and her makeup is splotched, dark mascara circles under each eye.

  “Um, hi,” I say awkwardly. I haven’t talked to Eileen since she ran screaming from my house. Now here she is, crying her eyes out.

  Eileen smiles weakly. “Hi.”

  “So…” I lean against the furthest sink from Eileen. “Are you okay?” It’s a ridiculous question; obviously she’s not okay. But you can’t walk away from a girl sobbing alone in a bathroom in the middle of a school dance. It’s an unwritten code among women: You must ask the lonely crying girl in the bathroom if she’s alright. Even if you don’t want to help her, at least you’ll get something to offer up to the gossip gods later.

  “Gawd!” Eileen laughs and rolls her eyes. She rips several squares of toilet paper off of a strand she has bunched up in one of her hands and wipes her nose. “No. Can’t stop cryin’ tah save my life.” She laughs again and then glances at me through her reflection. “I’m sorry. Why should you care ‘bout my problems? You probably hate me.”

  A little, I think, but I say, “No. I’m confused though.”

  “Me too.” She dips her head, holding onto the sink with both hands and her shoulders shake with sobs.

  Cautiously, I step closer and put a hand on her shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Eileen sniffs loudly and looks at me for a long time before she replies. “Rose,” she says with real regret in her eyes, “I’m sorry ‘bout what I told everyone ‘bout that night at your house. I don’t know why…” She shrugs and looks down, frowning. “I was scared.”

  Well, hello old friend, I think as the hole in my stomach reappears. I’ve managed to keep it at bay since lunch, but now it crawls back down into my gut and I have the sensation of being pulled by my belly button, as if the house is calling to me, saying Hey, Rose. Remember me?