Tara had met Connor after his time in the service, but if his expertise in culinary operations was any indicator, he must have been spectacular at his job. Tara had awakened only five minutes ago, but Connor had already prepared breakfast and found time to press his slacks and shirt and dress as neatly as if he were going to a briefing. She knew his carry-on must be by the door, carefully packed for a maximum utilization of potential space and prepared for every contingency. The plane that went down on a desert island should be so lucky to have Connor on board; he would undoubtedly have an inflatable raft somewhere in his bag. In fuzzy slippers, a pair of boy shorts, and a ragged old t-shirt that said “Party Hard!”, Tara wasn’t quite up to muster.
Looking at her husband’s smoothly shaved face Tara teased him. “I’ll bet I have more facial hair than you do!”
“That’s probably true. You’re growing quite a handsome mustache.” Connor looked at his watch. “I cooked, so you clean? You can take me to the airport but don’t forget to do the dishes when you get back.”
Tara saluted. “Yes sir! Operation Scrub commences at 1200 hours.”
“Well? Go put some pants on!” Connor chided Tara. “I can’t have my wife taking me to the airport in Batman underoos.” Nobody could ever say Connor wasn’t the one who wore the pants in the relationship.
*****
Twenty minutes later Tara was slumped against the passenger seat of the BMW, seat heaters turned on to full power. It was early fall and the mornings and evenings tended to be quite cool. Besides, Tara liked to have a toasty bum.
Despite Connor’s admonishment against being taken by a pantsless wife to the airport, his machismo dictated that he would be the one actually driving to the airport. Tara came along so she could bring the car back to the house. When she came to pick him back up in a month upon his return from Singapore, Connor would no doubt demand that he drive the two of them back to Milford. No matter to Tara. Connor’s tendency to take control meant she could lean her head against the window and fall asleep to the lulling hum of tires rotating hundreds of times a minute over the road. Maybe she would dream again of her beautiful youth.
*****
Connor leaned in, meeting Tara’s lips at the window’s edge for a quick kiss. His lips were dry and cool against hers. It was not a lingering kiss nor one of yearning, or even one that said, “I’ll miss you terribly while I’m gone.” Only a peck of recognition. “I’ll see you a month from now. Don’t forget to call and set up the cable and internet!” Even in goodbyes Connor could not resist being practical.
“I’ll be here,” Tara assured him. “Same time, same place. Same silly face.” She watched Connor tow his luggage up a ramp into the airport. After they exchanged goodbyes, he never looked back. Connor wasn’t one to dwell. Fortunately, neither was Tara, and after the automatic doors sealed shut behind her husband, she put the car into drive and pulled away from the airport that was sending him a month out of reach.
The BMW was a fine performance machine, engineered for speeds much greater than what Tara used it for on the drive back to Milford; she never once broke sixty miles an hour. It would be nice to get home, but perhaps a bit lonely now that she would be occupying it by herself. At least she would have things to do to get the place in order, and on her temporary vacation she could even scout around town.
It took Tara three hours to drive back to Milford, the first couple of which were spent fighting city traffic, one thing she would definitely not miss in the city. Once the scenery began to grow greener and buildings became sparser, Tara rolled the windows down to enjoy the midday breeze. Fall was just coming to fruition, and the air was redolent of a not-unpleasant mustiness, of trees that would die but come back to life again in the summer, and of an ineffable quality she couldn’t quite place. Almost an absence of fragrance, of clean air, that she would never find in New York.
When she pulled up to the big Victorian, Tara stayed for a moment in the car, eyeing its lines and color. Maybe when Connor came back they could repaint the old house, which was lovely enough but perhaps fading a touch. Maybe a pale yellow for the house she thought, and a brick red for the rails and finer details. Connor would probably never go for that. He would want something plain and long-lasting. Tara was the more adventurous of the two, picking clashing colors that outraged the eye. But the colors could wait. For now, Tara should busy herself with unpacking the rest of the Macmillan family’s belongings. While everything they owned would hardly fill a single room of the big Victorian, it would be a huge relief to get everything out of those boxes. For the past few days, it seemed that anything Tara needed was the item that had been the very first thing packed in the box, and therefore the most unreachable.
Knowing that she would definitely need a shower later, after the unpacking, she decided to stay in her sweats and T-shirt for the time being. The first task she attended to was tidying up the kitchen. Tara might have left the plates for later, but she knew somehow Connor would know she hadn’t done them when he called that evening. After hand-washing the plates, Tara idly peeked in the refrigerator. Apparently Connor had already found a grocery store, for there was a selection of lunch meats and cheeses and other foods for her to make lunch.
She spent the rest of the morning opening boxes downstairs, though she never consciously acknowledged that she was avoiding her bedroom, and by extension, the closet and its contents. As the day wore on, however, and Tara decided she would rather find lunch in town, that room finally had to be confronted. She ran some water in the shower and then undressed in the bedroom. In the big walk-in closet, she picked out a sleeveless turquoise top. She hesitated at the jeans, knowing behind one of the pairs she had wedged the strange painting. Finally, feeling silly for her hesitation, Tara grabbed both the painting and some pants, bringing them to the bed.
The clothes she lay out together, to don after a hot shower, but the painting she leaned against the wall and addressed: “As for you…I don’t think Connor would appreciate me hanging some other man’s picture on my bedroom wall. Even one was handsome as you. Especially as handsome as you.”
Once she jumped in the shower- which was piping hot, a pleasant surprise- Tara took advantage both of the big house with distant neighbors and the absence of Connor to begin singing. She didn’t have a terrible voice, not a spectacular one either, but in an apartment complex with neighbors she usually had to restrain the volume. The noise tended to bother Connor while he was trying to work, as well. With a big house to herself and no one around to complain, though, Tara went all out in her rendition of “Can’t Buy Me Love.”
She toweled off and dressed, making sure to grab the painting before she left the house. The entire ten minute drive into town she kept singing to everything that the radio station played, whether it was Biz Markie’s “Just a Friend” or the latest Lady GaGa song. So long as she could be loud, Tara was happy.
The other evening Alice had also told her that most anything useful was off of Broad Street, and Milford was small enough to walk from one end to the other, so Tara parked in a small lot between a café and a bookstore, thinking she might see more of the town on foot.
“Well Milford,” Tara said, scanning her surroundings to find her first point of attack. “Here I come.”
*****
Connor dialed his wife’s cell phone again. Five rings. Again, no answer - unless you counted her ridiculous voice-mail an answer. “Tara, it’s Connor. I’m calling you at 9 o’clock your time, as we agreed. I’m staying at the Raffles Hotel. You can reach me at 555-4592. Remember you’re dialing internationally. I have a meeting tomorrow morning and will be working on my project, but I’ll call you again in the evening if I haven’t heard back from you.” Which he probably wouldn’t, Connor knew. He loved his wife, but dependability was not one of her strong suits. Tara thought dependable was predictable and predictable was boring. She favored the element of surprise. Which meant he should probably expect his next contact from his wife to come in the form of a n
aked, singing telegram or a carrier pigeon.
At least his hotel room was nice. Connor would have preferred to be back in Milford settling into the new house and talking Tara out of whatever crazy schemes she had planned for the place, but duty called.
The missed phone call hung sorely on the back of Connor’s mind, and with that one item on his agenda screaming out at him as incomplete, he knew he would be bothered for the rest of the evening. Rather than pace about the hotel room, he figured he might try to relax for once, and let loose like Tara was always urging him to do. A leather-bound brochure on the desk listed local attractions and the dining services available in the hotel, including a tidbit about the Writer’s Bar, so named for the revered names who had passed through. Names such as Joseph Conrad, Rudyard Kipling, and Pablo Neruda; Connor hadn’t heard of the other two guys, but in high school he’d read “The Red Badge of Courage” and thought that Conrad must have been alright.
Connor read a warning attached to the description: “Gentlemen are requested to be in business shirts or collared t-shirts, paired with appropriate long pants. Jackets are not necessary. Dresses, skirts, or trousers are recommended for ladies. Patrons are advised that singlets, shorts, bermudas, sandals, slippers and pool attire are not permitted in the restaurant.”
At least he would have no problem with the dress code since Connor rarely wore anything but “business shirts” and slacks to a restaurant or to do business. He gave himself a once-over in the mirrors, first attempting a furrowed eyebrow and clenched jaw combination that Tara had coined his “Colonel Constipation” look. Connor broke his stern countenance and laughed suddenly. He took himself a lot less seriously than Tara imagined, it was just that , with her…
Connor straightened his collar, buttoning it to the neck. He was about to pick one of the two ties he always traveled with, a pinstriped oxford, when a more obnoxious fabric caught his eye. Ducks. Dozens of ducks waddling in uniform ranks across a dark green field. Tara was no doubt behind the inclusion of this tie to his luggage. Would such an esteemed establishment as The Writer’s Bar within the Raffles Hotel allow entry to a man appareled in such a garish accessory? Joseph Conrad, though dead for nearly a century, would be let in. But what of Connor Macmillan, petroleum engineer, recently of New York City and Milford’s newest resident?
There was only one way to find out: “When in doubt, act!” At least that’s what Connor’s drill sergeant always said. If nothing else, being barred from an upscale bar would give him a story to tell Tara later, when she finally answered her phone. And so, whistling to himself some melody that Tara always sang, Connor tied a ducky double-Windsor knot and left for the Writer’s Bar.
A few scattered groups of travelers already occupied the ground floor, but Connor thought he might like a bit more privacy so he ascended a staircase to the second level of what some people called “The Long Bar.” Long Bar indeed- a dark wood bar top ran the length of a long and narrow, punctured here and there with windows which faced the estate’s well-manicured front lawn. A slender olive-complexioned young man stood polishing a glass; his section of the bar was mostly empty.
“May I help you, sir?” the man offered in impeccable English. He was a neat sort of fellow, wearing a bow tie and vest to complete the vision of a classic bartender.
“Yeah, uh,” Connor cleared his throat, “How about a Singapore Sling?”
A voice joined from behind him: “Make it two.”
Turning, Connor found that he now had company. A tall blonde, wrapped in a red dress stepped up behind him. He was not certain that the dress was composed of enough material to properly be called a dress. The bartender glared at her but served up two pink drinks before them.
“Twenty-nine Singapore Dollars each.”
Connor reached for his wallet, but the blonde woman laid a hand on his to stop him. “This one’s on me.”
The bartender, still noticeably nonplussed, nodded. Connor’s patroness lifted her glass to him and said, “Welcome to Singapore. I hope you’ll find your stay…enjoyable.”
Connor answered the woman,“Thanks, I’m sure I will.” He took a drink from his glass, and found its contents quite refreshing, although he took a longer and larger sample than he might have. Past the end of his glass he could see the fabric of his companion’s dress halt mid-thigh; the greater portion of her tan, muscular legs were open to air and eye.
Seeming to not notice Connor’s discomfort, the woman casually extended a hand with the confidence of a person who expects someone will always take her offer. “I’m Candace. You are...?”
“Oh. Connor. Connor Macmillan.” He answered, taking the delicately manicured digits into his own, rougher hands. Connor was suddenly aware of the calluses formed at the base of each digit, of the dirt under his nails. Ordinarily he would not notice such things, but next to this lilac-scented and carefully-crafted creature, he felt positively uncouth.
Candace filled the silence again. “Connor! What a wonderful name! It has strength to it…it’s a man’s name. Connor.”
Not quite ready to face an encounter of this caliber, Connor only sipped more furiously at his tropical cocktail. No matter, Candace seemed used to being the driving force in her interactions.
“Well, Connor, what brings you to my lovely country?” So, this Amazon, this magazine-cover blonde, was calling Singapore her country. Connor had the feeling that no matter the environment, Candace thought of it as “hers.” No doubt everyone else did too.
He answered, simply, “Work.”
Candace hesitated for a pause before continuing her interrogation. “Ah, the strong and silent type. Well, what is it that you do, Connor?”
“I’m a petroleum engineer. I’m here to oversee a new pipeline,” Connor answered. “And what do you do?”
Candace shrugged. “I wear pretty dresses. My father has money, and so I wear nice clothes and eat nice food and talk to nice men. Tell me, Connor, are you a nice man?”
“I like to think so, yes.”
“I don’t think you are so nice, Mr. Macmillan, as you say,” Candace disagreed, taking again one of his work-roughened hands. “The nice men I know have soft hands, softer than mine. And they certainly don’t have any scars like this,” she added, putting a finger to a line of thick scar tissue that crossed his collar bone. “Would you like to come join to my room and see how nice I can be?”
Tara wouldn’t be able to say he hadn’t tried anything new, anyway.
*****
The evening came to life now in ways Tara could never have possibly imagined. She could hear the murmur of winged creatures - bats and owls - swimming through the still darkness. And the darkness was not so dark anymore. Not dark the way it used to be; her eyes could now pierce the deepest gloom.
Home, the night. Not the dreadfully bright morning hours she now slept away, nestled in the upstairs bedroom. When she still went out during the day, Tara had bought big heavy curtains to cover the windows, drapes of thick velvet which allowed no light to enter. Sometimes even that was not enough, however, and she found herself waking on the mouldering wooden boards beneath the bed, or in the delicious mustiness of the closet. Something about being nearer the earth, in a blank silence, she found so much more comfortable than the too-soft king bed she and Connor once shared.
Connor…it had been three weeks now since he’d left. He’d called like clockwork each evening, but Tara answered only when it suited her. How much more fun life was now that she followed only her own whims! Tara had talked Connor into leaving New York, into selling that miserable little studio and moving here to Milford, because she had thought a change might be exciting. How right Tara had been about that!
She could feel, elsewhere in the rambling Victorian house, the slow and steady footsteps of her guest. He paced, this one, with a restless and endless energy. He was too passionate to ever focus all that energy on one subject for very long, but when he did!
This house had been his once, she knew. Knew because he had
told her, but also because now she could feel things like that- feel the layers of his personality in places he’d touched with his own hands many decades before. “I tend to leave an impression,” is what he had said, mainly referring to the painting. He had been so surprised to see that it remained in the home of his youth, but the statement fit. Now that Tara was sensitive to such things, she could feel the lingering residue of his powerful personality in every inch of the house.
“Marcus,” Tara whispered. That was his name once, back long before Tara had ever been born. He looked to be a quite a few years younger than her thirty-one, but the appearance of youth was tempered by his deliberate manner - the confident, almost contemptuous manner with which he approached situations seen a thousand times over the last century. Only when he could smolder no more and burst into one of his occasional bouts of rage did Marcus resemble a man in his twenties.
Suddenly he was there, beside her. “Yes, Tara?”
Excellent hearing seemed to be one of the changes, that and a keen sense of smell-particularly where blood was concerned. That, Tara might have expected, but there were many differences that a myriad of trashy B-movies had gotten wrong. She wasn’t any stronger than before. After all, greater strength would have required more muscle mass; Marcus had made her like him, but he was no superhero, only a rarity. Some one-off evolution had forgotten, like those ancient coelacanths some fishermen had found off the South African coast. A creature who was impossible until it wasn’t…
For one thing, the change took time. Marcus preferred to spend his days cooped up indoors, only coming out in the darkened evening hours. Not to say he could not be out in the sun, however, which was a silly notion. Did the night harm her kind who preferred to live in the daylight? No, they were only more comfortable locking themselves away when the sun set, when things like she and Marcus played.
He asked, “Are you ready for bed? The sun will be up soon.”
Lust and Mistrust Trilogy Page 3
