by Mary Carter
“Most important meal of the day,” Bailey said. She gave Brad a look. How could they run a successful B&B if he went around telling people he didn’t even like breakfast? “Especially for us, right, Brad?” she said.
“For us?” Brad said.
“What would a B-and-B be without breakfast?” she spelled out.
“Just a ‘B,’ ” Harold answered.
“Exactly,” Bailey said. “People would say, ‘What do you do?’ and we’d say, ‘We run a B on the Hudson River.’ Now that would just be weird!”
“Bails,” Brad said. “Are you okay?”
“God, it’s good to be out!” Harold said.
“Bailey and I have done a lot of traveling,” Brad said. “One adventure after the other.”
“Wonderful,” Harold said. “And now you’re settling down.”
“We’re home,” Brad said. “Home at last.”
“We still have our condo in Manhattan,” Bailey said. “But this could be a wonderful place to raise kids.”
“Kids?” Harold said. He sounded alarmed and looked around as if they might suddenly materialize. “Well, you’ll probably have to get furniture then,” he said.
“Don’t you like kids, Harold?” Bailey said. She kept her voice light. Harold began to fidget in his chair, like he was a child himself.
“Well, I was one once, so there’s that,” Harold said. Bailey had forgotten he was a widower. Maybe that’s why Brad was giving her a look. Had Harold and his wife wanted children? Had they fought over it? Lost a child? She didn’t dare ask and Harold didn’t offer. She was going to have to respect the boundaries of their guests. But how could you sit and share a meal and not get to know one another? She already missed the days at the coffee shop where guests would finish their lattes and go home.
Brad said absolutely nothing about them having or not having children. “More wine?” Brad said. Everyone said yes. And now the bottle was empty. She should have bought more. Maybe they could turn a portion of the house into a wine cellar.
“Who would like to go for an after-dinner walk?” Bailey said.
“Perfect,” Harold said.
“Let’s go,” Brad said. For once, they all agreed on something.
It was cool by the river. Bailey loved the fresh evening smell, and the feel of the rocks under her feet. It wasn’t the beach, but it wasn’t a bad place to stroll. Barges chugged along in the distance, and occasionally sounded their horns. The light from their tower pulsed across the river. Harold carried his little piece of cake in a Tupper ware container. At one point they all stopped to look at the lighthouse.
Its beam, spreading across the river, was a sight to behold. A beacon in the night. Bailey felt a surge of pride, as if she’d built the sixty-foot tower herself. Just then she noticed a small speedboat buzzing toward them. Much faster than a rowboat and a saucepan. It reminded her of something.
“How did you get here?” Bailey said. “Captain Jack said you weren’t on his ferry.”
“I have a kayak,” Harold said. “Best investment I ever made.”
“I’m going to get a kayak,” Brad said.
“We have a leaky rowboat,” Bailey said. “And a saucepan.”
“Who is that?” Harold pointed at the speedboat making its way toward shore. They could make out two men in dark uniforms standing up in the boat.
“Looks like the Coast Guard.” Brad had barely finished the sentence when their guest dropped his cake and took off. Bailey stood, stunned, watching his short legs sprint away as if he were on fire. The speedboat flashed a light and sounded an alarm as it pulled up to shore. The two guards jumped out. They introduced themselves and then said they were on the lookout for a man who had escaped from the county prison. Since the prison was less than ten miles away, they thought they’d check in and see if they’d seen or heard anything. Bailey looked down at the piece of cake smashed on the rocks.
“Uh-oh,” she said. They glanced around. Harold was nowhere in sight. There were plenty of places to hide. Miles and miles of woods. “He has a kayak,” Bailey said. “And he only eats cake at night.”
“Do you think they’ll catch him?” They were lying on the air mattress that Bailey insisted they move from the loft into the living room. She wanted to be in an open space next to the windows just in case their escaped guest was hiding somewhere. Although Brad insisted he was probably long gone.
“Long gone?” Bailey said. “He’s on foot. Or a kayak.”
“Still. He was pretty fast. And he had a head start.”
“A fugitive,” Bailey said.
“A suspected fugitive,” Brad answered.
“He ran like hell when he saw the Coast Guard.”
“I’m so happy I got the cash up front,” Brad said.
“We,” Bailey said. “We, we, we, we, we.”
“What?”
“All night you’ve said ‘I’ this and ‘I’ that. We’re a ‘we,’ remember?” Bailey was ready for a fight. But Brad put his hands on her waist, rolled her to him, and rubbed his nose against hers. Like married Eskimos.
“I remember,” he said quietly.
“We’ll never forget our first guest,” Bailey said.
“I can’t believe you thought he was a yoga master.”
“Yoga master, escaped convict. They both travel light.” Brad laughed, then Bailey joined in, and for a moment they were traveling light. “No wonder he didn’t mind sitting on the floor. Any place without bars on the windows was like a five-star hotel.”
“And remember when he said, ‘I’m so glad I’m out!’ My God. I thought he meant, like out in the country. He meant out of prison!” The deep-in-the-gut laughter was a welcome relief. They laughed long and hard, releasing all the energy and stress of the past few months. When they were done they both had to wipe tears from their eyes.
“He didn’t even get to eat his cake,” Brad said.
“You can’t have your cake and eat it too,” Bailey said.
“We can. We can eat all of it.” For a moment Bailey wondered if he would segue into something sexual, work his lips and tongue down her body. She remembered the thrill of first becoming sexual with him. Raging hormones and stolen moments, and his fingers slipping into her panties, always to find her completely flooded. Now there was usually a tube at the side of the bed. When did everything change? When did they start to need pharmaceuticals to aid in their lovemaking?
Instead of slipping his fingers into her, Brad sat up, eyes bright. He was excited all right, just not the good kind. Ah, the honeymoon stage. The beginning. In love with a lighthouse. How long would it last this time?
When the coffee shop opened, they’d stayed up round the clock. Partly out of excitement, but mostly, Bailey suspected, because of the staggering amount of espresso shots coursing through their young bodies. They’d talked about everything that night. Their customers, the décor, their espresso-making techniques. Brad swore he was going to learn to make a little heart in the foam. He never did. Was this the same thing, was it going to follow the same high, then crash into abject failure? Only here, they were childless and quickly approaching middle age.
“Escaped con or not, Harold still had some valid insights. I’d like to keep this place Zen,” Brad said.
“I love you,” Bailey said. “But we’re still getting furniture, television, and the Internet.”
“Furniture, okay,” Brad said. “Please. No television, and the Internet only for us. For emergencies.”
“But sometimes I just like to zone out and watch TV,” Bailey said.
“I know. But you’ll get used to it. Wouldn’t you rather tune into life? Sunsets, and wildlife, and speedboat chases?”
“What about Matt Lauer? You know I can’t start the day without Matt Lauer.”
“Let’s just go without it for a while,” Brad said. “You’ll see.”
“What happened to ‘everything in moderation’?” Bailey said.
“It still applies,” Brad said. �
��But can’t we just give it a try?”
“Speaking of moderation,” Bailey said. “Tell me about the auction again.”
“Why?”
“Because I missed out on it and I want to feel a part of it.” She snuggled up to Brad. “What was your opening bid?”
She was testing him, and it probably wasn’t a very wifely thing to do, but she had to see whether or not he was going to confess. He didn’t. He claimed the bid started at a hundred thousand and he only went up by increments of ten thousand. A heaviness hit Bailey square in the center of her chest. Despite his restlessness and lack of good business sense, her husband, Brad Jordan, had always been honest to a fault. And now, after seeing the light, he was apparently a liar.
“I can’t believe the price was so high,” Bailey said. “Comparative properties all sold for much, much less. Under three hundred thousand, most of them.”
“They probably needed a lot more work,” Brad said.
“More work than this?” Bailey said. “Unless we cater exclusively to escaped cons, we can’t even have guests here with the current state of things.”
“This is why we need to sell the Jag and the condo,” Brad said. She wanted to pummel him. She wasn’t selling the condo. Especially not when he was lying to her.
“Brad. Captain Jack told me the bid started at one hundred thousand dollars and you—he called you a ‘committee,’ by the way—immediately upped it to half a million dollars.”
“Oh,” Brad said.
Bailey sat up. The air mattress tilted and squealed. “Oh? That’s all you have to say? Oh?”
“What else is there to say?”
“Oh, gee, I don’t know. How about, ‘That’s ludicrous, Bailey. Why in the world would I do something that stupid’!” She hadn’t meant to escalate so quickly, but in addition to a compulsion to throw things, she always did have a lead-foot mouth.
“We had to get it, okay? I couldn’t risk losing it.”
“But you’re supposed to wait. Bid in increments. Maybe it would have sold for a hundred and fifty thousand dollars!”
“No. You should’ve seen Captain Jack. He wanted it, Bailey.”
“He won’t even come inside.”
“I’m telling you—I may have moved it along quicker, but this lighthouse was going to go for this price anyway.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Bailey, I’m telling you. I know in my gut. If you had just been there. I just had this overwhelming feeling—”
“There was a suicide on the third floor!”
“What?” Brad stood up and looked to the ceiling, where Bailey pointed.
“In the very room we can’t get into.” They’d tried everything short of breaking down the door. The next plan of action was to call a locksmith. Bailey was surprised Brad hadn’t torn into it already, but he’d promised to wait for her.
“Somebody killed themself up there?”
“Edga Penwell. She was the late keeper’s wife. She hanged herself.”
“And you know this how?”
“Captain Jack—”
Brad threw his arms up. “Captain Jack. I should have known. He could be making it all up. I saw the look in his eye—he was going to buy it. I had to beat him to it.”
“Brad!” Bailey put her hands over her face. She was so tired. Brad put his arm around her shoulders.
“I got a good deal. Sorry. We got a really good deal.”
“In this case, feel free to use the ‘I.’ Because if I’d been there—” She stopped. They were exhausted and upset. And quickly approaching lines which if crossed could become forever tangled.
“If you’d been there, what?”
“We wouldn’t have gone over two hundred and fifty.”
“Then we wouldn’t be here now.”
“You don’t know that.”
Bailey got up and fetched her purse from the fireplace mantel. She flicked on the light and rummaged in her purse until she found the obituary. She held it out to Brad.
“What is it?”
“Read it.”
Brad sighed, but finally complied. He had to hold it farther away from his eyes than she’d ever noticed before. It wouldn’t be long before they were both buying reading glasses. How could they be ready for reading glasses but not babies? He put the article down, then looked toward the ceiling again.
“Kind of weird, right? That we can’t get into that floor?” Bailey said.
“There must be a lot of energy up there,” Brad said. “Energy that needs to be released.” Bailey had a lot of energy that needed to be released too, but she kept her mouth shut about that.
“Wonder how much an exorcist goes for these days,” she said. Brad stood up, came close to Bailey, and took her hands in his.
“I know it hasn’t been easy,” Brad said. “But I swear, Bails. This is where we belong. Right here, right now. We’re needed here. I feel it.” He squeezed her hand.
“Um. What do you mean—we’re needed here?”
“It’s going to sound crazy.”
“Crazy as in—we’re supposed to help Edga cross over?” She’d hit the bull’s-eye. She could tell by the look on his face. The only reason she didn’t lose it was the gentle reminder to herself that a good ghost story might be good for business. But if Brad thought she was using his life mission to make a profit, it would lead to another argument. She was way too tired to argue.
Brad must have been thinking along the same lines, for instead of continuing the conversation, he swept her into his arms and began to dance with her.
“All right, Fred Astaire,” Bailey said, slightly pulling away. “It’s a little late for dancing.”
“It’s never too late for dancing,” Brad said. “Or cake. Or to try and find your true purpose in life.” As if there had been music playing that just stopped, the pair stopped dancing. Brad lifted her chin with his fingers. “It’s not too late for you either.”
Bailey jerked away. “What do you mean by that?”
“You need to follow your passion.”
“Instead of just following you from whim to whim?” She didn’t mean to say it. But that was the problem with mouths sometimes. They spat things out that couldn’t be taken back. And it wasn’t like it was a secret.
“I just want you to be happy.”
“I was happy. We were making fantastic money!”
“Fantastic money, yes. Happy? Are you kidding me?”
“I liked my job. I liked Manhattan. I wanted us to live there and have babies.”
“Life is fleeting, Bailey. If we had a baby now . . .” He stopped talking. The one thought she wanted him to finish.
“What? Tell me?”
“You’d throw yourself into motherhood like you’ve thrown yourself into everything else. I’m just afraid—you’d lose yourself.”
“So now it’s my fault you don’t want to have a baby?”
Brad’s voice took on a serious, quiet tone. “I just want what’s best for you.”
“I keep telling you, but you won’t listen.”
“There’s no rush for children, Bails.”
“Tell that to my biological clock.” Brad got that grin on his face, the one that showed his dimples and made his eyes light up, the one that was impossible to resist. He leaned down to her stomach and poked around.
“Is this where your clock is?”
“Lower,” Bailey said.
Brad laughed. He grabbed her around the waist and nuzzled his mouth into her belly button. “We have plenty of time,” he yelled into her stomach. “Stop ticking!” Bailey put her hand on top of his head and nudged his head down lower. Finally, her husband got the hint. And this time when they fell back into the saggy air mattress, it wasn’t to sleep. When they were finished, Brad rolled over and was asleep and snoring within minutes. Bailey, on the other hand, was wide awake. Mostly because she’d made a decision. She’d list the condo in the morning. Her place was, and always would be, right beside this man.
Chapter 15
Winter on the Hudson River was wild, and beautiful, and completely frozen. Floating snow cones, or ice floes as they were officially called, littered the river bobbing along at a fast clip, as if on a race. Bailey liked to watch them float by, at first down by the water’s edge; then when frostbite threatened her fingers and toes, she’d watch them from the windows inside the house.
The icy fingers of winter also played upon the grass and the rocky path along the river, and the pier, making walking treacherous. The sides of the tower were so slick that when the sun shone upon it, it looked as if it were made of glass. Jagged icicles dangled like weapons underneath the tower’s iron deck. With the exception of ice-breaking tugs, boats were fewer and farther between, and on stormy days and high tides no one could navigate the stretch of land between their house and the boat dock. When snow fell, it was a devastatingly beautiful but lonely wonderland. Bailey took as many pictures as she could, hoping at least one would capture its pristine grace, its place in history, its power. A few days after the first snowfall, when mud threatened to ruin the wonderland, Bailey and Brad made a snowman in the yard. It was a brief moment of fun, a rest from shoveling and salting and building fires.
It was thanks to Bailey that the fireplace was now working beautifully. The first attempt at using it resulted in a disaster. The main room immediately filled with clouds of black smoke. Luckily, Brad had a fire extinguisher on hand. It would take days to clean the soot off the walls, and floors, and themselves. Brad was so frustrated, he looked as if he were going to cry. So Bailey pretended not to be bothered, and instead talked him into taking a shower together, in their new upstairs bathroom. It helped lighten the mood—that is, until Brad didn’t want to make love in the shower because they didn’t have a condom. They argued and she finished the shower early, declaring that Brad could be the one to clean the soot from the tub, and the floor, and the towels. Then she turned her attention back to the fireplace.
Bailey was on a mission. She declared the fireplace her project and refused to let Brad in on the repairs. She paid the buyers of their condo an undisclosed price to take back her custom-made mantel, and hired an expert to fix the fireplace before attaching the new mantel.
