I stiffen, although I know those jars are not dated. ‘Beach stones,’ I try to say lightly. ‘We’ve got great stone beaches here.’
He puts the jar back. ‘You’re just one fucking tour guide, aren’t you?’ He flashes me a grin. ‘I’ll see you later.’
And then he is gone, out the door, and I watch him stroll across the lawn, over the hill and out of sight. Again, it seems too easy to get rid of him. Which means that I have not.
I turn back toward the table, where the computer sits. Waiting for me. If I can get in wherever he wants me to, it would be a cinch this time. I read the papers. I watch the news. I see the possibilities every day. It’s not like I haven’t thought about what it would’ve been like with the technology today. He is right about one thing: the Internet was just in its infancy fifteen years ago. Now it’s a toddler, growing faster and faster every day. Everyone seems to have a computer. Even Steve has one; he’s offered to let me use his. I always tell him I’m not savvy with things like that, that I don’t want to learn.
He has no idea.
I leave it where it is without touching it again. Within minutes I’m straddling my bike, racing away from my house, in the opposite direction of Old Harbor, and soon I’m on Cooneymus Road. I abandon the bike at the trail entrance to Rodman’s Hollow, a two-hundred-and-thirty-acre glacial outwash basin where the shad creeps around me like the lace curtains on my bedroom windows. I am barely thinking, concentrating on the trail as I bear left at the split and go up the knoll. Even though I have been here hundreds of times, I am struck by the stunning view, and I sit. No one is here; I am alone. I hear birds calling to one another and close my eyes, my heart still pounding from the ride, the hike, the computer.
He asked me to do a job for him before. And I did, because he wanted me to, because I was crazy in love with him and would’ve gone off the edge of the world for him. Which I did, in a way. It’s how I ended up here.
But what he didn’t know was that I hadn’t been lured by the money. It had been the power.
I had no idea someone would die.
I stare out across the water, envisioning the mainland. I barely remember the ferry ride out here. I wonder what happened to the car, abandoned in the terminal parking lot. I only had a duffel bag with two days’ change of clothes and a toothbrush on me when I stepped onto the island. I walked along the beach in Old Harbor; a small yellow boat was upside down on the sand, resting against a rock. When I close my eyes, the image is still so vivid. I shed my identity before arriving, but this is where I first told someone my new name. The first time I spoke it out loud. This is my haven, the place I could heal. The place I call home.
What bothers me now is not what he has asked of me, but that I’m considering it.
EIGHT
When I return home, the answering machine winks at me with its red eye. I hit the button to hear Steve asking how I am – he’s worried, he hasn’t heard from me all day. I should have called him, so I pick up the phone.
‘You’re OK?’ he asks.
‘I went up to Rodman’s Hollow,’ I say. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’ Not that I have really noticed.
‘You know, you can’t take your tour there. No bikes on the trails,’ he reminds me playfully.
I force myself to concentrate. ‘Maybe I’ll offer a bike and hike tour.’ For a moment, I wonder why I haven’t done this before. My head starts spinning with the idea of it, until I turn around and see the laptop still sitting on my table. Immediately my brain shuts down again, paralyzed.
‘So you haven’t seen him?’ Steve asks tentatively.
‘The guy?’ I ask. ‘No.’ The lie again trips off my tongue with no effort. I wait for the guilt to settle in, but it doesn’t. I blame him for this. I had no guilt for a long time, until the end. I try to make up for it by asking, ‘Dinner again tonight?’
‘Sorry, Nic, but I’m going to the mainland. Sox game tonight.’ He pauses. ‘Want to come with me? I could rustle up another ticket.’
I chuckle. ‘I won’t have you paying two hundred dollars for a baseball ticket. I know how much those tickets cost, especially from scalpers.’
‘We could make a day out of it in Boston,’ Steve tries again.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Like the ladies used to say, I’m going to stay home and wash my hair.’
But I don’t stay home. I call Jeanine and make a date for dinner. I put the laptop into its box and place it carefully on the floor in the pantry, under the shelf that holds the pots and pans, next to a bag of potatoes. I hear nothing from him all day, and as I dress for dinner in a pair of slacks and jersey top, I can only hope that he does not show up anywhere tonight. I know he is waiting for my decision, which I am not yet ready to make.
Jeanine kisses me on each cheek as she greets me just outside the Beachead on Corn Neck Road. It is a comfortable place, cozy and warm. My mouth is salivating for chowder and Thai curry shrimp. We are seated at a window table, near the bar, and we both order glasses of Pinot Grigio.
She leans toward me, her elbows on the table, a conspiratorial smile tugging at her lips. ‘So, tell me about him,’ she says.
‘Who?’ I ask, trying to postpone the inevitable.
She shakes her head. ‘That guy, Veronica told me, the one who commissioned your painting and asked you out.’
‘I didn’t go out with him.’ I fold my arms across my chest.
‘Abby saw you with him at Club Soda.’
‘Steve and I ditched him. He’s a jerk,’ I say.
The waitress brings our drinks, and I take the glass and sip. Suddenly I wish I’d ordered something stronger. We give her our dinner orders, and she walks away. As soon as she does, Jeanine continues.
‘How do you know that he’s a jerk?’ Jeanine asks.
‘He was really pushy. Arrogant. Obnoxious.’ I try to think of more adjectives to put him in a bad light, but instead I drink more wine. ‘Steve came over to my house to make sure he didn’t follow us or anything. He was worried.’
Jeanine’s expression changes slightly at that. Steve is known for his easygoing personality. ‘If Steve was worried,’ she says, ‘then I guess, well …’ Her voice trails off.
‘You guess that it’s not me,’ I finish for her, swallowing the last of my wine. It has gone down too easily, and I want another. I gesture to the waitress, who nods.
Jeanine is staring at me. ‘I don’t want to pick a fight.’
‘Then don’t,’ I snap, immediately regretting it. Her face falls, and she looks as though she might cry. I reach across the table, pat her hand. I have to do something. I am not acting like Nicole. ‘If you want to know,’ I say, my voice barely above a whisper, ‘I did find him attractive. But it’s just been so long …’
Jeanine’s face brightens as if she understands. I have let her believe that I came here after a bad divorce. I have never said anything about any man or my past, but she has just assumed that because I don’t date it is because I’ve been burned. ‘Oh, Nicole, it’s so understandable. But maybe you should just take a chance. He might not be that bad.’
She sounds just like Steve now. ‘I don’t know him,’ I say. ‘I don’t really want to fall into bed with just anyone.’ Although as the words fall off my lips, I think of the kiss the other night and I feel my face flush.
Again, she misinterprets me. ‘Sometimes a good fuck is what we all need,’ Jeanine says candidly.
The waitress has come back with my second glass of wine and overhears this. It is her turn to blush as she turns away.
I chuckle. Jeanine really is divorced, and we’ve been down this road before. She is dating a guy on the mainland she met through one of those Internet dating services. ‘Is that the way it is with Bob?’ I tease, knowing she’s not serious about him.
She shrugs and winks.
Our relationship has been fairly one-sided. She talks about her relationship woes, barely registering that I never talk to her about my love life, or lack thereof. Despite her concern a
bout me, that my ‘karma is off,’ she doesn’t seem to notice that she does all the talking. I am very good at listening, agreeing with her when she wants me to.
Our meals arrive, and I am happy to immerse myself in the shrimp and even more wine. By the time we are finished, I am slightly drunk, Jeanine slightly less than me. She tells me about Bob, gives me some details I’d rather not hear. She talks about the spa, and we gossip about some of her clients, the tourists who are regulars every season. I’ve had some of them on my tours, and we compare notes. Soon we pay our bill, and we wander out into the chilly darkness. I had not expected to drink so much, had planned to ride my bike home. Jeanine helps me put it in the back of her car, but we can’t find anything to secure the trunk, so the top flaps open and bounces up and down noisily as she drives up to my house.
As we approach, I see a shadow in the back, around the side of the house, that does not belong there. I don’t think Jeanine notices.
We haul the bike out of the back of the car, slam the trunk shut and say goodnight. I tell Jeanine to drive safely home, but she doesn’t have far to go. I roll my bike up the hill to the house and lean it against the side as I unlock the door. Before I can go inside, however, I see him out of the corner of my eye. I turn to face him.
‘Why are you hovering around my house?’ I demand, my voice too loud from all the wine.
Even in the dark I can see his white teeth as he grins. ‘I didn’t realize Nicole Jones drinks that much,’ he says. ‘Four glasses?’
A sick feeling surges up through my chest. ‘Where were you?’ I hiss.
‘Oh, no need to get all upset. I need to eat, too. It’s a small island.’
‘There are a lot of restaurants,’ I point out, not even trying to keep the anger out of my voice.
‘How would I know you’d wander in there?’ he asks, cupping my chin and lifting my face to his. ‘I never stopped thinking about you,’ he whispers.
I feel my face trembling in his hand.
‘You’re cold,’ he says, taking his hand away and pushing open the door. I lead the way inside, shedding my jacket and hanging it on a hook in the mudroom. He follows me into the kitchen, where only one light over the stove illuminates the room. The rest of the house is as black as the night, and it’s here that he takes me, and I am helpless.
I think of Jeanine’s comment as I stare at the ceiling, his breaths short and loud. I remember this about him, how he snores. How I couldn’t sleep when I stayed with him. I can’t sleep now.
I can blame the wine for this, the fact that I did not say no, but I would be lying to myself.
I stare at the ceiling, but instead of the white sheetrock of my little house, I see the dark wood paneling of the houseboat. It is so real at this moment that when I close my eyes, I can almost feel the gentle rocking in rhythm with his snoring, hear the crackle of the small transistor radio we kept by the bed. I find myself humming, the words in French swirling through my head.
My eyes snap open. It has been a long time since I’ve thought in French, dreamed in French. At first, it was every day, every night, but soon it faded like an old movie. He has brought it back. He has brought everything back.
I roll over, pulling my soft pillow over my head, the sheets caressing my body. I am sore and sated; it is almost dawn. He shifts a little, his fingers brush my thigh, and it is as though I am on fire again. I am embarrassed that it takes so little for him to affect me this way, that I have been thinking about this ever since that day at the North Light. It was one thing when I was younger. My judgment was that of a woman barely out of her teens, feeling invincible, confident in her sexuality, the power she held over him. The hunger I feel now is that of an older woman who has lived without his touch for so long that to have it again is like a drug. Yet even through the haze of desire, I know what he is really here for, and the thought of it makes me shiver.
I need to get away from him. I cannot sleep, so I slide out of bed, careful not to wake him. I put on my glasses, grab my fleece robe and wrap it around me, slipping into my slippers and tiptoe out of the room. I carefully close the door, glad that I’d oiled the squeaky hinges.
The box is where I left it, in the pantry. I lug it out and set it on the table again. I open the folded leaves and take out the laptop and the power adapter. This time there is no hesitation. I don’t need a manual to know where to plug the adapter into the machine. I do that, then fit the other end neatly into the outlet next to the table. A small light is illuminated, indicating it’s powering up. I sit, staring at it.
He finds me here, his hair ruffled, his face scratchy when he kisses me on the cheek. He says nothing, goes into the kitchen. I hear him putting water on to boil, pulling dishes out of the cupboards. I smell coffee, hear the sounds of eggs being turned, butter scraped on toast.
He puts the plate and mug down next to me, goes back in the kitchen and fetches his own. We eat, the only sound our chewing and sipping. When we are done, he nods at me.
‘I take it this is a yes.’
NINE
It’s simple, he tells me. Even though I don’t have an Internet connection, he tells me the library has wireless twenty-four hours a day.
‘No password needed,’ he explains.
‘Why don’t you just use your laptop, then?’ I ask.
He gives me a long, lazy grin. ‘You should have your own.’
‘But it’s a one-time thing.’ I have no idea whether it is or not.
‘Don’t worry. You’re worrying too much. It’ll be a piece of cake.’
I chew the inside of my cheek, dubious. ‘It’s not going to work.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he says again, but he misunderstands.
‘We can’t use the library. It’s Sunday.’
‘OK, then we wait till tomorrow.’ He gives me a leer. ‘We can find something else to do today.’ He reaches for me, but I push him away.
‘It’s closed Mondays, too.’
He sighs and rolls his eyes. ‘So then we find a coffee shop or something. There’s got to be a place with free wireless, right?’
‘I don’t trust the VPN. How do I know it’ll do what it’s supposed to?’
He shakes his head slowly. ‘Trust me.’
I’m stalling, although as I speak my fingers are caressing the pad, moving the cursor around the screen, getting used to it again. It’s like the sex: Even though it had been a long time, there was no awkwardness; I knew what to do. As natural as breathing. Or riding a bike.
The idea of going to a coffee shop with him – or anywhere else – makes me uncomfortable. There will be witnesses. And I want to be alone this first time. But I don’t tell him that.
‘Loosen up, why don’t you?’ he teases. ‘Your friends want you to have a boyfriend. Why not me?’
‘I’ve already rejected you. I’ve talked about how obnoxious you are.’
He laughs, a great, big sound that echoes through my living room and bounces off the walls. ‘Women like obnoxious men.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You didn’t seem to mind me last night.’
‘We’re complicated. Our relationship. But no one knows.’
He stops smiling and stares at me for a few seconds, his eyes dark, his jaw set. ‘You really did disappear, didn’t you?’
I know what he’s saying. I didn’t just leave, move somewhere, change my name. It wasn’t just superficial. I left it all behind, my whole identity.
He waves his hand around, indicating my house. ‘All this, the house, the island, that bike gig, the way you dress, the glasses, the whole package. If I didn’t know it was you, I wouldn’t know it was you.’
‘I didn’t want to be her anymore,’ I say softly.
He leans toward me, touches my face, runs his finger from my cheekbone down across my jaw and traces my lips. ‘But you’re the same in one way,’ he says hoarsely, and he reaches further and kisses me. I do not push him away this time. It is a deep kiss, as if he is searching my soul, and wi
th one movement his hands wrap themselves around my waist and pull me onto his lap.
My robe is around my waist when I hear the knock, the ‘Hello, hello!’ and the door being opened. Quickly I jump up, tying the sash, making wild hand gestures to indicate he should go in the bedroom, out of sight. But it is too late. Steve is in the doorway, his eyes taking in our disheveled appearance. It is obvious we are not just having a cup of coffee.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Steve stammers. ‘I thought, well, the door was unlocked, and I thought—’ He is visibly uncomfortable, embarrassed.
I take a step toward him. ‘That’s OK, don’t worry about it.’
His eyes then land on the table behind me. He frowns. ‘Did you buy a laptop?’
I think fast. ‘Yeah, I did. It just arrived.’ I twitter, a sound I haven’t heard come from my throat before. ‘Veronica was on my case about a website for my paintings. I figure I might as well get with the program. Twenty-first century and all that.’ I am babbling.
I can’t tell whether Steve is more surprised to see him or the computer.
‘Do you want some coffee?’ I ask, slipping past him to put on a fresh pot, leaving them in a standoff.
‘So where are you from?’ Steve asks politely.
‘New York,’ he says. Interesting. He’d said he was living where he’d been before, which was not New York but Miami.
‘What sort of work you in?’ Steve is digging for more information.
‘I dabble in a little of this, a little of that.’
I cringe as I spoon out the coffee into the French press. He could come up with something more original than that. I guess I wish Steve would think I had better taste, pick a man who was more solid professionally. I remind myself that Steve is not my father.
He excuses himself and goes into the bedroom, where I wish he’d gone in the first place. Steve comes and stands next to me as I pour the boiling water into the press.
‘I guess persistence paid off for him,’ he says softly.
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