Loneliness was a state of mind, she reasoned. If she chose not to focus on it, maybe it would disappear, like the fog rolling over the waves. Her eyes returned to the empty room, the shadows painting the walls. Olivia’s discarded coloring book lay on a footrest. Her crayons were scattered about the end table. Remy knew she should put it all away, but she just didn’t want to. The house seemed devoid of life, missing the childlike joy Olivia brought to any room. “This sucks,” Remy thought as she pouted. She placed her mug in the fold of her lap, unscrewed the top on the bottle, and shakily poured. . .a what? A tot? A dram? Whatever—a gulp of scotch into her half-finished tea. Remy took a healthy swig of the tea. The liquor burned behind her nose and traveled down to the pit of her empty stomach. She shook herself with a grimace. She wondered what people could possibly like in the stuff. It tasted like iodine. Not that she knew what iodine tasted like, but she figured it probably tasted like scotch.
Not one to waste things, she took another sip, this one more tentatively. She found it not as distasteful, instead experiencing a delightful lassitude that relaxed her brittle muscles. Another sip made her feel more comfortable with the brew, and by the time she was sucking on the dregs of her cup, nothing was bothering her anymore— not the weather, not her ex, not being alone, and certainly not the weird shifting of the shadows in the hallway of her little house. “Nope,” she thought, holding the empty cup against her cheek. “Nothing’s going to bother me tonight.”
She ran her fingers through her chestnut hair, considering the feathered ends. She had straight brows complemented by direct amber eyes. A delicate jaw with a slightly pointed chin gave her a pixie look. She was petite but strong. Yoga gave her a firm body, and though she looked slight, she was toned and flexible. The firelight played with her creamy skin, and her small, straight nose flared each time Scott entered her thoughts. A light dusting of freckles saved her face from any seriousness.
The house creaked eerily. Remy reached over to the other chair to grab the afghan her mother had made her when Remy had left for college. It was blue and white, her school colors, completely out of place with the muted grays and greens of her quiet little cottage. She wrapped it around her cold feet, and the familiar weight of the heavy wool made her feel safe and secure. She could have slept at her parents’. They told her so often enough, but Remy knew she had to stick this night out alone. She had to prove to herself she could be solo. Time to put on the big-girl panties.
Every Wednesday and alternate weekends, Olivia was going to sleep at the home of Scott and his girlfriend, Prunella, or whatever her name was. Remy refused to go back to her old frilly bedroom in Sayville, like she had in the beginning of her separation. She was divorced now. Three weeks short of a year. A divorced woman, single, and she better get used to it. Never in a million years did she think it would end up like this.
Her toe poked a hole through the old knitted blanket. It was getting shabby. They’d both seen better days. Remy gazed at the dying embers of the fire. Here and there, a small flare would paint the walls orange as it bathed her face with warmth. She thought she should go up to the tiny bedroom at the top of the steep steps, but she couldn’t gather up the motivation. The snow turned to rain, which pattered against the leaded glass. Pulling her knees close to her chest, she buried her chin against the soft wool. A small tear rolled down her peach-tinted skin to land with a plop. She stared at the mural, her eyes always finding the captain, his face stark with longing. Why did she think he looked angry when they moved in? How had she missed the sadness in his face?
She felt an emptiness. Loneliness overwhelmed her. She looked at the deep-set dark eyes following the crew and wondered if their bleakness mirrored her own. Another crystal tear dampened her cheek, and soon they streamed down her face, gilding her skin in the firelight.
* * *
Eli couldn’t believe it. She was a watering pot. He toyed with a candy dish, debating where to throw it, but her mood stopped him. He watched the tears flow silently down her cheeks and reconsidered what he was planning. She cried prettily, he admitted to himself. He sat on his haunches, directly beside her, watching the slow, silent progress of her tears. This woman knew grief. It tugged directly at his heart, making a bridge of understanding. She was so quiet, he had to peer closely to see the hurt in her face. It was as though she didn’t want to inflict her pain on anyone else. Oh, he had watched her interact with others. She was brave. He’d give her that.
He reached out to touch her smooth cheek but pulled his hand back guiltily. A memory intruded, another tear-streaked face. Long, gulping sobs filled his ears. The cries grew louder. He saw images of a woman with patchy red blotches ruining the soft lines of her skin. Screams filled his head, and he covered his ears, trying to silence the noise. Screwing his eyes shut, he blocked the sight, but the sound of the elusive woman’s distress came from inside his head.
The cries grew distant, then they faded, and Eli shuddered in relief. He had been having a rough few weeks. The woman and her child moved in within a few days of Pat’s departure. He hadn’t interfered much; he watched them intently from the sidelines. They cleaned the old cottage with a vengeance, this pretty one with an older woman, probably her mother. An old salt helped out a lot. He was handy, and Eli admitted to himself that he liked the old guy.
There was nothing precisely wrong with what they were doing. Eli was known to run a tight ship, and the last few years, old Pat had neglected the place. It was nice to see the surfaces shining again, windows clean, floors polished. It was the kid that bothered him. A snippet of a girl, she followed him around. She considered the mural for hours, asking stupid questions. He’d settle in to watch them work and turn to find the little creep soundlessly sneaking up on him. More than once, he nearly fell off the mantle. She had an uncanny ability to zero in on his spot, then stare hard at him. He’d have to work on something—something good to teach the little miss to leave him alone.
He spied the discarded scotch bottle on the floor, his mouth watering. It had been so long, he thought, remembering the burn of liquor on the back of his throat. What he wouldn’t give for a swallow. He eyed the female contemptuously. “Snap out of it, sailor,” he wanted to shout. “Nothing like a little fright to put things into perspective,” he thought grimly. “This ought to push her out of the doldrums.”
He leaned down close to her ear and opened his mouth for a blast, when the gentle fragrance of lilacs drifted up, freezing him in his tracks. He cocked his head, letting the smell envelop him. Eli closed his eyes for a minute, holding the scent, letting it fill every part of his body. He floated lazily, feeling crisp sheets and the tender touch of a soft feminine body next to his. Tingling, he reached out for. . .for what? The memory disintegrated, leaving the ticking of the old schoolhouse clock and Remy’s depression.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying hard to bring it back, but it was gone—the feeling, the scent, and the aura of peace. Anger filled him. He looked down at the sad female and was furious at the impotence of trying to catch the chimera of a memory. He deflected his disappointment onto her. What could be so bad that she had to sit like this? The brat wasn’t around. She had the night to herself and a twelve-year-old scotch right in front of her. Anger boiled inside him, and he felt himself swelling. He hovered over her head, seeing the shiny path of tears on her soft cheeks. It didn’t seem right.
She sniffed loudly, then scrubbed her face with her sleeve. For a second, she conjured up an old memory of his cabin boy. What was his name? Henry. Henry Finch. No, no—Henry Falcon. He was supposed to do something for Henry and his mother. He tried hard to find the memory but failed. All he saw was a faded image of the boy, the end near, silent tears running down the brave lad’s face. Blood, so much blood, the decks were slick with it. Rain plastered the dark head, and his lips were caught in a frozen rictus of fear. What was happening to him? He was losing his edge. Cursing loudly, he kicked the bottle of scotch and flew up the chimney to sulk the rest of the night
.
* * *
Glass rolled on the uneven floorboards, startling Remy from her revelry. She sat up straight, her heart beating wildly in her chest as her nervous eyes scanned the darkened room. Reaching down, she righted the bottle. Her eyes searched the chamber, her fingers shaking with the uneasy feeling she was being watched. She looked at the twisting patterns on the wall, the play of light from the moon streaming in. There was no one there. No one at all. She must have tipped it.
She shivered uncontrollably. Goose bumps spread across her chest. Wrapping the blanket over her shoulders, she raced up the rickety stairs, darting into her bedroom and closing the door firmly behind her.
CHAPTER TWO
Eli hung on the eaves of the house like an angry bat, stewing over the lost opportunity. It wouldn’t take much, he knew. The woman was spooked, but in a way, so was he. He had to think. Memories like faded old pictures were intruding, making him uncomfortable, shaky, and insecure. This was no way to captain a ship. “Get your stuff together, old boy,” he thought. “Concentrate on what you know.” He summoned his logical side.
It wasn’t that he had anything against the female, but he reasoned that everyone knew women on board brought bad joss—bad luck. He stood and began pacing back and forth over the phantom deck, feeling the salty spray splash his cheeks. His sea-crusted lashes scanned the dark horizon while he pondered his situation. The former inhabitant had recently died, leaving the house empty. They had shared the space for years, more than a half a century. Eli had a good relationship with the old man. Eli didn’t bother him, and good old Pat Redmond happily returned the favor.
Pat was an artist whose marine paintings were prized among collectors. He was a loner—some said a little off, a bit strange—with only one nephew who visited at Christmastime. Eli liked talking to the old man. He spoke softly in his ear at night, describing vivid pictures of voyages he’d witnessed, helping the painter create beautiful and expensive art. Pat Redmond became known for his realistic portrayals of whalers and their crews. Now some of his paintings graced museum walls. Made him some big money. His fame brought him a lot of notice. Newspaper reporters wanted to write articles, but old Pat Redmond sent them all away. He wanted to be left alone in his little cottage. He was a familiar figure in the town, but nobody could figure out how he knew the minute details of the whaling trade. Since Pat was reclusive and quiet, the two of them found a way to coexist peacefully.
But the years passed, and the man aged. He became reckless, started telling people about Eli. In the beginning, his nephew found it amusing, but as time passed and stories became more involved, he worried about his uncle. The nephew hired a Jamaican woman to come every day. At first Eli observed her, shocked by her off-key singing. She was a large woman, her head covered by a colorful scarf. She walked the house intently, her eyes searching until they settled on him. She felt his presence.
He knew she saw him. She crossed herself frantically when he entered the room, her eyes widening, no matter how quiet he tried to be. He did try to be polite, nonintrusive, but she was definitely spooked by him. He could hear the hushed patois of her prayers. She banged pots and pans loudly when he flew above them. As if that would make a difference. He chuckled.
She placed salt in the corners and painted large stars with Pat’s white paint—the water-based one, of course. Constantly sweeping the area with her broom, she generally disturbed any peace in the house. When she started sprinkling holy water around, as if he were the devil, he had just about had enough. Her presence made it impossible for him to talk to Pat. So he started doing things. Clearly he had no choice. She was interfering, making life intolerable onboard. That was the thing; women weren’t supposed to be on the ship. Bad luck. Something terrible could happen.
He dropped the sugar bowl so that the white contents fanned out across the dining room floor in the shape of a whale. He knocked over a table or two, made the pictures on the walls all crooked, stole her shawl, slammed doors—the usual stuff. Nothing really horrific. He was, after all, still a gentleman. Just a little something to scare her off the property. He should have known what was going to happen, should have been better prepared, but Sarah always said he was a cloth head.
The woman came in the next day with a live chicken and sacrificed it in the kitchen. Its squawking scared the shit out of Eli. She waved the bloody carcass at him, the head bobbing, blood and chicken droppings splattering the floor.
He stood in frozen horror. He had to do something fast. Concentrating hard, he forced himself to materialize as she started plucking the chicken for Pat’s soup. Delilah screamed shrilly and threw the damn chicken at him. Its carcass smacked against the wall loudly, startling old Pat into wailing like a banshee about flying dead poultry.
Well, that brought the neighbors, an effeminate lawyer and his husband, barreling into the small house brandishing golf clubs. Two men married to each other! They even wore rings. Eli was astonished. He rolled around the room laughing himself sick. The lawyer took in the bloody bird, Pat talking to the empty corner, and Delilah throwing water from a dark bottle at the shadows on the wall. The dandy passed out, knocking Pat right out of his chair. Well, Pat hit his head, and that was the end of that. He was placed in the nursing home lickety-split, where Eli knew he wouldn’t last too long. Weeks later, he quietly died in his sleep.
Eli stayed with him, helping him cross, startled to see the young man Pat once was when he first purchased the old house. They visited a bit, spoke of times past, and then, somehow, Pat was gone. Eli wasn’t sure where or how, but he’d bet boot nails to bobbins it had something to do with the two pale-faced, white-haired loobies he’d seen lurking around the place. He used his best material on them but received barely a nod. Cold as ice, they were, reminding him of the old sailor who found him after three days floating in a tangle of seaweed, deader than last week’s fish. Had those same vacant-looking eyes. “Well,” he thought. “Two can play that game.” Every time he caught sight of the shiny material of their clothes, he shut down, making himself as blank as them.
Either way, he missed the artist. They ran a tight operation—no waste and everything was ship shape.
“Those were the days,” he thought ruefully. Now not only did he have one female, but she brought along another. Beastly child. Eli shook his head. She followed him everywhere. A man couldn’t think with the infantry on board. She was a quiet little thing, able to sneak up when he wasn’t expecting anyone. It was wrong, all wrong. The whole thing got twisted up somehow. To top it off, they were changing things in the house. What was so bad that they had to fiddle with it? Everything had been fine for years and years. Pat liked it, the family before—the Hensons—were happy, and the couple before that, and so it went.
This, however, was a horse of a different color. They painted the bedrooms pink! There were flowers everywhere, fluffy pillows, ribbons—the house was fair to bursting with fripperies. Unnecessary furbelows, gimcracks, and don’t get him started on the music, if that’s what you wanted to call it. They irritated him. Whiny, interfering females cluttering up his home, filling it with nonsense, leaving him no peace. That’s what Eli craved, peace, and now he had a decided lack of it. Someone was going to have to leave, and Eli knew he had nowhere special to go.
He entered the bedroom—pink like a pig’s skin, cloying, sweet, not the least bit subtle—and gazed at the woman. She was on her side, her small hand curled under her cheek, the damp tracks of her tears visible. He lowered himself to her dressing table, looking at his reflection in the mirror over the messy surface. The image wavered, like simmering heat over sand, then settled into the familiar lines of his face. He was tall by nineteenth-century standards, with coal-black hair—dark as a raven wing, he recalled someone once saying. A close-shaved beard lined his lean cheeks, and his black eyes darted around the room. His aquiline nose, inherited from some noble, French ancestor, saved his face from being too beautiful. He touched the scar that bisected his dark brow, trying to re
member just where he got it. The memory eluded him. The fleeting images flitted through his head but refused to settle.
He ran his nails across her comb and touched the delicate doily that covered the surface of her dresser. His calloused fingers snagged in the lace. He raised the corner and rubbed it between his fingers. Indistinct images teased his brain, and he tried hard to grasp them. They flickered like a dying flame, leaving only the remnant of charred ashes. He picked up a perfume bottle and lifted the glass stopper to inhale the scent. It tickled his nose, making his eyes tear. A woman’s laugh echoed loudly in his head.
He caught sight of the white-haired ones with the dead-fish-looking skin observing him from above the window. Turning, he sneered at them, his teeth transforming into fangs, his eyes dripping blood.
He distinctly heard the male chuckle as he whispered, “Parlor tricks, Eli? Is that all you’ve got?” They were gone in a blink.
Eli spun, searching for them, ready to throw a fireball at their iridescent clothes, but couldn’t find them. He replaced the cap of the perfume lid heavily. It teetered, then fell with the clink of glass, filling the room with the familiar smell.
The female sat up, her eyes reflecting light like a cat’s. Eli’s breath caught as the amber gaze searched the room. He hadn’t noticed her eyes before. They lit up the night eerily.
“Baltic amber,” he whispered. Her eyes were the color of Baltic amber. He had bought earbobs, for. . .for. . . whom?
* * *
“Who’s there?” she demanded, holding the cover against her chest. Her breath came in short pants. “Scott?” she whispered. Reaching down, Remy grabbed a baseball bat she’d stashed under the box spring, then she carefully got out of the bed. Holding the bat defensively, she sniffed, smelling the overpowering odor of her perfume heavy in the night air. She walked toward the dressing table, shivering as she was encased in freezing air. Spinning, she looked at the window, squinting to make sure it was closed. She swung the bat into the nothingness before her, registering she was alone.
The After House Page 3
