Look for Me by Moonlight

by Mary Downing Hahn

  The kettle whistled then. Will opened a tin of tea bags and pawed through its contents. “Peppermint, cranberry, licorice, chamomile, and plain old Lipton—take your pick.”

  I chose peppermint and sipped it slowly, warming my hands with the cup. Despite the fire in the stove, my jeans were still damp from the knees down. I was cold but in no hurry to face Susan and Dad.

  For a while neither Will nor I spoke, but every now and then I caught him looking at me as if he wanted to say something. His silence made me uneasy. Finally I asked him how he’d known where to find me. “Did Susan send you after me?”

  Will shook his head. “I was hoping to see you when I dropped Grandmother at the inn, but you weren’t there.” He hesitated a moment, his face reddening with embarrassment. “Todd said you’d gone out, so I came looking for you.”

  I tensed, suspecting Todd had told him more than that, and waited for Will to go on.

  He examined his fingernails as if he’d just noticed the paint under them. Without raising his eyes, he said, “Todd saw you with Vincent last night. He—”

  “I don’t care what Todd said,” I interrupted. “You know what a liar he is. He’s always making up stories.”

  “This wasn’t a story, Cynda. He’s scared of Vincent, he thinks—”

  “Todd’s scared of everything. Wolves under the bed, witches, monsters . . .” My words trailed off unconvincingly. I’d never been a good liar.

  Will leaned across the table, his hands edging closer to mine. “Tell me the truth, Cynda. Did you go somewhere with Vincent last night?”

  I snatched my hands away and clasped them in my lap. “Suppose I did? What business is it of yours? It’s my life, I can do what I want.” My voice came out louder than I’d intended. Angrier too.

  Will looked at me with disapproval—or disappointment. I wasn’t sure which.

  “I had to lie,” I went on, trying to make him understand. “If Susan knew, she’d order Vincent to leave. I’d never see him again!”

  “I can’t believe this,” Will said. “I thought you—”

  I grabbed his hands then and held them tight.

  “Don’t tell, Will. Promise you won’t.”

  “Cynda, he’s ten or fifteen years older than you, he’s—”

  I couldn’t bear to listen to another word, lumping up, I ran to the window. The ocean spread below, dull green and wrinkled under a gray sky. “Don’t say anything bad about Vincent, Will. You don’t know him. He’s the only person in the world who cares what happens to me!”

  Will followed me across the room and stopped a few inches away. “What are you talking about, Cynda? You’ve got your father, your stepmother, Todd—”

  “That’s what you think!” I whirled around and glared at him. “Dad’s got no time for me. He’s always locked up in his den, writing, writing, writing those dumb books of his. And Susan—she’s on my back about every little thing. I swear she hates me.”

  “Cynda, you can’t possibly believe that.”

  Will’s calm, reasonable voice made me madder. He was trying to talk the truth away, but I had no intention of letting him do it.

  “Just look at the way they treat Todd,” I shouted. “Do they ever get mad at him? Do they ever punish him? He’s the one they love, not me. They brought me up here to babysit him. I’m nothing but a free au pair girl, doing this, doing that!”

  I was crying now, I couldn’t stop. I wanted to go back to the inn and sleep till dark. I wanted to be with Vincent. He was the only one who understood. I could be myself with him, I could tell him everything. Unlike Will, Vincent never criticized me, Vincent never looked shocked. He always agreed, he took my side.

  “On top of everything else,” I sobbed, “Susan’s going to have another baby—when it’s born, nobody will have any time for me at all!”

  “My God, Cynda, where are you getting this crap?” Will drew in his breath, guessing. “It’s Vincent, isn’t it? He’s really warped your mind.”

  “Shut up, Will! You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just jealous, you said so yourself!”

  That silenced him. Swearing softly, he turned his back on me and doused the fire in the stove. Then, without looking at me, he pulled on his socks and shoes. “We’d better go,” he muttered. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  “You don’t need to come with me. I can find my way by myself.” I yanked on my wet socks, forced my feet into wet shoes, and grabbed my parka.

  “I have to go to the inn anyway,” Will said. “It’s time to drive Grandmother home.”

  We left the shack and trudged toward Underhill without speaking or looking at each other. Will’s boots broke through the snow’s crust every now and then, making loud crunching sounds. His nylon parka rustled.

  Finally he said, “I’m sorry, Cynda. I didn’t mean to make you mad. I was just trying to keep you from getting hurt. You can’t trust guys like Vincent. They’ll take advantage of you, they’ll lie, they’ll—”

  “Don’t worry about me.” I spoke quickly to shut him up. “I can take care of myself. I’m a lot more experienced than you think.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Figure it out for yourself!” I walked faster, letting Will believe what he liked.

  We didn’t speak again till we reached the inn. In the room above mine, Vincent stood at his window, his face dimly lit by the candle on the sill. My heart sped up, pumping blood so fast my neck throbbed.

  “There he is,” Will muttered. “Just like a hungry cat waiting for a mouse.”

  Vincent smiled as if he’d heard and stepped back, letting the curtain fall. At the same moment, the kitchen door opened and yellow light spilled out onto the snow.

  “It’s about time you came home,” Susan said crossly.

  Edging past her, Mrs. Bigelow hurried down the steps.

  “Let’s go, Will,” she said, sounding almost as annoyed as Susan. “It’s past five and I haven’t even started dinner.”

  Mrs. Bigelow didn’t look at me, let alone speak. She was mad at me too, I guessed. Why not? Everyone except Vincent seemed to be angry with me for one reason or another.

  “Thanks for finding Cynda,” Susan called after Will, but he was already in the truck, revving the motor.

  When she turned to me, I said, “I wasn’t lost. I just went for a walk.” Without giving her a chance to say another word, I went to my room, slammed the door, and flung myself on my bed. If Susan needed help with dinner, she could ask Dad. I wasn’t her servant. I wasn’t Todd’s nursemaid either.

  Overhead, Vincent crossed the floor of his room, his step swift and light. His nearness reassured me. Susan, Dad, Todd, Will—why should I care what they thought? I had Vincent to comfort me. That was all that mattered.

  14

  Dinner was an ordeal of unspoken anger and resentment. Nobody said what was really wrong; we expressed our feelings indirectly. Todd, for instance, complained about his food and refused to talk to me. I was bad, he muttered, he didn’t like me anymore.

  Susan remonstrated with him but he slumped in his chair and lacked the table leg. That irritated Dad, who was already in a bad mood because no one liked the bouillabaisse he’d spent hours concocting. Todd choked on a fishbone, and Susan said the dish was too spicy; she’d be up all night with heartburn.

  Even though Dad denied adding squid to the pot, I was sure I saw something with tentacles and tiny suction cups floating among the chunks of fish. I had no appetite anyway. It was obvious that Susan and Dad had lost patience with me. She told me to stop pouting and eat my dinner; he corrected me for saying “Can I” instead of “May I.”

  Before Susan took Todd up to bed, she looked at Dad in a way that made me uneasy. Hoping to avoid a scene, I started to leave the room, but Dad stopped me. “Don’t rush off. I want to talk to you.”

  I sat down reluctantly afraid of what was coming. “I have to study,” I mumbled.

  “That’s one of the things we need t
o discuss,” Dad said. “Susan tells me you’ve been sleeping late. She hasn’t seen you crack a book for days.”

  “Susan doesn’t know everything. I stay up past midnight studying, that’s why I sleep late.” I was amazed at how easily the lie rose to my lips. “I work best at night when there’s nothing to distract me.”

  From the doorway, Susan said, “If that’s true, Cynda, it might be a good idea for you to skip our evening visits with Vincent. Studying would be far more productive than sitting here gazing at him like an infatuated schoolgirl.”

  I stared at her, too shocked to speak. Dad drew in his breath as if he thought she’d gone too far, but Susan didn’t seem to care. “It’s not a healthy situation,” she went on. “Your father and I think you should see less of Vincent.”

  When Dad nodded in agreement, I turned to him, my face burning with anger and humiliation. “Whose side are you on?” I shouted. “Hers or mine? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m your daughter!”

  I expected my father to defend me, but he said, “I’m afraid I agree with Susan. We’ve both noticed a change in your attitude, Cynda. Although I don’t think Vincent is to blame, I’m disturbed by your sneaking up to his room. Then there’s Todd’s story of seeing you outside with him and the nasty scene with Susan . . .” Dad fumbled with his pipe as if he were too embarrassed to go on.

  I leaped to my feet. “Why did you invite me here? You never want to see me, you never talk to me about anything that matters! You lock yourself up in your den all day. Is that stupid book all you care about?”

  Dad reached for my hand, but I turned and ran from the room. In the hall, I collided with Vincent.

  “Cynda, what’s wrong?”

  His voice was rich with concern. I wanted to hurl myself into his arms and beg him to take me away. We could drive all night in his beautiful car, get married in Canada, and never return. Dad would be sorry then!

  But Susan and Dad were standing a few feet away, watching, listening, forcing me to protect our secret. They mustn’t guess I loved Vincent.

  “Don’t look so alarmed, Vince.” Dad dismissed the scene with a nervous laugh. “You know how teenagers are. They have to create a little melodrama every now and then to keep themselves from getting bored.”

  At that moment, I hated my father. He was making a fool of me in front of Vincent, belittling my tears, turning them into a joke for adults to laugh about.

  Vincent glanced at me. The little mark on my neck tingled as if he’d touched it with his lips. I knew he’d come to me later. We’d be alone, free to say and do what we wanted. Without looking at Dad or Susan, I stalked down the hall to my room.

  Just before midnight, I heard a light footstep in the hall, then a soft rap at the door. Ebony raised his head and stared at me. Lashing his tail, he growled and rose to his feet, back arched. Ignoring the cat, I tiptoed to the door.

  Vincent stood in the dark hall. “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” I stepped aside; my heart beat hard and fast.

  The moment Vincent crossed the threshold, Ebony slipped past him and ran toward the kitchen.

  My room seemed smaller with Vincent in it. He prowled about, examining my books, my rocks and shells, Mom’s postcards, a snapshot of her and Steve arm-in-arm in front of the Colosseum. I followed close behind, waiting for him to talk to me, hold me, kiss me.

  Finally he took a seat in a chair facing the fireplace. Immediately I sat in his lap and kissed him as long as I dared. When I drew back, surprised by my own boldness, he looked hard at me. “Do you have any idea where this little game is leading, Cynda?”

  Suddenly shy, I toyed with his earring. I yearned to please Vincent, to make him love me as much as I loved him. Whatever he wanted I’d give to him, he only had to ask. “I love you,” I whispered into his ear, “Oh, Vincent, I love you so much.”

  “Do you really?” He sounded slightly amused.

  “I’ve never loved another living soul the way I love you,” I insisted. “I’d do anything for you, Vincent. Anything.”

  “Anything?” His body tensed, his eyes darkened, his amusement vanished.

  I stared at Vincent, a little frightened by the change in him. The sympathy was gone from his eyes, and so was the tenderness. In their place was something I’d never seen before. “Yes,” I whispered. “Anything.”

  He twisted a strand of my hair gently around his finger. “‘Bess, the landlord’s daughter,’” he murmured. “‘Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.’ Remember, Cynda?”

  “The girl in the poem,” I whispered, “the one who died to save her lover’s life.”

  “Would you die to save my life?”

  “You asked me that before,” I said, trying to suppress the tiny shiver of fear racing up and down my spine. “I said I would.”

  “But I didn’t believe you. Perhaps I should put you to the test now.” Vincent rose to his feet so quickly I almost fell. Opening his arms, he said, “Come to me, Cynda.”

  It was a command, not an invitation. I hesitated, but he was smiling, his arms spread wide to receive me. He was certainly in no danger of dying, his life didn’t need saving. Hoping it was a joke, I stepped into his arms.

  “Remember, you brought this upon yourself,” Vincent hissed into my ear. “It’s not my nature to resist temptation.”

  Making no effort to deaden the pain with a kiss, he sank his teeth into my throat. Pain arced between us like electricity leaping from pole to pole. I tried to scream, tried to escape, but Vincent was too strong. He held me tightly, mercilessly. The room darkened, grew dim, spun slowly, then faster. At last I understood, I knew what Vincent was, what he wanted. Unable to bear the pain of that knowledge, I closed my eyes and prayed to die fast.

  But my prayer wasn’t answered. Gradually I came to my senses and found myself lying on my bed, too weak to move. Vincent sat beside me, watching me. Except for the dim light of the candles, the room was dark, silent, cold. So cold. I was numb with cold.

  “Don’t worry,” Vincent said. “You won’t die.” There was no kindness in his voice, no love, no gratitude, just a cool satisfaction.

  I tried to sit up. I wanted to call my father, I needed him to protect me, but I couldn’t even lift my head. Sick with fear, I stared into Vincent’s eyes. “I know what you are,” I whispered. “You’re, you’re . . .” But the word I needed was slipping away, sinking into a dark place beyond recall. I couldn’t say it.

  Vincent smiled. “Yes, you know, little mouse, but no one else does. Nor will you be able to tell them.” Still smiling, he leaned closer. “You know what I want, too. You’re willing to give it to me, aren’t you? Night after night, you’ll invite me to take it.”

  “No, no,” I sobbed. “I won’t let you, I won’t.”

  Vincent touched my throat lightly, so lightly, yet my blood raced eagerly to the little red mark. His laughter broke like ice. “I’ve made you mine, Cynda. You can’t resist me, can you?”

  I turned my head, unable to bear the mockery in his eyes. “I loved you, I thought you loved me.”

  “Love,” he said scornfully. “Poor little Cynda. Did you really believe I cared about you or your petty little problems? Such a boring litany of whining complaints—Mommy doesn’t love me, Daddy doesn’t love me. No one appreciates me, no one understands.”

  Vincent’s words struck me like sharp stones. They shattered the hours I’d spent with him. They buried themselves in my heart. They annihilated everything. “Kill me,” I said, weeping. “Just kill me, I don’t want to live anymore.”

  He rose to his feet and gazed down at me as if I amused him. “Not yet,” he said softly. “I’m not finished with you, my dear Cynda.”

  Without looking at me again, Vincent left the room. The last thing I heard was the wind’s familiar lament: “Ill has come to you, ill has come.”

  I woke in the morning troubled and frightened. Scenes from books and movies tormented me, imaginary evils, things that didn’t exist,
couldn’t exist, things I had no name for. Dreams, hallucinations . . . What I remembered couldn’t be true, it hadn’t happened.

  When Susan came to the door, she found me in tears. “Cynda,” she whispered, her face filled with concern. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

  I nodded. My throat hurt too badly to answer, but it didn’t matter. Vincent had stolen the word for what he was, what he’d done. Just as he’d predicted, I couldn’t tell her the truth.

  Susan covered me with an extra quilt. “You’d better stay in bed. I’ll bring you toast and tea.”

  The day passed slowly, gray and dull. Clouds hid the sun. I drifted in and out of dreams. Sometimes I saw the murdered girl hovering near me. “Ill has come to you,” she sobbed. “Ill has come to me.”

  Sometimes Vincent came. His face hung over me, cruel and pitiless, inhuman; he whispered dark promises, he warned me not to tell. “Our secret, yours and mine; our moonlight secret; our sweet, sweet secret . . .”

  At lunchtime, Susan brought me soup and a sandwich. Wrapped in his blue cape, Todd stared at me from the doorway, his face pale and worried. I heard him say something about Vincent.

  “No, no, darling,” Susan said. “Vincent has nothing to do with this. Cynda’s sick, she has a bad cold, flu maybe.”

  I wanted to tell her that Todd was right, my illness had everything to do with Vincent, but she was already leading him away. “I don’t want you to catch what Cynda has. It might be contagious.”

  Late in the afternoon, Vincent began pacing the floor above me. Back and forth, back and forth. Once his footsteps had excited me. Now they echoed dully in my head, throbbed in my veins, gave me no rest.

  When Vincent came to my door tonight, I swore I wouldn’t let him in. I’d call Dad, I’d make him send Vincent away. I’d tell him exactly what sort of creature he’d invited into his home. Even if I couldn’t remember the word, my father would believe me.