When Henry called me on my cell phone, I almost didn’t know what to say. . . “How did you get my number?” I asked, stumbling over the words.
“I have my ways,” said Henry, sounding playful. “I just rang to make sure you are all right.”
“I’m good,” I replied flatly.
“And Sophie?”
“She’s good, too. Much better, thanks. She’s really grateful to you for taking her to the hospital, for being there.”
“Aw. That’s nice. And how’s your dad?”
“He’s okay, though he’s really worried about this mystery plague that’s affecting the sea otters.”
Silence on the other end of the phone.
“Have you heard about that? The otters?” I prompted.
“Yes. It seems to come in cycles,” Henry answered. “Tell your father he mustn’t worry. The animals will be fine.”
“Okay, Dr. Doolittle,” I said, frowning and more than a little puzzled.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind. Anyway, when will I get to see you again?” I prompted.
After an uncomfortable silence, he answered, “How about Saturday afternoon? There’s someplace I wish to take you.”
“I’ll be ready,” I replied with some excitement.
Saturday afternoon came, and Henry waited for me down the street, in his battered truck. His vehicle always looked incongruous among the shiny family cars, all those newer-model Fords and Jettas that lined Forest Avenue. I hurriedly put on my purple sweater, tied my shoes, and ran down the stairs.
Heather Palmer’s disappearance had put every parent in Pacific Grove on edge, so I had told Henry to park at the end of the street so as not to worry my dad. Armed with some schoolbooks to help bolster my lie, I told Dad I was just going to the library to do some homework.
Despite myself, I kept thinking about the lilac paper and what Heather’s mom said about a mysterious boy writing to her. Surely her secret admirer couldn’t be Henry—could it? I wondered as I ran down the street and hopped into Henry’s waiting truck.
Wearing a plaid shirt and faded jeans, he smiled weakly at me, knowing something troubled me. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Heather. Emily and I paid her mother a little visit last Sunday.”
Henry studied me but said nothing.
I hesitated before I spoke again. “She said a boy wrote love letters to her—on lilac paper.”
“And you think it was me?”
“No, no,” I said, everything within me became conflicted and confused. Troubled, I broke away from his gaze.
“Yes, you do. That is what you think. I know you, Alice. But look, simply because I wrote you a poem on lilac paper, does not mean I have anything to do with her disappearance. I am offended that you would think that of me.”
I sensed anger rising within him. “No, I don’t. . . I honestly don’t know what to think about any of this, Henry.” I turned my head away. “I just had to tell you, though. It’s hard for me to keep secrets from you and you shouldn’t expect so much from me.”
“Look at me, Alice,” Henry said, turning my face toward him with his hand on my chin. “I had nothing to do with Heather’s disappearance—nothing,” he said sternly, his eyes sincere and unblinking.
“Okay,” I replied. “I’m sorry. It’s partly because of my dad. He makes me a little jumpy when I’m with you. As you might have noticed, he’s not exactly your biggest fan.”
Henry gave an adorable smile. “That’s understandable. I am accustomed to fathers disliking me. I’ll win him over in time,” he said confidently then turned on the engine.
We drove out of town, along the Pacific Coast Highway, toward Big Sur. I’d only been as far as Carmel with my family, so I felt a surge of excitement and freedom as we drove farther south. The windows down, I relished the caress of the cool sea breeze that rolled in from the bay.
“Where are we going?” I asked, watching Henry’s thick blonde hair shine in the afternoon sunlight, making him look even more Adonis-like than usual.
“To a special place,” he replied enigmatically. “I often go there when I want to be alone.”
“I thought you couldn’t leave Monterey Bay.”
Henry smiled. “Well, technically, we’re still in the bay area.”
We drove for another couple miles, and the coastline of Big Sur stretched before us. A stunning view, with crashing waves, thunderous cliffs, and stately redwoods teetering down to the sea. Far below, the rocks met the majestic sea, a collision of land and water.
“I used to drive this road with Jack Kerouac,” Henry mentioned as he skillfully navigated the winding corners.
“You knew Jack Kerouac?!” I exclaimed. He is one of my favorite authors and epitomized the Beatnik generation. “I’ve read On the Road, like, a hundred times.”
Henry nodded and smiled. “Yeah, he was a great guy who knew how to live—one hell of a man.”
“What was he like?”
“Well, he drank a lot. I made his acquaintance just before he died, when he came down here to write Big Sur in the early sixties. He thought I was a high school dropout, and he essentially took me under his wing.”
“Wow! That’s so cool,” I exclaimed, looking at Henry with newfound admiration. It was then that I realized immortality had its advantages. “Who else have you met?”
“Hmm… John Steinbeck, for one, and Steve McQueen used to come here a lot with the Hells Angels.”
“No way!” I said, shocked that he’d met some of my heroes.
When we reached a section of cliff populated with a dense stand of redwoods, Henry turned his truck down a dirt path leading straight to the ocean. It would have easily been missed if he didn’t already know about it. We drove for half a mile through the dark forest, the truck bouncing along the pot-holed track. As we drove, we startled a deer, and the creature bounded into the woods with a white flash of its tail. At the end of the dirt road, a cabin loomed into view.
“What is this place?” I asked, casting my eye over the dwelling, rustic and almost hidden from view by the surrounding trees. The roof was triangular in shape, a corrugated chimney pipe poking out of the corner. Ivy covered some of the log walls, blending perfectly with the forest.
“My secret hideaway,” said Henry. “I wanted you to see it.”
We jumped out of the truck and walked along the path to the cabin on the edge of a cliff. Just past the trees behind it, I caught a glimpse of the ocean, sparkling like a diamond blanket in the far distance.
Henry turned the key and opened the door to let me in. The inside of the cabin was just as rustic as the outside in some ways, but also surprisingly modern. Neat and orderly—not at all the sort of place I would have expected a century-old ghost to hang out.
“It’s nice,” I said, taking in the interior. “Cozy. Do you own it?”
“I am a caretaker of sorts. The last owner bequeathed it to me when he died,” Henry said.
A collection of records stood in the corner. I walked over and flipped through the album covers, mostly rock and pop from the sixties and seventies: Jerry Lee Lewis, Elvis Presley, Abba, and Pink Floyd.
“You have a great collection.” I had a few of the same CDs at home, but nothing to rival his stack of vinyl.
“I loved the seventies,” said Henry. “A great decade for music—Rolling Stones, Beatles, Pink Floyd. What would you like to listen to?” he asked.
“You choose,” I suggested. “I trust your taste.”
He thumbed through the record collection with his long pale fingers. Finally, he selected an album and placed it on the old record player. When he turned it on, the needle slowly lifted from its setting, moved sideways, and dropped onto the vinyl groove, filling the air with the sounds of John Lennon and Paul McCartney.
“Beatles, huh?” I said, recognizing the tune instantly because my dad was also a big fan. He had been quite the music listener before my mom’s death, but since then, the house had been de
void of any such melodies.
“Yes. This is one of my favorites,” Henry replied and started to hum.
Rhythmically, I started to move my feet to the sound of The Beatles. Being in the cabin with Henry, I felt like I’d been transported back to the sixties, the hippie era of free love. After all, we were very near Big Sur.
Henry opened the sliding-glass doors that led to a balcony overlooking the cliff. I followed him onto the wooden deck, surrounded by a protective railing. The view of the coastline was spectacular, with the granite pink cliffs receding into the distance and the waves crashing against the shore, restless and majestic. The raw power and beauty of nature stirred something within me as Henry took me in his arms.
We danced slowly on the balcony, with my head resting on his shoulder. I heard a lone seagull cry in the distance, but my mind blocked out all noise other than the crooning Beatles and the sound of my heart beating so close to Henry’s silent one. . “I wish it could always be like this between us,” I murmured, “no fear, no worries, no weird little boxes or mysterious men on some disappearing island.”
He nodded, burying his head in my neck and breathing in my scent. “Me, as well. I have never been happier than I am with you, Alice.”
I felt the same. For the first time in many months in that spectacular place, I enjoyed calm, happiness, and peace of mind.
When the song came to an end, Henry bent his head down to my lips and kissed me. It was such a sweet kiss that I didn’t want it to stop. Finally, we came up for air. I looked into his blue-gray eyes and felt I could swim in them without a life vest.
He smiled. “Are you hungry?”.
Only then did I remember that I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It was past lunchtime, and my stomach growled heartily, but all the excitement of being with Henry made me forget about food. “Sure.” I nodded. “What have you got?”
“Would you like me to make you some pancakes?” Henry offered.
“You cook?” I asked in surprise.
“Of course I do…and I rather like it,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Wow. This, I’ve gotta see,” I replied. Smiling at the novelty that a guy is about to cook for me, I followed him into the kitchen.
The kitchen looked surprisingly modern, with a small gas stove, an espresso machine, and a blender. A pile of cookbooks lined the shelf, including a few from some well-known local authors. A wooden shelf above the cookbooks, was home to an extensive collection of spices and condiments.
Henry opened the small bag he had been carrying and brought out some food.
“Let’s see. We’ve got eggs, milk, flour. . .”
Then he pulled a bowl out of the top cupboard and placed it on the table. He whisked the eggs and flour with the milk, until he had a thick, bubbly batter. He fetched a frying pan, placed it on the small gas stove, waited for it to get hot, and poured the pancake mixture into the pan.
“What would you like on your pancakes? Maple syrup, chocolate, or just plain?”
“Maple syrup, of course,” I said with a grin.
“Good choice,” he answered and poured a generous puddle of it on the pancakes he had tossed on a couple of plates. “Maple is my favorite, also.”
I took my plate and walked over to one of the stools. “Mmm. These are great,” I mumbled, munching on the pancake.
“I don’t have many visitors,” Henry said. “But when I do, I like to cook.”
Afterward, we went into the living room, and I noticed some of the fine drawings hanging on the walls. Etchings of old San Francisco, including a portrait of a beautiful girl, about my age. I peered at the charcoal portrait and examined the signature. To my surprise, the name of the artist belonged to Henry.
“You can draw, too?”
“Another thing I enjoy. It all started as a young boy in San Francisco. I went down to the docks where my father worked and sketched some of the workers. When I got older, some of the madams in the more respectable houses on Nob Hill let me draw them.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, grinning at him and trying my best not to blush. “Who is this girl?” I asked, pointing to the drawing of the pretty young girl with the wide eyes.
Henry’s eyes grew reflective as he studied his handiwork. “Marie-Rose. A girl I knew in San Francisco.”
“She’s beautiful,” I said, admiring the mane of red hair.
Henry nodded. “She was.”
I continued to gaze at the portrait. Marie-Rose smiled back at me, her eyes looking into mine, as if she had a secret to tell and wanted to talk to me. What was she thinking when she posed for this drawing?
“Will you sit for me?” Henry asked when he observed my admiration over the portrait of Marie-Rose.
I had never posed for a portrait before, and the thought of Henry sketching me—caressing my curves onto paper with his pencil—charged me with an erotic energy I’d never experienced before. So enticing the idea that it filled my skin with goose bumps.
“Sure,” I said. “I’d be honored. Where do I sit?”
“Over there, on the settee,” he said, pointing to a green sofa with a blanket thrown over the top.
Henry took out a large sketchpad and pencil from one of the cupboards. He pulled one of the chairs across the room and sat down, with the back of the chair toward me. Adopting the artist’s position, he straddled the back of the chair, resting his pad on the back, and started to sketch.
I watched his fingers as he quickly drew—feeling his eyes on my body as he appraised my arms. . .my legs. . . hesitating on my breasts before devouring every nook and cranny of my form with his pencil. I giggled like a silly schoolgirl, not knowing how to handle such intense, passionate desire.
“Shh…stay still.”
“I’m not used to staying still,” I protested, squirming in my seat. “I’ve always been a bit of a fidget.”
“Well, then at least stay quiet. I’m sketching your face at the moment.”
That made it harder to stay quiet than to sit still, but I agreed to do so and pursed my lips—smiling only with my eyes.
Henry showed me the portrait when he finished, and I was amazed by the likeness of it to the reflection I saw in the mirror. He had captured a side of me no one saw: Alice, the blossoming woman.
“You’re very talented,” I said. “Can I keep it?”
He nodded, but he stopped me as I began to roll it up for safekeeping. “Wait! Let me sign it first.” I handed it to him, and he signed Henry Raphael in the bottom corner. Then he looked at his watch. “Look at the time—I must take you back. Your father will be worried, and we mustn’t incur his wrath further.”
Slightly disappointed since I hoped to stay the night with him in the cabin. I was still a virgin, and had no concept of making love at all, let alone to a ghost. I wondered how experienced he was, how many muses he’d caressed with more than his pencil. Even though Henry’s heart didn’t beat, he seemed very much alive. I wonder if he knows what I am thinking.
Henry rolled up the drawing, reached for a rubber band and rolled it onto the sketch, handing it back to me. “A keepsake for you.”
I clasped the rolled sketch in my hand and thought about where I would put it. I certainly didn’t want my dad asking questions.
We drove along the coastal road back toward Pacific Grove. The sun was setting above the ocean, casting golden light upon the rippling blue waters—a truly magnificent sight.
Henry parked the truck a couple blocks down the street from my house. “Here we are, milady,” he said.
“Thank you for a memorable day,” I said and when I looked into his blue eyes, I felt as though going into a trance. Maybe no one will rescue me this time.
“Someone’s waiting for you in the kitchen,” Dad said as I walked through the front door.
“Who is it?” I peered past him and saw Emily sitting at the kitchen table, her already pale face a bit whiter.
“Where have you been, Alice?” asked Dad.
“Uh. . . I went to
the local library, like I said. I had some studying to do.”
Dad looked at me with unwavering eyes. “Okay. Well, I’ll leave you girls to it. Nice talking to you, Emily.”
“Nice talking to you, Mr. Parker.”
When Dad left the room and out of earshot, I turned to Emily. “What are you doing here?” I whispered.
“I had another vision,” she said, staring at me intently, her green eyes wide like a cat’s, her hair sticking up wildly in all directions.
“About me?” I guessed.
Emily nodded.
“What did you see?”
“It was clearer this time, so much clearer. You were running up some steps, a tall flight of stairs, trying to escape from someone or something. All around you swirled this fog—”
“—Fog? What else?”
“I saw a light shining at the top of the stairs, really intense and almost blinding. You ran toward the light.”
“The light?” I repeated, remembering my mother’s words from the séance: “Follow the light.”
“What happened when I reached the top?” I urged.
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see past there. Alice, I’m scared for you. It was a really horrible vision. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to frighten you, but I had to tell you.”
“No, I’m glad you told me,” I soothed while wondering what the vision could mean and the terrible forces at work.
Chapter Seventeen: Twelve Sailors
While I was trying to deal with Emily’s frightening premonitions, Henry was confronted by some terrible force of his own. He later told me about the horrifying chain of events that seemed unstoppable.
After he dropped me off at home that day, Henry sailed his boat back to the island. Once again, it appeared out of a bank of mists and clouds. In the late evening light, the mountains took on an ominous presence, and the birds in the trees had fallen silent.
He threw the towline onto the sand and then jumped out of the boat, into the crashing waves. He hauled the coiled rope over his shoulders and pulled the boat in, then tied the rope to the pole and trudged up the beach, toward the forest.
Ghost Maven Page 17
