by Dianne Day
In the back I had a surprise—a broad patch of cleared land, planted with grass to make a sloping lawn, rolled down a considerable distance toward the sea. Ocean and sky seemed to be having a contest out there, to determine which could be the purest, deepest blue. Neither won; the result was a perfect tie. Deer grazed on the grass, but they bounded gracefully away, white tails flashing, as soon as they got my scent.
“He probably hunts them,” I grumbled, wishing I could tell the shy, pretty animals to come back because I would do them no harm. Deer came to the lighthouse grounds, too, whole families, each with their antlered buck, to eat the scrub grass among the dunes. Actually I had found that they will eat almost anything, including some things you’d prefer they didn’t, such as Hettie’s daisies.
I turned around and looked at the house from this side. Impatient as I was to be getting on with things, I was also curious, so I went across a flagstone terrace and looked in through a gigantic bow window. As one might have expected, it was dark and gloomy inside. I gazed at a large, open room that, with the addition of a long table and chairs, would have made an impressive banqueting hall. Its most notable feature was a stone fireplace large enough (predictably) for a person to stand inside. I wrinkled my nose in distaste.
As I left the window I chided myself for intolerance. Bostonians of some affluence have a kind of reverse snobbery that I seem to have been born with. I know it is just as bigoted to scorn the ostentatious rich as it is to shun the poor, yet still I do the one while I would never do the other. I cannot help being uncomfortable with people who make a show of wealth.
“How ridiculous,” I said to myself. “It is no concern of mine how Braxton spends his money.” Yet my opinion of him had gone down a notch since seeing his idea of a grand house, and I was sorry, for he was undeniably an attractive man.
Equally undeniable, he was not there; and as I had no knowledge of his daily habits, there was no way I could track him down. Would there be no end to all these delays?
Patience, I thought as I stamped my foot. Of all the virtues I do not have, patience seems the most impossible to acquire. I do, however, try it from time to time. So instead of flouncing off in a huff, I decided to take my leave in a calculated manner. I strolled deliberately across the terrace and looked out over the rolling expanse of lawn, making an effort to picture the party where Phoebe said she had seen Jane Doe.
The deer had ventured out once more to graze. One by one, my imagination replaced them with party guests, until one deer—small, no antlers—raised her head and gazed directly at me. A doe! In my mind she became Jane Doe, with dark liquid eyes and an arched neck. Beautiful. Vulnerable. Her scarlet dress was the wrong shade of red, not the same red as the hunter’s vest, no protection from a human predator. Had he been among the crowd I envisioned: the Carmelites in their odd-assorted garb, the friends of Braxton Furnival in their dark suits and proper yet fashionable dresses?
“Were you both at the party, Jane?” I asked, my voice all on its own dropping to just above a whisper. And for a chilling moment I thought I heard a whispered answer: Yes! Then I shook myself all over, like a dog, and got on with things.
Bless Phoebe’s lively heart and talented hands. She had stayed up late the night before making ten copies of her Jane Doe sketch. Five she’d kept to show around Carmel, and five I had with me. I took one and wrote a note across the bottom:
Dear Mr. Furnival,
Do you know this woman? I am trying to find out who she is, for reasons I will gladly explain if you will contact me either during my office hours on Grand Street or otherwise at the Point Pinos Lighthouse. At your earliest convenience, if you please.
Sincerely yours,
Fremont Jones
I folded the paper and placed it under the knocker on the front door.
“Come, Bessie,” I said as I got back into the shay and took up the reins. “We must think where and how to use these other sketches of Jane Doe.”
I need not have worried—within half an hour the sketches of Jane Doe were no longer within my possession, nor was I in any state to do much about it.
I thought at first that I was hallucinating, or that I had come across an unusually vivid example of one of Arthur Heyer’s ghost tales. A title flashed before my eyes: “The Bleeding Bandito.” But this bandito wasn’t bleeding so far as I could see; he was riding like fury out of thick pine trees in that section of the Point Pinos woods that always makes me nervous. I reined Bessie in; she pranced and tossed her head, harness jangling. The thrum of the other horse’s hooves was like thunder in the earth. And though the man was masked I froze there like a fool thinking perhaps he would pass on by.
Need I say he did not? Whoever he was, he was an excellent horseman. I had time to observe the masterful way he whirled his horse to a stop from a full gallop, seeming to hang in midair beside the carriage—just before he hit me. There was pain, and a great roaring and a red flash inside my head, and then darkness.
“My, my, my, tch-tch-tch!”
I opened my eyes to Quincy’s doleful visage, considerably too close to mine. I blinked, and all the cymbals of Siam went off at the same time inside my head. I think I groaned; I know I closed my eyes again.
“Miss Fremont—”
“Fremont!” I barked automatically. My head reverberated like a gong.
Quincy cleared his throat and tried again. (Incidentally, he never called me Miss again after that!) “Fremont, you just lie there nice and easy, don’t try to get up nor nothing. I’m gonna get you a doctor.”
“No,” I said. I winced and squinted at him, then put my hand up to feel my poor head. There was no blood, only a lump that probably felt much bigger than it was. “Don’t do that.” I put my feet down to the floor and sat up gingerly. Quincy had laid me on the couch.
“How did I get here?” I asked. “I was in the woods when some man just came out of the blue—or the green, to be precise—and attacked me.”
“Bessie came home with ’er reins draggin’. There you was, all slumped over to one side of the carriage. Gave me such a fright, Fremont! That’s a big bump you got on the noggin. Best let the doctor have a look, that’s what I think.” He nodded emphatically.
“I appreciate your opinion, but I worked for the Red Cross after the earthquake last year and I know about concussions. Hold up one finger, Quincy, and watch my eyes. See if I can track your finger as you move it from side to side.”
He did as I asked but it was no use; even I could tell that my eyes did not focus properly. With a sigh I gave up and gave in, collapsing back on the couch. “There are demons hammering inside my head. I suppose you had better fetch Hettie’s physician, though I already know what he will say.”
“You betcha!”
“Quincy?” He was already loping toward the door but I called him back. “The leather bag that I carry with me everywhere—was it in the carriage? And a manila folder with some papers?”
“Nope. I’ll look again, but far as I recall there weren’t nothing but you. Reckon as you got robbed. You want I should fetch the police, too?”
“Police!” I grimaced, which caused only more pain. “No, I can’t deal with the police, not the way I feel at the moment. The doctor will be quite sufficient. Thank you very much.”
“Righty-o.”
I slept. The next thing I knew the doctor awoke me, poking at my head and peering into my eyeballs. He pronounced a mild concussion and told Quincy I must be awakened every few hours for the next twenty-four, which was about what I expected. I slept and woke and slept again, and when I next awoke, Michael was there.
“Michael?” I asked, on the off-chance I was dreaming.
“Yes, Fremont. How do you feel?”
“Where is Quincy?” I got my elbows underneath me and lifted up my head.
“I sent him off to get himself some supper. Which is what I propose for you, if you feel you can keep it down. Hold your head still and let me look at your eyes.”
I r
eally felt much better. The headache had subsided to a bearable dullness, but I decided not to tell him just yet. I liked too much the way he held my head in his hands, and the nearness of his face.
“Hmm,” Michael said. “I believe you will live, with your brain intact.”
“Is it my imagination, or do you sound slightly disappointed?”
“Your sense of humor is also intact, I see.” Michael smiled. His eyes roamed my face, and for a breathless moment I thought he was going to kiss me. But he didn’t. He smoothed my hair instead, and in the process his fingers grazed the place where I’d been hit.
I jumped and yelped: “Yowch!”
“That’s where you were struck? Hold still, Fremont. Let’s see how bad it is.”
“The doctor has already done quite enough poking about, thank you very much!”
“The skin is not broken, but you do have a sizeable lump.”
“So I have already surmised.” I brushed his hands away and sat all the way up, swung my legs around, and put my feet to the floor. Someone—Quincy? Michael?—had removed my shoes and covered me with an afghan. “How long have you been here?” I asked. “And what brought you here to begin with? News of my misadventure cannot have reached Carmel already.”
“I stopped by your office, so I came along here.”
I groaned. “I should have sent Quincy with a note to post, but I never thought of it. I hope I haven’t lost much business.”
“I should think that’s the least of your worries at the moment.”
I did not want to know what he meant by that, so I inquired as brightly as I could manage, “Did you bring something for me to type?”
He smiled. “No. I was passing through Pacific Grove and only wanted the pleasure of your company for a few minutes. Instead, I have been watching you for hours.”
“Well, that is very kind of you, if more than a little embarrassing to me. I shall be all right now. There is no further need for you to stay.”
“I disagree. Since I’ve sat with you so long, the least you can do is offer to let me share your supper. Especially as I’ve already cooked it.”
I raised my eyebrows, a tiny movement that did not hurt … much. “You can cook?”
“Passably. I made a vegetable soup with the broth that was already simmering in the well at the back of your stove.”
I folded the afghan on my lap, put it aside, and stood up. My head swam; I blinked and steadied myself. “How very enterprising. As long as you do not expect scintillating conversation, you may stay.”
I excused myself and visited the facilities, where I looked into the mirror and wished I hadn’t. The whole upper-right side of my face seemed slightly swollen, and there was discoloration along the cheekbone and into my hair. I bent closer and turned my head: The egg-shaped knot bulged just above and a little behind my right ear. My hair, which is long and straight, reddish-brown in color, and ordinarily pulled back in a tidy fashion, had escaped its ribbon and resembled a rat’s nest. Brushing proved out of the question, as even the slightest tug at my scalp brought stinging tears to my eyes. I decided to let it go, let the whole heavy mess hang down my back. What did it matter? Why should I care in the least what Michael thought? My blouse, which has a high collar that buttons on the side, was undone at the neck as the doctor had left it. I left it, too. Only Michael—why bother?
“It is remarkable,” I said on entering the kitchen, “how one can be hit on the head yet subsequently hurt all over.”
“That’s trauma,” Michael said from the stove, his back to me.
“A fine Germanic word, to be sure.” I lowered myself into a chair at the kitchen table. I was glad to see that Michael had set our places here, glad to be eating in this warm, friendly room rather than in Hettie’s dining room, which was elegant, formal, and cold.
“An injury to one part of the body insults the whole of the body,” he said, placing a glass of clear liquid in front of me. “Mineral water from the mountains north of here. I’ve a case of it in the Maxwell. It’s very good, and who knows? The minerals might help your insulted body to repair itself.”
I thanked him and watched in achy dullness as he served a simple meal of soup and bread with butter and cheese. We did not talk, which was just as well, for I cannot seem to be civil to Michael these days without making an effort, and any sort of effort was for the moment beyond me.
He finished before me and pulled out his pipe. “Do you mind?” he asked, waving the pipe under my nose. Its bowl was aromatic even when empty.
“Not in the least. My father smokes a pipe. I am well trained.”
“Hah!” Michael threw his head back and laughed. “That’s a lie if I ever heard one!”
I tried to glare at him but even that required too much effort. So I shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
He performed the pipe ritual. I observed that he was rather better at it than Father, who always accumulates a pile of matches before producing much smoke. Michael’s pile consisted of only two. “Aah!” he sighed, loosening the scarf at his neck. It was silk, black with bluish-purple paisley. His shirt was cream, also quite likely silk, beneath a V-neck sweater of fine black wool. The Beau Brummell of Carmel-by-the-Sea.
I was still slowly spooning up soup. It was tasty, quite revivifying. I felt his eyes on me but perversely declined to meet them.
“Your man—”
“Quincy,” I interrupted, without looking up. “He is Hettie’s employee, not my man. Pray, proceed.”
“Quincy,” Michael said with special emphasis, “tells me that you were robbed.”
I shrugged again, still not looking up. “The robber got that leather bag I carry for a purse. There was nothing of much value in it. What is more of a bother is that he apparently took a file folder with some sketches.”
“The sketches are valuable?”
“Not really. They were only copies; I can get more.” Now I let him draw my eyes. The smell of the pipe tobacco was getting to me, in spite of the aches in my head and body; not the aroma itself but a sort of emotional aura it evoked—of home and warmth, closeness, love.
Michael’s brow was creased with concern. His eyes were very blue tonight. “You didn’t notify the police that you’d been attacked and robbed.”
I put down my spoon, reached for the mineral water, and drank before trusting myself to speak again. “I don’t see much point to it, since nothing of real value was taken. Nor do I wish to call attention to myself.”
The frown deepened. He leaned forward and dark, curling hair fell down over his brow. A few silver threads glimmered among the black. “I know,” he said, “that you had some bad experiences with the police—”
“That is putting it mildly!” I interrupted, but he went right on talking. “—in San Francisco when your housemate was killed, but this is Pacific Grove. And you’ve been physically injured, which concerns me far more than the loss of your purse and a few sketches. Let me take you to the police station, Fremont. The Maxwell is outside.”
“No, thank you. As the adage says, ‘Once burned, twice shy.’ ” That can apply to a lot of things, I thought.
“Um-hm,” said Michael. He leaned back in his chair and puffed contemplatively at his pipe; I broke off a piece of sourdough bread and buttered it. I could hear Hettie’s mantel clock ticking in the living room, and the rhythmic roar of the sea, muffled by sand dunes and windowpanes. Suddenly I began to feel hot, not ill but feverish all the same. I glanced swiftly at Michael, but I saw a stranger, I saw Misha: a face transformed by naked desire.
“Fremont,” he said in an oddly deep voice, “you are beautiful.”
Dear God but I was hot! I laughed on a high, false note and said, “Misha, you are quite insane.” I couldn’t bear the intensity any longer, so I got up and went to the stove, where I checked the coffeepot. It was empty.
“Don’t call me that.” He came up behind me and stood too close.
“Why not? I thought that was what you wanted everyone, includ
ing me, to call you.” I jabbed my elbow back as I picked up the coffee percolator, forcing him to move. I carried it to the sink; he followed.
“Everyone except you. From you it requires an effort. On your sweet tongue, Misha rings false.” His lips were near my ear and his breath was like fire.
Suddenly I was furious, and so energized by my fury that I no longer felt aches or pain—or caution. I forgot about making coffee and whirled around, my voice low, deadly: “How dare you talk about my sweet tongue! You have not the slightest idea whether my tongue is sweet or not, but the same cannot be said about hers, can it? She who gave you the name, who first called you Misha, how sweet is her tongue?”
He went all pale; his still-naked eyes flared forth pain. And then a veil descended within those eyes and he became the old Michael, in spite of new curls and clothes: an enigma, with depths impossible to fathom. He stepped back stiffly and in a tight voice said, “My mother was the first to call me Misha.”
I was still angry. As if I had tasted blood and been crazed by it, I ranted on, my voice now steadily rising: “But she does not remind you of your mother, does she? Or perhaps you committed incest in your youth? Were you a little Oedipus, Misha?”
“Beware, Fremont! My mother is dead, she lies in the ground beside my father. What you are suggesting is obscene.”
I lifted my chin. “And the things you are doing over there in Carmel are not obscene?”
I saw with deep satisfaction that Michael could not keep up his facade. The enigma cracked, the veil dissolved, his eyes blazed. But what came next was unexpected. In the space of a heartbeat he had me trapped against the sink, pinned by the weight of his body, and he was swallowing me whole.
The heat of him dissolved all my bones. I could no more have pushed him away than I could … could … I couldn’t think of anything.
His mouth left mine. He held my face in both his hands, and I felt his strength. “Say it,” he hissed on the S’s, “say my name!”
I trembled. He could crush my head like an egg. “W-w-which one?”
“Who am I to you, Fremont?” He had agony in his eyes.
