The Widow's Walk

by Robert Barclay

  As the class filed out, he stuffed his papers into a leather satchel and made the short walk down the hall to his office. Upon closing his office door he relaxed in his desk chair, enjoying the blessed quiet. When this course ended, he would teach one more night class next spring.

  He was pleased with a decision he had made earlier in the day. Other than the capital still locked up in his condo, he had some eighteen thousand dollars in cash. He was feeling more confident about things now, enough so that he was planning to give his contractor a check for ten thousand dollars so that the restoration could get under way. By the time that money was used up, Garrett hoped he would have the additional funds from the sale of his condo. But that remained only a possibility, rather than a certainty.

  During the process of buying the house he had momentarily toyed with the idea of bending some of his principles, and ordering the restoration to be something more akin to the modern. But in the end he decided that he could not do that. This was to be his personal masterwork, not a project of compromise. He was taking a huge risk, and he could only hope that he would succeed in creating something very special.

  By the time he was eighteen, it was a foregone conclusion that he would become an architect. With his SAT scores nearly off the charts, he was readily accepted into college. It was while attaining his master’s degree in architecture that his uncanny ability to recognize architectural works and the people who had designed them really came to the forefront. Once he had studied the work of an architect, it was easy for him to identify buildings that had been created by the same hand. He minored in art history, and in this discipline too he possessed an unerring eye for artistic authorship that was truly remarkable.

  And then, for what must have been the one hundredth time that day, Garrett thought about last night’s dream. He had tried to get it out of his mind but found it impossible. The dream had been so vivid, so lifelike in its colors, intensity, and detail that in many ways it had not seemed like a dream at all. It was as if he had truly been there with that mysterious woman who had begged for his help. Although her beauty had been mesmerizing, her sadness was the most desperate he had ever witnessed. And the unexpected attraction he felt for her at that moment had carried over into his waking hours, her lovely image reappearing in his mind’s eye seemingly at will, yet only to vanish again.

  Who was she? he wondered. Could she have been someone from his past who lay deeply buried in his memories, only to now reemerge and create that amazing dream? No, he realized. Had he ever met a woman as lovely as she, he would have certainly remembered. Whether this woman really existed or whether she was simply a figment of his imagination, she was unknown to him. He also hoped that he might see her again sometime, be it in a dream or real life. And that if he did, he would not find her to be in such terrible distress.

  ONE HOUR LATER, Garrett was happily astride his Harley Low Rider as he headed south from Boston along a lovely coastal road. He had ridden a motorcycle in one form or another ever since his college days, and he still loved it. His parents had stern objections, but expecting him to give it up was an exercise in futility. He was on his way to Seaside to give his contractor the ten-thousand-dollar check.

  As he approached Seaside he saw that Jay Morgan’s pickup was already parked out front and that some lights had been turned on inside the house, presumably a few lanterns that Jay had brought along with him. After shutting down the Harley and leaning it onto its kickstand, Garrett untied a sturdy leather tube from the bike’s rear fender and began walking toward the house. As he went along, he picked up several small stones and put them into one pocket. Jay was sitting in one of Garrett’s folding chairs on the front porch, waiting for him, shaking his head in mock disdain.

  “It’s about time you got here,” he said. “There are few clients in the world that I would consider meeting at this time of night. And although you’re one of them, Dr. Richmond, it wouldn’t do to take me for granted.”

  Garrett laughed a little as he plopped down in the other chair.

  “Yeah,” he answered. “But we both know that given the size of this job, you’ll be willing to put up with just about anything from me.”

  “Fair enough,” Jay replied. “But even the money won’t make up for you being such a royal pain.”

  Garrett turned and cast his gaze out over the restless Atlantic. Although he had been here for less than two minutes, he already felt at home again.

  Jay Morgan was more than just the contractor whom Garrett tried to use the most; he was also one of his best friends. Not only did he trust Jay implicitly, but by now they also had worked together enough to respect each other’s artistic differences. Clearly Jay’s parents had a sense of humor. His full name was Jay Peter Morgan, sometimes also known as J. P. Morgan. About Garrett’s age, he was a great ox of a man. He had been losing his hair for some time now and was mostly bald. Perhaps as some form of hirsute compensation, three years ago he had grown a full, reddish-brown beard.

  Best of all, Jay had a wonderful sense of humor. Although Garrett guessed that Jay had always been impressed with his credentials he had never shown it, preferring instead to continually harass him about being a nerdy professor. But Jay knew full well how competent Garrett was—not only as an architect but also as someone with a good working knowledge of everything needed to take on a job of this size.

  Jay pointed at the leather tube Garrett had brought along. “Are those the floor plans?” he asked.

  Garrett nodded. “Yeah, but they’re rough. I paced off each of the rooms and then slap-dashed these together, back at the office. They’ll do for a while.”

  “Good,” Jay answered. “Then let’s get to it. I’d like to get home before I’m an old man.”

  When Jay stood up and put on his hard hat, Garrett laughed again.

  “It’s not that bad!” he said.

  Jay smirked at him. “You have been in there, right?” he asked rhetorically.

  Without further ado, the two men went inside. The stark, artificial light served to hauntingly accentuate the damage that had been done to Seaside. Jay looked around and shook his head. Like Garrett, he had long believed that a home—no matter how grand or how humble—deserved to be treated with respect.

  “God,” he said while still looking around. “How can people do this to a house? It’s almost a sacrilege.”

  “Stupid as it might be,” Garrett answered, “they’re angry as hell, and this is their only way to get back at the banks. I certainly don’t agree with it, but in an odd way I can almost understand.”

  Jay had also brought along a folding table, which he had erected in the center of what would presumably become Seaside’s renovated parlor. Garrett removed the stones from his pocket then slid the plans free of the leather tube. After unrolling the plans on the table, he used the stones to keep the corners from curling up.

  “High-tech,” Jay said.

  “Works every time,” Garrett answered.

  Jay looked around again. “This will be the parlor, right?” he asked Garrett.

  Garrett nodded. “I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to this, but what’s the first step?”

  “Well,” Jay answered, “luckily the basement and foundation are still in good shape. Before we tackle anything else I’m going to get my electrician and plumber in here. I don’t think we’ll find anything monumental, but don’t drink the well water until I’ve had it tested. After that, my crew will begin working on the outside of the house. The first exterior thing to tackle should be . . .”

  While Garrett listened, Jay did an excellent job of outlining the entire project. Despite Garrett’s legendary fussiness, only twice did he comment. When Jay finished, Garrett fished his wallet out of his back pocket and handed over the ten-thousand-dollar check.

  “Normally in a situation like this, I’d say: ‘Don’t spend it all in one place!’” he said. “But in this case, you have no other choice.”

  “Yeah,” Jay said. “And now, profe
ssor, I’m going to blow this pop stand. I should be able to get my electrician and plumber in here during the next couple of days. And am I correct in assuming that you will be out here ad nauseam, constantly adding in your overly educated two cents?”

  Garrett nodded. “You bet. After all, somebody’s got to keep an eye on you and your band of misfits.”

  Jay laughed. “How true,” he answered. This time when he glanced around the shabby room, the look on his face sobered.

  “A lot of people think you’re nuts for buying this place,” Jay said. “But I want you to know that I’m not among them. Given your expertise, I have absolutely no doubt that once Seaside is finished, she will be spectacular. You’re going to silence all the naysayers, Garrett, you really are.”

  “I hope so,” Garrett answered. “And even if this turns out to be a huge mistake, I’ll always be glad that it was you who did the job.”

  “Thanks for that,” Jay said. “And now, I’m going home.”

  Garrett nodded. “Say ‘hi’ to the wife and kids for me, will you?”

  After shaking Garrett’s hand, Jay walked out, got into his pickup, and headed for home.

  As the sound of Jay’s truck engine faded in the distance, silence again overtook the house. As usual Garrett was again struck by the unique sort of stillness inherent in this place. At first he had found it to be rather eerie. But now that he was becoming accustomed to it, he could also faintly hear the reassuring sounds of the sea as it continually assaulted the shoreline.

  He picked up one of the lanterns and walked about the first floor for a time, ticking off a mental checklist of tasks that would be done once Jay and his crew turned their attention to the inside of the house. He then went to the central foyer and walked up the battered staircase to the second floor, where he did the same thing. He stood in the master bedroom for a time while trying to imagine the many people who had lived and perhaps died in this house—who they had been, what they had done with their lives, and whether the fates had been cruel or kind. The original parcel of land had been some ten acres, and the plot had retained its size throughout Seaside’s many changes of hands. It was then that he got the idea to go up to the roof and inspect the old widow’s walk.

  Up there the sea air smelled fresh and clean, and before him lay a marvelous view of the harbor. As Garrett neared the widow’s walk, he smiled a little bit. The wives of sea captains did use these structures to search for their husbands’ ships. But he also knew that widow’s walks were in fact a standard decorative feature of Italianate architecture, which was a very popular style during the height of the whaling boom in North America. Also known as Italian cupolas, in most cases they were merely ornate embellishments, and very prone to leaks.

  Sometimes these cupolas were built around the chimney, creating access to it. This allowed the residents of the home to pour sand down burning chimneys during a chimney fire, in the hope of preventing the house from burning down. Although Garrett was a stickler for history, he was also something of a romantic and much preferred the stories about whaling captains’ wives visiting these structures so as to wistfully search for their returning husbands.

  When Garrett neared the dilapidated widow’s walk he stopped to examine it. At one time it had surely been lovely. Sitting near the front roofline, it was a two-story affair and had a roof of its own. Supported by columns, the cupola’s second-story roof also boasted a full railing. A ladder led from the first floor of the cupola to the second. The reason for it being two stories tall was simple enough, Garrett realized; the taller the widow’s walk, the more expansive the view. He was tempted to climb up and look out over the harbor, but given the overall poor condition he wisely decided against it.

  What was it like, he wondered, to be a whaler’s wife living in this big house? Would she come up here to scan the ships as they entered the harbor? If so, he couldn’t imagine her doing it without the aid of a spyglass. It must have been difficult to live by oneself for so long, wondering whether your husband would ever return to you.

  Just then he detected an elegant scent, just like a woman’s perfume, carried to him on the ocean breeze. And then, as soon as he had sensed it, it was gone. Smiling to himself, he shook his head. It must have been something else, he realized, for he was quite alone up here.

  His inspection of the cupola finished, Garrett returned to the first-floor parlor. It was late, and time for him to go. He decided he would leave his rather crude floor plans here for the time being. And then, just as he was about to go from room to room and turn off the lanterns, he heard the noise again.

  It sounded exactly like someone crying, just as it had when he had slept here before the fireplace. But this time, he could not dismiss it to his sleepiness. This time he was wide-awake, and hearing it with complete clarity.

  Unsure of what to do, he finally began quietly walking down the hall toward the rear of the house. As he went, he looked in turn into the parlor, the sewing room, the library, and the dining room, only to find each of them vacant. Continuing on, he passed through the serving room and then the butler’s pantry, also finding nothing. But when he at last approached the open kitchen door and looked in, Garrett saw something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  He saw her—the same woman he had dreamed about only the night before. There could be no mistake, and seeing her so suddenly and unexpectedly like this caused his heart to race, and his breathing to become labored.

  But she had yet to see him, he quickly realized. Like in his dream, she was sitting all alone in a leftover chair and sobbing uncontrollably. Later on, he would decide that it was because she had been so taken up with her crying that she had not immediately recognized his presence. Although she was dressed in different clothing than in Garrett’s dream, he knew immediately that it was she.

  This night she wore modern clothes—a pair of jeans, what appeared to be a man’s shirt with its sleeves rolled up, and a pair of sneakers. Her hair was not artfully arranged atop her head but fell down about her shoulders, and like in Garrett’s dream she wore the scrimshaw locket around her neck. As she sat there crying, her entire being shook with grief and fear.

  Stunned beyond words, Garrett simply stood there in the kitchen doorway for a few moments, watching her. When he at last found his voice, even then he was unsure about what to say.

  “Hello . . . ?” he asked softly.

  As if with a single motion, the woman dropped her hands from her face, looked at Garrett with terror, and then let go a piercing scream. It was a plaintive shriek that seemed to go right through him, and was one that he would never forget.

  Garrett quickly raised his hands in a pleading gesture.

  “It’s okay!” he said. “I won’t hurt you—I only want to know who you are, and why you’re here! Do you need help?”

  No sooner had the words left Garrett’s mouth than the terrified woman sprang from her chair, ran to the kitchen door, and threw it open so hard against the wall that its glass panel shattered. Almost before Garrett knew it, she was running off into the darkness as if her very life depended upon it.

  Garrett’s first impulse was to catch up to her. But then he realized that he still did not know these grounds well, and that it would be foolish to go chasing after her in the dark. Although it would offer no security, he shut the broken kitchen door and locked it.

  He walked over to the chair that the woman had just vacated, and he sat down in it dumbly. In an attempt to calm down he took several deep breaths, letting them out slowly. As his mind began to process what he had just experienced, he started to realize that in his own way, he had been just as shocked as she.

  Despite the confusion, one thing was becoming clear. It wasn’t his words that had terrified her; rather, it was being seen by him that had rattled her so badly. But why would that be? If she had been in the house for any length of time at all, she would have most assuredly heard him and Jay talking. And if she had been afraid of them, she had had plenty of opportu
nity to flee without being seen.

  But even these realizations were not what shocked Garrett the most. Rather, it was that the woman who had just run away from Seaside was without question the same person he had dreamed of only last night. And then, his mind still flooded with impossible questions, he came to another stark realization.

  The crying that I heard last night, just before falling sleep in the dining room . . . that crying was also hers! I cannot say why I’m so sure of it, only that I am. She is also the same woman who I saw in my dream! And now that I have seen her in the flesh, a new sort of pain and yearning is growing in my heart that is far stronger than any I have experienced before . . .

  As Seaside’s gray shadows and eerie stillness seemed to engulf him, for several moments Garrett began to doubt his sanity. Then he abruptly scrubbed his face with his hands, stood up, and looked back at the kitchen door.

  This had really just happened, he realized. The glass had actually been broken, and it now lay everywhere upon the kitchen floor. This had been no dream; nor had been the real, flesh-and-blood woman who caused it. But now that same woman had just vanished, perhaps never to be seen by him again. As he stood there thinking, another unfathomable riddle floated to the surface.

  How in God’s name could I have dreamed of her, before actually seeing her in the flesh?

  Chapter 4

  The following morning found Constance sitting like a terrified child on the floor, her arms wrapped around her legs and her forehead resting down atop her knees. A sense of panic had tormented her all night for fear that he might come searching for her, but so far she had seen nothing of him.

  After running out of the house she had taken refuge in Seaside’s barn, in one of the far corners of the second-floor loft. For more than 170 years this had been her secret place; the place where she always came to seek privacy not only from the succession of interlopers who claimed to own her home, but also from an ever-evolving world for which she cared so little. After some more time had passed, the sense of panic finally stopped bedeviling her. At last she lifted her head and looked around.