“The what?”
“On the engine. Red doohickey. Just like starting a lawnmower.”
Sarah looked behind herself, grabbed hold of the red grip protruding from the engine, and pulled awkwardly. The cord it was attached to came out, and the crankshaft growled but then settled back into silence.
“Give it another tug! Real hard now.”
Rotating her shoulder and gritting her teeth, Sarah put all her might into ripping the cord free of the engine. The engine rattled, she let go of the cord, and an approving rumble set in, smoke puffing out of the engine in big cigar exhales.
“That’ll do her!” Mr. Shannon said, words muffled by the plug of chewing tobacco he’d just popped in his mouth. It only added to the chipmunkish, cuddly-old-man vibe he exuded, and Sarah found herself quite at ease. “Got your seat?”
“Yeah,” Sarah said, planting herself again, wrapping her fingers around the bench, a little less white-knuckled this time.
“Okey-dokey!” They took off at a steady clip, eating away at the distance between the shore and the island with no real appetite, the engine making quiet sounds of contentment. Sarah relaxed, reaching down to draw her hand through the water. It was cold, but not so bad.
“Hope you’ll excuse the lack of a proper welcome. Thought you weren’t coming; stepped inside to get out of the wind.”
“That’s okay, no problem.”
“Ha! I love that with you young people. ‘No problem’! Hope you folks hang onto that attitude.”
“We’ll try. So, what about the dam?”
“There’s no need for foul—oh, oh, Partry Dam. Yeah.” Mr. Shannon looked over his shoulder at her, keeping the boat on course with one hand. “Now most of the day the water comes through nice and easy, but at eight o’clock on the dot, they have to relieve the pressure or some such and they let a whole mess of it through. River gets fast, licks at the shore like no one’s business, and here’s the trick, now: waters are rough as hell. Before eight, you could get to where you’re going in a rowboat, maybe even swim it if the water weren’t so damn cold. After eight, forget it. I keep the boat nice and roped up, so whichever side you’re on at eight, you best believe you’re staying there for the night.”
“I don’t think I’ll be here that long.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no.” Mr. Shannon checked the forward view again, killing the engine as the island loomed up to meet them. On their remaining momentum, they sidled up to a gnarled old pier. “Now, think you can tie us off?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t—”
“Nothing to it,” Mr. Shannon assured her. “See the rope I untied when we got on? Just take that big ol’ lasso at the end, loop it around one of the pilings, and pull ’er tight. Can’t barely mess it up.”
Sarah tried it and was gratified when she got it on the first go. Mr. Shannon gave her an approving half-laugh, “Hee-ha,” and started up the ladder built into the pier.
“So have you worked for, eh, Ms. Rose long?”
“Since she got here.” With a huff, Mr. Shannon pulled himself up onto the creaking dock. He turned around to offer Sarah a hand up, but she demurred.
“So—what’s she like?”
Mr. Shannon straightened, parking his hands on his hips. “Couldn’t rightly say. Aloof type. Not mean-spirited or cussed or anything, just prefers her own company.” He offered his hand to Sarah again as she reached the top of the ladder, but she politely ignored it. They walked side by side down the pier, to the start of a paved trail. It was somewhat overgrown with lush, fulsome weeds and grass.
“I bring her groceries, mail, anything she asks for. She likes having me about to work the boats—don’t think she much cares for them, even if they don’t give her any trouble. But neither of us are much for small talk. Guess that’s why we’ve gotten along so famously. Now this way, miss. As you can see, there’s not much to get yourself lost in. One trail—” He tapped his heel on the slightly cracked cement. “That takes you up to the house. You wanna leave, it takes you back down. There’s some spare canoes and oars set up around here—” Mr. Shannon looked around, pointed them out well after Sarah had spotted them. They were upside-down, stowed but looking seaworthy. “And Ms. Rose has one of them inflatable rafts up in the house, so there ain’t much chance of getting yourself stuck here. Just remember—whatever you do, don’t try the river after eight. I’m a pretty experienced seaman, not to give myself airs, and I wouldn’t try it. No disrespect meant, but I’d lay odds on you getting swept away if you even thought about it.”
“Got it. Evil river. Don’t piss it off.”
“Not evil, no, but certainly not your friend. Now, I’ve got one more personage I’m transporting this afternoon, but once I’ve brought him over, I’ll be waiting right here until you need to go back.” He gestured to a patio chair set up on the rocky beach. Sarah had to laugh. It had all the essentials for a bit of fishing, rod leaned up against the armrest, and even a floppy, fly-strewn fishing hat sitting on the seat.
Mr. Shannon started back over the water-warped pier.
“Wait,” Sarah called to him. “Aren’t you going to walk me up? Introduce me?”
“No,” Mr. Shannon demurred. “I’m not to go inside the house—I suspect she wouldn’t even want me hanging about. But don’t worry. You’re expected.”
“Well, uh—” Sarah didn’t want to part from the man. She found his presence comforting, and the lack of it… “Can you give me any…Nina Rose pointers?”
Mr. Shannon paused to think about it. “Well, don’t be foolish. She always struck me as the type with very little patience for fools.”
Gee, thanks. “Anything else?”
Mr. Shannon scratched his sideburn. “Maybe—ask her if she wants you should take your shoes off? She may be the kind doesn’t like strange shoes tromping about her carpet. Best to ask, worst to wonder, I always say.”
Sarah left him to it—wincing a little when she heard the engine flare up again, rotors churning the water to take him back across the river—and started down the path. It was strewn with mats of dead leaves. The canopy had been stripped bare by autumn, browning leaves clogging the waist-high grass that extended in all directions. Moisture from an earlier gale had turned everything to shades of brown. The entire island was muted with it, even the grass beaten down by it.
Then she saw them. Splotches of pink and red, like dabs of acrylic paint on the fabric of the world, were blowing down the path. She stepped on one with the toe of her shoe, stooping to pick it up. It was a petal, though off what plant she couldn’t imagine. She held it in her hand, rubbing its gossamer-soft surface between her fingers as she continued up the slight slope of the path.
She noticed other pink petals. There were more of them. A lot more, buried like treasure throughout the landscape, sticking to wet tree trunks, glistening in patches of grass, or just swirling in the air like tiny birds, never seeming to land.
Coming up the crest of the hill, she found her way laden with the petals, like roses thrown at her feet by an admiring throng, and she let out a delighted little giggle. The wind picked them up, stirring them at the hem of her dress like playful little fairies. She watched them wafting in the air, hanging in it like a perfumed mist. Then she saw the source.
It was a rhododendron, but it must’ve been at least a hundred years old. The shrub had grown to the size of a condo. The path circled it, expanding into a sort of driveway before cutting in toward the house, which had this gargantuan plant and its aura of feminine petals as a sort of front lawn. Sarah marveled at it, smelled the sharp scent of it, walked under its sheltering branches, and saw the sun through its multitude of leaves, held up for her like an umbrella. God, it was magnificent.
Then she emerged on the other side and saw the house. It was crazy. Queen Anne style, reminding her of the Carson Mansion but not nearly so big. Well, big, but not sprawling. Grand. All but the color. No grey slate, no prim white paint, no stucco brick. No, this house was painted in sharp, stro
ng Day-Glo colors. Magenta, electric blue, neon green—each section of trim a new color, but all of it forming a whole, a punkish but unified scheme arising out of the chaotic mash of mad color. Sarah let out another delighted laugh. The whole damn place looked as if it was made out of bismuth, the crystal that refracted light in multiple iridescent hues.
Crunching the delicate petals under her shoes with a satisfying, fortune-cookie sound, Sarah went to the stoop and up the front steps, her fingers alighting on the black cast-iron railing as she came up the short staircase to the door. There was a brisk, unadorned floor mat, a glowing doorbell button, and—Sarah looked around—a camera in the upper corner of the recess, where most old houses had a wasp’s nest. She gave the lotus-seed pod of the lens a half-hearted wave. Then she pressed the doorbell.
She was surprised when, instead of sounding a tone, it emitted a buzz like an intercom.
“Yes? Mr. Shannon?” The familiar voice of Nina Rose came, shocking in its clarity. Uncut, undiluted.
“No, ma’am. It’s me? Sarah Kay?”
“Ah. Yes.” Whatever drubbing Nina had taken from the accident, she was long past it now. Her voice was husky, authoritative, a lioness amused by her own hunting prowess. Sarah felt herself gulp. “Please. Turn the knob. It’s unlocked.”
“I was just kinda wondering what I was doing—”
She heard a click. Call over, evidently. Sarah reached for the brass knob—it was tarnished a little, worn half-smooth by time and lack of repair. She had to grind it in place a little to get it to turn before she could push her way into the house.
It was dark. The windows were drawn and shuttered, subduing what little sunlight did make its way through. She could see clearly enough, though. The house surprised her. She’d expected it—well, she’d expected some kind of Hammer Studios movie set, with cobwebs and cobblestone. Torches. But realistically, she’d thought it would be one of those modern aesthetics. Everything matchy-matchy, looking as if it was just waiting for a bunch of Gucci models to be draped across the furniture: lots of dark glass, lots of wide-open space, lots of Bond-villain opulence.
Instead, it looked almost like Sarah would’ve decorated it. The furniture was old, antique even, but well-made and sturdy. Largely oak or other wood, decently sized but obviously hand-me-downs or scrounged from various sales, maybe even some high-end Craigslist deals. It wasn’t Early Single-Income Family like Sarah’s room—no milk cartons as makeshift bookshelves—but the furniture was scarred, aged, or reupholstered at times. Some was leather, some was plush with fabric, but the dark colors and subdued patterns tended to go together. Nothing really matched, but it was on the side of eclecticism instead of being garish or clashing. It looked to Sarah like…a home. The way her house had looked before her father—
She nearly jumped, seeing the dog. It was one of those big black creatures that could double as a small horse. Since Sarah was on the short side, that put it pretty much at eye level with her even though it was sitting. She stared nervously at it, but it was so still, so quiet, that Sarah realized the darkness of the place had spooked her. It was just a statue.
“You seen the woman of the house around here?” she asked pleasantly, drawing up to the beast. “If she’s in the Batcave, you don’t have to tell me.”
She reached out to give the statue a pat, and abruptly, it was on all fours, teeth bared, growl reverberating as if a bass guitar had been struck. Sarah felt her heart punch her breastbone. “Nice doggy…”
“I see you’ve met my roommate.” Nina’s voice seeped into Sarah’s ear like honey, as slow and easy as ever, but Sarah was a bit too scared for her life to appreciate it.
“Is he vegetarian?”
“Not in the slightest. Takes after his mistress that way.” Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah was aware of Nina pausing on the flight of stairs she was coming down and folding her elbows across the railing. “What do you think, Barnaby? Would she taste good?”
Barnaby barked once.
“Yes, I think so too. But oh, what about portions? There couldn’t possibly be enough for both of us…”
Barnaby barked again.
“I think so too. Let’s just stick with dog food. Ms. Kay, if you would be so kind as to hold out your hand?”
Sarah did, subtly positioning it to catch her heart if the damn thing succeeded in breaking out of her chest.
“Barnaby, safe.”
Barnaby eagerly smelled her hand, bullet-sized nostrils pulling inward as his cold nose sniffed from the tips of her fingers to the pulse of her wrist. When he was finished, he parked his butt back on the floor.
“Good boy, Barnaby.” Nina addressed Sarah next, her voice losing some but not all of its condescension. “Now that he has your scent, he won’t bother you. You’ll be welcome here at any time.”
“Thanks,” Sarah said, her voice hiding some but not all of her sarcasm. Seemingly bored of her, Barnaby the Big Black Dog turned around and padded deeper into the house.
Sarah looked up the stairs. Nina Rose didn’t disappoint. The woman was dressed somewhere between exquisite and modest, somehow making Sarah feel underdressed and overdressed at the same time. She wore a wine-dark cowl blouse over a lacy camisole, hip-hugging slacks, and shoes with red bottoms. There was an elegance in the casualness of the look, sweet because it was so unexpected. Sarah had imagined some Old Hollywood thing, a glistening gown, an expanse of leg.
Her face too. Not at all what Sarah had expected. She’d pictured high cheekbones, thin lips—a chilly, aristocratic face to go with that cutting voice. David Bowie as a woman. Angelina Jolie before she stopped eating.
No. Nina Rose had a face made for noir, beautiful like an old pin-up or a decal on the side of a WWII bomber, but she was also cute. Adorable, even. Mouth wide and lips full, smiling with a gleam of white teeth, full cheeks fitted to that fond smile, eyebrows finely sketched, her hair cut short into a dark wreath about her scalp, exposing the neat little seashells of her ears. Seeing it, seeing her smile, Sarah felt an irresistible urge to smile back.
“Ms. Rose,” she stammered out, trying to maintain eye contact. Nina was making her feel inadequate from the neck up; no need to look further. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Meet you again, I mean.”
“We have met before, you know.” Nina took another padding step down another creaking stair. “One of your birthday parties, when I was new in town. You were ten—as I recall. I was seventeen.” She looked Sarah over, her eyes seeming to suck in all of Sarah’s body. “It seems like only yesterday you weren’t even as high as my boots.”
Nina in boots. Sarah blushed for no reason she could figure out. “Well, I’ve filled out a lot—grown a lot,” she corrected hastily. “Ms. Rose, I’m a little unsure why I’m here.…”
“For a reward, of course.” Nina’s voice flowed into Sarah’s own words like wine filling a crystalline glass. She took another step, the tap of her heels muted on the carpeted steps, then the uncomplaining creak of it taking her weight.
“Reward?”
“For the other night. You saved my life,” Nina said. “Do you prefer Sarah or Ms. Kay?”
“Whatever you like is fine, Ms. Rose.”
“I prefer Nina. And that would make you Sarah.” Nina descended to the landing with a little exaggerated flourish. “There. Now we’re on even footing.”
Lame joke. Sarah laughed, not falsely.
“Say it,” Nina said.
Sarah was momentarily confused, but those dark eyes pressed in on her, and then she just knew: “Nina.”
Something seemed to pass through Nina. Her eyes opened a little wider.
“I didn’t save your life,” Sarah continued. “It was really just…”
“It’s really just my money,” Nina said. “I’ll decide how to spend it. And who on.”
“Money?” Sarah repeated.
“This is a big house, but I’ve never noticed an echo in it before.”
Sarah flushed. “Sorry.”
&nbs
p; “Don’t be. Just…improve.” Nina reached into her pocket and took out an envelope. “One thousand dollars. If that isn’t enough to cover repairs to your vehicle, I’ll have to assume your mechanic is cheating you, and that’s really your problem. I assume a check is okay?”
One thousand… “A check is very okay.”
“I am sorry about your car.”
“My car?”
Nina smiled, seeing Sarah realize she’d repeated herself again. “I heard that you ran it off the road to avoid hitting me. Since you don’t seem to think you saved my life, you’ll at least let me thank you for not killing me. Come. There is one other thing, since you’ve come all this way,” she said, and led Sarah further inside.
She turned on the lights as she went through each room but only dimly. Sticking to Nina’s heels—practically walking in her footsteps—Sarah decided the place felt cozy more than anything else. There was something surprisingly light about Nina’s presence. It drained all the intimidation out of the house.
They came to a sort of breakfast nook built into a bay window, offering a view over the river. The table was brief and circular, its top inscribed with a checkerboard pattern. Instead of chess pieces or checkers, though, there was a bottle of Perrier and two glasses on top.
Nina sat down on one end of the wrap-around booth. “Given that we met so briefly, I wouldn’t presume to guess at your tastes, but it’s water, so if you don’t like it, you’re probably going to die.”
“Water’s fine,” Sarah said, still standing. But at Nina’s slightly admonishing head tilt, she sat. “I’m just not very thirsty.”
“Then I’ll give you not very much to drink. But just so you know, at a job interview you should always accept refreshments. It makes you seem more accommodating.”
Sarah cleared her throat. “Wait, this is a job interview?”
“You’re not looking for work?” Nina asked. She wound the cap off the bottle. “And I was really hoping to snatch you away from the grocery store. They must’ve bought your loyalty quite thoroughly. What was it? 401(k)? Dental?”
The Woman at the Edge of Town Page 3
