The first step gives an ominous creak when I place my weight on it. I pause, listening. There is still no sound above.
Hannibal’s loud meow makes me jump. I glance back and see him at my heel, not looking the least bit alarmed. He slithers past me, trots up to the closed door at the top of the staircase, and waits for me in the gloom. My cat is braver than I am.
I tiptoe up the stairs, my pulse quickening with each step. By the time I reach the top, my hands are sweating and the doorknob feels slippery. Slowly I turn it and nudge the door open.
Sunlight floods my eyes.
Blinded, I squint against the glare, and the turret room comes into focus. I see windows streaked with salt. Silky cobwebs dangle from the ceiling, swaying in the newly disturbed air. Hannibal sits beside a stack of wooden planks, calmly licking his paw. Everywhere is woodworking equipment—a band saw, floor sanders, sawhorses. But no one is here.
A door leads outside to the widow’s walk, the rooftop deck that overlooks the sea. I open the door and step out into a bracing wind. Gazing down, I see the cliff path where I’d been walking only moments earlier. The sound of the waves seems so close, I might be standing on the bow of a ship—a very old ship. The balcony railing looks rickety, the paint long ago scoured away by the elements. I take another step and the wood suddenly sags beneath me. Instantly I retreat and look down at rotted planks. Donna had warned me to stay off the widow’s walk, and if I’d walked out much farther, the deck might well have collapsed under my weight. Yet only moments ago, I thought I’d spotted someone standing on this balcony, where the wood looks as insubstantial as cardboard.
I retreat back inside the turret and close the door against the wind. With its east-facing windows, the room is already warm from the morning sun. I stand bathed in that golden light, trying to make sense of what I saw from the cliff, but I can summon no answers. A reflection, perhaps. Some odd distortion caused by the antique glass in the windows. Yes, that must be what I saw. When I look through the window, the view is warped by ripples, as though I’m peering through water.
At the periphery of my vision, something shimmers.
I spin around to look, but see only a swirl of floating dust, glittering like a million galaxies in the sunlight.
Four
Donna is talking on the phone when I walk into the office of Branca Property Sales and Management. She gives me a welcoming wave and gestures to the waiting area. I sit down near a sunny window and as she continues her conversation, I flip through a book of properties listed for rent. I can’t find any listing for Brodie’s Watch, but there are other enticing options, from shingled beachside cottages to in-town apartments to a stately mansion on Elm Street that comes at an equally stately price. As I flip through pages of beautifully photographed homes, I think about the view from my bedroom in Brodie’s Watch and my morning walk along the cliff with its perfume of roses. How many homes in this book came with their own private beach?
“Hello, Ava. How are you settling in at the house?”
I look up at Donna, who’s finally finished her phone call. “I have, um, a few little problems I need to talk to you about.”
“Oh dear. What problems?”
“Well to begin with, mice.”
“Ah.” She sighs. “Yes, it’s an issue with some of our older houses around here. Since you have a cat, I don’t recommend putting out poison, but I can supply you with some mousetraps.”
“I don’t think a few mousetraps are going to take care of the problem. It sounds like there’s an army of them living in the walls.”
“I can ask Ned and Billy—they’re the carpenters—to close up any obvious entry points so more mice can’t get in. But it is an old house, and up here, most of us just learn to live with them.”
I hold up the book of rental properties. “So even if I moved to a different place, I’d run into the same problem?”
“Right now there isn’t anything available for rent in the area. It’s the height of summer and everything’s booked, except for maybe a week here and a week there. And you wanted a longer term rental, right?”
“Yes, through October. To give me time to finish the book.”
She shakes her head. “I’m afraid you won’t find anything that can match the views and privacy of Brodie’s Watch. The only reason your rent’s so reasonable is because the house is under renovation.”
“That’s my second question. About the renovation.”
“Yes?”
“You said the carpenters would only be working on weekdays.”
“That’s right.”
“This morning, when I was out on the cliff path, I thought I saw someone up on the widow’s walk.”
“On a Sunday? But they don’t have a key to the house. How did they get in?”
“I left the front door unlocked when I went out for my walk.”
“Was it Billy or Ned? Ned’s in his late fifties. Billy’s just twenty-something.”
“I didn’t actually speak to anyone. When I got back, no one was in the house.” I pause. “I suppose it could have been just a trick of the light. Maybe I didn’t see anyone after all.”
For a moment she’s silent, and I wonder what’s going through her head. My tenant is a loon? She manages a smile. “I’ll give Ned a call and remind him not to disturb you on weekends. Or you can tell him yourself when you see him. They should both be up at your house tomorrow morning. Now, about the mouse problem, I can bring you some traps tomorrow, if you’d like.”
“No, I’ll pick some up right now. Where do they sell them in town?”
“Sullivan’s Hardware is right down the street. Turn left and you can’t miss it.”
I’m almost at the door when I suddenly remember one more thing I need to ask. I turn back. “Charlotte left a cookbook in the house. I’ll be happy to send it to her if you let me know where she wants it mailed.”
“A cookbook?” Donna shrugs. “Maybe she didn’t want it anymore.”
“It was a gift from her grandmother and it has Charlotte’s handwritten notes all over it. I’m sure she does want it back.”
Donna’s attention is already shifting away from me and back to her desk. “I’ll shoot her an email and let her know.”
* * *
—
The sunshine has brought out all the tourists and as I walk down Elm Street, I dodge baby strollers and give a wide berth to children clutching drippy ice cream cones. As Donna said, it really is the height of summer and everywhere in town, cash registers are merrily ringing, restaurants are crowded, and scores of unlucky lobsters are meeting their steamy fates. I continue past the Tucker Cove Historical Society, past half a dozen shops all selling the same T-shirts and saltwater taffy, and finally spot the sign for Sullivan’s Hardware.
When I step inside, a bell tinkles on the door and the sound brings back a memory from my childhood, when my grandfather would bring me and my older sister, Lucy, into a hardware store just like this one. I pause and inhale the familiar scents of dust and freshly sawn wood and remember how Grandpa would lovingly peruse the hammers and screws, hoses and washers. A place where men of his generation knew their purpose and happily embraced it.
I don’t see anyone, but I can hear two men somewhere at the rear of the store discussing the merits of brass versus stainless steel faucets.
I head down an aisle, searching for mousetraps but find only gardening implements. Trowels and spades, gloves and shovels. I turn down the next aisle, which is stocked with nails and screws and spools of wire chain in every possible link size. Everything you need to build a torture chamber. I’m about to start down a third aisle when a head suddenly pops up from behind a pegboard of screwdrivers. The man’s white hair stands up like dandelion fluff and he peers at me through drooping spectacles.
“Help you find something, miss?”
“Yes. Mousetraps.”
“Got yourself a little rodent problem, eh?” He chuckles as he rounds the end of the aisle and approaches me. Although he’s wearing work boots and a tool belt, he looks far too old to still be swinging a hammer. “I keep the mousetraps down this way, with the kitchen utensils.”
Mousetraps as kitchen utensils. Not an appetizing thought. I follow him to a back corner of the store, where I see an array of spatulas and cheap aluminum pots and pans, all of them covered with dust. He snatches up a package and hands it to me. In dismay, I eye the spring-loaded Victor snap traps, six to a packet. The same brand of traps my grandparents would set out in their New Hampshire farmhouse.
“Do you have something a little more, uh, humane?” I ask.
“Humane?”
“Traps that don’t kill them. Like a Havahart?”
“And what do you plan to do with ’em after you catch ’em?”
“Let them go. Outside somewhere.”
“They’ll just come right back in again. Unless you’re planning on taking ’em for a long drive.” He gives a loud guffaw at the idea.
I look at the snap traps. “These just seem so cruel.”
“Dab on a little peanut butter. They sniff it, step on the spring, and whap!” He grins when I jump at the sound. “They won’t feel a thing, I promise ya.”
“I really don’t think I want to—”
“Got an expert here in the store who can reassure you.” He yells across the store: “Hey, Doc! Come tell this young lady she’s got nothin’ to be squeamish about!”
I hear approaching footsteps and turn to see a man around my age. He’s wearing blue jeans and a plaid shirt, and with his clean-cut good looks, he might have just stepped off the pages of an L.L.Bean catalogue. I almost expect to see a golden retriever trotting at his heels. He’s carrying a brass faucet set, the apparent winner of the stainless steel-or-brass debate I’d overheard earlier.
“How can I help, Emmett?” he says.
“Tell this nice lady here that the mice won’t suffer.”
“What mice?”
“The mice in my house,” I explain. “I came in to buy traps, but these…” I look down at the package of snap traps and shudder.
“I keep tellin’ her they’ll do the trick, but she thinks they’re cruel,” says Emmett.
“Ah. Well.” Mr. L.L.Bean gives an unhelpful shrug. “No killing device is going to be one hundred percent humane, but those old Victor traps have the advantage of being almost instantaneous. The bar snaps the backbone, which severs the spinal cord. That means no pain signals can be transmitted, minimizing the animal’s suffering. And there are studies that show—”
“Excuse me, but why are you an expert on this?”
He gives a sheepish smile. I notice his eyes are a striking blue and he has enviably long lashes. “It’s basic anatomy. If signals can’t travel up the spinal cord to the brain, the animal won’t feel a thing.”
“Dr. Ben should know,” says Emmett. “He’s our town doctor.”
“Actually, it’s Dr. Gordon. Everyone just calls me Dr. Ben.” He shifts the brass bathroom fixture under his left arm and reaches out to shake my hand. “And you are?”
“Ava.”
“Ava with the mouse problem,” he says, and we both laugh.
“If you don’t want to use mousetraps,” says Emmett, “maybe you just oughta get a cat.”
“I have a cat.”
“And he hasn’t taken care of the problem?”
“We just moved into the house yesterday. He’s already caught three mice, but I don’t think even he can take care of the whole problem.” I look at the mousetraps and sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to get these. They’re probably more humane than getting eaten by my cat.”
“I’ll throw in an extra pack of ’em, how ’bout it? On the house,” says Emmett. He heads up front to the cash register, where he rings up my purchase. “Good luck, young lady,” he says, handing me a plastic bag with my traps. “Just be careful when you set ’em, ’cause it ain’t much fun having ’em snap down on your fingers.”
“Use peanut butter,” says Dr. Gordon.
“Yes, I just heard that advice. It’s next on my shopping list. I guess this is just part of renting an old house.”
“Which house would that be?” Emmett asks.
“The one up on the point. It’s called Brodie’s Watch.”
The sudden silence speaks louder than anything either man could have said. I catch the look that flies between them and notice Emmett’s eyebrows knit together, carving deep furrows in his face.
“So you’re the gal who’s renting Brodie’s Watch,” says Emmett. “You staying there long?”
“Through the end of October.”
“You, uh, like it up there on the point?”
I look back and forth at the two men, wondering what isn’t being said. Knowing that something is being left out of the conversation, something important. “Except for the mice, yes.”
Emmett covers up his consternation with a forced smile. “Well, you come on back if you need anything else.”
“Thank you.” I start to leave.
“Ava?” says Dr. Gordon.
“Yes?”
“Is anyone staying up there with you?”
His question takes me aback. Under other circumstances, a stranger asking if I live alone would put me on guard, make me wary of revealing my vulnerability, but I don’t sense any threat from his question, only concern. Both men are watching me, and there’s a strange tension in the air, as if both of them are holding their breaths, waiting for my answer.
“I’ve got the house all to myself. And my cat.” I open the door and pause. Looking back, I add: “My very big, very mean cat.”
* * *
—
That night, I bait six mousetraps with peanut butter, leave three in the kitchen, two in the dining room, and the sixth one in the upstairs hallway. I don’t want Hannibal to trap his paw in any of them, so I bring him into my bedroom. Clever Hannibal is an escape artist who’s learned how to turn doorknobs with his paws, so I slide the latch shut, locking him inside with me. He’s not happy about this and he paces the room, yowling for a chance to go on another mouse hunt.
“Sorry, kiddo,” I tell him. “Tonight you’re my prisoner.”
I turn off the lamp and in the moonlight I can see him continue to pace. It is another clear, still night, the sea as calm and flat as molten silver. In the darkness I sit by the window sipping a bedtime glass of whiskey and marveling at the view. What could be more romantic than a moonlit night in a house by the sea? I think of other nights when moonlight and a few drinks made me believe that this man might be the one who’d make me happy, the one who’d stand the test of time. But a few days, a few weeks later, the cracks would inevitably begin to show and I’d realize: No, he’s not the man for me. Time to move on and keep looking. There’s always someone else out there, someone better, isn’t there? Never settle for Mr. Good Enough.
Now I sit alone, my skin flushed from my day in the sun and by the alcohol that now courses through my veins. I reach down yet again for the bottle, and when my arm brushes across my breast, it leaves my nipple tingling.
It has been months since any man has touched me there. Months since I’ve felt even the faintest hint of lust. Not since New Year’s Eve. My body has been asleep, all desire frozen in a state of hibernation. But this morning, when I’d stood on the beach, I had felt something inside me flicker back to life.
I close my eyes and in an instant the memory of that night is back. My kitchen counter covered with used wineglasses and dirty plates and platters of empty oyster shells. The cold tiles under my naked back. His body on top of mine, thrusting into me again and again. But I won’t think about him. I cannot bear to think of him. Instead I conjure u
p a faceless, guilt-free someone, a man who does not exist. A man for whom I feel only lust, not love. Not shame.
I refill my glass with whiskey, even though I know I have already had too much tonight. My shin still aches from banging it on the landing last night, and this afternoon I noticed a fresh bruise on my arm, but I can’t remember when or where I got it. This drink will be my last for the night. I gulp it down and flop onto the bed, where moonlight, pale as cream, washes across my body. I peel open my nightdress and let the cool sea air whisper across my skin. I imagine a man’s hands touching me here, and here, and here. A faceless, nameless man who knows my every desire, a perfect lover who exists only in my fantasies. My breaths quicken. I close my eyes and hear myself moan. For the first time in months my body is hungry again to feel a man inside me. I imagine him grasping both my wrists and pinning them above my head. I feel his calloused hands, his unshaven face against my skin. My back arches and my hips rise to meet his. A breeze blows in through the open window, flooding the room with the smell of the sea. I feel his hand cradling my breast, stroking my nipple.
“You are the one I’ve been waiting for.”
The voice is so close, so real, I gasp and my eyes fly open. In terror I stare at the dark shape hovering above me. Not solid, but merely a swirl of shadow that slowly drifts away and dissipates like mist in the moonlight.
I bolt straight up in bed and flip on the lamp. Heart banging, I frantically scan the room for the intruder. All I see is Hannibal sitting in the corner, watching me.
I jump to my feet and scramble to check the door. It is still locked tight. I cross to the closet, yank it open, and rake aside my hanging clothes. I find no intruder lurking inside, but I spy an unfamiliar bundle of silk in the deepest corner of the closet. I unfurl a rose-colored silk scarf—not mine. Where did this come from?
There’s only one more place in the room to look. Confronting every childhood nightmare about monsters hiding under the bed, I drop to my knees and peer under the box spring. Of course, no one is there. All I find is a stray flip-flop. Like the silk scarf, it was probably left behind by the woman who lived here before me.
The Shape of Night Page 3
