In that way, we are more alike than he knows.
“I hear your carvings are sold down in Boston, too.”
“Yeah, the gallery down there calls it ‘rustic art’ or some such nonsense. I haven’t figured out if that’s an insult.”
I glance around at the champagne-sipping people. “This doesn’t look like a rustic crowd.”
“No, most of these folks are up from the city.”
“I hear Dr. Gordon has a few paintings here tonight.”
“In the other room. He’s already sold one.”
“I had no idea he was an artist, either. Yet another man with a secret talent.”
Ned turns and stares across the room. “People are complicated, Ava,” he says quietly. “What you see isn’t always what you get.”
I glance in the direction he’s looking and notice that Donna Branca has just walked into the gallery. She’s reaching for a glass of champagne when our gazes meet, and for an instant her hand freezes over the tray of drinks. Then she lifts a flute to her lips, takes a deliberate gulp, and walks away.
“Donna Branca and Ben Gordon—are they, um, involved?” I ask Ned.
“Involved?”
“I mean are they seeing each other?”
He frowns at me. “Why do you ask?”
“She seemed a little peeved when she saw me and Ben together the other day.”
“Are you seeing him?”
“I’m just curious about him. He was kind enough to make a house call after I fainted last week.”
For a long time Ned doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if I, the outsider, have blundered into some forbidden topic. In a town as small as Tucker Cove, everyone knows each other so well that every romance must seem halfway incestuous.
“I thought you had a fellow down in Boston,” he says.
“What fellow?”
“I heard you talking on the phone to someone named Simon. I assumed…”
I laugh. “He’s my editor. And he’s married, to a very nice man named Scott.”
“Oh.”
“So he’s definitely not a prospect.”
Ned eyes me curiously. “Are you looking for one?”
I survey the men in the gallery, some of them attractive, all of them very much alive. It’s been months since I’ve felt any interest in the opposite sex, months during which all desire has been in hibernation.
“Maybe I am.” I pick up a fresh flute of champagne and head into the next room, weaving past women in little black dresses. Like them, I too am a summer visitor, but in this crowd I feel like an outsider. Neither a Mainer nor an art collector, but in a category all my own: the cat lady who lives in the haunted house. I haven’t eaten dinner, the champagne has gone straight to my head, and the room seems too noisy, too bright. Too full of art. I scan the walls, eyeing muddy abstracts and giant photos of old cars. I truly hope I don’t hate Ben Gordon’s paintings because I’m not a good enough liar to pull off a fake love your work! Then I spot a telltale red dot affixed to one of the frames, indicating it’s been sold and I understand at a glance why someone would pay $2,500 for this piece. The painting captures the sea in all its liquid turmoil, the waves wind-tossed, the horizon an unsettling smear of storm clouds. The artist’s signature, B. Gordon, is almost hidden in a swirl of green water.
Hanging beside it is another B. Gordon painting, still available for purchase. Unlike the ominous seascape, this image is of a beach with calm water lapping at the pebbles. The image seems so realistic it might be mistaken for a photograph, and I lean in closer to confirm the brushstrokes. Every detail, from the tree with its tortuously twisted trunk, to the seaweed-clad rocks, to the shoreline curving to a rocky exclamation point of an island, tells me this is a portrait of a real place. I wonder how many hours, how many days he sat painting on this beach as shadows grew and daylight faded.
“Do I dare ask for your opinion, or should I just slink away now?”
I’ve been so enchanted by the painting, I didn’t notice that Ben is standing right beside me. Despite the press of people all around us, he is focused only on me, and his gaze is so intent I’m forced to turn away. I look instead at his painting.
“I’ll be absolutely honest with you,” I tell him.
“I guess I should brace myself.”
“When you told me you were an artist, I didn’t imagine your paintings would be this good. It seems so real I can feel the pebbles under my feet. It’s almost a shame you became a doctor instead.”
“Well, medicine wasn’t my first choice.”
“Then why did you go through all those years of training?”
“You’ve been in my office. You saw the photos of my dad and my grandfather. It seems like there’s always been a Dr. Gordon in Tucker Cove, and who was I to break the tradition?” He gives a rueful laugh. “My father used to tell me I could always paint in my spare time. I wasn’t brave enough to disappoint him.” He stares at the seascape as if seeing his own life in those turbulent green waters.
“It’s never too late to be a rebel.”
For a moment we smile at each other as the crowd mills around us and harp music floats through the room. Someone taps him on the shoulder and he turns to face a trim brunette who’s just ushered an older couple to meet him.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Ben, but this is Mr. and Mrs. Weber from Cambridge. They’re very impressed by your piece View from the Beach and they wanted to meet the artist.”
“Is this painting a real location?” Mrs. Weber asks. “Because it looks just too perfect.”
“Yes, it’s a real beach, but I cleaned it up a little. Left out the flotsam. I always choose real locations to paint.”
As the Webers move in for a closer view and to pitch more questions, I retreat to let Ben close the sale. He snags my arm and murmurs, “Can you stay a bit, Ava? Maybe we can get a bite together later?”
I don’t have time to think about it because the Webers and the brunette are both watching us. I just give a nod and move on.
Dinner with my doctor. Not what I was expecting tonight.
I wander the room, sipping champagne and mulling whether I’ve read more than I should into Ben’s invitation. It’s eight o’clock and the gallery is now so crowded I can’t get close enough to view the most popular items in the collection. I don’t count myself as an art expert but I do know what I like, and there are a few treasures to admire. A red sticker now adorns Ned’s puffin carving, and he’s been backed into a corner by a woman wearing a bright purple caftan. After too many nights spent alone in my house on the hill, I feel as if I’ve finally emerged from a coma. For this I have Ben Gordon to thank.
A group has coalesced around him, and he stands surrounded by the Webers, the brunette gallery owner, and half a dozen admirers. He casts an apologetic glance my way, and that’s enough to keep me patiently waiting, even though I’m getting light-headed from hunger and champagne. Of all the women he could have asked to join him for dinner, why did he choose me? Because I’m the new gal in town? As an eligible bachelor in Tucker Cove, perhaps he’s weary of being pursued, and I’m the one woman who isn’t interested in him.
Or am I?
I wander the gallery, my gaze drifting past the art, while my attention is keenly focused on Ben. His voice, his laugh. I stop before an abstract bronze sculpture titled: Passion. It is all curved surfaces, bodies melded so completely that you can’t see where one begins and the other ends. I think of the turret room, and Jeremiah Brodie. I think of leather cuffs around my wrists and our bodies sweating, colliding. My mouth goes dry. My face flushes. I close my eyes, my hand resting on the curve of the sculpture, and the bronze feels as hard and unforgiving as the muscles of his back. Tonight. Please, come to me. I want you.
“Ready to go, Ava?”
I open my eyes to see Ben smiling at me. The
respectable Dr. Gordon is clearly interested, but am I interested in him? Could a real man satisfy me the way Jeremiah Brodie does?
We escape the gallery crowd and walk into the warm summer night. Everyone in Tucker Cove seems to be out this evening, strolling the village streets. The T-shirt shops are crowded and, as usual, a long line snakes out of the ice cream parlor.
“Doesn’t look like we’ll find an open table anywhere,” I tell him as we walk past yet another packed restaurant.
“I know someplace where we don’t need a table.”
“Where?”
He grins. “Best meal in Tucker Cove. Trust me.”
We turn away from the village center and head down a cobblestoned street, toward the harbor. It is quieter on the landing, where only a few tourists are wandering about. We walk past windjammers creaking at their moorings, past a fisherman casting his line from the dock.
“Incoming tide. Mackerel’s running,” the fisherman calls out. I glance at his catch, and under the dim glow of the streetlight, I see silvery fish wriggling in his bucket.
Ben and I walk on, toward a small crowd of people gathered around a food cart, and I see steaming pots and catch their savory scent. Now I know why Ben has brought me down to the landing.
“No silverware, no linen, just lobsters,” he says. “I hope that’s okay with you.”
It’s more than okay; it’s exactly what I’m craving.
We buy piping-hot steamed lobsters, corn on the cob and French fries, and carry our meals to the seawall. There we sit with our legs dangling over the rocks, our cardboard plates resting on our laps. All that’s missing is a bottle of wine, but after drinking three glasses of champagne, I’m better off without any more booze tonight. Too hungry to make conversation, I tear straight into my meal, expertly extracting meat from the shell and popping it into my mouth.
“I see you don’t need any lessons on how to take apart a lobster,” he observes.
“I’ve had lots of practice in the kitchen. You should see how fast I shuck oysters.” I wipe melted butter from my chin and grin at him. “This is what I’d call the perfect meal. No fussy waiters, no pretentious menu. Simplicity and freshness always wins the day.”
“Says the food writer.”
“Says the very enthusiastic eater.” I take a bite of corn and it’s just what I was hoping for, sweet and crisp. “I plan to devote an entire chapter in my book to lobsters.”
“You know they used to be considered trash food? If you brought lobster in your lunch pail, everyone assumed you were poor.”
“Yes, crazy, isn’t it? That anyone ever thought that way about the food of the gods.”
He laughs. “I don’t know about food of the gods, but if you need any information at all about lobsters, I’ll put you in touch with Captain Andy.” He points to a boat bobbing in the harbor. “That one’s his. The Lazy Girl. He can take you out on his boat and tell you more than you’ll ever need to know about lobstering.”
“I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”
He surveys the dark harbor. “As a kid, I used to work on some of these boats. One summer, I was crew on the Mary Ryan, right over there.” He points to a three-masted schooner tied up at the dock. “My dad wanted me to work in the hospital as a lab assistant, but I couldn’t stand the thought of being cooped up inside all summer. I needed to be out there, on the water.” He tosses an empty lobster shell into the harbor, where it lands with a soft splash. “Do you sail?”
“My sister and I grew up sailing on a lake in New Hampshire.”
“So you have a sister. Is she older? Younger?”
“Two years older.”
“And what does she do?”
“She’s a doctor in Boston. An orthopedic surgeon.” The subject of Lucy makes me uncomfortable and I quickly change the subject. “I’ve never sailed on the ocean, though. To be honest, the sea scares me a little. One mistake and it’s all over. Which reminds me.” I turn to him. “Whatever happened with that body the lobsterman pulled out of the water?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t heard any follow-up. An accident, most likely. People go out on boats, drink too much. Get careless.” He looks at me. “I don’t get careless, not on the water. A good sailor gives the ocean the respect it’s due.”
I think of Captain Brodie, who surely knew the ocean as well as any man could. Yet even he was taken, and now his bones lie under the waves. I shiver, as though the wind has just whispered my name.
“I can help you get over your fear, Ava.”
“How?”
“Come out sailing with me. I’ll show you it’s all about knowing what to expect, and being prepared for it.”
“You have a boat?”
“A thirty-foot wooden sloop. She’s old, but she’s tried and true.” He tosses another empty shell into the water. “Just to be perfectly clear, I’m not formally asking you out on a date.”
“No?”
“Because doctors aren’t supposed to date their patients.”
“Then I guess we’ll have to call this something else.”
“So you will come out with me?”
For something that isn’t a date, it’s starting to sound suspiciously like one. I don’t answer him right away, but take my time considering his offer as I tidy up the napkins and plastic utensils from our meal. I don’t know why I’m hesitating; I’ve never been particularly cautious about men before, and on every practical level, Ben Gordon is a catch. I can almost hear the ever-logical voice of Lucy, who’s spent all her life watching out for me. He ticks all the right boxes, Ava! He’s attractive, intelligent, and a doctor to boot. He’s just the man you need after all the Mr. Wrongs you’ve been dating. And Lucy has heard about them all, every drunken mistake I’ve made, every man I’ve ever slept with and regretted.
Except one.
I look at Ben. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Do you invite all your patients out for a sail?”
“No.”
“Why me, then?”
“Why not?” He sees my questioning look and he sighs. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound flippant. It’s just…I don’t know what it is about you. I see a lot of summer people come through town. They stay for a few weeks, a few months, and then they’re gone. I never saw the point of investing the emotional energy in a relationship with any of them. But you’re different.”
“How?”
“You intrigue me. There’s something about you that makes me want to know more. As if, beneath the surface, there’s a great deal to discover.”
I laugh. “A lady with secrets.”
“Is that who you are?”
We stare at each other and I’m afraid he’ll try to kiss me, which is not what a doctor is supposed to do with his patient. To my relief he doesn’t, but turns to look at the harbor again. “I’m sorry. That probably sounded really weird.”
“It makes me sound like a puzzle-box you want to crack open.”
“That’s not what I meant at all.”
“What did you mean?”
“I want to know you, Ava. All the things, big and small, that you’ll let me learn about you.”
I say nothing, thinking about what waits for me in the turret. How shocked Ben would be if he learned how eagerly I welcome both the pleasure and the pain. Only Captain Brodie knows my secret. He is the perfect partner in shame, because he will never tell.
My silence has stretched on too long and Ben gets the hint. “It’s late. I should let you get home.”
We both rise to our feet. “Thank you for inviting me. I enjoyed it.”
“We should do it again. Maybe out on the water next time?”
“I’ll think about it.”
He smiles. “I’ll make sure the weather’s perfect. You won’t have a thi
ng to worry about.”
* * *
—
When I arrive home, I find Hannibal sitting in the foyer, waiting for me. Watching me with his glowing cat’s eyes. What else does he see? Does he sense the ghost’s presence? I stand at the bottom of the stairs, sniffing the air, but all I smell is fresh paint and sawdust, the scent of renovation.
In my bedroom I undress and turn off the lights. In the darkness I stand naked, waiting, hoping. Why has he not returned? What must I do to lure him back? With every night that passes, every night that I do not see him, I grow more fearful that he never existed at all, that he was nothing more than a fantasy born of wine and loneliness. I press my hands to my temples, wondering if this is what insanity feels like. Or is it a complication of cat scratch fever, encephalitis, and brain damage, just the sort of logical explanation Lucy would accept. Microbes, after all, can be seen through a lens and grown in test tubes. No one doubts their existence, or the havoc they can wreak in a human brain.
Maybe this really is Hannibal’s fault.
I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. At least this much I know is real: The crispness of linen against my skin. The distant whoosh of the ocean and the rumble of Hannibal purring beside me.
Nothing takes shape in the darkness; no thickening shadow congeals into a man. Somehow I know he will not visit me tonight; perhaps he was never here at all. But there is a man who could be in my bed, if I wanted him. A real man.
It’s time for me to choose.
Sixteen
The mainsail snaps taut and I cling to the starboard rail as Callista heels in the wind, her bow slicing through the swells.
“Nervous?” Ben calls out from the tiller.
“Um, a little!”
“There’s nothing to worry about. Just sit back and enjoy the view. I’ve got everything under control.”
And he does. From the moment I stepped aboard Callista, I knew I was in capable hands. Ben has thought of every detail to make this afternoon perfect. Sparkling water and wine are chilling in the cooler and the picnic hamper is packed with cheese and fruit and chicken sandwiches. I had offered to make lunch, but he’d assured me that everything was taken care of, and it has been. I glance around the pristine deck where all the ropes are neatly coiled, where every brass fitting gleams and the teak shines with fresh varnish.
The Shape of Night Page 12
