“I don’t know what I can bear.”
“This we shall learn.”
“Why?”
“Because it satisfies us both. Some have called me a monster because I enjoy the crack of the whip and the cry of the conquered. Because I am aroused by the screams and the struggle.”
“Is that really what you enjoy?”
“As do you. You simply do not admit it.”
“That’s not true. It’s not what I want.”
“Then why do you allow me to do it?”
I look in to those diamond-cold eyes and see the truth staring back at me. I think of all the reasons I deserve every punishment he has doled out and more. For the sins I’ve committed, the pain I have caused, I deserve his whips, his clubs, his brutal assaults.
“I know you better than you know yourself, dearest Ava,” he says. “It’s why I chose you. Because I know you will come back for more, and for worse.”
He caresses my face. His touch is unnervingly gentle, but I shiver. “How much worse?” I whisper.
He smiles. “Shall we find out?”
Eighteen
I jolt awake in the turret and blink against the sunshine that glares through the windows. My left hip is sore from lying on bare wood. My mouth feels like cotton and my head pounds from the hangover I fully deserve after the bottle of wine I drank last night. With a groan I cover my face with my arms, trying to block the light from my aching eyes. How did I end up sleeping here, on the floor? Why did I never make it back to bed?
Memories drift back. The climb up the staircase. The candles burning in the sconces.
And Captain Brodie.
With a start, I open my eyes again and wince as sunlight stabs my sockets. The fireplace is swept clean with no hint of ashes in the hearth. The alcove gapes empty, just bare walls and floor. No bed, no curtain, no manacles dangling from the ceiling. I am back in my time, in my world.
I look down at what I’m wearing. This is no dress of coppery silk, just the same thin nightgown that I wore to bed. I look at my wrists and see no scrapes or bruises from the manacles.
I stagger to my feet and grip the handrail as I slowly make my way down the turret staircase to my bedroom. There I pull off the nightgown and turn my back to the mirror. Last night, I’d writhed to the sting of his whip, had cried out as leather lashed my flesh, but in the glare of morning light, I see my back is unmarred by any bruises, any welts. I turn before the mirror, searching my naked body for any signs of the abuse I’d endured at his hands, but there are no telltale souvenirs of the punishment he meted out to me last night.
No, there is something.
I reach between my legs and feel the slick evidence of my arousal, so wet and copious that it might be his leavings that now trickle down the inside of my thigh. I stare at my glistening fingertips and wonder if this is the unholy mingling of our lust, the physical evidence that I have been violated by a man long dead. My cheeks flush in shame at the memory, but that shame also sets off a new tingle of desire.
My cellphone rings on the nightstand.
As I pick it up, my heart is still thudding, my hands unsteady. “Hello?”
“At last you pick up. I’ve left three voicemails for you.”
“Hello, Simon.” I sigh and sit down on the bed.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I didn’t want to get distracted. I’ve been in the zone.”
“What, the twilight zone?”
“Research. Writing.”
“Yes, I read the chapters you sent me.”
“What do you think?”
“They’re good.”
“Just good?”
“Okay, okay. They’re fucking great. What you wrote about oysters made me so hungry I went out and gorged on two dozen, washed down with a martini.”
“Then I did my job right.”
“When do I get to read the rest of it?”
I look at the pile of clothes, which are still lying on the floor where I dropped them last night. The ghost has distracted me. How can I write when every moment I stop to sniff the air, hoping to catch his scent?
“The book is coming along,” I assure him. “This house has been the perfect inspiration.”
“Ah yes, Brodie’s Watch. That’s why I’m calling. I want to see it.”
“Of course. I can send you some photos. I’m not the world’s best photographer, but—”
“I want to see it in person. I was thinking this weekend.”
“What?”
“It’s ninety-two degrees here in the city and I need to get out of Boston before I melt. Look, Ava, you’ve been MIA for months now, and Theo insisted I check on your progress. He signed your advance check and now he wants reassurance that you’re back on track to deliver. If I leave by noon Friday, I should be up there around five-ish. Or do you have a date with a hot lumberjack that evening?”
“I, um…” I have no excuse, none at all. All I can say is: “That would be fine.”
“Good. I’ll take you out to dinner, if you’d like.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Then I’ll cook dinner. Or you cook. I’m just keen to lay eyes on this sea captain’s house. Besides, it’s time to think about marketing strategies. Based on the chapters you’ve sent me, this book is going to be about far more than food. You’ve given it a true sense of place, Ava, and now I want to see Brodie’s Watch for myself.”
“It’s a long drive, just to see a house.”
“I’m coming to see you, too. Everyone’s been asking why you haven’t been around lately. Why you’ve vanished.”
If only I could vanish. If only I could melt away into these walls like Captain Brodie. Turn invisible so that no one can see what I’ve become. But I’ve known Simon for years, since long before he became my editor, and I know that once he’s made up his mind, there’s no changing it.
“If you’re arriving that late in the afternoon, you’ll probably want to spend the night here,” I say.
“I was hoping you’d offer.”
“Is Scott coming, too?”
“No, he’s playing the dutiful son and he’s off to see his mother. So it’ll just be you and me. Like old times.”
“All right, then. I’ll see you on Friday.”
“I’ll bring the wine.”
* * *
—
It’s five P.M. on the dot Friday evening when my doorbell rings.
Simon stands on the porch looking as natty as ever in his striped oxford shirt and red bow tie. In all my years of working with him, I’ve never seen him without a bow tie, even while working in restaurant kitchens, and he’d look positively undressed without it.
“There’s my gal!” He pulls me in for a hug. Thank god Simon’s hugs aren’t fraught with undercurrents of sexual tension; this is a brotherly embrace, from a man who’s been happily married for a decade to his husband, Scott, and he has absolutely no interest in me as a woman. He steps into the house, sets down his leather weekender bag, and tilts up his nose, sniffing. “What’s that I smell? Lobster?”
“I swear, you’re like a bloodhound, Simon.”
“I like to think I’m more like a truffle pig. Able to sniff out a fine Bordeaux from a mile away. So what’s the preparation tonight? Boiled and boring, or something special?”
I laugh. “For you, something special, of course. I’m just on the first step of the recipe. If you’d like to freshen up, the guest room’s at the top of the stairs.”
“First I want to see what’s cooking.” He leaves his leather bag in the foyer and heads straight into the kitchen. Simon comes from a long line of cooks, no doubt dating back to some ancient ancestor in animal skins who stirred a pot of mastodon stew, and he gravitates, as always, to the stove. “How long?” He doesn’t have t
o explain the question; I already know what he’s asking.
“They’ve been in there for fifteen minutes. Your timing’s impeccable.” I turn off the stove and lift the pot cover, releasing a fragrant cloud of steam. Only that morning, I’d been aboard the Lazy Girl with Ben’s lobsterman friend Captain Andy and watched these four crustaceans pulled green from the sea. Now they are a brilliant, mouthwatering red.
Simon reaches for one of the aprons hanging on the kitchen hook and swiftly ties it on. “Next step in the recipe?”
“You shell. I make the béchamel.”
“You’ve turned into a poet!”
“And don’t I know it.”
We set to work, moving around the kitchen like longtime dance partners who know each other’s moves. This is, after all, how we met years ago, as two college kids working summer jobs in a Cape Cod restaurant. I was promoted from dishwasher to salads; he went from salads to broiler—Simon was always one step ahead of me. He’s ahead of me now too, cracking claws and extracting meat so efficiently that by the time I’m whisking sherry and egg yolks into the béchamel, he has already liberated a mound of succulent lobster meat from their shells.
I cloak the meat in the sauce and slide the lobster pie into the oven.
Simon uncorks a chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc and fills my wineglass. “Here’s to teamwork,” he says as we toast each other. “Is this recipe going into the book?”
“If you think it passes muster tonight. I scavenged it from a 1901 hotel cookbook. It was considered quite the gourmet dish in the Old Mermaid Hotel.”
“So this is what you’ve been up to this past month.”
“Testing old recipes. Writing. Immersing myself in the past.” I look up at the antique tin ceiling. “This house puts me in the right frame of mind to immerse myself in that era.”
“But did you really have to trek all the way up here just to write? And by the way, your book is now almost a year overdue.”
“I know, I know.”
“I really don’t want to cancel your contract, but Theo’s an annoying bean counter and he keeps asking when you’ll deliver.” He pauses, studies me. “You’ve never been this late for a deadline before. What’s going on, Ava?”
To avoid answering his question, I finish off my glass of wine. “Writer’s block,” I finally answer. “But I think I’ve finally broken through. Since I moved into this house, I’ve been writing like crazy—and it’s good stuff, Simon. The old creative juices are starting to flow again.”
“Where did they go in the first place?”
I see him frowning as I refill my wineglass. How much have I had to drink this evening? I’ve lost count. I set the bottle back down and say quietly, “You know it’s been tough for me these past few months. I’ve been depressed, ever since…”
“New Year’s Eve.”
I go very still and don’t say a word.
“Stop blaming yourself, Ava. You threw a party, and he drank too much. What were you supposed to do, tie him up and keep him from getting in his car?”
“I didn’t do enough to stop him.”
“He wasn’t your responsibility. Nick was an adult.”
“I still blame myself. Even if Lucy doesn’t.”
“It sounds to me like you need to talk to someone about this. I know a very good therapist. I can give you her number.”
“No.” I pick up my glass and drain it in one gulp. “What I need right now is to eat dinner.”
“Considering how much you’ve had to drink tonight, I’d say that’s a good idea.”
I deliberately ignore his remark and pour myself more wine. By the time the salad’s been tossed and the lobster pie is on the table, I’m so irritated by what he said that I focus all my attention on the food, not on him. When did Simon become such a nanny?
He takes a bite of the lobster pie and sighs with pleasure. “Oh yes, this recipe must go in the book.”
“I’m glad to hear that something I’ve done meets your approval.”
“Oh for pity’s sake, Ava. I wouldn’t have signed you up for this book if I didn’t think you’d deliver. Which begs the question again, when will you deliver?”
“And that’s why you’re really here.”
“I didn’t spend five hours sitting in traffic just to say hello. Of course that’s why I’m here. And to check up on you, too. When your sister called me—”
“Lucy called you?”
“She hoped maybe I knew what was going on with you.”
I stare down at my wine. “What did she tell you?”
“She says you two hardly talk anymore and she has no idea why. She worries it was something she said, something she did.”
“No.”
“Then what? I always thought you girls were joined at the hip.”
I take a rebellious sip of wine to put off my answer. “It’s this book. It’s consuming me,” I finally say. “I’ve been struggling for months, but now it’s coming along. I’ve written six chapters since I got here. Living in this house has made all the difference.”
“Why? It’s just an old house.”
“Don’t you feel it, Simon? There’s so much history in these walls. Think of the meals they cooked in that kitchen, the feasts they enjoyed in this dining room. I don’t think I can write the book anyplace but in this house.”
“And that’s the only reason you left Boston? To look for inspiration?”
I manage to look him straight in the eye. “Yes.”
“Well then, I’m glad you found it here.”
“I did.” And I’ve found a great deal more.
* * *
—
That night I lie awake, acutely aware of my houseguest sleeping just down the hall. I have not mentioned a word to Simon about my resident ghost because I know what he’d think. I saw his watchful glances at dinner as I kept refilling my wineglass with the elegant Chardonnay he’d brought from Boston. I know he thinks my drinking is the real reason I’ve been unable to finish my book. Booze and writers may be a cliché, but in my case, as in Hemingway’s, it’s true.
No wonder I see ghosts.
I hear the floor creak in the hall and the sound of water running in the guest bathroom. It’s strange having someone else, someone real, in the house. Certainly ghosts don’t flush the toilet or run the faucet. It’s not a ghost who shuffles back to the guestroom and closes the door. I’m not used to living with human sounds now; it’s people who seem alien to me, and I resent this invasion of my home, even if it’s only for one night. This is the advantage of being a writer; I can go days without seeing another human being. The outside world is fraught with conflict and heartbreak; why should I leave my house when everything I want and need is within these walls?
Simon has upset the equilibrium and I feel the disturbance in the atmosphere, as if his presence has charged the air, which now moves in uneasy eddies through the house.
I am not the only one who feels it.
The next morning, when I come downstairs to the kitchen, I find Simon already awake and hunched at the table, gulping coffee. He’s unshaven, his eyes are bloodshot, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he isn’t wearing his trademark bow tie.
“You’re up awfully early,” I say as I go to the coffeepot and fill my own cup. “I was planning to be up first and make a nice frittata for breakfast.”
He wipes a hand across his eyes and yawns. “I didn’t sleep well. I thought I might as well get up and hit the road early.”
“Already? But it’s only seven.”
“I’ve been up since three.”
“Why?”
“Bad dreams.” He shrugs. “Maybe this house is too quiet. I can’t remember the last time I had nightmares like this.”
Slowly I sit down at the table and study him. “What kind of
nightmares?”
“There’s nothing less interesting than someone else’s dreams.”
“I’m interested. Tell me.”
He takes a deep breath, as if just the recounting of his nightmare requires the marshaling of nerves. “It’s as if he was sitting on my chest. Trying to squeeze the breath out of me. I wondered if I was having a heart attack. I actually felt his hands around my throat.”
He. His.
“I tried to fight him off, but I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed, the way it always happens in dreams. And he kept choking me until I really thought…” He takes another breath. “Anyway, I couldn’t go back to sleep after that. I just lay awake, listening for him. Half expecting him to come back.”
“Why do you say him?”
“I don’t know. I guess I could just as well say it. I only know it had me by the throat. And here’s the weird thing, Ava. When I woke up, that feeling of being choked was so vivid, I was desperate for a glass of water. I went into the bathroom and saw myself in the mirror, and just for an instant I could have sworn there were marks on my neck.” He gives a sheepish laugh. “Then I blinked and of course there was nothing. But that’s how shaken up I was.”
I stare at the exposed skin above his shirt collar but I see nothing unusual. No bruises, no marks left by phantom fingers.
He drains his coffee cup. “Anyway, I might as well hit the road early and beat the traffic back to Boston. I’ve already packed my bag.”
I walk him outside to his car and stand shivering in the crisp sea air as he loads his bag into the trunk. Birds trill overhead and a monarch butterfly sketches colorful zigzags through a clump of milkweed. It is going to be a glorious day, but Simon seems desperate to escape.
He turns to give me a goodbye peck on the cheek, and I see him cast a nervous glance at the house, as if he doesn’t dare turn his back on it. “Now finish the damn book, Ava.”
“I will.”
“And get back to Boston, where you belong.”
I can’t help but feel a sense of relief as I watch him drive away. The house is mine again, it’s a beautiful summer morning, and the whole day lies ahead of me. I hear a noisy meow and look down to see Hannibal sitting at my feet, tail twitching, breakfast no doubt on his mind.
The Shape of Night Page 14
