“Then what are you afraid of?”
“This is something different. Something evil.”
“Or so Maeve says. And you believe her?”
“After last night, after what he did to me…” I stop, my cheeks suddenly burning at the memory.
Ben frowns. “He?”
Too ashamed to look at him, I stare down at the floor. Gently he tilts up my face and I can’t avoid his gaze.
“Ava, tell me what’s been happening to you in this house.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
I blink back tears and whisper: “Because I’m ashamed.”
“What on earth do you have to be ashamed of?”
His gaze is too searching, too invasive. I pull away and go to the window. Outside the mist hangs as heavy as a curtain, hiding my view of the sea. “Captain Brodie is real, Ben. I’ve seen him, heard him. I’ve touched him.”
“You touched a ghost?”
“When he appears to me, he’s every bit as real as you are. He’s even left bruises on my arms…” I close my eyes and I picture Captain Brodie standing before me. The memory is so vivid I can see his windblown hair, his unshaven face. I draw in a breath and inhale the scent of brine. Is he here? Has he returned? My eyes snap open and I frantically glance around the room, but all I see is Ben. Where are you?
Ben takes my shoulders. “Ava.”
“He’s here! I know he is.”
“You said he’s as real as I am. What does that mean?”
“I can touch him and he can touch me. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. What you’re imagining. And it’s true, it’s all true! Somehow he knows what I want, what I need. That’s how he traps us here. Not just me, but the women before me. The women who spent their lives in this house, who died in this house. He gives us what no other man can give us.”
Ben steps closer until we’re face-to-face. “I’m real. I’m here. Give me a chance, Ava.” He cradles my face and I close my eyes, but it’s Captain Brodie I see, Captain Brodie I want. My master and my monster. I try to imagine Ben in my bed and what kind of lover he would be. It would be a plain vanilla fuck, like so many others I’ve known with men before him. But unlike Brodie, Ben is real. A man, not a shadow. Not a demon.
He leans close and presses his lips against mine in a warm and lingering kiss. I don’t feel even the faintest tremor of excitement. He kisses me again. This time he cups my face and holds it captive, trapping my mouth against his, his teeth bruising my lips. I lose my balance, and suddenly I’m falling backward and my shoulders collide with the wall. I don’t fight him as he presses against me. I want to feel something, anything. I want him to light the match and set me on fire, to prove that the living can satisfy me the way the dead do, but I feel no stirring of heat, no tingle of desire.
Make me want to fuck you, Ben!
He grabs my wrists and pins them to the wall. Through my jeans I feel the hard evidence of his desire pressed against me. I close my eyes, ready to let this happen, ready to do whatever he wants, whatever he demands.
The deafening bang makes us jerk apart, startled.
We both stare at the bedroom door, which has just slammed shut. None of the bedroom windows are open. No breeze blows through the room. There is no reason at all for the door to have so violently swung shut.
“It’s him,” I say. “He did it.”
Now I’m frantic to get out of the house and I waste no more time. I bolt to the closet and rake out the last of my clothes. This is why Charlotte left this house so abruptly. She too must have been frantic, terrified of staying a moment longer. I close and zip my suitcase.
“Ava, slow down.”
“How does a door slam shut by itself? Explain that, Ben.” I haul the suitcase off my bed. “It’s easy for you to be calm about this. You don’t have to sleep here.”
“Neither do you. You can stay with me. Stay as long as you want to. As long as you need to.”
I don’t answer him, but simply head out of the room. Silently he takes my suitcase and carries it downstairs for me. In the kitchen, he’s still silent as I pack up my precious chef’s knives and tongs, my whisks and my copper pot, all the gear that a dedicated cook cannot live without. He is still waiting for me to respond to his offer, but I refuse to answer. I pack up two unopened bottles of wine (never let a good bottle of Cabernet go to waste) but leave the eggs and milk and cheese in the refrigerator. Let whoever cleans up after me take it; I just want to get the hell out of this house.
“Please don’t leave,” he says.
“I’m going home to Boston.”
“Does it have to be tonight?”
“I should have left weeks ago.”
“I don’t want you to leave, Ava.”
I touch his arm, and his skin is warm and alive and real. I know he cares about me, but that is not a good enough reason for me to stay.
“I’m sorry, Ben. I have to go home.”
I pick up the empty cat carrier and carry it outside to the driveway. There I scan the yard, looking for Hannibal, but I don’t see him.
I circle the house, calling his name. From the cliff’s edge, I scan the path leading down to the beach. No Hannibal. I go back into the house and again call out his name.
“Don’t do this to me, goddamn it!” I yell in frustration. “Not today! Not now!”
My cat is nowhere to be seen.
Twenty-Eight
Ben carries my suitcase up the stairs to his spare bedroom, where I find a braided green rug and a four-poster bed. Like Ben himself, it all looks like it came out of the L.L.Bean catalogue, and right on cue, Ben’s golden retriever tip-taps into the room, tail wagging.
“What’s your dog’s name?” I ask.
“Henry.”
“What a sweet boy.” I crouch down to stroke the dog’s head and he looks at me with soul-melting brown eyes. Hannibal would eat him alive for breakfast.
“I know you didn’t plan on this,” says Ben. “But I want you to know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. As you can see, I’ve got this big house all to myself and I can use the company.” He pauses. “I didn’t mean it that way. You’re far more to me than just someone to keep me company.”
“Thank you,” is all I can think of saying.
We stand in awkward silence for a moment. I know he is going to kiss me and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I stand perfectly still as he leans in and our lips touch. When he wraps his arms around me I don’t resist. I’m hoping to feel the same heat I felt with the captain, the same delicious anticipation that kept luring me up those turret steps, but with Ben I feel no such excitement. Captain Brodie has ruined me for the touch of a real man, and even as I respond by mechanically looping my arms around Ben’s neck, even as I submit to his embrace, I’m thinking of the climb up that staircase and the firelight glowing through the doorway above. I remember the hiss of silk skirts around my legs and the accelerating beat of my heart as the firelight grows brighter, as my punishment looms closer. My body responds to the memory. While these are not the captain’s arms wrapped around me, I try to imagine they are. I long for Ben to take me as he did, to trap my wrists and push me against the wall, but he makes no such move. I am the one who wrenches him toward the bed and invites his assault. I don’t want a gentleman; I want my demon lover.
As I pull Ben down on top of me, as I strip off his shirt and peel away my blouse, it’s Jeremiah Brodie’s face I picture. Ben may not be the one I want, but he will have to do because the lover I truly crave is the one I dare not return to, the one who both thrills me and terrifies me. I close my eyes and it’s Captain Brodie who groans into my ear as he thrusts into me.
But when it’s over and I open my eyes, Ben is the one I see smiling down at me. Ben, who is so predictable. So safe.
“I knew you w
ere the one,” he murmurs. “The woman I’ve been waiting for all my life.”
I sigh. “You hardly know me.”
“I know enough.”
“No, you don’t. You have no idea.”
“What shocking secrets can you possibly be hiding?”
“Everyone has secrets.”
“Then let me guess yours.” He presses a playful kiss to my lips. “You sing opera off-key in the shower.”
“Secrets are what you don’t tell people.”
“There’s something worse? Lied about your age? Ran a red light?”
I turn my face to avoid looking at him. “Please. I don’t want to talk about this.”
I feel him staring at me, trying to penetrate the wall I’ve put up against him. I twist away and sit up on the side of the bed. Look down at my bare thighs, splayed apart like a hooker’s. Oh no, Ben, you do not want to know my secrets. You don’t want to know all the sins I have committed.
“Ava?” I flinch as he places his hand on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry, but this isn’t going to work. You and me.”
“Why are you saying this after we just made love?”
“We’re too different.”
“That’s not really the problem, is it?” he says. His voice has changed, and I don’t like the sound of it. “You’re just trying to find a way to tell me I’m not good enough for you.”
“That’s not at all what I’m saying.”
“But that’s how it sounds to me. You’re like the others. Like all the—” He stops, distracted by his ringing cellphone. He lurches to his feet to retrieve the phone from his trouser pocket. “Dr. Gordon,” he answers curtly. Though he’s turned away from me, I can see the muscles knotted in his bare back. He feels wounded, of course. He’s fallen in love with me and I’ve rejected him. And at this most painful of moments, he’s forced to deal with a crisis at the hospital.
“You’ve started the infusion? And how does her EKG look now?”
As he talks to the hospital, I gather up my clothes and quietly get dressed. Whatever desire I’d felt earlier has gone stone cold, and now I’m embarrassed to be seen naked. By the time he hangs up, I’m fully dressed and sitting primly on the bed, hoping we can both forget that anything ever happened between us.
“I’m sorry, but my patient’s just had a heart attack,” he says. “I have to go in to the hospital.”
“Of course.”
He pulls on his clothes and briskly buttons his shirt. “I don’t know how long I’ll be there. It could take a few hours, so if you get hungry, feel free to raid the refrigerator. There’s half a roast chicken in there.”
“I’ll be fine, Ben. Thank you.”
He pauses in the doorway and turns to look at me. “I’m sorry if I assumed too much, Ava. It’s just that I thought you felt the same way I did.”
“I don’t know what I feel. I’m confused.”
“Then we need to hash this out when I get home. We need to settle this.”
But there is nothing to settle, I think as I hear him thump down the stairs and out of the house, and the front door bangs shut behind him. There is no fire between us, and above all, I need to feel fire. I look out the window and am relieved to see him drive away. I need this time alone to think about what I’ll say when he comes back.
I’m about to turn from the window when another vehicle rumbles by. The gray pickup truck is startlingly familiar, because it used to be parked in my driveway every weekday. Is Ned Haskell working somewhere in this neighborhood? Ned’s truck vanishes around the corner and I back away from the window, disturbed by my glimpse of him.
As I head downstairs, I’m glad that Henry is right at my heels, his claws tapping on wood. Why do I own a cat when I could have a dog like Henry, whose sole reason for existence is to protect and please his owner? Meanwhile, useless Hannibal is off prowling like the tomcat he is, once again complicating my life.
In the kitchen, I look in the refrigerator and confirm there is half a roasted chicken, but I have no appetite for food. What I really want is a glass of wine, and I find an already opened bottle with just enough Chardonnay left in it to get me started. I empty it into a glass and sip it as I wander into the living room with Henry still at my heels. There I admire the four oil paintings hanging on the walls. All of these are Ben’s work, and once again I’m impressed by his skill. The same beach is the subject of all four paintings, but each has a different mood. The first captures a summer’s day, the water reflecting bright shards of sunlight. Lying on the sand is a red-checked blanket, still bearing the rumpled indentations of the two people who had been lying there. Lovers, perhaps, who’ve gone off for a swim? I can almost feel the heat of the sun, taste the salt from the sea breeze.
I turn to look at the second painting. It’s the same beach with the same jagged rock jutting up on the right, but autumn has tinted the vegetation in brilliant reds and golds. On the sand lies the same checked blanket, rumpled as before, with fallen leaves scattered across it. Where are the lovers? Why have they left behind their blanket?
In the third painting, winter has blown in, turning the water black and ominous. Snow covers the beach, but one small corner of the blanket has curled up from beneath that layer of snow, a startling red patch against white. The lovers are gone, their summer tryst long forgotten.
I turn to the fourth painting. Springtime has arrived. The trees are a bright green and a lone dandelion blooms in a scrubby patch of grass. I know this is meant to be the final painting in the series because once again there is the red-checked blanket on the sand. But the seasons have transformed it into a tattered symbol of abandonment. The fabric is dirt-streaked and littered with twigs and leaves. Any pleasures that were once enjoyed on that red-checked cloth are now long forgotten.
I imagine Ben setting up his easel on this beach, painting this same scene again and again as the seasons unfold. What kept drawing him back to this spot? The corner of a tag peeks out from behind the frame. I pull it out and read the label.
CINNAMON BEACH, SPRING, #4 IN A SERIES.
Why does that name sound so familiar? I know I’ve heard it before and I know it was a woman’s voice that said the words. Then I remember. It was Donna Branca, explaining to me why suspicion had fallen on Ned Haskell. There was a woman who went missing about five years ago. Ned had her house keys in his truck. He claimed he found them on Cinnamon Beach.
The same beach that keeps reappearing in Ben’s paintings. Surely it’s just a coincidence. Others must have visited this cove, sunned themselves on this same sand.
The dog whines and I glance down, startled by the sound. My hands have gone cold.
Through the living room doorway, I spy an easel and canvas. As I move into the next room, I catch the scent of turpentine and linseed oil. Propped up before the window is Ben’s current work in progress. So far it’s just a sketch, the outline of a harbor scene waiting for the artist to breathe life and color into it. Leaning against the walls are dozens of paintings he’s completed, waiting to be framed. I flip through them and see ships plowing through swells, a lighthouse lashed by storm-tossed waves. I move to the next stack of canvases and slowly flip through these, as well. Cinnamon Beach and the missing woman are still on my mind, still bothering me. Donna had said the woman was a tourist who’d rented a cottage near the beach. When she vanished, everyone assumed she’d simply gone for a swim and drowned, but when her house keys turned up on Ned’s dashboard, suspicion had fallen on him. Just as it’s fallen on Ned now, for the murder of Charlotte Nielson.
I flip to the last canvas in the stack and freeze, the hairs on my arms suddenly standing up as gooseflesh ripples across my skin. I am staring at a painting of my own house.
The painting is not finished yet; the background is dark blue and featureless and patches of bare canvas still show through, but there is
no doubt this house is Brodie’s Watch. Night swathes the building in shadow and the turret is but a black silhouette against the sky. Only one window is brightly lit: my bedroom window. A window where a woman stands silhouetted against the light.
I stare down at my fingers, which are tacky with dark blue paint. Fresh paint. Suddenly I remember the flickers of light I’d glimpsed at night from my bedroom window. Not fireflies, after all, but someone outside, standing on the cliff path, watching my window. While I lived at Brodie’s Watch, while I slept in that bedroom, undressed in that bedroom, Ben has secretly been painting this portrait of my house. And me.
I cannot spend the night here.
I run upstairs and cast a nervous glance out the window, afraid I’ll see Ben’s car pull into the driveway. There is no sign of him. I haul my suitcase back down the steps, bump-bump-bump, and wheel it outside to my car. The dog has followed me and I drag him by the collar back into the house and shut him inside. I may be in a rush to leave, but I won’t be responsible for an innocent dog getting hit by a car.
As I drive away, I keep glancing in the rearview mirror, but the street behind me is empty. I have no evidence against Ben, nothing but a glimpse of that painting in his studio and it’s not enough, not nearly enough, to bring to the police. I’m just a summer visitor and Ben is a pillar of the community whose family has lived here for generations.
No, a painting is not enough to alarm the police, but it’s enough to make me uneasy. To make me rethink everything I know about Ben Gordon.
I’m bent on getting out of town, but just as I’m about to turn onto the road heading south out of Tucker Cove, I remember Hannibal. I slap the steering wheel in frustration. You jerk of a cat; of course you’d be the one to complicate everything.
I make a sharp U-turn and drive toward Brodie’s Watch.
It’s early evening and in the deepening gloom, the fog seems thicker, almost solid enough to touch. I step out of the car and scan the front yard. Gray mist, gray cat. I wouldn’t see him even if he were sitting a few yards away.
The Shape of Night Page 23
