It was childish but I wondered how long it would take them to notice how far away I was. When would they miss me, look back, call out to me?
At last, Todd turned and waved his sword. “Cynda,” he shouted. “Cynda, hurry up!”
Hands still clasped, Dad and Susan waited for me. I walked slowly toward them, my pockets heavy with stones.
4
Not long after lunch, someone rapped on the kitchen door. “That must be Mrs. Bigelow,” Susan said as Todd ran to let in a ruddy-faced little woman.
“Lord, it’s cold,” she said, shedding her coat and scarf. “From the way it’s clouding up, we’re bound to have snow tonight.”
Turning to me with a smile, she introduced herself. “You must be Cynda. My friend Gina told me she met you last night at the diner.”
She gave my hand a friendly squeeze and turned back to Susan. “I’d best be about my work. I don’t want Will fetching me after dark. If I’m right about the snow, the roads will be bad.”
After Mrs. Bigelow scurried upstairs to clean, I lingered at the table, sipping tea. I’d had little to say during lunch, but nobody noticed because Todd entertained us with endless knock-knock jokes, most of which he’d invented himself and made no sense to anyone but him. Susan and Dad laughed anyway which inspired him to even greater heights of silliness.
Long before I finished my tea, Susan excused herself and went to her sewing room. Todd tagged along with her. Dad disappeared into his den to write, leaving me with no one to talk to.
Bored, I went to the living room and picked up one of Dad’s mysteries. I’d never read any of his books. Mom had given me the idea they were poorly written and plotted. Violent, too. Filled with bad language and sex. She said I’d be embarrassed to admit Dad was my father.
I made myself comfortable and opened Dead but Not Forgotten, an Inspector Marathon mystery by the author of The Cruel Hereafter, Dad’s most popular book. Although it wasn’t great literature, the novel was a lot better than Mom claimed.
After several chapters, I was distracted by the rumble of the vacuum cleaner. Remembering what Gina had said about Mrs. Bigelow, I laid Dad’s book aside. I’d promised myself to ask her about the ghost when she came to clean the inn. She was upstairs right now. Maybe she’d stop working long enough to tell me exactly what she’d experienced.
I left the living room quietly and followed the sound of the vacuum cleaner to a guest room on the second floor. Mrs. Bigelow was by herself, hard at work. When she saw me in the doorway, she gasped and pressed her hand to her heart.
“My goodness, Cynda, you gave me a fright. I didn’t hear you coming.” Switching off the vacuum cleaner, she laughed. “I get jumpy up here all by myself.”
“The inn’s a spooky old place,” I agreed, “especially at night.”
Mrs. Bigelow fidgeted with the switch on the vacuum cleaner, as if she weren’t sure whether to continue working or stop and talk. “Gina told me she spoke to you and your father about the ghost,” she began hesitantly. “I hope she didn’t frighten you, Cynda.”
“I wasn’t scared,” I said quickly, “just curious. I wanted to hear more, but Dad kept insisting it was all nonsense. He doesn’t believe in things like that, you know, but I—well, I was hoping you’d tell me about the ghost. If that’s what it is.”
“Oh, that’s what it is, all right.” Mrs. Bigelow sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. I perched beside her. The room was gauzy with shadows, the air still and cold. I wished I’d worn a warmer sweater.
“I guess you ought to know,” Mrs. Bigelow went on. “After all, it’s no secret, though I doubt the real estate agent told your father. Mr. Hunnicott was so anxious to get Underhill off his hands, he didn’t want to say anything that might get in the way of the deal.”
Mrs. Bigelow paused as if she were searching for the right words. Trying hard to be patient, I waited while she gnawed her lip and thought. Finally she looked at me. “A girl was murdered near here sixty or seventy years ago. My father was one of the fishermen who found her at the bottom of the cliff. A terrible sight, he said. Remembered it till the day he died.”
She reached for my hand and squeezed it. “She’d been in the water so long there wasn’t a drop of blood in her body, but it was clear someone had slashed her throat and thrown her into the sea. Like a snow maiden she was, washed pure by the salt water.”
I stared at Mrs. Bigelow, chilled through and through by the memory of what I thought I’d seen in the ocean. “Why would anybody do something like that?” I whispered.
She shook her head sadly. “No one knows, Cynda. The last time the girl was seen alive, she was walking on the cliffs with a man. The police searched for months, they questioned people for miles around, but it was as if the earth had swallowed him up. They never found him.”
I gazed into the shadows darkening the corners. The sky had clouded over since lunch and the short winter day was sinking into dull, gray dusk. “Why does she haunt the inn?” I asked.
Mrs. Bigelow tightened her grip on my hand. “She used to live here, Cynda. This was her home. It’s the only place the poor, lost creature knows.”
“Have you ever seen her?”
“Not seen, no, but sometimes she comes close enough to touch, close enough to feel—if spirits could be touched or felt. Sad she is and cold, so cold the hair on my arms rises when she’s near.”
Mrs. Bigelow drew back. “Lord, look at you. You’re as white as a ghost yourself. Oh, my, I’ve gone and scared you half to death.”
“No, it’s all right, I’m fine,” I protested, but I couldn’t stop shivering. “I’d better go now. I promised Todd I’d read to him this afternoon.”
Mrs. Bigelow looked at me closely. “You’ve got nothing to fear from her, Cynda. It’s her killer she seeks, but he’s dead and buried himself now. That’s why she can’t rest. Her death was never avenged, her killer was never brought to justice.”
By the time Mrs. Bigelow finished that last sentence, I’d backed away to the door. “Like the ghost of Hamlet’s father,” I whispered. “‘Doomed for a certain time to walk the night . . .”’
I don’t think Mrs. Bigelow heard me. She’d turned away, her hand on the vacuum cleaner, ready to resume her work.
Without looking back, I fled downstairs. Behind me, the vacuum cleaner roared into life, but even that familiar sound couldn’t calm my nerves.
A few minutes later, Todd found me at the living room window watching snowflakes the size of duck feathers swirl down from the clouds. I was thinking about the dead girl. Once she’d stood where I stood now, seeing what I saw now. Snow in winter, green fields in summer, moonlight and sunlight, blue sides and gray, dawn and dusk. Like me, she’d run up and down the inn’s stairs; she’d warmed herself at the fire; she’d laughed, she’d cried; she’d gone in and out, always expecting to return.
Todd tugged my arm to get my attention. “Where have you been, Cynda? You promised to read to me. Remember?”
I took the books he handed me, glad for something to keep me from thinking about death and dying.
Halfway through the second story, Todd was distracted by the sound of a truck laboring up the driveway to the inn. Twisting around, he peered out the window.
“It’s Will!” he cried happily.
Jumping off the couch, he ran into the kitchen and opened the back door. “Will, Will, come in!” I heard him shout.
While I was putting the books away, Todd returned. To my surprise, he dragged a boy into the living room with him. I’d expected Will to be Mrs. Bigelow’s husband, but I’d obviously made a mistake. The boy was about my age, too young to be Mrs. Bigelow’s son, let alone her husband.
“This is my new big sister, Cynda,” Todd said proudly. “I told you she was coming to live with us. And—ta-dah—here she is.”
Will smiled. He was tall and thin, curly-haired, and rosy-cheeked from the cold. Not exactly handsome, at least not in the way movie stars are. His face was too narrow, his mou
th too wide. But he was good-looking enough to make me wish I’d spent more time on my hair.
“I came to pick up my grandmother,” Will said. “Is she ready to leave?”
The vacuum cleaner was roaring overhead. “It sounds like she’s still cleaning,” I said, glad Will didn’t know it was my fault Mrs. Bigelow wasn’t finished yet.
We stared at each other. As usual, I couldn’t think of anything to say clever or otherwise. Apparently Will was as inept at making conversation as I was. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. I brushed at a speck of lint on my sweater sleeve. The hall clock chimed the half hour. The vacuum cleaner droned.
Todd tugged at Will’s hand. “Come see my castle. It’s got two knights, a dragon, and a drawbridge. Daddy helped, but I built most of it.”
Will glanced at me as Todd towed him toward the kitchen. “If you need a ride to school, I can take you,” he said suddenly. “My truck’s not much but it’s better than being stuck on the bus for a couple of hours.”
“Thanks,” I said, following him and Todd. “But Dad set up a home-study program for me.”
“Lucky you,” Will said.
Todd interrupted before he could say more. Thrusting a plastic knight into Will’s hand, he said, “You guard the north gate and I’ll guard the south gate. Whatever you do, don’t let the wolf in.”
“What wolf?” Will asked.
Todd handed me a small rubber wolf. “Cynda, you be the wolf.”
“What if I don’t want to?” I laid the wolf down, resenting the way Todd thrust himself into the center of everything. I wanted to talk to Will, not play a dumb game.
Todd stared at me, obviously surprised. “We can’t play if you won’t be the wolf.”
“Sorry,” I said. Getting to my feet, I left the kitchen, thinking Will would follow me. Surely he didn’t want to play with a five-year-old.
But I was wrong. Behind me, I heard Will say, “Don’t cry, Todd. I’ll be the wolf and the guard.”
I flung myself down on the couch. Except for the electric candles on the window sill, the living room was dark. I could have turned on a light, but I didn’t. The dark suited my mood.
In the kitchen, Todd shouted, “Bad wolf!” and Will laughed. Now that it was too late, I wished I’d taken the wolf and played Todd’s silly game. I hadn’t expected Will to go along with my brother. I’d misjudged the situation.
Which wasn’t unusual. I always had trouble making friends, especially boyfriends. I’d been in love dozens of times, but it was always the unrequited kind. I’d fall for a boy because his eyes were the color of fog or his smile was as warm as candlelight or his laugh reminded me of sleighbells at Christmas. I’d worship him from across the library or the football field and then watch him fall in love with somebody else—a cheerleader or a gymnast or the star of the class play.
Maybe it was because I was shy and didn’t know how to smile and flirt and make boys comfortable. Maybe it was because I wasn’t pretty enough. Or sexy. Maybe it was because we moved so often. Whatever the reason, I stumbled over everything from words to my big pair of left feet.
Suddenly a light went on, nearly blinding me. “My goodness, Cynda, what are you doing sitting here all by yourself in the dark?” Mrs. Bigelow asked.
Before I could answer, Todd ran into the room. Flinging his arms around Mrs. Bigelow, he cried, “Please let Will stay a little longer. He promised to draw me a picture.”
My little brother’s charms didn’t work on Mrs. Bigelow. Shaking her head, she said, “It’s snowing, dear. You know how steep the road to our place is. You wouldn’t want us to get stuck, would you?”
With that, Mrs. Bigelow went to the kitchen to fetch her coat and scarf. Todd and I trailed along behind her.
While Will helped his grandmother bundle up, Todd bombarded him with questions. “Are you going to plow our driveway tomorrow? Can I help? Can I ride in the truck with you?”
Will grinned and shrugged. “We’ll see, Todd, we’ll see.”
Todd scowled. “Dumbhead, you sound just like Daddy!”
Susan looked up from the pie she was making for dessert. “Don’t be fresh, Todd.”
“Come on, Will,” Mrs. Bigelow urged. “The snow’s coming down harder and harder.”
Will lingered for a second in the doorway. “It was nice meeting you, Cynda. I’ll probably be back tomorrow afternoon with the plow. See you then.”
I smiled at Will, pleased he’d made a special point of saying goodbye to me. Maybe my refusal to play Todd’s game hadn’t made me look as bad as I’d feared. Maybe Will liked me after all. Or maybe he was just being polite. He was so nice it was hard to tell.
After the Bigelows left, I retreated to my room to escape the noise Todd was making with his blocks. I intended to read for a while before dinner, but it was hard to concentrate. The clock ticked loudly. The wind rose. Snow hissed against the windows. Tree limbs rattled like dry bones.
I thought of the dead girl, her face as white as sea-foam, her hair floating on the waves—a sight so terrible that Mrs. Bigelow’s father remembered it till his dying day. Murdered—she was murdered and thrown into the ocean. And her killer was never caught.
I searched the shadows fearfully, looking and listening for signs of the girl’s presence. I saw nothing, heard nothing, but I was sure she was nearby, watching me.
With all my coward’s heart, I wished I’d never gone upstairs, never pestered Mrs. Bigelow, never learned about the dead girl.
5
Since he’d opened Underhill, Dad had become a gourmet cook. He took great pride in preparing my first dinner at Underhill—a lavish spread of Maine food, including lobster and clams and fancy little potatoes, topped off with Susan’s deep-dish apple pie.
After we’d eaten, Dad took Todd to bed. While we waited for him to return, Susan busied herself fixing tea. The kitchen was warm and cozy, but outside, Mrs. Bigelow’s snow had become a howling blizzard.
Susan turned to me. “Isn’t Will nice, Cynda?”
Trying to sound indifferent, I shrugged and said, “He’s okay, I guess.”
I’d been daydreaming about Will all evening, but I didn’t want Susan to know. More than likely, he already had a girlfriend. Even if he didn’t, I doubted he’d be interested in me. It looked like another case of unrequited love was looming on my horizon.
“Things haven’t been easy for Will,” Susan went on. “He came here from Boston four or five years ago. Some problem with his parents. A divorce, I guess.”
While Susan talked, I studied a poster on the wall behind her, pictures of vegetables labeled with their French names. Potato: pomme de terre; bean: haricot; onion: oignon; garlic: ail. I mouthed the words silently, trying to get the pronunciation right, but I was listening to everything Susan said.
“The kids around here don’t accept outsiders easily, so he’s become something of a loner,” she was saying. “It worries Mrs. Bigelow that he’s made so few friends, but he seems happy enough to me.”
“Are you talking about Will?” Dad strolled into the kitchen and dropped his long frame into a chair. “It’s his artistic temperament, Susie. He’d be a loner no matter where he lived.”
Tilting back, he balanced precariously on two chair legs and smiled at me. “Ask him to show you his paintings someday, Cynda. The boy has real talent.”
Susan poured a cup of tea for Dad. “You were upstairs a long time, Jeff. Was Todd more difficult than usual?”
“No matter how many books I read, he begged for another. Then it was a song, then a glass of water, then a search under the bed for wolves. He’s wearing me out.”
Susan patted Dad’s shoulder. “Poor old Papa,” she joked.
Dad laughed and pressed his ear against her stomach. “Lord, Susie,” he murmured, “it’s kicking up a storm already.”
I turned away, wishing Dad would save that kind of thing for later. Mom and Steve were just as bad. Always hugging and kissing, never realizing they were maki
ng me uncomfortable.
Releasing Susan, Dad said, “You know what I think the problem is? Todd’s worried about the baby.”
“But we’ve talked to him about it so often, Jeff. Surely he knows it won’t change our love for him.”
For a few minutes, I listened to Dad and Susan discuss Todd’s insecurities, but the conversation soon began to annoy me. Todd, Todd, Todd—present or absent, my half brother dominated the household. In my opinion, it wouldn’t hurt him to have a rival. I had to share Dad. Why shouldn’t Todd do the same with a younger child?
Finally I said I was going to bed. I hoped Dad would realize he’d been ignoring me and apologize. Instead, Susan yawned. She was tired too. Taking Dad’s hand, she led him into the hall, turning back once to ask if I’d mind rinsing the cups and saucers before I turned in.
I slung the dishes into the sink, making as much noise as I could, but I doubt if either Dad or Susan heard me. The inn was too big, its walls too thick for sounds to carry all the way to the third floor.
Ebony stalked into the kitchen and brushed against my legs, probably hoping I’d feed him. To keep him interested, I poured a little milk into a bowl. “See this? If you want it, you have to come with me.”
My little ploy worked. Ebony followed me down the dark hall, almost tripping me in his eagerness to get the milk. Once we were in my room, I shut the door to make sure he stayed. I didn’t want to be alone. Not with a ghost prowling the inn.
I undressed quickly and got into bed, thinking Ebony would curl up beside me. Instead he leaped to the windowsill. When I called him, he ignored me. So much for feline gratitude.
“All right,” I muttered. “If you won’t come to me, I’ll come to you.”
I slid out of bed, determined to make the cat do what I wanted. Always a mistake. When I tried to pick him up, he growled softly—not at me but at something outside.