“Ill come to thee.” Susan crossed her arms protectively and shuddered. “It sounds like a curse.”
I stared at the board, “The Highwayman” fresh in my mind. “It should be I’ll, not ill,” I whispered. “Don’t you see? There’s no apostrophe in Scrabble. It says ‘I’ll come to thee by moonlight.’”
I stole a glance at Vincent, and he nodded approvingly.
“Yes, of course,” Dad said. “‘The Highwayman’—‘Look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I’ll come to thee by moonlight.’”
Susan looked at me. “How did you do it, Cynda?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “I’m not that clever.”
Dad turned to Vincent. “It must be your handiwork, Vince.”
Vincent smiled mysteriously. “Maybe, maybe not.”
Dad stroked his beard and frowned. “Surely you’re not saying this happened by chance.”
“Of course not. Nothing happens by chance.” Vincent seemed to find our bewilderment humorous. “Perhaps it’s a message from your resident ghost.”
Susan shivered and drew closer to Dad. Putting his arm around her, he said, “When I’m not so sleepy, you can tell me how you did it, Vince.”
Vincent followed them upstairs, chuckling at something Dad said. In the light of the dying fire, I studied the message on the Scrabble board. With trembling fingers, I picked up the wooden tiles and dropped them one by one into the box. “Ill” or “I’ll”—a curse or a promise?
10
An hour or so later, Vincent stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight. I’d been waiting at the window, watching and listening, certain he’d meant the message on the Scrabble board for me. I’d heard his footsteps on the floor above me, I’d heard him tiptoe down the stairs, I’d heard the back door open and close softly. Now he walked toward me, tall and lean in his long, dark coat, as graceful as a line of poetry slanting across the blank snow.
Ebony crouched beside me. The moment I opened the window, he leaped out and vanished like a black arrow shot into the night.
“Come back,” I called softly, fearing he’d freeze.
“Let him go,” Vincent said. “Hunters must have their sport as well as their comfort.”
He smiled and rested his hands on the windowsill. His fingers were long and thin, his nails neatly clipped, well cared for. Beside his, my hands were clumsy, my nails chewed and uneven.
“I’ve come to you by moonlight, Cynda.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “I’ve looked for you, watched for you.”
We gazed at each other silently. From the woods, the owl called. Once, twice, three times. The spooky sound made me shudder but Vincent turned his head and listened as if the owl spoke to him and him alone.
When the last echo faded into the dark, he sighed, his breath a silver plume in the cold air. “Come for a walk with me, Cynda. It’s too lovely a night to stay indoors.”
Quickly, fearing he’d change his mind if I dawdled, I pulled on my parka and gloves and wrapped a scarf around my neck. He offered his hand and helped me climb through the window. I’d heard girls brag about sneaking outside to be with their boyfriends, but I’d never dreamed of doing it myself.
I looked back once. Except for the candles, the inn’s windows were dark. Yet I was sure someone was watching, sure someone saw Vincent take my hand and hurry me away.
“What’s the matter?” Vincent slid his arm around my waist to shield me from the wind. “Is the night too cold for you?”
“I think someone saw us.”
Vincent turned and studied the inn. “Everyone’s asleep.”
“How can you tell?”
“Common sense. If they were awake, we’d see lights. Movement.”
Hand in hand, we walked toward the ocean. I tried to match my step with his, but, even though our legs were about the same length, his stride was longer. He seemed to glide across the snow effortlessly.
When we reached the cliff top, Vincent turned to me. The wind whipped his hair back, exposing his high forehead. His long coat billowed like a cape. “Are you frightened to be out here alone with me on a wild winter night?”
I encircled his neck with my arms, amazed by my daring. “I’d go anywhere with you,” I whispered, “and never be afraid.”
He smiled and drew me closer. I felt the strong beat of his heart, then his mouth against mine. Not just a brush of his lips, but a real kiss, a kiss so wonderful I wanted it to last till the stars burned out, till the ocean shrank to a drop, till time circled back on itself and began all over again.
“We must go,” Vincent murmured at last. “It’s late, and the wind is blowing harder.”
I clung to him, so weak with love I feared I’d fall if he let me go. “No, not yet,” I begged. “It’s so beautiful I want to stay here forever.”
“We’ll come back again, Cynda, I promise. Every night if you wish.”
Vincent kissed me once more and led me away from the cliff, away from the black sea laced with foam, away from the moon sailing from cloud to cloud like a ghostly galleon. I trudged beside him, pushed homeward by the wind, stumbling in the deep snow, wanting nothing but his kisses. Like Juliet, I prayed the gentle night would last forever, loving, black-browed night. Never again would I pay worship to the garish sun.
After he helped me climb through my window, Vincent lingered outside, holding my hands in his. “Promise to keep our meetings secret,” he whispered. “If your father or Susan knew, they’d send me away.”
“I’ll never tell,” I swore. “I’d rather die than lose you, Vincent.”
“My sweet darling.” He kissed me tenderly, raised his hand in farewell, and vanished into the night like a spiral of smoke blown by the wind.
Long after he was gone, I stood at the open window, gazing into the darkness, yearning for him to return. Another kiss, a few more minutes of his time. Finally the cold drove me to bed. Huddled under the covers, I fell asleep with Vincent’s name on my lips.
The next afternoon, Susan rapped on my door to tell me Will was in the kitchen. “He’s on his way to Ferrington to pick up some groceries. I know you’re studying, but I need cereal and milk. Could you ride along with him?”
I wasn’t in the mood to see Will, but she insisted. “I’d go myself, but I’m up to here with sewing projects.”
Reluctantly I followed her to the kitchen. Todd and Will sat next to each other at the table. “Draw Captain Jupiter on his horse,” Todd begged. “Make him fight another wolf.”
Will saw me and smiled. “Later, Todd. Cynda and I have errands to run.”
“Can I come too?”
Susan took Todd’s hand. “Not this time.”
Todd let out a bellow of complaint, but Susan hushed him with promises of hot chocolate and a story.
Pulling on my parka, I followed Will outside. His old truck was parked beside Vincent’s Porsche.
“What a fantastic car.” Will walked around the Porsche slowly, running a hand over its sleek body, admiring its lines. “Grandmother said Mr. Morthanos drove something fancy.”
I peered through the car’s windshield at the cozy interior and pictured myself riding into Ferrington with Vincent. We’d glide through the snowy countryside, swaying around curves, listening to soft music, sitting so close our hands and legs might touch. Dark and cold outside, dark and warm inside. Cradled close in soft leather seats as red as blood. . . . Vincent and me, Vincent.
Before I climbed into Will’s truck, I looked up at Vincent’s window. He was staring down at me, his face as pale as the moon’s in a winter sky. When he saw me, he smiled and drew the drapes.
“So that’s Mr. Morthanos,” Will said. “Grandmother’s been here twice since he came, but she hasn’t seen him yet. She says he doesn’t want to be disturbed, not even to have his room cleaned.”
“Vincent’s a poet,” I said, treasuring the sound of his first name. “He writes all day. If he’s interrupted, he loses his inspiration.”
&n
bsp; Will snorted. “He sounds like a real prima donna.”
“How can you say that?” I glared at Will. “I’ve never known anyone as nice as Vincent. He’s quiet and sensitive and very intelligent.”
“Todd doesn’t think much of him,” Will said. “The minute I walked in the door he started talking about how awful he is.”
“You can’t judge anyone by what Todd says. Dad told me he either likes people or hates them—for no reason at all.”
Will grinned. “That’s true. A man stayed at the inn last summer, one of a bunch of German tourists. Every time poor Herr Schroeder tried to be friendly, Todd was rude to him. Your father was embarrassed, but Herr Schroeder was very understanding.”
Knowing how much Will liked Todd, I decided to keep my thoughts about my brother to myself. Will wouldn’t agree that Todd was spoiled; he’d take up for him just as everyone else did.
Will forgot about Vincent when we passed a pair of deer watching us from the woods. “Aren’t they beautiful? I’d love to draw them but they’d be gone before I could find a pencil.”
He drove on slowly, pointing out things here and there—a place where blueberries grew, a curve in the river where he’d caught a big trout, an old barn he’d drawn.
By the time we got to Ferrington, I was laughing at Will’s stories about Rockpoint High. It seemed the kids gave the teachers a hard time; they were always cutting up and saying funny things. Will was good at imitating their Down-East accents, but I had a feeling Susan was right about his not having many friends. It sounded as if he spent most of his school day watching and listening.
In sunlight, the town looked even worse than it had the night Dad and I stopped at the diner. Smaller, shabbier. Stores closed, boarded up, posted with fliers advertising last summer’s events. Sea gulls floated overhead, complaining to one another. A cat slunk past, followed by an empty plastic bag drifting across the ice like a tired ghost.
Will pointed down a narrow street to the harbor. “In the summer, all kinds of places open up by the water—T-shirt shops, coffeehouses, ice cream stands, souvenir stores. Everything your heart desires at twice the price you’d pay back home.”
It was hard to imagine summer. Impossible. Huge mounds of snow encased houses and buried shrubbery. Icicles as thick as my arm hung like stalactites from roofs. Sheets and towels were frozen on clotheslines. Bare trees creaked in the cold wind. I thought of Mom in warm, sunny Italy and shivered enviously.
“How about a cup of coffee at the diner?” Will asked. “We can get the groceries afterwards.”
Gina was at the cash register, ringing up a sale, but as soon as she was free she came to take our order. She seemed pleased to see me with Will.
“I hear you have a guest,” she said. “A real odd duck.”
“Mr. Morthanos is a poet,” said Will, the master of sarcasm. “You know the type—very sensitive.”
Gina eyed him as if she weren’t sure of his meaning. “My Aunt Elsie was a poet. She wrote little verses for holidays and special occasions, even got some published in the local paper, but she didn’t lock herself up in her room to do it. Aunt Elsie was as sweet and friendly as a person can be, perfectly normal in every way.”
After Gina left, Will grinned at me, but I didn’t smile back. “I wish you’d stop making fun of Vincent,” I said. “He’s a serious poet, Will, not a jingle writer like Gina’s Aunt Elsie.”
The booth squeaked as Will shifted his position. “I was just teasing you. Why do you care what I say about Vincent? He’s just some old guy staying at the inn.”
“He’s not old.”
Will sighed. “Okay, he’s not old, he’s not a prima donna. He’s a great poet, Walt Whitman’s equal. Quiet, sensitive, intelligent—is that what you said?”
“It’s close enough.” I turned my coffee cup round and round. It made a harsh sound as it scraped across the sugar I’d spilled on the table. What would Will say if I told him I was in love with Vincent? Even though I didn’t know Will very well, I could guess. He’d tell me to stay away from Vincent, he’d say I was a fool to trust him.
What if Will was right? How did I know what Vincent really wanted from me? Maybe it had been a mistake to sneak out the window, maybe I shouldn’t have let him kiss me. There was no telling what a kiss meant to a man his age. Or where it might lead.
Suddenly worried, I leaned across the table to get Will’s attention. He looked up from the sea gull he was doodling on his place mat. His face was closed, guarded. “We should go,” he said. “The store closes at six.”
The time to confide in Will had passed. He wasn’t interested in anything now but buying the groceries and taking me back to the inn. I gulped down my coffee, grabbed my jacket, and followed him to the cash register.
“Come back soon,” Gina said as we left. “Both of you.”
Will didn’t look at me, but his face reddened. I blushed too. We walked out of the diner without speaking. The space between us was just the right size for Vincent.
11
By the time we left Ferrington, I was glad I hadn’t confided in Will. That flash of uncertainty in the diner had probably been the result of his sarcastic remarks. I shouldn’t have let them bother me. I loved Vincent, I trusted him. How could I have considered betraying him?
At the inn, Will insisted on carrying the groceries inside. Susan invited him to stay for dinner. Todd was delighted, but I wasn’t at all pleased. During the meal, I said little, hoping to discourage Will from lingering after we finished eating, but he didn’t notice. Not with Todd sitting beside him, begging him to draw pictures and play games. Not with Susan offering him a second helping of cherry cobbler. Not with Dad asking him to stay and meet Vincent—the very thing I dreaded.
After Susan took an unwilling Todd to bed, Dad led Will into the living room. “Vincent’s an interesting chap,” he said. “I think you’ll like him.”
“I’ve heard a lot about him already.” Will glanced at me, but I picked up my poetry book and pretended to read, determined not to let him get a rise out of me again.
When Vincent came downstairs, Dad introduced Will. Vincent shook his hand and smiled, but Will seemed embarrassed, unsure of himself. Compared to Vincent, he was awkward and clumsy, a boy in faded jeans and a bulky plaid shirt, his feet enormous in scuffed work boots, his curly hair untidy, his cheeks as red as a child’s.
“Jeff showed me some of your artwork,” Vincent said, making an effort to put Will at ease. “A ship at sea, a lighthouse, gulls, Todd’s Captain Jupiter slaying a wolf. You’re very talented.”
Will mumbled his thanks and took a seat beside me. Vincent went on talking to Will, showing an interest in him that made me jealous. He asked about his formal training, where he intended to study, what he hoped to do with his ability.
Will stumbled through his answers, speaking in halting monosyllables. It was obvious he didn’t enjoy Vincent’s attention. Finally he got to his feet. “I told Grandmother I’d be home by ten. She doesn’t like to be alone at night.”
He edged toward the hall, but his eyes lingered on me. I had an idea he hoped I’d walk to the door with him.
Quick to pick up on things, Susan said, “Show Will where his jacket is, Cynda.”
Reluctantly I led Will out of the cozy living room. The hall was cold and dark. Behind me, I heard Vincent laugh at something Dad said.
I pulled Will’s bully parka out of the crowded coat closet and handed it to him. He took it wordlessly and held it for a moment. “I don’t like him,” he said at last.
“How can you say that? Vincent was so interested in your art, he was so encouraging. He praised you, Will Bigelow.”
Will shook his head. “He didn’t mean a word he said, Cynda. He’s a con man if I ever saw one.”
“You’re as bad as Todd.”
“People say kids and dogs are good judges of character,” Will said. “Why not include cats, too? I noticed Ebony left the room when Vincent came in.”
?
??Don’t be silly. Everybody knows cats are the most persnickety things on earth.”
Will sighed and zipped his parka. “Maybe I’m just jealous,” he said. Without looking at me again, he opened the kitchen door and vanished into the cold night.
For a moment I stood there staring at the door. Once I would have been thrilled to have a boyfriend as nice as Will Bigelow. But that was before I met Vincent.
When I returned to the living room, Vincent smiled at me over the rim of his glass. “What a pleasant young man Will is,” he said. “So shy and unassuming, yet so talented and handsome.”
I sank down on the couch without replying and picked up my book. Something told me Dad and Susan had concocted a romance between Will and me. While I’d been out of the room, they’d probably discussed the possibility with Vincent. Maybe that’s what they’d been laughing at.
When Vincent got up to leave, I raised my head and caught his eye. He gave me a long, considering smile. “Good night, Cynda,” he said softly.
I waited a few minutes, listening to him climb the stairs. When the inn was silent again, I closed my book, said good night to Susan, kissed Dad, and went to my room.
Vincent came to my window that night and the next. Night after night, he led me across the snow and into the dark. Although I wanted to learn more about him, he had a way of turning the conversation back to me. He drew every sorrow from my heart, every pain; he never wearied of hearing how deeply my parents’ divorce had hurt me, how much I’d cried when Dad left, how jealous I was of Todd and Susan, how much I resented my stepfather.
The more I talked, the more he sympathized, and the angrier I became with my parents. First I stopped answering Mom’s letters. Then I stopped reading them. I stuffed the envelopes into a drawer unopened. Why bother? They were all the same-pages and pages of flowery accounts of the fun she and Steve were having in Italy, a paragraph at the end asking about me, “Love You” scrawled at the bottom like an afterthought.