As for Susan and Dad, my resentments multiplied and our arguments grew. Like Mom, Susan found fault with everything I did or didn’t do—why didn’t I pick up after myself? Why was I so careless about turning lights off? You’d think leaving a coffee cup on the table signaled the end of civilization.
Dad spent more time than ever in his den, grumbling and complaining. Instead of feeling close to him I felt more and more distant. When I accused him of loving Todd more than me, he told me to grow up.
Vincent was the only one who understood, the only one who listened, the only one who cared how I felt. He comforted me with tender words and fierce kisses.
One night, his teeth grazed my skin, and I pulled away, startled by the pain. He held me tighter, murmuring apologies, seeking my neck with his lips gently, softly, sweetly, persuading me till I was willing to let him do what he wished—no matter what it was.
In the morning, I noticed a little red mark on my neck. A girl I once knew used to show me similar marks—love bites, she called them. Her boyfriend gave them to her, she said, giggling. Other girls called them hickeys. Even though they bragged about them, they hid them with scarves or turtlenecks.
I touched the mark curiously, thrilled by the way my skin tingled, and pulled up the collar of my sweater. If Susan saw it, she might suspect something was going on between Vincent and me. That wouldn’t do. She mustn’t find out.
That night, as Vincent and I crossed the lawn, he suddenly tensed and looked back at the inn. Except for the candles, its windows were dark, but on the third floor, a face was pressed against the glass.
Seizing my hand, he hurried me into the shadows.
“Was it Susan? “I whispered.
“No,” he said. “Todd.”
“What if he tells?”
“Deny it, say he was dreaming. Everyone knows the child is fearful and overly imaginative.”
Somewhere in the woods, the owl called, and Vincent turned to listen. We’d reached the middle of the field that lay between the inn and the ocean. From where we stood, I could hear the surf.
The moon shone full on Vincent’s face; its cold light gave his features a cruel, hawklike sharpness I’d never noticed. “The hunter is abroad,” he said softly.
The owl called again, nearer this time. Vincent took me in his arms. Eager for his kiss, I lifted my face and closed my eyes.
Vincent drew in his breath. His lips moved from my mouth to my throat again. I felt a flash of pain sharper than before, as quick as the jab of a needle. The stars and moon spun and I spun with them, whirling faster and faster into darkness.
Suddenly the wind rose with a shriek. At the same moment, Vincent made a choking sound and thrust me away.
I staggered for a moment and almost fell. “What’s wrong?” I cried, reaching out for him.
He kept his head turned, hiding his face. The wind seemed to push him away from me. He fought it, cursing as if it were an adversary. “Go back to the inn!” he shouted to make himself heard above the gale.
I reached again for his hand, but windblown snow, as fine and hard as diamond dust, blinded me. “Vincent, don’t leave me!” I whirled in circles, searching for him. “Where are you?”
The wind’s voice filled my ears, I heard nothing else. Dizzy with panic, I stumbled about calling Vincent’s name. He couldn’t have left me, couldn’t have abandoned me. Yet I neither saw nor heard him. He seemed to have vanished into the cold, snowy darkness.
Without him to guide me, I was lost. I had no idea where the inn was, which direction to take. The wind and blowing snow confused me, left me too weak to walk. Despite the cold, I sank down in the snow and lay on my back, staring up at the black sky begemmed with stars. The moon sat among them, surrounded by a pale nimbus. Beautiful, I thought drowsily, so beautiful is the queen of night.
The wind dropped, its voice changed to a low moan. Cold fingers caressed my face and smoothed my hair. “Ill has come to you,” the wind whispered, “to me, to all of us . . .”
A girl as pale as sea-foam stood over me, barely visible in the eddying snow. Without actually speaking, she urged me to stand, to walk. Like the wind at my back, she helped me along, she guided me toward the inn’s candles, she hovered near me till she was sure I was safely in bed. Then she vanished, leaving behind the faintest trace of the sea.
I hovered on the edge of consciousness, trying to understand what had happened. But I was too tired to think, too cold. I closed my eyes and sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.
12
I spent the morning trying to sort out last night’s jumble of memories and dreams. I remembered Todd’s face at the window, Vincent’s hard, hurtful kisses, a fierce wind blowing us apart. Then a pale girl bending over me, taking my hand, leading me to the inn.
The more I thought about it all, the more confused I felt. I couldn’t sit still, couldn’t concentrate. I had to see Vincent, had to talk to him. My questions couldn’t wait till he came to my window hours from now.
He was just above, pacing the floor, apparently as restless as I. What if I sneaked upstairs to his room? Who’d see? Who’d know?
Cautiously I opened my door and listened. There was no sound from Dad’s den, but I knew he was hard at work on his novel. From the third floor, I heard the whir of Susan’s sewing machine. Todd was probably with her. They were all busy, they weren’t thinking about me.
Quickly, silently, I ran up the steps to the second floor. Before I raised my hand to knock, Vincent opened the door and drew me inside.
“Thank God, you’re safe,” he whispered. “I searched everywhere for you, but the snow blinded me, the wind drove me away, I couldn’t find you.”
I clung to him, weeping. “She came for me, she led me home.”
Vincent pulled back to stare at me. “What are you talking about? Who came for you?”
“The murdered girl,” I whispered, trembling in spite of myself. “She brought me to the inn. If she hadn’t, I would have died in the snow.”
His hands tightened on my shoulders. “You must have been dreaming, Cynda.”
“I saw her face, I heard her voice.”
“A dream,” Vincent repeated, “just a dream.” His voice was deep and comforting. He kissed me gently, stroked my hair, held me close. The steady beat of his heart soothed me, his words convinced me. “Forget last night. You’re safe now. That’s all that matters.”
I raised my face, hoping he’d kiss me again. On my lips or on my throat, I didn’t care where. Just so he kissed me. Just so he loved me.
“Not now, Cynda.” Vincent sighed and released me. “It’s too dangerous.”
I watched him sit down at his writing table. Even though it was the middle of the morning, his room was dark, the curtains tightly drawn. The only light came from the candle illuminating his books and papers.
“Let me stay a little longer,” I begged. “I won’t bother you. I promise.”
Vincent picked up his pen. “Suppose Susan or Jeff should find you here?”
“They’re busy they don’t care where I am or what I’m doing.” I reached across the table for his hand, but in my haste, I knocked the candle over. Its flame ignited a heap of papers. Fire leaped between us. Vincent cried out and stumbled backward, his face pale.
In desperation, I grabbed the first thing I saw, a carafe half-full of last night’s wine, and hurled it on the flames. When nothing remained but the smell of smoke, I whispered my apologies. “Your work. Oh, Vincent, look what I’ve done to your work, I’ve ruined it.”
I reached for the charred paper, but Vincent snatched it with trembling hands. Wadding it into a ball, he threw it into a wastebasket. “It was nothing but worthless scribbling.”
Horrified at what I’d done, I began to cry. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Vincent seized my arm so tightly his nails bit through my sweater sleeve. “Go now, Cynda. I’ll come to you later—by moonlight.”
I left, sobbing, humiliated. The door clos
ed softly behind me. The key turned in the lock. Sure that Vincent despised me, I ran toward the stairs, cursing myself for my clumsiness.
Too late, I saw Susan blocking my way. “What’s going on? Why were you in Vincent’s room?”
“Let me by.” I tried to push past her, but the staircase was too narrow.
Susan forced me to face her. “You have no business being alone with a guest in his room.”
“I was just talking to him. Since when is that a crime?”
She peered into my eyes, frowning as if she saw something disturbing. The anger drained out of her face. Concern took its place. “Listen to me, Cynda. Vincent is charming, handsome, sophisticated, but he’s at least fifteen years older than you. For God’s sake, stick to boys your own age.”
“You’re not my mother, you can’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m responsible for you,” Susan said. “If you persist in hanging around Vincent’s room, I’ll ask him to leave the inn. I won’t sit back and watch an older man seduce you.”
“I suppose you’d know all about that.” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Dad must be twice your age.”
Susan drew in her breath. “It was an entirely different situation. Your father—”
“You were eighteen years old,” I yelled. “My mother told me all about you and Dad. You took him away from me! If it hadn’t been for you—”
“What’s going on?” Dad shouted from the door of his den. “How do you expect me to write?”
Without looking at me again, Susan ran downstairs toward Dad. “I need to talk to you,” she said. “In private!”
The door slammed shut behind her. I stood on the steps, fists clenched, trying not to cry. I wasn’t proud of what I’d done, I knew I’d gone too far. But even if I’d wanted to apologize, Susan was in no mood to listen. Dad was angry too, and likely to be even angrier when she told him what I’d said.
The stairs creaked behind me. I whirled around. Vincent stood in the shadows at the top, one hand raised to keep me from running to him.
“Don’t worry, Cynda,” he murmured. “Susan can’t come between us. Nothing can. We belong together, you and I.” His voice was silky soft, no more than a whisper, laden with kindness and concern.
Silencing me with a tender smile, he vanished as quickly as he’d come. But his sympathy lingered, sweetening the still air like perfume. Vincent wasn’t angry after all. As usual, he and he alone understood.
Voices rose and fell in the den. Susan and Dad were arguing. To avoid facing them, I grabbed my parka and headed for the back door. I’d go for a long walk. By the time I came back, maybe they’d be calm and rational.
Todd intercepted me in the kitchen. “Are you going somewhere with Vincent?”
Susan chose that very moment to leave the den. Luckily she was still too far away to hear Todd.
“Of course not.” My voice had the ring of a lie even though I was telling the truth.
“You were with him last night,” Todd said loudly.
“Hush, Toddy.” Even without looking, I knew Susan heard this time. “I was in bed, sound asleep.”
“I saw you, dummy.” Todd made no effort to lower his voice. “You were holding his hand.”
Susan came closer. “What are you talking about, Todd?”
“Cynda and Vincent went outside last night, I saw them in the snow. Tell her not to go with him again, Mommy. Tell her!”
Before Susan could say anything, I said, “Todd was dreaming. You know how he is—he can’t tell the difference between what’s real and what’s not.”
“No,” Todd said, starting to cry. “Don’t say that, Cynda, don’t lie. I saw you.”
The sight of his tears made me feel bad, but if I told the truth, Susan would send Vincent away. “I wasn’t outside,” I insisted. “I didn’t go anywhere. Not with Vincent, not with anybody!”
Todd gave me a look of despair and threw his arms around his mother. “Vincent’s making her lie,” he sobbed. “She’s just like him. Mean and bad and wicked.”
Susan frowned at me above his head. “I don’t know what to think, Cynda, but if I ever see you going anywhere with Vincent I’ll make damn sure you never do it again.”
I shot her a nasty look. “I’ll do what I want. You can’t boss me around.”
With that, I ran outside and slammed the door so hard the glass rattled. It pleased me to see a flock of crows take to the air, cawing like banshees.
I looked up at Vincent’s window, hoping to see him standing there, but his curtains were tightly drawn.
It was just as well. The scene with Susan had left me weak and weepy. Turning my back on the inn, I struck out across the snow, breathing deeply, moving fast. If I walked long enough and far enough, the wind might blow my anger and hurt away.
13
Halfway to the coast, I found Vincent’s and my tracks in the snow. His led toward the woods, then veered back to the inn at some distance from mine. From the look of my solitary footprints, no one had helped me. Vincent was right. I’d walked home by myself.
Still trying to understand what had happened, I studied the place where I’d fallen. Its shape reminded me of the snow angel I’d made the afternoon before Vincent arrived. With one difference—reddish-brown spots speckled the outline of my shoulders. I stared at them, puzzled. Had I injured myself? Cautiously I touched my neck. So tiny a wound, more a scrape than a cut. It couldn’t have bled that much.
Uneasily I remembered the cruelty I’d glimpsed in Vincent’s face, the flash of pain I’d felt when he kissed me. I shook my head to chase my fears away. Vincent wouldn’t harm me. He loved me, I loved him. There must be another explanation for the drops of blood on the snow.
I thought hard. Before the wind sprang up, I’d heard an owl. Perhaps it had caught something here. A mouse, a shrew, or some other helpless creature lost in the dark.
The wind moaned in the woods behind me and I whirled around, expecting to see the dead girl peering at me from the trees. I saw nothing, yet I was sure I heard her voice whispering again of ill, warning me, haunting me.
Unable to bear the lonely sound, I stumbled through the snow toward the ocean and took the trail down to the shore. I walked slowly beside the sea. The crash of waves and cries of gulls silenced the dead girl’s sad voice. To keep from thinking about her, I found things to add to my stone and shell collection—a small piece of driftwood shaped like a bird, a glass float from a fishing net, a stone with a hole in the middle.
I was so absorbed in beachcombing I didn’t notice Will until he was beside me. “I’ve been chasing you for five minutes,” he said. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”
“Too much noise.” I gestured at the waves and gulls and trudged on, head down, scuffing at stones, wishing Will hadn’t happened along. I didn’t feel like being polite and making conversation, pretending everything was fine. It was too much effort.
Without acknowledging my mood, Will strolled beside me, saying little. The damp, salt air curled his hair and reddened his face until he seemed to glow with health and energy. Unable to resist his warmth, I drew closer. I was cold, so cold. My fingers and toes ached, my breath iced the scarf around my neck.
Will bent to retrieve something from the surf. “Look, Cynda.” He handed me a tiny scallop shell. “See the hole? You can string these and make a mermaid’s necklace.”
Embarrassed by the look in his eyes, I took the shell and dropped it into my pocket without saying anything. I didn’t want to hurt Will. I liked him, he was nice, but he was no rival for Vincent.
Neither of us was paying any attention to the ocean. A large wave suddenly broke a few feet away. In seconds, we were knee-deep in a rough surge of cold water. To keep me from falling, Will grabbed my hand. “Come on. We can’t stay here, we’ll freeze.”
I followed him up a steep path I hadn’t noticed before. My wet jeans clung to my legs, making me slow and clumsy. At the top, the wind hit my face hard. I hope
d Will knew a shortcut to the inn.
Instead of heading inland, he led me to a weather-beaten old shack not far from the edge of the cliff. He fumbled with a padlock, then shoved the door open.
“Welcome to my studio,” he said, laughing at himself for giving the tumbledown building such a grand name.
While Will lit a fire in the wood stove, I looked around. The walls were covered with dark, somber watercolors, unframed, tacked up haphazardly with no attempt at symmetry. Stormy seas, cloudy sides, gulls with sharp beaks, small human figures struggling against winds and tides. They were even better than the sketches he’d drawn for Todd.
“It’s okay if you don’t like my pictures,” he said. “Grandmother says they’re depressing.” Without waiting to hear my opinion, he grabbed a kettle and went out to fill it with snow.
“No running water,” he explained when he returned, “but we can still have tea.”
We sat and took off our wet shoes and socks and set them near the stove to dry. The shack was so quiet I heard a gull cry outside, its voice as plaintive as a hungry cat’s. Gusts of wind rattled the windows. Beneath the creaking and groaning of old wood, the surf rumbled. It was like being on a ship.
“This is a funny old place,” I said, looking around curiously.
“Grandfather stored his fishing gear here—lobster traps, buoys, floats, nets.” Will pointed at the stuff piled up behind the stove. “I moved it back there to make room to paint.”
Will got to his feet and gestured for me to follow him. “Want to see something interesting?” Shoving a stack of lobster traps aside, he lifted a trapdoor. “This ladder leads to a cave. Way back in the eighteenth century, smugglers used it to hide their loot. Later it came in handy for bootleggers.”
I knelt beside Will and stared into the dark. The air smelled damp and old. Far below, waves washed in and out. I shuddered and drew back. “Have you ever climbed down there?”
“Sure. It’s perfectly safe. The cave is always above water, even at high tide.” Will closed the trapdoor and straightened up. “You can walk out to the beach at low tide. The rocks are slippery, though. You have to be careful.”