After Always Page 2

  Just like the waffles and the ocean, playing the violin wouldn’t bring Tristan back, but it would make me feel closer to him, no matter how far away he’d gone. It seemed right, a sort of penance for the warm blood that still pulsed through my veins.

  Mrs. Brighton’s aging blue eyes were puzzled, but she smiled.

  I looked away from her confusion. The room was small. Besides the piano, which had first drawn my dreaded attention, there was a large chandelier made up of thousands of crystal teardrops dulled by age and dust above our heads. It was magnificent, really, full of potential for glitter, even though, for now, it was quiet and gray.

  The rest of the room was empty except for a painting that dominated the side wall. It was a portrait of a man and woman posed in front of a backdrop of a cove I’d seen as the taxi approached the house. I recognized the curve of the land and the craggy rock the man used to prop up one of his booted feet. His back was held stiff and tall as the sea raged stormy and dark behind him. His coat was black and long with cuffed sleeves, and his neck was swathed in an elaborate, knotted cloth. He had his hands on the woman’s shoulders. She wore a dress too formal for the setting, an emerald ball gown that left her collarbone and shoulders bare. Something about the man’s fingers bothered me, but before I could examine them closely my attention was drawn and held by his eyes.

  It was as if the room behind me fuzzed out of focus. Even the air went soft, as if its molecules hung suspended and all that continued to be vibrant and living was the charge that flowed between those painted green eyes and mine.

  “Oh, that is Alexander Jericho and his wife, Octavia. Or it was, I should say. He built Stonebridge a hundred years ago. He was a ship’s captain. Quite the traveler. Sailed around the world many times before he died. They say he was drawn to the darkest of places by an insatiable curiosity. You’ll see many of the objects he brought back from his travels throughout the house,” Mrs. Brighton said.

  I heard her words as if they came from a great distance, muffled by time and space, that was actually mere seconds and inches. But her words didn’t matter. I was looking into the stormy green eyes I’d never expected to see again. Or so it seemed. It couldn’t be. This portrait had been painted a hundred years ago. Long before Tristan. This man, this Alexander Jericho, was older. He had to have been in his twenties, an age Tristan would never see. And yet, my pulse quickened and my breath grew light and rapid the same way it had when I’d first seen those same eyes. For several inhalations and exhalations, it didn’t matter that his hands rested on another woman’s shoulders. He and I were alone again, together again…and I was afraid…because I wanted it to be true and not an illusion caused by travel and mourning.

  “I’ve never actually seen the cove like that, mind you. Jericho was a dramatic man, and it shows in his work,” Mrs. Brighton said.

  “It was a self-portrait,” I said with a hoarse, emotion-clogged voice that barely sounded my own.

  I looked at the water behind Jericho and his wife. The white-capped waves seemed ominous, painted with reds in their depths so angry they were almost black and the darkest of greens to resemble churning foam. My pulse leapt faster. Tristan had been artistic, too. His music had been like those waves, churning and sometimes angry.

  When I didn’t speak again, Mrs. Brighton motioned me to come with her as she left the room.

  Before I followed, an object caught my eye.

  I bent to retrieve a bright red crayon from under the piano’s bench. Its tip was pressed down to nothing but a waxy, worn nub. I looked at it, imagining the frenzy of coloring that had caused its flattened shape, but a nervous flutter in my stomach told me I didn’t have to imagine.

  It had been fourteen years.

  The parlor couldn’t have been unused for all that time. This couldn’t have been one of my crayons. Maybe some other child had colored bright pictures here to hold back the gray atmosphere and… Thunder rolled outside, shaking the walls of the house around me.

  Mrs. Brighton leaned over and rubbed one of her knees as if the thunder had jarred her bones, then she turned and disappeared into the hall.

  I tucked the crayon in my pocket and followed.

  The door of the parlor closed with a solid clunk when I pulled it, shutting away the painting, the piano, and its potential for Chopin.

  Chapter Two

  “…look to behold this night Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light…”

  (Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene 2)

  I followed Mrs. Brighton’s direction to the top of the stairs, turning left as she’d instructed. Her weak knees hadn’t allowed her to show me the way herself. I went past room after empty room until I came to another span of stairs—this one narrow and close and winding—until I knew my room was in the east turret that overlooked the sea.

  I turned the iron key left in the lock, and a rusty click of ancient tumblers released its hold on the deadbolt.

  The room had been cleaned and prepared by someone. A stack of fresh linens waited at the foot of the bed, but when I disturbed them a light cloud of dust motes rose up all around.

  In Seattle, I lived in a house built in 1995. The Stonebridge Inn was archeological in comparison. I unearthed relics with every step, every turn. My things arrived after I’d made my bed and opened the curtains on the peeling casement windows.

  Though I had switched on several lamps, the red, emerald, and gold tones of their glass shades muted their glow until it was almost nonexistent. The white, flickering flashes of electricity from the sky outside was stark and startling in contrast, jagged diamond arcs among antique jewels.

  I opened the bedroom door to a firm three knocks, and exactly at that moment, lightning lit the top of the stairs so that the man holding my bags was shown in relief against the gloomy shadows.

  He had thick, wavy hair the color of wet sand and curved brows a shade darker so that they were prominent on a lightly tanned face. Below the brows, his eyes were a pale brown that looked amber in the lamplight, but almost black when the white flash of lightning came again and again. He was taller than me, and his shoulders were broad. Mrs. Brighton hadn’t exaggerated about that. He carried all the rest of my summer luggage in one load, his arms taut and firm beneath the weight in a plain black T-shirt.

  “I’m Michael Malone. Mrs. Brighton sent me for your things,” he said.

  Calm. Serious. No sweat on his forehead though the house was stuffy and close, its layers of dust no doubt insulating against the affects of an aging, retrofitted air-conditioning system.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I stepped back to make room for him to enter the room and he did with solid, easy steps. No rush. No fuss. Though the load he carried would have made most people hurry to set it down.

  He stacked my cases and bags easily on the floor near the closet in the corner of the room. Then, he turned to look at me. I blinked and shifted my eyes away because he might have easily inspired a stare Before. He was young. Older than I was, but not by much. I’d been wrong about seeing no one my age all summer. I was going to be working with this guy and, judging by his expression, I wasn’t going to be invisible. He wasn’t a jerk about it, but he looked at me like he noticed everything about me, from my scuffed sneakers to the hair I couldn’t even remember if I’d brushed this morning. And the interest that flared in his eyes said the scuffs and the tangles didn’t matter. Suddenly, I didn’t know where to put my hands. I fisted my fingers to keep them from fluttering, but there was nothing I could do about my heart. It stuttered in my chest like it had been startled by Michael’s appreciation. I wasn’t available. I didn’t know how to be available. Not now. Not after all this time. It was me and Tristan. It had been me and Tristan for a while. It was supposed to be me and Tristan always.

  Michael’s face was smooth. His teeth were bright. His hair softly absent of gel. He walked that line between pretty and plain that guys sometimes walk when they’re careless about their appearance but nature makes up for
their indifference. He didn’t need gel or a better haircut or more stylish clothes. As-is served him well. And I noticed him just like he was noticing me.

  It was not okay.

  In fact, it punched me in the gut with a sort of panic I wasn’t sure how to deal with. I hadn’t come here to meet someone new. To be honest, I think maybe I’d come here to fade away.

  “Leaks, creaks, or sudden breaks, I’m maintenance. If there isn’t a fix, I invent one. Just don’t expect miracles. This place would challenge Edison himself. Who knows? Maybe it did. The wiring is sketchy. The wood has termites. The roof leaks. And my mother swears the place is haunted,” Michael said.

  I must have looked strange. My eyes gone wide and my lips tight. I was already…off. I didn’t need to hear a ghost story.

  He must have noticed my expression. Maybe it was suddenly closed off after a moment of interest I couldn’t disguise. Maybe it was horrified. What came after death was a subject I didn’t want to discuss. Tristan wasn’t just gone. He was dead. There was a finality in that I didn’t know how to face.

  “But Mrs. Brighton is great to work for. The best,” Michael continued. Then, he fell silent as if that speech was more words than he usually said in a month.

  I nodded, happy for another subject. Mrs. Brighton had made a good first impression on me. I could understand why he liked her. She had a vulnerability about her, even though she seemed like she’d lived a vital life. It seemed as if mortality was nibbling around her edges, or possibly from the inside out, beginning with the marrow of her bones. A person immediately wanted to help her, though she had probably been the one to help others through many of her earlier years.

  Now that my bags were on the floor, I noticed his tool belt—a leather contraption with various gadgets held in loops and pockets on either side. It hung low on his lean hips, and you could tell immediately which tools he used the most from the scuff marks around them. There was something about its usefulness and the worn quality of the leather that was appealing. Where had he come by his expertise? I hadn’t been wrong about his age. I was seventeen. He was probably not much older.

  Then, I felt guilty for wondering.

  My stomach plummeted to my shoes.

  Tristan would have…he would have…I suddenly didn’t know what Tristan would have thought of Michael Malone and that was somehow a horrible thing. Almost as if not knowing how Tristan would have felt made it impossible for me to feel.

  To make matters worse, Michael’s T-shirt didn’t meet the waistband of his jeans because of the weight of his tool belt. I caught a glimpse of tanned, bare skin, and my heart stuttered again. Summer had just begun. How had he gotten a tanned stomach so early in the season? It didn’t matter. My heart collapsed back in on itself until it was as compressed and tight as it had been before.

  As I stood frozen, like his appeal was headlights and I was the deer, Michael absent-mindedly reached to pull something from the back pocket of his jeans. It was one of those multi-tools that could morph into dozens of handy gadgets. He flipped the tool this way and that in his right hand. As if standing too long in one place talking instead of working on something made him nervous.

  “Thank you,” I said, my voice scratchy and hoarse and just this side of squeaking.

  Michael seemed to notice the multi-tool in his hand. He flipped it back into its folded shape and returned it to the pocket it had come from. He nodded to acknowledge my thanks before he turned, but as he did I noticed a glint of what was definitely appreciation in his shadowed eyes. Maybe he liked black-haired, travel-worn girls with gray eyes, red noses, and hard gravel hearts the size of a pea. The tool in his back pocket had left its shape on his worn jeans. He must carry it all the time, even when he set aside his leather tool belt.

  I looked away.

  I knew what I liked.

  Not pretty and not plain. And not the perfect mix of in between that was warm and natural like a gentle breeze. I wasn’t intrigued by Michael’s tan or his tool fidgets. I liked beautiful with flashing green eyes and dark hair that tumbled wildly as if constantly tossed by a storm I couldn’t see. And long-fingered, graceful hands meant for music. And high-low personalities that made a girl brace for the sulk and bask in the glow of frequent, unpredictable bursts of joy.

  But it hadn’t only been sulks I’d needed to brace for, had it?

  I turned away and walked to the window. Far below, waves crashed against the rocks even though lightning flickered far in the distance now as the storm moved away. As I stood there, as the door clicked shut without another word from Michael, I thought I saw a dark figure standing in the distance on the rocky shore.

  My breath caught.

  I pressed my face against the cool, damp glass.

  My cheek grew icy. The chill of stormy night air against the pane stung my skin.

  Once again, the room became less distinct. The air softened and there was a familiar charge between me and…

  It was full dark now. The figure was there and then it was gone as deepening shadows got in the way.

  Chapter Three

  “Not mad, but bound more than a mad man is…”

  (Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene 2)

  I texted the next morning.

  Crazy how hard it was.

  Before, I sent thousands of texts a day. Dad finally got the unlimited plan when his plan to limit me failed.

  At eight a.m. with the sun shining and all thoughts of a mysterious figure on the beach relegated to the back of my mind, I tapped out H-E-R-E and F-I-N-E, and it made my palms sweat. Because I wasn’t, and it was a lie. I wasn’t here. I was with Tristan wherever and however he might be. And I wasn’t fine. At all.

  I sent it because they needed to see it, and I still managed to love them with my hard gravel heart. I was determined to text them at least once a day.

  Thankfully, both of my parents had avoided the whole social media thing. Tristan had broken my laptop before he left, and they hadn’t even noticed it was missing. I would have to buy a new one before I left for college, but for now texting home was hard enough. I had no desire to post pics of my summer, and gaming was the last thing on my mind. Besides, my chest tightened every time I thought about Tristan dropping my computer off the back deck of my house onto the asphalt of our driveway. I could remember the sound of its plastic casing as it shattered. I could remember the look on Tristan’s face, more triumphant than sorry.

  He’d never liked it when I was excited about assembling a team in my favorite roleplaying game. Especially if I mentioned the same screen names more than once or twice. The accident with my computer had squeezed me, too hard, too tight, even though he was going away. Now, he was gone for good, and I didn’t care about the broken laptop anymore.

  It was Thursday. The inn had several guests booked for the weekend. The largest group wasn’t expected for several weeks, and I’d been told even that large party was only about twenty people. A million rooms and such a small number of guests made my chest tighten for Mrs. Brighton and Mi— Her employees…I corrected myself before my thoughts could dwell on the sun-kissed handyman who had lingered on the edge of my consciousness since the night before.

  My job was to “air out” the rented rooms and make up the beds. I went above and beyond when I cleaned the glass and vacuumed the hall with a machine that wheezed out trapped stale air from 1945. I scrubbed the shared baths until they gleamed in spite of worn fixtures and cracked tiles.

  I’m not sure why I tried so hard. I was grateful Mrs. B. hadn’t made a big deal over the violin. Her willingness to teach me was a new, private agreement between her and me, separate from my parents. I wanted to show my gratitude. I wanted to keep her happy. I wanted to guarantee that this chance to be near the sea wouldn’t slip away from me. The ocean was a constant, rhythmic presence in the distance. It had buoyed Tristan along for months. It had rocked him to sleep, night after night.

  Until the night it had claimed him.

  Michael passed me
several times. The hallways were wide, but I still noticed his ozone and sawdust scent. It reminded me of warm, beachy days and hard work. A contradictory combination of scents that lingered even after he’d disappeared around dark corners. I tried not to imagine how much time he must spend in the sun during his off hours to account for the tanned stomach I’d seen. I tried not to imagine how tan the rest of him must be. Now that I’d seen him in daylight I could also see that his dark blond hair had the kind of highlights that came from sunshine and coastal living.

  And then, I found him on a stepladder changing light bulbs in an upstairs hall.

  “They need changing all the time. Something frazzled with the wiring,” he said. “I haven’t managed to figure out what.”

  I quietly walked on. I was determined to focus on fresh sheets and earning my secret violin lessons.

  Okay. I might have scurried away from the sound of his deep, friendly voice and thoughts of him relaxing in the sun.

  I was afraid to relax with him. I would ask him who might have been on the beach in a storm. And I didn’t want to know. For now, the distant shadowy figure was a secret thing sitting in my chest between heartbeats. Something less than a thought but more than it rationally should be.

  I still didn’t want to hear ghost stories. But that wasn’t the only reason I avoided Michael. I was afraid of the warmth in his eyes. If my grief and the call of the sea were numbing, Michael Malone was the opposite. He inspired awake and aware. Numb was hard to hold on to around him. So I held on to what I’d seen and felt when I saw the figure on the beach and I worked hard, no time for warmth, no time for woke.

  The house really was full of souvenirs and artifacts Captain Jericho had brought back from his travels. Mrs. Brighton hadn’t exaggerated. There was plenty to distract me. Here and there were more modern things that must have been added by those that came after, including items of a musical bent I suspected of being Mrs. Brighton’s keepsakes.