After Always Page 7

  “Do you mind that I came along?” I finally asked when the bucket was full and the sun was high. The minute the words were out of my mouth I wanted them back. I shouldn’t fish for compliments I wasn’t prepared to accept or a rejection I didn’t want to face. I was torn between wanting him to want me around and thinking it was probably wiser for him to run away. The tide had begun to suck back out to the sea. It wouldn’t be long until we were stranded if we didn’t cross back under the bridge and over to the far shore. I understood his reserve. He’d been friendly and welcoming until I’d wanted to go down to the beach alone. My constant visits to the place where a woman had died were strange. Even I knew that. I was sending mixed messages, and I wasn’t sure I could stop.

  “I don’t mind, but I think some part of you does. You mind. Every time you relax you seem to catch yourself like it isn’t allowed. That’s what puts me on edge. I never know when you’ll shut down and pull away,” Michael said. “I’m following where you lead, Li. Only your lead and nothing more. I’m not the guy who’s going to push you to do things you don’t want to do. You pull away. And I’ll let you go. Every time.”

  He was looking at me now, and I was conscious of my tangled, sandy hair and my flushed face. There was grit beneath my fingernails and the aroma of fishy clams on my skin. His words were a warm promise I hadn’t known I needed to hear. Even his use of my last name seemed gruffly distant and respectful as if he really was following my lead.

  You mind.

  Did I? Really?

  Because the way he’d said “Li” made me want to hear “Lydia” from him instead. Soft and low, maybe murmured against my ear with his lips brushing against my skin as they moved to say my name. I couldn’t tell him I was afraid and that I’d been afraid for a long time. For so long that I hardly knew how to be normal again. And not just since I’d come to work at an inn that might be haunted for the summer. I’d been afraid long before that. I wasn’t afraid with Michael right now, but the absence of fear scared me. It was like lowering my guard in a world that had taught me to stay fortified. I stood in the marshy sand while he searched my face. I yearned to hear my name in his Maine accent, and my neck just below my ear grew warm as my attention settled on his lips, imagining and longing as I trembled in place not nearly as bold as my flushed skin wished I could be.

  The sound of the surf was loud. The gulls cried in the distance. The constant sea breeze ruffled our hair. We were facing each other, but I didn’t know what to say. He seemed to expect an explanation for something I barely understood myself. I wanted to be close to him, but there was more than a possible ghost creeper keeping us apart. I had learned to fear the living long before I’d started fearing the dead. At this point, I still wasn’t sure if Michael’s consideration and kissable lips were enough to make me risk a new relationship. I had secrets. Maybe he had secrets, too. Tristan had kept his secrets until I was in too deep to back out.

  “Time to head back while we still can,” Michael said.

  We didn’t speak as we returned to where the rowboat was beached. I had so many things I wanted to say, but my throat was too tight and I couldn’t get the words out. Michael held the boat while I climbed in, and then he followed. We had to work to balance our bodies, the tools, and the heavy bucket of clams. I settled carefully on one of the plankboard seats while Michael put a lid on the clam bucket and stowed it under his seat.

  This time I watched him row. The way his muscles bunched and stretched and bunched again. He was busy, but he noticed my noticing. His focus wasn’t on the oars. His attention trained on my face drew me. When I managed to look up from his muscled arms, our eyes locked and held. Neither of us looked away. My flush owned me now. Maybe he would think it was only too much sun on my pale skin, but probably not. I was staring at him like I was starving and he was chocolate cake. We made it to deep water, and I still couldn’t break the connection. He let us drift while his arms rested, but the heat beneath my skin only kept spreading. My whole body was a blush, and there was no hiding it from him.

  The retreating tide pulled the boat under the bridge where Mr. Abernathy now seemed to doze, slumping against the rail. We floated away from him on the flowing current at such a rate I felt it in my stomach, but then we stalled, pitched out of the current and off to the side over still, deep waters.

  “You’re beautiful in the sunshine. Your face goes all soft and flushed, and your eyes gleam,” Michael said. Simple, but not matter of fact. And suddenly I wasn’t afraid anymore. Not at all. The interest in his eyes was as warm on me as the sun.

  “Lavender,” I said, remembering my purple jacket and Tristan’s description of my gray eyes in it.

  “Fog at sunset,” Michael disagreed with a brief negative shake of his head.

  Now that he wasn’t rowing, I noticed we were very close together in the small boat. Only a foot apart. My foggy sunset eyes were still locked on his amber ones, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe because his eyes were filled with an appreciation I didn’t know how to meet.

  If I hadn’t been haunted by a promise of forever to another boy…

  …and stalked by dark memories of how that boy had treated me when he was alive.

  I remembered pain and shame, and I remembered an unacceptable flood of relief at an unforgiveable moment. When I heard about Tristan’s death all I should have felt was grief. Instead, there had been a flood of relief. Shouldn’t I carry the guilt of that for the rest of my life?

  “Don’t. Don’t shut down. Not…yet,” Michael said.

  He leaned. He pressed his lips to mine. And there was the fear again. I almost pulled away. My heart raced. I was caught. As much by my fascination of how perfectly his full lower lip slid against mine as by the tiny boat.

  Oh, yes, his lips were kissable.

  Way more than I had imagined. His mouth tasted mine, his lips open and soft and moist. I almost pulled away to punish myself because the connection was so sweet. And the heat. The heat was unbelievable. Brighter and hotter than the sun shining down on us. Our lips moving together rivaled sunshine and pushed the potential for ghosts back into the shadows where they belonged.

  He was a big, solid guy, but when his hands came up to my face he held me as if I might break. His calloused fingers whispered over my cheeks to cup my jaw, and the wild creature that fluttered in my chest became just a little bit brave. I stayed. I kissed him back. We were salty from sea breeze and perspiration. I tasted the heat of his soft exploration with a tentative tongue. He drew in a gulp of air in surprise, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t tighten his fingers, either. As gentle as could be, he followed my lead to deepen the kiss without being rough. Maybe he knew rough would frighten me away. Or maybe Michael was a big, strong guy who didn’t have to prove it.

  The flutter inside of me became a thrill. I wasn’t going to run. I’d never known a kiss like this. One that didn’t bruise or trick and trap. His lips were just right on mine even when he moaned and pressed a little closer and harder. Our breaths meshed, and I lifted my hands to grasp the top of his muscular arms. He’d given me time to get into the kiss. As of now, a little closer and a little harder was fine by me. His flavor was salt and sunshine on my tongue and I…liked it. A lot.

  Michael’s groans vibrated against my lips, and the thrill in my chest leaped higher. He wanted my kiss, and he’d waited for it. Until I was ready. My strangeness hadn’t pushed him away. My past wasn’t ruining this kiss, here and now. I was ready, and somehow Michael had known it. All day our mutual tension had been leading us to this moment. Even before that, from the first time I saw him illuminated by lightning, I think I knew a first kiss would happen. His shoulders were broad beneath my fingers, and I pulled him closer. My hands tightened, but before I could act on the impulse to get as close to him as possible, the boat pitched beneath us.

  Michael grabbed for me as I lost my grip, but it was too late. I lost my balance. The seat was no longer steady enough to support me. The boat jerked again, and I cried o
ut as I fell over the side.

  …

  I’ll never know if Octavia Jericho experienced peace or terror in her last moments. When the water closed over my head, while my rubber boots filled with pounds of salty fluid that pulled me under with remorseless ease, I struggled. I fought. I screamed until great bubbles exploded around my head.

  But the strength in my own arms never would have saved me because wet jeans and water-filled boots dragged me down, down, down. It’s the muffled, horrible sounds I’ll always remember. The sound of the oars rattling in their mounts, but carried underwater so it was muted and vague. The sound of my own cries uttered against quickly clamped lips that had already loosed too much of the precious air I needed to save my life.

  The scrabbling of my legs as I tried to shake the deadly boots free.

  Was this why I’d been fascinated by the bronze? Had I had a premonition of this moment or had I somehow willed it to happen? If so, I fought against the water now with everything I had.

  There was a great disturbance as a large body dove in beside me. I almost didn’t recognize helpful hands, and I fought as they hauled me up from the depths until I was clasped against a hard chest and pressed against an overturned boat, buoyed by both boat and Michael.

  I gasped for air, too startled at first to feel his hands on my face, but the press of his palms finally registered, and I blinked open stinging eyes to see Michael soaked but otherwise as calm as usual. His voice wasn’t calm, though. He said my name in tones hoarse with concern.

  “Yes. Yes. I’m fine,” I said. It was an automatic response to reassure. I’d been raised in a family that was always fine. No matter what happened. We prided ourselves on being efficient to the point of perfection. No fuss. No muss. No dramatic drownings. No voices, or fists, raised in a fight.

  But I wasn’t fine. My teeth chattered, and somehow Michael’s solid body against me made it worse. The burn in my eyes increased, but I summoned every bit of will I had left to keep from starting a crying jag that might not stop.

  “You were kicking off the boots when I grabbed you. Probably didn’t even need my help,” Michael said.

  He was grinning. Actually grinning. And I suddenly noticed my feet were bare. Somewhere, fathoms below, my boots had sunk without me as I had struggled to survive.

  I smiled, too, but only for a second. My smile faded because I’d seen something else beneath the murky water. There had been a flash of white, like pale hands. Had they reached for me? Had it been my imagination? Or would they have tried to pull me down? What had made the boat pitch so violently in the first place? I’d come to Stonebridge to become invisible. But my gravel heart wasn’t as hard as it had been before. Michael saw me. He listened to what I had to say, and he seemed to respect my need for silence when I couldn’t say anything at all. The flash of pale hands I thought I’d seen in the dark water were a worse threat than they would have been before.

  Because I no longer wanted to fade away.

  Maybe there was no mistake so bad that you couldn’t recover from it and decide to move on.

  …

  We flipped the rowboat together, and Michael climbed inside. Then he reached to pull me in behind him. I was glad to be out of the water. While he pointed the boat toward shore, I sat, filling my lungs with precious air.

  Had I really seen something down there? Or had my experiences at Stonebridge finally sent me over the edge? I’d been frantic. Struggling to shed the pull of the boots so I could survive. I must have imagined the hands. It must have been a dark fantasy fueled by too many bad dreams.

  When we reached the shore, I shakily exited the boat as soon as I could. I stood on solid ground looking back the way we’d come. The water was calm, and it reflected the sky like muddied glass. I couldn’t see anything beneath its surface as its level slowly decreased with each receding wave.

  Michael had used a bungee cord to fasten the covered bucket of clams under his seat, so we hadn’t lost our afternoon’s work. He hoisted it now and carried it ashore.

  It was then that I noticed the stone bridge above us was empty. Mr. Abernathy must have seen our distress and gone for help.

  It wasn’t until much later that I wondered why no help had ever arrived.

  Chapter Nine

  “…Under love’s heavy burden do I sink…”

  (Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene 4)

  I didn’t play the violin. I ignored its pull all day. Instead, I sent the daily text to my parents and walked and talked with a couple of elderly guests. I even helped the cook Mrs. Brighton had hired for the “busy” season in her cavernous kitchen. Della Quince made a giant copper kettle of sea stew. I chopped the carrots and celery in spite of my sore fingers while she told me storm stories.

  She didn’t know about Tristan.

  I didn’t interrupt her.

  For some reason, it didn’t bother me to hear about her husband’s small fishing fleet and the dangers they faced every season. The love of her life had weathered many storms. I could easily imagine her fear and trepidation every time the fleet set sail.

  A rapid flash of moments with Tristan, far from loving, flicked through my mind.

  I’d been afraid when he left, too, but I’d also been relieved.

  It was easier to miss him than be with him day after day. His intensity and his expectations were a bombardment, a constant drain.

  Once the stew was bubbling on the stove, we prepared apples for turnovers. I used a giant butcher knife to create a mound of slippery slices after Della had used a small paring knife to separate the bright red peels from the yellowish-white fruit. It was sticky sweet business made even sweeter by Della’s laughter.

  When we were finished with the turnovers, I went back to my room. Night had fallen and Stonebridge was eerily quiet around me. It was Wednesday. There were only two rooms rented on the opposite side of the house. I didn’t know where Michael lived, but Della slept in rooms off the kitchen when her husband was out on his boat. With Mrs. B. in a suite of rooms on the ground floor because of her weak knees, the rest of Stonebridge seemed too empty, too hollow around me.

  I was aware of my seclusion as I climbed the narrow, twisting stairs to the east turret. I had never been afraid of the dark or nervous about being alone, but tonight my chest tightened around my heart and my ears tingled, perked as they were for sound.

  Only my creaking steps up each oaken tread broke the stillness.

  I rushed the final few, my jacket clutched in one hand. It was pitch black on the landing, and with the moist palm of my other hand, I fumbled for the key in the lock, almost frantic to get to a lamp. Deep down, I was scared that the phantom touch would find me, all alone, locked out of my room on the gloomy stair.

  Finally, the key turned, the stiff knob moved, and I stepped inside.

  Quicker than necessary.

  In a rush of steps that would have been embarrassing if anyone was watching.

  My pulse pounded in my ears.

  I closed the door behind me. I took a deep, calming breath. I went to the nearest lamp and pressed the ancient tab that turned it on.

  Then, I saw the violin on my bed.

  The case was open.

  It had been closed before.

  My entire focus tunneled to the open case on the foot of my bed. The rest of the room was in shadow. The golden glow from the lamp’s stained-glass shade seemed to fall only on the flamed maple wood of Tristan’s violin.

  I stepped closer.

  The key to the room was in the lock.

  I had left it there.

  Anyone could have used it at any time throughout the day.

  But my breath caught in my throat because I was afraid it might have been me.

  I thought back through my day, moment by moment. Parts were oddly foggy, the way I’d been on the cliff the other morning before Michael had arrived. Had I come back to my room and played the violin without having any memory of it?

  Even now, frightened and near panic attac
k with a pounding heart and sweat trickling down my back, I wanted to play. My sore fingers twitched. I stepped closer and closer still.

  It took every ounce of willpower I possessed to reach for the case lid instead of the bow. I flipped it shut with a hollow thump and a gasp of fear. I also stepped back, waiting to see if my resolve would hold and if it held, would the case slowly, slowly open on its own with no fingers touching it at all?

  Nothing happened.

  Nothing moved.

  Even my chest didn’t rise and fall because I was afraid to breathe.

  When my nerve seemed stretched to the point where it would snap, I stepped forward again and fastened the clasps of the case. Then, I picked it up and took it to the bureau and closed it inside with stale mothballs and a package I wouldn’t touch. Tristan was gone. He had to be. Any other possibility was insane. He had been so persuasive. I’d often found myself doing what he required and expected without thought because I didn’t want to fight. My compulsion to play his violin felt the same way. As if it wasn’t what I wanted to do. As if someone wanted me to play. And keep playing in place of living. Forever.

  I turned to hang my purple jacket on the back of a chair. Only then did I remember the feather Michael had given me. I took it from the pocket. In the dimly lit room, it wasn’t as pretty as it had been in his hand.

  I put it on the top of the bureau, and when I did, all my sleepless nights seemed to settle between my shoulder blades and in my fuzzy head. I had gone from sleeping too much in Seattle to sleeping barely at all here at Stonebridge.

  Surely I needed to find something like healthy rest in between.

  …

  I woke only once in the night.

  Something had disturbed me, but as I listened to try to determine what the noise had been even the gentle ocean breeze from the cove outside barely made a sound. I fell back to sleep lulled by the distant sound of waves.