Dreams of Fire (Maple Hill Chronicles Book 1) (7 page)

The silence of the empty house pressed on Marianne’s ears again. The sad, anxious vibe stole over her, and she debated returning to the co-op for a late dinner. But, she reminded herself, I have dinner makings here, and I’m going to have to be frugal till I get the next project.
 

The smell of steak and onions was an effective antidote, and she made a salad to go with it. Oscar ate another can of kitty tuna while she ate standing by the counter. She surveyed the wallpaper up near the ceiling and tried to imagine cobalt blue in its place. The appliances were white, and the cabinets were light colored wood. Once she scrubbed everything down and painted, it would look nice, she thought. The linoleum on the floor was old and worn in places, but she could clean it, at least. Maybe Mrs. Thomas could spring for some new flooring? It was worth asking.

As she cleaned up the silence and loneliness of the house around her grew. Feeling unaccountably anxious, she grabbed her purse, and walked to Main Street where she wandered up and down just to be near people and movement and life. Her steps took her eventually to Jonathan Sweet’s, and she got a dish of ice cream, lemon blueberry this time. As she sat by the window staring at the people on the street, she realized this was her new home. She wondered how she was going to meet people. Her research job was, by its nature, fairly solitary. She hoped for nice neighbors and remembered the cryptic remark Mrs. Thomas had made about them giving her a hard time. Maybe one of the other people on the block was eccentric or had extreme political or religious views? She was determined to meet her neighbors starting tomorrow. If that didn’t work, she would have to find a hobby or get involved with something locally.

That night, Marianne dreamt she was walking through her new house, though it seemed to have more rooms or more space than she remembered. She heard heated voices, a man’s and a woman’s, somewhere up ahead. She couldn’t distinguish the words, though it was clear he was very angry about something. The woman’s voice was muted and pleading. There was a sharp sound of flesh being struck, and Marianne hurried down the now very long hallway to help. A woman came out of the back bedroom holding her face and looking away as she rushed past Marianne. A man’s backlit silhouette filled the doorway, radiating anger and satisfaction. He was in his prime and full of his own power.
 

She approached him to say something like, “That was mean!” but he grabbed her arm hard, pulling her angrily toward the other bedroom. As he thrust her into the room, he said harshly, “Look what you’ve done!”
 

The room contained bookcases full of leather bound volumes overseeing an imposing desk of dark wood and a green leather wing back chair. A brass table lamp with a green glass cover illuminated the papers on the desk. The furnishings belonged in a tasteful gentleman’s club from the early twentieth century, surrounded by moss green walls and expensive flooring. Instead these walls were glaring white, making the furniture seem out of place and overdone.

“You have no right to paint my house! This is my house not yours,” he said angrily. “Put it back the way it was!”

Marianne surfaced from the dream, becoming aware of the dark bedroom with the unfamiliar lights on the walls and Oscar’s warm bulk next to her. That was important. I’ve got to remember that, she thought muzzily as she sank into sleep again. Through successive dreams she kept trying to tell people about the angry man and the sad woman and the out of place furniture. When she woke in the morning, she recalled the dream enough to jot it down in her notebook.

Chapter 6

Ruari roused himself from his bed groggily and put the coffee on. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes, lying on top of his comforter again. His muse had only let him go reluctantly after he’d cut himself several times from tiredness. He thought of her as a tough old broad, but the outcome was nearly always worth it. He looked at his hands and saw the fresh gouge marks and dried blood. While the coffee perked, he carefully washed his hands, putting ointment and band-aids on. After he’d splashed some cream and sugar into a huge mug of coffee, he made his way down the steps to the workshop.

He was so lucky to have found this old garage/shed with the little room upstairs. It had come up on the realtor’s sheet a couple of years ago, and he’d grabbed it before anyone else could. It hadn’t been terribly expensive since it needed many repairs, but it was the perfect combination of living and working space for him. He needed the wood stove in winter, but the space was all his. He’d gradually made repairs and improvements.

Warm mug in hand, he went down to the table where he’d been working. The cover lay over his work, and for a moment he wondered what he’d find. He’d spent hours with the piece last night, but his muse took him to another realm when he carved. Sometimes he was only half aware of what his hands were doing. He drew the cover off and stood looking at it.
 

He could see the roughed out features of a face emerging from the red cherry wood. It was between the folds of something heavy, cloth maybe, and the vague shape of a hand seemed to be pushing aside the cloth on one side. He had the feeling the face was feminine and wondered if his muse was creating a portrait or an avatar. He picked up the piece and rolled it gently between his scarred hands and examined the back. It was roughly shaped, rounded like a pod or a seed. He set it down again, knowing that he was too tired to work for now. Reverently, he placed the cloth over it again.

After breakfast Marianne took a walk up the block trying to determine if any of the neighbors were home. Next door there was a car in the drive, and the inner front door was open. She walked up the flagstone path and rang the doorbell next to the glass of the storm door. A middle-aged man with thinning, dark hair and a fleshy paunch under his T-shirt came to the door.

“Hello! Hi, I’m your new neighbor, next door,” she called out cheerfully with her friendliest smile.

The crease between his heavy dark brows gave him a faintly annoyed expression, but his voice was pleasant enough. “Hi, nice to meet you. I’m John Cavarelli.” He opened the door and invited her into the foyer. The cool air was a relief from the heat of outside. He thrust out his hand, and she shook it firmly.

“I’m Marianne Singleton. It’s nice to meet you. I moved in to number 25 yesterday. I’m renting from Mrs. Thomas,” she explained.

He nodded, “Welcome to the neighborhood. My wife, Maria, is out doing some errands. She’ll be pleased to meet you. Our son, Mikey, is out at basketball practice.” His New York accent made her feel right at home.

Marianne said, “This is a really nice neighborhood. I’m looking forward to living here. It’s very quiet and peaceful compared to the city.”

He nodded again. “You plan on cleaning up the yard? Gloria’s never bothers to mow the lawn.” He sounded unhappy about his beautiful property being next to such a dump.

She said apologetically, “Yes, I hope to tame it down and clean up the flower beds. Maybe you know of someone I could hire to mow for me? I don’t have a mower yet.” She looked hopeful.

“I might. Mikey is old enough to mow lawns. I’ll ask him.”

“Thank you, I’d appreciate that. I’m starting with painting the inside. I wondered if you had a ladder I could borrow?”

“Yeah, sure. What size you need? I’ve got a six-foot and a twelve-foot. Or do you just need a step stool?”

He took her to the tidy garage, and she selected the six-foot ladder. He offered to carry it over for her.
 

“Thank you,” Marianne said gratefully after he leaned it against the wall in the living room. “I look forward to meeting your wife and son.”

“Sure. Come by tomorrow,” he said as he left.

Marianne spent the rest of the day putting the final coat of paint on the office and getting the primer on her own bedroom walls. She had a momentary flash of the angry man in her strange dream but told herself firmly, “My house, my colors.”

Mid-afternoon the Big Ben door chime rang, and she came off the ladder to answer it. The cable Internet installer messed around with the junction box outside and then hooked up her TV in the living room. He also set up equipment for the Internet in the extra bedroom with a wireless router, so she could access it anywhere in the house. She named her router “History101” and sighed happily, feeling connected to the world again.
 

Hoping for a message from a fellow historian, she took a break and checked her email. As she scrolled through the accumulation, the pit of her stomach dropped. Hidden in the pile of messages like maggots in a jelly donut, there were no less than three emails from Geoffrey, telling her he’d found something of hers left behind at their apartment. He wanted to meet with her to return it, or she could come and pick it up. Even though they were only emails, electrons on a screen, she still felt sick to her stomach that her ex had invaded her space. Wanting to delete them off her machine, to make him go away, she forced herself to file them away in case she needed evidence for a restraining order. She refused to email him back, though a part of her wailed, “Leave me alone!” If he had anything left of hers, she didn’t want it.

To make matters worse, there were no emails from her colleagues.

After the cable guy left, Marianne felt out of sorts and headed up to town again. Saturday was even busier than Friday had been with tourists and locals out and about in spite of the heat. She walked around exploring the side streets, relieved to have people around her. Surreptitiously, she kept an eye out for Geoffrey’s silver Lexus, and her heart gave a little jump at the sight of every silver car until she told herself to get a grip. As far as Marianne knew, he didn’t know where to find her. Those emails were only fishing for her, and she wasn’t going to rise to the bait like a trout. She took a deep breath and put her anxious thoughts aside.
 

Maple Hill’s Main Street was really about six blocks long if you included the historic stone building at one end. It had a plaque declaring it an historic structure and now housed part of the town library. She looked forward to checking it out next week, maybe as a break from painting. The post office was across the street in an early twentieth century brick and wood building.

There was one other old brick and wood building with an antique marquee on the front declaring the name of a recent movie. “Avery Theater” was spelled out in decorative plaster above it. The painted parts were weathered and chipping. Many of the marquee bulbs were broken or missing. The whole building had an air of grandeur gone to seed, like a movie star showing her age badly. Marianne couldn’t remember seeing any movies there when she was little, but she thought it would be fun to see a movie there sometime.
 

The side streets off Main had shops and businesses for about a block to either side, segueing into residences after that. She even found Hair Magic, the beauty salon, down a side street, closed for business on alternate Saturdays.

Marianne returned to the house sweaty but happier. The clutter of boxes in the band-aid pink living room was a depressing sight. She had just gotten most of her stuff out of boxes after the divorce when she’d had to pack everything hastily and move again. This would be the next room to paint after the bedrooms, she vowed. Then she’d be able to unpack.
 

 
Across the room the old upright piano sat half hidden by boxes. She was glad to have hauled it all the way here. Her mother had played beautifully, and Marianne loved to listen. She’d wanted to play the saxophone, but her mother had insisted on the piano for starters. Needless to say she never did learn to play the saxophone. She recalled practicing grudgingly for what seemed like hours. Now, it would be fun to see how much she remembered. Exercise books, some easy Bach and Schumann, as well as some Disney books were soon piled up on the top of the upright.
 

Well, Geoffrey was not here to make her feel guilty or awkward about playing, so she sat down and opened a plain yellow covered book full of Bach pieces. She vaguely remembered playing the first one with all the pencil notes dated April 1986 (she’d been eleven) that Mrs. Yates had written.

After some minutes of struggling to play with both hands together and remembering how to read music at the same time, she gave up and put one of the simple exercise books on top of it and tried again. She surprised herself by spending more than an hour pleasantly absorbed in working her way through the first bit of the exercise book and dredging up her rusty memories. Finally, she tried the Bach again and managed to read the melody line well enough to raise the tune off the page and into her ear.
 

She stretched, pleased with herself and went off to the kitchen for dinner. After eating she sat with her laptop and surfed the Internet for a while, visiting some of her favorite websites both for history and for fun. At last she turned out the light and lay down on the mattress in the living room to sleep.

Please, no nightmares tonight, she thought. I really want to sleep. Oscar hopped up and lay on the bed with her, and she stroked his side till she dozed off.

Some hours later she dreamt of her mother, and when she emerged, she heard faint, familiar music playing. For a few moments she thought she was still dreaming about her mother playing, and then she realized the piano music was the Pachelbel Canon. The sound was ethereal and ghostly in the dark as if the pianist didn’t want to disturb her but couldn’t help playing. Her scalp prickled as she pictured someone sitting on the bench, playing only a few feet away. Who was there? The player felt more sad than angry. Marianne’s heart beat hollowly, and she felt suddenly vulnerable and very alone. Oscar’s sleepy warm weight lay next to her, and she touched his fur like a talisman. She took comfort from the realization that Oscar wasn’t upset.

The piece ended, and the pianist didn’t resume. The silence afterward was very deep. She didn’t dare open her eyes for fear of what she might see. After a while she wondered if she’d dreamt or imagined it. Oscar shifted slightly in his sleep, turning his chin upward and stretching out his front paws. Her heart slowed into a gentle rhythm, and she wove in and out of sleep again.