Look For Me By Moonlight (10 page)

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.

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.

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 closed 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.