Look For Me By Moonlight (11 page)

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 hoped 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.”

The kettle whistled then. Will opened a tin of tea bags and pawed through its contents. “Peppermint, cranberry, licorice, chamomile, and plain old Lipton—take your pick.”

I chose peppermint and sipped it slowly, warming my hands with the cup. Despite the fire in the stove, my jeans were still damp from the knees down. I was cold but in no hurry to face Susan and Dad.

For a while neither Will nor I spoke, but every now and then I caught him looking at me as if he wanted to say something. His silence made me uneasy. Finally I asked him how he'd known where to find me. “Did Susan send you after me?”

Will shook his head. “I was hoping to see you when I dropped Grandmother at the inn, but you weren't there.” He hesitated a moment, his face reddening with embarrassment. “Todd said you'd gone out, so I came looking for you.”

I tensed, suspecting Todd had told him more than that, and waited for Will to go on.

He examined his fingernails as if he'd just noticed the paint under them. Without raising his eyes, he said, “Todd saw you with Vincent last night. He—”

“I don't care what Todd said,” I interrupted. “You know what a liar he is. He's always making up stories.”

“This wasn't a story, Cynda. He's scared of Vincent, he thinks—”

“Todd's scared of everything. Wolves under the bed, witches, monsters . . .” My words trailed off unconvincingly. I'd never been a good liar.

Will leaned across the table, his hands edging closer to mine. “Tell me the truth, Cynda. Did you go somewhere with Vincent last night?”

I snatched my hands away and clasped them in my lap. “Suppose I did? What business is it of yours? It's my life, I can do what I want.” My voice came out louder than I'd intended. Angrier too.

Will looked at me with disapproval—or disappointment. I wasn't sure which.

“I had to lie,” I went on, trying to make him understand. “If Susan knew, she'd order Vincent to leave. I'd never see him again!”

“I can't believe this,” Will said. “I thought you—”

I grabbed his hands then and held them tight.

“Don't tell, Will. Promise you won't.”

“Cynda, he's ten or fifteen years older than you, he's—”

I couldn't bear to listen to another word, lumping up, I ran to the window. The ocean spread below, dull green and wrinkled under a gray sky. “Don't say anything bad about Vincent, Will. You don't know him. He's the only person in the world who cares what happens to me!”

Will followed me across the room and stopped a few inches away. “What are you talking about, Cynda? You've got your father, your stepmother, Todd—”

“That's what you think!” I whirled around and glared at him. “Dad's got no time for me. He's always locked up in his den, writing, writing, writing those dumb books of his. And Susan—she's on my back about every little thing. I swear she hates me.”

“Cynda, you can't possibly believe that.”

Will's calm, reasonable voice made me madder. He was trying to talk the truth away, but I had no intention of letting him do it.

“Just look at the way they treat Todd,” I shouted. “Do they ever get mad at him? Do they ever punish him? He's the one they love, not me. They brought me up here to babysit him. I'm nothing but a free au pair girl, doing this, doing that!”

I was crying now, I couldn't stop. I wanted to go back to the inn and sleep till dark. I wanted to be with Vincent. He was the only one who understood. I could be myself with him, I could tell him everything. Unlike Will,
Vincent
never criticized me,
Vincent
never looked shocked. He always agreed, he took my side.

“On top of everything else,” I sobbed, “Susan's going to have
another
baby—when it's born, nobody will have any time for me at all!”

“My God, Cynda, where are you getting this crap?” Will drew in his breath, guessing. “It's Vincent, isn't it? He's really warped your mind.”

“Shut up, Will! You don't know what you're talking about. You're just jealous, you said so yourself!”

That silenced him. Swearing softly, he turned his back on me and doused the fire in the stove. Then, without looking at me, he pulled on his socks and shoes. “We'd better go,” he muttered. “It'll be dark soon.”

“You don't need to come with me. I can find my way by myself.” I yanked on my wet socks, forced my feet into wet shoes, and grabbed my parka.

“I have to go to the inn anyway,” Will said. “It's time to drive Grandmother home.”

We left the shack and trudged toward Underhill without speaking or looking at each other. Will's boots broke through the snow's crust every now and then, making loud crunching sounds. His nylon parka rustled.

Finally he said, “I'm sorry, Cynda. I didn't mean to make you mad. I was just trying to keep you from getting hurt. You can't trust guys like Vincent. They'll take advantage of you, they'll lie, they'll—”

“Don't worry about me.” I spoke quickly to shut him up. “I can take care of myself. I'm a lot more experienced than you think.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Figure it out for yourself!” I walked faster, letting Will believe what he liked.

We didn't speak again till we reached the inn. In the room above mine, Vincent stood at his window, his face dimly lit by the candle on the sill. My heart sped up, pumping blood so fast my neck throbbed.

“There he is,” Will muttered. “Just like a hungry cat waiting for a mouse.”

Vincent smiled as if he'd heard and stepped back, letting the curtain fall. At the same moment, the kitchen door opened and yellow light spilled out onto the snow.

“It's about time you came home,” Susan said crossly.

Edging past her, Mrs. Bigelow hurried down the steps.

“Let's go, Will,” she said, sounding almost as annoyed as Susan. “It's past five and I haven't even started dinner.”

Mrs. Bigelow didn't look at me, let alone speak. She was mad at me too, I guessed. Why not? Everyone except Vincent seemed to be angry with me for one reason or another.

“Thanks for finding Cynda,” Susan called after Will, but he was already in the truck, revving the motor.

When she turned to me, I said, “I wasn't lost. I just went for a walk.” Without giving her a chance to say another word, I went to my room, slammed the door, and flung myself on my bed. If Susan needed help with dinner, she could ask Dad. I wasn't her servant. I wasn't Todd's nursemaid either.

Overhead, Vincent crossed the floor of his room, his step swift and light. His nearness reassured me. Susan, Dad, Todd, Will—why should I care what they thought? I had Vincent to comfort me. That was all that mattered.

Dinner was an ordeal of unspoken anger and resentment. Nobody said what was really wrong; we expressed our feelings indirectly. Todd, for instance, complained about his food and refused to talk to me. I was bad, he muttered, he didn't like me anymore.

Susan remonstrated with him but he slumped in his chair and lacked the table leg. That irritated Dad, who was already in a bad mood because no one liked the bouillabaisse he'd spent hours concocting. Todd choked on a fishbone, and Susan said the dish was too spicy; she'd be up all night with heartburn.

Even though Dad denied adding squid to the pot, I was sure I saw something with tentacles and tiny suction cups floating among the chunks of fish. I had no appetite anyway. It was obvious that Susan and Dad had lost patience with me. She told me to stop pouting and eat my dinner; he corrected me for saying “Can I” instead of “May I.”

Before Susan took Todd up to bed, she looked at Dad in a way that made me uneasy. Hoping to avoid a scene, I started to leave the room, but Dad stopped me. “Don't rush off. I want to talk to you.”

I sat down reluctantly afraid of what was coming. “I have to study,” I mumbled.

“That's one of the things we need to discuss,” Dad said. “Susan tells me you've been sleeping late. She hasn't seen you crack a book for days.”

“Susan doesn't know everything. I stay up past midnight studying, that's why I sleep late.” I was amazed at how easily the lie rose to my lips. “I work best at night when there's nothing to distract me.”

From the doorway, Susan said, “If that's true, Cynda, it might be a good idea for you to skip our evening visits with Vincent. Studying would be far more productive than sitting here gazing at him like an infatuated schoolgirl.”