Maidenstone Lighthouse (16 page)

Dan was still waiting for my answer, his patience and love for me shining like rare emeralds in his eyes. And as I gazed into those loving eyes my body felt light as a feather and only my clothes seemed heavy and suffocating in the shimmering heat radiating from the blazing logs on the hearth.

I was struck by the sudden realization that I was at last free to follow my own desire.

“No…I…don't want to stop,” I breathed, pulling Dan's face to mine and engaging him in another long, breathless kiss that ended with the two of us lying together full length on the sofa.

He rose above me and looked down with concern. “I meant it when I said I was prepared to wait,” he began.

I responded by reaching up and slowly unbuttoning his shirt. As I slipped my hands inside the warm fabric and ran them over the warm hard contours of his chest I grew blissfully aware that my own clothes were gently falling away from my overheated skin.

“No, my love,” I pleaded, burying my face in the soft, damp hollow of his neck and brazenly raising my hips to expedite the silken whisper of panties sliding down my thighs, “don't wait an instant longer.”

No words are adequate to describe the torrent of feelings that went coursing through my soul from the sheer physical bliss of our lovemaking that night. All I knew as I strained to make my body one with Dan's was that this was good and natural and right.

And, while a part of me would forever remain devoted to Bobby's memory, I could discern no trace of conflict or betrayal in my newly discovered love for Dan Freedman.

For Bobby and Dan were as different from one another as the desert is from the sea, and the love I felt for each of them, for Bobby's wild and untamed spirit, for Dan's quiet, unwavering devotion, had at long last made one complete person of me.

Yes, I would go on living, I told myself, just as I would have wanted Bobby to have done in my place. Just as I was sure he wanted me to.

I
t was well past midnight when Dan and I stood beneath the crystal chandelier in the foyer and kissed for the last time that night.

“Sure you don't want me to stay?” he asked as the old house creaked beneath the assault of the rising wind. “They say this latest storm is supposed to get worse. It'll probably last through the whole weekend.”

“Tomorrow,” I said seriously. I raised my eyes to the ceiling. “Tonight there's still the matter of Aimee Marks to be attended to. And if there's even a slight chance that I can actually contact her I feel like I have to do it before Damon wakes up.”

“Well, you've got a creaky old house and a dark and stormy night,” he smiled. “The perfect stage setting for a ghostly encounter.” Dan's smile faded and he asked with genuine concern. “Aren't you just a little bit afraid?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I get no feelings of that sort at all from Aimee, just an overwhelming sense of a great sadness in her. If I'm afraid of anything it's only that I may not be able to get her to show herself again.”

Dan raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Aimee only came to me before when I was desperately unhappy myself,” I explained, taking both his hands in mine and squeezing them hard. “But now I can't really say that anymore.”

Dan leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Tomorrow it is, then,” he said, reaching for the doorknob. The smile reappeared on his lips. “I'm bringing my toothbrush.”

I laughed. “It's a date.”

He pulled open the front door, admitting a violent blast of freezing rain and windblown leaves.

“Cripes!” he exclaimed, pulling up his jacket collar and stepping out into the insufficient shelter of the broad porch. “Looks like we're in for a real squall,” he yelled over the thunder of the surf pounding the nearby beach.

The beacon from the Maidenstone Light swept past at that moment. With a born seafarer's critical eye, Dan followed its path out over the white-capped waters of the harbor. Medium-sized waves were crashing onto the beach just behind the house. “You keep a close eye on that tide,” he warned. “Call me immediately if the water starts rising. After all the trouble I've been through, I don't want you getting washed out to sea on me.”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” I shouted back to make myself heard. “Now get out of here before we both catch pneumonia.”

He delivered a quick peck to my cheek. “I hope you can actually learn something that will help Damon,” he said seriously. Then, without another word he trotted down the steps into the slanting rain, splashed across the puddles on the front lawn and dived into his Mercedes.

I stood on the porch, watching until he started the engine and drove away into the storm. “Good night, my love,” I called as his taillights dwindled to crimson sparks and vanished in the night.

A dense curtain of wind-driven rain marched across the street, swept up under the porch roof and drenched me where I stood. Gasping for breath beneath the unexpected deluge, I had just turned to rush for the front door when I had the eerie sensation that someone was watching me.

Despite the cold water soaking my hair and clothes I stopped where I was and slowly turned back to face the deserted landscape. A forked bolt of lightning streaked across the leaden sky out over the harbor, lighting up the street of stately old Victorians like a gigantic photographer's flashbulb. I strained to detect any sign of my unseen watcher, but except for the wildly gyrating trees I saw no living thing.

“Aimee?” I raised my voice hopefully against the din of the storm. “Aimee, are you there?”

There was no reply but the howling of the wind in the eaves.

 

“Go to sleep. She is definitely not coming tonight.” Miss Practical was sniping again, breaking my concentration on the flickering blue light of the fairy lamp playing across my ceiling.

“Shut up!” I ordered, forcing my eyes to remain open. I had been lying on my back staring up at the ceiling for nearly half an hour without any discernible result. And had it not been for the violently battering wind that lashed the turret room and rattled the windowpanes in their frames, I would already have drifted off to sleep and sweet dreams of making love with Dan.

“You're a lucky, lucky girl,” purred Miss Romantic, who had obviously been reading my thoughts. “Believe me, you're not going to have any bad dreams tonight.”

“And no ghostly visitors, either,” Miss Practical yawned. “So why not be a pal and put out the lamp so we can all get a little rest.”

Her yawn was infectious and I couldn't immediately think of a snappy reply. So instead I remained silent, willing her to go away.

Of course, I fell promptly to sleep.

The fairy lamp had burned itself out and the glowing numerals on the bedside clock were reading 3:22
AM
when a particularly fierce blast of wind jarred the entire house. I sat up sleepily and heard the explosive crack of a tree limb falling on the lawn. My eyes darted to the windows and I saw the lace curtains floating above the floor.

And then I saw her.

She was standing in the shadows beside the wardrobe, half-concealed among many layered folds of flowing lace. Her face was turned away from me and one hand was holding aside the filmy fabric of the curtain as she stared out through the rain-streaked glass, precisely as she had done on that first night.

I watched Aimee Marks's ethereal form for several seconds, hardly daring to believe she was really there, afraid to speak for fear that she would simply vanish, as she had done before.

But she remained where she was, unmoving, her gaze fixed on some indefinable target in the storm.

Pulling myself slowly upright, I finally worked up the courage to speak her name. “Aimee?” I called, my voice tremulous with excitement.

At first she did not move, and I was certain she had not heard me. For the wind was moaning loudly through the eaves and dead branches were clattering against the sides of the house with a fearful racket.

“Aimee?” I asked again, my voice a little stronger this time. “Do you hear me?”

Slowly she turned and stared across the darkened room. A slight frown creased her lovely features and she cocked her head to one side, as if she was not quite sure she had heard a voice.

“I'm right here,” I said, reaching over to switch on a small reading lamp. “Here in the bed.”

To my great relief the ghostly spectre did not disappear in the modest fall of yellow light that scattered through the room. Instead, she looked directly at me with a surprised expression.

“Do you see me?” she whispered in a voice as soft and melodic as chimes in the wind.

I nodded dumbly.

“And hear me when I speak?”

My head bobbed up and down again. “Yes,” I croaked, certain that my heart would burst if it beat any faster. “I can see you and hear you perfectly well. In fact, I've been waiting since your last visit, hoping you'd come back again.”

Aimee was still staring at me in disbelief. “I wasn't really sure anyone could see me anymore,” she said in a small, regretful voice. She let go of the filmy curtain and took a silent step closer to the bed. “You never seemed to see me when you were a child.”

Feeling curiously light-headed, I tore my eyes from her and watched the yards of transparent lace at the window flutter slowly and gracefully to the floor. “No, but the curtains…When I was a little girl,” I began, overwhelmed by the sudden return of a long-forgotten childhood memory, “I thought the fairies flew up from the garden to make my curtains float like that.”

Aimee's sad, beautiful eyes followed my gaze to the softly sinking curtain. When she turned back to me traces of a smile played at the corners of her full, sensuous lips.

“Yes, I remember how that sometimes made you smile,” she whispered. “There were times when I was certain you were watching me as I came to the window.”

I shook my head in amazement. “My God, you were here all of that time?” I suddenly flushed bright red, remembering a couple of things that I had done in this room, especially during my period as a rebellious teenager.

Aimee smiled modestly. “Oh, I always tried to respect your privacy,” she said. “Often, when you were…growing up, I did not come at all.”

“Thank you,” I breathed. I opened my mouth to say something else, then thought better of it and fell silent. Aimee arched her dark eyebrows questioningly.

“I-I'm sorry,” I stammered. “I just remembered that I'm sitting here having a conversation with a…ghost. And it occurred to me that I should probably be petrified.”

“Oh, but I could never, ever harm you,” she cried, looking stricken. “Even if I knew how.”

I raised my hands to show her that I wasn't afraid, even though I noticed that they were trembling violently. “I didn't mean I was afraid of you,” I assured her. “It's just that I've never actually spoken with a gh—”

The smile brightened her lovely features again. “Ghost is a good word,” she said, “Or spirit, if you prefer.” Aimee paused and thought for a moment. “When you were a small child I often came to this room to watch over you. You always seemed to be such a sad and lonely little thing.”

I sat up and sniffled. “I cried for my mother a lot,” I said, remembering the anguish of those early years.

Aimee nodded. “It broke my heart to hear you sobbing into your pillow at night. Sometimes I would sit beside your bed and whisper nursery rhymes to you, or tell you fantastical stories of voyages to faraway places…”

I felt as if my heart was going to stop. “But those were always my favorite dreams,” I gasped. “Dreams of a great sailing ship that carried me off to Africa and the Indies.”

Aimee smiled, pleased that I had remembered.

I suddenly heard myself laughing hysterically. She looked at me with renewed concern. “I thought I had such a wonderful imagination when I was a child,” I explained, shaking my head. “I always wondered what had happened to it after I grew up.”

“Please, I didn't mean to upset you—” she began, her shadowy image beginning to waver ever so slightly.

“No,” I interrupted. “Please, don't go. My God, this is so fantastic…” I narrowed my eyes. “Are you sure I'm not just imagining you?”

Aimee's laughter tinkled through the small room like the sound of fairy bells on the summer wind. “No,” she said, looking down at her insubstantial form. “I'm really here…at least as much as is left of me is here.”

“Incredible!” I sighed and fell back onto the pillows, exhausted. A thousand questions raced through my mind. I suddenly remembered Damon and Bobby and all the carefully rehearsed things that I had planned to ask her about them. I sat upright against my pillows, trying to compose myself.

“Why are you here, Aimee?” I whispered. “I mean, aren't people supposed to pass on, or cross over, or something, after…?”

“After they die, do you mean?”

I nodded.

“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “When it is time, everyone goes on.”

“And you?”

A shadow clouded her lovely features. “I'm not sure,” she whispered, sounding miserable and confused. “I'm…waiting.”

“Is that why you come here to look out the window?” I asked. “Are you waiting for someone?”

“I…I don't know,” Aimee replied softly.

Again I felt the pall of unbearable sadness surrounding her. And suddenly I was once more immersed in my own profound melancholy of the past several months. My throat grew tight and I felt tears beginning to stream down my cheeks as I thought of Damon, and of those I had recently lost, of Bobby and Aunt Ellen.

“I'm so sorry,” Aimee whispered, her slight form shimmering and fading like smoke in the wind. “I should not have come and upset you so.”

“No,” I begged her. “Please stay, Aimee. I desperately need your help.”

Her image seemed to grow stronger once more and her eyes widened in surprise. “Me? But I am only a spirit. I can do nothing anymore.”

My head bobbed up and down eagerly. “Yes, you can,” I said. “I need to know what it's like, being a spirit. You can tell me. Exactly what happens after someone dies?”

Aimee's face fell and she again looked stricken. “It is…difficult to explain,” she whispered, turning back toward the window. “I can't really remember very much…You feel utterly lost…and terribly alone.”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly at a loss for something to say. For her voice had been filled with anguish as she had uttered those last words. And I felt sure that I was on the verge of losing her again.

“Can you recall anything at all?” I asked softly. “Perhaps if you remember what happened to you, you can leave this place and go on.”

She was staring out the window now, gazing into the rainy night. “I can't…” she murmured.

“Please try,” I urged. “You died so young. Surely you remember that much.”

The lighthouse beacon flashed, the beam of strong light passing eerily through her body and illuminating the room behind her. “I fell from the top of the lighthouse,” she said, turning back to face me as the room went dark once more. “As I fell I was certain there would be pain…But there was only the falling and then…” She looked down at herself again. “Then I was like this.”

“How did it happen?” I asked.

“There was a man,” she began, turning back to the window and the distant tower on Maidenstone Island. And I had the feeling that she was speaking not to me but to someone else in some other time.

“He was a very handsome and charming man…a gifted artist.” Her voice caught and I heard her stifle a small sob. “He loved me dearly, and I him.”

“Ned,” I said quietly, working to suppress the under-current of anger in my voice. “His name was Ned Bingham.”