Set Me Free (2 page)

I
had
time to kill before any self-respecting bar would be open, so I decided to check out the beach. Growing up in Florida, I’d spent most of my free time sunbathing on sand as fine and pure-white as flour, with a poetry chapbook propped up on my chest.

I had a feeling this place would be different.

After driving through a gingerbread village of antique lampposts and shuttered, snow-dusted storefronts, I parked in a deserted lot and walked along a winding path to the beach. From here, the island curved away from me like a crescent moon, narrowing as it went north. At the top of the crescent, dark mountains curled into the bay.

It was stunning. And freezing. And very, very different from home.

With a sigh, I sat down on the hard, gold sand. My phone found its way into my numb hands, and I dialed the number of my dad’s flat in London.

“Professor Stephen Lewis speaking.”

At the sound of his voice, my shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hello, Miramax.” I pictured him leaning back in his burnt-orange office chair the way he always did, with a stack of papers to grade in one hand and a Shakespeare play in the other.

“Awfully loud where you are,” he said. “What are you up to?”

“Just out for a walk on the beach.”

“That sounds nice. Are you visiting friends from home?”

I’d considered it while I’d packed my suitcase, piece by precious piece. But I’d fallen out of touch with my friends from home, even my best friend, Rosa. Rhys didn’t like them. They wouldn’t want to hear from me after all this time—not like this.

“Yeah,” I told him. “Visiting friends.”

“How’s the weather there?” my father asked.

“Nice. Sunny.” I frowned up at an ash-gray sky.

“How’s Rhys?”

“He’s okay. I’m not sure I’ll be seeing him for much longer, though.”

“Oh, yes? Why is that?”

“I don’t know… Time to move on, I guess.”

“Hmm.” I could hear him mulling this over. My mother died when I was eight. For years, my father and I had had no one but each other.

Rhys changed both our lives. When I met him, he’d just graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in political science and was about to start his first year at Yale Law. He asked me to move to Connecticut with him, and at last, my father felt all right about leaving me alone in the States and returning to London, his favorite place in the world. I didn’t blame him for leaving. I was happy for him. I just worried about him all the time.

“How’s school?” I asked.

“Going splendidly. I have some exceptionally bright students in my class this year. Talking of which, my merry Miranda, I’m having a few students over for lunch, so I had better go.”

I thought of his messy flat and was relieved to think he wouldn’t be eating lunch alone. “What are you having for lunch? A nice, big salad, right?”

He laughed. “Of course!”

I smiled in spite of myself. “You are taking care of yourself, though, aren’t you? You’re taking your medicine?”

“I’m getting on all right.” He sounded more sincere this time.

“Okay, well, I’ll talk to you soon.”

We hung up. I dropped my phone back into my purse and wiped my face on my sleeve, pretending my cheeks were wet from the salt spray. At least he sounded like he was doing okay. That was a relief, because I didn’t know when I’d have enough money to visit him again, after what Rhys had done.

With a sharp breath in, I jerked to my feet. I’d been running all night, but I couldn’t rest. Every time I thought about Rhys, I imagined him coming home and finding the house empty. Terror jolted through me, electric and painful. He would try to convince me to come back—and I would listen to him, the way I always listened to him—

I set off down the beach as if I could outrun his imaginary voice. I’d feel better, more secure, after I went to the Widow’s Walk to ask the Viking’s friend about a job. Once I had a few applications in, I’d be able to imagine starting over from nothing, making myself a home here, until I was as much a part of this place as the sand on this beach.

The toe of my boot connected with a plank of wood, and I glanced up, startled, at a crooked, rickety staircase leading up to the sand dunes. A run-down Victorian perched in the scrub. A sign beside it read, in chipped, colorful paint:
Welcome to the Fall Island Artist’s Lodge! Open to the public.

I hesitated, staring longingly at the sign. Painting used to be my passion, even my calling; but more than that, it was my peace, a flower that bloomed inside my heart in the darkest of nights. It was gone now. I hadn’t finished either of the two paintings I’d started during my year with Rhys.

I knew, suddenly, that if Step Two after leaving Rhys was getting a new job, Step Three was painting again. The island, it seemed, was providing for me.

Gathering my courage, I walked up the path and onto the Victorian’s ramshackle front porch. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

I slipped through the slightly open front door into a spacious living room. Crowded bookshelves lined the walls, and threadbare Oriental rugs lay strewn across the scuffed hardwood floors. A coffee maker burbled on a card table in the corner. I sidled up to it and furtively poured myself a coffee in a paper cup. I had no idea how much coffee I’d had last night and this morning, but it wasn’t enough.

Next to the card table, honeyed light glimmered around the edges of a wooden door carved with vines and flowers. I knocked, and the door clicked open, as if it had been waiting for me.

In the small, octagonal room beyond, framed oil paintings covered every inch of the eight walls. The largest, an Impressionist seascape, showed the dawn light piercing through violet clouds, striking the sea and arcing towards the black spine of the mountains along the northern curve of the island.

Even when I’d been painting all the time, I’d never done anything so bold and vivid. I walked up close to it, my mouth hanging open, with even the coffee in my hand forgotten. I wanted to learn how to paint like this artist, who’d signed her name in slashing black capitals:
SUZANNA
.

Eventually, shaking myself, I turned to the next: a small portrait, twelve inches square, with a background of cheerful, cloud-like swirls in bright colors. It wouldn’t have been especially noticeable next to that magnificent seascape, except that it was a portrait of the Viking, Owen Larsen, with his lips curved into a secretive smile and his blond hair falling forwards into his downcast eyes. He looked younger and shockingly happy, but it was unmistakably him.

I leaned in until I was so close to his portrait I could have breathed on it, if I’d still remembered how to breathe. I desperately wanted to touch it, as if I could run my hands through his hair.

“Hello.”

I jumped, sloshing lukewarm coffee onto my hand, but, thank God, not on the artwork. A man had wandered into the art gallery. He wore a sweater-vest and black-framed glasses. A bushy beard and a thick mop of hair warred for dominion over his face.

“Er, hi,” I said.

“Welcome to the Lodge!” He smiled vaguely. “I’m Matthew, the curator. Are you in town for the weekend?”

“Actually, I’ve just moved here.”

“Ah! Well, welcome!” He sounded pleased, but also a bit perplexed, as if I’d told him I was a Marmite enthusiast. “Are you an artist?”

“I’m a painter.”

“No wonder you were drawn to this exhibit,” Matthew said. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Incredible,” I agreed, glancing around the room and wishing I could be alone with the paintings again, to pore over each and every one. There were distant mountains, sunlit forests, a sun shower in a meadow, and, finally, a second, much smaller seascape showing four people on a rainy beach, wading in icy water. The Impressionist style washed out the subjects’ features, turning them into dappled columns of light and rain.

“Suzanna White was one of the most brilliant painters I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet,” Matthew said.

“You know her?”

“I did. She was older than me, of course.”

I nodded, glancing back at the Viking’s portrait, trying to imagine him looking so happy in real life. That smile was intoxicating.

Matthew followed my gaze. His face reddened behind his bushy beard. “This exhibit is…controversial. That painting in particular.”

“Which painting? The portrait?” It was different from the other paintings, with its happier mood and single human subject, but it didn’t look like a fake. It had that same sense of life as the others.

Matthew paced the room. “Such depth to her paintings… I hate to exclude a single one… To turn down a donation would be unthinkable.” He turned back to me. “Did you say you were a student at Bellisle?”

“Oh, no, I’m not a college student. I’m new in town.”

“Ah, okay.” He gave a solemn nod, as if being new in town made all the difference.

I
n my dream
, the cheerful colors in Owen’s portrait darkened, until he was as cold and forbidding as shadows on ice. His large hands gripped the sides of the frame; he pulled himself out of the painting and took hold of my shoulders. I arched my neck, hoping to feel his breath on my throat.

A shrill electronic beep rang out. Owen turned away. His body shrank and slimmed down, his hair turned from blond to auburn, his face became intimately familiar. Rhys—

I woke up with a stifled scream, fighting to escape from the blanket twined around my arms and legs. I was trapped—I was suffocating, and Rhys was—

No
, I told myself, as I slowly recognized the gray fabric covering my car’s back seat. And the little pile of Shakespeare plays on the floor mat, next to my shiny green flats. My car. My safe place. I was safe.

I’d been sleeping in my back seat most nights for the past three weeks, ever since I’d gotten the waitressing job at the Widow’s Walk. The Viking’s friend, Andy, was as energetic and upbeat as Owen was reserved and serious. And Andy was thrilled that a potential new hire had walked into their bar before they’d even posted the position.
You must be psychic
, he had said, while a slender, curly-haired waitress, Margot, scowled irritably at me from the corner.
Just lucky
, was my reply. I
was
lucky—I could have ended up anywhere, so directionless and desperate, but instead I’d come to this island, and had found the Artist’s Lodge, and a muse in the form of the mysterious Suzanna White.

And now I had a job. Since then, I’d been putting a little more money on the prepaid debit card I’d gotten to pay my bills—only two now, just my car and my phone—and I didn’t have to give a single cent to Rhys. That was enough to make me feel as rich as a queen.

Still… I was nowhere close to a month’s rent, never mind a first, last, and security deposit. I’d been staying in a motel in the next closest town, Bellisle, to shower and sleep in a bed twice a week. Otherwise I used disposable, no-water face cloths and dry shampoo and tried to be patient. I was happy enough to trade more frequent showers and proper heat for a space that was solely my own.

I dug a compact mirror out of the side door pocket where I’d been storing my makeup. My eyes looked huge and dark, still hollow with my nightmare. My long, black hair lay in mats and tangles. But it was all right. I’d fixed myself up from worse.

I washed up and did my makeup. After I’d combed out my hair carefully, I pulled it back into a ponytail. Then I reached for my black work shirt, only to remember I had the day off. Too bad. I would rather be at work, making money. Assembling the building blocks of my new life.

Deciding to stick with my one indulgence on one of my rare days off—a visit with Claire, and a coffee—I grabbed my purse. My phone was flashing. The beep in my dream had come from real life.

I stared at the screen, sick with anxiety.

The one from this morning said:
I miss you.
He had probably sent it while he was walking to class, a stack of law books tucked in the crook of his arm, looking dapper in one of his sleek gray suits.

Below that was a new text from last night.
I love you, Mira.

This one he’d probably sent from home—
his
home, now, though some of my clothes still hung in the closet, and the spring wreath I’d made still decorated our front door. In spite of myself, I wondered what Rhys had eaten for dinner last night—how much time he’d taken away from studying in order to deal with the nuisances of daily life.

Deliberately, I scrolled up to the text from earlier yesterday evening:
Who the fuck do you think you are, leaving me like this?

He had been like this almost from the beginning—charm and rage lived in equal parts inside of him, as inextricably intertwined as strands of DNA.

* * *

O
n my walk
to Claire’s, the damp, cool April air seeped through my leather jacket and curled the ends of my ponytail. Snow glittered on the pine trees lining the narrow road. The town was more of a sleepy gingerbread village than ever, with only the tiny grocery store open for business. I smiled and waved at the grocer, Bob, as I walked by, but he didn’t smile back. Reaching Claire’s frosted parking lot on the far side of town filled me with relief.

Inside, Claire stood on a crate in the middle of the store, taking ceramic fishermen out of a box and putting them on a shelf. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the door, holding a fisherman with a navy coat and a yellow hat, and beamed at me. “Well, hello, Miranda! Your usual?”

“Yes, please.”

She slid the fisherman onto the shelf with the others, hopped off her crate, and bustled over to the café counter, where she handed me a very, very large coffee with cream and sugar.

A cloud of fragrant steam enveloped my face. “You are amazing.”

Claire chuckled as she wiped down the spotless counter with a wet cloth. She almost never stood still, but I was getting used to that now.

“Quiet in here today,” I said.

“I don’t mind.” Claire tossed the cloth back into a bucket of cleaning solution. “I thought I’d try out some new recipes, before the tourists start taking over the island.”

“Is Fiona working today?” Fiona was Claire’s baker, a harried mother of four.

“Actually, I thought I’d give it a try myself. Everyone loved the test batch I made from the recipe you gave me. I would never have thought of pineapple muffins!”

I smiled at her over the top of my coffee cup. Back when I was a bartender, I used to like inventing recipes based on popular drinks. Piña colada muffins, strawberry daiquiri cheesecake… I’d even made a Tom Collins-inspired lemon loaf once, but no one was a fan of the cherries.

Claire disappeared into the kitchen, humming to herself, and came back out a moment later holding a gargantuan, lopsided pie. “It isn’t very pretty, is it?” she remarked, smiling fondly at her creation. “But I can work on that for the next one.” She glanced up at the clock on the wall. “Owen and Jenny are coming for lunch in a little bit, if you want to join us. We can taste-test my pie for dessert.”

“Oh, no, I’m not…I have to…” What could I say? Claire knew I had no friends or family in town, and she’d probably guessed by now that there was no landlord. No anybody.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” she insisted.

“Is Marianne going to be there?” I asked hopefully. Marianne was Claire’s girlfriend, a red-faced, jolly woman who worked as a park ranger and seemed to be always talking about tents and fire-starters. I had absolutely nothing in common with her but liked her all the same, and always enjoyed seeing her and Claire giggle together.

“Marianne’s working,” Claire said, with a huff.

Damn. “But, you know, since they’re a couple, they’ll want to be just with you, probably…”

“Nonsense!” Claire said. “Owen likes you.”

I choked on my coffee. No, he didn’t. We didn’t even know each other. There was no reason for me to feel like I knew him, or for me to want to know him better.

“He’s really a sweet boy,” Claire said wistfully. “He keeps to himself, but there’s nothing wrong with that.” She frowned, as if she didn’t quite believe what she was saying. “Anyway…he could do much better than—” She stopped herself.

“Than who?” I asked curiously. “His girlfriend? Don’t you like her?”

“Well—no, not really. I hate to say it—I
wanted
to like her.” Claire bit her lip. “Owen doesn’t date much, you know.”

How could it be possible that Owen Larsen didn’t date? He was so good-looking that women probably fell all over him, no matter how unfriendly he was.

“Well, anyway,” Claire said, “it would be nice to have your company—and maybe you can tell me if I’m being unfair to Jenny.”

“I’m not sure I’m the right person to… I mean, I’m not a great judge of character.”

“Nonsense!” Claire said again, the trace of sadness vanishing from her face. “I’m sure you are.”

Trying to resign myself to the idea of lunch with a handsome man, his mother, and his girlfriend, I helped Claire stuff the pie into a box. She locked up the store, and we walked up a dirt driveway leading into the forest behind the café. Our breath formed white clouds in the pale midday sunshine.

“You haven’t met my dogs yet, have you, Miranda?”

“Not yet.”

“They love new people, but they are a
bit
big.”

I suspected that was the understatement of the century.

“I had a dog when I was a little kid,” I told Claire. “My dad gave me a puppy the Christmas after my mum died.”

Claire glanced sidelong at me. “How old were you?”

“Eight. My dog and I grew up together, in a way. He died a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I thought that if anyone could empathize with the death of a pet, it was Claire.

“What was your dog’s name?” she asked.

“Ariel. Like the sprite in
The Tempest
. It’s my dad’s favorite play.”

Her face lit up. “And that’s why your name is Miranda?”

“That’s right.” I grinned. “I am the innocent daughter of the exiled Duke of Milan and brilliant sorcerer, Prospero.”

Claire laughed. “I think I’d like to meet your dad sometime.”

“He’s a very humble man, as you can tell.”

Behind us, a twig snapped. I turned and almost lost my grip on the pie. Owen Larsen stood at the base of the hill. Despite the cold, he wore no coat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing his muscular forearms and his large, fine hands. Even from a distance, he was impossibly, inhumanly tall and broad-shouldered. I shivered, remembering why I’d promised myself I’d stay away from him. He was too striking—I could hardly think around him. I, of all people, needed to keep a clear head. And yet the dream I’d had this morning pulsed back to life: his hands on me, his mouth on my skin—

As if he’d had the same dream, he stared back at me, his jaw clenched, a flush high on his cheekbones. He drew his gaze upwards from my black stockings, to the hem of my short dress, to—the enormous pie.

His eyebrows shot up. “What is 
that
?”

“It’s a pie,” I said, fighting a nervous desire to laugh, “that your mum made?”

In a few long strides, he closed the distance between us. I forgot about laughing. Sunlight sifted through the pine trees and caught on his golden eyelashes, the angles of his cheekbones. With a twinge of surprise, I realized his dark eyes were actually a deep blue, like sapphires, or the cobalt color of my dress. I couldn’t understand why Suzanna White had painted his eyes downcast, leaving his eye color out of his portrait. When I had still been painting, I’d lived for those unexpected details.

“I’ll take that,” he said gruffly, plucking the pie box out of my hands and stalking off up the hill towards Claire’s house, leaving me staring after him, the magic spell broken.

I turned back to Claire. For the first time, I noticed the slim, pretty girl with a shiny brunette bob standing next to her, frowning at the dirt driveway as if it might leap up and smudge her white cardigan.

Claire was staring after Owen, her face pale. “Is he all right?” Claire asked the girl, who had to be Owen’s decidedly non-Viking girlfriend, Jenny.

“He got another death threat this morning,” Jenny said flatly.

Shock jolted through me. “A death threat?”

Claire cast me a quick, worried glance. “It’s nothing, Miranda, dear. Sorry to worry you.” But her light blue eyes were stark with fear. It wasn’t nothing—how could it be? The woman at the café had asked if he’d had any problems recently, but she couldn’t have meant death threats. That transformed her mockery into cruelty.

“Why don’t you go on ahead, Miranda?” Claire said, with an attempt at a smile. “See if Owen needs help with anything.” Her eyes were full of pleading. She wanted to talk to Jenny alone.

I nodded and started up the hill. Behind me, Claire asked Jenny: “Is he going to go to the police?”

“You know how he is.” Jenny’s tone was so cold that I flinched. What was wrong with her? Didn’t she care?

Refusing to let myself eavesdrop on the rest of their conversation, I unlatched the gate on the high stockade fence and stepped into Claire’s back yard. First, I noticed the dogs, which made sense, because they were the size of ponies. Three of them loped across the grass. A fourth leapt up from where it was chewing on what looked like a monster truck tire and darted after them.

As the gate swung shut behind me, yet another dog raced towards me, drool flying from its teeth. My heart stopped. I grabbed for the latch—

“Byron, sit.”

The pony-sized streak skidded to a stop, ripping up the frozen grass with his massive paws, and…sat. Behind him, the other dogs lost interest in tearing my arms and legs off. Seeming almost embarrassed, they snuffled around the grass by my boots. The first dog, Byron, wagged his tail, perfectly innocuous. I stared back at him, still not quite able to breathe. They came up to my waist. The fact that they were slender as gazelles didn’t make them any less intimidating.

“Byron, shake.”