The Ghost (16 page)

And he was startled when, on the day of New Year's Eve, he ran into Monique again. Where've you been? he asked with delight, as they met putting on their skis at the base of the mountain. He noticed that her mother was nowhere in sight. Again he wondered about someone who was so concerned about who bought the kid a hot dog and fries but let her ski alone. She certainly didn't hang around with Monique much. But she knew that at Charlemont, Monique was safe. They had come here almost every weekend for the past year, ever since they'd moved here. And despite the bitter taste that Pierre had cast on almost everything they'd done in France, skiing was still important to them, although her mother skied milder slopes than she did.

We went back because Mom had to work, she explained to Charlie as she beamed at him. It was like the meeting of old friends. But we're going to stay here tonight, and go home tomorrow.

So am I. He had already been there for three days, and wasn't going back until New Year's night. Are you going to stay up tonight for New Year's Eve?

Probably, she said hopefully. My dad lets me drink champagne. My mom says it'll rot my mind.

That's possible, he said, looking amused, thinking of all the champagne he'd drunk in the past twenty-five or thirty years, although it was debatable as to the effect it had had. I think you'll be all right with a few sips.

My mom won't even let me have that. And then on a happier note, We went to the movies yesterday. It was very nice. She seemed pleased and then moved ahead of him for a little while. And this time, at exactly noon, he sent her down to her mother. But they met again that afternoon, and Monique brought a friend with her. He was a boy she knew from school. He was a little hot dogger on the slopes, Charlie observed, but Monique whispered to him with a serious look that Tommy was a rotten skier. And Charlie smiled as the children flew ahead of him. Charlie was a little more cautious than they were on the way down, and by the end of the day he was tired. Monique had left the slopes by then, and he was surprised to run into them in his hotel that night after dinner. They were sitting in the lodge's large living room, and Francesca had stretched her long legs out in front of the fire. And as she said something to Monique, Charlie actually saw her smile. And he hated to admit it, but she looked gorgeous. She was a beautiful woman despite the icy, sorrowful look in her eyes.

He hesitated at first, but finally decided to walk over and say hello to them. He had spent so much time with Monique by then, that he felt rude not acknowledging her mother. She wore her hair down her back in a long ponytail, and as he approached, he couldn't help noticing the enormous almond-shaped eyes and the deep red color of her hair in the firelight. There was something mysterious and exotic about her when she smiled. But the moment she recognized him, everything closed again, like shutters on windows. Charlie had never seen anything like it. She was obviously determined to hide.

Hello again, he said, trying to look more comfortable than he felt. He wasn't good at this anymore. And he didn't want to be. He felt like a fool, standing there with Francesca glaring at him. Great snow today, wasn't it? he said casually, and saw her nod. The eyes fluttered up at him once and then looked back into the fire without interest.

But she forced herself to glance up at him finally, and answer his question. It was great snow, she conceded, but he noticed that it seemed to cause her considerable pain to speak to him at all. Monique told me she saw you again, she added, seeming almost expansive, but he didn't want this woman to think there was anything clandestine about his dealings with her child. They were just ski partners, and she was obviously hungry for male companionship because she missed her father. You've been very kind to her, Francesca Vironnet said quietly as Monique went to talk to another child, but she didn't invite him to sit down with her. Do you have children of your own? She assumed he had. Monique hadn't told her much about their conversations. She particularly didn't tell her that she had told Charlie about her father.

No, I don't have children, Charlie explained. I like her, Charlie said, and then complimented Monique profusely. But he couldn't help noticing again how withdrawn the woman was. She was like a wounded animal deep in a cave. All you could see were her eyes glistening in the dark from the light of the fire. He wasn't sure why, but even if only out of curiosity, he would have liked to draw her out. These were the kind of challenges he had loved years before, but had learned not to tackle even before he was married. More often than not, challenges such as these were not worth the agony, or the time. And yet ' something in her eyes whispered volumes about her sorrow.

You're very lucky to have Monique, he said quietly, and this time she looked up into his eyes, and at last he saw the merest flicker of something warm from behind the glacier where she was hiding.

Yes, I am lucky ' she conceded, but didn't sound as though she meant it.

She's a great skier too, he smiled, she outran me a number of times.

She outruns me too. Francesca almost laughed, but caught herself. She didn't want to know this man. That's why I let her ski by herself. She's too fast for me. I can't keep up with her. She smiled at him, and looked almost beautiful, but not quite. It would have taken a lot more fire to make the difference.

She tells me she learned to ski in France, he said casually, and with those words he saw everything in Francesca's face slam shut. It was like watching the door to a vault close electrically. Locked and sealed and barred, and nothing short of dynamite would have opened it before the appointed hour. He had obviously reminded her of something she could not bear to think about. And she had locked the door, and run far, far away from him. She was still wearing a look of startled agony when Monique wandered back, and Francesca stood up and told her it was bedtime.

Monique looked devastated. She had been having such a good time. And she wanted to stay up till midnight. And Charlie knew that, in part, her removal was his fault. Francesca had to run away from him now, to stay safe, and she had to take her daughter with her. He wanted to tell her that he wished her no harm, that he had wounds of his own. He was no threat to anyone. They were like two wounded animals, drinking at the same brook, there was no need to injure each other again, nor to run and hide. But there was no way to tell her what he felt. He wanted nothing at all from her, no friendship, no intimacy, he wanted to wrest nothing whatsoever from her. He was just standing qui-edy along her path. But even that faint threat, that hint of a human presence in her life, even for a moment or two, was too much for her. He wondered what she was writing about, but he wouldn't have dared to ask her about diat.

He tried to make a last plea for his young friend. It's awfully early to go up on New Year's Eve, isn't it? How about some ginger ale for Monique, and a glass of wine for us? But that was even more threatening, and Francesca shook her head, thanked him, and within two minutes, they both were gone, and he was sorry when they left. But he had never met a woman as badly injured as she, and couldn't imagine what the sports-caster had done to leave her so damaged. Whatever it was, Charlie suspected it must have been pretty awful. Or at least she thought it was, which was enough. But despite the suit of armor she wore so effectively, he sensed now that somewhere deep within, she was probably a decent person.

He went to the bar and stayed until ten-thirty, and then finally he went up to his own room. There was no point standing around downstairs, watching everyone else laugh and shout and get drunk. Like Gladys Palmer, New Year's Eve was a night he had never loved. And at midnight when the horns blew and the bells rang and couples kissed, promising that this year would be different, Charlie was sound asleep in bed in his room.

He woke up bright and early the next morning, and saw that it was snowing and the visibility was poor. A strong wind had come up and it was cold, and he decided to go back. Charlemont was so close to where he lived, he could come back anytime he wanted, he didn't have to ski in bad weather, or force himself to stay, when he'd rather be at home doing things in his house. Three days of good skiing there had been enough for him.

He checked out at ten-thirty, and in twenty minutes was back at his house. The snowdrifts were building again, and there-+ was an exquisite silence blanketing everything. He loved watching it, and sat for hours in his den, which had been Sarah's boudoir, reading and glancing up from time to time to see the snow still falling outside.

He thought of the little girl he had met in Charlemont, and her life with the mother who was at the same time so angry and so sad. He would have liked to see the child again, but it was obvious that he and her mother were not destined to be bosom companions. And as he thought of her, he remembered the two books he had to take back to the historical society. He had lent one of them to Gladys Palmer and he wanted to see her anyway, so he made a mental note to himself to stop by the next day and pick it up. He could drop both books off at the historical society after he left her.

But as he thought about them, there was a strange shuffling noise in the attic over his head, and in spite of himself, he jumped, and then he laughed. He felt so foolish, in a house with a history like this, everything was attributed to the supernatural. It never occurred to anyone that there might be a chipmunk in the attic somewhere, or even a squirrel, or a rat.

He decided not to pay any attention to it, but as he read some new architectural journals he'd bought, he heard the same sound again. It sounded like an animal dragging something, and at times it sounded almost like a man. And then, there was a gnawing sound, which told him exactly what he'd thought before. It was a rodent. For once, he didn't even begin to suspect it was Sarah's ghost. He had already resigned himself, after what Gladys said about only having seen her once in her life, he was sure the vision was not returning for a second time. He still couldn't quite explain it to himself, but whatever it was, it was gone, and the house was empty. Except for the rat in the attic over his head.

It annoyed him all afternoon, and at twilight, as the snow still fell, he got out the ladder, and decided to go up and check it out. If it was a rat, he didn't want the wiring destroyed. The house was old enough without having rodents devour what was left, and cause a fire. He had promised Gladys repeatedly that he would be careful about that.

But when he opened the trapdoor that led to the attic, and lifted himself into it, he found everything quiet there, and no telltale signs of anything amiss. He knew he hadn't imagined it, and hoped they hadn't found a way to slip between the walls. But he was certain that the sounds he'd heard were directly above him. He had brought a flashlight with him, and he looked everywhere. There were all the same boxes he had seen before, the uniforms, the toys, an old mirror leaning against a wall, and then at the far end, he spotted something he hadn't seen on his first foray up here. It was an old hand-carved cradle, and he gently ran a hand over it, wondering if it had belonged to Gladys or Sarah, but in either case, there was a sadness to it now, an emptiness that touched him. The babies in both their lives were gone, and worse than that, they were all dead now. He turned away from it, and the bittersweet feeling it gave him, and cast a light into the far corners, just to make sure no little furry creature had built a nest there. He knew chipmunks did that sometimes. It might even have lived there for a long time, and as he walked slowly back toward the ladder, he noticed a little alcove beneath one of the big round windows, and tucked away in it was an old battered trunk. He didn't think he had seen it there before, although from the look of it, and the cloud of dust that rose when he touched it, it was obvious that it had been there forever. It would have been easy to overlook it, its battered leather cover seemed to blend into the wall. And when Charlie tried to open it, he found it was locked. The fact that he couldn't get into it intrigued him.

There were no identifying marks on the trunk, no initials, no name, no crest. As both people who had lived in the house before had been both European and titled, he wouldn't have been surprised to see a crest somewhere on it, but he didn't. And as he played with the lock a little bit, some of the very old leather flaked off. The covering on it looked extremely fragile, but the trunk itself was not. And when Charlie tried to lift it, it felt like it was filled with rocks. But it was small enough to carry with some effort, and Charlie carried it as far as the ladder, and then slowly let himself down, balancing it on his shoulder, and careful not to drop it.

It fell with a thud to the floor of the hall when he got down again. And after he closed the trapdoor, satisfied that there were no visible rodents upstairs, he took the trunk to the kitchen, and got out some tools to pry open the lock. He felt a little awkward, wondering if Gladys Palmer had some small treasures hidden there, or some papers she didn't want anyone to see. He almost called her before he started trying to force it. It seemed something of a violation, and yet at the same time, the trunk seemed so old, and something about it mesmerized him. He couldn't stop what he was doing. He couldn't let go, and as he wrestled with it, the lock suddenly gave way and fell off. The leather was dry and frail, and there were brass nail heads in it, and if: was easy to believe that the trunk had been there as long as the house. And as Charlie touched the lid, he felt strangely breathless. He had no idea what he expected to find, money, jewels, treasure, papers, maps, a small dried skull, some ghastly, wonderful trophy or trinket from another century, but his heart was pounding as he lifted the lid, and he almost believed he heard a rustle by his side as he did it. He laughed in the silence of the old kitchen, knowing that he had imagined it. This was only a thing, an object, an old box, and as it opened, he felt a small wave of disappointment wash over him. It was filled with small leather-bound books, they looked almost like prayer books or hymnals. They were carefully bound, and had long silk markers in them. There were over a dozen of them, and they were all the same. He suspected the leather might have once been red, but it was a dull, faded brown now. He picked one up, and opened it, wondering if the books had come from a church somewhere, or to whom they had belonged. There were no markings on them, no titles, but they had the look of something reverent, and then as he glanced inside, at the very first page, he felt a shiver as he saw her name in her own hand. The writing was small and elegant and clear. The ink had been dry on the page for more than two hundred years, and in the corner she had written Sarah Ferguson, 1789. Just seeing what she had written and reading her name filled him with longing ' how long ago it had been ' what had she been like? If he closed his eyes, he could imagine her, sitting in this room, writing.