by T K Eldridge
Cullen reached into his pocket and pulled out a pen, shaking his head. “No, no card.” He stepped back to the box on the table and tore a scrap from one of the bags, writing his number on it and handing it to Emlen. “Here ya go. Give me a call when you’re ready.”
“Okay. Well, thank you again. Bye!” Emlen waved and watched him head back out to his truck. Scratched and faded, the old Ford starting up with a roar, tires spitting gravel and sand as he turned around and drove away.
A soft mrowl as the cat twined around her ankles and Emlen chuckled. “Well, a tom cat and a hottie all in one day. How lucky can a girl get, eh Barnabus?” Gloria Estefan’s “Miami Sound Machine” and the spicy Salsa beat poured from the radio as she turned it up. It kept Emlen moving. She unpacked and put away the groceries, wiped down shelves and lined them with fresh paper, cleaned dishes and arranged the kitchen the way she liked it. Within a couple of hours, she was done. The sunlight had long since faded and the lamps glowed warm and golden yellow in the summer darkness.
Chapter Three
Emlen let Barnabus out and locked the door, leaving one small light on over the stove and shutting off the rest as she wandered through to the bathroom. She started the bathtub to fill for a good long soak before checking the locks one last time. Sinking into the steaming water, the claw foot tub giving her enough space to really relax, Emlen went back over her day. There was the strangeness of coming back to Muckle Cove, the need to stay disguised and to keep lying about who she really was so she could keep getting information - and the surprising flash of attraction when she met Cullen O’Brien. It had only been a month since she walked away from Brad. Shouldn’t she still be all tied up in the past? Besides, something felt familiar about O’Brien. Fingers trailed through the water before she sat up and blinked. “Shit. O’Brien. I bet he’s related to James! Gods, Emlen, you’re an idiot.”
Climbing out of the tub and grabbing her robe, Emlen went looking for her messenger bag, finding it against the entry table. A bit later she tapped a name on her laptop screen. “Knew it. Cullen O’Brien, thirty-two, son of James. Contractor, self-employed. Graduate of Northeastern University, Criminal Justice. Massachusetts State Police, eight years on the force. Huh.” Her voice trailed off as she skimmed the rest of her notes. “Nothing on if he quit or was fired. Going to have to dig into that one. One brother, Connor, age thirty, also a cop.” Closing the laptop, she dropped it on her bed and headed back into the bathroom.
Contacts removed, Emlen stared at her reflection as she rubbed lotion on her face. The dull brown hair dye made her skin seem more pallid than it appeared with her natural auburn hue, but the bright violet of her eyes shone with excitement as she mentally went over the notes.
After so many years, she was finally actively doing something—anything—to see if she could find more information out there. Her deception had worked so far, and she was going to try to keep it going as long as she was able. People spoke more freely when they didn’t realize that the person asking the questions had an intimate connection to the story.
Shutting off the light, she stepped into the hallway and froze. Did she see a shadow move? Was there a sound she couldn’t identify? Something had her gripping the door frame and shivering in place as the scent of vanilla musk once again wrapped around her. Eyes drifting closed, she could almost feel the comfort of a hug as she let out a slow breath and relaxed. A perfume? Maybe the last tenants had spilled some? A faint shrug and she moved into the bedroom, pulling on a tank top and sleep shorts before climbing into bed with her notes and laptop. It would only take her moments to transcribe the conversation with the ladies earlier in the day, adding her own impressions.
The warm breeze through the windows brought the scent of ocean salt and a hint of sea roses. Closing the laptop twenty minutes later, Emlen set everything aside and slid down under the comforter. It would take a few moments to shut her brain down enough to sleep, or so she thought as she turned out the light.
* * *
He could follow her path through the house as the lights went out, one by one. Cullen stood on his deck and sipped the beer. He watched the lights go out. Then the ones in the bedroom and bath go on. He thought about the pretty girl who was now the girl next door, literally. It wasn’t like Cullen didn’t have his share of women friends. When he wanted the company, there were those who would be more than happy to climb into his bed. But that wasn’t Cullen’s style. He’d played the ‘casual sex’ game his first couple of years in college – until he’d met Maggie Murphy and decided that he was going to marry her. Maggie, of course, had other ideas, and ended up marrying some doctor’s son from Wellesley and had her first kid about two months after graduation.
The beer was warm and going flat by the time Cullen saw the bathroom light go out, then the bedroom one. “Goodnight, Emmy Baldwin. Sweet dreams.” He poured the last of the beer over the railing and dropped the bottle into the recycling bin before going back inside.
His house was yet another of the summer cottages that had been slowly turned into a year-round place. Last year, he had taken most of his savings to replace the kitchen and bath. The wide-plank pine glowed with a honeyed warmth beneath the shiny finish, complemented by the black granite counter tops in the kitchen. Doing the work himself meant that the cost had only been in time and materials. He’d taken the time and used quality materials, looking at the project as an investment. The house had belonged to Camille Brewster’s grandmother, Charlotte, until she had died from cancer. Camille had sold it about two months after moving to Muckle Cove. Cullen’s father had purchased the house as a rental property and sold it to Cullen three years ago.
Years of renters had done more than wear-and-tear damage on the place. A little paint and cleaning just weren’t going to cut it. So, he gutted the place, keeping only the crown moldings and fireplace mantel and went to work. Whitewashed beadboard trim and chair railings shone in the great room and the kitchen had walls painted the colors of the sea, sand and sky. Blue in the bath, sea-glass green in the main room and a creamy sand in the kitchen with the tile backsplash done in shades of green and blue tied all of the rooms together.
The upstairs boasted a wet room master bath with multiple shower heads and smoky tiles to complement the carved seashell bowl he’d found and turned into the sink basin. Skylights and French doors out to a small balcony let in tons of light and air, making the space a true refuge.
He’d found a few good pieces of furniture, but he was being particular about what he put in his house. Just last week he’d picked up a Victorian style hall-tree with beveled mirrors and glass-knob coat hooks that, after a few hours of cleaning and polishing, was now residing beside the front door. Cullen liked pieces that had both history and functionality. An 1800s steamer trunk stored throw blankets and board games and doubled as a coffee table. The wooden hutch in the kitchen not only stored dishes, but held staples like potatoes, onions and flour in the various bins in the base.
Walking through the house, Cullen turned off the lights and headed up the stairs. Pausing at the low cabinet tucked against one wall, he poured two fingers of Lagavulin 16 and lifted the glass, breathing in the scent of the whiskey. Once on the balcony, he unwrapped a Hoyo de Monterrey Epicure, snipped the end and pocketed the cutters, dipping the mouth end in the whiskey before pulling out his lighter and lighting up the cigar. The fragrant smoke swirled around his head as he leaned back into the deck chair and put his feet up on the railing. The stars glimmered overhead, and the constant susurrus of the waves provided a calming backdrop to his thoughts.
The whiskey gone and the cigar half done, Cullen was contemplating staying right where he was for the night when a scream ripped through the quiet and brought him to his feet. It took him a moment to figure out where it had come from, when a second scream had him racing through the house. He grabbed his gun from the shelf by the door and tucked it at his back, racing across the space between the cottages to Emlen’s door.
Reaching t
he cottage, he pounds on the door, shouting Emmy’s name. She opens the door, clutching her robe and blinking as if dazed. Grabbing her shoulders, he looks her over as if she were the sole survivor of a catastrophe. “Are you all right, Emmy? Are you hurt?” Cullen’s gaze took in the lavender robe that made her eyes seem to glow in a rich amethyst color. Confusion flooded him as he certainly didn’t remember her eyes being this color when he saw her earlier.
“I’m fine - what’s going on?” Emlen asked, one hand holding the robe tight, the other pushing back sleep-tousled hair. “You do realize it’s like two in the morning, right?”
Cullen took a breath and released her, looking past her into the dimly lit house before focusing on her once more. “I heard screams. I thought you were in trouble.”
Emlen ducked her head. “Sorry about that. It was probably me having a nightmare.” Tugging his shirt down in back, Cullen made sure his gun was covered up before looking around once more and then back at her. “You sure? Want me to check things out real quick before I go?”
Emlen shook her head before stepping back further. “No, I’m sure it was just a nightmare. I’m so sorry. I’ll be sure to shut my windows from now on.” Cheeks flushed and her eyes stayed lowered as she reached for the door to pull it towards her.
“No, you don’t have to do that. It’s too warm to close everything up and who wants to have the air conditioning going all the time?” Cullen tried for a smile, but the adrenaline rush was only now starting to ease off.
“Thanks for checking on me. I’ll…uh…good night.” Emlen murmured, still not looking up as she shut the door, the snick of the lock settling as Cullen stepped back. His pace back across the stretch between their homes was much slower, pausing now and then to glance back at the now-dark cottage - particularly when he heard the faint ‘thump’ of a window being shut.
* * *
Emlen rested her forehead against the door and quietly groaned. From her first nights at her aunt and uncle’s place, to her first nights away at boarding school, the nightmares had always been an issue. Heading back into her room, she shut the window firmly and crawled back into bed, going back to that first night at Emerson. She had warned the R.A. that she needed a private room. That her dreams were disturbing to others.
Little did they know that it wasn’t her dreams as much as the presence that seemed to come to visit in the dark hours.
“I am NOT sleeping in that room with that weirdo again!” Kate grabbed at her bathrobe ties, hands shaking so that she could barely wrap them around her waist. “She talks in her sleep…and I swear I heard some woman talking back to her.”
The R.A. tried to calm Kate down, but she was having none of it.
“I want a roommate that doesn’t talk to her dead mother in her sleep. Is that so hard to understand?”
“No, it’s not hard to understand. But if you don’t stop shouting, you’re going to wake the whole floor.” Sue, the resident assistant for Grays Hall, ran a hand through her hair and wondered if the benefits of this job were worth the hassle.
“Joanie is visiting her brother this weekend. Go sleep in her bed for now and I’ll do the re-arranging tomorrow, a’ight?” Sue pointed the girl at the other room, walked into Emlen and Kate’s room to sit on Kate’s bed and look at the other girl.
Emlen sat, knees drawn up, hugging them tightly as she gave a soft sniffle. “I didn’t mean to scare her. I was sound asleep, and then she was beating on me with her pillow, telling me to shut up,” Emlen whispered, voice thick with tears. “I told them I needed a single room because of my dreams. They didn’t want to listen.”
Sue sighed and shook her head. “Well, it’s a moot point now. Wash your face and I’ll make us some tea and then you can maybe go back to sleep? Kate’s going to sleep down the hall and we’ll get things all moved around tomorrow.”
Thick mugs emblazoned with the burgundy emblem of prestige warmed their hands as the tea worked its magic to soothe. “So, what was the dream about?” Susan asked.
Emlen shrugged and sipped the tea, still huddled on her bed, knees drawn up, the mug balanced there with both hands. “It’s one I have a lot. I dream my mother’s here, talking to me. Telling me things. Begging me to find out who killed her. Then she…” her voice faltered, and Emlen’s head bowed as she shook it in denial.
“Your mother was killed?” Susan whispered, the horror in her voice.
“When I was three. We lived on the Cape then.” Emlen murmured, sipping the tea once more to forestall any further explanation. Or so she hoped.
“Geez, I’m sorry, Emlen. No wonder you have bad dreams!” Sue was properly horrified and contrite – as they always were – and after a few earnest and hurried sentiments, she made her excuses and left Emlen sitting there with her steaming mug of tea and her thoughts. And the blissfully silent room.
Only in the silence could Emlen feel that comforting touch on her shoulder, or the brush against her cheek - from a hand that could not be seen.
Hours of psychiatrists, psychologists, years of medications that did nothing to truly solve the problem had left Emlen determined to find her own solutions for the issues. Usually, meditation, some herbal supplements, and routine kept her from waking up, throat raw from screams and body trembling - but any significant-enough disruption to her schedule could bring them back. Moving into her childhood home was probably a pretty significant disruption, she thought with a sarcastic snort of wry amusement. Always fragments, the dreams were nothing wholly logical or seemed to be framed in any rationality. More pure emotion than anything else, they left her feeling bereft and adrift, a leaf spinning down a river.
Brad had tried to spend the night a few times, but he always said he ‘needed his rest’ and would leave shortly after the after-sex cuddling. Times she spent at his place, they had separate bedrooms and the thick walls kept her disruptions from disturbing anyone else. Thinking about Brad brought her back around to thinking about Cullen and she smiled. Her own knight, rushing to rescue the damsel in distress. How cliché - and yet, oddly comforting. She could never see Brad getting out of bed to check on someone else, never mind racing across the dunes to a neighbor’s house. He’d just send a servant or call 911.
Rolling over, Emlen sighed and closed her eyes, drifting back into sleep. Just before sinking fully under, she felt a hand brush the hair back from her face and the soft press of lips to her brow. A faint smile flickered on her lips as she sank deeper.
Chapter Four
Emlen sat at the breakfast table, a pot of coffee nearby, along with the remains of a blueberry muffin from the local bakery. Sunshine streamed through the wide windows, lighting the stacks of papers in the boxes at her feet and glinting off the amber and silver necklace she was absently toying with. Articles and files, photos and scraps of paper were sorted onto chairs, the rest of the table, even a few on the windowsill as she sipped and read, Barnabas curled up on the cushion of the chair next to her.
She didn’t have any memories of her own when it came to the O’Briens, other than a faint feeling of having felt safe and loved. Looking at photos of the family and Cullen as a young boy, did nothing to bring her own memories forward. She hadn’t even placed the name yesterday when she met him. It took the moment in the bath and the niggling suspicion that she’d missed something important yesterday, to get her to dig in the boxes and realize who Cullen really was.
Sorting the files into chronological order helped her try to order the thoughts and impressions in her own mind. Years of seeing psychologists had taught her to recognize which memories were her own and which were those she’d constructed from others’ information. It still terrified her a little to realize that she had so few memories between the ages of three until about age nine. “It was probably all the drugs,” she muttered and pulled out the folder on her first few years in school. Two different boarding schools from age five to age eight, before being tutored at her aunt’s house for a year and had daily psych visits. Fifth grade had her a
t Emerson Prep, where she managed to stick it out until graduation, thanks to generous donations from her grandparents and uncle. A private suite and half the school funds coming from her family kept the administration from throwing her out.
She’d met Brad at Emerson Prep. Her grandparents had assigned him to her as a date for junior prom. Emlen didn’t care a whole lot about things like prom or homecoming. She much preferred hanging out in the library or hiding under the bleachers at the lacrosse field and smoking with her friends. However, junior prom at Emerson was the New England society equivalent of a debutante ball down south, so they buffed and polished and primped, stuffed her into a Dior gown and dusted her with family heirloom jewels before being presented on the arm of Bradley the fifth.
They’d actually had a good time after the first half hour of totally awkward stiffness - about when she’d kicked off her Louboutin’s and bribed the live band to play Lady Gaga and got the whole room dancing - even the teachers. He’d brought a flask of eighteen-year-old whiskey and she’d stashed two joints in her pack of cigarettes. They’d ended the night with her sitting on his tux jacket on the roof of the administration building, smoking, drinking and talking until the sun rose and the smell of coffee drifted over from the dining hall.
He’d been fun then, before college graduation and the expectations of his father and the strictures of the family business. Both of their families had agreed that an engagement in their senior year at Harvard was appropriate and a wedding was expected within a year after graduation - but they’d strung it out for over two before she’d finally ended it a month ago.
The heirloom ring was left in the middle of his bed - on top of the photo of Brad kissing Samantha Bishop as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Samantha had been sitting on his desk at Wallingford-Smith and Bishop when Brad’s secretary had snapped the photo with her phone and sent it to Emlen.