The House on Harbor Hill

by Shelly Stratton

  There are a few pieces of furniture in each of the rooms, but they are all covered in drop cloth, cloaking the house in gray and white, giving it an otherworldly feel.

  “We usually keep the house closed after September. You really can’t take advantage of the beach after that because it’s so cold,” he says, walking across the living room to remove one of the cloths, revealing a tweed sofa. “But I come up here on my own every now and then . . . for the peace and quiet.”

  I am standing in the center of the living room with my arms crossed over my chest, clutching my elbows, when he turns to me.

  “If you’re chilly, I could start a fire,” he says, gesturing to the fireplace on the other side of the room.

  “Thank you. That would be nice.”

  I wander from room to room, exploring the house, taking it all in as Cee builds the fire. I have not been here before, but everything feels right about this place. It feels welcoming, almost like home. I wonder if Cee anticipated this. Is that why he brought me here?

  When I return to the living room, Cee is sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, nudging the logs with a poker, stoking the flames. The room feels considerably warmer, and I remove my coat as I walk toward him. I set it next to his peacoat, which he has thrown over the arm of the sofa.

  “This . . . this house . . . ,” I begin but can’t find the right words to describe it.

  He chuckles. “I know. I figured you’d see Harbor Hill the way I do.”

  So I was right. He knew.

  “Harbor Hill. Why do you call it that?”

  “More than a hundred years ago, there was a harbor here. The sailors didn’t have a lighthouse to guide the way, but a farmer lived on this hilltop. He’d leave a fire burning, and that’s what they would look for. They knew when they saw the hill that they were near the harbor, that they were almost home.”

  I nod and drop to my knees, taking a spot on the rug beside him. We both stare into the fire.

  Cee sets down the poker, turns, and rifles through his jacket pocket. He pulls out his flask, removes the lid, and takes a sip. He offers it to me, and I consider it for a few seconds before taking the flask and taking a sip too.

  “So I guess we should talk now,” he says.

  I nod and hand the flask back to him. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  He takes another sip, exhales, and bows his head. He ruffles his hair, pushing it back from his face. “I’ve just got one question, Delilah, and it’s a simple one: What did I do wrong?”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “So then why’d you end it? Why’d you walk away? There has to be a reason!”

  I open my mouth, then close it. I purse my lips. He raises his head and glares at me.

  “I mean . . . dammit, Dee! Just be honest with me! Don’t bullshit me! Is it just because you were . . . were ready to move on? You used me and got what you wanted, so you were done with me? Is that it?”

  “I didn’t use you, Cee.”

  “Yes, you did! You used me for my money! A thousand here. Three hundred there! I wondered if the story you told me about your mama and the bank was just bullshit. That’s what it was all along, right?”

  I want to lie to abate his anger and hurt, but I can’t. I lower my eyes instead.

  “You think you’re the first girl who’s done this? You think you’re the first one who was only interested in what she could get out of me? Well, you’re not! I’ve had plenty—and I could spot them coming from a mile away. But I let down my guard with you! I thought you were different. I bought all that horseshit about your books and your dreams and your—”

  “It wasn’t horseshit. I meant every word. And I wasn’t using you for your money. I really liked you. I still like you, Cee, but I just can’t . . .”

  My words drift off. The room starts to blur, and I realize it’s because my eyes are flooding with tears.

  “You can’t what, Delilah?”

  “Miss Mindy . . . she knows what’s going on between us,” I say, and his face changes. “She knows, and Agnes knows too. She said it never should’ve happened.”

  “So? Why the hell should we care?”

  “Because Agnes has been through this! She knows how it will end—and I do too!” I yell through my tears. I wipe them away with the backs of my hands. “This isn’t going to work, Cee. This was never meant to go anywhere! We should just end it . . . end this foolishness before someone gets—”

  “Before someone gets hurt?” He raises his brows. “Well, too goddamn late! Because I love you! I’m in love you, and this is hurting the hell out of me. You’re destroying me! Don’t you get that?”

  I slowly shake my head.

  He won’t be destroyed, not really. He will be hurt, but not broken like I will be if this continues on, the way Agnes was broken all those years ago. I will never be the same, and I can already feel some part of me sliding away the longer he and I are together.

  But Cee doesn’t see that. All he can see is what he needs and wants.

  “Look at me! Look at me, dammit!” he orders, roughly grabbing my face. His eyes are bright again, and that’s when I know he’s not himself anymore. He’s the Cee who throws cigarettes at me and cusses. This is the Cee who makes me nervous, the one I must get away from. “It’s true. I love you, and I’m not going to let you get away from me! I’m not!”

  I try to pull my face away and to rise to my feet. “Just find someone else! Take me home, and find—”

  That’s when he clamps his hand over my mouth and my nose to silence me. It happens so fast I don’t realize what he’s done until he shoves me to the floor, and I can feel the hardwood and the rug against my back. He holds me down, and I claw at his hands. He yells like he’s the one being smothered as I fight for air, trying to wrench his hand away. I can hear Agnes in my head along with my own screams.

  You’re just any ol’ cow . . . just any ol’ cow being led to the slaughterhouse, Dee.

  Agnes was right: I am just any ol’ cow being led to the slaughter. I am going to die tonight.

  I see pinpricks of light in my line of vision. Air fills my throat, screaming to get out. My head aches, and the world starts to dim. Just when I feel myself going limp, Cee removes his hands, and I gasp for air. He drags me up from the floor toward him, kissing my cheek, my neck, and my mouth like he hadn’t been smothering me just ten seconds ago.

  “I can give you everything. Everything you ever wanted,” he murmurs against my lips. He rips open the buttons of my uniform jumper, sending them flying. His hands are shaking as he pushes the jumper and my bra straps off my shoulders.

  He shoves me back to the floor again, and I try to push him away—but I can’t. I am too weak, too frightened. I try to scream “No!” and “Stop, Cee!” but my throat is burning, and no sound comes out. He lowers his zipper and pushes his jeans down his hips. I watch the lightning flash, playing on the planes of his face. I hear the thunder as he raises my skirt, shimmies my panties over my knees, and pries open my legs. I hear the sound of his panting breath against my ear and the rain pounding against the roof when he climbs on top of me.

  “You’re meant for more. You said it yourself. I can give it to you, beautiful. I can! Just let me. You’re meant for me,” he whispers as he pushes himself into me, like I am something to possess, not to love.

  * * *

  After it’s over, he kisses me in a soft, sweet way. I flinch and turn my mouth away as he does it, and his lips land on my wet cheek.

  “That was lovely, sweetheart,” he gushes, then climbs off of me. He stands and begins to dress. He does it casually, like what just happened was perfectly normal, like he didn’t just rape me on the hardwood floor of his family’s empty house. “But we better get you back home. I bet your aunt is wondering where you are.”

  I slowly rise from the floor to a sitting position, feeling numb all over except for the painful throbbing and sticky wetness between my legs. My brain is sluggish. I am still
in shock. I watch dully as Cee tucks his shirt hem into his pants and raises his zipper. He gestures at me.

  “You definitely have to keep your coat closed though. Can’t have her seeing that.”

  I look down at myself. The front of my jumper is splayed open and one of my bra straps has been ripped, revealing my left breast. I raise my hands to cover my nakedness, but it is of no use. He tosses my coat to me after he shrugs into his.

  “Put it on,” he orders, and I do as he says, almost automatically.

  Later, Cee drives me home. We don’t talk as he drives. He smokes and listens to the radio while I stare out the window. In the car windows’ reflection, I can see his face in profile. He seems serene, almost happy.

  Meanwhile, I feel like I’ve been cleaved from true myself, like my body and my mind are in two different places. I sit calmly, but inside, I am sobbing. I am screaming. I want to bolt from the car and run, but I don’t make a move. I adjust my position in my seat, holding my purse in my lap, and continue to stare out the window.

  When we arrive at Auntie Mary’s house, I climb out of the GTO on shaky legs. I just want to go upstairs to my bedroom and curl into a tight ball on my bed. I want to forget about tonight, about everything. I want to forget I ever met Chauncey Buford.

  “Hey, Dee!” he calls out, making me halt in my steps. I slowly turn to find him leaning toward the open window. “I’m glad we put that behind us, that we’re back together.”

  I stare at him, at a loss for words.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, beautiful,” he calls to me with a smile, then turns around, guns the engine, and pulls off.

  I watch as he drives down the block until he turns the corner and his taillights disappear.

  That’s when I know for sure he has me trapped.

  Part III

  Camden Beach, Maryland

  November 2016

  CHAPTER 20

  Aidan tried to avoid her.

  He stayed out of the hallway when he heard the children clamoring in the morning—the boy screaming for his book bag and the little girl babbling her baby talk. He had set up the swing and play set in the backyard for them, as Delilah had asked him to, but now he avoided having a beer by the shed in the evenings to relax. That space was the children’s domain; he had relinquished it without a complaint, as long as he didn’t have to look at her. Aidan had even stopped eating breakfast and dinner in the dining room. Every night, Delilah would call upstairs, asking if he would come down. He would make an excuse for why he couldn’t have dinner with the entire brood. He would say anything to avoid having those magnetic blue eyes peering at him from across the table.

  But, of course, he couldn’t ignore her completely. He could still hear her toddling through the house—the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of tiny feet over hardwood. Or he’d see her playing in the front yard, squealing and laughing as she and her brother tossed around the newly fallen leaves, her cheeks red from the blustery wind. Aidan had caught a glimpse of her and her older brother making “leaf angels” in a pile of leaves Aidan had raked only an hour earlier. He’d tried to pretend to be annoyed that he had to rake the pile again, but he had smiled at their play and shenanigans despite himself.

  And today . . . today she was unavoidable. The little girl was right in front of him—or more accurately, right in front of his door.

  Aidan had just loaded one of his old CDs into his stereo—Stevie Wonder’s greatest hits—and was humming along to the music while getting settled for the night when he turned around and saw her standing there in zebra-striped onesie pajamas. They froze simultaneously, staring at one another.

  The little girl was the first to break the spell. Her cherubic face broke into a grin, revealing four teeth and two bright pink gums. She raised her arms over her head and started to do a little shimmy, clomping her feet and dancing in his doorway to “Sign, Sealed, Delivered.”

  Watching her, Aidan couldn’t hold back his laugh. It burst from his mouth before he had a chance to control the volume. He started laughing so hard at her little dance routine, he had to hold on to the edge of the mattress to stay upright. Tears sprung to his eyes. Seeing him, she started to laugh too. Her girlish, high-pitched giggles filled his room and the entire corridor.

  “Maggie! There you are!” her mother called out, rushing to the little girl’s side. She scooped her up into her arms, kissed her plump cheek, and turned to face Aidan. “I’m sorry if she was bothering you!” she shouted over the music. “I didn’t know she had wandered down here!”

  He quickly shook his head and grabbed the remote to lower the stereo volume. “No, she wasn’t bothering me. Not at all. She was just dancing. I thought it was . . . cute.”

  But she didn’t look convinced. Instead, she eyed him anxiously and pasted on one of the fakest smiles he had seen in quite a while. It was a smile he had used himself while working at the law firm years ago.

  “Well, anyway, we’ll get out of your hair.” She grabbed the doorknob. “Come on, Maggie! Time to go to night-night.”

  “That’s okay, really. You can leave it . . .”

  The door slammed shut with a thud.

  “Open,” he finished and then sighed and reached for the beer on his night table. He shook his head in exasperation and took a long, slow pull from the bottle.

  The children seemed to be simple creatures. They went to school. They slept. They played. They ate. But the woman, Tracey—she was an enigmatic figure. He didn’t know what to think of her or what the hell her deal was.

  Though Aidan had tried to avoid the children, he at least remained reasonably polite to everyone, including Tracey, offering to help her move her furniture around the room in whatever configuration she wanted or washing her car when he washed Delilah’s. But it didn’t seem to matter to her. Instead, the longer she lived at Harbor Hill, the more aloof she became. Well, that wasn’t true. She and Delilah seemed to have bonded quickly, cooking meals together and sitting on the couch to watch television with the children. But she continually gave Aidan the cold shoulder, like she’d rather not be in his presence.

  He supposed it was to be expected. He was polite to her, but he wasn’t particularly warm or overly welcoming. And to be honest, a few women who had come to Harbor Hill had also been gunshy of him in the beginning, which made sense considering the two tons of emotional baggage they often carried with them through the front door. He had heard all the horror stories of past abusive relationships: drunken husbands who pushed you when you got too lippy, or boyfriends quick to slap a girl if his steak came to the table well done instead of medium rare. He went out of his way to make them feel comfortable. If these women were recovering from trauma doled out by his own sex, the last thing he wanted was to be yet another man to make them wary—or worse, outright scared. Luckily, after the first month or so, all the women would warm to Aidan. They would see he wasn’t one of those guys. But Tracey was different.

  He didn’t know how to make her feel at ease around him and wasn’t sure if it was even worth trying.

  * * *

  By morning, Aidan’s thoughts were less on Tracey Walters and more on fixing the trim around the oversized French doors leading to the back porch.

  The temperature had dropped considerably last night and had been hovering just below thirty degrees for most of the morning. The wind had kicked up, and there was a sharp bite in the air that made Aidan’s fingers go numb from the chill when he wasn’t wearing gloves. It made the work cumbersome, and it was taking longer than he would have liked, but he forged ahead. He had just glued the painted trim on top and was about to nail it into place when he heard over his shoulder, “What are you doing?”

  Aidan turned and looked down from his perch on the ladder to find the boy staring up at him quizzically from the foot of the porch stairs. He had on a blue puffy winter coat and a wool hat pulled so low on his head that only his eyes, cheeks, mouth, and nose were visible.

  “Oh, uh, hey, Caleb. I’m just hanging up s
ome trim,” Aidan said, picking up his hammer.

  The boy wiped his nose on the back of his mitten. “Why?”

  “Well, because . . . because the old trim is rotted.” He pointed down to the discarded trim on the porch. “I’ve got to replace it.”

  “Oh,” Caleb said, still gazing up at Aidan. He lingered near the stairs.

  Feeling conspicuous now, Aidan took one of the nails and positioned it in place.

  “Can I do it?” Caleb called out, making Aidan turn around to face him again. “Can I help?”

  He considered the boy’s request for a few seconds, then shrugged. At the rate he was going, the kid couldn’t slow him down. “Sure, I guess.”

  Smiling, Caleb ran up the stairs as Aidan hopped off the ladder.

  “Climb up,” he said, motioning to the ladder, “and I’ll hold the nail while you swing. Can I trust you not to break my fingers? You ever nailed something with your dad before?”

  Caleb lowered his eyes. He bowed his head, looking embarrassed. “I’m . . . I’m not supposed to talk about my dad.”

  Growing up with a father who was married and had another family only thirty miles away, Aidan had had his fair share of awkward questions about his dad. He should’ve known better than to do the same to Caleb.

  “No problem,” Aidan said with a shrug, making Caleb raise his head. “Don’t worry about it. Just forget I asked. How about this? We’ll take it slow.” He patted one of the metal rungs, gesturing for him to climb.

  “Can you hold this, though?” Caleb asked, offering a well-worn Incredible Hulk action figure to him. “I can’t fit him in my coat pocket.”

  Aidan reached out and took the doll. “You like the Hulk, huh?”

  Caleb nodded eagerly. “I want to be strong just like him one day.”

  “Don’t we all, kid.” He then inserted the Hulk into his jacket pocket. “Come on and hop up here.”

  Caleb followed his command, taking one unsteady step, then the next, exercising so much intense focus to climb a mere two and half feet that Aidan almost burst into laughter, but he bit it back. He didn’t want to spook Caleb or make him self-conscious. When the boy was finally high enough, Aidan handed him the hammer.