(Romeo and Juliet, Act 1, Scene 4)
All summer my hair had been blown by the ocean breeze or caught back in a messy tail. Hannah’s sleek hair inspired me to condition and iron my own. I have my father’s hair. My mother says to thank my Chinese heritage because her hair is thin and mousy.
The formal dress I’d brought at Mrs. Brighton’s urging was hanging in the closet. Tristan hadn’t liked this particular dress, but it was one of the few things I hadn’t allowed him to influence. I’d bought it anyway. The first time I’d tried it on, the iridescent gray fabric had made my black hair gleam and my skin glow. The bodice was loose but silken so it allowed me movement to play while still seeming feminine not frumpy. When I wasn’t playing, the fabric showed my slight curves without showing my every breath. The narrow draped shoulders were perfect for summer. The long skirt flowed around my legs with clinging softness.
When I took it down and slipped it over my head, it was as elegant and simple as I remembered. Much more my style than the bright colors Tristan preferred as if he were an artist and he wanted me to wear his palette.
I hadn’t worn the dress for the recital I’d purchased it for.
Tristan had held me down. I recalled the force of his muscular body over mine. He’d crushed my chest, pinning me to the floor until I could barely breathe. The memory was so vivid my chest tightened. My breath came hoarse between my lips. At first, I’d been too shocked to cry out. He’d wrapped his long callused fingers around the soft pale flesh of my arm, and he had tightened and tightened until he had squeezed, mercilessly.
I did cry out, then. But my parents weren’t home. I’d begged for him to please, please stop.
I had forgotten that night. I’d blocked it from my mind. But Jericho’s hands on Octavia’s shoulders had been so tight. Too tight. That’s what had bothered me. The reminder.
He deserted you the first time he hurt you, Hannah had said. Goose bumps rose along the back of my neck. Was Hannah Shreve actually psychic?
He hadn’t spoken. He had only continued to press the full force of his fingers into my skin. Angry, dark bruises in the shape of his hands had ringed my forearms the next day. He hadn’t stopped with one. He’d taken his time while I’d cried on first one side and then the other.
That’s what had terrified me in the end. The time he took. His calculated care to mark me well, even though I eventually screamed. The “accident” with the laptop had made me feel squeezed too hard and too tight because the expression on his face had been the same as when he’d hurt my arms. He hadn’t wanted me to play games with friends or have any connections with others while he was away.
It had taken weeks for the bruises to fade. I’d worn the long-sleeved purple dress he’d picked for my recital. My arms had ached while I played, knowing he watched in the shadowed audience.
The bruises had eventually gone away, but the scars on my soul from that night had been lasting.
I’d been afraid of Tristan for a long time. The physical abuse had been an escalation not an aberration.
And I had allowed it.
I had hidden the bruises.
I hadn’t told my parents.
I’d seen him grow bolder because of my fear.
The day the telegram arrived and I learned Tristan had died, I’d been relieved that he was gone. The guilt of that had almost eaten me alive.
I sat for a long time, allowing myself to remember.
Tristan might be gone, or he might be haunting me, but I needed to forgive myself for not being brave enough to tell my parents about the abuse, for my conflicted feelings over the person who had hurt me. They’d been right to be concerned about our relationship. They’d seen something dark and controlling in him from the start, and I’d been wrong to hide the escalation of Tristan’s abuse.
I was going to wear the dress I loved. I refused to let him ruin it for me anymore.
I stood and looked at the soft gray material against my skin. I held my arms out to see that they were unmarked, unblemished. I noticed that my summer work had caused a little more muscle to swell on my forearms. I liked that strength. I liked the way it was offset by the delicate dress.
Would Michael see what I saw in the gray dress or would he find it plain? I remembered the gull feather. The way it had shimmered in the sunlight. The way Michael had plucked it from the air to stop its fall to the sea.
I thought maybe he would like my gray dress because I liked it. If he came to the dance at all.
I’d bought glittery sandals to wear with my gown. Tristan had hated them. I was tall for a girl, and he was only a little taller than me. I hadn’t needed the lesson of the dress repeated. For my recital, I’d worn flats with the purple gown. I’d felt miserable that night. Dressed up like a doll and not myself at all.
Tonight, I wouldn’t worry. I might have to survive a haunted summer, but for the first time I truly believed I could.
I wore the heeled sandals down the stairs.
Music was already playing.
Guests were dancing.
Mme. Shreve held court in a ring of elderly men and women who wore various levels of quality attire. There was everything from cruise ship chic to heavy diamonds that seemed very real. I couldn’t look closely at anyone’s eyes. They all seemed needy and vulnerable in ways too private for me to intrude upon. Mme. Shreve didn’t seem to have the same compunction. She touched people’s arms and stared into their eyes. She seemed to thrive on their hunger for impossible things.
Mrs. Brighton waved at me from her place beside the stereo. She was the most grandmotherly disc jockey I’d ever seen.
“Well, whatever happens tonight, you’ll look gorgeous through it,” Hannah said.
She came behind me down the stairs with a slightly fey but genuine smile. Her warnings and predictions made me nervous, but I still liked her. Especially when I imagined being raised by a mother like Mme. Shreve. She’d changed her casual dress for one very like it in black lace. This time, the red rose was a satin one clipped in her hair. So, she kind of had a costume, too. I didn’t mind. It wasn’t everyone who wore eccentric genes so well.
“You look fabulous,” I said and meant it.
The short, uneven hem of her dress made her petite legs look long and her skyscraper wedge heels were mind-boggling. Especially when she stepped in them all graceful and light, a ballet dancer en pointe.
If Michael danced all night with her instead of me I’d hate it, but I’d also kind of understand.
“No worries. I have interests elsewhere,” she said as if she’d…read my mind. She boggled some more as she easily took the last stairs and headed for the food.
I was going to follow her. Nibble some cookies. Try to avoid conversation about doom and gloom and my demise. Maybe ask her about poppets with long black hair. But I didn’t get that far.
Michael had come.
I saw him and forgot all about Hannah and her creepy warnings.
He was in a dark suit and tie. The black against his sun-streaked hair and tan skin was so sharp it cut. I gasped at the sting. The lighting came from above us where dusty chandeliers glowed. His eyes glimmered amber, then not, amber, then not, as he came across the rooms through shadows and light.
I don’t think he thought my dress was plain. I don’t think he cared or noticed my heels made me tall. He just kind of was at the same time as I was, and we were both okay with that. Better than okay with that. Heart-thumping, blood-pumping okay. Jericho might have been influencing him at the cemetery, but the glow in his eyes as he looked at me was 100 percent Michael, here and now.
“I’ll be honest, Li. I’m the belle of this ball. I’m the only guy under fifty-three. So this is a sacrifice on my part…dance with me?” he asked. He was swagger-y and funny in the first part and almost uncertain in the last, as if he thought I’d turn him down.
I smiled. His good humor was infectious. I’m not sure what business a grandmotherly DJ had in putting on a soft jazz standard at that moment—either Hannah’s
or Mrs. Brighton—but the crooning, mellow voice urged me into Michael’s arms.
I didn’t know what midnight might bring from the spirit world, but for now I was going to glory in being alive.
…
I’ve danced before at parties and proms. There’s a memorable Homecoming that was my first dance with Tristan. Things had still been fresh and new for us at that point. I’d worn a black, glittering party dress and kitten heels. That night was more about talking than dancing. Tristan loved to talk. Or maybe he loved to hear himself think out loud.
This was different.
Michael was different.
My shoes put our eyes almost level, but the muscles in his arms and the breadth of his chest made me feel dwarfed anyway. He led and I followed, and even though neither of us knew how to waltz or sway, it felt like dancing not merely hugging to a song.
I leaned in.
I’ll admit it.
His hair smelled like sunshine and ocean and some fresh-scented soap I couldn’t place. But underneath that was the hint of sawdust that never really left him. Pine-y and sweet.
I’d seen him work over the last few weeks. He was so solid, so strong. I liked it. It was probably shallow, but I liked it. In my defense, it wasn’t only about how he felt beneath my hands. Part of it was seeing him work so hard for Mrs. Brighton. He always showed when he should. He always did what he could. He was never temperamental or unpredictable.
I was comparing.
Tristan had been ripped from rowing. He’d been no slouch. But there had always been something less than substantial about him, as if he hadn’t really decided to join the rest of us on the planet, as if I had to expend tremendous energy to hold him, to keep him happy.
Michael moved my body effortlessly, and I let him guide me around the floor.
Tristan had been less into holding and more into being held. He danced with you like he was taking your attention and your warmth, but giving nothing back. He’d kind of been like that off the dance floor, too.
Tristan had drained. Dancing with Michael, I was replenished.
“Hannah Shreve told me not to leave your side tonight. I thought I should confess in case she mentions it. I also thought I should confess that it was my plan before she said a word,” Michael said.
His voice rumbled in his chest because he stood so close. I processed his words on a few seconds’ delay while my system handled the sensual reverberations.
“You think I need watching over for some reason?” I asked.
“Two very different reasons for being near you, Li. Hannah thinks the séance is going to stir up spiritual trouble. She thinks you’re being haunted. You, specifically. Not Stonebridge. But you,” he said.
My hands were lightly rested on his upper arms where his biceps pleasantly swelled beneath my fingers. His words made my grip tighten.
“And your reason?” I asked.
He pulled back slightly to meet my eyes. His face was set in serious lines. The amber of his irises soft against his chiseled bone structure.
“If you could see yourself right now, I wouldn’t have to answer that question.”
I swallowed. I tried to think of a clever response. Of any response. But my mouth had gone dry because he was looking at it. I bit my lip, and I swear he pulled me closer in response. His eyelids lowered, slightly, while his hand splayed on my back, warm through the thin silk of my dress. He pressed me to his firm chest.
“Whether or not you ‘need’ watching over is kind of beside the point. I didn’t need to be told to watch you because, honestly, I can’t look away,” Michael said.
Tristan had been good at using other people’s words to his advantage. Shakespeare, Wilde, Vonnegut, Byron. The man who held me close didn’t need poetry. He’d just floored me with his own raw prose.
I laid my cheek against his shoulder to avoid the intensity on his face.
“You don’t think the séance is dangerous,” I said. The only thing I could do is change the subject. I didn’t have an answer for the question in his eyes.
“I’ve seen Mme. Shreve summon spirits every summer for three years now. Lots of words I’d use to describe it. Boring. Fake. ‘Dangerous’ isn’t one of them,” Michael said.
His confidence would have reassured me if he had known about everything I’d seen and heard and felt since I’d come to Stonebridge. But I couldn’t tell him about phantom kisses while our bodies were pressed together and he was murmuring in my ear.
Then, Chopin began to play.
I pulled back and looked around for Hannah. Our gazes met and locked across the dance floor. She was nowhere near Mrs. B. I couldn’t imagine the elderly woman fishing Chopin from the stack of albums made heavy by the sheer number of one stacked on top of another and another ad infinitum. Maybe there’d been another copy closer to the top?
“What is it?” Michael asked. He’d gone tense beneath my hands.
“Nothing. It’s nothing. I don’t like this song,” I said.
“But you hum it all the time. I can hear you before I see you when we’re working because I hear you humming wherever you are in the house,” Michael said.
My feet stumbled and I came to a stop. I’d been humming this song all summer? The same song my mother had constantly played on the baby grand? Hannah’s light eyes were trained on us where we’d paused in the middle of the dance floor. She looked shaken. A jazz ballad had crooned before the Chopin. Two dead women were active tonight, and they thought they needed to help me. Against whom? Against what?
“I don’t think Hannah is wrong about tonight. I never hum. I would never choose to hum Chopin if I did. And I never played the violin before I came to Stonebridge,” I said.
I couldn’t tell him about the shadowy man in the cove or about the Shakespeare in the sand or the kiss…the kiss that had frightened me the same way Tristan’s always had, like there was a hunger in him I could never fill.
“You play the violin all the time, Lydia. All the time. Your fingers are raw from the strings,” Michael said. He reached to lift my hand, and I saw the sore tips through his eyes. Crazy probably didn’t touch it. “I heard Mrs. Brighton say your grief was motivating you to play. That you…loved him very much and the music would help you,” he continued.
He’d pulled me over to the side of the polished ballroom floor. We stood near a window, the velvet darkness of night pressing in from the outside. I could barely hear a hint of surf over the music—a sibilant whisper far away.
“Grief doesn’t teach you how to play a violin. And obsession isn’t love,” I said. “The playing…it isn’t helping me. It’s hurting, I think.”
I shouldn’t share this with him. I shouldn’t burden him with my concerns. Michael couldn’t fix this. Not with every tool at his disposal. Hannah was headed our way. I saw her making her way around the dance floor. She couldn’t fix this, either. Tristan was dead, but I didn’t think he was gone, and I think even if he had lived we would have reached the point where I would have wanted to say goodbye…but I wouldn’t have known how.
Now, I feared he wouldn’t let me.
“I’m here, and I’ll help,” Michael said. So calm, so certain. “Whatever is happening, you don’t have to face it alone.” He wasn’t wearing his tool belt. His dress pants didn’t have a back pocket that would hold his trusty multi-tool. All this time, I’d thought he’d wanted to fix the broken girl, but he’d actually only wanted to stand by my side while I worked through things myself.
“This isn’t a leaky roof or a burned-out light bulb,” I said.
I wanted to warn him away from how strange my life had become. I wished I’d met him at a better time. Only I knew I wouldn’t have noticed him with Tristan in the way. I’d wanted excitement. I’d wanted the roller coaster ride to sweep me away from my quiet life and shake things up. For as long as I could remember, my parents had been…contained. Almost withdrawn. I missed their silence. The hush of evenings spent working, reading, playing piano. Calmly loving e
ach other and me without any drama necessary.
Maybe I would have seen Michael if Tristan had lived. Maybe I would have longed for him like a tall glass of cool water after the fiery furnace of Tristan.
Hannah reached us just as Michael reached for my hand. He held it while Chopin continued to play.
“You need to get out of the house. Something bad is happening. My grandmother…” A choked-back sob threatened her ability to speak. “My grandmother is gone.”
Her eyes were wide and her chest rose and fell too quickly. She was frightened. Her hair was mussed. The rose was gone.
“You’ve lost your rose,” I said, pointing to her hair.
She shook her head. I saw her throat constrict as she swallowed.
“The roses are my grandmother. It’s the way she shows me she’s near. She manifests them in one way or another. They’ve appeared on me since the day she died,” Hannah said. She wasn’t frightened. She was terrified. Her lips trembled.
“Some…thing pulled the rose from my hair before Chopin started to play. I think it might have hurt my grandmother somehow. The rose is gone. I can’t see her or feel her. She’s not answering my call,” Hannah said. Tears made her eyes luminous and even larger in her face than they usually were.
She’d lost someone dear to her. I remembered how I’d begun to feel protective of my parents the more Tristan seemed to complain about them as if I’d needed to protect them from his resentment.
I reached for her. I hugged her to me. Michael let me go, but soon the warmth of his hand was placed on my back.
“You don’t understand. Without her help, I’ll be too open during the séance. I won’t be able to stay calm and controlled. I can’t leave my mother to face whatever this is alone, but I don’t think I’ll be strong enough to face it, either,” Hannah said.
I held her tighter. Now that my arms were around her, I knew it wasn’t only her lips that trembled. Her whole body shook.
“Alexander Jericho didn’t just dabble in the occult. The things in this house aren’t artifacts. They’re filled with dark energy. The blackest castings and spells. When he was alive, he controlled and manipulated, but he didn’t stop when he died. If he comes through tonight, without my grandmother’s help, he might take me over and refuse to let me go,” Hannah warned.
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