by Joanne Pence
* * *
April 9th -
I went back to the beach where I sat yesterday, and again, today, Constantin came by. He brought me some cascaval, a Romanian yellow hard cheese, and some bread with which to eat it. I was quite taken by the man’s thoughtfulness. He told the story of how he and his wife managed to sneak out of Romania last year, and how he now made a living as a fisherman, traveling between the various Greek islands. His story was thrilling, and I can’t believe how brave he must have been to flee the military in his home country.
* * *
April 15th -
Constantin is back! He was far from here fishing for a few days. Fortunately, he doesn’t smell fishy at all. He brought some dried fish, bread, and cascaval cheese. It was like a picnic. I felt bad because I had brought food for him for a couple of days, but then stopped, assuming I’d never see him again. I must ask him to give me some idea of his schedule.
* * *
The diary entries continued in that vein for the rest of April and deep into May. Michael noticed how much more cheerful Jane’s entries became whenever Constantin entered the picture.
* * *
May 20 -
I told Constantin that I must go home to Massachusetts tomorrow. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him any earlier. I’m stunned at how hard it is to leave him, even though I’m going for the best of all possible reasons. He is a married man, and I know I’m finding his company far, far too agreeable. I must think of the bright side, that I will be home when Michael returns for the summer. How I miss my dear boy.
But to my surprise and shame, tears came to my eyes as I said goodbye. They shouldn’t have. I’m sure Constantin never suspected my feelings because I’ve done all I could to hide them from him, and he knows I’m also married. He looked stricken and gave my hand a quick squeeze before he hurried away.
What must he think of me, other than I’m a silly, lonely woman in a bad marriage? It’s not as if we’re having an affair or anything. We’re simply lunchtime friends. Actually, making such a spectacle of myself has made it easier for me to leave Greece.
* * *
The diary was almost embarrassing for Michael to read as Jane told of the joy seeing him brought her, and that he made everything else worthwhile.
When summer ended, Jane returned to Greece and bought a home on the island she had visited the year before. She shipped a number of her books there, and loved the freedom that went with life in the area. She even began studying the Greek language, but classical, not colloquial. She returned home for Christmas, and then went back, once more, to Greece.
* * *
March 28 -
Yesterday, I found a spot on the beach and was reading one of Longfellow’s poems, “Evangeline,” when a shadow came over the pages. I looked up and saw Constantin. I don’t even know how it happened, but in the next moment I was in his arms and he was kissing me. I have never known such pure ecstasy. We came back to my house. Loving him was more I had ever imagined. I’ve spent a lifetime reading the Romantic poets and never knew, until this afternoon, what they were truly writing about.
When he left, he said he would be gone for three days. I smiled as he left, but when he was gone, all I could think of was one of my favorite poems by Caroline Norton:
I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!
And yet when thou art absent I am sad;
And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,
Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.
* * *
Michael read of her liaison with Constantin through that spring.
It was clear she had fallen head over heels in love with the fisherman, even as she marveled at how unlike they were, and often quoted from the Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart! Unlike our uses and our destinies.
But none of that mattered to her. She found his oneness with nature and the sea, his courage, his sheer earthiness as something to cherish. With him, she discovered she could still laugh.
Her only dread was that someone would tell William Claude, but it seemed no one did.
She was sad when the time came to leave, but once back at Wintersgate, she happily wrote of her summer with Michael and Lionel.
When they returned to school, the time came for her to return to Greece.
It was the third year she had gone there.
* * *
April 19 -
A month has passed, and although other fishermen are here, Constantin is not. Although I’m sure others know about our secret, I have never spoken of him to anyone on this island, nor have they talked to me about him. It has been almost as if everyone is in on our illicit secret, and none of them care. Some of the women eye me strangely. But that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except that Constantin return.
* * *
April 28 –
I’ve begun taking the poem “Evangeline” with me to the water’s edge, praying for a repeat of the day we first acknowledged our love. But it hasn’t happened.
* * *
At the mention of “Evangeline,” a sense of foreboding wrapped around Michael. His very flesh tingled, as if surrounded by a presence, but it had to be his imagination … perhaps because his mother's diary made her feel so close, so close that he was compelled to keep reading, no matter what.
* * *
May 2 -
As I stood by the piers today, I saw a fishing boat that Constantin had worked on. I went to the captain and firmly asked if Constantin Petrescu was working for him this year.
* * *
Michael stared at the page. This was the first time Jane had mentioned the last name of the man she loved. Petrescu was Irina’s family name. His mouth went dry, and he quickly read on.
The captain looked at me sadly, and then he spoke the words that ended my life. “I’m sorry, but Constantin is dead.”
Somehow I managed to remain standing as I calmly asked how it happened. He had heard that Constantin was attacked late one night—probably a robbery—and he was stabbed to death. It had happened in February, and no one was ever caught. No charges were brought. Nothing was done.
And my love, my life, is no more.
I came back home and began to pack to return to Wintersgate. I don’t know how I can live there, but I can’t bear staying here where everything reminds me of happiness, of love. At least there, no joyful memories will ever plague me.
* * *
She scarcely wrote about her return to Wintersgate, except that it happened. But then …
June 3 -
He knew. That is the only conclusion I can reach, and with it comes the terrible suspicion that Claude had something to do with Constantin’s death.
Suspicion? I wish it were mere suspicion. No, I know it in the depth of my soul.
I can scarcely write what has transpired, but I’ll never forget the look he gave me as he told me about our new housekeeper and her child.
“I’ve done a good thing,” he announced when I entered the breakfast room this morning. “I’ve hired an immigrant to our country to help with the housework. Manuela is too old to do it anymore. I’ve given her a good severance pay and sent her on her way. The new housekeeper has a young daughter, but I’ve been assured the girl is very quiet and well-mannered.”
I was shocked that he would send off Manuela so easily. She had seemed like family to me. But as he continued talking, it all became clear. “The woman has been recently widowed. She and her daughter are from a poor village in Greece and are looking for a new life. I heard about them and, knowing how much you love everything Greek, I decided we could use some fresh blood around here, especially someone willing to work hard. And her child might be nice to have around. The girl is five years old, and should be a good playmate for Michael.”
In late afternoon, the woman arrived. Her name is Magda Petrescu, and her daughter is named Irina. Claude brought Constantin’s wife and child here, to my house, to remind me every day that Const
antin hadn’t belonged to me alone. From the way Magda spoke of her deceased husband, it’s clear his marriage wasn’t as “over” as he had told me it was. Every day, I’m forced to look into Irina’s eyes and see the eyes of the only man I have ever truly loved. And to be reminded of his lies … to his wife, and to his lover.
* * *
There the diary ended, but even if it hadn’t, he wouldn’t have had the strength to read further.
He shut the book, sick at heart.
He could scarcely imagine how Jane had felt when William Claude brought Constantin’s widow and child into his home. Such cruelty to his wife was unimaginable. Of course, there were probably those who would side with him. After all, Jane was having an adulterous affair. But having read the diary—having lived in this house with her and William Claude—Michael understood why.
He’d never been given any details about his mother’s life. But now he learned more than he had ever dreamed. He couldn’t help but wonder if she hadn’t hidden the diary away in a drawer William Claude would never look in as a way, possibly, for Michael or someone else to find it. And then, by reading her words, to understand her.
He was glad, actually, that the diary ended when it did. He was old enough to remember what came next—his mother’s descent into a black depression. It was bad enough to witness; he didn’t know if he could bear to read about it.
And then one afternoon while supposedly alone in the tower, she fell to the stone patio below and died. No one knew for certain if the fall was an accident, if she was pushed, or if she jumped.
He stood up. He had to leave the turret. Being here was all but unbearable.
He needed to find Ceinwen. She was warm and caring—why, he had no idea. But he was not only glad to have her with him, he was grateful for the way she put up with him and the madness that seemed to follow wherever he went.
But before leaving here, he ran his hands over the journal. His mother was always too much of a romantic, and the harshness of the world—of her own husband—had crushed her. Less than a month after the last entry, she was dead. He had spent hours with her that month, often in the very room he sat in now.
He had never imagined she would have taken her own life … never, until now.
Chapter 60
Michael lay awake deep into the night. Sleep refused to come.
Ceinwen lay curled beside him, one arm across his chest. She breathed softly, and he was glad to see she slept peacefully without a recurrence of the horrific dream she’d had the night before. It had been too reminiscent of what he had watched happen to Rachel, and as he looked at the sleeping woman, he knew he couldn’t bear it if anything like that happened to her.
His thoughts kept spinning round and round about the diary and all he had learned about his mother, his father, and even Irina.
He couldn’t get over learning that Irina had come into his life as a way for his father to persecute his mother for her infidelity. It was beyond anything he could have imagined. He wondered how much of the story Irina and Magda knew. And if they knew it, was that the hold William Claude had over them? He could well imagine his father telling Irina that if Michael ever found out about Jane’s love for Constantin—and that it might somehow have contributed to Jane’s black depression and ensuing death—any feelings Michael had for Irina would vanish.
Had William Claude convinced Irina of that? Could that be why Irina took the money and left?
Michael honestly didn’t know how his twenty-six-year-old self would have reacted to such news. Even at this age, he found it both perverse and repugnant.
But at the same time, why wouldn’t Irina at least have talked to him about it, to see what his reaction would be? She should have known there was no way he would have considered her to be at fault in that sad history.
He guessed there was more to it, but he didn’t know what that could be.
And probably never would.
But this was about much more than him and Irina. Why were he and Ceinwen both hearing “Für Elise”? He didn’t remember seeing the music box anywhere in the house since his mother’s death, and had no idea what might have happened to it.
It was almost as if his mother drew the two of them to her tower room, as if she wanted him to read her journal and perhaps to find out what had happened in this house. He couldn’t stop his mind from going to the darkest possibility: to discover that she had been murdered, and if so, who did it.
No, he told himself. That was the sort of wild idea a person got at three in the morning and then rightfully scorned in the light of day.
Ceinwen stirred. She rolled to her other side and he followed, spooning her against him, relishing her warmth. His eyes were finally growing heavy. Sleep was coming soon. Blessed sleep, when he no longer needed to think about diaries or murder or the messed up existence within the walls of Wintersgate.
He closed his eyes. He was drifting into sleep and then ….
Did he just hear someone’s voice?
Had Ceinwen wakened? Had she said something? No, she still breathed softly. She was sound asleep and beautiful in the moonlight coming through the window. He didn’t understand, at all, why he was so comfortable around her, or why she put up with him. All he knew was that she had found a way into his heart, and he was glad of it.
He drew her even closer, her curves melding perfectly against his body.
And then he heard the sound again. Voices.
He quietly slipped out of bed. Throwing on some clothes, barefoot, he crept downstairs.
A lamp was on in the breakfast room. He tiptoed to the door, keeping out of sight, all but holding his breath.
“I think the elixir will fully work by the time we meet them.” He recognized his father’s voice.
“I hope so.” That voice belonged to Stedman.
“Just to be on the safe side, put on the ankle holster for this little revolver. I should be able to control their minds, but if, as I suspect, their minds are somewhat feeble, it might be more difficult than I anticipate.”
“I understand, sir.”
“It’s time. We should go now.”
Michael hurried back up the stairs and into the bedroom. He woke Ceinwen. “Something’s up. My father and Stedman are leaving the property. I’m going to follow them.”
She immediately got out of bed, picked up the clothes she’d worn the day before, and stepped into her shoes. “I’m ready. I’ll dress in the car.”
“It might be dangerous. You should—”
“We’ve been through this before,” she said fiercely. “And we’ve no time to argue.”
As Michael suspected, Stedman was a slow, cautious driver, which was a good thing since Michael had to follow the Bentley with his headlights off for some distance. Not until they reached US-6 could he put the lights on without causing Stedman, or worse, William Claude, to realize they were being followed.
As he drove, Ceinwen called Sheriff Sullivan in Salmon and told him Michael suspected his father was on his way to meet people involved in the deputy’s murder. Jake needed to know which city or county they were going to before contacting a local police department to alert them that potential cop killers were in their town.
So far, all Ceinwen could tell him was that William Claude Rempart and another elderly man named Stedman were in a black Bentley. They weren't close enough to the car for her to make out the license number, but a Bentley should be easy to spot wherever they went. She hoped.
When Stedman reached Hyannis and turned off the highway, Ceinwen let Jake know where they were headed. "Thanks for the heads up," he said. "I'll fill in the chief of police in Hyannis and also give him your number so his officers can contact you directly for details. But keep me posted. Please."
In the summer months, Hyannis was filled with tourists. Even at five in the morning, the streets weren't completely empty. Stedman drove onto the parking lot of a 24-hour CVS. He parked near the front of the store, several spaces away from any other cars. He and
William Claude remained in the car.
Michael stopped at the unlit corner of a side street, hidden from view.
They watched in silence, but nothing was happening. The Bentley sat motionless.
He could hear Ceinwen breathing deeply. He felt his own heart beating hard in his chest. There was nothing they could do but wait and hope the cops would call. Jake had been a cop a long time. He knew what he was doing—and hopefully the Hyannis police would listen to him.
At long last, Ceinwen's cell phone rang. She jumped at the sound, even though the volume was turned low. He couldn’t hear what was said to her, only Ceinwen’s reply. “They've parked the Bentley at a CVS. They're just sitting there. No. Wait. A large black SUV just pulled into the lot. It's going really slow. I can’t quite make out the license number—”
The moment she said that, Michael grabbed the phone from Ceinwen and gave the officer the information.
“We’ve just dispatched several patrol cars to your location,” the officer told him. “Stay in your car, and stay on the line with me. Don't try to approach them.”
Michael had no intention of getting out of the rental car. He and Ceinwen had been through enough hell lately. Instead, he relayed everything that was happening. The SUV remained running as the driver opened his door. William Claude did the same. Michael told the police that a boxy package had been handed off from the SUV driver to William Claude, who then passed the man an envelope.