The Other Side of Darkness

by Linda Rondeau

He pointed toward the main room. “I’d give you a tour, but what you see from there is pretty much it. Like I said, that picture window gives you a good view of the lake.”

  Sam fairly waltzed to the other side of the cabin. He’d expected a few “oohs” or at least an “ah.” She said nothing…stared…lost…her mind elsewhere. The rain pounded a harsh melody against the pane while a drizzly mist rose off the lake and hovered like a quilt.

  “There’s a recliner next to the fireplace if you need to rest.”

  She turned and sank into the leather as if the weight of the world pushed her down. “It’s beautiful here, but I’d still like to see the lake when the rain clears.” Sam stared out the window. “On a clear day, can one really see their reflection on the lake, like Zack said?”

  “Family legend says Emmanuel Gladstone saw an angel’s reflection, and like Jacob of old, he wrestled all night. In his journals, he said he built an altar to honor his changed life. From that day on, Emmanuel walked with an inexplicable limp.”

  “Is that when he fled the British army and joined the rebels?”

  “Not right away, but something changed him. Change can come about overnight, or simmer in a heart for a while. I think that’s how it was with Emmanuel. We Gladstones don’t make decisions on a dime.”

  Sam turned, a tear slipped down her cheek. What had he said? “I don’t know why, but I have to see the lake, all of it, in the calm as well as the tempest.” She shook like the earth had given way.

  “Are you cold?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She’d probably object, but he put his jacket around her shoulders. Instead of rebuke, she smiled, and sniffed its sleeve, nearly buried her head in it. Strange thing to do.

  “I’ll get the coffee started, then I’ll put a log in the fire place. Hungry?”

  “No. Sadie filled me up at breakfast.”

  “I didn’t have breakfast. I might have some English muffins in the cupboard. Sure you don’t want one?”

  “Only if you’re going to have one yourself.”

  Sam’s gaze seemed glued to the window. Good. He wouldn’t have to make small talk while he prepared the muffins. He dumped them into the toaster, then started the fire as promised. When the muffins popped, he brought them over to where Sam sat. He pulled up a wicker chair on the other side of the fireplace. “Sorry, they’re so dry. The muffins, I mean. I don’t have any butter or jam.”

  She looked up, eyes brimming with tears. Maybe she hated dry muffins, or maybe he offended her in some way. Should he say something? Offer her a tissue, an apology? “Something wrong, Sam?”

  “Jonathan, do you believe in God?”

  He anticipated she’d ask him a lot of questions like a typical sightseer, inquiries as to the history and personal lives of his ancestors. Not this question, not so intimate an inquisition. “Are all lawyers so nosy?”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry.”

  “If it matters, yes I do. I have faith, though believing and accepting are two different things.”

  “The lake…so beautiful…how could anyone not feel close to God here? I think I felt a Presence when I saw your landscapes in my room and Sadie’s shop, but the later ones in the library seem…violent… undercoated with rage.”

  He certainly hadn’t anticipated her perceptiveness, or her directness, either. “I think sometimes people get angry at God, but they don’t stop believing in Him. When I read some of the Psalms, I think David had issues with the Almighty, certainly Solomon did.”

  “Maybe it’s not God you’re angry with?”

  Perhaps. Easier to blame an unseen deity than admit he hated the woman he most loved for taking the life of his only son. “You’re smart, lawyer lady.”

  Sam didn’t respond.

  When Jonathan glanced over, her head rested against the wings, the muffin untouched, her heavy breaths almost a snore. Should he wake her? Anyone who fell asleep that fast probably needed it. He’d watch the rain a little longer and leave her be. A strange peace came at the thought. It had been over five years since he watched a woman sleep.

  ****

  A slight shake of her shoulders pulled Sam from wherever she had slipped away to.

  Jonathan handed her a warm mug filled with steaming brew. “Here’s your coffee.”

  She yawned, stretched, pulled Jonathan’s jacket tighter around her, and accepted the offering, wrapping her hands around the plain white chipped mug, soaking in its warmth, inhaling the steam as well as the charred aroma wafting from the fireplace.

  Jonathan sat in his wicker chair. “Do you always fall asleep like that? I’ve seen babies do that, never a grownup.”

  No way would she tell Jonathan Gladstone that she’d spent the last three years in perpetual motion, sleep a luxury, and one she rarely afforded herself, even if she could. Yet, since she’d been in Haven, she fell into near coma states like a post-hypnotic suggestion. At least she had an excuse for today. “I woke up way before the sun even threatened the horizon.”

  “Worried about Styles? I do get television up here.”

  “Not worried, exactly.” She lied.

  “So what are you going to do? Zack hopes you’ll stay in Haven, finish out your vacation, at least.”

  “Look, there’s nothing between Zack and me. We’re friends.”

  “He likes you, Sam. But I’m sensing you don’t share his interest.”

  He might be Zack’s best friend, but that gave him no right to pry into her relationships. “Not that it’s any of your business, I think Zack’s a great guy, but I’m not the right girl for him, and this isn’t the time for me to get involved with anyone.”

  Jonathan glanced out the picture window. “Rain’s lifting. Do you still want to brave the trails? It’s cold and slippery.”

  “It’ll take a little more than wet grass and plunging temperatures to scare me away. I want to see the scene in the landscape I bought.”

  “I’m surprised Sadie let you buy it. I brought a few canvases in after Angelica died and gave them to Sadie for her store. A gift. She said she didn’t have the heart to sell them.”

  Sam felt another backpack slip onto her shoulders. She should have asked first, and not assumed the landscapes were for sale. “Sadie wasn’t there…I sort of took it down myself…If I’d known—”

  “She thinks the Lord must’ve wanted you to have it, or else she would have been in the store when you decided to buy it.”

  “I could give it back…donate it to the library, maybe.”

  Jonathan placed his coffee cup on the side table. “No. Please don’t. I’m glad at least one of them is gone. I see them on the wall and relive that awful day—the day I found Angelica and Elliott floating in the lake. That’s why I hate going into town, those landscapes are everywhere. I’ll give you the rest of them, if you want, as long as I never have to see them again.”

  “Thanks for the offer…but I barely have enough wall space for the one I bought.” An idea flashed. “Maybe, my friend, Justine—”

  Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut. “Just a thought. Don’t feel like you have to—”

  “No. Really. She loves your work. I would take a few as a wedding present. She’s getting married—here, in fact. Not here, but in Haven. First weekend in June.”

  Sam returned her gaze to the window. How sad that a talented artist would give away the best of his work. Should she tell him she knew without a doubt that removing one’s self from the object didn’t erase the memory? If she warned him, she’d have to tell him how she knew.

  Sadie might be on to something with her theory that everyone wore their guilt in emotional backpacks, forgiven sins that people put on themselves, self-condemnation that God had already washed clean.

  Jonathan had fallen silent, a brooding sort, typical of artists, she supposed, although she never knew one before, so she didn’t have any comparisons to go on. She shouldn’t fault him for his current moodiness. He’d tried to be sociable, probably a Herculean effort
for him. She was the one who fell asleep.

  The man annoyed her like an arid desert, sparsely entertaining, yet he also intrigued her…or was it Dawn’s Hope that pulled at her? Might as well respect his space, whatever mental cave he’d crawled into. Any conversation with him could be perilous, a walk across an abyss filled with accusations and memories.

  Hyacinths.

  They could talk about hyacinths. Ignorant about most flowers, she did know a few things about hyacinths. She could ask him why they danced before Angelica died and why now he made them bleed.

  “Jonathan—”

  “I think it’s safe to take that walk now if you still want to see the lake.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Answers would have to wait.

  ****

  Jonathan supported Sam’s arm as she took the steps from the rear lawn down the steep incline to the beach front. She went on ahead, and he stayed near the forest’s edge, an observer to her spirited investigation. “Be careful, Sam. There are a lot of sharp rocks hidden by the sand. Those sandals don’t offer much protection.”

  She didn’t even turn around. Serve her right if she cut her foot. Maybe next time she’d borrow better walking shoes.

  Next time? Wasn’t this a one-time deal?

  At least, for the moment, he didn’t have to worry about carrying on a conversation. That woman rubbed his ire to full conflagration, her comebacks as meaty with sarcasm as his own. Maybe the best way to communicate with this volcano was to not say anything. Nobody could argue with a mute.

  Angelica never minded his moods. “You don’t have to say anything, Jonathan. Just being with you is enough.” Sometimes she’d push a smile out of him by stroking his cheek while he painted.

  Sam took a sudden lunge forward, probably tripping over a hidden rut, and landed on her posterior, water lapping at her feet. Great. Would he have to carry her back now? He walked over to offer assistance, half expecting her to shove him away. She didn’t. He helped her to a stand. “Can you walk?”

  She put her full weight on her ankle, wincing, but apparently too stubborn to admit to any pain. “Lead on, Daniel Boone.”

  To where? Back to the cabin, the house? How much more should he risk showing her?

  “Can we go there?” Sam pointed toward the hyacinth bed on the north shore. “That scene resembles the landscape I bought. Well, not quite, more buds on the painted hyacinths. Must have been done earlier in the spring.”

  “Good observation. Follow me.”

  Jonathan had hoped to circumvent the rocky ledge, the place where they found Angelica and Elliot. But when he and Sam arrived to the north shore, Sam ran on ahead and sat on the overhanging boulder. “Do you sketch here often?”

  “Not since…I usually stay in the cabin. I still sketch the fishermen from the beach. Zack and I fished here the other day, though. Mostly, I avoid this spot.”

  “Why? It’s so beautiful.”

  “This is where I spotted Angelica and Elliott’s bodies—about fifty feet out from where you’re sitting.”

  “I’m sorry if it’s bringing it all back to you.” Sam fixed her view toward the opposite side of the lake. “What’s that structure, over there by the barn?”

  “Triune Point…where Emmanuel wrestled with his angel.”

  “Looks like a shrine, almost.”

  “It is, sort of. There’s a jut into the lake near the barn, rocky and covered with moss like this ledge. Emmanuel built an altar there, and his diaries indicate he went there to meditate.”

  Sam stood and brushed the moss from her slacks, her stance unsteady.

  “Be careful, the terrain can be extremely slippery, especially after a heavy rain.” He offered a hand to help her back onto solid ground. Once more, she accepted his help. “I’d hate to see you fall in.”

  “So would I. I can’t swim.”

  Jonathan gazed at the thickening clouds. “We should probably leave. Looks like another downpour heading our way.”

  Sam squealed. He’d heard the sound before. Once in Sadie’s store, a little girl ran over to a barrel of Old-Fashioned Licorice, delight in her shouts, absolute and unhindered joy in a discovery. Sam rushed to the bed of hyacinths, like that little girl rushed to the barrel, knelt down and buried her face amid the drenched petals.

  He watched her, half amused, half amazed at the simplicity of her pleasure. He hated to end the scene, but big, cold drops, laced with snow, fell like warning bells from the sky. “Okay, Alice. Time to leave Wonderland.”

  They dashed back to the Max II and Sam climbed in, a calmer portrait then when they came, her wild eyes subdued, peaceful.

  When he pulled in front of her car, she scrambled out. “Thanks for the tour.”

  She would leave, and he’d likely never see her again…unless…“Do you fish?”

  “Never have.”

  “If you’d like, I’ll make a trespassing exemption for you, and you can pick some of the hyacinths.”

  “That’s why the property’s posted?”

  “Haven has a lot of nice folks. But, Angelica’s hyacinths would be history if I allowed just anyone to tromp through these woods.”

  She cast her eyes downward. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll probably be leaving Haven in a few days. I need to cut my vacation short.”

  “What about the lease agreement?”

  “I can always handle that from Manhattan. I’ll mail it to you when I get it drawn up. All you need is a notary.”

  Sadness came over him, not one of foreboding or misery, but a loss of something he couldn’t define. He’d actually enjoyed his time with Sam, if a blister could be categorized as pleasure, like a gardener’s souvenir after a day of planting bulbs. Through her eyes, he’d seen the lake once more for its beauty, as it was when he and Angelica walked the beach front or sat on the ledge. He’d like to take more walks with Sam.

  Was this attraction, then? How would he know, since Sam was the first woman he’d found interesting since Angelica died? He’d been in an emotional coma for five years, only now waking up, and like a gosling, imprinting to the first perfume.

  20

  Sam reached for her car keys and then remembered. “Oops.”

  “Now there’s a precise legal term if I ever heard one.”

  Grrr. A perfect way to ruin what had been, until this moment, a perfect day.

  “I locked my keys in the trunk of my car. They were in my blazer pocket.”

  “Clever move. I hope you’re not as careless with your legal briefs.”

  She seethed. Criticism she could handle; it came with the job, especially the accusation-layered inquisition of the media. Jonathan’s sarcasm unnerved her, made her quiver with anger. She liked it better when he forced a half-grin and droned his pathetic attempts at humor. She gave him a second to digest what he’d said.

  His face muscles twitched with sudden realization. “I’m sorry. That was rude.” He probably meant it to be, but his guilty plea softened its blow.

  “This gentle rain is about to become another downpour. Why don’t you come in, and I’ll call Josiah. He’ll have you going again in no time.”

  “That’s stretching our deal a bit. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  Jonathan leaned against the doorjamb. “You can wait in the den, where it’s comfortable…” He hesitated. “Or, if you’d like, I can show you around the house.”

  Now that truly was an offer she couldn’t refuse. She followed Jonathan back into the house, through yet another maze of corridors into a small alcove dressed with a small desk, laptop and landline. He picked up the handset and punched in the number.

  “Got the answering machine…Josiah…Jonathan Gladstone. Sam Knowles’s at my place. She’s locked her keys in her trunk. Could you swing by and do your magic, ASAP?”

  Hesitation.

  Jonathan replaced the receiver and turned toward Sam. “Josiah checks his messages fairly frequently, so he should be here soon.”

  “You’ve probab
ly got other things to do. I’ll wait by the car.”

  “No bother. You seem interested in the house.”

  Interested? An understatement. “Since I first saw it from Main Street.”

  “If you’re leaving Haven, this might be your only chance.”

  “Solid argument. Lead on.”

  He took off with a quickened gait, her shorter legs doing double time for each of his single strides. “You’ve seen the den and the foyer. This room over here is the sitting room.”

  “I caught a glimpse of it earlier. Steinway, right?”

  “Yes…Angelica’s.”

  “Why is it roped off?”

  “I don’t want anyone in there.”

  Why leave it open if the room brought him pain, or perhaps Jonathan veiled a need for self-punishment under this constant exposure to Angelica’s memory. Jonathan’s backpack of guilt? For what?

  “Why do you invite the pain if you’re so bent on leaving here? Finding a caretaker isn’t that difficult. You don’t need a lawyer for that. So, what’s the truth, Jonathan?”

  “I’ll never own Dawn’s Hope. So why stay?”

  Jonathan’s face wore a different portrait, not of pain that came from loss, but one of betrayal. Was his desire to leave because of a lost love, or for some other reason—the curse of the disinherited? “Why don’t you contest the will, then?”

  “What’s the point? My son’s dead. I have no heir.”

  “No one knows what the future holds.”

  Jonathan raked his hair with his fingers, his gaze distant, as if fighting memories. “My father believed the only bond I had with Dawn’s Hope was Angelica and Elliott. But he was wrong. I can’t explain it. Something holds me here, something stronger than the insatiable will to run.”

  “Like a tug of war with your soul?”

  His eyes changed in that instant, no longer dull, but liquid motion, a twitter, like the resonance of a severed chord. “Exactly.”

  “You’re not the only one caught in a can’t-fight, can’t-flight paradox, afraid to move forward and unable to retreat. You’re stuck, Jonathan—stuck in the mire of indecision. No one can help you until you know what you truly want. If you decide to stay here, we can contest the will. If you want to break free, I’ll do what I can to help you find a permanent release. We can write up a transfer of property to the historical society, so that the land permanently belongs to Haven. I can’t make that choice for you, but I can tell you that if we contested your father’s will, you’d probably win. Isn’t that what you hoped I’d suggest?”