Dark Dreamer

by Jennifer Fulton

  Phoebe pawed the snow from her face with her mittens. She had to stop expecting her twin to get her out of trouble every time she backed herself into a corner, romantically speaking. If only she could stay attracted to a woman for more than a few months. At first she always expected to, but that quickly changed and she would start dreading each date and finding excuses not to go. Some women caught on right away and stopped calling. Others pursued her, and eventually she would agree to see them. But it was Cara who showed up for those uncomfortable discussions. Women simply assumed she was Phoebe with a haircut.

  Lately, trying to stay out of trouble, Phoebe had stopped going to social events in southern Maine. She was getting a reputation. It was really unfair. Other women had countless flings and no one thought badly of them. Why was it different for her? Why did she get sent a dog turd in the mail? She’d only dated a handful of women around Islesboro, and she’d tried not to hurt anyone. She hated the stricken looks and the crying and, as a consequence, she could never bring herself to say it was over like she really meant it. That’s why Cara took care of the breakup process for her.

  She wished she had never allowed that. It was deceitful and cowardly, and Cara was still hung up over the last woman she’d had to dump. Hence the constant lectures on boundaries. Phoebe caught a brief mental glimpse of Bev Hagen and felt queasy. Bev was a captain in the Marines. She’d wanted them to get married in Vermont before her deployment to Iraq, and Phoebe didn’t have the heart to say no. So she’d gone along with the plans, told Bev what she wanted to hear, and tried to be in love with her. She’d figured if she procrastinated long enough, Bev would be shipped out and they would eventually lose contact.

  But Bev was a very determined woman. She’d set a date, bought Phoebe a beautiful ring, and arranged a wedding breakfast for close friends and family. The week before, Phoebe knew she couldn’t go through with it and begged Cara to deal with Bev. It had gone badly. When Cara gave the ring back, Bev had slapped her face. Cara had been so mad, she told Phoebe she would never do her “dirty work” again and that she considered it a low blow to break a soldier’s heart a week before she was due to go fight in that miserable war in Iraq. That was almost a year ago and Cara still couldn’t let it go.

  With guilty trepidation, Phoebe stared up at the turret room and made out a shape—Rowe working at her computer. This time, she was not going to break anyone’s heart, she promised herself. It was not like she set out to make women fall madly in love with her. In fact, she made a point of letting them know she wasn’t looking for anything long term. Was it her fault if they didn’t listen?

  Rowe was not the type to run after a woman, she decided. In fact, women probably ran after her. She was a famous author, after all. And attractive. Maybe she had a girlfriend, although Phoebe doubted it. From their last conversation, it seemed pretty obvious that someone had played fast and loose with her heart and she was still getting over it.

  Convinced she could keep their contact on a purely neighborly footing, she started walking again, leaning into the wind. It was snowing more steadily now, and the light was dimming by the minute. Thankfully the cottage was only a hundred yards away. If the air got any colder, her lungs would freeze.

  When she reached the front steps, she shook herself free of snowflakes. Before she could even ring the bell, the dogs started barking and the door swung open.

  “Jesus, Phoebe,” Rowe greeted her. “What the heck are you doing out in this?”

  Phoebe suppressed an irrational urge to throw herself into Rowe’s strong-looking arms. “I felt like company.”

  Rowe pulled her into the vestibule and kicked the door closed behind them. “Is everything all right? You look kind of teary.”

  “It must be from the wind.” Chilled to the bone, she slid out of her coat and selected a hook for it.

  Rowe shot her a quick, dubious glance. “Come and get in front of the fire.” She opened the parlor door and a blast of warm air engulfed them.

  “I’m not interrupting your work, am I?” Phoebe asked.

  “Nope. The cadavers aren’t going anywhere.”

  “You’re still writing that scene in the morgue?”

  “Yes ma’am. And it’s still blood out of a stone.”

  Phoebe hoisted her damp skirt so the fire could dry the heavy fabric and warm her legs. “Maybe you should try writing something totally different.”

  “I’m all ears,” Rowe said dryly. Her eyes were on Phoebe’s legs.

  Out of pure mischief, Phoebe inched her skirt higher and said, “What about kids’ books?”

  “Yeah, I guess JK Rowling isn’t going broke any time soon.”

  “Or there’s romance.” As soon as she’d said it, Phoebe wished she hadn’t. She could almost hear Cara. No hinting. No mixed messages.

  “Do I strike you as the romantic type?”

  Phoebe promptly let go of her skirt and sat down on the sofa, not wanting to answer that honestly. “Well, you write creepy books and you don’t believe in any of that stuff. Why not romance?”

  “You have a point.” Rowe joined her on the sofa, slouching back and stretching her legs out, one foot crossed over the other.

  She looked good in jeans. She had the right build. Long, well-muscled legs and not too much of a butt. Phoebe wished she could curl up with her head in Rowe’s lap and fall asleep. But that would be worse than a mixed message.

  “Want to come back to my place for hot chocolate?” she suggested, and immediately wondered if it sounded like a come-on.

  “Are you kidding? It’s getting worse by the minute out there. I’d never make it back home.”

  Phoebe felt a rush of panic. Rowe was right. No one would be going anywhere once this weather really set in, herself included. What if Cara phoned later and found she wasn’t at home? Phoebe could just imagine what she would think. She would probably call Rowe’s place and make some tactless comment that would embarrass the woman.

  “I shouldn’t have come,” she mumbled. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Hey, not so fast.” Rowe’s sensual blue-green eyes slid over her. Softly, she coaxed, “Tell me what’s wrong. We both know you didn’t come out in a storm because I’m irresistible company.”

  Phoebe stared down at her soggy boots. She didn’t know this woman well enough to unburden herself. Yet she didn’t want to go home and spend days snowed in by herself with no one to talk to either. “I had a fight with my sister,” she said. “I should have phoned her back, but I—”

  “Wanted to simmer down first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Smart move.” Rowe offered an encouraging smile. “If you want to talk about it, I’m a good listener.”

  Here was her opening. Phoebe tried to frame what she needed to say, but it seemed ridiculous to tell a woman who hadn’t even come out to her that they could only be friends. She reminded herself that Rowe Devlin probably fended off smart, gorgeous potential girlfriends all the time. Phoebe was flattering herself if she thought her new neighbor had anything in mind other than friendship. Besides, Rowe didn’t even know Phoebe was gay. Cara hadn’t thought this through properly before she made assumptions. There was no basis for her paranoia.

  Phoebe took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, relieved to have figured this out before she made an idiot of herself. “It was just a sister thing. But thanks.”

  “Well, I’ll walk you back home later, whatever the weather is doing,” Rowe said. “Meantime, hot chocolate sounds pretty good. Don’t suppose you want to come wait in the kitchen again?”

  The prospect evoked a shudder, but telling herself not to be a wimp, Phoebe said, “Sure.” There was nothing to be afraid of. It was just a room. What she’d seen in there last time must have leaked from her subconscious. There was no other explanation.

  “The dogs don’t like it in there either,” Rowe told her as they left the parlor.

  Phoebe fixed her eyes on the back of Rowe’s head and followed her down the long, poorly lit
hall into the dank kitchen. The moment she crossed the threshold, her scalp started prickling and she felt a painful constriction in her chest. She took the chair Rowe pulled out and glanced toward the dogs. They were pacing back and forth in the doorway, tails between their legs.

  Rowe placed the milk and chocolate in the microwave, then glanced quizzically in her direction. “Are you all right?”

  “This room…it has quite an oppressive feel.” Phoebe hoped she didn’t sound rude. “Have you noticed?”

  “It is pretty musty.” Rowe glanced casually around. “I’m going to rip everything out, go for maybe a Tuscan-type concept. What do you think?”

  Phoebe clasped her shaking hands together in her lap. “Sounds wonderful.”

  Rowe rattled open a drawer. “I still have some of your yummy pie left. Would you like a slice?” She set a small carving knife on the counter and took the pie from the fridge.

  Phoebe wanted to speak but her mouth was frozen. The knife slowly drifted along the counter, spinning slightly until the blade pointed right at her.

  Rowe’s hand arrested it. “There isn’t a level surface in this place,” she remarked. “No wonder the last owner didn’t go ahead with renovations. I’ll probably have to redo the foundations.”

  Rowe continued talking but it was as if they were underwater. Phoebe could not make out a word. She watched the knife sink into the pie. As if from a great distance, a voice broke through the muffled silence, crying, “Run!”

  She lurched to her feet, vaguely aware that her chair had crashed to the floor. Frantic, she ran from the room and along the hall, hearing hideous screams behind her. She flung open the front door and bolted out into the snow, terrified to look back. The shock of the cold made her gasp and the gasps became sobs as she heard someone behind her. She ran harder, her boots accumulating heavy white globs. Hands grabbed at her shoulders. Her foot caught on something and she fell. The hands were on her, turning her over.

  “No!” she screamed, punching wildly at her captor. One fist connected before her wrists were seized and she was pinned down. She struggled helplessly for a moment, then lay still, eyes closed, waiting to die.

  Close to her ear, a voice said, “Phoebe. It’s me. No one’s going to hurt you.”

  The grip on her wrists eased and Phoebe was suddenly aware of warm breath on her cheek. She knew that voice. Opening her eyes, she blinked up into the unearthly half-light of the storm.

  “Rowe,” she whispered and burst into tears.

  *

  Some time later, at the Temples’ house, Rowe knocked on Phoebe’s bathroom door and asked, “Everything okay?”

  “Come in.” Phoebe’s voice was just audible.

  Rowe vacillated. The idea of being in the same room while her neighbor took a bath would have thrilled her a day ago, but that was before the black eye. It seemed pretty obvious that Phoebe had some kind of mental health problem. Had she forgotten to medicate while her sister was away? Rowe wondered how to raise the subject without getting punched again. Cagily, she entered the room but lingered close to the door in case Phoebe suddenly forgot who she was. Her assailant was lounging in a clawfoot tub, bath foam up to her armpits.

  “Oh, God.” She gazed up at Rowe. “Your eye. Did you find that ice pack in the freezer?”

  “Yep. Just giving it a break. It’s so numb it hurts, if you know what I mean.”

  Phoebe looked mortified. Worse still, with her hair up in a knot, tied with a narrow violet ribbon, and her vulnerable neck and shoulders exposed, she was hauntingly, achingly beautiful.

  In a voice husky from sobs, she said, “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

  Rowe took a few cautious steps into the room. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  “I’m not sure where to start.” Head tilted back, Phoebe lifted a sponge full of hot water and slowly squeezed it over her throat.

  The sensuous ritual transfixed Rowe for several long seconds, and a strangled whimper rose from her throat. For one crazy moment she saw herself walking over there, taking the sponge from Phoebe’s hands, and tenderly bathing her. Not one of her brightest ideas. Groping for some traction on common sense, she compelled her thoughts back to the knotty matter of her neighbor’s mental health.

  It was a delicate subject and none of her business, but the least she could do was ask a few diplomatic questions so she could assess the situation and maybe call the sister if need be. What if Phoebe was a danger to herself? Like most people on medication for their mental health, she probably didn’t want to make embarrassing disclosures to a stranger.

  Trying to let her know it was no big deal if she was taking happy pills, Rowe said in an offhand manner, “Some prescription drugs have pretty strange side effects, especially if they’re not used exactly as directed. Could it be something like that?”

  Phoebe looked at her squarely. “Is that a diplomatic way of asking me if I missed my meds?”

  “Subtle, huh?”

  “Don’t give up your day job to act in art-house movies.”

  Rowe laughed, then groaned. “Jesus, that hurts my face.”

  “Come closer.” Phoebe stretched out a fine-boned hand. “I won’t hit you.”

  Rowe tried not to notice that the foam was disappearing. Phoebe’s long, delicate fingers brushed the inside of her wrist, sparking a craving so raw that she stopped breathing for several noisy heartbeats. The last time she’d felt like this was sitting across the dinner table from Marion Cargill, watching her flirt with her food and every man in the room, and knowing she could never have her. Rowe had realized in that moment that Marion knew exactly how desperately her husband’s gay friend wanted her and she enjoyed that knowledge. She would never leave her marriage for a woman. Like a cat walking away from a dead mouse, she would abandon Rowe as soon as the fun went out of torturing her.

  “I want to tell you something, and you have to promise not to laugh at me,” Phoebe said.

  “You got it.” Rowe reminded herself that straight women like Phoebe thought nothing of a situation like this. They took saunas together and exchanged gossip, wandering naked around changing rooms. Hell, even lesbians managed to share those kinds of experiences without assuming it had to be sexual.

  Two perfect breasts parted the foam as Phoebe moved up the tub a little. They were small, high, and full, the nipples a surprising pale rose hue. Rowe prevented her gaze from traveling any lower. She had enough problems. It was getting late and the storm had dumped six inches of snow in short order. By morning it would probably be a foot or more. Having escorted Phoebe home, all she wanted to do now was make sure her neighbor was okay, then get herself and her dogs back to Dark Harbor Cottage before they were completely snowed in.

  Her eyes found something to focus on. A star-shaped bottle of perfume sitting innocently on the tiled vanity counter, the source of that crazy-making fragrance, no doubt. Angel by Thierry Mugler. The guy should be shot, Rowe thought and returned her gaze to Phoebe. She couldn’t help herself. What right-thinking lesbian would study the décor with a gorgeous women sitting just a foot away, naked in a bath, and holding her hand?

  “I don’t need medication.” Phoebe’s fingers slid from Rowe’s and she toyed with the bath sponge. “The thing is, I see things sometimes, that’s all. I know you don’t believe in that kind of thing. I never used to, myself. But I had a car accident a few years ago and injured my head. Since then, I’ve been like…this.” Wide, pleading eyes lifted to Rowe, begging her not to mock.

  “When you say you see things, what exactly are you talking about?” Rowe asked. “Do you have premonitions?”

  “No. Not usually. I see things that have already happened.”

  “And you saw something in my kitchen?”

  Emotions flitted across Phoebe’s mobile features. Anxiety. Sorrow. Resignation. “I’m certain something terrible has happened in your house.”

  Rowe cast her mind back to Phoebe’s frantic departure from the kitchen, the naked terror
on her face. Whatever delusions she suffered from, they were completely real to her at the time. “When you hit me, who did you think I was?”

  “I don’t know.” Phoebe rested her hands on the sides of the tub. They were shaking. “I thought I was going to be killed. I have dreams, too, where I see things. But today was different.” She sounded winded, her breath congealed in her throat. “You think I’m crazy.”

  “I’m not making any judgments. I believe you’re telling me the truth.”

  Tears welled in Phoebe’s eyes. “You’re the first person I’ve told, except for my sister and…a man who helps me.”

  So, she was seeing a shrink. Or was she talking about a lover—Vernell, the guy who had sent the pricey bouquet? Rowe wondered what was really going on with her state of mind and thought about the sister, Cara. She had formed an impression of an overprotective older sibling who was possibly envious of her younger sister’s looks. But recent events cast Cara in a different light. If Phoebe had a mental health problem, maybe her sister was just trying to find a way to keep her safe. Maybe that’s why they lived way the hell out here. Islesboro was not exactly a Mecca for attractive young women who wanted a social life.

  Phoebe turned on the faucet, adding more hot water to her bath. “I didn’t choose this,” she said in a defeated voice.

  A wave of sadness swept Rowe. Some of the most remarkable people in history had suffered debilitating mental illnesses. It had to be torture for those who were themselves enough to know their condition made a moveable feast of reality.

  She touched Phoebe’s arm. “I know you didn’t. And we don’t need to talk about it anymore.”

  “Do you still like me?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re gay, aren’t you?” Phoebe slid down the tub again, submerging herself to her chin.

  In the opaque water, Rowe could make out a narrow-hipped form, the stomach slightly rounded above a small dark vee. Phoebe was not voluptuous, not like Marion. She was lissome and fine-boned, almost boyish. Remembering she’d been asked a question, she dragged her eyes back to Phoebe’s face.