My opportunity finally came when Vincent asked Dad about the inn. “Such a delightful old place must have an interesting history,” he said.
Dad smiled apologetically. “Susan and I have been here five years now, but all we know is that Underhill was built in the eighteenth century. It was a popular stopping place for travelers heading north.”
“We’ve heard rumors it was once a smugglers’ hideout,” Susan put in. “I’ve been meaning to do some research on that, but it’s hard to find the time.”
“Surely a ghost or two haunts Underhill.” Vincent’s voice was light, almost mocking, but I sensed a deep interest underlying his words.
Dad and Susan both shook their heads, but I surprised myself by speaking up. “The cleaning woman, Mrs. Bigelow, says a girl who used to live here was murdered. She thinks her ghost haunts the inn.”
I’d meant to impress Vincent, but Dad was the first to react. “No one ever told me anything about a murder,” he said, frowning as if he doubted my word.
Ignoring Dad, Susan leaned toward me, worried and tense. “A girl was killed at Underhill, Cynda?”
I glanced at Vincent. He seemed as eager as Susan to hear what I had to say. “She wasn’t killed in the inn itself,” I began, “but outside, probably on the cliffs.”
Without giving Dad a chance to interrupt, I repeated the details quickly. “Her killer was never caught, never punished,” I concluded. “That’s why she haunts the inn. She can’t rest in peace till her death is avenged—and it never will be because the man who murdered her is dead himself now.”
I glanced at Vincent. He was leaning back in his chair, lost in shadows. Only his hands caught the light, graceful and long-fingered. “Very interesting,” he murmured.
Susan shuddered. “What an awful story, Cynda. Are you sure it’s true?”
“True or not,” Dad mused, “it gives me an idea for my next novel. Inspector Marathon could take a vacation in an historic inn. He’d hear about an old murder and use modern techniques to solve the crime. No ghosts, of course, nothing supernatural.”
“Didn’t Josephine Tey do something like that in one of her mysteries?” Susan asked. “If I remember correctly, a detective tries to prove Richard III couldn’t have killed the little princes in the tower.”
Vincent smiled at Susan. “You’re thinking of The Daughter of Time, one of my personal favorites. Write a mystery half as good, Jeff, and your reputation will be made.”
Dad beamed but Susan looked doubtful. “I’ve also read an Inspector Morse novel with a similar plot,” she said.
“There are only so many plots to work with,” Dad said. “Writers recycle them endlessly.”
Before Dad could get started on this new subject, Vincent led the conversation back to the murdered girl. “Has anyone actually seen her ghost?”
“The only evidence we have is Mrs. Bigelow’s uncanny feeling that something watches her when she’s all alone,” Dad said, making a joke of the old woman’s fears.
Vincent turned to me. “Do you believe Mrs. Bigelow, Cynda?”
I hesitated. Vincent seemed genuinely interested, but I dreaded making a fool of myself in front of him. Without looking at anyone, I said, “When Mrs. Bigelow was telling me about the girl, I felt a sort of sad, listening silence, just as if someone was in the room with us, someone we couldn’t see. . . .”
I stumbled to a stop, too embarrassed to go on. It was hard to put these vague feelings into words with Dad staring at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“Mrs. Bigelow must be a better storyteller than I realized,” he said. “She certainly put a spell on you with her talk of murder and restless spirits.”
His teasing voice silenced me. Vowing to say no more, I watched the fire dance and leap on the hearth.
“You don’t believe in ghosts, Jeff,” Vincent said quietly.
“Absolutely not. When you die, you die, and that’s that.”
“You sound very certain.” Vincent sat back in his chair, giving no clue to his feelings, but I was sure my father’s attitude annoyed him as much as it did me.
“I am certain.” Dad didn’t bother to disguise the irritation creeping into his voice. “Surely you’re too intelligent to put any credence in the tales of an ignorant old woman.”
“On the contrary, Jeff, I agree with Hamlet.” Vincent leaned forward and gazed into Dad’s eyes. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,’” he quoted, “Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
Vincent spoke with a quiet conviction that made me shiver, but Dad merely shrugged and said something about Shakespeare’s gift for turning a phrase. I noticed that Susan didn’t join in Dad’s laughter. Like me, she huddled deeper into the sofa and folded her arms across her chest to ward off the cold.
I found my voice with difficulty. “Are you saying you believe in ghosts, Vincent?”
“Yes, Cynda, I most definitely do.” As he spoke, a log fell in the fireplace and sent a shower of sparks racing up the chimney.
The noise startled us all, including Ebony. Uncoiling from his place beside me, he jumped off the couch and stalked toward the door. Halfway across the room, he noticed our guest and came to a dead stop. Vincent stretched a slender hand toward him, but Ebony sidestepped deftly and disappeared into the dark hall.
Seemingly indifferent to the cat’s snub, Vincent rose to his feet. “I must bid you good night,” he said. “If I encounter a ghost, I’ll let you know tomorrow. In the meantime, sleep well.”
The three of us watched our guest climb the stairs, his step almost as noiseless as Ebony’s. After his door shut softly, Susan turned to Dad. “What a charming man,” she said. “Handsome—and so mysterious.”
Dad slid his arm around her waist. “Are you trying to make me jealous, Susie?”
She laughed. “Of course not, silly.”
Dad turned to me. “Has Vincent won your heart too, Cynda?”
“He’s very intelligent,” I said, struggling to hide my interest in our guest. “He knows so much about everything—history, politics . . .”
Dad agreed. “I wish we had more guests who enjoyed talking about something besides the weather.”
“He’s open-minded, too,” I put in. “He didn’t think what I said about ghosts was dumb.”
That made Dad chuckle. Giving me a hug, he said, “I’m sorry, Cynda, but I can’t help being a skeptic.”
Susan looked sympathetic. “Face it, Cynda. Your father’s a dreadful old cynic.” Taking Dad’s hand, she led him toward the stairs. “Let’s call it a night, Jeff. Ghosts or no ghosts, I’m exhausted.”
Dad paused to bank the fire. Then, giving me a quick kiss, he followed Susan. Without them, the room seemed cold and unnaturally still. I blew out the candles hastily and ran down the hall, resisting the urge to look behind me.
Safe in bed with Ebony curled up beside me, I lay awake a long time trying to sort out my feelings. As much as Vincent fascinated me, he made me uneasy. More than once I’d caught him looking at me with an intensity I didn’t understand. His eyes were dark, unreadable—did he find me attractive or simply amusing? It was hard to imagine a man his age being interested in me, yet I could have sworn something intangible quivered in the air between us, a knowledge, a familiarity, a scary sense of destiny fulfilled.
When I fell asleep at last, Vincent followed me into my dreams. We were walking through the inn, but it had become a labyrinth of narrow halls and twisting corridors; I was lost, I wanted to get out, but every door I opened led to another room, darker and smaller than the one before. Vincent silenced my fears with laughter and kisses and promises. “You belong in the dark with me,” he murmured. “I am the king of night and you are my queen.”
I woke with his words ringing in my ears. Sunshine poured through the windows, filling the room with a dazzling white light. I smelled coffee brewing and muffins baking. In the hall, the clock struck nine.
Shivering in the cold air, I dressed carefully taking m
ore time than usual with my hair. I picked out my best black sweater, a soft angora turtleneck, and pulled on the jeans that fit best, a black pair like Vincent’s.
Before I left my room I examined my face in the mirror. There was a tiny pimple in the corner of my mouth. If I picked it, it might get bigger. Or bleed. Better leave it alone and hope Vincent wouldn’t notice.
I stopped for a moment outside the kitchen door and forced myself to breathe normally. Smoothing my hair, I stepped into the room, expecting to see Vincent at the table, but neither he nor Dad was there.
“Your father’s already at work on his novel,” Susan said, answering my unspoken questions. “Vincent doesn’t eat breakfast. Tea in his room is all he wants. As for lunch, he asked me to leave a tray at his door so he can work all day undisturbed. We won’t see him till dinner, I guess.”
Without noticing my disappointment, Susan opened the morning paper and began working the daily crossword.
Todd looked up from his oatmeal. “Did you see Mr. Morthanos’s car, Cynda?”
Susan drew the curtain aside. “Take a look, Cynda. It’s a real beauty.”
A car the color of moonlight on ice gleamed in the morning sunshine. A Porsche, Susan was saying, very powerful, very expensive—she hadn’t realized there was so much money in poetry. Vincent must do something else, either that or he was independently wealthy. . . .
Scarcely listening, I stared at the Porsche. It was the car I’d seen passing the inn the night of the blizzard. I’d known it would return, and it had. I remembered the eerie flash of its headlights. Was it possible Vincent had heard my whispered invitation? Was that why he’d looked at me so intensely? The very thought sent a little shiver racing up and down my spine.
“I hate that car,” Todd said loudly. “I hate Mr. Morthanos, too.”
Susan touched his curls lightly. “Now, Todd, what did I tell you? Mr. Morthanos is our guest. You mustn’t talk like that.”
Ignoring his mother’s rebuke, Todd asked, “Is Will coming to see us today?”
“This is Monday,” Susan said. “Will’s in school.”
Todd sighed. “Maybe he’ll come Saturday. We’ll build another snowman, even bigger than the first one. We’ll make new snow angels, too. The wind blew the others away, they flew up into the sky.” He tugged my sleeve to get my attention. “Wasn’t that the funnest day, Cynda, the day Will was here?”
For a second, I didn’t know what Todd meant. I’d been thinking about Vincent, not listening to my brother. The day we’d played in the snow with Will seemed as long ago as childhood.
Todd studied my face. “You like Will, don’t you, Cynda?”
“Of course,” I said quickly. “He’s very nice. You’re lucky to have him for a friend.” As I spoke, Will slipped further and further into the past. Compared to Vincent, he seemed no older than Todd, a friend from long ago, a boy as ordinary as a glass of milk.
“Will’s your friend too,” Todd said, frowning. “Or do you like Mr. Morthanos better now?”
Susan came to my rescue. “Todd, for heaven’s sake, stop pestering your sister and eat your oatmeal. You hate it when it’s cold.”
Later, when I was alone in my room, I found it impossible to study. My algebra equations might as well have been bird tracks on snow, French verbs slipped from my memory, Greek and Roman dates jumbled hopelessly. The clock measured the minutes one by one, slowly ticking time away. So long till dinner, so long till I’d see Vincent.
The ceiling creaked. Someone on the second floor was walking slowly back and forth, back and forth. I closed my eyes and pictured the inn’s layout. Vincent’s room was at the end of the hall, right above mine. Those were his footsteps I heard, soft and deliberate, crisscrossing the floor overhead.
I sat still and listened, entranced by Vincent’s nearness. The clock ticked, the wind blew, shadows shifted on the wall. Our guest continued to pace.
By noon I’d accomplished very little. Unless you counted the hundreds of times I’d written Vincent’s name in my notebook.
8
When Vincent came downstairs at six o’clock, I was waiting for him in the hall. Dad, Susan, and Todd were already in the dining room, but I thought someone should greet Vincent. After all, this was his first dinner with us, a special occasion.
“Am I late, Cynda?”
Vincent’s deep, curiously accented voice drove every clever word I’d planned to say right out of my head. “I wanted to show you where we eat, I was afraid you might not know, I . . .”
As I came to a stammering halt, Vincent thanked me for my consideration. “You look very nice,” he added. “Black becomes you.”
I looked down at my sweater as if I’d never seen it before. “My mother says black’s not my color, it washes me out, makes me pale. She thinks I should wear blue or green, maybe even purple. . . .” I stopped, hot with confusion. Surely Vincent didn’t care what my mother thought.
“Come,” he said, touching my arm lightly. “We mustn’t keep your family waiting.”
We took seats opposite each other at the shiny mahogany table. The setting was formal, the candlelight soft, the food cooked and presented perfectly by my father, both chef and waiter tonight. In the background, Wagner’s “Siegfried-Idyll” played softly on the stereo. A fire crackled on the hearth.
The only problem was Todd. He sat beside me glumly, poking at his food and kicking the table leg in defiance of Susan’s repeated pleas to sit still. Ignoring the handkerchief Dad handed him, he snuffled and sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He refused to look at Vincent or to answer any questions.
Todd wasn’t cute tonight, nor was he funny. I shifted my chair away from him, ashamed of the way he was acting.
Vincent was obviously disturbed by Todd’s behavior. Silent and withdrawn, he contributed little to the conversation Susan and Dad struggled to keep going. Like my brother, he spent more time rearranging his food than eating it. I caught his eye occasionally and tried to show my sympathy, but I couldn’t rouse him from his thoughts.
When Todd knocked over an almost full glass of milk, Dad jumped up, thoroughly exasperated.
“That’s enough, Todd.”
Taking his son’s arm, he pulled him none too gently away from the table.
Todd’s tears upset Susan. Rescuing him from Dad, she said, “For God’s sake, Jeff, have a little patience. He’s been running a low-grade fever all day.”
“Put him to bed then,” Dad said. “If he’s sick, that’s where he belongs.”
It was the first time I’d heard them quarrel.
“All right,” Susan said, “I will.” Taking Todd’s hand, she led him upstairs. Long after they’d disappeared, we heard Todd crying.
Dad began to apologize, but Vincent stretched out his hand to stop him. “Please, Jeff,” he said softly. “It is I who should apologize. For some reason my presence disturbs the child. Perhaps it would be better if I took all my meals in my room.”
“Oh, no, Vincent,” I said, and then felt my face flush.
Ignoring my emotional outburst, Vincent told Dad he’d join him later for a fireside chat. “But now, if you’ll be land enough to excuse me, I think I’ll go upstairs.”
After Vincent left, I gazed sadly at his abandoned plate. The salmon Dad had grilled so carefully was practically untouched, the baby carrots and wild rice barely disturbed.
I’d looked forward to dinner all day long, but in just a few minutes Todd had ruined everything. Sniffling and snuffling, kicking, pouting, spilling milk—why hadn’t Dad taught him some manners? He let Todd get away with the most outrageous behavior just because he was little and cute. It wasn’t fair. Todd should have been fed in the kitchen and put to bed before we sat down at the table.
True to his promise, Vincent came downstairs an hour or so later. Sinking into the same chair he’d chosen the night before, he accepted a glass of red wine and sipped it slowly.
Encouraged by a question from Vincent, Dad began talking abo
ut his novel. Despite five revisions, he was still bogged down in the second chapter.
“Every time I start a new book, I wonder if I’ll be able to finish it,” he admitted. “Beginnings are so damned hard. And then you get to the middle. After that, you have to face the end. Lord, sometimes I think I should have kept my teaching job.”
Vincent twirled his glass slowly, nodding in agreement. “Writing’s a long, slow process. It affords me so little pleasure I often wonder why I make the effort.” One corner of his mouth rose sardonically. “Possibly because I can’t do anything else.”
Todd chose that moment to start screaming for Dad and Susan. “Come quick, there’s a wolf under my bed,” he yelled from the upstairs hall. “Oh, for God’s sake, not another bad dream,” Dad muttered, earning an angry look from Susan, who was already hurrying toward the stairs.
Dad got to his feet. “Excuse us, we’ll be back in a few minutes.” Glancing at me, he added, “Keep Vincent company, Cynda.”
All day I’d dreamed of being alone with Vincent, but now that I was, my mouth was too dry to speak. I wanted to ask him about his car, I wanted to know where he’d been going in the snow, where he’d come from, but the silence grew, expanded, threatened to swallow me. I felt hot, then cold. I couldn’t say a word.
Vincent looked at me inquiringly. “You seem uncomfortable, Cynda. Is something bothering you?”
Slowly, hesitantly, I said, “I saw your Porsche in the parking lot. It looks just like a car I saw the night it snowed. It slowed down at our driveway, flashed its lights, then drove on by . . .”
“So it was you I glimpsed at the window.” Vincent leaned back in the chair and stretched his long legs toward the hearth. Firelight danced on the buckles of his boots. A ring on his right hand sparkled, a diamond stud in his ear glittered. “I sensed I’d be welcome here. That’s why I returned. I hope I wasn’t mistaken.”
Look for Me by Moonlight Page 5