The Sea Horse Door

by Gina Rossi

  Eventually, he speaks. “Where did you find these? How?” His voice is rough, and unsteady.

  “When I was chasing Buster through the undergrowth.” I go on to tell Lucas how I thought the one and only sea horse door key had fallen out of my jeans’ pocket during the scramble. “I was overwhelmed with relief to find it, even in the chaos. Imagine if I had lost the only key to that door.”

  “You have no idea what this means.”

  Don’t I? Do I? My mind’s in replay. If Agat hadn’t finished knitting the bunny, Alice and I wouldn’t have driven out to her cabin with the Halloween cookies, Agat wouldn’t have given Alice the duck for Buster…and that damn key and ring would have lain half buried in the compost of the shore, forever. I shiver to think I almost threw it away without knowing, after finding it without knowing. Serendipity gone awry.

  “Does it prove anything?” I ask, because I can’t see that it does.

  He nods. “Oh yes. To me, it proves everything. Bonny went for a swim, meaning to come home. That’s what I need to know.”

  Buster, in his near-death throes, has handed Lucas his salvation.

  Lucas is quiet for the rest of the evening, distant and thoughtful like he’s undergoing some sort of change. I let him be. This is something he has to get through by himself.

  Something.

  We go to bed early folded in each other’s arms, falling asleep face-to-face, heart to heart in the darkness. When I wake I have no idea of the time, or how long I’ve been asleep. It’s like silence has woken me; it’s too quiet. I move Lucas’s arms off my body and get out of bed, careful not to disturb him. At the window, I open a shutter a few inches and look on a scene that takes my breath away. The full moon hangs ice-white over a ragged sea, eerie behind a slanting veil of heavy snow. I’ve never seen snow at sea level before; it’s magical, and disturbing, like there’s something wrong with the planet.

  “What?” Lucas grunts from the bed.

  “It’s snowing.”

  “Mm.” He rolls over, turning his back. I get into bed and snuggle behind him. He’s so fast asleep he doesn’t even complain when I warm my cold feet between his calves.

  “Lara?”

  Right. Not so fast asleep after all. “Sorry about my feet.”

  He turns around again, dragging the bedding with him.

  “Hey!” I whisper, clutching my share. There’s a brief fight for territory, and we settle, him pulling me to his chest, running a hand over my hair, the back of my neck, my shoulder blades, and ribs. He touches my stomach, stopping there.

  “Lucas?”

  He breathes out long and slow. “Are you too scratched and stinging to—”

  “No.” I squeeze closer, pressing myself to his body, drinking his heat.

  The release of tension in Lucas’s hand, sliding further, downwards, between my legs, and the heat of his kisses drives me to the shimmering edge. Next second I’m on red alert. Lucas is different. He’s strong and tender, and utterly committed. Together, his tactical intensity, the buzz and thrill of rising climax, the swift, exquisite power and release of simultaneous orgasms followed by the effervescent aftershock, equal the most beautiful few minutes of…

  Of my life thus far, come to think of it.

  Something’s different. Something’s happened. I glance at Lucas, facedown in the pillow next to mine.

  Something’s got to happen.

  I think it did. Except it wasn’t something. It’s everything.

  Everything just happened.

  Lucas surfaces by turning his head to face me. “That was different,” he murmurs.

  I stare at him in the dark, feeling rather than seeing his eyes holding mine. “Different?”

  “How was it for you, Ms. Fairmont?” he asks, in a deep, mock-television-interviewer voice.

  Neither mechanical, nor studied, nor textbook. “Perfect.”

  “Please elaborate. How perfect, Ms. Fairmont?”

  “As perfect as one of Queenie’s gorgeous eggs.”

  He drops the voice. “Huh?”

  “Boiled, Lucas. Boiled.”

  The bedding rustles and pulls tight. He’s up on one elbow. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Soft and hard in all the right places.”

  He smothers a big laugh, shaking the bed. I reach out and touch his face, “And you, Lucas? Was it great for you too?”

  He’s quiet for a long time, but I know he’s staring at me with those brown-diamond eyes.

  “What?” I cuddle up, but he pushes me away, holding me by the upper arms like he can see me in the dark.

  “Lara? Something’s different.”

  He felt it too. I stare back. “Different?”

  “You—I don’t know how to say this—but sometimes, no, actually always, all the times we’ve been together, you’ve…”

  “I’ve what?”

  “Sex with you is fantastic, Lara, don’t get me wrong. It’s wild. It’s perfect. The best, but…”

  “But?”

  “You always hold something back. It’s like there’s a small, vital part you don’t give.”

  I hold my breath. “Which part?”

  “The best part. The part I want most. Tonight you were fully in the moment with me. Not distracted like you’re hiding something, holding a secret, unwilling to give me everything.”

  Everything.

  “Tonight, Lara, you were mine. All mine. You gave it all.”

  “You too.”

  We slide across the small area of sheet that lies between us and wind our arms around each other. I slide a leg between his thighs.

  “We should get some sleep,” he says.

  “Can I tell you something first?”

  “Sure.”

  I move my head back, so I can see the shimmer in his eyes.

  “I love you, Lucas.” I hold his face, and kiss his mouth. “I love you. I love you forever.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  There’s snow in London, but nothing like the dump they had in Maine in early December, a few days before I left.

  I’m catching up with friends in the few—hopefully—days left before Julie gives spectacular birth. My parents are home, briefly until the New Year when they start a lecture tour in Canada, so that’s a relief. It’s great to see Holly again, and to meet Alan, of course. What fun to go shopping together along Oxford Street, under the Christmas lights, dusted with light snow. How homely to sit in a cosy pub beside a crackling fire and drink mulled wine with carol singers. To hear the familiar rumble of the engine of a London black cab, to breathe the warm, dusty breath of the Underground, and marvel at the astonishingly lavish festive windows in Selfridges. I love it, and I’ve missed it. However, to tell the absolute truth, something’s missing. Well, maybe not that, but…I feel like a visitor. I’m welcome, all is familiar, yet I belong somewhere else. Suffice it to say I think about Lucas all the time, and Alice most of the time.

  Holly’s got a few days’ work left before she heads south to her parents in Surrey. After our last lunch of the year in a wine bar near Liberty’s—it feels strangely like a significant farewell, like I’m never going to see her again—she comes with me all the way to Piccadilly, to a picture-framing studio in Half Moon Street, where I have something waiting for collection. Perhaps she feels the same.

  “What’s that?” she asks, peering over my shoulder.

  I run my fingers over the glass. “A sea horse I got in Maine.”

  “Stunning. I adore the frame.”

  “It’s like a renaissance drawing,” says the framer himself, handing back my credit card.

  “I know.”

  “Who’s it for?” Holly asks.

  “Me.”

  Holly has to go. We say goodbye while I wait for the picture to be packed.

  “Phone me, Skype me, email me, SMS me,” she calls, waving from the kerb as she gets into a taxi.

  “I will, I promise. You too. Happy Christmas!” I blow kisses and wave until sh
e disappears into the sleet.

  “What can I bring you from London, for Christmas?” I asked Lucas, at the airport.

  “You. Just come back. Please.”

  I slid my hand around his waist and put my head on his chest. “A herd of moose wouldn’t keep me away.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.” I drew back, squeezed his hand and we kissed each other goodbye.

  “What would you like for Christmas?” I asked Alice.

  “A sister,” she said, without hesitation.

  “Oh, darling, I can’t give you a sister.”

  “Then a brother.”

  “Perhaps we can arrange one or the other for Alice’s birthday?” Lucas’s eyes rested on me, keen. I didn’t look at him. I bent to kiss Alice. “Be good. See you very soon.”

  “See you at Christmas.”

  I leave the framers and walk back to Regent Street, buying everything Barbour for Lucas, and half of Hamley’s for Alice.

  Julie gives birth quickly and easily, surprising everyone after the monumental build up. James George Simon—Jamie within days—enters the world two days after his due date, serene, wise and wrinkled. Julie adores him immediately—we all do—and Derek is smitten. Julie’s positively bovine, her obsession with breastfeeding broken only by heartfelt complaints about not being able to consume alcohol. We put away gifts of champagne for Julie and Derek to enjoy at a later date and Dad goes out to buy more, so we can celebrate and be festive all at once.

  My mother sensibly brings Christmas forward by a week.

  “In case you have to be somewhere on the actual day, Lara.”

  “Meaning what?” I ask.

  “You Skype those American people every few hours. Why not just go back to Maine and be with them?”

  On the eighteenth of December, we have the works. Roast turkey and all the trimmings, plum pudding—containing money—included. The following day we eat a mammoth lunch and attend a carol service at a local church. After a supper of leftovers we spend the evening watching Christmas shows on television, handing Jamie around like a game of pass the parcel.

  The days pass slowly, dragging on cocktails, pudding and port parties, and a stream of visitors popping in to see Jamie, to squeeze in a few mince pies and a glass of mulled wine while they’re at it. All such fun, but there’s somewhere else I’m longing to be.

  That said, what loser would be sitting in an airport on Christmas Eve? That’ll be me, in twenty-four hours, thanks to Hurricane Somebody who may well bury the east coast of the USA in a million tons of snow overnight, thereby delaying my flight.

  In the end, it’s not too bad. We get underway in light snow at Heathrow, a couple of hours late, warned that visibility problems on the other side of the Atlantic may cause a diversion. I cross my fingers on take-off, hoping the pilot will spot the runway at Logan Airport, and spot it in time for me to get a connection to Portland. Actually, glancing at the thick cloud pressing on the window, I hope he can spot America—that’s how bad it looks.

  Tired, excited and nervous for some reason, I nevertheless sleep most of the way, dreaming of bright gold leaves overlapped by crimson, lying in the falling snow. By some incredulous miracle planes can still fly in and out of Logan, and—vitally important—grope their way to Portland. There, at last, I am overjoyed to find Lucas and Alice, both bundled in coats and gloves, wearing red and white Santa hats, waiting for me in the arrivals hall.

  “I feel like I’ve been away for years.” Muffled by Lucas and Alice’s joint hug, I know I’m back where I belong. “I couldn’t wait to get back.”

  “We couldn’t wait for you to get back either, could we, Alice?”

  Alice smiles up at me. “Daddy’s got a present for you.”

  “I’ve got some for Daddy and you,” I tell her.

  “Daddy’s one for you is very small.”

  “Alice.” Lucas picks her up. The concourse is crammed, and we’re being shoved on all sides in the storm of noise and humanity all around. “Remember what I said. It’s a secret.”

  She nods, solemn. “You mustn’t tell,” he reminds, “any of the secrets, or the surprise will be spoilt.” She wriggles with excitement, bursting to tell, and buries her face in Lucas’s neck.

  There’s heavy snow, but the Jeep is wearing snow tires so we drive straight into Lobster Cove, the most festive and twinkly town on the eastern seaboard, I’m convinced, without delay or mishap. Christmas lights sparkle along the waterfront, there’s a giant spangled, glittering tree near the gazebo on the town square, every shop front is decorated, and each front door displays a wreath of pinecones, red ribbons, and greenery, at the very least. Lucas drives all the way through town, so Alice and I can see the lights, then turns around and heads back. We end up at Frenchman Bay B&B.

  “Lucas, why are we here?” I ask.

  “Small power problem at Blue Rocks. We had an outage, so we’ll stay here for a few days.”

  “What? For Christmas?” I ask, but Lucas doesn’t hear. He’s out of the car getting my bags out of the boot. I look at the façade of Frenchman’s. It’s pretty, with green shutters, a wide porch, and Adirondack chairs on either side of each door, but doesn’t do justice to my fantasy of a first, perfect Christmas in Maine. I’d imagined a huge, festive, grocery-shopping spree, and a tree in the hallway at Blue Rocks, as high as the gallery. I’ve got several boxes of decorations in my ridiculously enormous baggage pile—for which I was charged overweight. There are Christmas lights, and a nativity scene for Alice, charged with glittering angels. I’ve got velvet-trimmed crackers from Harrods, a ruinously expensive Stilton from Fortnum’s, a bottle of ancient port from Berry Bros., and—

  Lucas opens my door. “Out you get.”

  I step out of the car and follow Alice inside, disturbed. Something’s not right.

  “Lucas, where’s Buster?” I ask.

  “At the house.”

  “What about his meals?”

  He hesitates, or does he? “I went to feed him before I drove to the airport. He’s fine.”

  “Did you enjoy visiting Buster today?” I ask Alice, while Lucas checks me in at the desk.

  “I didn’t see him,” she says. “I stayed here and played with Gigi.”

  I glance at Gigi, preoccupied behind the reception desk. What’s going on?

  Lucas takes me to the suite of adjoining rooms he’s booked, telling me he has to go out. He won’t tell me where. “It’s a secret. I’ll take Alice. She’s got a carol-singing play date later with Grace and Ben, here in town.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “In about an hour. Have a rest meanwhile. Take your time.” They go, leaving me alone.

  I sit on the bed, unsettled, staring into the bathroom. I should unpack, relax, lie in a hot tub for half an hour and forget about Blue Rocks and the power outage.

  I can’t, because there’s a fiery ring of leaves swirling in my mind. I call Skeet for an immediate pick-up, grab my coat, and go.

  En route, no amount of prodding or probing will get Skeet to reveal any Lobster Cove scandal I might have missed. Surely, surely he’d drop a hint if Blue Rocks had burned to the ground in my absence. He concentrates on the icy road and keeping the windscreen clear of falling snow. We drive in through the gate and there, right in front of the sea horse door is a large red vehicle. The fire chief, I knew it!

  Once I’m closer, I see it isn’t. It’s an electrician’s van, that’s all. Skeet waits. First I plod around the outside of the house, knee-deep in snow, soaking my boots and trousers, knowing full well that while the driveway side of the house looks perfect from the outside, the sea-facing side will be gutted. At the front, I walk across the hidden lawn, head down, leaving a trough in my wake. At the top of the little steps to the beach, where the old gate is bolted shut, I take a deep breath, turn my back on the growling sea, and look up.

  There’s nothing wrong.

  Blue Rocks is fine, on the outside. I go around the front, where the
sea horse door is wide open, freezing the house. In the hallway, reaching up to the gallery is a giant pine tree, growing in a pot, quite bare. What a shame. A man in a red overall emerges from the kitchen, surprised to see me.

  “Hello,” I say. “How’s it all going?”

  “Fine. Can I help you?”

  “I’m only here to check on the cat.”

  “The big black guy? He’s been in and out of the basement all day long. It’s warmer there.”

  “Thanks,” I say, turning to go. “Happy Christmas.”

  “Happy Christmas, ma’am.” I go out onto the porch, he closes the sea horse door behind me, and Skeet drives me back to town.

  Oops, I walk straight into Lucas in the reception area of Frenchman’s. He sees me, but he’s on the phone, listening with intent, a sombre expression on his face. He finishes the call and walks over.

  “Where were you?” His eyes are too serious.

  I smile. “It’s a secret, but if you must know, I went out to Blue Rocks.”

  “Why?”

  “To see that it hadn’t burned down while I was in London. To check Buster is still alive.”

  He stares at me. I can’t read his eyes. “But—”

  “I worried about those…that leaf pattern Agat left. I looked it up. The closest reference I could find indicated it could have been a—”

  “A fire symbol. I looked it up too.”

  “You did?”

  “I was worried.”

  “Was there a fire at Blue Rocks, Lucas?”

  “Almost.”

  “What happened?”

  “The fire alarm woke me a few nights ago. Smoke was coming out from behind the panelling upstairs.”

  “Which panelling? Where?”

  “In your bathroom. I got Alice out of the house, called the fire chief, and it was all over very quickly.”

  I must sit down. Luckily there’s a sofa right behind me. “So the fire wasn’t anywhere near you or Alice?”

  He closes his eyes briefly. “She was sleeping in your bed. She missed you, so I let her sleep there. The room was really smoky, but I got her out before she woke up. But yes, yes, she was close.”