by Mari Labbee
Matt shrugged—good question.
Bri got closer and examined it intently.
“I don’t see brushstrokes.”
“Huh?”
Matt stopped what he was doing.
“Brushstrokes,” Bri repeated. “I don’t see any.”
He walked over to where she was standing, just inches from the wall, and peered at it closely.
“I see a few, here and here.” He pointed to a couple of spots.
Bri followed his finger, still frowning; she didn’t think so. Matt kept looking, but so far he had only found two places that looked like they might have been brushstrokes; there should have been more, and he agreed with her on another point—it was indeed a strange-looking thing.
She wanted to say that it scared her, but just thinking it sounded stupid. Saying it aloud would be much worse. One mystery had been solved, though; she understood perfectly why someone covered it up—no mystery there. Bri avoided the great room from that point on. Whenever she passed it, she found she couldn’t look away from it, so it seemed best to avoid it altogether.
It was late afternoon, the light was quickly fading, and they were ready to go out to the lighthouse.
“Are you sure you can pick the lock?” Bri asked.
“Pretty sure,” Matt answered. He carried an assortment of tools with him.
Bri had tried every key she’d been given. She had even been sure that the old brass one, the one sitting in the kitchen drawer now, was the lighthouse key, but it wasn’t. She hadn’t called a locksmith yet, and Matt offered, so she decided to let him try.
It didn’t take him long to manage the lock. It was an old iron lock and “not very complicated,” he said. Bri tried to follow his explanation of tumblers and notches, listening patiently, but it was all too complicated for her, and she was strangely distracted.
He pressed down on the handle and pushed, the door resisted, scraping the floor angrily. They stepped into almost total darkness. The only light coming from two small windows halfway up the tower. The smell of damp was overwhelming and Bri grimaced.
Matt looked up. Bri did the same, letting her vision adjust to the darkness when a sudden wave of vertigo practically knocked her over.
Everything—the iron steps, their supports, the redbrick walls, the pinprick of light above—everything from the dream came rushing back. How was that possible? She had never been inside this lighthouse, or any other lighthouse, for that matter. How could she know what it looked like? And just like in the dream, where she had fallen, the view was the same. Her knees went soft, and her hand flew out, grabbing handfuls of air until it found the cool, brick wall.
“Whoa.” Matt grabbed her arm. “Are you OK?”
She gulped without answering.
“What happened?” he asked.
How could she tell him why she suddenly felt dizzy? How could she have dreamed about the inside of the lighthouse so accurately? It was impossible. No one had told her what the inside looked like; she had never seen pictures. And the outside was white. She had expected the inside to be the same, but it wasn’t. Her heart pounded in her ears, and she could barely hear her own voice answering.
“I’m fine. I just threw my head back a little too quickly when I looked up.”
Matt didn’t let go. She seemed fragile, almost breakable. It had been a long day—they were all long days—and it was getting late. Maybe they should explore another time. He was about to suggest that, but then she took her hand off the wall and straightened up.
She took a deep breath. “All better now.”
He wasn’t quite sure. Her smile was tentative, and she might have let go of the wall, but he wasn’t about to let go of her.
“Are you sure you want to go up?” he asked.
Feeling incredibly foolish now, she nodded.
All lighthouses probably look similar inside, she thought, and at some point, she must have seen a picture of one. That was it. It was the logical explanation. She took a quick breath.
“Yes, you lead the way. I’ll follow.”
“We can always come back tomorrow…”
“No,” she said. “Really, I’m fine. Let’s go.”
“OK, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Though she assured him she was OK, he kept holding her hand as they began up the stairs. The sound of their footsteps could be heard on the stairs, a slightly clipped sound that carried only a short distance. Just like in the dream, she thought uneasily.
She gripped Matt’s hand tighter and made sure not to look down, afraid of what she might see.
She had never experienced anything like this. This was not your garden-variety déjà vu; it was something else altogether.
Bri thought about the dream. There had been a child, a beautiful, monstrous child. The dream hadn’t just been frightening. It had left behind a feeling of dread so real it had stayed with her until the next day. Incredibly her body was remembering it now; the feeling, the tension, the dream, all of it coursing through her.
Matt’s hand was heavy and warm, and she felt safe holding on to it. She gripped the iron railing for dear life, but seeing her hand on it brought back the child in the dream, and she quickly let go of it.
He dropped her hand once they reached the landing below the lantern.
“Hopefully this will open,” he turned the bell-shaped handle, and it opened.
“Well, that was easy,” he said, turning to her with a smile and then back again to climb up into the lantern. He reached out to her, and she grabbed his hand quickly.
Up in the lantern, layers of glass held in the day’s heat.
“I’ve never been inside a lighthouse,” he said excitedly, looking out at the 360-degree view.
“Me neither,” she said and then thought about the dream.
On one side, a dark-blue ocean stretched out to the horizon where the earth’s curvature swallowed it. The clearing, the house, and the woods were visible on the other side. They made their way through the lantern to the opening that led out to the parapet.
Bracing themselves against the wind, they walked out. Bri grabbed the short rail of the parapet and made her way around. Then she noticed a light, far out in the distance, something not visible from land. She began to ask about it, but the wind howled around them, and her voice was carried off, so she pointed to it. Matt started to respond, but she couldn’t hear him. She gestured as much, and that’s when he leaned in.
His lips brushed the tips of her ear, and his breath was warm. “Selkie Rock,” he said, but she didn’t hear it.
She squeezed the rail. Uh oh, she thought.
The waves sounded a hundred times louder than they did from the house. From there, she could only hear them; here, she could feel them as they crashed against the rocks. She looked out. The sun had set. It was dark now. The blue water turned to black, and stars appeared above them. The wind felt good against her bare arms and legs. She looked over at Matt, and then she looked down. That was a mistake. In that instant, the images—now familiar—intruded, and she saw the water rushing toward her—falling.
She couldn’t get out of there fast enough; she signaled to Matt that she was ready to go, surprising him. From the looks of it, he could have stayed there half the night, staring out at the dark ocean.
They used the flashlight, which Matt had the foresight to bring with him, to get down the lighthouse and back across the clearing to the house, with Matt leading the way. They walked in, and she flipped the light switch, only to see it again. There was no escaping it now. The mural looked more alive than it had in daylight. It actually seemed to glow. Unbelievably, she had forgotten about it, what with the lighthouse and all, but now she felt queasy again.
Matt noticed. It had been a long day, and she looked tired.
“Hey, I have an idea,” he said. “Why don’t I treat you to dinner? After all, you treated me to lunch. I owe it to you.”
“Oh God, that wasn’t much of a lunch,”
she said, embarrassed. “Thanks, but you don’t need to—really.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to. You probably haven’t been out since you got here. Right?”
“Takeout.”
“That doesn’t count.”
No, she thought, that didn’t count. So far the food here had been unremarkable compared to New York, but that really wasn’t fair.
“You just don’t know the better places,” he said.
She was still a little disoriented, and the thought of staying there alone right then was definitely unappealing.
“OK. You talked me into it.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It’s no big deal, she thought as she stepped into the bathtub, but still, it felt curiously intimate to know he had just been there. She remembered how his lips felt against her skin just a short while ago…she pushed the thought away quickly. Offering him the use of the shower after he suggested dinner was the only decent thing to do. After all, he’d been working at the house all day. She had made herself scarce while he showered and dressed and went upstairs only when she heard the front door after he’d gone outside. Awkward encounter avoided.
She was quick about the shower, knowing he was downstairs waiting, and she tried not to dress as if this was a date. Date? “No, this is definitely not a date,” she muttered softly to herself as she looked through the closet. She brushed her hair, put on mascara and lip gloss, and finished with a spritz of perfume.
Matt had just finished rearranging the inside of the cab to make room, and he had just set his duffel bag on top of the pile behind the driver’s seat when Bri walked out of the house.
Her hair was loose, and she had tucked one side behind an ear. Her hair was longer than he had imagined, a copper-tinged chestnut that fell past her shoulders. He hadn’t actually seen her hair until now; it was always hidden underneath a bandanna. Her outfit was deceptively simple; dark-rinse jeans, a plain white button-down (fitted), and black loafers. Nothing fussy. In fact, she wore no jewelry, but it was polished, she was polished.
“Well, hi,” he said.
She smiled, feeling very good about going out. He held the truck door open for her, and as she passed, he caught the scent of her perfume—light, pretty.
Matt steered the truck into Pegottie Harbor and drove to the end to where the old boat works used to be and into O’Hennesy’s, an Irish pub that served great burgers and the best fries he ever had. He was glad he had suggested this. The farther away they got from Jackal’s Head Point, the more she relaxed.
“The food is good here. I think you’ll like it.”
Her stomach was growling, but it intensified the moment she smelled onion-tinged air. She laughed apologetically when he looked over. She was glad he’d thought of this. It had been so long since she had socialized with…anyone. The day behind her now, this was exactly what she needed.
Matt was different than most of the men she had known in the past. He was quiet in the best way and his blue-green eyes were soft and perpetually smiling, as if he always got the joke. He was straightforward and uncomplicated, which was refreshing, and he was…manly—that’s the word she would use: very manly.
Matt went for the pub door just as Dana and her husband walked out.
“Oh! My goodness. Fancy meeting you two here!”
Dana introduced Bri to her husband, John, who already knew Matt. Was it just her imagination, or was Dana beaming at them in a way that said, I just knew you two would hit it off.
“So how is the house coming along?” Dana asked.
“Really well. And thank you, by the way, for sending Matt over. He’s all I’m going to need.” That did not come out the way she intended, and Bri felt her cheeks warm.
Dana laughed. “I know. He’s the only one who will do that house justice. Matt’s famous around here. He’s the best.”
“I’ll agree with that,” Bri added.
They stood just outside the entrance, chatting as people walked past them. Dana’s husband asked Matt to come by his new office in the old Yachtsman building on the harbor.
“You’ll come and take a look at it soon, won’t you?” he asked Matt. “I’d like to make some changes, and it’s going to need some modernization.”
“Sure. Just as soon as I get the chance,” Matt responded.
John turned to Bri.
“We just won a terrific legal battle against the developer who wanted to convert the old building into condos.”
Bri thought about Restart and the Urban Group and could only imagine how that must have gone, having worked with developers just such as those to facilitate said conversions, but she said nothing.
“John is on the preservation committee,” Dana said proudly.
“Yes. It was a tough fight, but thank goodness it’s over with.”
An older couple walked brusquely by, clearly annoyed and huffing their annoyance at them for taking up so much of the walkway. Matt quickly seized the moment to wrap up the conversation. He was hungry and imagined Bri was just as hungry.
“Dana, John, it’s been great seeing both of you—and, John, I’ll be in touch and stop by to take a look at that new office. But I’d better get Bri inside now—she’s starving.” He winked at her and rolled his eyes. “She gets a bit cranky when she’s hungry.”
Dana and John both laughed and waved as they walked away. Bri shot Matt a look as he sidestepped to let her inside first.
“Don’t think I didn’t see the wink, Mathew,” she said.
He leaned in close and whispered, “You wanted it to be over, too.”
In spite of herself, she laughed.
The moment they stepped into the pub, with its cozy booths and soft amber lighting, Bri was aware of eyes on them—female eyes—mostly on her. She looked over at Matt, who was scanning for an empty booth, and she saw that he was amusingly oblivious. She curled her lips in and bit down to stifle a laugh.
They settled into a booth, and immediately a waitress appeared, smiling, menus in hand, which she set at the end of the table. She skillfully rattled off the specials and said she’d be right back with their waters.
“And it’s Mathias, not Mathew,” he corrected, opening the menu.
“Mathias?”
“Proper corn-fed name,” he said.
“Mathias,” she looked at him thoughtfully. “Hmm. It suits you.”
“Really?”
“Don’t you think so?”
“Never gave it any thought, actually.”
“Well, I think it does,” she said as she began scanning the menu. She felt his eyes on her and after a moment, she closed the menu and looked up. He was expecting an explanation.
“You’re old-fashioned,” she said.
The smile disappeared. “Old-fashioned?”
The waitress reappeared with their waters, pen at the ready for their orders.
“You order for me,” Bri said. “You know what’s good here.”
“OK.”
“Two all-Americans,” he said and then paused. “Onions?” he asked Bri. She nodded.
“Hold the onions, and an order of O’Hennesy nachos please.”
“The nachos first?” the waitress asked.
“Yeah, that’d be good.”
“Oh, and two blond ales,” Matt added.
The waitress repeated the order back to them, they nodded in agreement, and she was off.
“What are O’Hennesy nachos?” Bri asked.
“Fries with sharp Irish cheddar. Delicious, you’ll see.”
The waitress was back quickly with two frosty mugs. Bri took a sip as soon as hers was set down. Either it was the best beer she’d had in a long time, or it was just that the cool frothiness began unwinding the kinks and knots that made it seem so—she didn’t know which and didn’t care.
Once the waitress was a safe distance away, Matt leaned in and asked, “Old-fashioned how?”
Bri swallowed and laughed. “My, you’re a curious one.”
&nb
sp; “Well, yeah, kind of. I just don’t see myself as old-fashioned, and I’ve never been described that way,” a worried look crossed his face, “At least I don’t think I’ve been. So, yeah, I’d like to know what you mean.”
Was he wearing the wrong pants? Did he have the wrong haircut? Admittedly he never followed any fashion trends, but he thought he was a modern guy overall. Suddenly, though, he wondered.
“Well, let’s see,” she said, looking up. “You’re very polite. You know about a lot of things, especially about things that matter. Useful things, you’re practical and…um…” She chose her words carefully. “You don’t seem all that wrapped up in yourself.”
Her explanation wasn’t making him feel better. He sounded boring, even old, and—useful—what did she mean by that?
“Modern guys are all wrapped up in themselves but old-fashioned ones aren’t?”
She took another sip of beer, nodding. None of the men she had dated could ever be called old-fashioned. Actually, she was trying to figure out what she meant by old-fashioned, now that he asked for an explanation. But she was digging a hole here; he was frowning, and she hoped she could make herself understood. He was…different…in a very good way.
“I’m just explaining it badly,” she said. “I mean old-fashioned in a good way.”
A good way. Great, he thought.
Confusion evident on his face, he looked down into his beer. She had no idea what he was thinking but was hoping she hadn’t just ruined what was turning out to be the best night she’d had in a long time. She was just about to say something when he looked up.
“So it’s not my hair?”
She laughed so loudly that several patrons turned to look their way.
“No. It’s most definitely not your hair.”
The waitress got back with their Irish nachos, and they hungrily jumped in. The murmur of hushed voices, soft rock playing in the background, and Matt’s voice, lulled her. The day’s events evaporated. The burgers followed quickly and another round of beer.
“So,” she began, “where exactly is Whittlebee?”
“It’s just south of here. A little bit smaller.”