Trembling, I pull her close against me, resting my chin on her shoulder. Her presence is so warm, steady, comforting. I'd like to drink this feeling down, hold it deep within me, to draw from whenever I'm poised on the edge of reason. "Thank you," I whisper into her hair. Her heart, keeping time with mine, suddenly quickens, and she slowly backs away.
"I brought salads from the deli." Alis reaches into the paper bag and hands me a plastic container full of greens. "I didn't know what sort of dressing you liked best, so..." She spills the remaining contents of the bag onto the counter—eight foil packets of dressing, in eight different flavors. "I brought all of them."
Smiling, I tilt my head at her, still basking in the glow of her calming embrace. "You're too good to me."
She looks down and shakes her head for a moment, then gives me an odd look, deep and full of...what? I can't be certain. Her eyelids flutter, and she turns away again. "You're too hard on yourself," she says quietly. "You need to be taken care of."
"But why should you be the one to take care of me?" My voice is low, barely above a whisper. "I'm no longer your responsibility. Mrs. Corde let you go."
"But...but I—I'm a nurse, you know." She sits down at the table with her own salad and removes the plastic lid, poking at a tomato with her fork. "It's like second nature to me. Plus..." I sit down beside her, and she offers me a shy smile. "I like you, Darcy," she says. Her hand captures mine and delivers a gentle squeeze. "I just want you to feel strong again, and happy."
I squeeze back but rest my eyes on the photograph of Catherine and me that hangs beside the switch plate. Last winter. Catherine in her fuchsia knit cap, with the pompom on top, kissing my cold, flushed cheek. She took the picture herself, reaching her arm around in front of our faces, and miraculously managed to get a perfect shot.
I was happy then.
But to be happy without her? I can't imagine it. Alis doesn't understand.
Still, I give her a weak smile and gesture toward my salad. "This looks great. Thank you so much. I mean, for all that you've done for me."
She waves a hand in the air, dismissing my gratitude, and stands up to take the kettle from the stove. "I'll make tea." She plants her hand on her hip and nods. "Tea always makes everything better. Do you take sugar?"
"No, honey, please. It's in that cupboard right there."
"You know, Jason hates tea." She fetches the honey bear before filling the kettle with water and placing it on the burner to warm. "He hates most things that I like, really. But tea—now, that bothers me. What could possibly be so offensive about hot water and herbs?"
I finish chewing my bite of romaine and prop my head up on my hand, shrugging. "No idea."
"Sometimes I think he disagrees just to disagree. He enjoys conflict, whereas I..." She leans against the stove, lost in thought.
I pat her chair. "Sit down with me. Eat!"
She ignores my command. "I wish he were more affectionate, more..."
"Sensitive?" I offer.
"Exactly. He never notices things—if I paint my nails or dye my hair. He probably couldn't even tell you the color of my eyes."
"'Oh, darkly, deeply, beautifully blue—'"
"'As someone somewhere sings about the sky.'" Alis gazes me at, her lips parted, her hand on her chest. "Byron, isn't it?"
"Mmm. Don Juan."
"Yeah." She watches me still, hardly blinking. "Beautiful words. No one has ever—" The kettle begins to whistle, and she jumps. "I'm sorry." She carefully pours hot water into the pair of mugs she found in the cupboard. "I'm silly today. Jason and I had a fight, an argument. I can't seem to stop thinking about it, though I'm sure he'll have forgotten by the time I get home." She carries my mug to me, along with a box of peppermint tea. "He always does."
"Well, does he ever apologize?"
"No." Her reply is quick, almost bitter. "No, he brushes everything off, ignores it, moves on. But we never resolve anything that way. We never—" She lowers herself into the chair. "Can I tell you something personal?"
"If you want to."
"I think he's having an affair. No, I know he is. He's cheating on me."
"Oh, Alis!" I drop my fork and turn to face her fully. "But how can you be sure? Maybe there's been a misunderstanding. Have you talked to him about it?"
"Darcy, I saw them. I saw Jason and another woman...naked, in our bed." She's trembling. I wrap an arm around her, touch her forehead with my own. "I came home for lunch, which I never do—but we had leftovers from the night before in the fridge, and... I heard something. I knew what it was. I'm not naive. And they'd left the door open." She swallows back a sob. "I couldn't help but look, you know. I mean... He's my husband. We had such a beautiful wedding. Things have been shaky since then, but… Darcy, how could he?"
"I don't know," I sigh, restraining myself from launching into a diatribe about the curse of testosterone. Instead, I comfort her as best I can, which is not very well at all. I hug her and smooth her hair and whisper words like, "It's all right. You'll be fine. Don't worry. You'll get through this." All of the meaningless, fluffy sentiments I have heard myself so many times over the course of the past months. Soft words bounce; it's the pointed ones that penetrate, that make the most sense.
I hand her a tissue from the box on the table and look her squarely in the eyes. "Alis, you have to leave him."
"...what?" Her nose is red, her face swollen from tears.
"You deserve someone faithful—and loving. Someone who sees and values you for who you truly are! Someone who admires those gorgeous eyes of yours, who appreciates your freckles!"
She straightens in the chair, and a slow blush creeps over her face. "Darcy, I can't just leave him. It's...it's complicated. I mean, I want to leave him. God, I think about it all the time. But where would I go?"
"Move in with me." I speak the words without thinking and regret them the moment they pass my tongue. But I do want to help Alis. What if she confronts him, and what if he hurts her—emotionally, physically—in some irreparable way? I can't let that happen. I can’t let her go through this alone. There's been enough loss, enough pain. Enough.
She sits still and silent, shaken, staring down at her hands in her lap.
"I want you to think about it, okay?" I turn back to my lunch, anxious to quell the awkward tension yawning between us. "Just consider it."
"All right." I barely hear the words, but I know she said them.
"Let's eat, then. I'm suddenly starved."
Chapter Eight
Strange day. I remain at the kitchen table, thinking, nursing my mug of lukewarm peppermint tea. Alis left, went back to the hospital, an hour ago at least. I should get up, feed the cat, wash the dishes... There's so much I've put off doing. Menial, ordinary chores. But for someone whose life has recently—just this morning—taken a decidedly extraordinary turn, laundry and vacuuming the living room carpet are distant, what-does-it-matter? concerns. Between thoughts of Catherine's ghost and the prospect of sharing a house with Alis, it's all I can do to remember to breathe, to blink. To be.
Maybe a bath would help.
Feeling purposeful at last, I stand up and place my empty mug in the sink. As I walk past the counter, a piece of mail on top of the pile catches my attention. It's from the library, my library.
Perplexed, I pick up the letter and open it, my curiosity steadily mounting. The typewritten note inside is short and to the point:
Dear Sir/Madam:
The materials you withdrew from our collection, listed below, are overdue. Please remit them to the library at your earliest convenience. A late fee has been assessed to your account.
SHAKESPEARE'S HEROINES ON STAGE AND SCREEN
TWELFTH NIGHT : AN INTERPRETATION
Sincerely,
HIGHLANDS PUBLIC LIBRARY
My head began to throb the moment I read the book titles, and a pressure is building behind my eyes; I cover my brow with a shaky hand and lean against the counter. The letter slips from my fingers
to the floor.
How many instances like this will there be in the coming days, weeks, months? Tying up the loose ends, all of Catherine's unfinished business. Sometime soon, her producer is going to call, asking about the play she was working on. He won't have heard of her death, all the way in New York City. Someone has to tell him. I have to tell him. And I have to go to the library, return her left-behind books, pay the fine... No, they won't make me pay the fine, will they? But the look in their eyes, the pats and sighs and condolences… I'd rather just pay it. I'd rather just drop the books in the slot, with a few (well, maybe a lot more than a few) quarters taped to their front flaps. I don't want sympathy; I can't face my co-workers' sympathy. They sent flowers, a card. That was enough. I threw the card away without reading it. The flowers are upstairs, in the bedroom, where Alis placed them. Dried up and brown now, their stems spotted with white fuzz.
I shake my head, fed up with myself, annoyed with my own company. Without a pause to reflect, I sweep my jacket from the hook on the wall, slide into my boots and step out the front door. (Why bother to lock it? There's nothing left but broken pieces, dead flowers...) The winter chill bites my bare face, but I don't care enough to shiver. I need a thicker skin. I need to stop feeling and just do what I have to do.
I don't know how I'm going to make it, otherwise.
---
The books are on the desk in the cabin, under a spiral-bound notebook. I grab them and turn to leave the cabin. I'll just walk back to the house, get in my car, drive to the library and return the books. Then I'll come home for that long, hot bath.
Water. There's running water—I hear it... I heard it start the moment I thought about taking a bath. I eye the doorway to my left warily. Then, reckless, on tiptoes, I approach the tiny bathroom and tap the door fully open. Steam rises from the water in the tub... Hot water. But the generator is off. I'm certain that it is. The water could only be cold. I dip my finger, then submerge my entire hand. Blissfully hot. I hadn't realized how cold I was. My body aches for warmth, for comfort, and here it is... Catherine often drew baths for me at night; my muscles ached after standing on my feet or hunching over a computer screen, for hours upon hours, at the library every day. Sometimes she slipped behind me in the tub, massaged my shoulders and left a trail of wet kisses on my neck.
I still clutch the books in my arms. Their weight makes me feel clear-headed, grounded. I know that I should leave now. I have places to go, things to take care of. Sensible things. Logical things.
I fear that I might stay forever if I don't turn around and walk out the door this instant. But my thoughts lag behind my actions, and the books are on the floor already, along with my jacket, my jeans—a pile of hastily tossed-off clothing. I stand naked in the bathroom, in the cabin, and step into an impossible bath drawn for me by a ghost.
Oh, ecstasy.
Her scent surrounds me, infusing the water. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, trembling from head to toe. The tub is an old clawfoot and deep. I hardly notice that the faucet has turned off; the water laps at my neck. I sink lower, slip my face under the water for a moment, and then come back up again, relishing the sensation of cool air against my hot skin.
She's here with me. I know it as surely as I know my own name. I feel her in the air, on my skin, beneath the water. She’s made of water, winnowing like a current, teasing my hair, twirling it into circles on the rippling surface. Inexplicable rushes of warm liquid burst against my skin; the water is steaming still, and bubbling like a whirlpool. I catch a pod of bubbles in my hands and bring them to my mouth to blow, like kisses, into the misty, now-humid room.
The tingling begins again, at my fingertips, consuming my left hand. I wait for the sensation to spread like an enveloping heat over my entire body, but it stops—definitively—at my wrist. I have no control over that hand; it's hers now. But the rest of me still feels, responds, aches...
She touches me, just barely touches me, tracing the downward slope of my leg, caressing the slight rise of my stomach. The hand veers just as it approaches my left nipple, circling, circling...fingers growing bolder, faster. I grip the side of the tub with my remaining fingers, instinctively lifting my right leg, draping it over the side. Sweat beads my forehead as I move my head from side to side, waiting, hoping, expelling all rational thought from my fevered mind. I bite down on my lip—hard—and taste blood and salt.
My breast grows deliciously sore at the whims of her passion: massaging, pinching, twisting. If she had teeth, she would bite. Instead, under her command, my own nails dig into sensitive flesh, and my hips jerk with longing, causing water to splash out of the tub, onto the floor.
"Catherine..." The word contains all of my desires, and she hears them, guiding my hand lower, lower.
Her stroke is light, exploring, a feather's touch. Fingers move over my inner thigh, soft and tickling. Torturing... Following the contours of my hips, now hot and rhythmic with need. At last, she abandons foreplay, expertly finds my ache and fills it.
I arch, water sloshing everywhere. My legs, quivering, spread still wider. "Oh, please..."
My right hand slips, losing its grip, and reaches vainly for something to hold onto, something solid, something safe. I want to hold Catherine... I want to touch her again. I want—
My head slides deep beneath the water, and I hold my breath with a gasp but keep my eyes open. A fine stream of bubbles has formed out of nothing, circling around my torso, then crawling, slow and searching, in all directions over and under my skin. I watch, mesmerized, heart still. Just when I fear I can contain my lungs no longer, the bubbles coalesce into one watery figure: legs first, then hips...breasts, arms, face...
Catherine.
I feel a pressure like skin on skin but smoother, and slippery. Our nipples touch, her lips crash against mine, and a tsunami force sends me up, out from under the water, sitting in the tub with a hand on my heaving chest as I cough and swallow gulps of air.
When my breathing regulates and my heart starts beating again, I drop my head into my hands (both mine again) and sob into the placid bathwater.
I've broken the spell. It's over.
Her scent lingers, but the atmosphere of the room is changed. It's flatter. Dull. The steam has evaporated, and my shoulders involuntarily shiver, naked in the cold, unheated cabin. I raise my eyes to survey the tiny room and watch as one large, curved stroke appears over the foggy surface of the medicine cabinet mirror hanging over the sink. A "C." I get out of the tub, sopping, freezing, and walk to the sink, my hands on the edges of the porcelain basin. I lean forward and press my lips against the damp mirror. It's a hard, desperate, pathetic kiss. I open my eyes to see nothing but my own reflection and, heartsick, pull back, flinging hot, desperate tears from my face. No longer shivering, I curl up on the floor, my body a bare, vulnerable container of desire. My skin burns like fire.
Either I'm going mad, or I've just had sex with a ghost. With Catherine. Catherine's ghost. It makes no difference to me. Crazy or sane, I am certain of one thing.
I want more.
Chapter Nine
I cringe as I approach the front desk. Annabelle is seated behind it, and the look of shock on her face when she sees me—obviously surprised by my appearance; I've lost weight—makes me want to turn around and walk out of the library immediately. But I resist the urge and manage a small smile as I hand her Catherine's books.
"These are overdue," I say, trying to sound pleasant as I remove a few dollar bills from the pocket of my jeans. "How much do I owe?"
"Darcy!" She claps her hands in front of her face, like a child. "Oh, how have you been? We've all been so worried about you. I keep meaning to stop by the house, to say hello, but..." The absence of honesty behind her statement is obvious but expected. Annabelle is a professional people pleaser: fake, two-faced, manipulative. I never met anyone so petty and juvenile—sometimes she holds entire conversations in text-speak—over the age of thirty and try my hardest to avoid her as much as
possible during work shifts.
"Well, that's kind of you, Annabelle, but I'm not really ready for visitors yet."
"Obviously! I mean, well, no one would expect you to be, after such a tragic, untimely—" She gasps and covers her mouth, then purses her pink lips. "I'm so sorry! I shouldn't bring it up. Naturally, I don't want to upset you."
"It's fine." I grit my teeth, sliding the books closer to her. "Could you just check these in for me?"
"Certainly. In a hurry, are you?" she asks, picking up the books and eyeing them thoughtfully.
"Oh—yes. I've been...very busy."
"Mm, of course, of course." She scans the books and then types rapidly, staring at the computer screen. "Oh, but these two—they aren't registered to your account."
My heartbeat quickens.
"They're listed under 'Corde, Catherine.' Is she a friend—oh!" Again, the hand flies to her mouth. It's almost comical, and I want to laugh at her, but I can't. I can't even sneer.
"My bad!" she exclaims, mocking embarrassment. "I am such a featherhead today! Please forgive me, Darcy." She reaches for my hand, which is lying on the desk, but I quickly remove it to my jacket pocket. I count to ten and insist, without any pretense of politeness, "What is the fine?"
Brow furrowed, Annabelle glances at the computer screen again. "$2.45. If you'd like, I could call Marjorie over the loudspeaker and ask her if the fee can be waived, given the circumstance—"
"No, no. Here's $3.00. Never mind the change."
"Oh, well, if you're sure..."
"Positive." I stand before her awkwardly, longing to escape. "I should get back to the house now, so—"
She takes the bills and inserts them into a zippered pouch in the drawer at her left. "All right, Darcy. Take care, then." Her smile is tight, plastic; only her eyes—cold, as always—speak the truth.
The Ghost of a Chance Page 5