by Nina Lane
“Okay,” I say to Jeremy, who’s still holding the door open and waiting patiently. “Thanks.”
We enter the café, order coffees, and sit in a couple of chairs near the fireplace. Though my reading plans have gone awry, it’s still a warm, pleasant ending to my day.
“So what are you doing here, Eve?” Jeremy leans forward. “We don’t get many new residents in Castille anymore. People are more apt to move away, head to Portland or Boston.”
“Long story, but my uncle used to be a literature professor over at Ford’s. Max Dearborne.”
Something flickers in his eyes that I don’t recognize. Surprise? Dislike?
“You knew him.” My curiosity intensifies.
“I knew of him,” he corrects. “The fairy tale expert.”
“I’m living in his place over on Sparrow Lane.”
Jeremy arches an eyebrow with faint distaste. “That old place? I’m surprised it’s still standing.”
I experience a rush of indignation on the house’s behalf. “It’s actually a historic house. It just needs some work, that’s all.”
“Is that why you moved here?” He sips his coffee, studying me over the rim of the cup. “To restore the house?”
“Sort of.” It seems he hasn’t heard about me yet. He will, of course, if he doesn’t look me up on the internet first. But I’m not going to dredge up my past and try to explain myself to him. I don’t want to do that with anyone anymore.
“I’ve heard a lot about your parents.” I pick up my coffee from a nearby table. “I saw your mother’s portrait over at the museum. Your family is a big deal around here.”
“Yeah.” His mouth twists with both pride and resignation. “Tough act to follow sometimes, especially when you’re an only child. Everyone expected me to follow in Dad’s footsteps and become a politician.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No. I wasn’t interested in politics. I’ve always been involved with Castille and want to help however I can, but from the private sector.”
“So what do you do?”
“I work for my father’s financial management company, King Financial. Our office is over on Greenbrier Street.” He sets his cup down, glancing at me with interest. “What about you? What do you do besides restore old houses?”
“Actually, my restoration expertise so far extends to fixing an old toilet,” I say wryly. “But other than that, I’m an art historian.”
“Really? My mother used to collect Victorian art.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Can’t say my father and I ever loved it, but she sure did. Are you working over at Ford’s?”
“No, I’m doing some… consulting work at the moment.”
It’s as close to the truth as I can get, given that I’ve agreed not to divulge any details about my new job.
“Interesting.” Jeremy glances at his phone. “I’d love to hear more, but I’m afraid I have to join my father over at the city council meeting. Much as I’d rather stay here with you, it’s a meeting I can’t miss.”
I let myself be flattered by the stay here with you comment. “What’s going on at the meeting?”
“Debate about the lighthouse.” A crease lines his forehead. “You’ll hear about it sooner or later. Big town controversy at the moment.”
“Why?”
“I’m hoping to sell it.”
My heart does a sudden, strange drop. “Sell the lighthouse? You can do that?”
“I hope so.” He smiles faintly. “Given that we own it.”
“You own the lighthouse?”
He cocks his head. “Well, my mother’s estate does. My father and I are working out the details of a trust involving the building itself and about fifteen acres of land. My mother’s family has owned it ever since the lighthouse went out of commission in the 1970s. The Castille Forestry Department leases it to preserve as a tourist attraction, but with the town’s economy in decline, we don’t think it’s worth it to keep anymore. It’s on a prime piece of coastal land, and developers have been interested in it for years.”
“So you want to sell it to them?” I tighten my hand on the coffee cup. “Why?”
“To build a hotel resort and golf course.” He shakes his head with a chuckle. “I know, makes me sound like the evil town villain, right? Destroy an old relic for the sake of money. Unfortunately, the fact is that Castille may look pretty, but underneath the façade, we’ve been struggling for a long time. Enrollment is down at local schools, Ford’s College is having a tough time recruiting students, and no one is even bothering to try opening a business anymore. Young people are moving to cities for more opportunities, and older people are retiring and moving to warmer climates. The main things Castille has going for it are history, small-town charm, and tourism… so attracting people with an all-inclusive resort would do wonders to save our economy.”
“Do you have to destroy the lighthouse to do that?”
Jeremy shrugs. “If we sell the land, it’s not up to me. And we’re not talking about a monstrosity or eyesore here. My father would never allow that. The Oracle Development Corporation has plans for an elegant, Georgian style building that will blend in with the coastline. I’d make them contractually obligated to ensure the construction has a limited impact on the environment.”
“How do the town residents feel about it?”
“I’d say they’re divided fifty-fifty right now.” He rises to his feet and picks up his coffee. “Hopefully that will be closer to seventy-thirty, if not more, after the meeting. The big issue coming up in a few weeks is that the council has to approve a change in the zoning law before we can close the deal. That’s why we need to convince them it’s the right thing to do.”
I almost wish him luck, then stop. I’m not at all sure I want him to be lucky about selling the lighthouse.
“It was nice meeting you,” I say instead.
“You too.” He pauses, a touch of nervousness entering his eyes. “Would you like to have dinner sometime, Eve?”
Surprise ripples through me. For a moment, I can’t respond. A man hasn’t asked me out since… David.
“Dinner?” I repeat lamely.
“With me.” He smiles.
“I…” Uncomfortable heat crawls up the back of my neck.
Oh, come on, Eve. You’re not fifteen years old. Dinner with a nice man is… dinner with a nice man. And God knows it feels good to have someone be nice to me for a change.
I haven’t given any thought to what I might do if a new romantic opportunity presents itself in Castille, but I’ve also told myself that David has done enough damage to my life. I won’t let him destroy the possibility of a future relationship—or, at the very least, one date.
I glance at Jeremy’s left hand. No ring. No evidence of a ring tan line either, not that that means anything.
“I’d like that,” I finally say. “Thanks for asking me.”
We agree on next Saturday, and he inputs my number into his phone. After he’s gone, I suppress the worry that he might cancel after discovering my sordid story. I’m not naïve enough to think he won’t look me up on the internet. Maybe he’s even doing that right now as he goes to the city council meeting.
But if he does cancel… well, there’s plenty of repair work at Ramshackle Manor to keep me busy next Saturday night.
“More coffee, Eve?” Carol stops beside me with the coffeepot.
“Thanks.” I extend my cup.
“I see you met Jeremy King,” she remarks, a little too casually.
My stomach twists. More gossip? Just what I need.
“He was telling me about his idea to sell the lighthouse.” I take a sip of the fresh coffee. “I didn’t know that was even an issue.”
“Oh, it’s an issue all right.” Carol straightens, her lips pursing. “It’d be a shame to see the lighthouse torn down, but honestly I can see the other side. A resort could really help put Castille back on the map, and Jeremy wouldn’t do anything detrimental to the town. H
e and his family have deep roots here, so his heart is in the right place.”
“What about the lighthouse keeper?” I ask carefully.
“You mean the loon?” Alex approaches with a wet rag starts wiping down the tables.
“Flynn isn’t a loon.” Carol throws her son a chastising frown.
“Yeah, he is.” Alex rolls his eyes. “And it’s so annoying because all the girls around here are always, like, oh, he’s so hot, which is stupid because they say they want to get to know a guy, and yet no one really knows anything about Flynn.”
“He’s a bit private.” Carol looks at me, her eyebrows raised. “He doesn’t say much, but you’ll definitely hear people talk about him. He’s something of a legend around here.”
“So stupid.” Alex flicks the rag over a coffee stain. “The headless horseman is a legend. Flynn is just strange.”
Hoping they can give me more info, I ask, “So what does he do?”
“He takes care of the lighthouse, the history display, and the secrets wall.” Carol shrugs. “Technically he’s employed by the Forestry Department, but I hear he doesn’t take a paycheck. Apparently Allegra King let him move in years ago and he’s never left.”
My interest spikes. “He’s friends with Allegra?”
“I don’t know that Flynn is friends with anyone,” Carol says. “But Allegra has allowed him to live in the lighthouse all these years, and she wouldn’t do that for just anyone.”
“Even if he’s a total weirdo.” Alex circles his finger near his ear.
Carol gives him a scolding poke on the arm. “He’s a lovely young man, just a quiet loner type.”
“That’s what they say about serial killers.” Alex straightens and wads the rag into a ball. “Did anyone ever think of that?”
“Ignore him,” Carol tells me with a long-suffering sigh. “He watches too much Forensic Files.”
“What does Flynn have to say about the possibility of the lighthouse being sold?” I ask.
“He’s not happy about it, but there’s not much he can do.” Carol starts back to the counter with the coffeepot. “Not much anyone can do, for that matter. We’ll have to live with whatever Jeremy and his father decide.”
“Does Allegra have a say?” I bring my coffee cup to the counter. I’m asking too many questions. It’s time for me to leave before Carol and Alex start wondering about my interest.
“No one knows.” Carol sets the pot back on the coffee machine. “If it’s true that Jeremy and his father have taken over her affairs due to her illness, then I guess not.”
I gather my things together and thank them both. Leaving the bookstore, I’m even more confused and curious than I was before.
When I get home, I park beside the porch. Beady yellow eyes blink at me in the darkness. Cautiously, I get out of the car. The dog remains standing near the fence. I pick up the empty dog food bowl and unlock the front door.
I fill the bowl from the bag I’d left in the foyer and set it on the porch. This time, the dog approaches while I’m still standing there. His tail even wags a little as he lowers his head to the food.
I refill another bowl with water, then wait beside him. When he’s finished eating, I give his big furry head a tentative pat. He doesn’t respond with tail-wagging affection, but he doesn’t growl either. After licking his chops, he bounds down the stairs and into the woods.
At least it’s progress. It will probably be a heck of a lot easier earning the trust of a stray dog than that of a guarded lighthouse keeper.
I start back into the house. Wind whistles through the woodlands, stirring and crunching the dried autumn leaves. I peer toward the darkened tree-line. Branches fork out like skeletal arms. Shadows drift behind the pines, mutating into large, shapeless forms like phantoms.
Sudden fear ripples over my skin. My blood grows cold. I hurry inside. Heart pounding, I shut and bolt the door.
I take a few deep breaths and tell myself not to be so easily frightened. I’m safe here. Except for Graham and my mother, no one from my former life knows where I am.
Still, I need to be careful. Tomorrow I’ll call around for estimates about an alarm system.
CHAPTER TEN
The following Monday, I expect Flynn to give me a review of my work performance so far, but we only have our brief morning interaction before he disappears. The second week begins much the same as the first—a productive workday broken by lunch, followed by a jog along the coast.
And the incessant wondering about Flynn. What in the heck does he do all day? Sometimes I see him outside through the window. He’s either heading toward the parking lot, carrying a duffel bag or a backpack, or doing work around the grounds.
Aside from that, I neither see nor hear him, which certainly makes for a quiet working environment. I receive several estimates for alarm system installation, but the prices are just too far out of my range. Deadbolts will have to suffice until I can replenish my funds.
I spend Wednesday morning unpacking a number of French fairy tales and inputting their data into the system. Close to lunchtime, I discover a cardboard folder bound with a tattered red ribbon at the bottom of one box. I pull the ribbon off and open the folder.
A colored drawing of a half-naked young woman, her face shadowed by a red hood, leaps off the page in vivid, shocking detail. The wolf, who in the original Red Riding Hood tale lures her into his bed before killing her, is a half-man, half-creature lounging in a wooden bed.
His dirty fangs are bared, and there’s a lewd bulge at his groin beneath the bedcovers. In Red Riding Hood’s hand, concealed by the folds of her cloak, is a sharp silver knife.
Recognition sparks in me, though I don’t know why. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this drawing before, though the art historian in me is struck by the sheer expertise of the image—elegant lines, precise detail, clearly the work of a trained artist. At the bottom, there’s a signature, faint but legible. Maria Wood. 1858.
How odd. There’s an Italian fairy tale called Fair Maria Wood about a daughter who has to fight the incestuous advances of her father after her mother’s death. She escapes him by wearing a dress made of wood and throwing herself into a river.
The wood keeps her afloat, and upon reaching another kingdom, she indentures herself as a servant to a young man who falls in love with her. She eventually loves him in return, and though the ending is a happy one, the story falls into the tradition of fairy tales in which young women are forced to flee twisted sexual advances.
So why would an artist take on the pseudonym of Maria Wood? And why do I feel like there’s something about this drawing I should know?
I set the book aside. My mind burns, imprinted with the disturbing, graphic image. But there’s a spark too, one of potential discovery.
I take out my phone and search both popular and scholarly websites for something, anything, about a nineteenth-century artist named Maria Wood. The internet yields nothing.
The nineteenth century is my field. I’ve written books and papers about the Pre-Raphaelites, Victorian imagery in its social context, French visual culture, art and literature, Van Gogh and astronomy. I know the prominent fairy tale artists—Walter Crane, Arthur Rackham, Anne Anderson, Jessie Wilcox Smith—but not only have I never heard of Maria Wood, I’ve never seen any paintings or drawings like hers before.
Or have I?
I fish my phone out of my bag and call Graham. After an exchange of pleasantries and updates, he asks, “Hey, did you get that link I sent you about David Landry and the sexual harassment accusation? Seems another student of his has come forward with a similar complaint.”
“Good for them. I don’t doubt for a minute that it’s true.” I tighten my fingers on the phone, suppressing a quiver of fear. “Unfortunately, I also know David. He’ll find a way out of it. At least I don’t have to deal with him anymore.”
“I’m sorry you ever had to. But maybe your story is what prompted these other women to come forward.”
&
nbsp; Given all that I lost, it’s not much comfort, but I’m glad that people are being made aware of David’s horrific behavior. Maybe this will stop him from manipulating and hurting someone else.
“Enough about him,” Graham declares. “Let’s talk about you. Any luck with the job search?”
My stomach clenches. Graham is the last person in the world I would ever lie to, but omitting information isn’t the same as actually lying. And my work for Flynn does fall under the “consulting” header.
“I’m doing some consulting and cataloging for a private collector,” I explain. “I wanted to ask you about an illustration I found.”
I describe Maria Wood’s drawing, then ask, “Have you ever heard of her?”
“No, but artistic pseudonyms were relatively common in the Victorian era,” he says. “Though it was usually a woman using a male pseudonym. I’ll do some digging and ask around.”
I thank him and end the call, glancing at the clock. Almost noon. I take out my sandwich and open a thermos of peppermint tea. It’s overcast and drizzly today, so I stay inside. To avoid staining any of Max’s books, I work on a crossword puzzle while I eat my peanut-butter sandwich and saltines.
The handle on the cottage door clicks and turns.
My heart jumps. Aside from our morning interactions, Flynn hasn’t come into the workroom during the day. But now he stops in front of the desk, his sharp gaze slipping over me and the desk’s surface.
He’s still in his jeans and T-shirt from this morning, but he’s also wearing a gray hoodie with a small, faded USA Hockey logo on the left side. And he’s all stormy blue and smoky gray at the same time, sea and sky, a force of nature, a—
“I need a book about the Russian story of the Firebird,” he says.
I blink, not sure I heard that correctly. “Um…”
“Do you have one?”
“I know Uncle Max had a number of Firebird books, but I’m afraid I haven’t come across any yet.”
He gives a swift nod. “Look for them. Tell me when you find one.”
“Yes, sir.”
Faint amusement rises to his eyes. “You don’t need to call me sir.”