AFTER SHOWERING and shaving, I put on a clean shirt and blazer. It felt good to get out of what had become my uniform, jeans and a T-shirt, at least for a little while. I grabbed the bottle of Chilean wine I’d bought that morning at Andy’s, turned off the lights, and headed for the door. The keys hung from a hook. I grabbed them and shoved them into my pants pocket. When I took hold of the doorknob, I could feel the evening cold transmitted through the metal. It trembled lightly in my hand amid the pounding wind outside.
Then it happened. A moment I’d think back on so many times.
Don’t leave the house. Not tonight, I heard a voice say.
It was a sort of disembodied voice. Like a phantom hiding behind my ears. A whisper that might easily have been the wind. Don’t open the door. Not tonight . . . I froze with my hand on the doorknob, my feet glued to the tile floor.
I looked back into the darkened living room. In the distance, lightning flashed over the ocean and for just a moment, the entire room was flooded in cold, blue light. Of course, there was no one else there. It was no specter’s voice but my own. It had risen from somewhere deep inside of me.
Until that moment, I’d only ever heard that voice once before. So sharp, so clear in its message . . .
No, it can’t be. I was only frightened last time, I told myself. Just like tonight. Don’t be stupid, Peter Harper. There’s no such thing as . . .
(But wasn’t the voice right last time?)
“Don’t be a wimp,” I said out loud this time, in the quiet of the living room.
I turned out the light, stepped outside, and shut the door with a slam, as if that could frighten off the spirits.
TWO
I DROVE amid the dunes through a confusing swirl of sand, wind, and rain, up to the top of the hill that separated my house from Leo and Marie’s. The neighbors called this high point “Bill’s Peak,” in honor of a legendary local smuggler. They also say it was the beach where the Nazis landed to unload arms for the Irish Republican Army during the infamous Plan Kathleen of the last world war. Although, like every other story they told in Clenhburran, you could find no trace of it in any book to either confirm or deny it. It was simply up to you to believe it or not.
An old, twisted elm—whose branches revealed centuries of damaging winds and storms—was the only barricade for the thirty-foot drop down a small ravine onto the beach below. It was also the place where the road forked: toward Clenhburran through the marsh, or toward the only two houses on that entire beach. Peter Harper to the left. Leo and Marie Kogan to the right.
I stopped on the ridge for just a beat. Through the darkness, I could see white-crested waves crashing onto the beach. In the distance, lightning pounded the black ocean. It was a spectacular view against that darkened coast, with not a single light in sight other than the golden beam of a lighthouse on a faraway cape, occasionally sweeping over the night sky.
Five minutes later, I came upon the lights from the Kogans’ house, which was built at the very edge of the beach, where a band of black shale marked the boundary between the smooth sand and the jagged and dangerous reef beyond. It was a compact little house on which they’d built an addition (illegally, Leo confessed to me later) for a garage that connected to the kitchen.
I parked my car by the fence—next to a Ford minivan I’d never seen—and walked through the driving rain that pounded me in waves, particles of sand that prickled my skin like thousands of angry needles. Leo must have seen my headlights and came to get me with an umbrella.
He was about my height with an athletic build that was enviable for someone in his sixties. Strong jaw, white hair clipped to a buzz cut, and an easy smile. He ran toward me, dodging puddles that had formed around the flagstone steps through his front yard. We met halfway, greeted each other with a clap on the back amid the deafening wind, and ran together toward the house.
“I thought you were going to back out on us,” he said as soon as we reached his covered porch. “Just a couple of raindrops, is all.”
“Sure,” I said, “just a little sun shower.”
We looked back at the horizon and squinted against the swirling sand. The imposing storm front was just five or six miles off the shore now. Lightning pounded the sea with impunity.
Leo grabbed my arm.
“Let’s get inside before we end up as fried chicken.”
LEO AND MARIE’S HOME was a comfortable space, not ostentatious, decorated to give it a rustic feel but for the Bang & Olufsen flat screen television, an upright piano that Marie had been learning to play over the last few years, and bookshelves packed with travel books and a fantastic photography collection. Above the doorways and against bare walls were beautiful watercolor landscapes of Ireland, signed by Marie (“M. Kogan”). I had one over my fireplace that she had given me a few months back.
Marie came to say hello the moment we were through the door. She was a tall, svelte woman who exuded elegance. I’d always thought she came from money or aristocracy until the day she told me her parents had owned some kind of wholesale business in Nevada. She was a perfect match to Leo, who looked like he’d made a deal with the devil for that physique. My friend, Judie Gallagher, had joked that maybe they were vampires because Marie had a smooth complexion that rivaled hers at twenty-nine. No doubt she was a woman who still turned heads among the men in town.
Also invited to the get-together were the O’Rourkes, Frank and Laura, who owned the flower shop and antiques gallery on Main Street. Marie had become friends with them recently, though I only knew them from seeing them around town. Leo confessed that he thought they were a little full of themselves—“they love to hear themselves talk and inveigh against the townsfolk as if they weren’t one of them”—but he admitted sometimes you had to make an effort to socialize, especially in a community as small as Clenhburran, where the winter population thinned to barely one hundred fifty people.
Marie kissed me on each cheek and introduced me to the O’Rourkes, who were lounging on a couch by the fireplace, praising a brandy Leo had just poured them, a glass of which was soon in my hand as well. Laura stood up the moment I came into the room. She laced her fingers together, as if in prayer, and said it was “a real honor” to meet me: “I have all your albums and love all the songs. They’re . . . they’re . . .” she said, sighing and sitting down, patting the seat for me to sit next to her. “I have so many questions for you! Leo tells us sometimes you play for the two of them,” she said, gesturing toward the piano. “Perhaps you could honor us, as well.”
I shot Leo a furtive, murderous glance that he responded to with only a stonelike smile. So I dug deep and located the most magnanimous part of me to answer all of Laura’s questions, waiting for her husband, Frank—a man with a thin face and glassy eyes—to play his role as social moderator and counsel his wife not to overwhelm me with all her questions. But that didn’t happen. No, seated next to her with my glass filled to the brim with brandy, I received Mrs. O’Rourke’s full-on barrage. “I remember seeing you on television two years ago during the BAFTA awards. You came out to get your award and were holding hands with Darren Flynn and Kate Winslet. Oh my God, and look at you now, sitting on the couch right next to me!” She put her hand on my knee and unleashed such a belly laugh that it made me laugh, too. Leo laughed along and Mr. O’Rourke downed his brandy so he could assure himself a refill. “So, Mr. Harper, tell me, what is Kate like in person . . . ?”
I did the best I could, spinning one tired anecdote after another, aware that each story belonged to my previous life from two years ago, until Marie called us to the dinner table. It couldn’t have come too soon.
“It’s getting ugly out there,” I said, desperately changing the subject as we sat down to dinner. “I think I heard them say we’ll see hundred-mile-an-hour winds.”
“It’s not unusual to get fifty-five-knot winds. Even a little bit more,” Leo said. “But not with these kinds of fireworks. I radioed over to the Donegal weather service and they said it
’s going to be like this all night.”
“Shortwave radio fan, huh?” Frank O’Rourke said.
“Not really. I use it every now and then to talk to the local authorities or with Donovan and the other fishermen. It’s really more of an emergency thing. Phone service can be iffy out here.”
“It’s bad in Clenhburran,” Frank agreed, “I can’t even imagine how spotty it is out here.”
“How do you like living in such an out-of-the-way place, Mr. Harper?” Laura jumped in to ask. “Aren’t you ever afraid? Though there’s really nothing to worry about. Nothing ever happens out here.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “Actually . . .”
“Although recently there’s been some trouble,” she said, taking advantage of my brief pause. “Someone broke into the Kennedys’ house last year. And I also heard someone ransacked a house down near Fortown while the owners slept. Sure, they were isolated incidents. But they say nothing like that ever happened around here before. Some gang of Eastern Europeans, they say. Though Frank thinks it’s a cock-and-bull story the alarm companies made up.”
“And I agree with him,” Leo said. “I don’t think a thief would come all the way out here to steal a television. I, for one, am not worried.”
“Hear, hear,” I said.
“What about you, Marie?” Frank asked. She’d been quietly staring into her wineglass. “How do you like living out on this lonely little beach?”
“I hadn’t thought about it, really,” she said. “We’ve lived in far more dangerous places and nothing’s ever happened to us. Well, except some minor theft or a mild scare. No, I agree with Leo. Who’d come all the way out to this deserted little corner of the world for a heist? There are plenty of better targets for a band of thieves.”
OUTSIDE, THE STORM was gathering strength. Lightning seemed to strike every minute now. The lights went out for stretches inside the living room. At times, we were plunged into darkness except for the fireplace glow. Other times, thunder cracked overhead, interrupting our jokes and laughter.
But even that wasn’t enough to deter Laura. No sooner had the first course ended than she resumed her interrogation. “How did you come to choose Clenhburran to get away . . . ?” “Do you think you’ll stay long . . . ?”
Wine and appetizers loosened my tongue. “I grew up in Dublin,” I said. “I used to come to Donegal with my parents as a boy. The place still puts me in a good mood, makes me feel protected. I guess it reminds me of happier times from my childhood.”
The second I closed my mouth I knew I was in trouble. I’d touched on a dangerous topic I had no interest in discussing. Laura saw it clear as day.
“Your kids will be here in couple weeks, right Pete?” Leo said.
“Yeah, they’re coming to spend the summer. I hope they like Donegal,” I said.
“Oh, of course they will. They’ll love it,” Marie was quick to say.
Laura’s face lit up like she’d struck gold. She put on her Cheshire cat grin and asked the question all of us knew she would ask.
“So, you’re . . . married, or . . . ?”
“Divorced,” I said, flatly.
“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. It’s terrible, especially when there are children involved, I’m sure. My cousin Beth . . .”
Leo moved quickly to serve more wine and to try to change the subject, and as Marie brought out the second course, exquisite steaks with mashed potatoes and a side of green beans, Laura turned her attention to the Kogans. She’d heard they were from Portland, Oregon, and she had a cousin living there. When did they decide to move to Ireland? Was it true that they’d lived in Asia for years?
I supposed a lot of stories swirled around town about us, the “newcomers.” Maybe it was a matter of survival. A community this small had to protect itself, and to do that, it has to stay informed, know who everyone was and their backstories. Laura O’Rourke was just following her instincts when she bombarded us with questions. Leo was much more generous with his answers. And with a few glasses of wine in him, he easily regaled us with stories of his life and world travels.
At twenty-five, he hung up his boxing gloves. Instead of fighting in the Nevada slums, he took a job in San Antonio in private security. Marie was already his girlfriend at the time. She’d been dancing at one of the big Las Vegas hotels on Friday nights and performing as a backing singer for headliners such as Tom Jones. They took off together and never looked back. They never lived in the United States again, except for a three-month stretch when Marie’s mother died and they both officially became orphans—alone in the world but for one another. Later, when they reached the age where they “had earned the right not to have to do anything,” he said, they started looking at places to retire to. “For some reason, we always came back to Ireland or Scotland or Thailand,” Leo said. “I knew a lot of old folks who’d retired to Thailand. After fifty, you can get a permanent visa to live there. And with a solid pension, you could retire comfortably—if not lavishly. But Marie always talked about Europe and the ancient coasts of Ireland . . . and . . .” Leo went on into the tale of his arrival in Clenhburran, a story I’d already heard a few times, and my mind started to wander. Other thoughts rushed to occupy my mind . . . above all, that voice. The voice that had spoken to me from deep inside before leaving the house . . .
Another glass of wine?
“Still with us, Mr. Harper?”
I opened my eyes—or rather, I snapped back to reality—and saw Laura O’Rourke tipping the wine bottle toward my empty glass.
“I was asking if you’d like some more wine . . .”
“Uh . . . no,” I answered, coming back to my senses. “No, thank you. I think I’ve had more than enough.”
BY THE END of dessert, I was tired and bored of Laura O’Rourke. The five of us were having tea by the fire. Laura stood with her tea and went on and on about Marie’s paintings. She asked when Marie might start offering classes for the town’s women.
“Actually, I’m self-taught,” she said. “Besides, I don’t think I’d make a very good teacher.”
Laura did not look pleased by the answer. She added that she’d love to have one of Marie’s paintings and had “just the spot for it” in her living room.
“You know, Marie could paint a portrait of you,” Leo added. “Aside from painting landscapes, she’s an excellent portraitist.”
“Is that right, Marie?” I asked. “If I’d known, I’d already have put myself on the list.”
“Well, actually, I used to make a living at it,” she said shyly. “In the hotels where Leo used to work, I’d paint some of the clients and . . .”
“She painted one for François Mitterrand’s wives, no kidding,” Leo said proud on his wife’s behalf. “She painted Billy Crystal, too. Paid for half the house, it did!”
“But all the ones I see here are of Ireland,” Laura said, scanning the walls. “Don’t you have others from your travels?”
Marie shook her head.
“I’ve sold or given away most of them along the way. When I got to Ireland, I didn’t have a single painting with me. And now look at this place. There isn’t a place left to hang one. I’m thinking of donating some to the church.”
The storm and the lightning had let up and the lights had been solidly on for a while. Laura had mentioned the piano for a second time, and though I’d managed to play dumb, I knew she wouldn’t let go of it. I figured it was the perfect time to slip out and head home. I stood up from the couch and apologized for being a party-pooper on a Friday night.
The O’Rourkes said they’d host a dinner soon and would love to have me over. “Maybe when your kids arrive, we could go out on Frank’s sailboat.”
I accepted their offer diplomatically and thanked Marie for a stupendous dinner. I threw on my coat, and Leo saw me out.
It had stopped raining, but the wind continued to howl. Leo, who’d gotten a little tipsy, let slip his opinion on the O’Rourkes: He said he felt like he was being in
terrogated every time he was with them. I laughed and said I knew the feeling. Just as we got to the car, I noticed Leo staring at something in the sky. I lifted my head and saw it.
A monstrous thunderhead hung over the beach. Moonlight that managed to creep between the clouds highlighted its gigantic silhouette. It was a thick and roiling sheet of cloud more than a mile-and-a-half wide that churned and sprouted tiny tornadoes within it.
“Well, that doesn’t look good,” I said, staring upward.
“You’d better get going before that thing unloads, Pete,” Leo said. “You sure you wouldn’t rather stay a while longer?”
I stared up at that writhing thunderhead, pregnant with blackness like some angry ancient goddess about to unleash its wrath. It seemed to float on the horizon, directly over Bill’s Peak—precisely my path home.
Don’t go, Pete.
I wish I’d had a good reason not to leave. Maybe, if I were lucky, my car’s engine wouldn’t turn over. Or maybe Leo would insist I stay. Or maybe . . .
“No . . . I think if I hurry, I can make it home before it rolls in,” I found myself saying as I patted Leo on the arm. “You take care. Get back in there. I’m sure your new friends have a million questions for you.”
Leo laughed as I hopped down the steps into his front yard. I ran to my car and jumped in. Leo stood by the door, waiting to see me off. I slid my key in and started to turn it. Sometimes, the old Volvo stalled out and sometimes, on stormy nights, car batteries lose their charge. Then, maybe your friends will insist you stay over and spend the night . . .
The engine started right away.
THREE
I DROVE SLOWLY up the narrow gravel road between the dunes as the wind tossed around my three thousand pound Volvo V40 as if it were made of papier-mâché. My headlights cut into the darkness like narrow lightsabers. I kept a keen eye on the road since, as you leave Leo’s house and climb toward Bill’s Peak, the path narrows and twists along the edge of a cliff, with nothing to shield you from a precipitous drop but some wild shrubbery along the shoulder.
The Last Night at Tremore Beach Page 2