A Dark Love

by Margaret Carroll

  He gave her an appraising look, his gaze lingering on her hair.

  “I’m wearing the clip you got me at Harrod’s,” she said with a smile.

  He blinked. “You look like a little girl with your hair like that.”

  “I can wear it down,” Caroline said, reaching up to remove the clip.

  “Don’t touch it,” he said, raising his hand. “Leave it the way you want it.” He gave her a once-over. “You choose the way you present yourself to the world, Caroline. And you prefer to present yourself as a little girl.” He checked his watch. “Come on. We’re already late.”

  He hated to be late. His tension was contagious. She felt his energy run through her like an electric current when she took his arm, stiff and rigid, on the short walk across the cobblestone street to the Crowleys’ townhouse.

  Lindsay threw her arms around Caroline when they arrived. “Johnny, come and meet the new neighbors,” she called. “This is the adorable young bride I told you about and this must be her husband.”

  A tall, distinguished man appeared, welcoming them to the neighborhood in a booming voice that left no doubt he hailed from Texas. Lindsay ushered them inside to a living room that was lavishly decorated with walls covered in what looked to be works of notable modern art. Porter stopped to examine a wall hanging, dropping out of the round of introductions.

  Caroline found herself surrounded by older couples, mostly Texans, who seemed to know and like one another well. Uniformed staff passed trays of hot hors d’oeuvres. Somebody pressed a glass of white wine into her hands and she took a big gulp. She joined in the conversation as best she could, feeling like a fish out of water standing there alone.

  Lindsay reappeared, steering Porter through the crowd to Caroline’s side. Caroline flashed her a smile of gratitude. The only thing worse than feeling self-conscious at a party, Caroline thought, was feeling self-conscious at a party when you were the only one on your own.

  Porter did not return the squeeze Caroline gave his hand, maintaining his conversation with Lindsay about her new art collection.

  Caroline took a few more gulps of wine and listened, smiling and nodding occasionally. Porter seemed like he was doing okay. He enjoyed talking about art, a subject he was knowledgeable in, and as far as she could tell she hadn’t said or done anything to irritate him.

  “Now tell me,” Lindsay said, “what brings a couple of young newlyweds like yourselves to our little neck of the woods?”

  Young newlyweds. Porter had a chronic condition that had turned his hair white prematurely, making him appear even more than twelve years older than Caroline. She maintained a careful smile now, aware that Porter had stiffened at her side.

  There was a bit of a pause before he replied. “I work out of the home.”

  “And what is it you do?” Lindsay asked.

  Caroline felt her heart leap into her mouth and hang there. She took another big gulp of wine.

  “I am a psychoanalyst,” Porter replied.

  “Oooohhh,” Lindsay exclaimed, clapping her hands in glee. “A shrink!”

  Caroline winced. Porter had explained to her countless times that people’s issues came to the fore when confronted with a psychoanalyst. Anybody who had unresolved anger toward authority figures was likely to express it with sarcasm, he said. This irritated Porter no end, and although Caroline noticed he never confronted anybody about it, she kept this fact to herself.

  There was a round of giggles as Lindsay let out another whoop. “Perfect,” she trilled, laying one hand on Porter’s arm. “It’s nice to know we finally have a trained professional on the block.”

  Trained professional. It was a fortunate choice of words.

  Laughter rippled through the room.

  Porter smiled.

  Caroline felt the lump in her throat start to dissolve.

  Someone asked Porter if he carried prescriptions for Xanax.

  More laughter followed, and Porter explained that he practiced the sort of therapy that involved lying on a couch three to five times a week for seven to ten years.

  Someone pointed out it was the same as time served for a felony conviction, and now it was Porter’s turn to laugh. He even cracked a joke.

  Caroline allowed herself to relax a tiny bit as the conversation drifted, eventually returning to the subject of modern art and collecting. Porter seemed to really enjoy Lindsay’s company, and if their hostess found his intense style of one-on-one conversation too much to bear, she hid it well. Porter expressed an interest in a mural at the far end of the room, and the two of them wandered off.

  Caroline had downed most of her third glass of wine when she excused herself to go in search of the bathroom.

  “I’ll go with you,” said one of Lindsay’s friends, taking Caroline’s arm in her own. “We can snoop around. Lindsay flew in the top man from Dallas to decorate this place.”

  Caroline felt better than she had since they moved to Georgetown, as if she would make friends here. She had visions of throwing dinner parties like this one and inviting all the neighbors. She would have a reason, at last, to use her wedding china. Things would work out. She followed Lindsay’s friend down a narrow hallway to the rear of the house, only to discover the door to the bathroom was locked.

  “Occupado,” the woman said. “Let’s go outside. I heard they redid the yard with tumbled stone from Milan and a koi pond.”

  They exited through a pair of French doors to the patio of tumbled stone, where a lone man stood smoking a cigar. His face lit up when he spotted Caroline’s companion.

  “Darling, hello.”

  They exchanged air kisses, and brief introductions were made. The man pulled the cigar from his mouth and grinned. “Where’s your better half? Or excuse me, other half?”

  They broke into gales of laughter. Caroline longed for the sense of ease other married couples had. She wondered when, and how, it would come for her and Porter.

  The three of them chatted for a minute, until the woman spotted her own husband inside and went to fetch him.

  Caroline hoped she would return with her husband before Porter chanced upon them, she and Cigar Man alone in the dark. He was old enough to be her father, but that wouldn’t matter to Porter.

  Oblivious, Cigar Man took another puff and watched the smoke rise. “New to D.C.? Or just Georgetown?”

  Caroline explained that she and her husband had just moved in, and that she was recently graduated from the George Washington University.

  “Great school. If you just graduated, the world is your oyster,” he said with a smile. “Congratulations, young lady, you’ve got your whole future ahead of you.” He offered his hand, and Caroline shook it, smiling back.

  His smile faded a moment later, however, as he caught a glimpse of something behind her. Caroline heard swift footsteps approach, followed by a hand on her elbow squeezing so hard it sent a sharp pain through her arm. She forced herself not to flinch.

  “So this is where you got off to while my back was turned.” Porter’s voice came low and tight, so close his breath stirred her hair.

  She shivered.

  Cigar Man’s smile did a quick fade.

  “I was looking for the bathroom and…” Caroline’s voice trailed off.

  “The bathroom?” Porter repeated her words slowly so they sounded stupid.

  Cigar Man stopped puffing.

  Caroline felt tension mount like a rising tide, engulfing them.

  Porter tightened his grip on her arm.

  She searched for something, anything, to say to break the tension, so this man could see past Porter’s prickly side and Porter, hopefully, would realize he had not stumbled onto anything untoward.

  “I got sidetracked,” Caroline said, trying to sound breezy and gushing and carefree, like Lindsay Crowley and her friends. But her voice sounded weak, defensive. “I came out to look at Lindsay’s gorgeous new poi pond.”

  “Koi.” Porter arranged his lips into a tight line. “It’s a
koi pond.”

  Cigar Man chuckled and pulled the cigar from his mouth. “Poi, koi? It’s just fish. Where I come from, we’d drop a line and eat ’em.” He winked at Caroline, which only made things worse.

  There was silence as Porter chose to say nothing and Caroline didn’t dare speak.

  The man popped his cigar back into his mouth and rolled it around, considering things. “You haven’t done anything wrong, my dear.” He shot Porter a look that was hard as steel.

  “Right. Just fish.” Porter’s voice, flat and low, managed to be insulting.

  Caroline cringed and tried not to show it.

  “My wife and I were just leaving, if you’ll excuse us,” Porter said stiffly.

  My wife. The emphasis was unmistakable. Caroline nodded farewell and turned to follow.

  The man held Porter’s gaze, the warmth gone from his face, and his next words came out like an order. “You have a pleasant night now, you hear?”

  Porter gave a small, stiff nod.

  The man turned to Caroline, his gaze softening. “I’ve got a daughter about your age. You remember what I said, young lady. You’ve got the world at your feet.”

  It sounded like code for something else. Caroline pictured the man’s daughter, radiating confidence based on decades’ worth of soccer matches and ballet recitals, secure in the knowledge that her daddy was beaming approval from a seat somewhere in the audience, even if she couldn’t see his face in the crowd.

  Caroline flashed the man a weak smile, ignoring the pang she felt for the childhood she didn’t get, and followed her husband to the exit. They had almost reached the front door when Lindsay Crowley spotted them.

  “Leaving so soon? We were just about to serve dinner,” she exclaimed. “Come along to the buffet and have something before you go. I insist.” She placed a hand on Porter’s arm. “I insist,” she repeated, smiling.

  Porter pulled his arm away as though he had been burned.

  Lindsay’s smile did a quick fade.

  “We have to be going,” he said, making no effort to keep the edge from his voice.

  Something flashed in Lindsay’s eyes like a light bulb. Caroline prayed she wouldn’t urge them to stay. Porter could be quite rude if he felt pressured.

  After a tiny pause, Lindsay patted Porter’s arm. “We’ll just have to have you back over when you have time to stay for supper. And you”—she turned to Caroline, giving her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek—“are adorable. You are a most very welcome addition to the neighborhood. And don’t you forget it.” She gave Caroline’s hand a tight squeeze.

  Porter already had one foot out the door as Caroline murmured her thanks. Her eyes locked with Lindsay’s for a moment, and her heart sank at the concern she saw in the older woman’s face. Porter had seemed to genuinely enjoy Lindsay’s company, and for much of the last hour Caroline had hoped they might become friends. But now she saw that Lindsay did not care for Porter. Because of something she, Caroline, had done. Caroline followed Porter down the front steps, knowing they would never return.

  CHAPTER 6

  COLORADO

  After a day and a half, Caroline’s Amtrak train arrived in Denver.

  The air was crisp, the sky an impossible blue, marked by high, puffy, racing clouds. Caroline had never been to Colorado. That was part of the attraction. She made her way through the heart of the Mile High City, marveling at its hustle and bustle against a distant backdrop of mountains that were shockingly stark, to the Greyhound station. She purchased a ticket for a local bus bound north and west. She waited to board with a group of grunge teenagers tossing a Hacky Sack. She took a seat in the back and watched, ears popping, as they left Denver’s morning rush behind and wound their way up into the small towns that dotted the Rocky Mountains.

  Her tongue dried out and her heart pounded as she contemplated the alien landscape rolling past the tinted windows. At first she thought it was just plain fear that had set her heart to racing, then she recognized it as altitude sickness.

  Nothing had prepared her for a wilderness of this magnitude, not any photos she’d ever seen, not the atlas Porter kept in the trunk of the Saab, not even the e-mails she’d received from her college friend Tom who had passed through here once on his way to L.A. She comforted herself with the thought that Porter would never think of searching here. He’d never think she’d have the guts to move to a place so remote. She expected to see mountain lions loping along the side of the road at any moment.

  The bus rumbled north, passing through ever-smaller towns carved from the rough. Finally, when the shadows had lengthened and the sun had dipped below the thick line of trees, the bus pulled off at a tiny town that dated from the great gold rush, with a miniature main street that ended at a craggy summit. Air brakes squealed as the bus shuddered to a stop in front of the town’s only service station.

  “Storm Pass!” the driver called. “Any takers?” This brought a round of laughter from the teens.

  Caroline was already making her way to the front, heart in her mouth. “Yes, please,” she called breathlessly.

  “Okay, young lady.” The driver opened the door and a rush of cool, crisp air rose to meet her as she stepped off. He climbed down after her, calling out a greeting to a giant bear of a man seated in a lawn chair.

  “Afternoon, Gus,” the driver called.

  Gus lowered his Denver Post, raised one gnarled hand to take the pipe out of his mouth, and grinned. “Howdy do, Ray.” He had white hair and spotless denim overalls.

  “Can’t complain,” said the driver, reaching for the handle in one of the exterior panels on the bus.

  “Won’t do you any good if you do,” Gus called, returning to his paper.

  The driver turned to Caroline. “Any bags, miss?”

  Caroline shook her head, ignoring the driver’s quizzical look. Even the giant leaping greyhound on the side of the bus seemed to watch her.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking a step back. As though she had someplace she needed to be.

  “Okay, little lady.” The driver paused long enough to wave good-bye to the man from the service station. “See you, Gus.” He pulled away, leaving Caroline in a rush of warm exhaust.

  She freed Pippin from the tote.

  The little dog emerged, shaking himself like an inmate getting his first taste of freedom after a term in prison. He shook, his collar jingling.

  A loud hissing sound stopped him in his tracks.

  Pippin growled.

  A black cat, the largest Caroline had ever seen, appeared in the open doorway of the service station and glared, arching its back, baring white fangs.

  Pippin yapped with fury.

  “Midnight, where’s your manners?” The man in the lawn chair lowered his paper again. “Don’t mind her, she’s not a dog person.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  Caroline leaned over and patted Pippin. “Neither is he. I mean, he’s not a cat person.”

  “Well, Midnight’s not likely to change her mind any time soon.” The man smiled so that the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth bunched up into deep furrows. He looked like Santa Claus with brown eyes, minus the beard. He was about to go back to his paper but paused when Caroline cleared her throat.

  “Um, which way to the inn?” she asked. Every mountain town had an inn, she reasoned.

  He grinned again. “Same direction as everything else. ’Bout two hundred feet thataways.” He motioned with one hand. “Can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks.” Caroline shivered in the lengthening shadows. A breeze carrying the scent of sage and pine worked its way through the thin fabric of her Capri pants, making her nostalgic for the Indian summer she’d left behind in Washington. The Capris, a size four, hung in loose folds from her hips. Her bare ankles protruded sharply above her Keds.

  The man in the lawn chair pulled the pipe from his mouth and surveyed her thoughtfully. “They’ve got a decent dinner special there. Half a roast chicken with gravy and two sides. Can’t go wron
g with that.”

  “Thanks,” she said, turning to go.

  “Maebeth makes a good pie for dessert,” Gus called after her.

  “Thanks,” Caroline called back, walking quickly in the direction he had indicated.

  Gus Kincaid puffed his pipe and watched her go as Midnight leaped to the top of the counter and went back to sleep.

  Caroline walked along the town’s tiny Main Street, past a series of buildings that dated to Victorian times. Unlike Georgetown, however, these were not manicured restorations. The buildings in Storm Pass looked to be the real thing: clapboard facades fraying at the edges and frames warped by time and weather so they leaned at crazy angles. A former vaudeville theater now showed art house films, an ice cream parlor had a real old-fashioned soda fountain visible through waved-glass windows, and a scruffy tavern had a plaque boasting the oldest pressed-tin ceiling in Colorado.

  At the end of the road, hard in the shadow of the granite outcropping for which Storm Pass was named, was the inn. A neatly painted sign explained the place had been in continuous operation since the 1840s, and the current building had replaced an earlier one built to serve as a rooming house for the miners who came in the original gold rush.

  Darkness fell as Caroline climbed the tidy wooden steps. She liked the history of the place. She felt safe here.

  Maebeth Burkle eyed the young woman across the well-worn oak check-in desk and the tiny dog panting at her feet. “We don’t take pets.”

  The girl had just offered cash in advance for one week in a single room. She pulled her arms across her thin chest, which did nothing to banish the goose bumps on her flesh.

  City girl, Maebeth thought, not dressed for the mountains. Not many tourists found their way to Storm Pass even in summer. The place wasn’t like Aspen with its ballet festival and think tank. Nor had Storm Pass ever made it as a ski town, with its steep terrain of heavy pine forest. The only visitors the town drew were serious hunters and fishermen, or flatlanders who wished they were. They came in groups of five to ten, men who had hit their incentive targets selling bonds or stocks or real estate, outfitted head to toe in the latest Gore-Tex from Orvis, gear that nobody around here could afford. Their employers paid a king’s ransom for the privilege of spending a few days in the wilderness with Gus Kincaid’s son, a former safety for the Kansas City Chiefs. Ken Kincaid had grown up here, and knew his way around every bend in the icy Ute River.