Sunlight Moonlight

by Amanda Ashley

  He sat in the sacred silences of the great cathedrals, absorbing the scent of incense and candles. It was there that he was most aware of the vast gulf that stretched between himself and the rest of humanity. It was there, amid the silent statues of the saints, that he felt the weight of eternity, the bitterness of damnation.

  He indulged himself in the world of opera, went to the ballet in France and England and Italy. He toured the Paris Opera House, knelt in Notre Dame, admired the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel.

  In the dark of night, he wandered through the museums and art galleries of the world, his keen eyesight making it possible to view ancient wonders and works of art.

  He saw the invention of miraculous machines. Gas lights replaced candles; electric lights replaced the softer, more romantic gas lights; automobiles replaced the horse and buggy; washing machines replaced scrub boards.

  Silent movies became the rage, only to be replaced by movies with sound and brilliant color. Minstrels were replaced by radios. The printed page replaced handwritten manuscripts and scrolls, making it possible for the written word to be available to everyone and not just the rich. He had always loved to read, and now he devoured books and plays and the dissertations of great men, but the deep, inner loneliness never left him.

  And always the question, why me? Why had the Dark Gift been bequeathed to one such as he? He had no great wisdom to pass on to the world, no God-given gift of music or poetry or art. Better that the gift of eternal life had been bestowed on one such as Mozart or Aristotle or a hundred other more deserving men than he.

  And when the questions became too many, when the loneliness grew overwhelming, he went to ground, sometimes for a decade, sometimes longer, sleeping deep in the bowels of the earth. But even in his death-like sleep, he was aware of the changes going on around him.

  Voices seeped into his mind, their faint whispers telling him of the latest invention, the latest war, the latest plague. He was aware of new fads, new countries, new kings and new presidents.

  Cocooned in the dark bosom of the earth, he slept through the wars and the plagues, emerging during times of peace to discover, first hand, the changes that had come to pass while he rested.

  "Time," Thoreau had said, "is but the stream I go fishing in."

  For Navarre, blessed with the gift of eternity, no truer words had ever been spoken.

  PART II

  Chapter One

  Moreno Bay

  The Present

  Adrianna let out a sigh of exasperation as she stared at the sign on the front door.

  CLIFF HOUSE ANTIQUES

  V. NAVARRE, PROPRIETOR

  the neatly lettered sign read.

  OPEN DAILY

  SIX PM TO NINE PM

  Peculiar hours, she thought as she perused the huge old house, which sat alone near the edge of a windswept cliff overlooking the sea. The building was said to be at least a hundred years old, and looked it. The paint, which had once been dark green, had faded long ago. White shutters covered the windows. The grass was in need of cutting; a profusion of brightly colored wildflowers bloomed in scattered patches along the circular driveway.

  A wide veranda ran the length of the front of the house; there was a narrow, iron-railed balcony on the second floor. All the windows appeared to be closed up tight.

  Adrianna heaved a sigh as she turned back toward the street. For weeks, she'd been looking for an antique oak armoire. She had mentioned her lack of success to one of her customers the day before and the woman had remarked that she'd seen just such a piece on display at the antique store out on Old Piney Branch Road.

  Adrianna glanced over her shoulder, reading the shop's hours again before she opened the car door and slipped behind the wheel.

  "I'll be back," she muttered, turning the key in the ignition, "though I've never heard of any antique store that kept such ridiculous hours, or was located in such a deserted place."

  She stared at the house again, thinking it looked like some monstrous beast poised to dive off the cliff. Then, with a sigh, she put the car in gear and headed back to town, annoyed that she had wasted her whole lunch hour to drive all the way out there, only to return empty-handed.

  Navarre stood at the second-story window, watching the woman as she slid behind the wheel of a light-green Honda Accord. He could have gone downstairs and let her in, but he made it a habit to avoid visitors during the afternoon.

  With the passage of time, his need to sleep during the day, to avoid the sun, had altered somewhat, and though he was still compelled to sleep through the hours of the afternoon, when the sun was high in the sky, he was able to move about during the early hours of the morning.

  Occasionally, he even ventured outside, though it was necessary to wear dark glasses to protect his eyes and a heavy coat or jacket to avoid exposing his sensitive skin to the sun.

  Ah, but the wonder of being able to watch a sunrise after almost two thousand years! He didn't know what had wrought the miraculous change that allowed him to endure the sun. Perhaps it was merely the passage of so many years; perhaps it was some internal change, but whatever it was, he didn't care. The joy of being able to feel the warmth of the sun, even through layers of cloth, to inhale the fragrance of a bright spring morning, was still new and exciting, and still filled him with awe.

  Sometimes, when the sun was high in the sky, he yearned to shed all his clothes and run naked along the beach, to throw back his head and feel the sun on his face, but he knew that to do so would be fatal. He was not completely immune to the sunlight, only able to endure it for short periods of time.

  But the fact that it was necessary to be cautious when he went outdoors was not worth lamenting. His newfound ability to face the daylight at all was a blessing he had never expected to obtain.

  He had learned long ago to live within the boundaries his peculiar lifestyle imposed. Here, in this place, he had found contentment for the first time in centuries. He spent his days in lonely isolation, sleeping away the hours of the afternoon, walking the cliffs in the light of the moon. And during the evening, from six to nine, he opened the door to his house and took on the guise of an antique dealer.

  In centuries of travel, he had accumulated a wealth of antiques. He would stay here for another ten or twenty years, until people began to talk about the fact that he never seemed to age, and then he would move on and find another house located in a remote place. Perhaps he'd be an antique dealer again. Perhaps not.

  He felt the heaviness descend on him as the sun climbed toward its zenith. Turning away from the window, he ascended the narrow stairway that led to the attic. It was a large room with a sloped ceiling and an oak floor. A small oval window was set high in the far wall. He had boarded it up long ago.

  Stepping into the room, he bolted the door and sat down on the edge of the big brass bed located in the far corner of the room. No damp cellars for him, he mused as he removed his shoes and socks, shrugged out of his shirt and pants. No morbidly confining silk-lined casket. He much preferred a firm mattress and clean sheets that smelled of soap and sunshine.

  Naked, he slid under the covers. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and felt the lethargy of his death-like sleep steal over him. Just once, he thought, just once he'd like to fall asleep in the arms of a woman.

  The sound of someone pounding on the front door roused him from a dreamless sleep.

  Rising, Navarre pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater and made his way downstairs. A glance out the window told him it was a few minutes after six.

  He ran a hand through his hair, then opened the front door.

  The woman stood on the porch. He had not seen her face clearly earlier; now, in a single sweeping glance, he saw that her eyes were a vibrant shade of blue, her nose was small and straight, and her mouth was full and sensuous. She wore her dark blond hair in a loose roll at the nape of her neck.

  Adrianna couldn't help staring at the man who opened the door. She had expected an older man, someone in hi
s late sixties, perhaps, but the man standing before her was in the prime of life. Handsome, virile, and so tall she had to tilt her head back to see his face.

  And what a face! His eyes were a clear gray beneath straight black brows. His mouth was wide, his nose as sharp as a blade, his jaw square and firm. He wore a black sweater that emphasized his pale complexion. A pair of faded blue jeans hugged his long, muscular legs. His feet were bare. He had hair a woman would die for; thick and black, it fell past his shoulders.

  "Mr. Navarre?"

  "Yes."

  "I…" She swallowed, flustered by his intense gaze. She had the fleeting impression that if she looked into those fathomless gray eyes too long, she would lose her very soul. "May I… that is, are you open?"

  He nodded. Taking a step backward, he motioned for her to enter. She noted that his hands were large, the fingers long, the nails short and square.

  Adrianna hesitated a moment before she stepped inside, wondering if she was making a mistake. The house, which had appeared old and romantic in the bright light of midday, now seemed fraught with menace when viewed in the swirling shadows of twilight.

  Or perhaps it was the man who intimidated her, with his sober mien and cool gray gaze. Such a deserted stretch of land suddenly seemed an unlikely location for an antique store. Was it merely a front for something else? Had she stumbled on a Mafia hideout?

  "Everything on the first two floors is for sale," Navarre said. "Feel free to wander around. I'll be in the kitchen if you have any questions."

  Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.

  Adrianna stared after him until he was out of sight, the sound of his voice echoing in her mind. Never had she heard such a voice, so soft, so deep, so compelling. And his eyes… She shuddered. Was it her imagination, or was there something otherworldly about those eyes?

  One thing was certain, there was something decidedly mysterious about Mr. V. Navarre, and she stood there for a moment, trying to decide what it was. Shaking off her fanciful thoughts, she turned around to close the door behind her, and then left it open.

  It was a beautiful old place, obviously well-cared for inside, despite the neglect outside. The woodwork and floors were of dark oak. The walls were covered with Victorian-looking wallpaper. Heavy, dark-green draperies hung at the windows.

  But it was the furniture that held her attention. There were a few pieces she was certain dated back to the thirteenth century. She ran her hands lovingly over a fragile Queen Anne sofa, admired the graceful lines of a Sheraton table, stared in awe at an ancient Greek urn.

  There were chamber pots and bed warmers, laces and cloths, fireplace screens and grandfather clocks, porcelain dolls dressed in long gowns, oak desks, flat irons, old pictures and wall hangings, dishes and glassware, silverware and cooking utensils made of silver and gold, brass and pewter. A suit of armor stood in one corner.

  There were signs from stores long gone, posters advertising operas and ballets, circuses and lynchings.

  There were pot-bellied stoves for heating and wood-burning stoves for cooking; there were ice boxes and vegetable bins. One room held a bar reminiscent of the kind seen in old Westerns. There were shelves of all sizes filled with knickknacks and bric-a-brac. Other shelves held canister sets and cookies jars, sugar bowls, cream pitchers, and salt and pepper shakers. A large box held a variety of mismatched silverware.

  She was unaware of the passing of time as she wandered from room to room, her fingers caressing the back of a velvet-covered settee, plinking out a tune on an old player piano, gently stroking the head of a china doll.

  She saw a Queen Anne chair that dated back to the 1730s, an Empire cane-backed daybed that she knew had been made in China in the 1840s, and a Federal square-backed sofa that dated back even further than that. She thought it odd that all the mirrors were covered.

  The rooms upstairs held bedroom furniture. Here, too, the mirrors on the highboys and chests were covered with cloth.

  She saw a number of armoires, some of oak, some of dark red mahogany, but none caught her fancy.

  She paused to study a Chippendale canopy bed, then moved on to a nineteenth-century sleigh bed. But it was a turn-of-the-century canopy bed that drew her eye. Made of mahogany and pine, she was certain it was well over a hundred years old.

  "Find anything you like?"

  His voice went through her like the rumble of distant thunder, and she whirled around, startled to find him standing in the doorway behind her.

  "Everything." She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. "I've never seen such a treasure trove."

  "I've been collecting for a very long time," he replied with a shrug.

  "Really?" She frowned. He didn't look much older than she was, but then, looks could be deceiving.

  "Are you looking for anything in particular?"

  "Well, I was hoping to find an armoire, but…" She smiled self-consciously. "I really like this bed."

  "It's a fine piece," he replied. And indeed it was. Long ago, it had been the bed he slept it. "The mattress is new, of course."

  "Of course," she repeated, mesmerized by his gaze, by the sound of his voice, the sheer masculinity of the man.

  "Care to try it out?''

  "What?"

  "The bed. Would you like to try it out?"

  A strange warmth unfurled in the pit of her stomach as she thought of lying down on the bed while he was in the room. Slowly, she shook her head. "I don't think so."

  She was a pretty woman, Navarre thought. She wore a blue silk dress that complemented the color of her hair and skin. The soft material subtly emphasized the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts.

  He had been long without a woman, and he felt a sudden frisson of heat lance through him as he imagined her lying on the bed, her hair spread on the pillow, her lips slightly swollen from his kisses…

  He swore under his breath as he reined in his wayward thoughts. In his time on earth, he had known many women. He had courted them for a short time, and then left them before the inevitable questions began, before people began to wonder at his eternal youth. As time went on, he had chosen to remain alone for longer and longer periods of time.

  He had loved no woman since Katlaina. There had been many he admired, many who had held his affection for a short time, but none who had claimed his heart.

  "Mr. Navarre?"

  He glanced over his shoulder to find her staring up at him. She was young, he thought. So very young.

  "I'd like to buy the bed."

  "For yourself?"

  Adrianna frowned. "Does it matter who it's for?"

  "No, of course not."

  "How much is it?"

  "For you?" He shrugged. "Four hundred dollars."

  "But it must be worth twice that!" Adrianna exclaimed.

  "That's my price. Do you want it or not?"

  "Yes. I don't have any way to pick it up, though. Do you think…" She hesitated, hating to ask a favor when he was practically giving her the bed.

  "Is there a problem?" he asked.

  "Could you possibly deliver it?"

  "If you wish."

  "That's great." She reached into her handbag. "I guess you'll want a deposit.".

  "No. You can pay me when the bed is delivered."

  "Fine. Well…" She held out her hand. "Thank you."

  Navarre took her hand in his. It was small and delicate; her skin was soft and smooth, warm with life. His gaze held hers as he bowed over her hand and kissed it.

  His lips, though cool, seared her skin like sunlight magnified though a looking glass.

  Adrianna stared at him in utter astonishment. No one had ever kissed her hand before. It was such an old-world gesture, it left her momentarily speechless.

  "Will tomorrow be soon enough?" he asked.

  "Tomorrow?" She stared up at him, blinking in confusion.

  "To deliver the bed?"

  "Oh, yes, tomorrow will be fine." She laughed selfconsciously as
she scribbled her address on the back of her business card. "What time shall I expect you?"

  "Seven?"

  "That late," Adrianna murmured, disappointed. Tomorrow was Saturday; she had hoped to have the bed delivered earlier in the day.

  "Is there a problem?"

  "No," she said quickly. "Seven will be fine. Thank you."

  She felt his gaze burning into her back as she left the room. It was all she could do not to glance over her shoulder as she started down the stairs.

  Outside, she took a deep breath. Never, in all her life, had she met a man who affected her so strangely. It wasn't just his looks—she had seen tall, dark, handsome men before. She had even dated a few.

  She slid behind the wheel, put the key in the ignition, and then, almost against her will, she glanced up at the house. She could see him standing at the second-story window, watching her. In spite of the distance between them, she could feel his intense gaze on her face, as soft as a sigh, as intimate as a caress.

  With a rueful shake of her head, Adrianna put the Honda in gear and pulled out of the driveway. She wasn't usually given to such flights of romantic fantasy, but there was something about Mr. V. Navarre that conjured up images of castles and dungeons and knights in shining armor. Maybe it was the fact that he dealt in antiques, she mused as she entered the flow of traffic leading into Moreno Bay, or maybe it was the aura of old world charm that seemed to cling to him.

  She wondered absently what the V stood for.

  And then she grinned. He had kissed her hand! Warmth curled through the innermost part of her at the memory.

  Impulsively, she lifted her hand and pressed her lips where his had touched. Immediately, his image rose before her, his hair as black as Satan's sins, his eyes as gray as rain clouds. And with his image came the memory of his finely sculpted lips brushing across the back of her hand, searing her skin…