“This is what you want, is it not?”
“Yes,” I groan.
“To be taken. To be mastered.”
“Yes…”
“To be blameless.”
I can fight him no longer because I’m lost in his game. Lost in the fantasy of complete surrender. My head rolls back and his lips press against my neck, his beard scraping across my throat. I cry out, a half-sob, half-scream as delicious waves surge through me. He lets out a roar of victory and collapses on top of me, his body so heavy that I cannot move, can scarcely breathe.
At last he stirs and lifts his head. I look up into his eyes, which only a moment before had burned with lust, a look that had both frightened and aroused me. What I see now is a different man. A man who quietly releases the straps around my wrists and ankles. As I rub my bruised flesh, I cannot believe this is the same raging animal who attacked me. Now I see a different man. Calm, subdued. Even tender.
He grasps my hand and pulls me to my feet. We stand face-to-face, naked and exposed to each other’s eyes, but when I look in to his, I can read nothing. I might as well be staring at a portrait on the wall.
“Now you know my secret,” he says. “As I know yours.”
“Your secret?”
“My needs. My cravings.” I shudder as he traces a finger along my collarbone. “Did I frighten you?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“You need not be afraid. I never damage my possessions.”
“Is that what I am to you?”
“And it excites you, does it not? To be taken the way I took you tonight? Ridden hard and given no choice about what I choose to do to you?”
I swallow and take an unsteady breath. “Yes.”
“Then you will welcome my next visit. It will be different.”
“How?”
He lifts my chin and stares into my eyes with a look that makes me shiver. “Tonight, dear Ava, was about pleasure. But when I return?” He smiles. “It will be about pain.”
Fourteen
Dr. Ben Gordon’s receptionist looks old enough to be his grandmother. When I glance up at the row of pictures hanging in the waiting room, I spot her much-younger face, wearing the identical cat’s-eye glasses, smiling from a photo that was taken forty-two years ago, when this same building was the office of Dr. Edward Gordon. And there she is again in another photo two decades later, her hair now half silver, posing with Dr. Paul Gordon. Dr. Ben Gordon is third in a line of Dr. Gordons who’ve practiced in Tucker Cove, and Miss Viletta Hutchins has been the receptionist for them all.
“You’re lucky he could squeeze you in today,” she tells me as she hands me a clipboard with a blank patient information sheet. “Normally he doesn’t see patients on his lunch hour, but he said you were an urgent follow-up. With all these summer folks in town, his schedule’s been booked solid for weeks.”
“And I’m very lucky he makes house calls,” I say, handing her my insurance card. “I didn’t think any doctors still did.”
Miss Hutchins looks up at me with a frown. “He made a house call?”
“Last week. After I fainted.”
“Did he, now?” is all she says before she discreetly looks down again at the appointment book. In this age of electronic medical charts, it’s quaint to see patients’ names handwritten in ink. “Please have a seat, Ms. Collette.”
I settle into a chair to fill out the patient information sheet. Name, address, health history. When I come to the blank for Emergency Contact, I hesitate. For a moment I stare at the blank where I have always before written Lucy’s name. Instead I write Simon’s name and phone number. He’s not a blood relation, but at least he’s still my friend. That’s one bridge I haven’t burned. Yet.
“Ava?” Ben Gordon stands in the doorway, smiling at me. “Let’s go back and take a look at that arm, shall we?”
I leave the clipboard with the receptionist and follow him down the hallway to the exam room, where all the equipment looks reassuringly modern, unlike the ancient Miss Hutchins. As I climb up onto the exam table, he goes to the sink and washes his hands, like any good medical professional.
“How’s the fever?” he asks.
“It’s gone.”
“Finished the antibiotics?”
“Every pill. Just as you instructed.”
“Appetite? Energy?”
“I’m feeling pretty good, actually.”
“Ah, a medical miracle! Every so often, I do get it right.”
“And I really want to thank you.”
“For doing what I’m trained to do?”
“For going out of your way to help me. I got the feeling, talking to your receptionist, that house calls aren’t something you usually do.”
“Well, it’s what my grandfather and my dad did all the time. Brodie’s Watch isn’t that far out of town, so it was easy enough for me to pop by. I wanted to save you a very expensive trip to the ER.” He dries his hands and turns to face me. “Now let’s take a look at the arm.”
I unbutton my shirtsleeve cuff. “It looks a lot better, I think.”
“No more scratches from that ferocious cat?”
“He’s really not as vicious as he seems. The day he scratched me, he was just startled.” Startled by something I will not tell Dr. Gordon about, because it might make him question my sanity. I roll the sleeve above my elbow. “You can hardly see the scratches anymore.”
He examines the healed claw marks. “The papules are definitely clearing up. No fatigue, no headache?”
“No.”
He extends my arm and probes my elbow. “Let’s see if those lymph nodes have gotten any smaller.” He pauses, frowning at the bruise encircling my wrist. Although it has faded, it is still apparent.
I tug my arm away from him and yank down the sleeve. “I’m fine. Really.”
“How did you get that bruise?”
“I probably bumped into something. I don’t even remember.”
“Is there anything you want to talk about? Anything at all?”
His question is asked quietly, gently. What safer place to confess the truth than here, to this man whose job it is to hear his patients’ most embarrassing secrets? But I don’t say a word as I button the cuff of my shirt.
“Is someone hurting you, Ava?”
“No.” I force myself to meet his gaze and answer calmly: “It really is nothing.”
After a moment he nods. “It’s my job to protect the well-being of my patients. I know you live all alone up there, and I want to make sure you feel safe. That you are safe.”
“I am. I mean, aside from having an attack cat.”
At that he laughs, and the sound defuses the tension between us. He must sense that I haven’t told him everything, but for now he’s not pressing me for the truth. And what would he say if I did tell him about what happened to me in the turret? Would he be shocked to hear that I’d actually enjoyed it? That ever since that night, I’ve waited eagerly for my phantom lover to return?
“I don’t see any need for a follow-up visit, unless your fever returns,” he says and closes the chart. “How much longer will you be staying in Tucker Cove?”
“I’ve arranged to rent the house through the end of October, but I’m starting to think I may stay even longer. It’s turned out to be the perfect place for me to write.”
“Ah yes,” he says, as he walks me back to the reception area. “I’ve heard all about your book. Billy Conway told me you served him a beef stew that was to die for.”
“Is there anyone you don’t know in this town?”
“That’s the charm of living in Tucker Cove. We know everything about everyone and yet we still talk to each other. Most of the time, anyway.”
“What else have you heard about me?”
“Besides the fact you’re
a great cook? You’re also very interested in our town’s history.”
“You heard that from Mrs. Dickens, right?”
He gives a sheepish laugh and nods. “Mrs. Dickens.”
“It’s unfair. You know all about me, but I don’t know a thing about you.”
“You could always learn more.” He opens the door to reception and we both walk out into the waiting room. “Are you interested in art?”
“Why do you ask?”
“The Seaglass Gallery downtown has an opening reception tonight. It’s to celebrate their new exhibition of local artists. Two of my paintings are in the show, if you’d like to drop by.”
“I had no idea you’re an artist.”
“So now you know something about me. I’m not saying I’m Picasso or anything, but painting does keep me out of trouble.”
“I just might stop in tonight and take a look.”
“And while you’re there, you can look at Ned’s bird sculptures.”
“You mean Ned, my carpenter?”
“He’s more than just a carpenter. He’s been working with wood all his life and his carvings are sold in galleries in Boston.”
“He never once mentioned to me he’s an artist.”
“Lots of people in this town have hidden talents.”
And secrets, too, I think as I walk out of his office. I wonder how he’d react if he learned my secrets. If he knew the reason why I left Boston. If he knew what happened to me in the turret room of Brodie’s Watch. For nights I’ve been waiting, longing, for Captain Brodie’s return. Perhaps this is part of the punishment he doles out, forcing me to wonder if he will ever reappear.
I walk down a street that’s crowded with summer tourists, none of whom can possibly imagine the thoughts cycling in my head. The red velvet curtain. The leather cuffs. The hiss of my silk dress ripping open. Suddenly I halt, sweating in the heat, my pulse roaring in my ears. Is this what madness feels like, this wild caroming between shame and lust?
I think of the letter written a century and a half ago by a lovesick teenager named Ionia. She too had been obsessed with Jeremiah Brodie. What sordid rumors swirled around him, leading Ionia’s mother to forbid any contact? While he was alive, how many women did he bring to his turret?
Surely I’m not the only one.
* * *
—
When I step into Branca Property Sales and Management, I find Donna at her desk and talking on the telephone as usual. She gives me an I’ll be right with you wave and I sit down in the waiting area to peruse the photos of properties displayed on the wall. Farmhouses surrounded by verdant fields. Seaside cottages. A village Victorian with gingerbread trim. Did any of them come with resident ghosts or secret rooms furnished for scandalous pleasures?
“Everything okay up at the house, Ava?” Donna has hung up the phone and now sits with hands primly folded on her desk, the ever-polished businesswoman in a blue blazer.
“It’s all going great,” I answer.
“I just received Ned’s final bill for the carpentry work. I guess he and Billy are finished with the repairs.”
“They did a wonderful job. The turret looks beautiful.”
“And now you have the house all to yourself.”
Not exactly. For a moment I’m silent, trying to formulate a question that doesn’t sound completely bizarre. “I, um, wanted to get in touch with the woman who lived in the house before me. You said her name was Charlotte? I don’t know her last name.”
“Charlotte Nielson. Why do you need to reach her?”
“The cookbook isn’t the only thing she left behind in the house. I found a silk scarf in the bedroom closet. It’s very expensive, Hermès, and I’m sure she’d want it back. I have a FedEx account and I’d be happy to send it to her, if you’ll just give me her address. And her email, too.”
“Of course, but I’m afraid Charlotte hasn’t been answering her emails lately. I wrote her days ago about that cookbook, and she still hasn’t responded.” Donna swivels around to check her computer. “Here’s her address in Boston: 4318 Commonwealth Ave, Apartment 314,” she reads aloud and I jot it down on a scrap of paper. “It must be a pretty serious crisis.”
I look up. “Excuse me?”
“After she left, she sent me a note that there was a family crisis, and she apologized for breaking the lease. She’d already paid the rent through the end of August, so the owner let it go. Still, it was abrupt. And a little strange.”
“She didn’t tell you what her crisis was?”
“No. All I got was the note in the mail. When I drove up to check on the house, she’d already packed up and left. Must have been in quite a hurry.” Donna gives me her cheery Realtor smile. “But on the bright side, the house was available for you to rent.”
I find this story of a tenant abruptly fleeing Brodie’s Watch more than merely odd; I find it alarming, but I don’t tell her this as I stand up to leave.
I’m at the door when Donna says: “I didn’t realize you already had connections in town.”
I turn back to her. “Connections?”
“You and Ben Gordon. You’re friends, aren’t you? I saw you together in the café.”
“Oh, that.” I shrug. “I got a little dizzy in the heat that day, and he was worried I’d faint. He seems like a nice man.”
“He is. He’s nice to everyone,” she adds and the subtext is obvious: Don’t think you’re special. Judging by the chilly look she gives me, Dr. Ben Gordon is a subject best avoided between us in the future.
Once again she reaches for her phone; she’s already dialing as I walk out the door.
* * *
—
I pull the silk scarf from my bedroom closet and once again admire the summery pattern of roses printed on silk. It’s a scarf meant for a garden party, a scarf to flirt in, sip champagne in. It would be the perfect accessory to brighten up one of my boring black city dresses and I’m briefly tempted to keep it. After all, Charlotte hasn’t asked about it, so how anxious can she be to have it returned? But this is her scarf, not mine, and if I hope to ask her about the ghost in the turret, this scarf could be the best way to open the conversation.
Downstairs, I fold the scarf in a layer of tissue paper and slip it, along with the cookbook, into a FedEx envelope. I include a note.
Charlotte, I’m the new tenant in Brodie’s Watch. You left your cookbook and this gorgeous scarf in the house, and I’m sure you want them back.
I’m a writer and I’d love to chat with you about this house and your experience living here. It may be useful information for the new book I’m writing. Is there any way we can talk by phone? Please call me. Or I can call you.
I add my phone number and email address and seal the envelope. Off it will go tomorrow.
That afternoon I putter away cleaning the stove, feeding Hannibal (again), and writing a new chapter of the book, this one about fish pies. As the clock ticks toward evening, that package for Charlotte keeps distracting me. I think of the various items she left behind. The bottles of whiskey (which I’ve long since finished drinking, thank you very much). The scarf. The stray flip-flop. The copy of Joy of Cooking with her name inscribed in it. That last item I find most puzzling of all. The grease-spattered cookbook was clearly a faithful friend in the kitchen, and I can’t imagine ever leaving behind one of my treasured cookbooks.
I close the laptop and realize I haven’t spared a thought for dinner. Will this be yet another long night hoping that he will appear? I imagine myself ten, twenty years from now, still sitting alone in this house, hoping for a glimpse of the man whom only I have seen. How many nights, how many years, will I be waiting here with only a succession of cats to keep me company?
I glance up at the clock and see that it’s already seven. At this moment in the Seaglass Gallery downtown, people are drinkin
g wine and admiring art. They are talking not to the dead, but to the living.
I grab my purse and walk out of the house to join them.
Fifteen
Through the window of Seaglass Gallery, I see a well-dressed crowd sipping from champagne flutes and a woman with a long black skirt who sits plucking a harp. I don’t know any of these people and I haven’t dressed up for the occasion. I consider climbing back in the car and driving home, but then I spot Ned Haskell standing among the crowd. His name is on the list of featured artists posted in the gallery window, and although he’s wearing blue jeans as usual, he’s spiffed himself up for this event with a white button-down shirt. Seeing one familiar face is all it takes to draw me into the gallery.
I step inside, pluck up a champagne flute of liquid courage, and make my way across the room toward Ned. He stands next to a display of his bird carvings, which are perched on individual pedestals. How did I not know that my carpenter was also an artist, and an impressive one? Each of his birds has its own quirky personality. The emperor penguin stands with its head rolled back, its beak wide open as if roaring at the sky. The puffin has a fish tucked under each wing and a fierce I dare you to take them from me scowl. The carvings make me laugh and suddenly I see Ned in a different light. He’s more than a skilled carpenter; he’s also an artist with a delightful sense of whimsy. Surrounded by this elegant crowd, he looks ill at ease and intimidated by his own admirers.
“Only now do I find out about your secret talent,” I tell him. “You’ve been working in my house for weeks, and you never once told me you were an artist.”
He gives a modest shrug. “It’s just one of my secrets.”
“Any other secrets I should know?”
Even at fifty-eight, Ned can still blush, and I find it charming. I realize how little I actually know about him. Does he have children? He told me he’s never married, and I wonder if there’s ever been a woman in his life. He has shown me his skill as a woodworker, but beyond that, he has revealed nothing about himself.
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