I thought about all the tests I’d undergone at Memorial … the scans that had shown nothing wrong with my brain. Were they wrong? Was there some small lesion hiding in my cerebral cortex? Or was I simply going insane? I’d taken my pills … the ones Aunt Hettie had given me. Could this be a side effect? That was something I would have to check out.
I pulled out my cell phone.
No service.
There was no Internet on the island either … at least, not this time of year. When the season started, the four families would have their Internet provider switch the service on. The rest of the year, with the exception of some of the locals who paid exorbitant fees for dial-up, the island was in the dark. And the outgoing phone service, as Hettie had reminded me, was restricted to in-state calls. Given what had just happened, I needed to find out more about the pills she’d prescribed, but had no easy way to do so.
“Horace,” I asked. “How come there’s no cell service here?”
He smiled. “Who’s your provider?”
“AT&T,” I answered.
“That explains it. Your carrier’s no good. Only Maine Mobile works here.”
I thought for a moment. “Do you have a phone I could borrow? I need to make a call to California.”
His face turned serious. “Sorry, Miss. I don’t use the cell phone. Thinks they messes with your brain … all them waves and such.”
I struggled to keep from grinning at the poor man’s fears. Instead, I just nodded and thanked him anyway.
Horace smiled and went back to shoveling clams into his mouth and I took a bite of my sandwich. Jeremy probably had a cell and, maybe, Internet, too. And, if I could use his, I could get in touch with Seth back at Memorial and pass on the brand names of the drugs. He could look up the side effects and get back to me. Maybe I’d go down to the Wet Your Whistle tonight, have dinner there … and possibly bump into Jeremy.
That thought pleased me and I found myself smiling.
“What’s next on the list, Miss?” asked Horace, breaking into my reverie.
“Oh, let me check.”
I pulled Aunt Hettie’s notes from my pocket and quickly scanned them.
“Curtains. We need to take down the winter curtains, send them to the mainland for cleaning, then put up the summer ones.”
Horace nodded. “Them summer ones are in the attic. They should be ready to go. They were cleaned at the end of the season.”
“Okay,” I said. “Sounds good. Let’s get cracking.”
After cleaning up from lunch, Horace and I proceeded to the second floor, where the pull-down stairs to the attic were located. Because of Horace’s age and infirmity, it would be my job to find the curtains and hand them down to him.
Carefully, I mounted the steps. The attic above was dark and I hoisted myself up into the gloom, reaching for the string attached to the lone light bulb that would illuminate the place. Finding it, I turned it on.
The light was so bright, at first, I was temporarily blinded. When my vision cleared, I glanced around the cavernous space that was Stormview’s attic. Shadows loomed in corners where stacks upon stacks of boxes and other sundry items were stored.
The wooden floor was covered with a fine layer of dust and I wished I’d worn something over my clothing to keep it from being soiled. I wiped my hands on my jeans, as I searched the space for something that looked like it might hold curtains. Seeing a stack of boxes that looked promising, I began to walk toward them when I noticed something quite curious. On the dusty floor, leading away from the attic’s entrance, were footprints.
Someone had been here before us.
I turned and yelled down to Horace, who was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“Have you been up here since the house was closed for the winter?” I asked.
He laughed. “No, Miss. I can’t climb those stairs.”
“Has anyone else?”
“No, Miss, and I would know. I’m the only one whats got a key besides the Missus and Mister. Is something amiss up there?”
Not wanting to make a big deal about this with him, I shook my head. “No, it’s nothing.”
However, I was curious. So, instead of looking for the curtains, I followed the footprints in the dust. They led to the far corner where a plain, brown cardboard box sat. I hunkered down beside it, noting that the top had been torn open. One word was written on the side in black magic marker: CASSANDRA.
My mother’s name.
I pulled the box out from the shadows into the light and looked inside.
On top, under a layer of old newspapers, lay a small jewelry case. I gasped when I saw what was inside.
A pendant … a gold tree of life … lying on a velvet cushion. It had been my mother’s favorite. I pulled it out and held it up to the light. I’d always assumed she’d been buried wearing it. But here it was in this old cardboard box.
It should have been mine, I thought.
The pendant was attached to a fine gold chain and, without thinking, I undid the clasp and placed it around my neck. It was mine now.
After taking a couple of deep breaths, I returned my attention to the box. Under the jewelry case was a bottle of perfume. The bottle was half-full and I opened it and dabbed a drop or two behind my ears and in the hollow of my throat. I closed my eyes and breathed in the heady aroma of roses. It was my mother’s signature scent.
I set the perfume aside, planning to take it with me back to the carriage house, then rummaged through the other mementos in the box … a perfectly round stone my mother liked to keep in her pocket and caress as she walked, the program from the opening of the play Les Miserables in San Francisco, and other keepsakes. But what intrigued me most I found at the bottom. Tied together with a red ribbon were my mother’s journals, one for every summer we’d spent on Storm.
I set the journals in my lap, tears now flowing freely. We’d begun coming to Storm when I was three and had done so every year until that last summer when I was ten … eight years.
I counted the journals. There were only seven.
Surprised, I wondered which one was missing, so I opened each to its first entry and checked the dates.
It was the final journal … the one she wrote the summer before she killed herself.
I sat back on my heels. Had someone come up here just to steal that one journal? And, if so, why?
I couldn’t fathom the answers now and knew Horace was waiting downstairs. So, I put my questions aside, returned the mementos, with the exception of the pendant, perfume, and journals, to the box and pushed it back into the corner. I carried the journals and perfume to the stairway opening and, leaving them there, began the search for the cartons containing the summer curtains.
Jeremy (Again)
HORACE AND I spent the remainder of the day taking down the heavy winter curtains and replacing them with the much lighter summer ones. By the time five o’clock rolled around, I was exhausted.
“I think that’s it for today,” I said as we loaded the last carton of winter curtains onto Horace’s truck. “Will you be able to get these to the dry cleaners by yourself?”
Horace grinned. “No problem, Miss. The ferry that carries cars comes tomorrow and I’ll have them over and be back here by noon.”
“Good. I’ll be here in the morning to clear and reset traps as necessary. When is the chimney sweep coming?”
“Oh, he’ll be here around ten.”
“Okay, thanks for all your help today, Horace. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He grinned broadly, revealing his either rotten or tobacco-stained teeth. I forced myself to keep a straight face, gave him a wave, picked up a satchel containing my mother’s journals and perfume, and headed down the path to the carriage house.
Once there, I stripped off my soiled jeans and sweatshirt and jumped into a hot shower. Feeling clean again, I dried my hair and pinned it on top of my head. Then I slipped into a long peasant skirt and matching silk blouse. Feeling feminine, I again dabb
ed some of my mother’s perfume behind my ears and in the hollow of my throat.
I glanced at the clock. It was going on six-thirty … time for dinner.
I checked my appearance one more time and, donning a pair of flip-flops, grabbed my wallet, one of my mother’s journals, and left the house. There was an old one-speed bike in the storage shed and, confirming that the tires were good and that the lights were working, I hopped on it and began to pedal my way to Wet Your Whistle, which was only about a mile from my house.
I arrived there just after seven. The interior was dark and I made my way to the bar. The restaurant wasn’t crowded, at least not yet. Two men were sitting at one of the tables, engrossed in conversation. They both stared at me as I walked in. Another man was sitting at the bar and he smiled when I took a seat. Jeremy was nowhere to be seen.
“What’ll you have, Miss?” asked the bartender as he wiped the space in front of me clean with a white dishtowel.
“What kind of red wine do you have?” I asked.
“We’ve got a Cab and a Merlot.”
“I’ll have a glass of the Cab. And, could I see a menu?”
“Comin’ right up.”
The bartender turned away and came back directly with the wine and menu. I put the menu aside for the time being and sipped at the drink, opening Mom’s journal.
The first page was entitled Poem for Summer, followed by the date.
I smiled. She always started each year’s diary with a poem and, as she composed the verses, she would read them to me, asking for my input. Subsequent entries could be anything … her thoughts and impressions, practical items, and, always, more poems.
I was immersed in reading the journal, when I felt a presence come up behind me.
“Roses,” he said. “You smell of roses.”
I swiveled on my bar stool. It was Jeremy.
“Hey,” I said. “I was hoping I’d see you here.”
He leaned on the bar beside me and motioned to the bartender. “Give me a draft and give the lady here another of whatever she’s drinking.”
“Sure, Jer. Comin’ right up.”
“Thanks,” I said.
Jeremy picked up the menu that was still sitting on the counter. “You eat yet?” he asked.
“No, but I was going to.”
“Well, so was I.”
The bartender returned with the drinks.
“Hey, Bob, how about you grill the lady and I a couple of your famous Storm Island burgers. And give us two orders of fries to go with.”
The bartender wrote down the order and placed it on the pass-through to the kitchen.
“Bob’s burgers are the best in the county,” Jeremy stated. “How about we move to a table where we can talk more comfortably?”
“Sure,” I said, letting him help me off the stool and lead me to an empty table in the back.
We made small talk for a while, waiting for our meals. Finally, I mustered up the courage to ask him what I’d planned to.
“Jeremy, I’m wondering if I could ask a favor?”
“Sure, Katy, fire away.”
“Well, my cell doesn’t work here and we have no Internet at Stormview. At least, we won’t until one of the families comes to the island and that probably won’t be for a couple of weeks.”
“Yeah, I know. What is it you want?”
“I need to send a text to a friend in California and I was wondering if you have a working cell that I could borrow?”
Jeremy leaned back in his chair and reached into his jacket pocket.
“Here,” he said, sliding his phone across the table to me. “Go ahead, send your text. And, if you need Internet, I have dial-up at my house.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks, this will be fine.”
Quickly, I typed out a message to Seth asking him to look up the side effects for both the drugs Hettie had given me and instructed him to call me at the carriage house with the results.
“Thanks,” I said, handing the phone back to Jeremy. “That was a lifesaver.”
Jeremy laughed. “Happy to help, Katydid.”
The bartender brought our meals and we ate in silence for a while. The place was beginning to fill up, at first all men, but then a group of young women came in and things began to get lively. One of the girls walked over to the jukebox, tossed in some coins, and rock music began to blast, making conversation hard.
“Anyone wanta dance?” the girl yelled.
Soon, the floor was alive with couples gyrating to the music.
“Dance?” asked Jeremy, extending his hand.
Surprised, I stared at him, then smiled. “I’d love to.”
He was a good dancer, moving me about the packed floor with ease. When the song ended, we danced to one more, then sat back down. We ordered another round of drinks and sat laughing and talking. I was feeling a little high and really enjoying his company.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, standing.
I watched him walk over to the jukebox and select a song. It was an old, slow one … Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers.
Jeremy turned and faced me, holding out his arms.
We stared at each other for a moment and then, as one, came together … his arms around my waist, mine draped over his shoulders, around his neck. I leaned my head to his chest as we swayed to the music.
He bent his head and inhaled, once again, the scent of my mother’s perfume. “Roses,” he whispered as his lips brushed the skin on my neck.
The song ended but we remained standing, locked in an embrace.
“Let’s get the hell outta here,” he whispered, huskily.
I nodded, surprised by strength of my desire for this man.
Jeremy reluctantly let go of me and hurried to the bar to settle our tab. Then he escorted me from the room.
Outside in the fresh salt air, he swept me into his arms, kissing me hungrily. “Let’s get home,” he murmured as he steered me to his truck.
“My bike,” I said.
“Bike?”
I pointed to the bicycle leaning against the front wall of the building.
“No problem,” he said. “You get in the truck. I’ll load that thing in the back.”
We drove the short distance to the carriage house in silence.
I unlocked the door and we stepped inside. Before I had a chance to switch on the light, he pulled me to him. He pushed me against the wall, then lowered his head to kiss the hollow of my throat.
I gasped as I wrapped my arms around him, relishing the feel of his hard, muscular body.
“Oh, Katy,” he moaned, pulling my blouse from the waistband of my skirt and sliding his hands up underneath. The sensation of his rough, callused fingers on my bare skin was electrifying.
“I want you,” he groaned as he slipped one hand under my skirt.
“Yes,” I murmured, carried away by the intensity of my need for him.
Still kissing me, he lifted me to him, my back braced against the wall. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him tightly to me.
The first time was quick, both of us so inflamed with desire that our passion was rapidly spent.
After, he carried me to the bedroom and, on my big brass bed, we made love again, this time slowly, Jeremy pleasuring me as I pleasured him.
Finally, around two a.m., he rolled over on his side, spooning with me, and said one word.
“Sleep.”
Grinning, I nestled in his arms and closed my eyes.
I woke around six-thirty with the sun streaming through the windows. Careful not to wake Jeremy, I unwound myself from his arms, grabbed my robe, and tiptoed out of the room.
Gazing out the kitchen window as coffee brewed, I wondered at what had occurred between us the night before. It was as if we had been caught up in some sort of sorcerer’s spell … both of our intellects overtaken by pure, raw emotion.
I was lost in thought when I felt his arms come around my waist and his lips touch the back of
my neck.
“Morning, Katydid,” he murmured.
I turned in his arms, my hunger returning, blocking out the need for coffee or nourishment.
We made love again, this time on the rug in front of the fireplace, which had now gone cold. Afterward, we showered and dressed, then sat at the dining table for breakfast.
“I’ve got to get goin’,” Jeremy said as he polished off the last of his eggs and toast. “Got a lot of traps to pull today.”
“I know,” I replied. “And I’m due at the big house. The chimney sweep is coming today. But I’m free later … if you’d like.”
He bit his upper lip and gazed down into his coffee cup. “There’s nothing I’d like more than to get together with you later, Katy, but I can’t. I’ve … I’ve got an appointment in town.”
The way he spoke, I knew that his “appointment” wasn’t with the dentist. He had a date … a date he wasn’t willing to break for the likes of me.
“Oh,” I said, trying to hide my embarrassment. “Sure. Guess I’ll see you around.”
I stood and took my cup to the sink, suddenly wanting to put as much distance as I could between the two of us.
But he didn’t let me.
He followed me into the kitchen and stood behind me as I gazed out the window.
“How about tomorrow?” he asked softly. “We could meet at the Whistle again.”
Still put off by his previous rejection, I hesitated. “Maybe. Why don’t you call me?”
He didn’t answer right away and I remained silent.
“Sure, Katy, sure. I’ll call you.”
I didn’t turn when he spoke and could hear him walking away, toward the door. I held my breath a heartbeat more, then whirled around, knowing I couldn’t leave things this way.
But I was too late. He was gone.
Angry at myself, I dabbed on some lipstick and blush, grabbed my backpack, and headed for the manor house. The chimney sweep would be there soon and I needed to get the place opened up for him.
Storm Island: A Kate Pomeroy Mystery (The Kate Pomeroy Gothic Mystery Series Book 1) Page 8