At the same moment, we both realized he was still holding onto me. Ethan coughed and set me aside, and I turned to look at the house looming on a rise near the shore. I remembered its gables and roofs silhouetted against the wintry sky, a dark presence of stone and slate. The lighthouse thrust at the sky, white stone against a dark cloud. For a second it looked as if there were a light in the window, but I shut my eyes and looked again, and it was gone.
In a few minutes I would be alone in the house of my childhood. I could sense my own reluctance, and it irritated me. I steeled myself, picked up my duffle bag, and turned to Ethan.
“Well,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Look,” he said. “I can come up with you, if you like.” I could tell he didn’t mean it, the way he cast an anxious look at his boat. The wind had picked up, and the waves crashing over the end of the jetty were increasing. The boat bobbed and bounced. I shook my head.
“I’ll be okay.” I attempted a smile. “They’re not really ghosts, just memories, and they can’t hurt me anymore.” It was the first time I’d ever admitted it, I thought ruefully.
“If I were you, I’d burn the place down,” he blurted. He caught himself. “Bea, if you need anything, just call, okay?”
“I will. You better be going. Weather’s kicking up.”
As if to emphasize my words, a wave crashed over the end of the jetty, spattering us with a curtain of spray and foam.
He surprised me with a comforting hug, and a kiss on my scarred cheek, kind and all the sweeter for it.
Then he let me go and I hefted the duffle bag and headed up toward the house. Behind me the boat chugged into life and pulled away from the jetty.
I felt for the key in my coat pocket. The lawyers had sent it, along with a new set of keys, but this was the one that I remembered. It was ornate, tarnished brass. I had been fascinated with it as a child. At the door, I set down my duffle bag and pulled it out.
Something caught my attention and I turned sharply. The lighthouse was a dark shape in the gloom now, no longer white under the cloud. That’s why the tiny flash of light was able to get my attention as much as it did. But when I looked straight at it, the tower stayed dark.
Some stars can only be seen out of the corner of the eye. But that’s on a planet such as Earth, with an atmosphere. Out in space stars are defiantly bright. Still, I knew the trick of looking sidelong, and I knew that I would have to practice it, but later. I wanted – needed – to get inside. Deliberately, I turned my back on the lighthouse, put the key in the lock, and with some effort turned it. It scraped but the tumblers fell into place.
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
The house was warm, blessedly so, but gloomy, with very little light coming in through the high windows.
I set my bag down, closed the door behind me, and touched the light plate where I remembered it. The warm glow that came up chased away the gloom, and I let out my breath.
The rich red carpet under the antique electric chandelier looked as warm as it had when I’d been a child, sitting in the ornate central medallion, playing with my toys. I remembered my grandfather thundering at me for leaving behind a sharp block that he had stepped on in the middle of the night in his wanderings.
His wanderings . . . I remembered those, too – the heavy-footed walkabouts in the night, creaking along the hallway, muttering to himself. I had asked the housekeeper Mrs Dawes about it once. She only told me to hush, that old men had to get up and about in the middle of the night, and there was nothing to be afraid of. And I knew that to be true, but then, why was my door always locked from the outside during the wanderings?
And one time it had stayed locked even past daylight, and I had shouted until I was hoarse and screamed and cried and wet myself, until at around mid-morning Mrs Dawes had come hurrying up the stairs, breathing hard, and scolded me for locking myself in, her eyes darting about the way people do when they lie.
I wandered around the house now, turning up the lights as I went. There was the parlor with the furniture covered with sheets. The dining room was shrouded as well. The kitchen was cheerful, though.
The fridge hummed, and I peeked in. As the lawyers had promised and Ethan had confirmed, it was well stocked. The pantry was filled with dry goods, and someone had set out clean dishes for me. The kitchen smelled of freshness. I turned on the water and grabbed a glass, drinking the icy coldness of sweet water straight from the sky. I had forgotten how water tasted. In cities it was as filtered as it was on Bifrost Station.
I set the glass down on the farmhouse kitchen table and poked around a bit more. There was the ancient house phone that connected to the office on shore. There was the door to the root cellar, but it was locked.
My grandfather used to store his wine and Scotch down there. I wondered if there was a stray bottle or two – a drink would be nice. I had left the other set of keys in my duffle bag, and I decided that despite my inclination for facing things head on, investigating the cellar could wait for morning.
I left the lights on and went up the stairs, turning on lights as I came across them. I looked into all the bedrooms except mine. There was grandfather’s, with its lovely fireplace and mantel. Incongruously, there was a hospital bed in place of the massive four-poster that used to be there. I wondered why no one had come to remove it. It was sleek and white and shiny, still new with the latest med-tech.
The next bedroom was empty. Then there was a bathroom, with its tub big enough to swim in, and the tiles still bright blue and white, with dolphins cavorting in green waves. I suddenly wanted a bath. I had not had one since I left Earth. Here I could be as frivolous with water as I wished.
I saved my bedroom for last. I paused in front of the door, took a deep breath, and pushed it open. I fumbled for the light switch, and slowly the darkness gave way.
My grandfather had not changed a thing. There was the child’s bed, too small for me when I left as a gawky teenager. There were my books and vids. The books were old relics of a previous age. I had a bright new reader but I preferred the books, even the musty-smelling ones. The vids had long gone dark, the gel memory having faded, but I picked one up and shook it, and for a moment a bright image of a horse galloping over a beach appeared in the air in front of me, and then ghosted away apologetically. I set it down on my bed and wandered around the room. The pictures on the walls stared down at me. Some were of animals – I remembered my owl phase – and there were the rock stars and the cute movie-star boys, young and non-threatening. I was far past that stage, and I thought of Ethan’s green-flecked eyes and the dimples around his mouth, the strength in his arms as he had caught me. Gravity had its good points, I thought.
There was a dresser, my desk, and a clothes closet. I hesitated. The closet door was barely ajar. I remembered that it didn’t like to stay closed. I hated it. I felt as if sometimes it moved from within, as if something watched me. One of my bedtime rituals had been to jam my desk chair under the doorknob to keep the door firmly closed. And once, when I thought I had closed it, I had woken in the middle of the night with the chair by the desk, and the closet door opening, ever so slightly, a tiny bit more as I stared at it. And my grandfather, wandering the halls, muttering and dragging his feet . . .
This was ridiculous. I reached out to yank open the closet door when I heard a loud bang from downstairs.
I jumped and gave a little shriek. My heart hammering so hard I was almost fainting, I backed out of the room and went to the top of the stairs.
“Who’s there?” I shouted. It was an island for goodness’ sakes. I was the only one home. I hadn’t closed the front door completely, that’s all.