Look For Me By Moonlight (2 page)

“This part dates all the way back to 1781, but the rest of it just grew over the years.” Dad's finger moved from square to square. “A room here, a room there.”

Gina set the bowls down, taking care not to spill any chowder on Dad's floor plan. “You should have seen Underhill before your father bought it, Cynda. The place had been empty for years. Windows and doors boarded up, roof fallen in, swallows roosting in the chimneys . . . a real rum.”

“Now, Gina, it wasn't as bad as that,” Dad said. “The walls were sound, and so was the foundation. All Underhill needed was a little love—and several thousand dollars' worth of work.”

“It's a marvel what you and Mrs. Bennett have done,” Gina insisted. Turning to me, she said, “In the summer, the inn's packed with folks from all over the map—California, Hawaii, Florida. Some Germans stayed for a whole month last August. Lovely people.”

She paused to wipe a spot on the table. “It's a lonely place in the winter, though. Very bleak, nobody around, nothing to do.”

“That's when I love Underhill the most,” Dad said quickly. “No guests, no interruptions, plenty of time to write.”

“I guess it's all in how you look at it,” Gina said, “but you couldn't pay me to stay there. Not in the winter. Maybe not even in the summer.”

“Why not?” I stared at her, startled by her bluntness.

Gina glanced at Dad. “Haven't you told Cynda about the ghost?”

“You know what I think of that nonsense.” Dad winked at me but I didn't return his smile.

“Is Underhill haunted?” I asked Gina.

“Most folks around here think so.” She frowned at Dad. “If you don't believe me, ask Martha Bigelow. She often feels something watching her when she's upstairs cleaning. Gives her goose bumps all over.”

A little shiver raced up and down my spine, but Dad snorted with disbelief. Gina leaned across the table and gazed into his eyes. “Don't tell me you've never noticed anything strange, Mr. Bennett.”

He shook his head emphatically, but Gina wasn't satisfied. “How about your guests, then?”

“They complain about the weather, they fuss about the mattresses and the TV reception, but nobody has ever said a word about ghosts.” Dad slid his empty cup toward Gina. “How about a refill?”

Gina took the hint and left to get the coffee pot, but I wasn't ready to drop the subject. “How can you be so sure it's all nonsense, Dad? Maybe Mrs. Bigelow is psychic, maybe there really is a ghost. . . .”

“I have more important things to worry about. Paying the mortgage, for instance. Keeping my guests happy. Hoping the furnace will make it through another winter.”

“But you write mysteries,” I persisted, surprised by his attitude. “Wouldn't a haunted inn be a good setting for a story?”

Dad looked insulted. “My novels are serious police procedurals,” he said stiffly. “They deal with murder, arson, armed robbery, and drugs. The supernatural is Stephen King's territory. Not mine.”

Rebuked, I lowered my head and began to eat my chowder. I'd say no more about ghosts to Dad. I wanted him to think well of me, to brag about me the way he bragged about Todd. I didn't dare risk lowering his opinion of me by admitting Gina had scared me.

When Gina returned, I thought she might say more about Underhill, but Dad's attitude must have discouraged her, too. She made a comment about the record-breaking cold, totaled our bill, and walked off with Dad's tip jingling in her pocket.

As we left Ferrington behind, I found myself wishing Dad lived in one of the big old houses we'd passed on our way out of town. They'd looked as warm and welcoming as illustrations in a child's picture book. Surely no ghosts lurked in their cozy rooms.

Dad caught me shivering and smiled, mistaking the reason. “Maine takes some getting used to, Cynda. We only have two seasons, you know. Eleven months of winter and one of summer.”

I forced myself to laugh, but my father's joke didn't dispel the odd, lingering dread I felt. Staring into the darkness ahead, I wondered why people thought Underhill was haunted. Since I couldn't ask Dad, I'd talk to Mrs. Bigelow the next time she came to clean the inn. Maybe she'd tell me what sort of ghost watched her from the shadows.

The farther we drove, the darker and lonelier the night seemed. No stores, no houses, just an occasional mailbox marking a driveway. Snowy fields crosshatched with woods. A stone wall. An old barn. Nothing to light our way but the moon, sailing in and out of clouds, as pale and regal as a queen crowned with stars.

Gazing at the sky, Dad said, “The moving moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide.'”

“‘Softly she was going up,'” I added. “‘And a star or two beside—'”

Dad looked pleased. “You know Coleridge.”

For one lovely moment, I felt as close to Dad as I'd hoped to. He'd quoted a line of poetry that floated through my head whenever I looked at the moon wandering across the heavens, unfixed, homeless, alone.

Several minutes later, Dad came to a stop on a high rise of land overlooking fields of snow. The ocean glimmered on the horizon, spangled with moonlight. “There it is,” he said. “Underhill Inn.”

Below us, a three-story stone building stood by itself at the end of a long driveway. Smoke rose from double chimneys. In each window a candle glowed, the only lights in the surrounding darkness.

“An innkeeper's tradition,” Dad explained. “Candles to guide the weary traveler—not that many come this way in the winter.”

On a summer day with flowers blooming and trees in leaf, I supposed the inn would be a pretty place, quaint and welcoming. But on a moonlit January night it had a grim, forbidding appearance. Despite the warm air from the car's heater, I shivered. No wonder Gina said it was haunted. If I were a stranger looking for a place to stay I'd drive on, hoping to find a nice modern motel in the next town.

“Isn't it lovely?” Dad asked fondly. “Susan and I are so happy here. It's the sort of home we've always wanted.”

“It's very picturesque,” I said, choosing my words carefully.

“Yes,” Dad said, “that's just what our guests say.” Shifting into second gear, he drove slowly downhill toward the inn. A woman stood on the stone steps, waving to us. At her side was a little boy. The moment the car stopped, he ran to meet us.

“Daddy! Daddy!” he shouted. “Did you bring her?”

Dad gestured to me. “Todd, this is Cynda. Cynda, this is Todd.”

My half brother gave me a quick, shy smile. When Dad picked him up for a kiss, I felt the sharp bite of jealousy. I turned away, only to stumble into Susan's outstretched arms. Giving me a hug, she led me into a spacious entry hall.

“I'm so glad you're here,” she began. “You can't believe how lonesome I've been for company this winter. Todd's marvelous, but he's not much of a conversationalist yet.”

Despite the warmth of her greeting, I hung back, tense and unsure of myself. Susan was young, no more than twenty-seven or -eight, and prettier than the pictures I'd seen. As rosy as I was pale, she wore her thick, tawny hair pulled back in a long, loose braid, emphasizing her cheekbones and short, straight nose.

She was also just pregnant enough to show—a fact my father had neglected to mention.

Still holding Todd, Dad put one arm around Susan. “We'd have been here sooner,” he said, “but we stopped at the diner for a quick break. I hope you weren't worried, Susie.”

After giving Dad a kiss to show she forgave him, Susan took my jacket and pointed out the bathroom. “If I know Jeff, you probably drank a zillion cups of coffee.”

I locked the door and leaned against it, grateful for an opportunity to be alone for a few minutes. I needed a chance to relax, gather my thoughts, get used to being in a strange place with people I didn't know.

Susan said something, and Dad laughed. I felt like an eavesdropper hiding in the bathroom. A spy, an outsider. A loud banging on the door startled me. “What are you doing in there?” Todd shouted. “There's cake and cookies and all kinds of good stuff. Nobody can have any till you come out!”

“Don't be rude, Todd,” Susan said sharply. “Cynda will join us when she's ready.”

Mortified, I opened the door and tried to return Todd's smile.

“This way,” he said, taking my hand and leading me into the living room.

A fire crackled on the hearth. Instead of turning on the lamps, Susan had lit dozens of candles; they glowed on the ornately carved wood mantel, on tables laden with books and pottery, and in deep window recesses where the flames danced in the small panes, multiplied many times over.

In the dim light, I made out two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, framed paintings and photographs, and a small winged statue on a pedestal. In one corner a moon-faced grandfather's clock ticked solemnly. In another, a black carousel horse threw back its head in a toothy grin.

I took a seat near the fire in an old armchair shaped by generations of backs. Never had I seen a room as cozy and intimate as this. Mom and Steve were minimalists when it came to interior decoration. We lived in a modern glass box, austere and strictly functional. Nothing to catch dust. At Underhill, dust seemed to be part of the decor.

Above the snap and pop of the fire, the wind howled, prowling around the inn, snooping at the windows and whining at the door. The candle flames quivered in the draft, melting the wax into strange shapes.

“You must think your father has brought you to the back of the north wind.” Susan smiled at me over the rim of her teacup. “Trust me, everything will look better in the morning.”

While his mother talked, Todd snuggled into the chair beside me. “Will you read me a story, Cynda? Not a scary one, I get bad dreams.”

Susan shook her head. “Not tonight, Todd. It's already way past your bedtime. You stayed up late to see Cynda, remember?”

Todd ignored his mother. “Do you ever have bad dreams, Cynda?”

“Sometimes,” I said, suddenly aware of the darkness beyond the candlelight, the empty rooms, the creaking floors.

“My dreams are about wolves,” Todd whispered. “I wake up and I think a wolf is under my bed or in the closet. I make Daddy and Mommy look in all the dark places to make sure he isn't hiding somewhere, waiting to eat me up. They don't believe he's real, but—”

“Now, Todd,” Dad interrupted, “let's not get started on wolves. You'll keep us up all night.”

Susan took his hand. “Time for bed, Toddy.”

He looked at his mother pleadingly. “No, not yet, Mommy. I want to talk to Cynda.”

Dad shook his head. “Cynda's tired and so are you, Todd. You can talk tomorrow.”

Todd began to cry, further proof he was tired, Dad said. Susan led him upstairs, but he protested every step of the way. From somewhere above, I heard him wailing about the wolf.

Dad sighed. “You were just like him when you were five. Imagining monsters in the closet, witches under your bed, wolves behind the door. You grew out of it, and I'm sure Todd will too. Hopefully before he turns sixteen.”

I leaned my head against the back of the chair, glad Dad remembered my childhood. Sometimes the years he'd lived with Mom and me seemed as unreal as a good dream you can't quite recall in the morning.

Dad caught me yawning. Picking up my suitcases, he led me down the hall, past the dining room and the kitchen, all the way to the back of the inn.

“Susan, Todd, and I sleep on the third floor,” he said. “The second floor's for guests—six rooms, empty at the moment and likely to stay that way till spring.”

He opened a heavy wooden door and stood back to let me enter first. “This is the oldest part of the inn. It was originally the kitchen, but when we renovated we made it into a big bedroom with a private bath. Susan and I thought you'd enjoy having the best Underhill has to offer.”

I walked around the room—my room, the one Dad had chosen for me. The floor was brick and slightly uneven. Thick wool carpets, woven in intricate patterns, covered most of it. Overhead, the rough-hewn rafters were black with age. Among the furnishings were a table and chair, a massive wardrobe carved with strange animal faces and foliage, a matching chest, and a high, canopied bed.

As in the living room, the walls were lined with shelves of books. At one end was a fireplace tall enough to walk into. Electric candles shone in the windows, and a space heater glowed on the hearth.

Dad gestured at the big black cat sleeping on the bed. “If you don't want Ebony to stay, I'll take him with me.”

At the sound of his name, Ebony opened his eyes a slit, glanced at me, twitched his tail idly, and went back to sleep.

I leaned over the bed to stroke him. “He's beautiful,” I said quickly. “He can sleep here every single night.”

Dad showed me how the heater worked, demonstrated the high-tech shower in the bathroom, and finally gave me a hug and a good-night kiss. “It's nice to have you here, Cynda,” he said. “Sleep well.”

After he left, the room didn't seem quite as cozy. To keep from thinking scary thoughts, I busied myself unpacking. It made me feel more at home to see my shampoo and conditioner in the shower caddy, my hair dryer, brush, and comb on the shelf above the washbasin, my soap in the soap dish.

After I'd washed my face and brushed my teeth, I hung my clothes in the closet and put my underwear in the tall chest near the bed. Last of all, I made room on the nightstand for a picture of Mom.

Satisfied the room was now truly mine, I undressed quickly and pulled on my warmest nightgown. Safe in bed, I turned off the lamp, leaving the electric candles burning on the windowsill. It was strange how the flick of a switch altered things. Shadows ate up the furniture and filled the corners. The candles' dim light illuminated a picture here, a mirror there. The faces carved on the wardrobe looked more grotesque, even sinister.