The After House (4 page)

She ran her fingers through her chestnut hair, considering the feathered ends. She had straight brows complemented by direct amber eyes. A delicate jaw with a slightly pointed chin gave her a pixie look. She was petite but strong. Yoga gave her a firm body, and though she looked slight, she was toned and flexible. The firelight played with her creamy skin, and her small, straight nose flared each time Scott entered her thoughts. A light dusting of freckles saved her face from any seriousness.

The house creaked eerily. Remy reached over to the other chair to grab the afghan her mother had made her when Remy had left for college. It was blue and white, her school colors, completely out of place with the muted grays and greens of her quiet little cottage. She wrapped it around her cold feet, and the familiar weight of the heavy wool made her feel safe and secure. She could have slept at her parents’. They told her so often enough, but Remy knew she had to stick this night out alone. She had to prove to herself she could be solo. Time to put on the big-girl panties.

Every Wednesday and alternate weekends, Olivia was going to sleep at the home of Scott and his girlfriend, Prunella, or whatever her name was. Remy refused to go back to her old frilly bedroom in Sayville, like she had in the beginning of her separation. She was divorced now. Three weeks short of a year. A divorced woman, single, and she better get used to it. Never in a million years did she think it would end up like this.

Her toe poked a hole through the old knitted blanket. It was getting shabby. They’d both seen better days. Remy gazed at the dying embers of the fire. Here and there, a small flare would paint the walls orange as it bathed her face with warmth. She thought she should go up to the tiny bedroom at the top of the steep steps, but she couldn’t gather up the motivation. The snow turned to rain, which pattered against the leaded glass. Pulling her knees close to her chest, she buried her chin against the soft wool. A small tear rolled down her peach-tinted skin to land with a plop. She stared at the mural, her eyes always finding the captain, his face stark with longing. Why did she think he looked angry when they moved in? How had she missed the sadness in his face?

She felt an emptiness. Loneliness overwhelmed her. She looked at the deep-set dark eyes following the crew and wondered if their bleakness mirrored her own. Another crystal tear dampened her cheek, and soon they streamed down her face, gilding her skin in the firelight.

Eli couldn’t believe it. She was a watering pot. He toyed with a candy dish, debating where to throw it, but her mood stopped him. He watched the tears flow silently down her cheeks and reconsidered what he was planning. She cried prettily, he admitted to himself. He sat on his haunches, directly beside her, watching the slow, silent progress of her tears. This woman knew grief. It tugged directly at his heart, making a bridge of understanding.
She was so quiet, he had to peer closely to see the hurt in her face. It was as though she didn’t want to inflict her pain on anyone else. Oh, he had watched her interact with others. She was brave. He’d give her that.

He reached out to touch her smooth cheek but pulled his hand back guiltily. A memory intruded, another tear-streaked face. Long, gulping sobs filled his ears. The cries grew louder. He saw images of a woman with patchy red blotches ruining the soft lines of her skin. Screams filled his head, and he covered his ears, trying to silence the noise. Screwing his eyes shut, he blocked the sight, but the sound of the elusive woman’s distress came from inside his head.

The cries grew distant, then they faded, and Eli shuddered in relief. He had been having a rough few weeks. The woman and her child moved in within a few days of Pat’s departure. He hadn’t interfered much; he watched them intently from the sidelines. They cleaned the old cottage with a vengeance, this pretty one with an older woman, probably her mother. An old salt helped out a lot. He was handy, and Eli admitted to himself that he liked the old guy.

There was nothing precisely wrong with what they were doing. Eli was known to run a tight ship, and the last few years, old Pat had neglected the place. It was nice to see the surfaces shining again, windows clean, floors polished. It was the kid that bothered him. A snippet of a girl, she followed him around. She considered the mural for hours, asking stupid questions. He’d settle in to watch them work and turn to find the little creep soundlessly sneaking up on him. More than once, he nearly fell off the mantle. She had an uncanny ability to zero in on his
spot, then stare hard at him. He’d have to work on something—something good to teach the little miss to leave him alone.

He spied the discarded scotch bottle on the floor, his mouth watering. It had been so long, he thought, remembering the burn of liquor on the back of his throat. What he wouldn’t give for a swallow. He eyed the female contemptuously. “Snap out of it, sailor,” he wanted to shout. “Nothing like a little fright to put things into perspective,” he thought grimly. “This ought to push her out of the doldrums.”

He leaned down close to her ear and opened his mouth for a blast, when the gentle fragrance of lilacs drifted up, freezing him in his tracks. He cocked his head, letting the smell envelop him. Eli closed his eyes for a minute, holding the scent, letting it fill every part of his body. He floated lazily, feeling crisp sheets and the tender touch of a soft feminine body next to his. Tingling, he reached out for…for what? The memory disintegrated, leaving the ticking of the old schoolhouse clock and Remy’s depression.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying hard to bring it back, but it was gone—the feeling, the scent, and the aura of peace. Anger filled him. He looked down at the sad female and was furious at the impotence of trying to catch the chimera of a memory. He deflected his disappointment onto her. What could be so bad that she had to sit like this? The brat wasn’t around. She had the night to herself and a twelve-year-old scotch right in front of her. Anger boiled inside him, and he felt himself swelling. He
hovered over her head, seeing the shiny path of tears on her soft cheeks. It didn’t seem right.

She sniffed loudly, then scrubbed her face with her sleeve. For a second, she conjured up an old memory of his cabin boy. What was his name? Henry. Henry Finch. No, no—Henry Falcon. He was supposed to do something for Henry and his mother. He tried hard to find the memory but failed. All he saw was a faded image of the boy, the end near, silent tears running down the brave lad’s face. Blood, so much blood, the decks were slick with it. Rain plastered the dark head, and his lips were caught in a frozen rictus of fear. What was happening to him? He was losing his edge. Cursing loudly, he kicked the bottle of scotch and flew up the chimney to sulk the rest of the night.

Glass rolled on the uneven floorboards, startling Remy from her revelry. She sat up straight, her heart beating wildly in her chest as her nervous eyes scanned the darkened room. Reaching down, she righted the bottle. Her eyes searched the chamber, her fingers shaking with the uneasy feeling she was being watched. She looked at the twisting patterns on the wall, the play of light from the moon streaming in. There was no one there. No one at all. She must have tipped it.

She shivered uncontrollably. Goose bumps spread across her chest. Wrapping the blanket over her shoulders, she raced up the rickety stairs, darting into her bedroom and closing the door firmly behind her.

li hung on the eaves of the house like an angry bat, stewing over the lost opportunity. It wouldn’t take much, he knew. The woman was spooked, but in a way, so was he. He had to think. Memories like faded old pictures were intruding, making him uncomfortable, shaky, and insecure. This was no way to captain a ship. “Get your stuff together, old boy,” he thought. “Concentrate on what you know.” He summoned his logical side.

It wasn’t that he had anything against the female, but he reasoned that everyone knew women on board brought bad joss—bad luck. He stood and began pacing back and forth over the phantom deck, feeling the salty spray splash his cheeks. His sea-crusted lashes scanned the dark horizon while he pondered his situation. The former inhabitant had recently died, leaving the house empty. They had shared the space for years, more than a half a century. Eli had a good relationship with the old man. Eli didn’t bother him, and good old Pat Redmond happily returned the favor.

Pat was an artist whose marine paintings were prized among collectors. He was a loner—some said a little off, a bit strange—with only one nephew who visited
at Christmastime. Eli liked talking to the old man. He spoke softly in his ear at night, describing vivid pictures of voyages he’d witnessed, helping the painter create beautiful and expensive art. Pat Redmond became known for his realistic portrayals of whalers and their crews. Now some of his paintings graced museum walls. Made him some big money. His fame brought him a lot of notice. Newspaper reporters wanted to write articles, but old Pat Redmond sent them all away. He wanted to be left alone in his little cottage. He was a familiar figure in the town, but nobody could figure out how he knew the minute details of the whaling trade. Since Pat was reclusive and quiet, the two of them found a way to coexist peacefully.

But the years passed, and the man aged. He became reckless, started telling people about Eli. In the beginning, his nephew found it amusing, but as time passed and stories became more involved, he worried about his uncle. The nephew hired a Jamaican woman to come every day. At first Eli observed her, shocked by her off-key singing. She was a large woman, her head covered by a colorful scarf. She walked the house intently, her eyes searching until they settled on him. She felt his presence.

He knew she saw him. She crossed herself frantically when he entered the room, her eyes widening, no matter how quiet he tried to be. He did try to be polite, nonintrusive, but she was definitely spooked by him. He could hear the hushed patois of her prayers. She banged pots and pans loudly when he flew above them. As if that would make a difference. He chuckled.

She placed salt in the corners and painted large stars with Pat’s white paint—the water-based one, of course. Constantly sweeping the area with her broom, she generally disturbed any peace in the house. When she started sprinkling holy water around, as if he were the devil, he had just about had enough. Her presence made it impossible for him to talk to Pat. So he started doing things. Clearly he had no choice. She was interfering, making life intolerable onboard. That was the thing; women weren’t supposed to be on the ship. Bad luck. Something terrible could happen.