The Ghost (7 page)

He stopped and bought a cup of coffee and a danish before he headed to the FDR Drive. He glanced at the map as he took a sip, and then he started the car again. He had no idea where he was going. North, just as he had said to the man. To Connecticut ' then Massachusetts ' maybe Vermont. Vermont might be the right kind of place to spend Christmas. He could ski right through the holidays. People would be in good spirits. And in the meantime all he had to do was drive, keep his eye on the road, watch the snow, and try not to look back over his shoulder. He knew now, more than he ever had before, that there was nothing there, nothing to reach back for, or even take with him.

He was singing softly to himself as he headed out of the city, and he smiled, looking straight ahead. All he had now was the future.

Chapter 3

IT WAS STARTING to snow as Charlie crossed the Triborough Bridge and carefully made his way to the Hutchinson River Parkway, but he didn't mind. It felt more like Christmas somehow, and he felt surprisingly festive as he drove north and began to hum Christmas carols. He was in remarkably good spirits for a man without a job, and he still couldn't believe what had happened. He played it over in his mind again several times, and wondered inevitably if his days with Whittaker and Jones were over. It was hard to guess what would happen in the next six months, but he had already thought about traveling, and maybe even doing some painting. He hadn't had time to even think of doing something like that in ages. But the prospect appealed to him now. He might even teach architecture for a while, if the opportunity presented itself, and he had an idea in the back of his mind about traveling around Europe, and visiting medieval castles. They had fascinated him since college. But first he was going to ski in Vermont, and after that he was going to go back to London and find himself an apartment. It felt like a turning point to him. For the first time in a year, he wasn't reacting to what had been thrown at him. He had made a choice and he was going to do whatever he wanted.

The snow began to collect in drifts, and after three hours on the road, he stopped in Simsbury. There was a small cozy-looking inn that advertised itself as a bed and breakfast. It was the perfect place to spend the night, and the couple who owned it seemed delighted to see him. They showed him to their prettiest room, and he felt relieved again to have abandoned the depressing studio apartment. In fact, his entire stay in New York had been relentlessly unpleasant, and he was delighted that it had ended.

Going to see your family for the holidays? the woman who showed him to his room asked pleasantly. She was heavyset and had dyed blond hair, and there was something very warm and friendly about her.

Actually, no, I'm on my way to go skiing. She nodded, looking pleased, and told him about the town's two best restaurants, both within half a mile, and asked if he'd like her to make reservations for dinner. He hesitated, and then shook his head as he knelt to light a fire with the kindling they had provided.

Ill just grab a sandwich somewhere, but thanks anyway. He hated going to nice restaurants by himself. He had never understood people who did that. It seemed so lonely somehow to be sitting there drinking half a bottle of wine, and eating a thick steak with no one to talk to. The very thought of it depressed him,.

You're welcome to eat with us, if you'd like. She eyed him with interest. He was good-looking and young, and she wondered what he was doing on his own. It seemed odd to her that he wasn't married. She guessed that he was probably divorced, and was sorry her daughter hadn't come up from New York yet. But Charlie had no idea what she had in mind for him, as he thanked her again, and closed the door behind her. Women were always more interested in him than he realized, but he was usually unaware of it. And he hadn't thought of anything like that in years. He hadn't had a date since Carole left him. He had been far too busy mourning. But now, having divested himself of all the responsibilities in his life so unexpectedly, he was suddenly feeling better.

He went out for a hamburger later that night, and was amazed to see how high the snow was. There were several feet on either side of the carefully shoveled driveway, and he smiled to himself as he drove away from the little bed and breakfast. It was so beautiful here, he would have loved to share it with someone. It was odd to be alone all the time, to have no one to make comments to, or share things with, or talk to. He still hadn't gotten used to the silence. But he sat alone as he ate his hamburger, and took a bag of sweet rolls with him for the morning, and the hotel had promised to provide him with a thermos of coffee. They had offered to make breakfast for him too, but he wanted to get an early start, provided the snow would let him.

It was a clear, quiet night when he went back to the little inn, and he stood outside for a minute, looking at the sky. It was incredibly beautiful and his face tingled in the cold air, and then suddenly he laughed out loud, feeling better than he had in years, and he wished that he could have thrown a snowball at someone. He made one round, firm ball of the crisp white snow, just for the hell of it, and tossed it at a tree. It made him feel like a kid again, and he was still smiling when he went upstairs to his bedroom. It was warm, and the fire was still burning brightly. And it suddenly began to feel like Christmas.

It was only when he got between the clean sheets on the big canopied bed, under the down comforter, that his heart began to ache again, and he wished Carole was there with him. He would have given anything to spend a night with her again, and it made his soul ache just thinking that he would never again do that. She would never spend another night with him, he would never be able to make love to her again. Just letting his mind run over it made him long for her, but he knew as he lay staring into the fire that it was pointless. He couldn't keep doing this to himself, and he couldn't go on pining for her forever. But it was so damn hard not to. It had been so good for such a long time, and he still wondered at the flaw in him that had allowed him not to see what was happening when he had begun to lose her. Maybe if he had seen it then, he could have stopped it. It was like torturing yourself for a life you had been unable to save. The fife he had lost was his own, the victim was their marriage. And he wondered if he would ever feel the same about anyone again. He wondered how she could be so sure of herself in going off with Simon. He couldn't imagine ever trusting anyone that much again. In fact, he was sure he wouldn't.

It was a long time before he fell asleep, and when he did, the fire was finally dying. The embers were a soft glow in the room, and the snow had stopped falling beyond the windows. And when he woke up in the morning, the woman who owned the inn was knocking on his door with warm blueberry muffins and a pot of steaming coffee.

I thought you might like this, Mr. Waterston. She smiled at him, as he opened the door to her with a towel wrapped tightly around his waist. He had sent all his pajamas to storage, and kept forgetting to buy new ones. But she had no objection at all to seeing his long, lean, muscular body. It only made her wish she were twenty years younger.

Thanks so much, he said, smiling at her, still looking sleepy and a little bit tousled. And when he drew back the curtains, he stood staring at how beautiful it looked. The snow lay in graceful drifts and her husband was outside shoveling the driveway.

You'll want to be careful driving today, she warned.

Is it icy? he asked conversationally, but he didn't look worried.

Not yet. But it will be later on. They say it's going to snow again this afternoon. There's a storm front coming down from the Canadian border. But he didn't mind at all. He had all the time in the world, and he could drive through New England in twenty-mile increments if he had to. He was in no rush to do anything, not even go skiing, although he was looking forward to it. He hadn't skied in the States since he'd lived there. He and Carole had gone to Sugarbush in the old days, while he'd lived in New York. But he had already decided to go someplace different. He didn't need any more pilgrimages to places where he had memories of her. Especially not over Christmas.

Charlie left the inn an hour later, showered and dressed in ski pants and a parka, carrying the thermos of coffee he'd bought from them. And he got on Interstate 91 without difficulty, and headed toward Massachusetts. He drove steadily for a long time, and he was surprised by how clear the road was. The snow scarcely slowed him at all, and he never even needed to put on the chains the rental company had provided. It was easy driving until he reached Whately, and then it began to snow lightly, and he watched the snowflakes collect on his windshield.

He was tired by then, and he was surprised to see how far he'd come. He had been driving for hours,, and he was just on the outskirts of Deerfield. He had no particular destination in mind, but he decided to try and press on for a while, just so he wouldn't have as far to drive to Vermont the next morning. But by the time he passed Deerfield, it was really snowing.

Historic Deerfield was remarkably picturesque, and he was tempted to stop and look around. He had gone there with his parents as a child, and remembered his fascination with seeing the three-hundred-year-old houses that had been preserved there. Even as a child, he had been fascinated with all things architectural, and his visit had made a big impression. But he decided it was too late to stop now, and he wanted to press on. With luck, he might even make the Vermont border. He had no particular route or plan in mind, he just wanted to keep going, and he was constantly in awe of how beautiful it was, how sweet the towns were. He drove through covered bridges and past historical towns, and he knew that there were waterfalls nearby. If it had been summer, he would have stopped and walked, and maybe even gone swimming. New England was where he had grown up. This was his home, and he suddenly realized that it wasn't an accident that he had come here. He had come here to heal, and to touch familiar ground. Maybe at last, it was time for his mourning to end, and for him to recover. Six months before, he couldn't even imagine it, but now he felt as though the healing process had begun because he had come here.

He passed the Deerfield Fort and remembered his boyhood fascination with that landmark, but he only smiled as he drove on, remembering his father. He had told Charlie wonderful tales about the Indians along the Mohawk Trail, which Deerfield was on, and the Iroquois and the Algonquin. Charlie had loved hearing about them as a child, and his father had always had a remarkable store of knowledge. He had been an American history professor at Harvard, and trips like these had always been a special gift from father to son, as had been the tales that he told him. It made Charlie suddenly think about him again now, and wish that he could have told him about Carole. Thinking about both of them brought tears to his eyes, but he had to stop dreaming and concentrate on the road again as the snow began to fall harder. He had only come ten miles in half an hour since Deerfield. But it was getting too difficult to see now.

He passed a sign on the way into a small town, and saw that he was in Shelburne Falls. As closely as he could figure it, he had gone about ten miles northwest of Deerfield, and the frozen river running nearby was the Deerfield River. It was a small, quaint-looking little town, nestled on the hillside, looking out over the valley. And as the snow swirled around him ever more furiously, Charlie abandoned all thought of driving on to Vermont. It didn't seem wise to go any farther, and he wondered if he could find an inn or a small hotel. All he could see around him were small, neatly tended homes as he kept driving. And it was nearly impossible to drive now.

He stopped the car for a minute, unsure which way to go, and then rolled down the window. He could see a street leading off to the left somewhere, and turned the car slowly, deciding to try it. He was afraid to put the car into a skid on the fresh snow, but the snow tires held, and he headed slowly down the street that paralleled the Deerfield River, and just as he was beginning to feel lost and think he had best turn back again, he saw a neat, shingled house with a widow's walk and a white picket fence around it. And the sign hanging outside the fence said simply PALMER: BED AND BREAKFAST. It was just what he wanted. And he pulled carefully into the driveway.

There was a mailbox that looked like a birdhouse outside, and a big Irish setter came bounding through the snow wagging her tail as she saw him. He stopped and patted her, keeping his chin down as the snow swirled around him, and he made his way to the front door and made use of the well-polished brass knocker. But for a long time no one answered, and Charlie began to wonder if anyone was at home. There were lights on inside, but there was no sound, and the Irish setter sat down next to him and looked up at him expectantly as they waited.

He had just given up, and started down the front steps again, when the door opened cautiously and a small white-haired woman looked at him, as though wondering why he had come there. She was neatly dressed in a gray skirt and pale blue sweater, she had a string of pearls around her neck, and she had snow-white hair pulled back into a bun, and brilliant blue eyes that seemed to examine every inch of him as he stood there. She looked like some of the older women he'd known in Boston as a child, and she seemed an unlikely candidate to be running a bed and breakfast. But she also made no move to open the door any farther.

Yes? She opened the door only slightly wider to let the dog inside, and she looked up at Charlie with curiosity, but there was no sign of welcome. May I help you?

I saw the sign ' I thought ' are you closed for the winter? Maybe she only ran it in the summer, he thought to himself, some of the bed and breakfasts did that.

I didn't expect anyone over the holidays, she said cautiously. There's a motel on the highway to Boston. It's just past Deerfield.

Thank you ' I'm sorry ' I ' He felt embarrassed to have intruded on her. She seemed so ladylike and so polite that he felt like some kind of hooligan barging in on her without warning or invitation. But as he apologized, she smiled at him, and he was startled at how alive her eyes were. They were almost electric, they were so full of energy and life, and yet he could tell from looking at her that she had to be in her late sixties, and he suspected that not long since she had once been very pretty. She was delicate and genteel, and she surprised him as she took a step back and opened the door wide enough for him to enter.