The Tale of Halcyon Crane (6 page)

She squinted at me. “You’ve never met the woman?”

“I don’t remember ever meeting her, no.” It was technically the truth.

She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve come all this way at this time of year to talk about the will of a woman you didn’t know.” A statement.

I was starting to get more than a little uncomfortable with her intrusion into my personal business. What did she care why I was here? Why was she grilling me like this? “Actually, if you must know, I’ve been dealing with quite a lot at home lately, and when I received Mr. Archer’s letter I was grateful for the chance to get away for a few days.”

“If you
must
know,” wielded correctly, always turns the tide. I watched as her suspicion melted into concern mixed with what might have been a good dose of chagrin.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I understand. Everyone can use a getaway now and then, even in November.”

“In any case, I’ll learn more tomorrow when I see Mr. Archer. I’m curious to find out about all of this, too.”

The conversation turned to other things, and we spent the rest of the evening quite amicably. After all, she had
prepared dinner for me and was doing everything she could to make me feel at home. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that had crept up my spine when I mentioned Madlyn Crane’s name. It was as though Mira’s suspicion and mistrust had worked its way into my body and was taking root, reminding me to be on guard.

When I finally retreated to my room I climbed beneath the thick down comforter, but I couldn’t shake the cold.

I
awoke with a start, a silent scream catching in my throat. Someone had touched my face; I was sure of it. I sat up fast. Was somebody here, watching me as I slept? Mira?

Moonlight streamed in from the bay window, illuminating the room with an eerie whiteness. My heart was pounding in my chest as I looked around: my bags, the television, the armoire, the window seat. Nothing seemed amiss.

I slipped out of bed and poked my head into the bathroom. Empty. So was the closet. Nobody was under my bed, either. After checking the lock on my door—bolted, the chain fastened—I exhaled, not realizing I had been holding my breath all the while.

It had been a dream, then.
Silly.

I tried settling back down under the covers, but the adrenaline rush had pushed sleep away. I tossed and turned for an hour or so, trying to coax slumber back from wherever it had gone, but my thoughts ran wild, from my mother to William Archer’s letter to Mira’s suspicious eyes. The numbers on the clock glowed 4:15. I finally gave in; there would be no more sleep tonight. I slipped on my robe and
padded over to the window seat, covering my legs with an afghan as I leaned back against the pillows.

There wasn’t the whisper of a wave; the lake was so calm it seemed as though a thin sheet of ice were covering its surface. Moonlight sparkled on the inky water in a long column that stretched as far as I could see. There were a few lights still blinking on the mainland at this hour; most everyone else, apparently, was sensible enough to be in bed.

Curled up in the window seat, I used the water to calm my racing thoughts, breathing in and out, trying to become as still as its glassy surface. Then, not far off shore, a splash.

I squinted and saw, plain as day, an arm slowly coming up out of the water. A human arm. Then another. More splashing. Then a head, a face gasping for air. A person was in trouble out there! I jumped to my feet. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? I had been sitting in the window seat for several minutes—maybe longer than that—and I hadn’t seen a boat or a swimmer or . . . anything. That lake had been as still as the grave.

It didn’t matter. Impossible or not, I knew what I had seen. I fumbled with the bolt on my door, flew out of my room, and pounded down the stairs. “Mira! Call nine-one-one!” I shouted, as I flung open the front door and ran outside to get a better look at what was happening. I hurried down the steps and ran to the edge of the cliff, the chill from the ground stinging my bare feet.

Mira was beside me almost instantly, portable phone in hand. “Hallie! What the hell—”

My eyes were frozen on the lake. Instead of the glassy,
serene surface I had seen from my window just minutes earlier, the water was now rough and angry. Whitecaps were being whipped up by the stiff wind; the huge waves crashed violently onto the rocky shore below.
How could that be?

“Hallie!” Mira shook me by the arm, as if to wake me from a dream. “What are you doing out here?”

I didn’t respond.

“Let’s get you back inside. You’ll catch your death.” She led me back to the house, closing the front door behind her.

“I saw—”

“What, Hallie?”

I walked over to the window. “I saw a person out there. In the lake.”

“In a boat?”

“No, in the water. About a hundred yards off shore. Maybe more.”

She looked at me, questioning, shaking her head. “That’s impossible. You must’ve been dreaming.”

“No, really,” I insisted. “I was wide awake. I couldn’t sleep, so I was sitting on the window seat in my room. And all of a sudden I saw a person out there, in the water, trying to come up for air. He seemed to be drowning, Mira. I feel like we should call the police or the Coast Guard or somebody. Only . . .” My words trailed off. I was beginning to doubt what I had seen with my own eyes.

“Only, what?”

“When I was looking at the lake from my room, the surface of the water was like glass. It was completely still. And then I went outside . . .” I looked into Mira’s eyes, wanting
some sort of explanation for what had just occurred, some confirmation that winds blow up here in an instant. But she just shook her head.

“The gales have been blowing all night long. Haven’t you heard it? The whole house has been shaking. I was worried it would keep you up.”

I didn’t know what to think. “But that person—”

“Hallie.” She took my hand gently. “There’s no way somebody could have been swimming. Even in summer you can’t swim out there. The water temperature is too cold. People fall off their sailboats and get hypothermia
in August
. At this time of year? Nobody could survive for long in water that cold.”

It took a moment for her words to take root in my mind. She was right, of course, it must’ve been a dream. Now it was my turn to apologize. “I feel like such an idiot, waking you up in the middle of the night and running outside like a crazy woman.”

She smiled. “Don’t sweat it. There’s something about this island that does things to people. I should’ve mentioned it to you earlier. I think it’s the combination of the horse-and-carriage thing and the rhythm of the lake itself, but people’s imaginations get thrown into high gear when they’re here. We get a lot of writers and artists who come specifically for inspiration.

“And it’s not only that,” she went on, leading me up the steps. “You may very well have seen a ghost.”

I stopped. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Oh, not at all.” She winked at me. “I lead ghost tours around this island for visitors during high season. There is
definitely something here, Hallie. The old-timers say it has something to do with ancient legends about the island being a sort of gateway to the spirit world. This place is chock-full of ghosts. I’m not surprised you picked up on it.”

Back in my room, I noticed the first hint of light appearing in the eastern sky. Early as it was, I turned on the shower and stood under the hot water for a long time, trying to wash the image of that drowning person out of my mind.

After drying off, I figured I might as well dress for the day. What to wear for my meeting with a lawyer? A pair of comfortable jeans and a cotton sweater? Combined with a tweed jacket, it would have to do. I got the impression most people didn’t dress formally here, anyway. I hunted in my suitcase for my hair dryer and found that the steam from the shower was still hanging in the air, like fog. It made me think of that foggy day back home, when this all began. As I ran a brush through my hair, the reflection in the bathroom mirror made me catch my breath: A hand print was on the outside of the steamy glass shower door. It was clear as daylight.

I felt exactly the same way I felt that day in the fog; fear was seeping up off the floor into my body. Did I make that hand print as I got out of the shower? Or had someone been in that steamy bathroom, standing there, watching me? I fervently hoped it was the former, but really, how often do you make a full hand print on the shower door?

I checked the bedroom. In all the excitement, I must’ve forgotten to flip the dead bolt when I came back to my room. Somebody could’ve come in here and lurked outside my shower. But who, Mira? Nobody else—that I knew of—was in the house.

I
hitched a ride into town with Mira in her carriage behind two enormous Clydesdales. It was too early for my meeting, but I figured it was wise, here on the island, to take advantage of the opportunity for a ride whenever it presented itself. A chill wind wrapped around us from off the lake, and dark clouds hung low and threatening in the sky. I buttoned up my jacket and was thankful for my warm sweater.

Mira dropped me at the coffee shop on Main Street, Jonah’s, armed with directions to William Archer’s office. “See you later!” she called over her shoulder, as she clopped away. “Good luck with your meeting!” I looked at my watch and found I had just over an hour to kill.

I pushed open the door of the coffee shop and saw a group of people, all of them about my dad’s age, sitting at a table by the window: a woman in a red fleece vest and jeans, a couple of men in flannel shirts, another woman in a fisherman’s-knit sweater. Locals, obviously.

I heard their laughter and chatter as I came in, but all conversation stopped when I entered the room. Those people
silenced themselves mid-laugh, mid-story, mid-sip, and every head turned in my direction. Had they been looking at me with curiosity and friendliness, it would have been one thing. But this—I felt as if I had just stumbled into a secret-society enclave. I was every inch the trespasser, thoroughly scrutinized. My skin was crawling with the force of their stares. What was their problem? Just a few weeks ago, this town had been awash with tourists. Now, suddenly, these people were stunned by the sight of a stranger in their midst?

I cleared my throat in an effort to let the man behind the counter know I was standing there. He finally saw me and broke the uncomfortable silence.

“Let me guess.” He winked at me, deliberately talking loudly enough for the gang in the corner to hear. “You’re in, of all places, a coffee shop, for a latte.” The group got the message and reluctantly turned back to their own conversation, their eyes, mercifully, off my back.

“That’s amazing.” I grinned. “You must be psychic. I am indeed here for a latte. Skim. With a half shot of almond and a half shot of chocolate.” Why not treat myself on such a day?

As he heated the milk for my drink, I remembered the name I saw above the door as I came in. “You must be Jonah?”

“I am indeed.” He handed me the steaming mug. “And you?”

“I’m Hallie James, a stranger in these parts.”

Jonah let out a laugh, which caused several heads to turn
in my direction again. “Drink’s on me. Welcome to the island, Hallie James.”

“Are you sure?” I asked him, fishing a twenty out of my purse and brandishing it in his direction.

“Absolutely.” He nodded. “Island tradition. The first outof-season visitor of the year gets a free coffee.”

Jonah was about my age, maybe a few years younger, with shoulder-length blond hair and a sunny disposition to match. His face exuded a warmth I was grateful for.

“Thanks.” I smiled, grabbed the newspaper that was sitting on the counter, and headed to a table as far as I could get from the locals.

Windows looking out onto the harbor lined the back wall of the shop. As I buried my face in the headlines, I imagined it must be quite a sight here in the summertime, sipping iced coffee while the ferries chugged into port and colorful sailboats floated languidly by. The picture it painted in my mind was so real and vivid, it was almost as though I had seen it before. That thought caught in my throat. Maybe I had! I wondered how long this coffee shop had been in business.

Roughly two minutes had passed since the last time I checked my watch. I tried to immerse myself in last week’s news (the paper was old), but I couldn’t quiet my racing thoughts enough to read. What would I learn at my meeting with William Archer?

The local welcome wagon pushed their chairs away from the table and began to drift out of the shop. As some of them called their goodbyes to Jonah, one woman stopped at my table, smiling. She looked as though she were baring her
teeth. “I’m so sorry we all stopped and stared when you came in,” she said. “It must have made you terribly uncomfortable. It’s just that we don’t get many tourists this time of year and—well, you looked so familiar, it took us all aback.” I nodded, not knowing how to respond. She added, still smiling that oddly aggressive smile, “I’m afraid we were quite rude.” She waited, then, for me to say something.

“No offense taken.”

She thrust her hand in my direction. “I’m Isabel Stroud.”