The Widow's Walk (12 page)

“You mean right now, here in the boat?” she asked incredulously.

Adam let go a short laugh. “Yes, my love,” he answered. “Right now, here in the boat.”

Before Constance could answer, Adam took her about the waist and gently lifted her to her feet. But as he began leading her toward the stairs, she had a thought and looked up at the sky.

“But, my darling,” she said, “are you sure that there's enough time?”

This time Adam laughed fully. “Yes, my love, there's more than enough time. I've never failed to bring a ship home yet. In the meantime I'll let her drift.”

Soon they stood before the cabin bed, where Adam began undressing her little by little. As her clothes came off and fell to the floor, Constance trembled slightly, just as she always did in anticipation of his touch. When at last they were both naked, Adam lifted her into his arms and laid her down upon the bed.

And at the precise moment he took her, she took him as well and she cried out with abandon, knowing that no one but her beloved would hear . . .

W
HEN
C
ONSTANCE LEFT
her reverie, her shock was so great that she literally cried out loud and sat straight up on the old mattress. Her shouting out this way, she suddenly realized, was exactly as she had done only seconds ago, while still in Adam's arms. But now she was somehow back
here
again, in this time and world that she so disliked. Struggling to make sense of it, she wrapped her arms around her knees, her entire body trembling nearly beyond control.

This had been no dream, she realized. She had actually
been
there with Adam, back in her own time. But although she could remember that interlude while here in this time, while it had been happening she had had absolutely no inkling of what her future life would be like. Then she remembered something else, and her veins turned to ice water.

The reverie she had just experienced was something that had actually happened between her and Adam, one lovely fall day in the year 1837. Adam would leave on his last fateful voyage the following year, never to return. And despite their best efforts, Constance would stay barren, living alone in the great house with only the Jacksons to keep her company. Then one stormy afternoon two years later, she would fall from the widow's walk and somehow end up here in this day and age on the second floor of their old barn, her mind literally awash with fear. It was far too much to bear, and she began sobbing uncontrollably.

I understand nothing of this,
she thought
. Certainly not why I have been imprisoned in time for all these years. Nor why this strange man named Garrett Richmond has suddenly entered my life and confounded me so. Nor do I understand my growing feelings for him, comingled with my guilt over my loving husband, which has now been even further reinforced by this incredibly strange voyage back into my past. This was no dream. Rather, I feel as if I had actually moved through time, and then returned. Will this occur again? Do I even want it to? What in God's name is happening to me?

When at last her shaking stopped, Constance again walked to the open window and looked outside. All the laborers had quit for the day, and Seaside, although now more battered and torn up than ever, still somehow retained her stately grace. The sun was starting to go down, the sky over the ocean taking on that slowly changing violet hue that comes but once each day. With even more trepidation now filling her heart, Constance said a silent prayer.

Please, please return to me tonight, Garrett,
she silently begged.
For there is so much that we must learn about one another . . .

Chapter 11

“Heads up, Garrett!” Dale Richmond shouted. “She's on to something!”

Garrett watched with rapt attention as Freckles, her body and tail nearly rigid, crept slowly toward a clump of brush that lay about five yards ahead of him and his father. She was a wonderful bird dog, probably the best that Dale had ever owned, and she was certainly proving her worth today. It was late afternoon, the sun starting to give way to gloomy-looking clouds.

When Garrett took another step forward, Dale quickly chastised him.

“Stay where you are, son,” he said. “We're already close enough. She'll do her job and then we'll do ours.”

Stopping where he was, Garrett undid the safety on his twelve-gauge Browning over and under. This was the precise moment when all the hard work and practice came into play. For a split second he sensed the hairs on the back of his neck rise a bit, just as they always did before a game bird was flushed from hiding.

Just then Freckles took another careful step forward and a cock pheasant darted from his hiding place. Cackling proudly, he quickly took wing. Pheasants are fast flyers, and if the hunter is not quick enough the chance can be lost in a split second. Although Garrett had done this hundreds of times before, each time was a new experience.

He raised the Browning quickly, pulled the gun sight across the climbing bird's flight path, then pulled the trigger. The Browning roared once, its bird shot killing the pheasant instantly. When the dead bird fell, Garrett recognized both the thrill of victory and the fleeting sense of guilt that any responsible hunter always felt.

Freckles gleefully bounded over, picked up the pheasant in her mouth, then brought it to Garrett and dutifully dropped it at his feet. Garrett reached down and tousled her ears.

“Nice shot!” Dale said as he walked over to where Garrett was standing. “I always knew you had quick reflexes. Your gun went off before mine even reached my shoulder.”

Garrett laughed. “Yeah, well,” he said, “I'm not sixty-three years old. When I'm as decrepit as you, I probably won't be able to do half the things you can.”

Dale laughed, then reached down and picked up the dead pheasant. After admiring it, he reached behind himself and dropped it into the rucksack sewn into the back of his hunting vest. That made two birds this afternoon, which was the Massachusetts daily limit. He then looked up at the sky.

“Good thing we got this last one when we did,” Dale said. “It looks like rain. Plus, if we're going to eat these birds tonight, we need to get them home to your mother.”

Garrett broke open his gun, removed the shells, and put them into one pocket of his hunting vest. As they neared Dale's truck, Garrett smiled a little. He loved hunting game birds with his father. It was the only kind of hunting they did. Dale had taught him to shoot as a teenager, and had begun taking him out pheasant hunting soon after. Garrett had taken to it quickly, and he now sometimes borrowed Freckles and went out on his own. He enjoyed the hunt, but there were occasions when he appreciated the walking and the solitude even more.

While continuing his walk alongside his father, Garrett's thoughts again turned to Constance. After his unsuccessful search for her, he simply couldn't bear being bottled up in his office. And so after fibbing to Trent, he had called his dad and asked if the two of them could go hunting this afternoon. Dale had been ecstatic and told Garrett to come straight over to the house. But hunting was the lesser of Garrett's motives. Just as he had needed to talk to his mother privately a few days ago, he now also wanted to talk to his father one on one, and out here had seemed the perfect venue.

Garrett valued both his parents for good advice, but in different ways. His mother was the more analytical of the two, who always put her trust in facts and science. Dale, on the other hand, was more spiritual and much more willing to admit that not everything needed a scientific explanation simply to be true. It was that metaphysical sort of question that Garrett now wished to ask his father.

When they got to the truck, Dale put down the tailgate and lifted Freckles into the back. Then the father and son sat down on the tailgate, watching the dark clouds gather. They were parked atop a small knoll that overlooked a rolling valley, the leaves of its trees crimson and gold with the advent of winter.

Dale grabbed a cooler that lay in the truck bed and pulled out two longneck beers, handing one to Garrett. Father and son sat quietly, enjoying the moment.

After a time, Garrett set down his half-consumed beer.

“Dad,” he asked, “could I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Dale answered. “What is it? Do you have a problem of some kind?”

Garrett thought about that for a moment.

“No, not really,” he answered. “My question's more of a general nature.”

Dale took another slug of his beer.

“Then fire away,” he answered.

“You believe in the hereafter, right?” Garrett asked.

Dale found that a rather unusual question coming from Garrett, because like his mother, he had never been particularly religious.

“Yes,” Dale answered, “I do. I've always found that a sense of faith helps get me through all the tough stuff.”

“What about reincarnation, ghosts, things like that?” Garrett asked. “Do you believe those sorts of things are possible too?”

On hearing that question, Dale began perusing his memories.

“I've seen a lot of things I couldn't account for, Garrett,” he answered, “especially during the fog of war that was Vietnam. I've seen people that I've pronounced dead, only to watch them come alive again. And I've performed simple surgeries during which I thought the patient would surely survive, but didn't. I suppose that being a surgeon has given me a unique perspective on life, death, and perhaps even the hereafter. As far as your question about reincarnation and ghosts is concerned, all I can say is that there are many things we have yet to understand. And as such, we must at least admit the possibility that they exist.”

Garrett thought about his father's answer for a while, then picked up his bottle and took another drink.

“Like God?” Garrett asked.

“I don't know an awful lot about God,” Dale said. “But I believe in him.”

Dale again gazed out at the magnificent view.

“If he can create the world in seven days,” he added, “then I sure as hell believe that he can create ghosts and reincarnation, if he wants to. But when all is said and done, there's only one thing I know for sure about the relationship between God and surgeons.”

Garrett looked at his father quizzically.

“And just what is that?” he asked.

“The answer's simple,” Dale said. “God doesn't think he's a surgeon.”

Garrett couldn't help but laugh out loud.

“You might be right on that one,” he answered, “but I never saw you that way.”

Dale smiled again then clinked his beer bottle against Garrett's.

“Thanks, son,” he answered. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

Garrett hadn't gotten a definitive answer from his father, but then again, he hadn't really expected one. There were no real truths about reincarnation, or ghosts, or coming back from the dead. In the end he realized that he hadn't been looking for an answer, so much as a reassurance that such things might actually exist, thereby allowing him to believe Constance's mad story. It was always good talking to his father. Dale had a beneficent way about him that made Garrett feel welcome, and protected. Being out here with his father had been exactly the tonic he needed.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Dale said.

Garrett smiled as he turned to look at his dad. “Sorry about that,” he answered. “I was just off somewhere, thinking.”

“Yeah,” Dale answered, “I can understand that. But my sense is that there's something more going on here. It isn't like you to ask these sorts of questions. Are you sure there isn't something you need to talk about?”

Garrett returned his gaze to the darkening skyline.

“For now, I'm just going to have to figure this out on my own,” he answered. “But if I ever need to come to you about it, I know you'll be there.”

“Of course I will, son,” Dale answered. “And so will your mom.”

Garrett looked at his watch.

“Would you mind if we got going, Dad?” he asked. “I'd like to be back at Seaside before it gets too late.”

“Yep,” Dale said.

“Sounds good,” Garrett answered. “And thanks for today. I needed this time with you.”

“Well, you're already a hell of a good shot,” Dale answered. “Now, if you'd only let me teach you how to play poker . . .”

Garrett laughed.

“One sin at a time, Dad,” he said. “One sin at a time.”

Dale nodded.

“And regarding your questions about God,” he said, “well, there's only one more thought that I might add.”

“What's that?”

Dale fished around in his hunting jacket for his truck keys, then looked into Garrett's eyes.

“If you want to hear God laugh,” he said, “just try telling him your plans.”

Chapter 12

After arranging some newspaper and kindling in the dining room fireplace, Garrett struck a match and set them ablaze. They caught fire quickly, and he soon loaded on some heavier pieces of wood. As the fire's warmth crept throughout the room, he sat down against one wall, thinking.

Because he ate the pheasant dinner with his parents, he had arrived here at Seaside later than he had wanted. By now the night had fallen in earnest. But that hadn't mattered, because he hadn't really come here to view the ongoing restoration. He was really here in hopes of finding Constance.

He had done another search of the house, but Constance was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps that didn't matter either, for she seemed able to come and go like some sort of wraith. If she wanted to find him, she would do so in her own good time. Would she come to him tonight? he wondered. He hoped so, for he urgently needed to talk to her. The events of this morning had rattled him deeply, and he was desperate to know more.

Garrett took a fresh bottle of bourbon from his knapsack, and poured some into a Styrofoam cup. It tasted good, and as he sat watching the fire he realized he could wait here all night, if need be. But what if he never saw her again, and he couldn't ask her the many questions that had been plaguing him? Could he live without knowing the answers? And perhaps worse, could he live with the answers if he learned them?