Page 55 of Rainshadow

Flora read and reread.

She flipped the pages. Agatha had been born into a wealthy British family in 1931. By the end of the Second World War, however, her family was respectable, but essentially destitute. They had only a crumbling country house to their name, bought for a song by a wealthy, but mysterious, titleless gentleman. When the gentleman rehabilitated the sprawling country home, he invited the family back to see it, and it was then, at this late-evening party, that Agatha caught his eye. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.

He had a wife, the aging silent film start Audre West, who drunkenly swooned around the house, showing off the gaudy furniture and elaborate velvet curtains she’d installed. Agatha, seeing it all, felt a terrible, tragic feeling, and a pity for the young man, obviously very rich, who was being taken advantage of by this horrible old actress.

Flora shut the book, her chest tightening.

She needed something to do other than swan around Rainshadow all day long.

Dressed in a beautiful cashmere sweater and her tall, shiny black boots, she drove the Range Rover into town. She went straight to the library where she felt the eyes of the librarians on her. She knew she looked out of place, but what could she do? Keep wearing her ancient riding boots and thrift store flannel? Self-consciously, she grabbed half a dozen books from the shelves, then carried them to the desk.

“It’s really nice to see you, Flora,” the librarian said, smiling at her.

Flora felt a flush of self-consciousness so profound it made her heart race. The librarian looked at her with pity, but she knew it was really a deep jealousy, jealousy of her expensive clothes, of the fact that she lived at Rainshadow, as everyone likely knew, now. They must all, she realized, be jealous of her.

She snatched the books away and rushed from the library as soon as she could. It was at the front door that she nearly ran, headlong, into Blythe.

“Flora,” Blythe said, looking at her, at her clothes, scrutinizing her face. “I’ve been worried about you.”

“There’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine.”

“Are you still out there? At Rainshadow?”

Flora swallowed and straightened her back. “Yes. And Sylvia left, moved back home to… to Georgia. It’s just Ethan and I now.”

Blythe gave her a long, searching look, her big, soulful eyes darkening with understanding. “Oh, Flora,” she said.

“You should come out,” Flora said, surprising herself. “In the spring. You can have some lavender to make?—”

“No,” Blythe said, cutting her off. “I won’t be coming out. In fact, I’m leaving, going to Orcas Island to live. I don’t want to stay here.”

Flora felt hot all over. “I’m happy,” she said to Blythe. “I got what I wanted. You said I wouldn’t, but I did.”

“I’m happy for you,” Blythe said, smiling gently at her.

Back at Rainshadow, Flora spent the rest of the afternoon trying to read a fantasy novel. All she wanted was to slip into another world, but she was distracted. Part of her knew, could feel in a strange, vague way, that Ethan would feed on her thatnight. She looked forward to the delicious feeling it would give her, but feared the pain and exhausting aftermath. She could sense him, now, in his tomb, and knew the feeling would only grow with every feeding, every time they made love.

Restless, she walked the grounds of the estate, watching the sun set. It was more vivid now that winter was receding. Rainshadow would only become more beautiful by the day. The stench of death, of rot, was almost gone, the horse in the woods, and she knew Sylvia’s body would never be found. Nobody here on the island was really aware of her.

She might as well not have existed.

Once Blythe left the island, Flora reflected, very few people on the island would know her, or think to go looking for her if she never showed up in town again. That didn’t matter. She would be mysterious and glamorous, alone with her dark lover in a house where she would live until she died, whenever that may be.

The sea crashed below her, whispering the names of the women who had come before. Sylvia, Agatha, and now Audre, women who Ethan could not have possibly loved as he loved her. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what it had been that Audre had wanted, the way Agatha had wanted to return to her childhood, how Sylvia had wanted her horses, and how desperately she had wanted Rainshadow. She began to imagine the stories the other women had told themselves, imagining that Ethan needed them, that if they only got rid of the woman in their way, how they could have everything. She forced herself to stop thinking about it.

She looked back at Rainshadow, windows glowing in the coming dark. She had done unspeakable things for him, and she would not regret it, could not. She refused.

She was the lady of Rainshadow, and she was happy.

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