Page 36 of The Shape of Night

“No.” I force myself to meet his gaze and answer calmly: “It really is nothing.”

After a moment he nods. “It’s my job to protect the well-being of my patients. I know you live all alone up there, and I want to make sure you feel safe. That youaresafe.”

“I am. I mean, aside from having an attack cat.”

At that he laughs, and the sound defuses the tension between us. He must sense that I haven’t told him everything, but for now he’s not pressing me for the truth. And what would he say if Ididtell him about what happened to me in the turret? Would he be shocked to hear that I’d actually enjoyed it? That ever since that night, I’ve waited eagerly for my phantom lover to return?

“I don’t see any need for a follow-up visit, unless your fever returns,” he says and closes the chart. “How much longer will you be staying in Tucker Cove?”

“I’ve arranged to rent the house through the end of October, but I’m starting to think I may stay even longer. It’s turned out to be the perfect place for me to write.”

“Ah yes,” he says, as he walks me back to the reception area. “I’ve heard all about your book. Billy Conway told me you served him a beef stew that was to die for.”

“Is thereanyoneyou don’t know in this town?”

“That’s the charm of living in Tucker Cove. We know everything about everyone and yet we still talk to each other. Most of the time, anyway.”

“What else have you heard about me?”

“Besides the fact you’re a great cook? You’re also very interested in our town’s history.”

“You heard that from Mrs. Dickens, right?”

He gives a sheepish laugh and nods. “Mrs. Dickens.”

“It’s unfair. You know all about me, but I don’t know a thing about you.”

“You could always learn more.” He opens the door to reception and we both walk out into the waiting room. “Are you interested in art?”

“Why do you ask?”

“The Seaglass Gallery downtown has an opening reception tonight. It’s to celebrate their new exhibition of local artists. Two of my paintings are in the show, if you’d like to drop by.”

“I had no idea you’re an artist.”

“So now you know something about me. I’m not saying I’m Picasso or anything, but painting does keep me out of trouble.”

“I just might stop in tonight and take a look.”

“And while you’re there, you can look at Ned’s bird sculptures.”

“You mean Ned, my carpenter?”

“He’s more than just a carpenter. He’s been working with wood all his life and his carvings are sold in galleries in Boston.”

“He never once mentioned to me he’s an artist.”

“Lots of people in this town have hidden talents.”

And secrets, too,I think as I walk out of his office. I wonder how he’d react if he learned my secrets. If he knew the reason why I left Boston. If he knew what happened to me in the turret room of Brodie’s Watch. For nights I’ve been waiting, longing, for Captain Brodie’s return. Perhaps this is part of the punishment he doles out, forcing me to wonder if he will ever reappear.

I walk down a street that’s crowded with summer tourists, none of whom can possibly imagine the thoughts cycling in my head. The red velvet curtain. The leather cuffs. The hiss of my silk dress ripping open. Suddenly I halt, sweating in the heat, my pulse roaring in my ears. Is this what madness feels like, this wild caroming between shame and lust?

I think of the letter written a century and a half ago by a lovesick teenager named Ionia. She too had been obsessed with Jeremiah Brodie. What sordid rumors swirled around him, leading Ionia’s mother to forbid any contact? While he was alive, how many women did he bring to his turret?

Surely I’m not the only one.

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