Page 9 of The Shape of Night

It has been months since any man has touched me there. Months since I’ve felt even the faintest hint of lust. Not since New Year’s Eve. My body has been asleep, all desire frozen in a state of hibernation. But this morning, when I’d stood on the beach, I had felt something inside me flicker back to life.

I close my eyes and in an instant the memory of that night is back. My kitchen counter covered with used wineglasses and dirty plates and platters of empty oyster shells. The cold tiles under my naked back. His body on top of mine, thrusting into me again and again. But I won’t think abouthim.I cannot bear to think of him. Instead I conjure up a faceless, guilt-freesomeone,a man who does not exist. A man for whom I feel only lust, not love. Not shame.

I refill my glass with whiskey, even though I know I have already had too much tonight. My shin still aches from banging it on the landing last night, and this afternoon I noticed a fresh bruise on my arm, but I can’t remember when or where I got it. This drink will be my last for the night. I gulp it down and flop onto the bed, where moonlight, pale as cream, washes across my body. I peel open my nightdress and let the cool sea air whisper across my skin. I imagine a man’s hands touching me here, and here, and here. A faceless, nameless man who knows my every desire, a perfect lover who exists only in my fantasies. My breaths quicken. I close my eyes and hear myself moan. For the first time in months my body is hungry again to feel a man inside me. I imagine him grasping both my wrists and pinning them above my head. I feel his calloused hands, his unshaven face against my skin. My back arches and my hips rise to meet his. A breeze blows in through the open window, flooding the room with the smell of the sea. I feel his hand cradling my breast, stroking my nipple.

“You are the one I’ve been waiting for.”

The voice is so close, soreal,I gasp and my eyes fly open. In terror I stare at the dark shape hovering above me. Not solid, but merely a swirl of shadow that slowly drifts away and dissipates like mist in the moonlight.

I bolt straight up in bed and flip on the lamp. Heart banging, I frantically scan the room for the intruder. All I see is Hannibal sitting in the corner, watching me.

I jump to my feet and scramble to check the door. It is still locked tight. I cross to the closet, yank it open, and rake aside my hanging clothes. I find no intruder lurking inside, but I spy an unfamiliar bundle of silk in the deepest corner of the closet. I unfurl a rose-colored silk scarf—not mine. Where did this come from?

There’s only one more place in the room to look. Confronting every childhood nightmare about monsters hiding under the bed, I drop to my knees and peer under the box spring. Of course, no one is there. All I find is a stray flip-flop. Like the silk scarf, it was probably left behind by the woman who lived here before me.

Bewildered, I sink onto the bed and try to make sense of what I just experienced. Only a dream, surely, but one so vivid I am still shaking from it.

Through my nightdress, I feel my own breast and think of the hand on my skin. My nipple still tingles at the memory of what I felt. What I heard. What I smelled. I look down at the scarf I found in the closet. Only then do I notice the French fabric tag and I realize this is an Hermès scarf. How could Charlotte leave this behind? If it were mine, I’d make sure it was one of the first things that went into my suitcase. She must have been in a rush to pack if she’d left behind her well-loved cookbook and this expensive scarf. I think of what I just experienced. The hand caressing my breast, the shape swirling in the shadows. And the voice. A man’s voice.

Did you hear him too, Charlotte?

Five

Two men have invaded my house. Not fantasy men but real men named Ned Haskell and Billy Conway. I hear them hammering and sawing up on the roof, where they’re now replacing the rotted deck of the widow’s walk. As they hammer upstairs, downstairs in the kitchen, I cream together butter and sugar, chop walnuts and blend it together into a batter. I left my Cuisinart at home in Boston, so I must now cook the old-fashioned way, using my muscles and bare hands. The physical labor is comforting, even though I know I will have sore arms tomorrow. Today I am testing a toffee cake recipe I found in an 1880 memoir by a sea captain’s wife, and it’s a joy to work in this bright and spacious kitchen, which was designed with a large domestic staff in mind. Judging by the grand scale of the rooms, Captain Brodie was a wealthy man and he would have employed a cook and housekeeper and several kitchen maids. In his day, there would have been a wood-burning stove, and instead of the refrigerator, a zinc-lined cold closet chilled by ice that would be regularly replenished by the local iceman. As my toffee cake bakes, perfusing the kitchen with the scent of cinnamon, I imagine the household staff laboring in this room, chopping vegetables, plucking chickens. And in the dining room, the table would be set with fine china and candles. Sea captains brought home souvenirs from around the world, and I wonder where all Captain Brodie’s treasures are now. Handed down to his heirs or lost to antique shops and landfills? This week I will pay a visit to the local historical society and see if they have any of the captain’s possessions in their collection. My editor, Simon, was intrigued by my description of the house and in his email this morning, he asked me to hunt down more information about Captain Jeremiah Brodie.Tell us what sort of man he was. Tall or short? Handsome or ugly?

How did he die?

The oven timer dings.

I take the cake out of the oven, inhaling the rich scent of molasses and spices, the same aromas that once might have filled this kitchen and wafted throughout the house. Did the captain enjoy cakes just like this one, topped with sweet churned cream and served on a dainty china plate? Or did his tastes lean toward roasted meat and potatoes? I’d prefer to think of him as a man with an adventurous palate. After all, he was daring enough to challenge the perils of the sea.

I cut a slice of cake and savor the first bite. Yes, this is definitely a recipe worth including in my book, along with the story of how I discovered it, handwritten in the margins of the crumbling journal I’d bought at an estate sale. But as delicious as it is, I certainly can’t eat the whole thing myself. I cut it into squares and carry my offering upstairs to the two men who by now must have worked up a healthy appetite.

The turret is cluttered with stacked wood, sawhorses, toolboxes, and a band saw. I pick my way through the obstacle course and open the door to the widow’s walk, where the carpenters are hammering a plank into place. Yesterday they removed the rotted railing and from their now-unprotected perch, it’s a dizzying drop to the ground.

I don’t dare set even one foot out the door, but call to them: “If you want cake, I’ve just taken one out of the oven.”

“Nowthisis a good time for a break,” says Billy, the younger man, and they both set down their tools.

There are no chairs in the turret, so both men grab squares of cake and we stand in a circle while they eat in focused silence. Although Ned is three decades older than Billy, the two men look so much alike they could be father and son. They’re both deeply tanned and muscular, their T-shirts powdery with sawdust, their jeans sagging with the weight of their tool belts.

Billy grins at me with a mouth full of cake. “Thank you, ma’am! First time any client’s baked a treat for us!”

“Actually, this is my job,” I tell him. “I’ve collected a long list of recipes I need to test, and I certainly can’t eat everything I cook.”

“Are you a baker by trade?” asks Ned. Silver-haired and serious, he strikes me as a man who considers every word before he speaks. Everywhere I look in this house, I see the evidence of his meticulous craftsmanship.

“I’m a food writer. I’m working on a book about the traditional foods of New England, and I need to test every recipe before I include it in the book.”

Billy raises his arm. “Private Billy Conway reporting for duty. I volunteer to be your guinea pig. You cook and I’ll eat,” he says, and we all laugh.

“How much longer until the deck’s finished?” I ask, pointing to the widow’s walk.

“It should take us another week or so to replace the boards and put up the new railing,” says Ned. “Then we need to get back to work in here. That’ll take us another week.”

“I thought you were all done with this turret.”

“We thought so, too. Until Billy swung a plank and accidentally punched into that plaster.” He points to a gouge in the wall. “It’s hollow back there. There’s a space behind it.”

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