Divine Fantasy (14 page)

“I’ll remember that,” I said, and meant it.

An inky finger of gray smoke stretched toward us from the east. I couldn’t identify what kind of smoke it was, though I preferred it to the stench of barbecuing zombies.

“Is that your cabin?” I asked.

“Yes, I set it afire.” His voice was matter-of-fact, but his eyes still glittered and I could see raised tissue on his chest beneath his wet shirt. He jerked his head toward a large duffel. “That’s what’s left of my guns and ammunition. I’ll bury what we can’t take with us. Then we’d better get a move on.”

“So, we’re definitely leaving tonight?”

“Yes. I checked my plane and everything’s fine. We’ll spend the night on the big island and then leave for Maine in the morning. There is a flight out at eleven every weekday. It’s never completely full this time of year.”

“We can go? Just like that?” For some reason this surprised me. Maybe because it was so anti-climactic.

“Just like that. I’ll call the manager from the hotel and warn him that there will need to be a lot of cleanup and that we’ll have to cancel all bookings until at least February. You have your passport?”

I nodded. “Do I have time to shower?” I asked, looking down at my clothes that were covered in sand, slime, dried cherries, soot and sweat.

“If you’re quick. I’d like to get out of here before we lose the light. My plane is old and doesn’t have any computer guidance systems since I’m death on them. I can see all right even in the dark, but the
officials on the ground don’t like it when I land at night.”

“I’ll be quicker than quick,” I promised, feeling like I had had quite enough death-defying adventure for one day without adding flying in the dark.

“Here.
A
souvenir for you.” Ambrose reached down and tossed a clean T-shirt my way. It was large, a man’s shirt and somewhat worn. On it was a quote from Stephen Crane’s
“In The Desert”
:

And that finally made me laugh. Of course Bitter Bierce would have such a shirt. “Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

Our journey was long, but I slept through most of it. Ambrose handled the seaplane well, in spite of it being a relic from the earliest days of aviation. For you airplane buffs, it was a Curtiss N-9. Ambrose had learned to fly it during the First World War and had kept the hydroplane as a souvenir.

Perhaps Ambrose was doing something to keep me calm, or maybe it was just that I’d had a surfeit of terror and could feel no more, but the short flight to the big island was neither scary nor exhilarating, though a strange sort of lightning danced over the plane for the entire trip and also made Ambrose seem to glow.

Ambrose was well-known and he had no trouble getting us a suite at the hotel on Nadi. I don’t recall the name of the hotel, but it was on the beach in Smugglers Cove. The rooms were airy but that
is all I remember. My exhausted body dropped into a light coma the moment it hit the four-hundred-thread-count sheets.

We had time the next morning to do some perusing of the gift shop for clothes, and have breakfast, and then it was time to leave. This time we were flying first class. I might have protested the expense, but Ambrose made all the arrangements. Maybe he thought he owed me a refund for the missed vacation on his island. I wondered briefly how his phone call to his manager had gone and how he planned to explain what happened to the bungalows on the island. I would have blamed it on the crocodile. That was the only thing that sounded even remotely believable.

During one of the flights I uploaded the photos from my camera onto the computer. They were amazing. If I were so inclined, I could have made a bundle selling them to the tabloids:

No reputable paper or magazine would touch them of course. The subject matter was so bizarre that anyone sane would believe them to be a hoax. I had been there and I still couldn’t entirely process what had happened.

The airplane was alright as airplanes go, but as a place to begin a romance—or at least the consideration of a romance—it was lacking in ambience. Still, I had a lot of slow, quiet time in which to
consider Ambrose and the fact that I was taking him to what was the closest thing I had to a home.

Eventually we landed in Bangor and were able to stagger out onto real land with other real people, albeit a cold and dark place locked in winter. After renting a car, we took Route 1A to Ellsworth and then Route 3 to Bar Harbor. We could have chartered a private plane to take us to Hancock County Airport, but Bangor was much larger and only fifty miles away. Also, we knew for certain that it wouldn’t be closed because of the weather. The snowplows were not always Johnny-on-the-spot in smaller towns that were largely boarded up for the winter. Once we were this close, we didn’t want to be delayed because of bad weather at a small airport.

In spite of my residual bad childhood feeling about the place, Bar Harbor is lovely. It is undersized as many cities and towns go, and consequently has escaped the retail monotony that has overshadowed much of the United States. It has retained an identity. Bar Harbor has shops and boutiques but no mega-malls. Unfortunately for us, most of these quaint tourist shops closed up at Christmas and wouldn’t reopen until spring.

Having been unable to outfit ourselves with appropriate winter gear at airport gift shops, we made a stop at an outlet store near the airport to buy winter clothing. I had been living in a borrowed T-shirt and tie-dyed shorts for the last twenty hours and was feeling chafed and cranky. Ambrose didn’t actually need a coat and boots since he didn’t feel the
cold, but it was good camouflage. I, on the other hand, did need a coat and jeans and woolen shirt and socks and snow boots. I threw in some sunscreen and tinted lip balm, too. I would have liked to shop a bit more for cosmetics and toiletries, but my nerves kept insisting that we were exposed and needed to get under cover. I decided I would make do with whatever clothing and shampoo I had at the house.

We stopped once more at a small market just outside town. The moment we stepped from the car, the cold rushed into my joints and made me realize how tired I was. My body ached all over and I was feeling that the old raised walkway in front of the store might actually defeat me.

Then Ambrose touched my arm and, as was always the case, I found that I had a hidden store of energy. Or, more likely, that he was sending me some of his own seemingly endless supply.

We picked up milk and eggs, bread and butter, frozen orange juice and coffee. And olives. They had three kinds displayed tastefully among a collection of antique lobster cages that were also for sale. The man behind the counter rang us up without idle chitchat, and for once I was grateful for the local inclination to be standoffish.

“Ready?” Ambrose asked me as I paused at the market door, surveying the disturbed snow in the tiny parking lot, looking for heaven only knew what.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I muttered, and pushed open the door to head back out into the cold.

Do you recall the opening credits to that old
soap opera,
Dark Shadows?
There are high-drama shots of murderous waves throwing themselves onto rocky cliffs—that’s Bar Harbor. It’s about forty-five square miles in all, and has about four thousand five hundred residents. In summer. There are only about half that many in winter, especially over the holidays. There’s plenty of room for privacy. Perhaps too much privacy if we ran into trouble.

There is one sandy beach among the rocky cliffs and we passed it on the way into town. A conspiracy of ravens was gathered on the icy shore and eyed us openly as we passed. Usually I adore the giant black birds, but their boldness made me feel uneasy then, in spite of being exhausted. After what we had seen on the island, I would never be entirely trusting of birds again. Of any animals, really, since it seemed they could be signed up for the other team.

Downtown has only four main streets that block it in. My house was located on a small lane just off Main Street at the corner where Svenborg’s—The Finest In Viking Cuisine—had set up shop two decades ago, and the food wasn’t half bad if you stayed away from the lutefisk.

The house had been used as a barn when built in 1895 and was known locally by the unimaginative name of Graystone. I made note as we passed that most of the quaint houses and businesses along Main Street were shuttered, their inhabitants wisely headed for warmer climes. Even Svenborg’s was empty, though there were Christmas lights in the window. We might have been traveling through
the world after everyone had been removed by the Rapture.

The thought gave me the shivers.

“Cold?” Ambrose asked. He seemed to be enjoying driving the car, though we were unable to get any radio reception and the headlights refused to work.

“Only in my soul,” I muttered.

We drove slowly through the deserted neighborhood. I noticed that some of the trees along the street were not bare of leaves and were bowed down under the heavy weight of the clotted snow. From time to time winter will come on so fast that it will rudely freeze the trees and shrubs before the leaves have fully turned and shed. This is when unnaturally heavy limbs snap and trees are toppled in high winds.

Some careless child had left a bicycle out in the snow in front of a charming red Victorian. The frostbitten handlebars looked forlorn as they pushed out of the snowdrift, an avalanche victim making a last cry for help. It looked sad. Perhaps it had been displaced by something newer.

A few brave narcissi, forced in a greenhouse for holiday decoration, huddled in pots on covered porches. But their heads were tucked low against the cold and they seemed uncertain about showing themselves to the cruel white world. The hawthorn hedge that surrounded the house on the corner was drooping under the white load, with only the smallest hints of green showing through the winter blanket.
Some people might have called the scene peaceful.

As I had feared, the snowplows hadn’t been through for a couple of days and, though the snow wasn’t deep, we were obliged to slow to a crawl as we turned off of Main Street and onto the tiny side road where the house was. I directed Ambrose to park around back where the thick trees gave some shelter and the snowfall was still fairly shallow.

The silence when Ambrose turned off the car was strange and I felt a bit odd not to have the mechanical vibrations shaking my body after the last twenty-four hours of nonstop travel.

“Well, this is it. Home sweet home.” My voice wasn’t convincing.

Having no real luggage, we gathered up our few parcels and grocery bags and began tromping toward the back door through the crackling ice crust of undisturbed snow. I noticed that Ambrose was looking about carefully, and knew that he was evaluating the house in terms of its defensibility. He seemed satisfied, which pleased me in a vague way. Really I was just too tired to care much about anything except some food and then bed.

Our passage through the icy air was marked with a trail of vapor caused by Ambrose’s extraordinary heat. I saw that it trailed along behind us for some twenty feet, a long foggy shadow that ended at the back stoop.

I’d lost my keys somewhere on the island, but I kept a spare in one of those fake rocks in the planter
by the back door. The lock was stiff and reluctant to yield, but it finally saw reason when I swore at it, and reluctantly let us inside.

A caretaker who managed the property for the trust was supposed to keep the electricity on and propane in the tank, though he winterized the rest of the place just in case of power failure. I said a prayer that he had not been derelict these last couple of years and then crossed the threshold into the musty darkness of the kitchen.

For a moment I was ten years old again, feeling uncertain of my welcome but ready to be stubborn if my parents tried to send me away before the week was up. The paralysis of memory was broken when I felt Ambrose reach past me. The lights snapped on at once and dispelled the worst of the gloom though not the cold. Shivering, in spite of my new coat, I hurried to the thermostat and turned on the heater. Warmth as much as light would chase any lingering ghosts away.

Ambrose had closed the door behind us but stayed on the far side of the kitchen, slowly taking it all in. He drew in a deep breath and then cocked his head, listening intently for heaven only knew what.

I listened, too, but heard nothing suspicious. It was so quiet that we could hear the fall of ash in the cold hearth as ice forced the frozen soot from its hold on the old stone on the chimney. No one was home except my ghosts, and those wouldn’t hurt Ambrose.

“This is unexpected.” Ambrose smiled slightly and I knew he liked what he saw.

Physically, the place was charming. The pantry had been incorporated into the kitchen in one of the many remodels the house had undergone, and now served as a breakfast room. Warm wood cabinets with paned glass fronts stretched all the way to the low-beamed ceiling that was still tall enough not to threaten the averaged-sized modern man. I’m not tall, so the uppermost shelves are just out of reach, but I wouldn’t change a thing. Efficiency be damned. The room was appealing.

The first thing we did was turn on the water. Everything seemed okay because the pipes had been covered in heat tape and if the temp dropped below forty degrees, a small circuit opened up and an electrical current warmed them. Fortunately, Ambrose knew what he was doing with the water pump. My experience with such things was only theoretical. I had never visited in winter.

Together we unpacked the groceries. Ambrose pulled out the small refrigerator while I reached around and plugged it in.

“Let me show you around,” I said, my breath visible in the air even though the furnace had engaged and was puffing like the little engine who knew he could.

The furniture in the rest of the house was appropriately tasteful and simple, except for the porcelain centerpiece on the dining room table. The tribute to Bacchus stood about eighteen inches high and was composed of three small-breasted nymphs lolling about in a bunch of giant purple grapes and touching themselves in inappropriate ways. It was
definitely an antique and probably valuable, or else my mother would never have kept it. I liked it, probably because she hadn’t, and I left it on the trestle table in spite of its tackiness.

There was only one phone in the house. It was a black Bakelite rotary model located on a telephone-chair just inside the dining room, and it pleased Ambrose mightily since he could use it without shorting it out. I picked it up and was satisfied to hear a dial tone. Probably it was dumb to spend money to keep the house in readiness, but I’d felt safer going off with Max as long as I had this bolt-hole available if I ever had to retreat. Gee, I must have been psychic.

“And a gossip bench! I haven’t seen one of these in years,” Ambrose murmured, touching the aged oak of the telephone table. There was a current phone book on the tiny shelf and an ill-fitting drawer where I kept assorted keys and other odds and ends.

The bathroom had not fared so well as the kitchen and dining room. The giant bathtub was still impressive, but the wallpaper had been exposed to some kind of water damage since I’d left for Germany, and looked like it had psoriasis. It was still attached to the walls, but it had blistered and needed replacing.

The bathroom had another remnant from the days of antiquity that amused Ambrose, a hair dryer consisting of a bubble helmet fed by a hose with bellows that you pumped yourself while seated on a wooden stool. I rarely used it because it smelled vaguely of rotting rubber, though it had a place
where you could insert a cotton ball drenched in perfume that was supposed to suffuse the hair with scent. It had been the height of high tech in 1920. My mother used it.