Maidenstone Lighthouse (15 page)

F
reezing!

I was floating in total darkness, my arms and legs numb with cold. The numbness was a small mercy because the parts of my body that I could still feel were striped with jagged bands of fiery pain. The stink of raw jet fuel burned in my throat and around my neck the stiff, uncomfortable embrace of an inflated life vest was holding me atop the icy surface of a storm-whipped sea, prolonging my agony by managing to keep my chin just above the level of the deep black water in which I was immersed.

I turned my head weakly, straining to see something—-anything—in the pitch-black void.

But there was nothing there.

“Help! Somebody help me…” My feeble cry was lost in the raging howl of the stormy sea that surrounded me on every side. “What is happening?” I screamed into the night. “Please, God, what is happening to me?”

The sudden memory seared my brain. I had been on an airplane—a commuter flight from New York. One moment I had been seated beside a window, trying to blot out the effects of the turbulent air that was bouncing the plane around by pretending to do some work on my laptop and sipping a cocktail from a plastic airline glass.

Then, without warning, the woman beside me started screaming. I had looked up in annoyance, prepared to patiently explain to her that as violent as it might seem, turbulence in flight—bumps in the road, Bobby used to call it—was routine and nothing to scream about.

Before I could speak, though, the plane had nosed down sharply and smashed into the sea. Then the cabin lights had abruptly gone out and the freezing black water was pouring in through a shattered window.

I didn't remember getting out of the plane. But I calculated that I must have been in the water for some time in order for my limbs to have lost all sensation.

How long could a person survive in the icy waters of the Atlantic Ocean? Not very long. I knew that much. If I wasn't rescued very, very soon, I realized, my life was going to end.

Thrust helplessly to the top of a huge wave, I opened my mouth and screamed as loud as I could. And, to my utter astonishment, a beam of brilliant white light shot out of the darkness and pinned me like a butterfly in a child's science project.

With preternatural calm I gazed into the dazzling glare. For I could no longer feel my body, and I was certain that I had just died. But strangely I was not bothered by that grim realization.

Because there really was a light, just as Damon had claimed. And now I was going to experience at firsthand whatever lay at the far end of that dazzling cone of celestial illumination.

The core of the light came closer and closer, half-blinding me with its brilliance. And over the fury of the storm, I heard the growing sounds of a laboring engine and human voices shouting orders.

I was being rescued.

The white hull of a boat appeared out of the gloom, and I could see the powerful marine spotlight mounted on its bow, the figure of a tall man standing on the deck. I squinted up into the glare and called out again. The boat's engine stopped as the man on deck came to the rail and peered down into the sea.

My sluggishly pumping heart thudded to a stop within my frozen breast. Because, looking down at me from above, was Bobby. He was wearing his battered old navy flight jacket and he smiled his gorgeous movie-star smile, regarding me with a wink of one crystalline blue eye, as if to say, “Sweet Sue, what kind of a fine mess have you gotten yourself into now?”

My frail voice breaking with joy, I screamed his name. Tiny shards of ice crackled in my hair as I somehow managed to raise my leaden arms to him.

But instead of reaching out for me Bobby merely continued to lean comfortably on the rail, gazing down at my struggles the way one might observe an interesting exhibit in an aquarium.

I floated helplessly a dozen feet below in the Arctic waters, weeping frozen tears and pleading with him to save me as the gleaming hull of the boat slid past and was swallowed up by the night.

“Bobby, come back!” I cried over the howl of the surging sea. “Don't leave me here alone!”

 

I woke up shivering.

Across the room the sheer lace curtains were billowing in the cold wind. I ran to my open window and slammed it shut, then stood there staring out into the fog, trying to make sense of the dream.

The lighthouse beacon swept silently over the yard, momentarily illuminating a familiar figure in a battered navy flight jacket.

He was standing on the front walk, looking up at me.

“Bobby!” His name stuck in my throat as the yard was plunged once more into darkness. I stood there motionless until the light made its full circuit and again flared across the property.

Restless eddies of gray fog swirled among the shadows of the empty walk.

Even in my dreams and imaginings, as in life, I sorrowfully concluded, Bobby was telling me with finality that he was truly gone.

“S
o, tonight's the night?”

Dan was gazing at me from the opposite side of an intimate window table draped in pink linen and set with a single glowing candle that cast soft highlights on the graceful silver place settings. Beyond our window the lights of Newport alternately glimmered and faded through a veil of hard, pelting rain.

“Tonight?” I replied absently, intent on gawking around the richly paneled interior of the elegant seaside restaurant. Flames crackling merrily in a massive fireplace of native stone provided most of the ambient light in the room and showed off a stunning collection of 18th-century English sideboards and wine cupboards that might once have graced the great hall of some nobleman's country manor.

“The furnishings in this place are absolutely exquisite,” I whispered across the table. “I'm almost positive the divan in the ladies' room is authentic Empire.”

Dan frowned at me. “I wouldn't doubt it,” he said, casting a disdainful glance around the richly appointed room. “The Greystone Club was built in the late 1800s by a couple of Newport's original robber barons who needed someplace to drink after a hard day of yachting. And I don't recall having heard that they ever spared any expense when it came to indulging their private pastimes.”

He gave me an impatient little smile. “However, I was referring to your planned encounter with Aimee Marks. You did tell me you were going to give it a try tonight?”

“I'm sorry,” I said, returning my attention to Dan and noting with relief the amused sparkle in his eyes. “I guess you can take the girl away from the antiques but you can't take the antiques out of the girl.”

We both laughed as a wine steward in a snowy-white jacket glided unbidden to the table and silently refreshed our glasses of chilled Riesling.

In truth, I was enjoying our candlelight supper and not particularly anxious at that moment to discuss what now seemed like an increasingly ludicrous plan to lure Aimee Marks back to my room for a conversation. After my disturbing encounters of the previous night with Tom Barnwell in the flesh and then with Bobby—encounters I had deliberately not mentioned to Dan—I was in a mood to relax and shake off my gloomy feelings.

I desperately needed a few pleasant hours before I attempted to contact Aimee Marks. And, until now, my day had not been a particularly pleasant one.

Following my emotionally charged dreams of the night before I had awakened late to the sound of rain falling on the roof of my turret bedroom.

After calling the hospital in Boston and learning that Damon's medical condition remained virtually unchanged, I had spent three frustrating hours locating a locksmith who was willing to come out in the rain to change all the locks in the house. Then, while the grumbling locksmith worked, I had spent the rest of the day compiling and faxing St. Claire & Marks's client list to Sir Edward in Manhattan, along with detailed notes on all of our current projects and each client's special quirks and needs.

By the time I had finished the faxes and paid the locksmith his outrageous fee it had been time to phone the hospital again. Dan had arrived while I was speaking with Alice Cahill, who had taken my call personally and was providing me with a dispassionate inventory of Damon's vitals and clinical test results, but no new information.

“I'm hoping he'll pull out of this within the next twenty-four hours,” she had concluded. “In fact, I'm certain he will.”

Twenty-four hours.

That was how much time I had to contact Aimee, though my confidence that I would really be able to do so, much less learn anything of significance about Damon's near-death experience, was slipping. But if I was going to have any answers for Damon when he again regained consciousness, I needed to get them tonight.

I had told that much to Dan.

He, in turn, had pointed out that Aimee Marks had never put in an appearance before midnight, and suggested that we drive down to Newport for dinner at the exclusive Greystone Club, once the private preserve of Newport gentry but now open to anyone with the not inconsiderable price of a gourmet dinner.

I had assumed he had brought me out to relax.

So here we were, having a lovely, relaxing dinner in this beautiful and historic old restaurant. And Dan was sitting across the table, his handsome features made even more handsome by the soft glow of candlelight, waiting for me to spill my Master Plan for spirit contact.

The only trouble was, I didn't have a Master Plan. In fact, I didn't have any plan at all, beyond going to bed as usual and lighting my blue fairy lamp, with the fervent hope that Aimee Marks's ghost would obligingly put in another appearance and fill me in on the mysteries of the afterlife.

But for reasons that should be fairly obvious I really didn't feel like admitting that to Dan. And, as I said before, I particularly didn't feel like discussing gloomy and disturbing matters in general.

So I pretended that I either hadn't heard or hadn't understood Dan's previous question. Instead, I picked up the Greystone's big wine-colored, velvet-encased menu—no prices inside, so you knew they had to be atrocious enough to destroy your appetite—and ordered with abandon.

Across the table, my good-humored host simply smiled and shook his head, as if to say,
“Okay, the ball's in your court for now. Run with it.”

“Class! Now that is what I call class. How can you not fall in love with this man?” whispered Miss Romance.

“It doesn't hurt that he's also filthy rich and beautiful,” Miss Practical chimed in. “You're finally free of Bobby now. So when are you going to break down and sleep with this guy, you moron?”

“I think I'll have the Maryland Crab Cakes for an appetizer, then the Tournedos of Beef and the Fresh Asparagus Tips,” I cheerfully announced, shutting them both up.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I had a quick vision of Laura politely applauding my cleverness in having avoided unpleasant subjects.

Dan politely waited until after dessert—truly marvelous little blackberry tarts drenched in a sinfully rich crème brulee sauce—to burst my bubble.

“I suppose you've been wondering why I chose this particular restaurant,” he began as I scraped the last remnants of the delicious cream from my plate.

“Well,” I said, licking my lips and taking a sip of coffee, “I must admit the Greystone does seem to go against your alleged aversion to fine dining.”

Dan nodded. “It's way too pretentious for my tastes,” he said, looking around, “even if the chef does happen to be particularly good.”

“Well, I suppose you can't have everything.” I grinned happily, suppressing the urge to burp.

“I had another reason entirely for bringing you here tonight,” he said, “besides the food.”

I looked at him in surprise, unable to imagine what he was getting at. “Okay, I give up,” I said. “What was the reason?”

Dan folded his napkin and pushed his chair back from the table. “Follow me,” he said, pulling out my chair and waiting for me to get up.

I frowned at his theatrics, but did as he asked, following him through the dining room and into an intimate, dimly lit bar just off the lobby.

With the exception of a smiling bartender who rushed down from the far end of his gleaming mahogany domain to take our order, the little room was deserted. After liqueurs—Cognac for Dan, a small Amaretto for me—had been placed before us, the barkeep discreetly returned to his station, leaving us alone.

“Well, what do you think?” Dan asked, raising his glass to indicate our new surroundings.

I briefly scanned the darkly paneled room, which was decorated primarily with gleaming silver regatta trophies and faded photos of Whitneys and Vanderbilts in silly formal yachting attire. “A little too clubby for my tastes,” I remarked. “We should have ordered our drinks at the table and continued enjoying the view of rain on the harbor.”

Dan smiled mysteriously. “Perhaps you'd like to take a closer look before rendering a final decision,” he suggested, pointing to the center of the wall directly in front of us. I followed his gaze to the only nonnautical decoration in the whole place, the obligatory old-fashioned barroom painting of a reclining, rosy-cheeked nude that was hanging in a massive gilt frame above the ornately mirrored back bar.

“Charming,” I said and laughed, turning back to him after a cursory glance. “I think there must have been some kind of law around the turn of the century that required every saloon, no matter how ritzy, to have one of those awful paintings over the bar.”

Dan continued to regard the picture. “Take a very close look,” he insisted.

Rolling my eyes in exasperation, I humored him by looking up at the clichéd painting again. Unimaginative though it was, the artist had certainly known his business, because he had perfectly captured the delicate beauty of his subject. The raven-haired model lay on a red velvet sofa, both arms gracefully raised over her head, resting on the edge of the sofa, the obligatory fringed shawl positioned modestly so as not to expose too much. Her dark, liquid eyes stared brazenly out into the room, inviting the admiring looks of anyone who cared to study her slender limbs and full, soft breasts…

It took a full minute for me to realize what I was seeing.

“Oh, my God!” My voice dropped to a hushed whisper.

“Your ancestor, Miss Aimee Marks,” Dan said quietly.

“Oh, my God,” I repeated, taking a too-large swallow of my Amaretto and nearly choking on the sweet liqueur. “How in the world did you discover this?”

Dan smiled. “I thought at the time that there was something familiar about the face of the girl in that old photo you showed me,” he replied. “At first I thought it was just her resemblance to you. But I come here from time to time, with clients, so it was just a matter of time before I connected Aimee with this painting.”

“It's amazing,” I breathed, standing to get a better look at the scandalous picture. “She really was beautiful, wasn't she?”

Dan glanced up at the painting and nodded. “Very beautiful and, I suspect, set up to be in a whole lot of trouble at home if her family ever found out about this.” He gave me a meaningful look. “And, considering what we know about Aimee Marks now, it appears that they probably did find out.”

“Oh, Christ!” I whispered.

“The artist was a rather notorious womanizer named Ned Bingham,” Dan continued, consulting a small notebook that he'd dug from his pocket. “I did a little research with a local art dealer I know,” he said, “and learned that Bingham came up here from New York in the summer of 1909 to work on a couple of commissioned family portraits for an industrialist named Howard Chase. Bingham was a first-rate portraitist and a minor celebrity of sorts at the time, and during his stay in Newport he was probably wined and dined by several social-climbing families in Freedman's Cove.”

“That must be how he met Aimee,” I breathed.

Dan nodded. “So it would seem,” he agreed. “Though I wasn't able to learn a whole lot more about Ned Bingham, he was evidently very good-looking and was rumored to have seduced more than one otherwise respectable young woman by flattering them into taking off their clothes in order to be immortalized on canvas.”

“I had an instructor in art school who used the same technique,” I mused, gazing up at the nude behind the bar. “But seducing Aimee Marks and then selling her portrait to a private men's club here in Newport, where it was almost guaranteed to be seen by someone who knew the family are two very different things,” I marveled. “Ned Bingham must have been a real bastard to do that.”

Dan shrugged. “Maybe. But I suspect the painting showing up here at the Greystone Club was purely accidental,” he said. “One thing I was able to learn about Bingham was that he had an agent who sold his noncommissioned works through a small gallery in New York. My dealer friend thinks it's more likely that somebody from the Greystone Club just saw the painting and liked it, having no idea at the time that the model was local talent.”

I shook my head. “He still sounds like a first-class schmuck to me,” I murmured.

 

Dan and I arrived back at my house a little before ten and I invited him in. After surreptitiously checking the kitchen door to be sure there had been no more uninvited guests in my absence I made coffee and carried it back into the parlor.

We chatted for a while about Aimee Marks and Ned Bingham, then lapsed into silence. There seemed little point in discussing her tragic story further. For a long time we sat silently in near darkness before the fire, sipping our coffee and listening to the sounds of the rising wind and rain and the distant booming of the surf.

And then, effortlessly and without a word passing between us, we were holding one another and kissing.

Our kiss lasted for a very long time, growing deeper and more passionate with each passing moment. When finally it ended, we were half-reclining on the big, comfortable sofa.

I sat up, panting, and looked longingly into Dan's green eyes. They were locked on mine, awaiting some signal from me. Then his lips parted slightly and he moved them close to my ear. “If you want to stop, this would be the perfect time,” he whispered in a voice husky with desire.

I remained silent for several seconds, waiting for the guilt that I had for so long carried with me like a cross to well up and pull me back from the brink.

But though my head was filled with a dizzying emotional tempest every bit as powerful as the storm that was raging outside, no reproachful visions of Bobby arose to temper my urgent need, and I no longer felt his watchful presence hovering over me.

I was truly convinced then that all my dreams of Bobby turning away from me and leaving—dreams I had initially interpreted as betrayals of the love we two had shared—really were signs that he had passed on into eternity, leaving me to begin my life anew.