The Widow's Walk (6 page)

Just then he detected an elegant scent, just like a woman's perfume, carried to him on the ocean breeze. And then, as soon as he had sensed it, it was gone. Smiling to himself, he shook his head. It must have been something else, he realized, for he was quite alone up here.

His inspection of the cupola finished, Garrett returned to the first-floor parlor. It was late, and time for him to go. He decided he would leave his rather crude floor plans here for the time being. And then, just as he was about to go from room to room and turn off the lanterns, he heard the noise again.

It sounded exactly like someone crying, just as it had when he had slept here before the fireplace. But this time, he could not dismiss it to his sleepiness. This time he was wide-awake, and hearing it with complete clarity.

Unsure of what to do, he finally began quietly walking down the hall toward the rear of the house. As he went, he looked in turn into the parlor, the sewing room, the library, and the dining room, only to find each of them vacant. Continuing on, he passed through the serving room and then the butler's pantry, also finding nothing. But when he at last approached the open kitchen door and looked in, Garrett saw something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He saw
her—
the same woman he had dreamed about only the night before. There could be no mistake, and seeing her so suddenly and unexpectedly like this caused his heart to race, and his breathing to become labored.

But she had yet to see
him,
he quickly realized. Like in his dream, she was sitting all alone in a leftover chair and sobbing uncontrollably. Later on, he would decide that it was because she had been so taken up with her crying that she had not immediately recognized his presence. Although she was dressed in different clothing than in Garrett's dream, he knew immediately that it was she.

This night she wore modern clothes—a pair of jeans, what appeared to be a man's shirt with its sleeves rolled up, and a pair of sneakers. Her hair was not artfully arranged atop her head but fell down about her shoulders, and like in Garrett's dream she wore the scrimshaw locket around her neck. As she sat there crying, her entire being shook with grief and fear.

Stunned beyond words, Garrett simply stood there in the kitchen doorway for a few moments, watching her. When he at last found his voice, even then he was unsure about what to say.

“Hello . . . ?” he asked softly.

As if with a single motion, the woman dropped her hands from her face, looked at Garrett with terror, and then let go a piercing scream. It was a plaintive shriek that seemed to go right through him, and was one that he would never forget.

Garrett quickly raised his hands in a pleading gesture.

“It's okay!” he said. “I won't hurt you—I only want to know who you are, and why you're here! Do you need help?”

No sooner had the words left Garrett's mouth than the terrified woman sprang from her chair, ran to the kitchen door, and threw it open so hard against the wall that its glass panel shattered. Almost before Garrett knew it, she was running off into the darkness as if her very life depended upon it.

Garrett's first impulse was to catch up to her. But then he realized that he still did not know these grounds well, and that it would be foolish to go chasing after her in the dark. Although it would offer no security, he shut the broken kitchen door and locked it.

He walked over to the chair that the woman had just vacated, and he sat down in it dumbly. In an attempt to calm down he took several deep breaths, letting them out slowly. As his mind began to process what he had just experienced, he started to realize that in his own way, he had been just as shocked as she.

Despite the confusion, one thing was becoming clear. It wasn't his words that had terrified her; rather, it was being seen by him that had rattled her so badly. But why would that be? If she had been in the house for any length of time at all, she would have most assuredly heard him and Jay talking. And if she had been afraid of them, she had had plenty of opportunity to flee without being seen.

But even these realizations were not what shocked Garrett the most. Rather, it was that the woman who had just run away from Seaside was without question the same person he had dreamed of only last night. And then, his mind still flooded with impossible questions, he came to another stark realization.

The crying that I heard last night, just before falling sleep in the dining room . . . that crying was also hers! I cannot say why I'm so sure of it, only that I am. She is also the same woman who I saw in my dream! And now that I have seen her in the flesh, a new sort of pain and yearning is growing in my heart that is far stronger than any I have experienced before . . .

As Seaside's gray shadows and eerie stillness seemed to engulf him, for several moments Garrett began to doubt his sanity. Then he abruptly scrubbed his face with his hands, stood up, and looked back at the kitchen door.

This had really just happened, he realized. The glass had actually been broken, and it now lay everywhere upon the kitchen floor. This had been no dream; nor had been the real, flesh-and-blood woman who caused it. But now that same woman had just vanished, perhaps never to be seen by him again. As he stood there thinking, another unfathomable riddle floated to the surface.

How in God's name could I have dreamed of her, before actually seeing her in the flesh?

Chapter 4

The following morning found Constance sitting like a terrified child on the floor, her arms wrapped around her legs and her forehead resting down atop her knees. A sense of panic had tormented her all night for fear that
he
might come searching for her, but so far she had seen nothing of him.

After running out of the house she had taken refuge in Seaside's barn, in one of the far corners of the second-floor loft. For more than 170 years this had been her secret place; the place where she always came to seek privacy not only from the succession of interlopers who claimed to own her home, but also from an ever-evolving world for which she cared so little. After some more time had passed, the sense of panic finally stopped bedeviling her. At last she lifted her head and looked around.

Perhaps he has gone,
she thought,
and I could go back into the house. But what difference would it make? He is Seaside's new master, and because of that he is sure to return.

Although the barn was old, it remained sounder than it appeared. This corner of hers on the second floor was comforting, and she would come here to be alone with her thoughts and memories. Because of the cold, she did not visit here often in the wintertime. But during the summer she spent many hours here.

Some time ago, when one of Seaside's previous owners had been away, she had used the opportunity to steal a chair from the house and bring it here, to her secret hideaway. Over time she had also absconded with clothing, which she kept locked up in an old chest, along with some perfume she had also taken. When another of the owners had thrown away his old mattress, in the dead of night she had dragged it to the barn and agonizingly hauled it up the stairs.

Finally rising from the floor, she dusted herself off and went to lie down upon the tattered mattress. But she could not sleep just now, for her mind was still too shocked and confused about what had happened. The mere idea of it caused such terror in her heart! That encounter had been no dream. It had been quite real, and totally unlike anything she had ever experienced.

She reached alongside the mattress and looked into a hand mirror that she had also stolen from the house many years ago. Although it was old, its glass remained clear. Seventeen decades had come and gone, yet she hadn't aged a day. She had neither become ill, nor had she ever required food or water. It was as if she were trapped in time, while all the rest of the world had aged. As she continued to regard her likeness in the mirror, another thought struck her.

This is the face he saw; the same face that no one else in the world has beheld during my more than 170 years of this awful imprisonment. But how in God's name had he been able to do so, when in all this time no one else could? Who is he, that he can do such things?

While trying to make some sense of it all, she put down the mirror and closed her eyes. The man named Garrett who stood in the kitchen doorway last night had actually seen her! But how could this be? And perhaps more importantly, what had caused it to happen? Because she had become so startled during the encounter, her spontaneous reactions had been to scream in panic and flee the house. Later on she realized that there must have indeed been some logical reason for what had happened, but to her further dismay, she still had far more questions than answers.

Her strange ability to remain unseen and unheard by others had at first seemed a terrible curse. But as she began to grasp the true nature of her situation, she understood that these qualities were in some ways a blessing. They served as a sort of protection, a way in which she could still operate in the world without being discovered. She had long known that should her existence be revealed, her life would never be the same. She would become an object of investigation, never-ending study, and perhaps even derision. And to Constance, that would become a hell far worse than the one she currently endured.

But now a man named Garrett was able to see and hear her, causing that sense of protection to be vanquished, and it frightened her. Was this the beginning of her salvation, or the start of a new spiral down into some other form of torment?

She would only learn these things through experience, which meant another encounter with Garrett. But did she dare? And if she did, what would become of her? What sort of man was he? Would he treat her kindly and try to help her? Or would he use the nature of her situation to reveal her to the world and perhaps try to make a fortune? Although she was desperate to learn more, she also knew that whatever action she took, she must proceed with caution.

She had of course known that for a second time, Seaside had gone into foreclosure. At first that news had broken her heart. But the last owners had been crude people who never appreciated the house for what it truly was. Worst of all, she was forced to stand by and watch them destroy her beloved home.

Although she knew that it would do no good, she had screamed, wailed, and pleaded with them while they gleefully wrecked Seaside. Each blow from their sledgehammers and every vulgarity they spray painted on the walls had felt like someone was stabbing her. But once her anger had calmed enough to allow some meaningful introspection, she had attributed this violation to the day and age in which she found herself. Despite its many so-called advances, to her the modern world had become a venal and ugly place.

Deciding to take the gamble, Constance left the barn had and began the walk toward Seaside. It was a lovely autumn morning with a bright blue sky and puffy clouds. Before entering the house she crept down along one side and looked out toward the driveway to find that there were no cars present. Emboldened, she went around to the backside of the house and let herself into the kitchen.

For several moments she simply stood there listening, but all she heard were the muffled sounds of the sea crashing against the shoreline. She then walked on down the hall, carefully peering into each room. She also did the same on the second floor, again finding that she was apparently alone. Finally relaxing a little, she went back downstairs and into the parlor where Garrett and the other man, named Jay, had stood talking last night.

She walked over to the table and looked down at Garrett's floor plans. To her amazement he had labeled each room correctly. From her place in the kitchen last night she had only been able to hear bits and pieces of their conversation, but what she had gleaned from it was that Garrett was the new owner, and Jay was the man responsible for the day-to-day activities of renovating Seaside.

Just then a rare smile crossed her lips as she thought about the other part of last night, the part about which Garrett did not fully know. Before Garrett had seen her, he had gone to the roof to view the widow's walk. Summoning up all of her courage, Constance had silently followed him and then hidden in the shadows, watching.

She had been intrigued by the way he had meticulously inspected the widow's walk, almost as if he had been some kind of expert. Then the sea breeze had risen and carried the scent of her perfume his way. She watched, almost mischievously, as he detected the scent then turned this way and that, while trying to determine its source. And when his trip to the roof ended, she had silently followed him back downstairs and gone to sit in the kitchen. But never in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined what might happen next.

As Constance again turned her attention toward the floor plans that Garrett had drawn up, she came to a decision. For better or for worse, next time he was in the house she would confront him. She had no doubt that it would be a cathartic experience for each of them, and that Garrett might well think her mad when she told him her story. But she was at last willing to face her destiny, no matter what it might be. As she thought about it, a chill went through her

When will he return to me?
she wondered.

Chapter 5

The following Sunday afternoon Garrett was again aboard his motorcycle, this time roaring toward his parents' house. Whatever troubles he might be suffering always seemed to vanish when he rode, giving him an indescribable sort of freedom that he had never been able to duplicate in any other way.

Earlier this week, his mother had called and asked him to Sunday dinner. Garrett was hoping to speak to his mother in private, but his younger sister, Christine, and her family would be there too.

Garrett's mother was the finest cook that he had ever known, and it was because of her that he could hold his own in the kitchen. He'd packed two bottles of very good wine—one red and one white—inside his motorcycle saddlebags. He smiled as he predicted her horror of transporting wine this way, for she would surely insist that he had bruised it. Downshifting smoothly, he cruised through a yellow light and confidently took the next corner with just the right amount of lean. He then twisted open the throttle and sped up again, the Harley's twin exhausts trumpeting in his ears.