Her Dead Boyfriend, page 9
I tried to concentrate on the scene outside my window. The town center consisted of a general store, a post office, and a gas station. But as hard as I tried to stop thinking about him, Mark remained at the forefront of my mind. And despite my guilt-ridden conscience, I couldn’t wait to lay my eyes on him. We left the main street, and Oliver drove along a road that ran parallel to the water.
Finally, he turned down a winding, gravel driveway through a canopy of cedars.
My heart cartwheeled when I saw a big, black Range Rover. He’s here!
Chapter 20
My eyes moved from the Range Rover to the house. It was a typical New England style cottage that emerged into view. Covered in dark gray shingles, its maroon-shuttered windows symmetrically framed a white front door. Dormer windows eyed us, like a pair of curious peepers from the steep gabled roof. All it needed was candy canes and lollipops, and it would be straight out of Hansel and Gretel. We were just steps from the Atlantic Ocean, and I could see right through the main floor windows to the sparkling water.
Oliver climbed out of his seat and came around to open my door. I got out and turned to thank him, but he was already unloading our bags. I followed him up the wooden steps and, even though he was holding our bags, he managed to open the screen door and hold it ajar for me.
Before I had time to compose myself, Mark materialized in front of me. His appearance was sudden, a revelation that left me unprepared. Without a word, he sealed the space between us, his lips descending upon my cheek. The graze was tender, heated, but as his face approached mine again, his plan became apparent. The soft compress of his second peck browsed my lips, lighting a flicker that journeyed through my whole being. It was as if electric energy ran down my spine, leaving me briefly short of breath and longing for more. In that moment, words were inessential, for the ferocity of the feeling revealed everything I needed to know.
“Welcome to the Cape, Erin. Come on in and make yourself at home,” Mark said, waving me inside. He looked like a surfer in red swim trunks, a white T-shirt, and flip-flops. “It’s a bit of a drive to get up here. What can I get you to drink?” He held a beer in his hand.
“A cold gin and tonic would be great,” I replied, flopping down onto a large, L-shaped couch and sinking into the well-worn cushions and nautical-themed throw pillows. Through windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling, I could see the spectacular, cobalt-blue ocean. The cottage appeared to have its own beach, littered with boats. Mark returned with my drink, and our fingers touched as he handed it over.
A tingle traveled along my arm. “Thanks. Where’s Fiona?”
He waved his beer in the direction of the road. “She biked back into town. The general store has a small bakery. But she should be back any minute.”
Mark sat down on the couch, so close to me that I could smell him. His scent reminded me of black coffee and pancakes: a rare Sunday morning ritual with my father. Mark made me feel both safe and sexy. I could feel the heat of his thigh and took a sip of my drink to chill myself down. Then I pressed the frosted glass against my face, hoping to ward off the deep flush that I could feel creeping up my neck and onto my face. Behave. He’s your best friend’s boyfriend, not yours. I kept flip-flopping between my feelings for Mark and my friendship with Fiona.
The screen door swung open and slammed shut, as Oliver brought in the last of his gear.
“Erin, I’ll put your bag in your room,” he said, disappearing down a hallway.
The screen door swung open once more, and Fiona leaped into the cottage. “Erin, you’re here.”
Mark immediately jumped up and grabbed the groceries out of her arms.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Fiona said. “Erin, I’m so glad you came.” She gave me a tight hug. “Isn’t the cottage beautiful?”
“It’s amazing.”
“How’s your mom doing?” she asked.
Mark handed her a glass of white wine.
I gulped down more gin. “She’s fine. Just getting lots of rest.”
“You two girls enjoy your drinks, but not too much. We’re sailing this afternoon.”
Fiona took a sip of wine. “Mark’s an expert sailor. But so are you, Erin. It’s too bad we don’t have two sailboats, so you could challenge him to a race.”
Mark’s head swiveled in my direction; eyebrows raised in surprise.
“I’m afraid Fiona is overselling my skills,” I said, shooting daggers at her with my eyes. “I did some sailing at summer camp, but I’m hardly an expert.”
*
Later, after we’d eaten some lunch, and I had settled into my room and unpacked my bag, I changed into my bathing suit and joined the others on the beach.
Mark and Oliver carried the sailboat down to the water and hoisted the sail. I helped them attach the rudder and centerboard. Once the boat was fully rigged, Mark and Oliver debated who would take it out on the water first. Both seemed to want a chance to show off in front of us women. Finally, Fiona suggested that Mark let his brother take me out first. Mark tossed a couple of life jackets to Oliver, who clambered into the stern and grabbed the tiller. Then I climbed in after him and took hold of the main sheet. Mark gave the boat a strong push, and we were off.
The sailboat skimmed across the surface of the water, splashing my face as it cut through the waves. The tension in my muscles started to unknot. Being around Mark had been stressful, and it was nice to have a brief reprieve from his sexual energy. Back on the shore, Mark and Fiona waved at us. Holding the rope in one hand, I waved back at them with the other.
I wonder if he’s thinking about me.
“You might want to trim the sail a bit, Erin. It’s luffing.”
“Oops. Sorry.” I tightened my grip on the rope and pulled it taut.
Oliver stared straight ahead. “We’re heading for that green buoy. Where did you learn to sail?”
“At summer camp in the Berkshires when I was a teenager. We used to race against the boys’ camp across the lake.”
“That must’ve been fun.” He gave me a quick glance.
I basked in the brisk briny air. With my toes tucked under the foot strap and my hands gripping the main sheet, I leaned back off the side of the boat until the top of my head dipped under the water. My stomach and leg muscles strained, as I lifted myself back up.
“I forgot how much I love sailing.” I laughed, as my wet hair dripped water down my back.
Oliver shot a smile in my direction.
It was nice that he was open to sharing the onboard duties. A lot of men insisted on having total control of the boat, with women acting as rail meat or bow ornaments.
As we approached the green buoy, Oliver asked, “Do you want to go about, or keep going to the red buoy further out?”
I wondered if Mark would be a risk taker, sailing close to the wind to maximize speed. I loved that style of sailing—flirting with the danger of capsizing.
“Erin?”
“Sorry. Let’s go to the red buoy.”
Oliver seemed pleased and pointed out a nearby island, with a red and white stone lighthouse.
“It’s been taken over by thousands of seagulls.”
I saw a flock of white specks floating in the wind. “It reminds me of a scene from the Daphne du Maurier story The Birds, when a squadron of seagulls swooped down on people’s heads like kamikaze pilots.”
“I saw the film, but I thought Hitchcock wrote it.”
I shook my head. “Nope. Typical IT guy, watching the movie instead of reading the book.”
“I read books, too.” He pouted his lower lip.
But I ignored his chagrin and kept my eyes on the gulls.
“Du Maurier lived in Cornwall, right?” Oliver asked.
My head swung in his direction. “How did you know that?”
“Our Truro is named after a town in Cornwall.”
“Interesting.” I glanced back at the white sand and green dunes of the shoreline and was amazed at how far out we had come in such a short time. The houses looked like tiny Lego® blocks.
“There’s a shipwreck called Frances, hiding under the waves out here, and sometimes, it pops out above the water when the tide is low.”
“Really?” I wonder what Mark and Fiona are up to.
“It crashed on the rocks during a storm in 1872.”
When Oliver glanced over at me, I smiled back at him, and he seemed to take it as encouragement.
“They built a replica of the ship at the museum in Sandwich. Maybe you’d like to see it?”
“Maybe.”
We reached the red buoy, and I was surprised by how much larger it was than the green one. Its bell clanged loudly back and forth, rocked by rolling waves. We had to be careful to keep our distance; the buoy was as big as the boat and could inflict serious damage.
“Let’s take the boat about. Okay, Erin?” Oliver checked that I’d heard him.
I nodded and tightened the main sheet.
He shoved the rudder away from his body, and the boat turned back towards shore.
Ducking as the boom glided over my head, I moved to the other side of the boat. As we sailed back in the direction of the cottage, I wondered if Mark and Fiona were lying on the beach waiting for us or whether they were swimming together in the cold water. Oliver had mentioned that the ocean did not warm up until August, but it would be refreshing on a hot day. I would have to take a dip and cool off if I got too close to Mark again.
As we neared the shore, I caught sight of Mark. He had removed his T-shirt and was wading into the water. My heart raced like a freight train, at the sight of his hard-ripped, washboard abs and I imagined running my hand along his chest. Before I had time to take the daydream any further, Mark seized hold of the painter and pulled the bow of the boat onto the shore. Oliver hopped out and gave me a hand.
“Glad to see my brother didn’t drown you,” Mark said, his blue eyes twinkling in the bright sunlight.
Oliver tossed his life jacket at him.
Mark laughed, as he pulled on the jacket, and beckoned Fiona to join him.
“Sorry, it’s soaking wet,” I said, as I gave her the one that I had been wearing.
“No worries,” Fiona replied, smiling. “You two looked like you were having fun out there.”
The brothers turned the boat back out towards the ocean and this time, Oliver held the boat steady, while Mark and Fiona jumped in.
Mark turned the boat as close to the wind as he dared. It skimmed across the top of the waves and headed straight out to the red buoy at a clip. I could see the triangular, white sail off in the distance and watched, as Mark held the tiller fast, and the boat cut through the rough waves. I was Gatsby, gazing across the water at the solitary green light on the end of Daisy’s dock. A black coal of resentment scorched my belly. It should be me on that boat, not her. Picking up a smooth, flat stone, I whipped it into the water and watched as it skipped twice before sinking. I know it shouldn’t bother me, but it does. I just can’t help it. My mind drifted to du Maurier’s novel Rebecca, in which Maxim de Winter’s first wife drowned during a sailboat accident.
Chapter 21
“I’m going for a quick swim.” Oliver handed me a beach towel, then dove into the waves and swam out towards the green buoy.
The wind had picked up. The ocean was choppy and rough. I felt a prickle of unease and scanned the horizon for a sign of Oliver amongst the foaming, white crests of water. Where was he and why had he swum out so far? I strained my eyes against the blinding sun. Finally, I spotted a tiny, black dot bobbing up and down in the water. It was Oliver and he had started to swim back toward the shore. When he emerged from the waves, his hair was plastered to his head, and water trickled from his burly body.
“You swam out so far. Weren’t you afraid a great white shark might decide to eat you for lunch?” I asked, with exaggerated concern.
“I don’t think a shark would find me very tasty,” Oliver replied, laughing. “But I like the fact that you were worried about me.”
I threw a towel at him, and he ducked. “How did you get to be such a strong swimmer?”
“I was on the swimming team in high school and played water polo in college.”
“Wow. That’s so cool. Did you ever dream of going to the Olympics?”
Oliver laughed. “I wasn’t that good. But it’s nice of you to ask.”
“Maybe you could be one of those open water swimmers…”
He shook his head and laughed out loud. “Those people have a death wish. Sharks, jellyfish, ocean currents, hypothermia, hurricanes… Thanks for the suggestion, but I value my life too much. Anyway, I’m going to have a quick shower.” He picked up the towel and wrapped it around his shoulders.
“I think I’ll go inside and cool down a bit. I’m baking out here.”
Oliver stretched out his hand and we walked towards the cottage with our fingers intertwined. It felt a bit awkward and strange, but I did not want to offend him by pulling away.
Once we were inside the cottage, he headed off to the shower, while I went to the kitchen to get a drink. My mind drifted to my story, and I began composing lines in my head.
“Come on, Max. We’ll be late for the theater,” Faith said, poking her head down the basement stairwell.
“I’d better go,” he said, patting me on the head like a puppy.
“Have a wonderful time.” It was a strain to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I watched, as he disappeared out my door, and listened to his footsteps clop up the stairs.
“Don’t wait up,” Faith said, her words drifting down the stairwell.
My nerves clanged, as I listened to my sister’s high heels clicking on the floorboards above, resembling the sound of the hooves of a trotting pony. I felt a gnawing feeling in the pith of my being, as if a sharp-toothed rodent were ravenously picking at my insides. When the front door banged shut, my throat tangled. Gritting my teeth, I clutched a few strands of hair and yanked them out from the roots. The physical pain brought only momentary relief from my mental torment. I growled like a trapped animal. I glared at my reflection in the handheld mirror Faith had provided me. My pupils looked like two black pinpricks. Tipping my head back against the pillow, I closed my eyes and pictured birds pecking out Faith’s eyeballs, as her corpse lay rotting in a shallow grave. The corners of my mouth twisted into a smile, and the knot in my throat unraveled. Then I slammed my palms down on the bed in frustration.
“I need to stop thinking about them,” I muttered to myself and opened my eyes. I needed a distraction.
Faith had stacked half a dozen books on the tiny table next to my bed. “These should keep you entertained during the day when I’m at work,” my sister had said. She had included a few of Shakespeare’s plays, since both of us loved the theater. “Since you can’t come and see the new Hamlet production on stage, with Max and me,” Faith had said. “I thought I’d give you the printed version of the play to read, instead.” “You’re always so thoughtful,” I had replied, repressing my rage.
I picked up the centuries-old tragedy, and as I thumbed through the pages, I felt a strange kinship with the eponymous hero, whose life was filled with death and betrayal. Claudius had taken his brother, King Hamlet’s wife and crown by pouring poison in his ear while he slept in the garden. And when his nephew, Prince Hamlet, found out what he had done, Claudius poisoned him, too. I closed my eyes and imagined poisoning my sister’s drink. Then I could have Max all to myself. I chose to ignore the fact that in the end, Claudius − and his beloved Gertrude − had fallen into his own trap.
After transcribing my story ideas into my journal − before I forgot them − I decided to wander around and explore the cottage. I can’t believe I’m really here in Mark’s cottage. I had noticed some Rankin family photographs displayed on the coffee table in the living room and wanted to take a closer look. Picking up a silver-framed photo of the two brothers when they were young, I studied it closely. Mark was in the forefront, while Oliver stood slightly behind his older brother, like a shadow.
Glancing out the window, I noticed that the sailboat had changed tack and was headed back in the direction of the beach. Returning the photograph to its place on the table, I went outside to help them land the boat.
“Why don’t I sail with you now?” I said to Fiona, who was seated at the bow of the boat.
“That’s a great idea,” Mark said, jumping out and handing me his life jacket.
I threw on the life jacket, scrambled into the stern and took hold of the tiller and main sheet.
Mark turned us around and gave the boat a big push. “Bon voyage.”
“Sailing with Mark was exciting, but I felt so incompetent,” Fiona said. “Maybe you should’ve gone out with him instead.”
“I wish,” I muttered under my breath.
“What did you say?”
My body stiffened like a corpse, as I realized my slip. “I said, ‘I saw a fish.’”
The wind blew in gusts. The rope burned my hand and I struggled to trim the sail. I clenched the rope in my teeth, so I could stretch out my aching fingers. We were traveling at quite a fast clip and had already raced past the green buoy. Waves crashed over the bow, soaking Fiona from head to toe.
“This life jacket is sopping wet,” she said, loosening the straps.
“Ready to go about?” I thrust the tiller away from my body and ducked my head. The metal boom swung across to the opposite side of the boat. I heard a loud thwack. The boom had struck Fiona on the head. She flew off the bow of the boat and disappeared under a giant wave. Her life jacket lay behind on the bow.
“Help! Help me!” Fiona’s head materialized above the water’s surface, her wild hands splashing intensely in a desperate bid for floatability.
But before I could react, she swallowed a mouthful of water and sank below the surface, again.
Chapter 22
The bell from the red buoy tolled in the distance, rousing me to action. What am I doing? I can’t just sit here and let her drown. Thrusting the tiller away from my chest, I moved the boat into the wind. I let go of the rope, and the sail fluttered loose. Reaching down into the surging sea, I searched for something to grab onto.
