Before I Let You Go, page 8
“Lorraine was sitting on a gold mine all these years,” Elsbeth muttered, running her fingers over a soft pink mink shawl. She could donate Lorraine's belongings and clear another room, but she felt indebted to her great-aunt. It wouldn't be right to sell or give away her things.
Elsbeth closed the wardrobe and rested both palms on the timber door. “I cannot sell your beautiful things, Lorraine. You cherished your things because there was no one else to share them with.”
She finished sorting through Lorraine's bedroom by midnight and decided to leave the space unoccupied, thinking of it as a shrine to her late great-aunt. Elsbeth closed the suitcases and shut drawers, when a white shoe box underneath the bed caught her eye. She hadn't noticed it before and assumed all the moving about had shifted it into view.
She opened the lid and found old postcards and letters, written by unknown people. She fished through the pile, picking out mementos, when her fingers brushed cool metal. Elsbeth found a 9 mm Glock pistol among the papers, pinching it between her thumb and forefinger. It was surprisingly heavy. Why would Lorraine need a weapon if she lived in isolation?
Instinctively, Elsbeth pulled the slide back and inspected the chamber, devoid of two bullets. She wasn't an expert marksman, but trips to the shooting range with Jeff had taught her a few things about firearms.
The gun was an unnerving find, but she felt better knowing she had some protection. Bishop's unannounced arrival at l'Île Céleste had frightened her. The next person to turn up at her doorstep might not be as placid. Living isolated had advantages, but the ocean drowned out a boat's engine. If he could slip onto the property without her knowing, anyone could.
Elsbeth lowered to her hands and knees and returned the gun to the box, making it disappear underneath her bed. She sat for a moment, mulling over its existence. Her mind twisted and turned with thoughts of her security, the gun, and Lorraine. Her great-aunt harbored many secrets. Elsbeth was only scratching the surface of what was a secretive and fascinating life. She climbed into bed and pulled the sheets to her chin, staring at the ceiling until her eyelids grew heavy and fell asleep to the ocean roaring heavily in her ears.
A loud crash from outside her bedroom pulled Elsbeth from a deep slumber. Wide awake, she curled back her duvet and grabbed a timber cane resting against the tall boy. She tiptoed into the hall, wielding the makeshift weapon above her head, the roar of the ocean softening her steps.
A blade of light illuminated the hallway, revealing the upturned fruit bowl on the kitchen floor. Bananas and apples lay helter-skelter. Cursing under her breath, Elsbeth surveyed the room to find nothing else had been disturbed. Her coffee cup and dishes remained in the sink and unread magazines sat in a pile on the kitchen bench.
Perplexed, she decided it must've been a possum or a rat to have knocked over the fruit bowl. She replaced the bowl on the bench and readied to go back to bed when a dark figure wandered by the windows overlooking the ocean. A breath hitched in her throat and she stared at the apparition. Even though she didn't believe in ghosts, she often felt Lorraine's spirit haunted the property. Oftentimes the scent of lavender wafted through the cottage with the morning breeze. However, this spirit didn't remind Elsbeth of Lorraine. Its androgynous shape was unmistakably human and somewhat familiar to her. It wasn't fear that held her in place; it was awe.
A bitter chill clung to Elsbeth's skin as the apparition moved aimlessly through the room, quickly dissipating into the shadows. Elsbeth rubbed her eyes, unsure if what she witnessed was real or a product of her exhaustion. She didn't want to take any chances, moving through the house, ensuring doors and windows were locked. She headed back to her room and placed the cane against the doorframe before climbing into bed. Sleep was instantaneous, dreaming of the mysterious spirit wandering her halls.
CHAPTER 9
“Are you still searching for your name in the paper?” Ben chuckled as he dove his fork into the buttery croissant.
The cafe where they sat was busy for a Tuesday morning. Workers and school children filed in a line, eager to warm their hands with a coffee or hot chocolate.
Elsbeth rolled the newspaper and pushed it across the table out of reach. “I haven't seen my name mentioned for a few days. It's nice not to feel stigmatized for a change.”
Her public discord at the gala lingered in the papers, fuelling whispers throughout the capital. It was hard to ignore the snide comments and judgemental looks. People speculated Ambrose and she were lovers. Others accused Elsbeth of manipulating Ambrose's feelings. The articles were vicious and unkind. No one knew what kind of person she was, unlike Ambrose, who grew up on the island. He had social backing. She didn’t.
“What you’ve witnessed, Elsbeth,” Ben said, “is the galactic pull Ambrose has around here. His ego thrives off his celebrity. He’s bigger in St. Peter Port than a Hollywood A-lister. Look, don’t worry about what you read in the papers. Believe me, I’ve had my fair share of nasty articles written about my firm.”
“Celebrity or not, Ambrose is still a jerk,” Elsbeth mumbled.
“Have you spoken to him since the gala?”
Elsbeth breathed a sigh. “No, I don’t expect him to return my calls. I have a habit of making things worse.”
“He’ll get over it. There will be an endangered bat or monkey to keep him busy.”
Elsbeth sliced off a corner of her brownie, eager to change the subject. “On the weekend, I unlocked the door to Lorraine's bedroom. Originally, I had left it out of respect.”
“What changed?”
“Curiosity and a teeny bit of boredom.”
“Did you find anything interesting?”
Elsbeth smiled fondly at the jewelry and fur coats she found buried among the remains of Lorraine's life. “Many things. It's a shame some pieces never saw life outside the estate.” She decided to keep the discovery of the Glock to herself, unsure how deep Ben's loyalty ran. She swirled her spoon around her coffee, unable to look him in the eye. “Do you believe in ghosts, Ben?”
He swallowed a mouthful of croissant and shrugged. “I don't give much credence to ghost stories. I'm a skeptic. I must see things to believe them. Why do you ask?”
“The other night I was woken up by a crash in the kitchen,” Elsbeth explained. “I came out to investigate and saw something in my living room.”
Ben pushed aside his plate with intrigue. “You had an intruder?”
“No, it was an apparition. A ghost. It walked through the room like it was a part of the house and vanished into thin air.”
Ben dragged his tongue across his bottom lip, his brow furrowed in doubt. "Ghosts don't exist, Elsbeth. Are you certain what you saw wasn't a shadow or a figment of your imagination?"
“I know what I saw, Ben. I wasn't sleepwalking or dreaming. Trust me. I've tried to come up with a logical answer for what I witnessed. But that ghost—or whatever you want to call it—was real.”
“What did it look like?"
“It didn't look like anything. It was just a shape. Has anyone else died on my land?”
Ben broke eye contact and picked up his cell phone off the table. "I'm not aware of any deaths. Look, I'm sure there's a logical explanation.” Ben chuckled under his breath; his gaze fixated on his phone. “You've certainly created a lot of drama for yourself since arriving. Was your life ever this eventful in the States?”
“No, it was quite boring actually.”
Was she going mad from isolation? There had been more than one occasion where she'd seen things that others hadn't—Bishop at the gala, and now, the spirit at home. She was hoping Ben would believe her because no one else had.
“Do you know someone called Bishop York? Apparently, he attended school with you and Ambrose.”
“Yes, I remember someone named Bishop. We weren't friendly. I haven't seen him around for a while. Why do you ask?”
“He was at the gala the other night. I'm trying to track him down.”
“How odd. Perhaps speak to his mother, Samantha. She lives up past the cemetery. The last I heard he had gone to London to study. He probably came back.” Ben finished his coffee and slipped an envelope between their empty plates. “I have a job offer. My secretary resigned a week ago and I need urgent help. One of my girls is filling in until I can find someone. I prefer not to go through an agency, as I want someone I trust. Would you be interested?” He gestured toward the envelope. “I have everything detailed in there, including salary and working hours.”
Elsbeth opened the envelope and scanned the contract. “I'm honored you thought of me, Ben,” she said, “but I don't live on the mainland. Ferries seldom come to the island. What days were you thinking? I may be able to work something out.”
“You'll start three days a week. I'll organise a charter to pick you up Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Would that work for you?”
“Ah ... well.” Elsbeth stumbled for words as she searched Ben's optimistic expression. She had a feeling he wouldn't let her think about this overnight. “I guess it would. When do I start?”
“Next week. I'm desperate for help, Elsbeth. Clearly, I can't multitask. Joy managed everything in the office, so I left it in her hands. Do you think you'll be able to handle it?”
Elsbeth wasn't sure if she was mentally ready to go back to work and manage someone's business. She could barely take care of herself. But she had mastered the move to another country and stepped well beyond her boundaries. Going to work would keep her busy and maintain a routine. She scanned the contract once again. The pay rate was good for part-time hours and the inclusion of free chartering appealed to her.
"So, what do you think?" Ben probed.
"Yes, I accept your offer," Elsbeth replied, signing the paperwork and sliding it toward him. “But I counter with my own conditions. If things go well, you offer me a permanent position. I need more stability and security than a temporary assignment.”
Ben extended his hand across the table. “Deal.”
A few days later, Elsbeth returned to the mainland to grab a decent coffee. The instant stuff at home left a bitter taste in her mouth. Heavy storm clouds loomed in the sky as she got off the ferry. Light spots of rain stained the pavement as she followed the crowd down St. Julian's Pier. She grabbed a to-go cappuccino and continued along the waterfront. The harbor dazzled under the sun, making the nauseating ferry trip worthwhile.
Coffee wasn't the only reason she chose to explore the capital. It presented an opportunity to find out where Bishop York lived. Elsbeth's curiosity was becoming unbearable, consuming her thoughts like a weed. She replayed the last time she saw him, remembering how the moonlight illuminated his entire body. He looked inhuman and ethereal, like an angel.
Elsbeth wandered through the town center, sipping her cappuccino. She recognized the tourists with their selfie sticks and backpacks, gawking at the pretty things in the shop windows. She was just like them not too long ago. While she hadn't earned the right to call herself a local just yet, she hoped working with Ben would help achieve the important status.
Elsbeth relied on her memory to lead her back to the street corner where she'd last seen Bishop. Town Hall was the only landmark that stood out to her. Storm clouds thundered overhead and Elsbeth quickened her steps toward the cemetery. People withdrew umbrellas, readying themselves for the downpour. She darted underneath a tree opposite the cemetery as rain splattered the pavement. There were fewer houses on the street, occupied by estates and fields. She didn't want to return to the harbor, so she waited until the rain thinned before crossing the street. She knew it was foolish to search for a man who may not exist.
She crested a hill and found a solid family home shadowed by the towering branches of an oak tree. It was neat, painted a soft shade of mint, with a rose garden framing the front lawn. As she neared, she noticed the roses were the same inky shade as the buds growing in her garden. It was the first time she'd seen them outside her property. Black roses were very rare, so to find similar bushes growing simultaneously was fascinating.
Water seeped into the thin material of her shirt, wetting her to the bone. Standing outside a stranger's house, soaking and cold, she must've looked ridiculous. And petty. Bishop was like any other man. Wasn't he?
A figure appeared amid the deluge, shielded by an umbrella. Elsbeth didn't hear her name being called until a firm hand gripped her arm.
“Elsbeth, what are you doing here?”
She stared, bewildered, and met Bishop's concerned expression. “Bishop.” His name came out as a breathless whisper, and she shivered against the bitter rain. "I wasn't expecting—"
Wordlessly, Bishop pulled her underneath his umbrella, wrapping one arm protectively around her middle. He opened the wrought iron gate and escorted her up the path. Dropping the umbrella by the front door, he turned her to face him, his pale eyes stern and reserved. "What are you doing outside my house?”
CHAPTER 10
“I'm so embarrassed.” Elsbeth wrapped her fingers around the cup of tea and felt warmth return to her body, as she melted into the floral couch that itched the back of her knees.
Bishop sat across from her, nibbling on his thumbnail. His coffee remained untouched, and he ignored the sandwiches his mother had laid out for them. It was difficult for Elsbeth to know what he was thinking; his face was expressionless and offish.
“I'm sorry for showing up unannounced,” she said softly.
Bishop cleared his throat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I'm not angry at you for showing up on my doorstep.” His steely gaze focused on her. “What concerns me is the fact you were standing outside in torrential rain. What were you doing?”
Elsbeth released the breath trapped in her chest. “I was looking for you.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I wanted to return your jacket.” She pushed the bag toward him. “I've been meaning to give it to you, but I haven't seen you around.”
“He's been with me.” Samantha York entered the room, carrying her knitting gear under one arm. She was dressed in a pastel yellow cardigan, like the one Elsbeth wore. She collected the uneaten sandwiches and Bishop's untouched coffee and smiled at Elsbeth. “You didn't need to return the jacket. My son has many.”
A clap of thunder rattled the tile roof, causing Samantha to peer outside the rain-splattered window. “This storm's going to be sticking around for a bit longer,” she announced, shutting the blinds. She glanced at Elsbeth with a warm smile. “I imagine they'll suspend the water taxis. You can stay here tonight. The guest bedroom is made up.”
Elsbeth bounced off the couch. “I cannot impose, Mrs. York. I'll stay at a hotel by the harbor.”
“Nonsense! It's cold and wet out there. I'm sure your mother wouldn't like knowing I cast you onto the street in this weather. Bishop, please show Elsbeth to her room. I'll start dinner.”
Bishop escorted her down the hallway, which was lined with family photos. The smiling faces of Samantha and Bishop intrigued Elsbeth enough to impose. “Is it just you and your mom?”
He stopped outside the guest bedroom. “Yeah, my dad died a long time ago."
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
"Don't be. It's always been my mother and me."
He waited by the door as Elsbeth searched her temporary accommodation. The room was simple; a single bed, a nightstand, and a floral painting hanging above the bed. It might've been minimal, but it felt right.
"The bathroom's at the end of the hall, and you'll find towels in the linen closet," Bishop explained. "I can give you some books to read if you like. We go to bed pretty early in this house."
Elsbeth perched on the end of the mattress and glimpsed out the window. The sky was dark and ominous, consuming all she could see of the ocean. "I'm tired. I'll go to bed after dinner."
"Suit yourself." Bishop pushed off the wall and turned to leave. "I'll come to get you when we're ready to eat."
"Bishop, wait.” Elsbeth stood, awkwardly swaying on her feet. “When you kissed me on gala night, I thought there might be something between us. I felt a spark, and I'm sure you did too. Why are you being so indifferent towards me?”
"I kissed you dispassionately," Bishop affirmed. “It wasn't meant to be romantic. I'm not looking for a dalliance.” He thrust his hands into his pockets as a softness returned to his eyes. "You've taken me by surprise, Elsbeth. No one has shown me this much interest in a long time." A soft smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. "The storm will linger ’till morning, so make yourself comfortable. I would love to hear about your life in the States over dinner.”
“There's not much to tell. I was an account manager for a financial firm. I owned a home with my sister, which we renovated and sold before I moved here. I crossed an entire ocean to become someone else. Call it self-preservation, I guess.” She sucked in a breath, feeling overwhelmed by the epiphany. “I understand how lonely it can be. But I've been fortunate with everyone's kindness here. The island is spectacularly beautiful. There’re flowers over here I've never seen anywhere else.” She gestured to the painting above the bed. "I can't seem to take my eyes off this piece of art. I have the same black roses on l'Île Céleste. I saw them in your garden too. They're spectacular.”
“They're not completely black. They derive their colour from a mixture of dark purple and red. My mother bred Rosa Renovamen in England before she moved to Guernsey,” Bishop explained. “They've cross-pollinated with other plants over the years, so I'm not surprised they're growing on your land.” He stepped a foot out of the room and extended his hand. “Come with me. My mother has a fifteen-year-old sherry. I would like to get to know you, Elsbeth.”
Bishop drank sherry shots like a seasoned pro, while Elsbeth failed to keep up, refusing the third glass he pushed her way.
“Is this what you like to do in your spare time?” she asked, sitting back in her chair.
