Heroes Are My Weakness(80)
She released a long, slow breath. “This is a fantasy of what a Maine island should be.”
“A lot cozier than Harp House.”
“A crypt is cozier than Harp House.”
“I’m not arguing with you about that. This is the island’s oldest working farm. Or at least it was. They kept sheep here, grew some grain and vegetables. It’s been abandoned since the early 1980s.”
She observed the solid roof and unbroken windows. “Somebody’s still taking care of it.”
He took a slow sip of coffee, saying nothing.
She tilted her head toward him, but his eyes were hidden behind the lenses of his sunglasses. “You,” she said. “You’re the one who’s been taking care of it.”
He shrugged, as if it were no big deal. “I bought the place. Got it for a song.”
She wasn’t fooled by his dismissive tone. He might hate Harp House, but he loved this place.
He continued to gaze across the meadow and out at the ocean. “There’s no heat, no electricity. A well, but no functioning plumbing. It’s not worth much.”
But it was to him. The meadow’s shady spots held a few still-pristine patches of snow. She gazed past them toward the water, where the morning sun decked the waves’ crests with silver tinsel. “Why didn’t you want me to get on Naomi’s boat? Once I cleared the harbor, the cottage would have been yours.”
“The cottage would have been my father’s.”
“So?”
“Can you imagine what Cynthia would do with it? Turn it into a peasant’s hovel or tear it down to build an English village. Who the hell knows what she’d come up with?”
Another piece of what she’d thought she knew about him broke away. He wanted her to keep the cottage. She had to shake the cobwebs from her brain. “You know it’s only a matter of time before I lose the cottage. Once I find a steady job, I won’t be able to come here for two months every year.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
We. Not just her.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you the place.”
She followed him toward the farmhouse. She’d grown so used to the sound of the surf that the meadow’s birdcalls and deeper silences seemed enchanted. As they approached the front door, she knelt to examine a cluster of snowdrops. Their tiny, bell-shaped petals dipped in apology for showing off their beauty when so much winter remained. She touched one of the snowy blooms. “There’s still hope in the world.”
“Is there?”
“There has to be. Otherwise, what’s the point?”
His harsh bark of laughter held no merriment. “You remind me of this kid I know. He can’t win, but he keeps fighting.”
She tilted her head quizzically. “Are you talking about yourself?”
He seemed startled. “Me? No. The kid is— Forget it. Writers tend to blur the line between reality and fiction.”
Ventriloquists, too, she thought.
I have no idea what you’re talking about, Scamp sniffed.
Theo located the key he wanted and slipped it into the lock, which turned easily.
“I thought nobody on the island locked their doors,” she said.
“You can take the boy out of the city . . .”
She followed him into an empty room with worn, wide-plank wooden floors and a big stone fireplace. A chorus of dust motes, disturbed by the air currents, danced in front of a sunny window. The room smelled of woodsmoke and age, but not neglect. There were no piles of trash, no holes in the walls, which were papered in a faded, old-fashioned floral design that curled at the seams.
She unzipped her coat. He stood in the center of the room, his hands in the pockets of his gray parka, almost as if he were embarrassed for her to see this. She moved past him into the kitchen. The appliances were gone, with only a stone sink left and some dented hanging metal cupboards. An old fireplace occupied the end wall. It had been swept, and fresh wood lay in the grate. I love this place, she thought. The house was of the island but set apart from its conflicts.
She pulled off her hat and stuffed it in her pocket. A window above the sink looked out across a clearing that must have once held a garden. She imagined it in bloom—hollyhocks and gladiolas coexisting with snap peas, cabbage, and beets, all of it flourishing.
THEO CAME INTO THE KITCHEN behind Annie and watched her gazing through the window, her open coat falling slightly off one shoulder. She hadn’t bothered with makeup, and standing in this kitchen from the past, she could have been a farm woman from the 1930s. Her bold eyes and abundance of unruly hair didn’t conform to contemporary standards of manufactured beauty. She was a creature unto herself.