Monstrous Beauty (12 page)

Several minutes later when she got to the mouth of the cave she glanced back at the family. They had lost interest in her; the boy had gotten his sneakers wet and was crying. She ducked inside the cave.

The back of the cave was as dark as night. The front, where she was standing, was bright. She moved a few steps in and waited, wondering if her eyes would adjust enough to see the back wall. She stayed still, listening for rustling, or shifting, or breathing … anything. She held her own breath. She waited. There was nothing. She exhaled.

She cleared her throat deliberately. Then she listened again.

Silence.

“Hello?” she said timidly.

Nothing.

“Helloo,” she said, louder. “Are you … are you there?”

She waited a moment, and then she huffed her air out. What had she come here for? Who was she calling to? If she was thinking about the stranger from two weeks ago, she was being ridiculous. She was more likely to bump into him in Squant’s Treasure than in a cave on the beach.

And then she had a horrible thought: what if he had fallen asleep that night and drowned when the tide had come in?

She dropped her bag. “That’s it. I’ve lost my marbles.”

A quiet voice responded, “You’re a bit old for that game, I believe, but if they’re here I promise you I’ll find them.”

It was him. She was secretly elated, although she couldn’t fathom why. And then a prickly irritation welled up inside, because he was using her own wordplay tricks against her. Was she that annoying to the tourists at the village when she did it?

“Very funny,” she said.

“Then why is there sarcasm in your voice, I wonder,” he said. Now she heard shifting, as if he were sitting up from a reclined position.

“Let’s see, maybe because you were poking fun at me and my nerdy idiom?”

“I wasn’t poking fun. I’m … not actually familiar with that particular idiom. I meant it literally: I know this cave rather intimately.”

His voice was slow and deliberate, even though his thoughts were quick and articulate. Somehow, their conversation was out of synch.

“I’m sorry, I guess I misunderstood, too.” She changed the subject. “Hey, why are you here?”

“I’m much more interested in why you’re here.” His voice was beautiful: husky, deep, and quiet—with that little edge of amusement that she was beginning to find maddening. Or perhaps endearing.

“I came to … to check on you,” she said.

“How did you know you would find me here?”

“I didn’t know. I was…” She told him the truth. “… Sort of drawn here.”

She kicked herself mentally. She sounded like a stalker, when she was really just concerned for his safety. She was the last person who would chase a man, but how could he know that?

He was quiet. Very quiet.

“So you’re okay then?” she said.

“I’m well, thank you. Actually, I’m touched, which I find a bit bewildering.”

“Damn, but you talk in riddles,” Hester said.

“I’ll try to speak more plainly, if you’ll control your language.” He sounded more entertained than upset.

“Agreed. You first,” Hester said.

“What I meant was, it has been a long time since anyone asked after my health.”

“Step into the light,” Hester said all at once. She surprised herself with her nerve.

He didn’t move for a moment, and in that span of time Hester imagined with a little rise of panic that he might be damaged somehow—that there might be something shocking in his appearance. She swallowed and resolved to herself that if he came forward she would not show any reaction. She would treat him normally, as he deserved—as any human being deserved—no matter what was different about him.

“Very well,” he said.

As he approached the center of the cave, he held his right hand in front of his eyes, palm out, to shield them from the glare. He was tall, thin, and wiry. He looked rumpled, as if he had just awakened. His clothes were unusual: a white blousy shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and black linen pants, also rolled once or twice. He was barefoot. He had scruffy black hair, unkempt but clean, and fair skin. He lowered his hand and squinted at her through one eye. He had the clearest blue eyes she had ever seen. His features were delicate, almost pretty, but also weary and worn. He was gorgeous.

Hester burst out laughing.

He tilted his head and raised one eyebrow, as if to say “What’s so funny?”

“I’m so sorry,” Hester said. “Y’see…” She couldn’t stop laughing. She held up her finger. “Wait…”

She took a deep breath and held it. She looked away from him, at the wall. She exhaled.

“It’s just that while you were in the shadows, I imagined, you know, more like Phantom of the Opera.”

“No, I’m afraid … I don’t know what you mean.”

She made the mistake of looking at him again. His eyes were quizzical and penetrating. He had a hint of stubble and thin, expressive lips. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. Laughter bubbled up again and escaped explosively.

Inappropriate,
she scolded herself.
You sound like a hyena. So … so schoolgirlish. He’ll think you’re a silly flirt.
That last thought was all she needed to gain control.

“I’m sorry.” She cleared her throat. “It’s just not every day you find a male model hiding in a cave.”

He looked at her but didn’t say anything. It seemed as if he hadn’t understood her explanation, or perhaps had disregarded it. He couldn’t possibly be humble with looks like that, could he?

Then she noticed he was studying her.

“What’s wrong?” Hester said.

He shook his head. “This doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Remember our deal? The fucking
riddles
?” she said, swearing on purpose to tease him.

He smiled and showed beautiful teeth, with one lateral incisor irresistibly crooked. She noticed that the skin next to his eyes creased adorably. She resolved to ignore it.

“Plain English, then: I’m marveling at us standing here, in a cave, talking together like two ordinary people.”

She looked around her, nodding. “Yeah, the setting is unusual.” She looked back at him, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off her.

She said the first thing that popped into her head. “Your clothes look handmade.”

“I suppose they are,” he said.

“They’re almost period-looking…”

“If you’re implying they’re in an outdated style, I would have to say the same of yours.”

“These are my work clothes,” she said defensively. But seeing the blank look on his face, she wondered if he even knew about Plimoth Plantation. “They’re a costume. They represent clothing from 1627.”

“I see.”

“I role-play at the historic village. I interpret Elizabeth Tilley.”

“Elizabeth Tilley,” he said, pensively. “John Howland’s wife.”

“That’s right,” she said. Not many people her age would have known that fact, or given a damn for that matter, yet he looked to be only a couple of years older than she was. She wondered about his exact age.

“John did remarkably well for himself, no?” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Was he coming on to her?

“He started his journey as an indentured servant, I believe, and finished it by marrying the governor’s daughter. Half of the other Mayflower emigrants were dead by then.”

“Ah,” she said with relief. He was a history buff, not a lecherous bastard. “Pretty good. Except that Elizabeth was Carver’s ward, not his daughter. And Carver was the governor for barely a few months before he died and William Bradford took over.”

They were standing face to face. He smiled at her again—so warmly for someone who didn’t know her yet—and Hester wanted to look away, but she couldn’t.

“You’re an excellent sparring partner,” he said.

“And you’re enigmatic as hell. I mean, heck.”

She felt unnerved by him—off balance somehow, when she was usually so in control. It had something to do with the way she had his undivided attention, the way she couldn’t look away from him, the way he seemed to be soaking up the details of her face and her words, and the way she felt drawn to him despite every brain cell fighting to extinguish the attraction. He was eroding years of her carefully crafted emotional wall in the span of minutes.

“Why do you spend time in here, anyway?” she asked, more aggressively than she intended. “It could actually be dangerous, with the tides, you know.”

“I am aware of the tides.” His face hardened.

“But what are you doing in here?” The pitch of her voice was rising; she hated how shrill she sounded.

“What concern is it of yours?”

“It’s just weird that I found you in here twice.” She motioned toward his legs. “I mean, where are your shoes?”

“I didn’t ask you to come,” he said crisply. A cloud passed outside the cave and dimmed the light. His face became darker, almost foreboding.

“Of course you didn’t!” She stamped her foot. “You’re being maddening.”

“And you’re being quarrelsome for reasons I can’t understand. We were enjoying each other’s company until—”

“Now you’re speaking for me!” She put her hand up. “Listen, I just came to make sure you hadn’t drowned that night. I didn’t come for the scintillating conversation.”

A wind whipped up, and wisps of water blew off the tips of the whitecaps, misting Hester’s back.

He said, “And yet if you had no conversation in your life, you’d long for nothing more.”

It was another cryptic riddle, which Hester decided smacked of arrogance.

“I can find plenty of people I’d rather talk to than you,” she lied. Why was she being spiteful?

His lips were tight. The clouds over the ocean matched his mood. Droplets of rain landed outside the cave and a few blew inside. “If you came to satisfy your curiosity regarding my well-being, I think you have your answer. Hadn’t you better leave before another of your overzealous lovers corners you in a cave? I won’t intervene this time.”

“I haven’t got any lovers, smart aleck.” She startled herself with the thumping emptiness she felt in her chest as she added, “I can only ever be alone.”

She couldn’t think of anything else to do but pick up her bag and leave. He grabbed her elbow through the woolen bodice. His grip was sure, but gentle. Her arm tingled lightly.

“Wait.” His face had softened. “Please explain what you mean by that.”

“Let me go,” she murmured, knowing she could pull away if she wanted.

The wind weakened. The rain ended. She felt her bag slip to the ground.

He persisted. “The way you phrased that, ‘I can only ever be alone.’ It implies that it’s not a choice, it has been forced on you. But why?”

The familiarity and intensity of his question pulled words from deep inside her before she could stop to edit them. She felt her lips moving, but the product—faint and disconsolate—was a surprise.

“I’m afraid of dying.”

It was the first time she had said it out loud. And it was too personal to have been uttered to a stranger.

“Why do you believe that love and death are intertwined?” He let her elbow go now, and she found herself disappointed that he was no longer touching her.

“Because for me they are.” She brushed the hair off her brow with the palm of her hand. “No, that’s not true. Technically love is not the problem, it’s what comes after. I can never have children, because the women in my family die within days of giving birth. It’s some sort of undiagnosed medical condition, and the older I get the more it scares the hell out of me.” She looked at the ceiling of the cave to suspend the tears that had built up. “This is ridiculous. Why am I telling you this?”

“Forgive me for being thoughtless and ill-mannered just now.”

She shook her head dismissively and wiped her eyes.

“What do you know about the deaths in your family?” he said.

“My mom died four days after having me. My grandmother died after having her. And my great-great-great-grandmother also died after having a little girl.”

What was wrong with her? How was he making her spill her guts so easily? She had never discussed this with anyone before—not her parents, not Sam, not Peter. She needed to leave; to run away before he cracked her wide open.

“I’m late for supper.”

He looked at her, seeming to weigh what he was about to say next. Hester picked up the strap of her bag.

“I would like to help you think through this problem,” he said.

“Thanks, but I’ve thought about it for years.”

“Please, I have a hypothesis that I’m confident you’ve not yet considered.”

“That’s okay, really.” She lifted the strap of the bag over her head and across her shoulder.

“I understand,” he said, but he seemed genuinely disappointed. “I shall be on the beach tomorrow evening. Join me, if you change your mind.”

“I … I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. She gathered the bottom of her heavy skirt into a bundle to keep it off the damp sand and left without saying goodbye. When she glanced back, he had stepped out of the cave. He was standing on the beach, with the tide just beginning to lick his feet. The setting sun was shining again, lighting his face from the side so that he seemed to glow.

She broke into a run, her bag bumping against her hip.

Chapter 19

1873

E
LEANOR WAS A GOOD
C
HRISTIAN WOMAN
, but that didn’t prevent her from wanting to hurt Sarah Doyle. She found excuses to leave church the following three Sundays in order to spy on Sarah. Over the weeks it became as clear to her as anything she had ever known: her God would not want Olaf’s murder to go unpunished. The sea creatures were unholy—the spawn of the Devil. Sarah’s false human life must somehow be destroyed. As the mother of little Marijn, Eleanor felt the imperative of a safe, wholesome world more acutely than ever before; she would do everything in her power to protect this fragile soul.

On Saturday afternoon she put Marijn in her carriage, tucked a blanket around her, and hurried to the church rectory. The jostling of the dirt road put the baby to sleep. Eleanor applied the brakes to the carriage, lifted the baby out, and knocked on the door of the retired pastor’s house.