Page 20 of Remain (one-of-a-kind)

“I love to sit here in the afternoons with a glass of wine,” she said, not looking at me. “There’s usually an hour or so when I have the place to myself, and the light in here is beautiful.”

“Definitely beautiful,” I said, studying her striking profile. She gave me a sidelong stare then, a coquettish tilt to her head.

“Why does this almost feel like a date?”

“I think it might be the wine.”

“But it’s not a date, right? Believe me, the last thing I need right now is a date.”

“Of course not.” I shrugged. “But what’s going on? Would you like to talk about it?”

She twirled her glass, seeming to debate whether to say more before raising a hand to massage the back of her neck. “Let’s just say that right now my life is complicated to the point that I feel almost paralyzed.”

“That sounds overwhelming,” I said. I took a sip of wine, watching as she did the same. “But I know so little about you that it’s hard for me to know how to help.”

“What would you like to know?”

Everything, I thought. But wanting to downplay my interest, I went with something easy.

“What’s Heatherington like?”

She leaned back and sighed. “You’ve seen it.

Most of the year, it’s a quaint little town off the beaten path, where everyone knows each other’s business.

But then comes the festival and the warm weather, and the summer tourists start arriving, and for a few months, the whole place feels like it’s not really our town anymore.

By the same token, businesses here, like this place, depend on those tourist dollars to get everyone through the winter months, so we smile and do our best to make everybody feel welcome. ”

“Was it a good place to grow up?”

“For the most part, yes. But I think a lot of people tend to have a love-hate relationship with their hometowns.”

“Which one is it now?”

“I don’t hate it, but…” She paused, wiping the condensation off her wineglass. “I’ve been fantasizing a lot about what it would be like to make a fresh start somewhere else.”

I felt a stab of sorrow, knowing it would never happen.

“Where would you go?” I asked.

“Paris or Rome,” she said, her voice almost dreamy. “Or maybe Barcelona. Buenos Aires. But what do I know? I’ve never been anywhere.”

“You’re not a traveler?”

“No,” she said. “Not like your sister, anyway. After you told me about her adventures, I’ll admit I was a little jealous.”

I smiled. “Have you always lived on the property here?”

“Not always,” she said, “but for most of my life I have.”

“Why open a bed-and-breakfast?”

“It was my grandma’s idea,” she answered with a shrug.

“I guess my grandpa had a lot of life insurance, and after he died, the proceeds were placed into a trust for my grandma’s benefit.

Trust proceeds were used to buy the house and land because my grandma wanted space.

Then she turned it into a bed-and-breakfast to help with the expenses, so the remainder of the trust wouldn’t be depleted.

As you can probably imagine, the weather here means the house takes a beating, so there’s always something that needs repairs.

If you ask me, she would have been better off moving to a condo in Boston and investing the rest, but she wasn’t a city person.

She loved working with her hands. Our garden was a marvel while she was alive, and for a long time she did most of the repairs herself, until she fell off a ladder and broke her hip.

Which is why I suppose it was a good thing Reece and Louise showed up when they did. ”

“What’s their story?”

“My grandma’s younger brother, Tommy, was a troubled soul.

He was in and out of prison most of his adult life until he died in a failed armed robbery attempt.

Reece was his son, and he obviously didn’t have much when it came to father figures.

But Reece was family. In fact, aside from me, Reece was the only family she had left, and I think my grandma felt sorry for him.

I was only six or seven when he showed up in search of a job.

Grandma always told me that the sins of the father shouldn’t be borne by the son.

She was good that way, and it worked out well.

Reece and Louise do most of the heavy lifting around here, and I couldn’t run this place without them. ”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“What do you like to do in your spare time? When you’re not working or doing yoga or putting together puzzles?”

“I ride my bike. Take walks on the beach. Read poetry. Watch thunderstorms. Find shapes in the clouds. How about you?”

“Nothing that romantic.”

“You did tell me that you worked a lot.”

“My sister thought so.”

She smiled. “I think I would have liked your sister.”

“You two would have gotten along well,” I said. Then, “Oh, by the way, I read that poem you mentioned.”

“Endymion? By Keats?” Her face was animated.

I nodded, recalling the lines again. “It was perfect,” I said.

“I thought you might think so. As bad as I was in math and science, I like to think I made up for it in English. I considered going to college and majoring in it, but that never quite worked out. I still love reading, though. Especially poems.”

“I read what you wrote in the margin. That was you, right? After your grandma passed?”

“It was a hard time,” she conceded. “It was a different hard than it is now, but in the end, hard is hard. And now it’s my turn to ask you a question.”

“Go ahead?”

“What’s that?”

She pointed to the package I’d left on the gaming table.

“I bought you something.”

“You did?” Her eyes widened, glittering with anticipation. “What is it?”

I got up and retrieved the package, offering it to her.

“Would you like to open it?”

She withdrew slightly, and I mentally kicked myself again for the dissonance I’d created with my request.

“Would you do it for me?” she asked. “I don’t want to spill my wine.”

I pulled the box from the plain paper bag and held it in front of her, allowing her to read the lid. I watched as a delighted smile spread across her face.

“Charades?”

“I thought it might be fun.”

“I think,” she said with a touch of wonder, “that my heart just did a little backflip.”

· · ·

I opened the box, but when I suggested going over the rules, she merely laughed.

“Not only do I know the rules, but I should probably warn you, I’m really good at this game. I once pulled Ulysses as a card, and my partner was able to figure it out within seconds.”

“How on earth did you do that?”

She indicated one word, with three syllables.

I watched as she pointed at me; when I said, “Me?” she shook her head and pointed to herself.

When I said, “You,” she nodded and then cupped her ear to indicate that it “sounds like.” At that point, she puckered up and pretended to blow a kiss.

When I said “liss,” she pointed out the window and rolled her arm in a wave-like motion.

“ ‘Sea’ or ‘seas,’ ” I said. “You-Liss-Seas. I get it. But now it’s my turn to warn you: I’m going to be terrible at this. As in, I’ll probably point at a lamp if my card says ‘lamp.’ ”

She rolled her eyes before taking another sip of wine, which made me realize that I needed to fortify myself with a refill. Unlike her, I couldn’t refill my glass by concentration or magic alone.

When I returned, I set my glass on the table, then pulled out the timer and the cards.

“Would you like to go first?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. She set her glass on the table next to mine and reached for a bowl of potato chips that hadn’t been there earlier.

“Does first mean that you’re going to act it out or that you’re going to guess?”

“I’ll act, you guess,” she said. “But my fingers are greasy,” she said. “Would you mind showing me the card? And no peeking.”

I nodded, realizing that she could move things she conjured up but not things in the real world. I reached for the card as she rose from the sofa, and I watched as she licked her fingers before moving to a clear spot in the room.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she declared, and I showed her the card. She thought for a second, then leaned forward, put one hand in front of the other, moved them both back and forward at the same time, and then raised them repetitively up and over her shoulder.

Flummoxed, I volunteered, “Lifting potato sacks?”

Her mouth fell open in shock before she shook her head.

“Vacuuming!” I called out. “Archaeology!”

Continuing to shake her head, she kept repeating the motion before standing up and hugging her arms, as if she were shivering. Then she went back to the original motion again.

“Oh,” I said, suddenly getting it. “Shoveling snow!”

She shook her head before sitting back down and staring at me in disbelief.

“Really? Lifting potato sacks?”

“You looked like you were straining.”

“Archaeology?”

“I thought you were digging.”

She burst into peals of laughter, the sound effervescent. “You really are bad at this,” she said with affection.

“Do you want to stop playing?”

“Not a chance.”

· · ·

We played for hours, talking, drinking wine, and convulsing in hysterics at my incompetence.

While honestly trying my best, I found myself blurting out phrases that had never been uttered by anyone, anywhere.

Blue matador. Radar dog. Balloon pasta. Hungry funerals.

Still, I’ll admit that I also pushed the envelope a little because I loved hearing the sound of her laugh.

It was infectious and, I suspected, cathartic for both of us.

When it was my turn to act out the clues, I wasn’t much better.

Halfway through the game, my card showed Fred Astaire, and I pointed to her fingernails indicating that it rhymed with the color; as the sand continued to drain from the timer, I began pointing at the stairs, which she called steps, until throwing up her hands in frustration.

When I revealed the card, she tilted her head, her nose wrinkling in puzzlement.

“Why didn’t you just start dancing? I would have gotten it.”

“I don’t know how to dance.”

“How can you not know? You just move your body.”

“I’d probably look like an archaeologist lifting potato sacks.”

She giggled. “One day, I’ll teach you.”

“One day,” I said, “I might take you up on that.”

· · ·

Between rounds, I asked questions. She told me more about her grandma and shared a few adventures from her childhood.

I learned she preferred pizza to tacos, rainforests to deserts, and that she would rather go to concerts than movies.

She also described some of the townspeople, a few of whom seemed to be genuine characters.

After her second glass of wine, she revealed her dream of studying at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris and then traveling the world, working in the kitchens of restaurants she read about in Gourmet and the Michelin Guide.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” she said, suddenly self-conscious, “especially for a small-town girl who never even went to college.”

My heart ached again. Really, how could I encourage her, knowing that her chance to follow her dreams had ended for good?

For my part, I talked more about my upbringing in New York and my time at Exeter; I also explained what I found so satisfying about my work as an architect, especially the balance between art and engineering.

And I told her about my love for Oscar and Lorena, trying to capture their gift for making life seem easy and joyful despite the chaos.

What most surprised me was how easily the conversation flowed, our give-and-take as natural as if we’d known each other for years.

Now and then, she would pause as if trying to decide whether to confide even more secrets.

But I tried not to press. Instead, I’d change the subject or offer up a ludicrous response to whatever she was acting out, just to hear her laugh again.

There was something undeniably charismatic about her, a quality I knew must have drawn all kinds of people into her orbit.

As the afternoon wore on, our shadows lengthening in the waning light, I forgot about my purported mission to help her.

Truth be told, I forgot that she was a ghost at all.

All I knew was that I didn’t want the day to end.

As I poured the last of the wine into my glass, she raised an eyebrow.

“You’re lucky you don’t have to drive.”

“I am lucky,” I said. “This has been the best afternoon I’ve had in as long as I can remember.”

“Because you’re playing hooky? Or getting killed in Charades?”

“I think it has more to do with the company,” I said. “Another round?”

“I admire your ability to overlook your lack of ability in this game, but absolutely.”

I smiled and was reaching for another card when the sunlight slanting through the windows suddenly dimmed. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and when I turned back to the sofa, Wren was gone, with no evidence she’d been there at all.