Page 91 of The Shape of Night

I turn instead to the turret staircase. One last time, I mount the steps.

The others don’t even glance at me when I enter. They are too busy staging lights and reflectors and tripods. Silently I survey all the changes that Rebecca has made to the room. A pair of wicker chairs is tucked into the alcove, inviting visitors to an intimate chat. A white sofa sits warming in the sunshine, and on the end table is a stack of gardening magazines and a nearly empty mug with a few last sips of cold coffee. A crystal dangles at the window, casting rainbows of light on the walls. This is a different room, a different house than I remember, and I am both relieved and sorrowful about the changes. Brodie’s Watch has moved on without me, to be claimed by a woman who has made the home her own.

“Ready for you, Ava,” says Mark.

As he snaps the final photos, I assume the role everyone expects of me, the cheerful food writer in the captain’s house. For the book’s introduction, I wrote that Brodie’s Watch was where I found inspiration, and it’s true. Here is where I tested and perfected my recipes, where I learned there is no finer condiment than the scent of sea air. It’s where I learned that wine does not cure grief, and when you dine with guilt, even the most tenderly prepared meal is tasteless.

This is the house where I should have died, but instead learned to live again.

After the last photo is snapped, and the gear is packed up and carried downstairs, I linger alone in the turret, waiting for one last ghostly whisper, one last whiff of the sea. I hear no ghostly voice. I see no dark-haired sea captain. Whatever once bound me to this house has since vanished.

In the driveway, we say our goodbyes to Rebecca, and I promise her an autographed copy ofThe Captain’s Table.“Thank you for opening your house to us,” I tell her. “I’m so glad Brodie’s Watch has finally found someone to love it.”

“We do love it.” She squeezes my hand. “And it loves us, too.”

For a moment we stand looking at each other, and I remember Jeremiah Brodie’s words, spoken so softly to me in the darkness.

Here in my house, what you seek is what you will find.

As we drive away, Rebecca waves goodbye to us from her front porch. I lean out the window to wave back and suddenly I glimpse something up on the widow’s walk high above, something that, just for an instant, looks like a figure in a long black coat.

But when I blink, he is gone. Perhaps he was never there. All I see now is sunlight gleaming on slate and one solitary gull, soaring across the cloudless summer sky.