The House in the Cerulean Sea(73)

Arthur stared at him.

Linus didn’t like it. “What?”

“Culture,” he repeated.

“Just an idea.” He was feeling defensive again. He liked museums. He tried to go to the history museum near his house at least a few times a year on the weekends. He always found something new in everything so old.

For the first time since he’d known him, Arthur looked uncertain. “I don’t want anything to happen to them.”

“I don’t either,” Linus said. “And if you’ll allow it, I’ll be there too. I can be quite protective when I need to be.” He patted his stomach. “There’s a lot of me to try and take down.”

Arthur’s gaze trailed down Linus’s front, watching his fingers. Linus dropped his hand back to his lap.

Arthur looked back up at him. “I know about the raft.”

Linus blinked. “You … do? How? Zoe said—”

“It’s neither here nor there. Your message in response was appreciated. More than you could probably know. I will speak with the children. Perhaps the Saturday after next. It’ll be the last full Saturday you’re here. There won’t be time, after. You’ll be gone.”

No. There wouldn’t be. Time never stopped, though it often felt elastic. “I suppose I will.”

Arthur stood. “Thank you.”

Linus stood too. “You keep saying that, and I don’t know if it’s deserved.”

Now the tips of their shoes did touch. Their knees bumped together. And yet, Linus didn’t take a step back. Neither did Arthur.

“I know you don’t believe you do,” Arthur said quietly. “But I don’t say things I don’t mean. Life is too short for it. Do you like to dance?”

Linus exhaled heavily as he looked up at Arthur. The Moonglows began to sing about the ten commandments of love.

“I don’t … know. I think I might have two left feet, honestly.”

“I highly doubt that.” Arthur nodded. He reached up as if he were going to touch the side of Linus’s face, but curled his hand into a fist and stepped back. He smiled tightly. “Good night, Linus.”

Then he was gone as if he’d never been there at all. Linus barely heard the door shut behind him.

He stood in the empty house as the record spun slowly, singing songs of love and longing.

Just as he was about to turn and shut it off, there was a bright flash of orange light through the window.

He rushed forward, peering out into the dark.

He could see the outline of the trees. Of the main house. Of the garden.

But nothing else.

He decided he was tired. That his eyes were playing tricks on him.

As he switched off the record player and began to turn in for the night, it never crossed his mind he’d forgotten to ask about the cellar door.



* * *



He was still distracted two days later as Zoe drove them to the village. Merle hadn’t been very talkative today, which Linus was grateful for. He didn’t think he could deal with the ferryman’s snide remarks.

But that also allowed Linus to become lost in his own thoughts. What he was thinking about, exactly, he couldn’t be sure; his mind felt like it was swirling, caught up in a water spout rising from the surface of the sea.

“You’re quiet.”

He jumped slightly, turning to look at Zoe. The flowers in her hair were uniformly gold. She wore a white sundress, though she was still barefoot. “Pardon me. I’m … thinking.”

She snorted. “About?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not quite sure.”

“Why don’t I believe that?”

He glared at her. “It’s not for you to believe or not believe. It’s simply the way it is.”

She hummed under her breath. “Men are stupid creatures.”

“Hey!”

“They are. I don’t know why. Stubborn, obstinate, and stupid. It would be endearing if it wasn’t so frustrating.”

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Now that I believe. Unfortunately.”

“Just drive, Zoe,” he muttered as the gate lowered in front of them. Merle sullenly waved them off. He didn’t even shout at them to hurry back.



* * *



The man in the post office was still as churlish as he’d been the week previous. He grunted when Linus handed over the report sealed within the envelope. Linus paid the fee and asked if there was any correspondence for him.

“There is,” the man muttered. “Been here for a couple of days. If you weren’t all the way on that island, perhaps you could have gotten it sooner.”

“Maybe if you delivered to the island as I’m sure you deliver everywhere else, we wouldn’t be having this discussion,” Linus snapped.

The man mumbled under his breath, but handed over a thin envelope addressed to Linus.

Linus didn’t even bother thanking him, suddenly feeling daringly vindictive. Why, he didn’t even say goodbye as he left the post office. It was positively scandalous.

“That’ll show him,” he said to himself as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. He almost turned around and went back inside to apologize, but somehow managed to stop himself. Instead, he tore open the envelope carefully, pulling out the single sheet of paper.