The Shape of Night(2)

“You’re Ava, right?” she says, extending her hand. “Sorry I’m a bit late. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long. I’m Donna Branca, the property manager.”

As we shake hands, I’m already hunting for an excuse to back out of the rental agreement. This house is too big for me. Too isolated. Too creepy.

“Gorgeous spot, isn’t it?” Donna gushes, gesturing toward the granite barrens. “It’s a shame you can’t see anything right now with this weather, but when the fog lifts, the ocean view will knock your socks off.”

“I’m sorry, but this house isn’t exactly what—”

She’s already climbing the porch steps, the house keys dangling in her hand. “You’re lucky you called about it when you did. Right after you and I spoke, there were two other inquiries about this house. Summer’s been a madhouse in Tucker Cove, with all the tourists scrambling for rentals. It seems like no one wants to spend the summer in Europe this year. They’d rather be closer to home.”

“I’m glad to hear there are other people interested in the place. Because I think it might be too much house for—”

“Voilà. Home sweet home!”

The front door swings open, revealing a gleaming oak floor and a staircase with an elaborately carved banister. Whatever excuses I had on the tip of my tongue suddenly evaporate and an inexorable force seems to pull me over the threshold. In the entryway, I stare up at a crystal chandelier and a ceiling with intricate plasterwork. I had imagined the house to be cold and damp, to smell of dust and mold, but what I smell now is fresh paint and wood polish. And the sea.

    “The renovations are almost finished,” says Donna. “The carpenters still have a bit more to do up in the turret and on the widow’s walk, but they’ll try to stay out of your hair. And they only work on weekdays, so you’ll be left alone on weekends. The owner was willing to lower the rent for the summer because he knows the carpenters are an inconvenience, but they’ll only be here for a few weeks. Then you’ll have this fabulous house all to yourself for the rest of the summer.” She sees me gazing up in wonder at the crown molding. “They’ve done a nice job restoring it, haven’t they? Ned, our carpenter, is a master craftsman. He knows every nook and cranny of this house better than anyone alive. Come on, let me show you the rest of the place. Since you’ll probably be testing recipes, I’m guessing you’ll want to check out the fabulous kitchen.”

“Did I tell you about my work? I don’t remember talking about it.”

She gives a sheepish laugh. “You said on the phone you were a food writer, and I couldn’t help googling you. I’ve already ordered your book about olive oils. I hope you’ll autograph it for me.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“I think you’ll find this the perfect house to write in.” She leads me into the kitchen, a bright and airy space with black and white floor tiles set in a geometric pattern. “There’s a six-burner stove and an extra-large oven. I’m afraid the kitchenware’s rather basic, just a few pots and pans, but you did say you were bringing your own cookware.”

“Yes. I have a long list of recipes I need to test, and I never go anywhere without my knives and sauté pans.”

“So what’s your new book about?”

“Traditional New England cooking. I’m exploring the cuisine of seafaring families.”

    She laughs. “That would be salt cod and more salt cod.”

“It’s also about their way of life. The long winters and cold nights and all the risks that fishermen took just to haul in the catch. It wasn’t easy, living off the sea.”

“No, it certainly wasn’t. And the proof of that is in the next room.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll show you.”

We move into an intimate front parlor, where the fireplace has already been laid with wood and kindling, ready to be lit. Above the mantelpiece is an oil painting of a ship heeling on a turbulent sea, its bow cutting through wind-tossed foam.

“That painting’s just a reproduction,” says Donna. “The original painting’s on display in the historical society, down in the village, where they also have a portrait of Jeremiah Brodie. He cut quite a figure. Tall, with jet black hair.”

“Brodie? Is that why this house is called Brodie’s Watch?”

“Yes. Captain Brodie made his fortune as a ship’s master sailing between here and Shanghai. He built this house in 1861.” She looks at the painting of the ship plowing through waves and she shudders. “I get seasick just looking at that picture. You couldn’t pay me to set foot on one of those things. Do you sail?”

“I did as a child, but I haven’t been on a boat in years.”

“This coastline is supposed to be one of the best places in the world for sailing, if that’s your thing. It’s certainly not mine.” She crosses to a set of double doors and swings them open. “And here’s my favorite room in the whole house.”

I step through the doorway and my gaze is instantly riveted to the view beyond the windows. I see rolling drifts of fog, and through the curtain of mist I catch glimpses of what lies beyond: the sea.

“When the sun comes out, this view will take your breath away,” says Donna. “You can’t see the ocean now, but just wait till tomorrow. This fog should clear up by then.”