The Shape of Night(20)

I can’t help shivering as I peer into a room that has been frozen in time for at least a generation. What scandalous history could have led someone to close up this space and plaster over any trace of its existence? What secret were they trying to conceal?

“Arthur wants us to open it up, paint the walls to match the rest of the turret,” says Ned. “And we’ll need to sand and varnish the floor, so that’ll take us another week or two. We’ve been working on this house for months, and I’m starting to think we’ll never get finished.”

“Crazy old house,” says Billy and he picks up a sledgehammer. “I wonder what else it’s hiding.”



* * *



—

Billy and Ned sit at my kitchen table, both wearing grins as I set down two steaming bowls, fragrant with the scent of beef and bay leaves.

    “Smelled this cooking all morning,” says Billy, whose bottomless appetite never fails to amaze me. Eagerly he picks up a spoon. “We wondered what you were whipping up down here.”

“Lobscouse,” I answer.

“Looks like beef stew to me.” He shovels a spoonful into his mouth and sighs, his eyes closed in utter contentment. “Whatever it is, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“It’s known as sailor’s beef stew,” I explain as both men tuck into their lunch. “The recipe originated with the Vikings, but they used fish. As the recipe traveled with sailors around the world, the fish was replaced with beef instead.”

“Yay, beef,” Billy mumbles.

“And beer,” I add. “There’s lots and lots of beer in this dish.”

Billy raises a fist. “Yay, beer!”

“Come on, Billy, you can’t just inhale it. You have to tell me what you think about it.”

“I’d eat it again.” Of course he would. When it comes to food, Billy is the least discriminating person I have ever met. He’d eat roasted shoe leather if I placed it in front of him.

But Ned takes his time as he spoons chunks of potato and beef into his mouth and he thinks as he chews. “I’m guessing this is a lot tastier than what those old-time sailors ate,” he concludes. “This definitely needs to go in the book, Ava.”

“I think so, too. I’m glad to have the Ned Haskell seal of approval.”

“What’re you cooking for us next week?” Billy asks.

Ned gives him a punch on the shoulder. “She’s not cooking for us. This is research for her book.”

A book for which I’ve already compiled dozens of worthy recipes, from a generations-old French Canadian recipe for tourtière pork pie, luscious and dripping with silky fat, to a saddle of venison with juniper berries, to an endless array of dishes involving salt cod. Now I can test them all on real Mainers, men with appetites.

    Billy gobbles down his stew first and heads back upstairs to work, but Ned lingers at the table, savoring the final spoonfuls.

“Gonna be real sorry to finish up in your turret,” he says.

“And I’ll be sorry to lose my taste testers.”

“I’m sure you’ll have no end of eager volunteers, Ava.”

My cellphone rings and I see the name of my editor pop up on the screen. I have been avoiding his calls but there’s no way to put him off forever. If I don’t pick up now, he’ll just keep calling.

“Hello, Simon,” I answer.

“So you haven’t been eaten by a bear after all.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t called back. I’ll send you a few more chapters tomorrow.”

“Scott thinks we should drive up there and drag you home.”

“I don’t want to be dragged home. I want to keep writing. I just needed to get away.”

“Get away from what?”

I pause, not knowing what to say. I glance at Ned, who discreetly rises from the table and carries his empty bowl to the sink.

“I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all,” I say.

“Oh? What’s his name?”

“Now you are really barking up the wrong tree. I’ll call you next week.” I hang up and look at Ned, who is meticulously washing the dishes. At fifty-eight years old, he still has the lean, athletic build of a man who works with his muscles, but there’s more to him than mere brawn; there’s a depth to his silence. This is a man who watches and listens, who takes in far more than others might realize. I wonder what he thinks of me. If he considers it odd that I have isolated myself in this lonely house with a badly behaved cat as my only companion.

“You don’t have to do the dishes,” I tell him.

“It’s okay. Don’t like to leave a mess.” He rinses his bowl and picks up a dishcloth. “I’m particular that way.”

“You said you’ve been working on this house for months?”

    “Going on six months now.”

“And you knew the tenant who lived here before me? I think her name is Charlotte.”

“Nice lady. She teaches elementary school in Boston. Seemed to like it up here well enough, so I was surprised when she packed up and left town.”

“She didn’t tell you why?”

“Not a word. We came to work one day, and she was gone.” He finishes drying the bowl and sets it in the cabinet, right where it belongs. “Billy had something of a crush on her, so he was real hurt she never even said goodbye.”