The Shape of Night(3)

    I want to linger by that window but already she’s moving on, hurrying me through the tour, into a formal dining room furnished with a heavy oak table and eight chairs. On the wall hangs another ship’s painting, this one by a far less skillful artist. The vessel’s name is mounted on the frame.

The Minotaur.

“That was his ship,” says Donna.

“Captain Brodie’s?”

“It’s the one he went down on. His first mate painted this picture and gave it to Brodie as a gift, the year before they were both lost at sea.”

I stare at the painting of The Minotaur and the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly rise, as if a chill wind has swept into the room. I actually turn to see if a window is open, but all of them are shut tight. Donna seems to feel it too, and she hugs herself.

“It’s not a very good painting, but Mr. Sherbrooke says it belongs with the house. Since the first mate himself painted it, I assume the ship’s details are accurate.”

“But it’s a little unsettling, having it hanging here,” I murmur, “knowing that this was the ship he went down on.”

“That’s exactly what Charlotte said.”

“Charlotte?”

“The woman who was renting this house just before you. She was so curious about its history, she was planning to talk to the owner about it.” Donna turns away. “Let me show you the bedrooms.”

I follow her up the winding staircase, my hand skimming the polished banister. It is made of masterfully crafted oak and feels solid and permanent. This house was built to last for centuries, to be a home for generations to come, yet here it stands empty, waiting to host one lone woman and her cat.

“Did Captain Brodie have any children?” I ask.

“No, he never married. After he died at sea, the house passed down to one of his nephews, then it changed hands a few times. Arthur Sherbrooke owns it now.”

    “Why doesn’t Mr. Sherbrooke live here?”

“He has a home down in Cape Elizabeth, near Portland. He inherited this house from his aunt years ago. It was in pretty bad shape when it came to him and he’s already spent a fortune restoring it. He’s hoping a buyer will take it off his hands.” She pauses and glances back at me. “In case you’re interested.”

“I could never afford to keep up a house like this.”

“Oh, well. I just thought I’d mention it. But you’re right, the upkeep on these historic houses is a nightmare.”

As we walk along the second-floor hallway, she points through doorways into two sparsely furnished bedrooms and continues to a door at the end of the hall. “This,” she says, “was Captain Brodie’s bedroom.”

As I step inside, I once again inhale a strong whiff of the sea. I had noticed the scent downstairs, but this time it’s overwhelming, as if I’m standing before a crashing surf, the spray washing across my face. Then suddenly, the scent vanishes, as if someone has just closed a window.

“You’ll love waking up to this view,” says Donna, gesturing to the window, although at the moment there’s nothing to see beyond the glass but fog. “In the summer, the sun rises right there, over the water, so you can watch the dawn.”

I frown at the bare windows. “No curtains?”

“Well, privacy’s not an issue because there’s no one out there to see you. The property extends all the way to the high-tide line.” She turns and nods toward the fireplace. “You know how to light a fire, right? Always open the flue first?”

“I used to visit my grandmother’s farmhouse in New Hampshire, so I’ve had plenty of experience with fireplaces.”

“Mr. Sherbrooke just wants to be sure you’re careful. These old houses can go up in flames pretty fast.” She pulls the key ring from her pocket. “I think that’s about it for the tour.”

“You said there’s a turret upstairs?”

“Oh, you don’t want to go up there. It’s a mess right now, what with all the power tools and lumber. And definitely don’t step out on the widow’s walk until the carpenters replace the deck. It’s not safe.”

    I have not yet taken the keys that she’s holding out to me. I think about my first glimpse of the house, its windows staring at me like dead, glassy eyes. Brodie’s Watch had promised no comfort, no sanctuary, and my first impulse had been to walk away. But now that I’ve stepped inside, breathed the air and touched the wood, everything seems different.

This house has accepted me.

I take the keys.

“If you have any questions, I’m in the office Wednesday through Sunday, and I’m always on my cellphone for emergencies,” Donna says as we walk out of the house. “There’s a handy list of local numbers that Charlotte posted in the kitchen. The plumber, doctor, electrician.”

“And where do I pick up my mail?”

“There’s a roadside mailbox at the bottom of the driveway. Or you can rent a PO box in town. That’s what Charlotte did.” She pauses beside my car, staring at the cat carrier in the backseat. “Wow. That’s quite a kitty you have.”

“He’s fully housebroken,” I assure her.

“He’s enormous.”

“I know. I need to put him on a diet.” I reach into the backseat to haul out the pet carrier, and Hannibal hisses at me through the grate. “He’s not happy about being cooped up in the car all this time.”