The Shape of Night(41)

At home that evening, I comfort myself the way I usually do; I cook. Tonight I roast a chicken and slice bread into cubes for croutons, a meal that’s so familiar I can put it together in my sleep. Automatically I chop parsley and garlic and toss it with olive oil and bread cubes, but my mind is still on the murdered woman. I think back to the day her body was recovered. I remember the blue tarp glistening with seawater and the look of horror on Ben’s face as he lifted that tarp and stared at what lay underneath.

    I take the chicken out of the oven and pour myself a second glass of sauvignon blanc. Good for me, it’s nine P.M. and I’m only at glass number two. After what I’ve seen today, this second glass is well deserved and I take a deep gulp. The alcohol flames its way through my blood like a kerosene fire, but even as my tension melts away, I’m still thinking about the dead woman. Was she young or old? Pretty or plain?

Why has no one reported her missing?

If I tumbled down the stairs and broke my neck tonight, how long would it take for anyone to miss me? Eventually Donna Branca would notice, of course, but only because she’d miss my monthly rent check. People always take notice when you don’t pay your bills, but that could take weeks. By then my body would be well on its way to decay.

Or eaten by my cat, I think, as Hannibal hops up onto the dining table and stares at the slices of chicken on my plate.

Third glass of wine. I’ve been trying to cut down, but tonight I don’t care whether I’ve had too much. Who’s here to see me, scold me? Only Lucy ever really cared enough to get in my face about my drinking, but she’s not here to protect me from myself, as she’s always done.

I sit at the table and stare down at my meal, so perfectly presented: slices of chicken drizzled with gravy made from drippings and white wine. Roasted new potatoes. A salad tossed with fresh-baked croutons and Spanish olive oil.

Lucy’s favorite dinner. The same dinner I cooked for her birthday.

I can see them again, both smiling at me across the table. Lucy and Nick, their wineglasses raised in a toast to the chef. “If ever I have to choose a final meal, I want it to be cooked by Ava,” Lucy said. And then we went around the table, each of us talking about what we’d choose for our last meals. Lucy’s would be “Ava’s roast chicken.” Mine would be a rustic cacio e pepe with a glass of crisp, chilled Frascati. Nick’s choice was beef, of course. “A rib-eye steak, medium rare. No, make it beef Wellington! If it’s my last meal, why not get a little fancy?” he’d said, and we’d all laughed because even though Nick had never eaten beef Wellington, he thought it sounded delicious.

    If only I could go back to that birthday dinner, a night when we were all together and happy. Now I sit alone in this cavernous house. If I die here alone, I have only myself to blame.

I leave my scarcely touched dinner on the table, pick up the bottle, and carry it upstairs with me. The wine’s no longer cold but I’m beyond caring how it tastes. I crave only the oblivion it offers. Up in my bedroom I finish off the bottle and flop onto the mattress. Dead woman in the water, drunk woman in the bedroom.

I turn off the light and stare at the darkness. The ocean is restless tonight and I hear waves pounding the rocks. A storm far off at sea has generated those waves, and here they come rolling in, crashing against the cliffs with wind-driven fury. The sound is so unnerving that I rise to close the window, but even then I still hear those waves. I can smell them too, a scent so powerful that I feel I’m drowning. That’s when I suddenly realize: He is here.

I turn from the window. Jeremiah Brodie stands before me.

“You have been with a man today,” he says.

“How do you…”

“You carry his scent.”

“He’s just a friend. I went out on his sailboat.”

He moves closer and I shiver as he lifts a strand of my hair and lets it glide through his fingers. “You were close enough to touch.”

“Yes, but—”

“Close enough to be tempted.”

“It was just a kiss. It meant nothing.”

“Yet I sense your guilt.” He is so close now, I can feel the heat of his breath in my hair. “Your shame.”

“Not about that. Not about today.”

    “You have cause to feel shame.”

I stare into his eyes, which reflect the cold and pitiless gleam of starlight. His words have nothing to do with Ben Gordon and our innocent kiss. No, this is about what happened before I came to Maine. This is about New Year’s Eve and the sin for which I will never forgive myself. What he smells on my skin is the permanent stench of guilt.

“You allowed him to touch you.”

“Yes.”

“Defile you.”

I blink back tears. “Yes.”

“You desired it. You desired him.”

“I never meant it to happen. If I could go back to that night, if I could live it again—”

“But you cannot. That is why I’m here.”

I stare into those diamond-bright eyes. I hear righteous judgment in his voice and the promise of what will come. My heart pounds and my hands shake. For days I’ve longed for his return, hungered for his touch. Now that he stands before me, I am afraid of what awaits me.

“To the turret,” he commands.