By the time we left Ferrington, I was glad I hadn’t confided in Will. That flash of uncertainty in the diner had probably been the result of his sarcastic remarks. I shouldn’t have let them bother me. I loved Vincent, I trusted him. How could I have considered betraying him?
At the inn, Will insisted on carrying the groceries inside. Susan invited him to stay for dinner. Todd was delighted, but I wasn’t at all pleased. During the meal, I said little, hoping to discourage Will from lingering after we finished eating, but he didn’t notice. Not with Todd sitting beside him, begging him to draw pictures and play games. Not with Susan offering him a second helping of cherry cobbler. Not with Dad asking him to stay and meet Vincent—the very thing I dreaded.
After Susan took an unwilling Todd to bed, Dad led Will into the living room. “Vincent’s an interesting chap,” he said. “I think you’ll like him.”
“I’ve heard a lot about him already.” Will glanced at me, but I picked up my poetry book and pretended to read, determined not to let him get a rise out of me again.
When Vincent came downstairs, Dad introduced Will. Vincent shook his hand and smiled, but Will seemed embarrassed, unsure of himself. Compared to Vincent, he was awkward and clumsy, a boy in faded jeans and a bulky plaid shirt, his feet enormous in scuffed work boots, his curly hair untidy, his cheeks as red as a child’s.
“Jeff showed me some of your artwork,” Vincent said, making an effort to put Will at ease. “A ship at sea, a lighthouse, gulls, Todd’s Captain Jupiter slaying a wolf. You’re very talented.”
Will mumbled his thanks and took a seat beside me. Vincent went on talking to Will, showing an interest in him that made me jealous. He asked about his formal training, where he intended to study, what he hoped to do with his ability.
Will stumbled through his answers, speaking in halting monosyllables. It was obvious he didn’t enjoy Vincent’s attention. Finally he got to his feet. “I told Grandmother I’d be home by ten. She doesn’t like to be alone at night.”
He edged toward the hall, but his eyes lingered on me. I had an idea he hoped I’d walk to the door with him.
Quick to pick up on things, Susan said, “Show Will where his jacket is, Cynda.”
Reluctantly I led Will out of the cozy living room. The hall was cold and dark. Behind me, I heard Vincent laugh at something Dad said.
I pulled Will’s bully parka out of the crowded coat closet and handed it to him. He took it wordlessly and held it for a moment. “I don’t like him,” he said at last.
“How can you say that? Vincent was so interested in your art, he was so encouraging. He praised you, Will Bigelow.”
Will shook his head. “He didn’t mean a word he said, Cynda. He’s a con man if I ever saw one.”
“You’re as bad as Todd.”
“People say kids and dogs are good judges of character,” Will said. “Why not include cats, too? I noticed Ebony left the room when Vincent came in.”
“Don’t be silly. Everybody knows cats are the most persnickety things on earth.”
Will sighed and zipped his parka. “Maybe I’m just jealous,” he said. Without looking at me again, he opened the kitchen door and vanished into the cold night.
For a moment I stood there staring at the door. Once I would have been thrilled to have a boyfriend as nice as Will Bigelow. But that was before I met Vincent.
When I returned to the living room, Vincent smiled at me over the rim of his glass. “What a pleasant young man Will is,” he said. “So shy and unassuming, yet so talented and handsome.”
I sank down on the couch without replying and picked up my book. Something told me Dad and Susan had concocted a romance between Will and me. While I’d been out of the room, they’d probably discussed the possibility with Vincent. Maybe that’s what they’d been laughing at.
When Vincent got up to leave, I raised my head and caught his eye. He gave me a long, considering smile. “Good night, Cynda,” he said softly.
I waited a few minutes, listening to him climb the stairs. When the inn was silent again, I closed my book, said good night to Susan, kissed Dad, and went to my room.
Vincent came to my window that night and the next. Night after night, he led me across the snow and into the dark. Although I wanted to learn more about him, he had a way of turning the conversation back to me. He drew every sorrow from my heart, every pain; he never wearied of hearing how deeply my parents’ divorce had hurt me, how much I’d cried when Dad left, how jealous I was of Todd and Susan, how much I resented my stepfather.
The more I talked, the more he sympathized, and the angrier I became with my parents. First I stopped answering Mom’s letters. Then I stopped reading them. I stuffed the envelopes into a drawer unopened. Why bother? They were all the same-pages and pages of flowery accounts of the fun she and Steve were having in Italy, a paragraph at the end asking about me, “Love You” scrawled at the bottom like an afterthought.
As for Susan and Dad, my resentments multiplied and our arguments grew. Like Mom, Susan found fault with everything I did or didn’t do—why didn’t I pick up after myself? Why was I so careless about turning lights off? You’d think leaving a coffee cup on the table signaled the end of civilization.
Dad spent more time than ever in his den, grumbling and complaining. Instead of feeling close to him I felt more and more distant. When I accused him of loving Todd more than me, he told me to grow up.
Vincent was the only one who understood, the only one who listened, the only one who cared how I felt. He comforted me with tender words and fierce kisses.
One night, his teeth grazed my skin, and I pulled away, startled by the pain. He held me tighter, murmuring apologies, seeking my neck with his lips gently, softly, sweetly, persuading me till I was willing to let him do what he wished—no matter what it was.
In the morning, I noticed a little red mark on my neck. A girl I once knew used to show me similar marks—love bites, she called them. Her boyfriend gave them to her, she said, giggling. Other girls called them hickeys. Even though they bragged about them, they hid them with scarves or turtlenecks.
I touched the mark curiously, thrilled by the way my skin tingled, and pulled up the collar of my sweater. If Susan saw it, she might suspect something was going on between Vincent and me. That wouldn’t do. She mustn’t find out.
That night, as Vincent and I crossed the lawn, he suddenly tensed and looked back at the inn. Except for the candles, its windows were dark, but on the third floor, a face was pressed against the glass.
Seizing my hand, he hurried me into the shadows.
“Was it Susan? “I whispered.
“No,” he said. “Todd.”
“What if he tells?”
“Deny it, say he was dreaming. Everyone knows the child is fearful and overly imaginative.”
Somewhere in the woods, the owl called, and Vincent turned to listen. We’d reached the middle of the field that lay between the inn and the ocean. From where we stood, I could hear the surf.
The moon shone full on Vincent’s face; its cold light gave his features a cruel, hawklike sharpness I’d never noticed. “The hunter is abroad,” he said softly.
The owl called again, nearer this time. Vincent took me in his arms. Eager for his kiss, I lifted my face and closed my eyes.
Vincent drew in his breath. His lips moved from my mouth to my throat again. I felt a flash of pain sharper than before, as quick as the jab of a needle. The stars and moon spun and I spun with them, whirling faster and faster into darkness.
Suddenly the wind rose with a shriek. At the same moment, Vincent made a choking sound and thrust me away.
I staggered for a moment and almost fell. “What’s wrong?” I cried, reaching out for him.
He kept his head turned, hiding his face. The wind seemed to push him away from me. He fought it, cursing as if it were an adversary. “Go back to the inn!” he shouted to make himself heard above the gale.
I reached again for his hand, but windblown snow, as fine and hard as diamond dust, blinded me. “Vincent, don’t leave me!” I whirled in circles, searching for him. “Where are you?”
The wind’s voice filled my ears, I heard nothing else. Dizzy with panic, I stumbled about calling Vincent’s name. He couldn’t have left me, couldn’t have abandoned me. Yet I neither saw nor heard him. He seemed to have vanished into the cold, snowy darkness.
Without him to guide me, I was lost. I had no idea where the inn was, which direction to take. The wind and blowing snow confused me, left me too weak to walk. Despite the cold, I sank down in the snow and lay on my back, staring up at the black sky begemmed with stars. The moon sat among them, surrounded by a pale nimbus. Beautiful, I thought drowsily, so beautiful is the queen of night.
The wind dropped, its voice changed to a low moan. Cold fingers caressed my face and smoothed my hair. “Ill has come to you,” the wind whispered, “to me, to all of us . . .”
A girl as pale as sea-foam stood over me, barely visible in the eddying snow. Without actually speaking, she urged me to stand, to walk. Like the wind at my back, she helped me along, she guided me toward the inn’s candles, she hovered near me till she was sure I was safely in bed. Then she vanished, leaving behind the faintest trace of the sea.
I hovered on the edge of consciousness, trying to understand what had happened. But I was too tired to think, too cold. I closed my eyes and sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.