ELEVEN

 

She woke suddenly the next morning, startled and not sure why. The room was warm, filled with golden light that could only mean it was past nine.

A minute later, something hit her window. She sat up.

She knew it was ridiculous, but she couldn’t help feeling spooked. There was too much going on that she couldn’t explain. The Ouija board night, everything that had happened in Ben’s attic, the guy appearing out of nowhere here, there, and everywhere.

The knocking came again.

It was just a bird, she told herself. Not another message from beyond. Besides, her room was on the second floor, which meant the only way someone could be knocking was if they were really tall. Or able to fly.

At the sound of the third ping she threw back the covers, disgusted with herself. She stepped out of bed and crossed to the window to pull back the gauzy curtains.

There was no one there. Surprise, surprise. She was just about to chalk the noise up to her imagination when something flew toward her. Even though the window was shut, she jumped back, heart racing.

Enough! she thought. Get it together, for God’s sake.

She opened the window and peered downward. It took a second for her to realize who was looking up at her. Not because she didn’t recognize him, but because Ben showing up at her house was so improbable.

“Are you crazy?” she shouted down. “What do you think you’re doing? You could have broken my window!”

He scowled. “I tried the doorbell.”

“You did?”

“Yeah.”

She stood there trying to figure out this new piece of information.

He peered up at her. “I found something. About the music box. But forget it.”

He turned to go.

“Wait!” She called. “I’m coming down.”

The house was quiet as she flew down the stairs. Her dad was probably checking on the Van Kueren job. She didn’t think about the fact that she hadn’t brushed her teeth until she had her hand on the knob of the front door. Plus, she was still in boxers and a T-shirt with no bra.

Great.

But it was too late now. Whatever Ben had found out, if it was about the music box, she wanted to know what it was.

She pulled open the door. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting?” He looked at her like she was crazy. “Because you said you were coming down?”

“Right, right.” She crossed her arms over her chest, hoping the shirt wasn’t see-through, and stepped back. “Come in.”

“Wow,” he said as he looked up at the high ceilings, the curving staircase. “Nice place.”

“It was my dad’s first big project.”

He nodded, his eyes still taking it all in.

Standing there in his loose, faded jeans with his tight shirt riding up a little over his waistband, he didn’t look that bad.

“So … what’s up?” she asked. “You said you found out something about the music box?”

“Yeah.” He turned back to her. “Well, actually, I didn’t. Not yet. But I did find someone who might be able to tell us more.”

He reached into his back pocket and handed her a piece of crumpled-up paper. It was warm, and she tried not to think about the fact that he’d been sitting on it. She blinked away the thought. She did not need to think about Ben Daulton’s ass. Or any other part of him for that matter.

“What’s this?” She was already bending her head to read. Her thoughts had taken her to a place that made her cheeks hot. She was glad for the distraction.

“Just read it. You do that all the time.”

“Do what?”

“Ask me a question when you’re already finding out the answer.”

“Is that a complaint?” she asked. “Because I don’t think you know me well enough to start—”

He sighed. “Just read it.”

She bent her head to the scrap of newspaper. “Eben Wozniak, Fine Art and Antique Appraiser,” she read. “Specializing in Eastern European objets d’art and ephemera.” She looked up, raising her eyebrows in question. “You want to take the music box to this guy?”

He ran a hand through his dirty-blond hair. “I don’t know. I mean, I feel like something happened, you know?” His eyes searched hers.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“So?” he asked. “Don’t you want to know more about it?”

“Well, sure. It’s just … ” She took a deep breath. “Why do you think this guy can tell us what happened in the attic? Even if he can tell us how old the box is or where it came from, that doesn’t exactly explain anything about the … ” she waved a hand in the air, “you know.”

She didn’t name the shared dream. The smell of tobacco. She wasn’t sure what to do with the details that were still too disconnected to make any sense.

“Fine.” He snatched the paper from her hands so fast she was still standing there staring at her palm when he opened the door to leave. “Forget about it.”

He took the steps two at a time and was off the porch in seconds.

“Ben!” she called after him, stepping outside. “Wait. Where are you going?”

He turned and looked back at her, his blue eyes flashing.

“I’m going to the city to see this guy. Maybe you’re right. Maybe he won’t be able to tell me anything. But something happened yesterday, Jenny.” It was the first time he’d used her name. “I know it, and I think you know it, too. I have to at least try to figure out what it was.”

He was halfway to the pickup parked in the driveway.

“Ben!”

He turned around, annoyed. “What?”

“Do I have time to take a quick shower?”

 

* * *

 

Ben insisted on driving, even though it meant moving a slew of potato chip wrappers, two T-shirts, and a half-used package of fireworks.

Once it was relatively clean, Ben gave her the all clear and Jenny climbed into the front seat of the truck. She checked her phone for the train schedule while giving him directions to the train station in Acton.

When they got there, he handed her the music box, hidden in its fabric wrapping.

“Do you mind?” He pointed to her messenger bag. “It’ll be safer that way.”

She hadn’t expected Ben to trust her with it.

He didn’t seem entirely at ease as he parked the car and bought tickets at the kiosk. When the train came, he was tentative as he stepped on board. Like he’d never ridden a train or gone into the city before. But when Jenny asked him about it, he just shrugged, something nervous and cold dropping down over his face. She let it go but couldn’t stop wondering what his story was.

It was after noon, which meant there weren’t too many people in suits on the train. In fact, other than the two green-robed monks who’d boarded with them at Stony Creek, there wasn’t a single person in their car. Not that it mattered. Ben spent most of the time staring out the window across the aisle, seemingly deep in thought as the train rattled its way south. Jenny stole glances at him, noting the hard line of his jaw, the tense set of his broad shoulders, the shock of golden hair that kept falling over one eye.

She thought of Morgan’s knowing smile. Ben wasn’t exactly friendly, but Jenny couldn’t deny being drawn to him. It wasn’t attraction, exactly, although he was cute.

Actually, she admitted to herself, glancing at him, he was hot. The girls at Stony Creek High would definitely be all over him.

But it wasn’t that. Not for her. It was like his loneliness connected them more intimately and deeply than someone she could have known for years. Like she and Ben skipped over all the stuff people usually do when they first meet. All the fake smiles and putting their best foot forwards. As if they’d jumped right to knowing each other so well they could be themselves even when they weren’t at their best.

It was nice, in a weird kind of way.

She tipped her head against the window, letting it warm her forehead. The sound of the train clacking against the track underneath them calmed her busy mind. She let everything go, just for a minute.

“Uh … Jenny?”

Blinking, she opened her eyes, trying to orient herself. Her head wasn’t against the window anymore. It was on Ben’s shoulder. She sat up in a hurry.

“What? Are we already there?”

He nodded. “I think so. Grand Central, right?”

She reached for her bag. “I can’t believe I slept the whole way. Sorry about that.”

“It’s cool.” He stood up, waiting for her in the aisle. “You’re the one who knows the city. I’m following you.”

For a minute, the distance between them had seemed to shrink. It didn’t matter whether it was because she’d been practically drooling on his jacket or because he was more comfortable with her. He was already getting farther away—and not just because she was walking ahead of him in the aisle.

He followed her off the train. They crossed the platform, and she led him up the concrete stairs.

“It stinks in here!” he said from behind her.

She laughed. “Yep. Pee and hot metal. Can’t have an authentic city subway experience without it.”

A minute later, they were inside the station’s giant hallway. Jenny had been there a hundred times. When she was little, her dad had often brought her into Manhattan. She loved the city even then and had been going on her own since she was fourteen. The museums were her favorite. She knew them all. She even knew which ones her mom had liked the best and what her favorite paintings were. Morgan had told her that.

She checked to make sure Ben was still following. He was, but he wasn’t paying attention to her. His face was tipped toward the turquoise ceiling adorned with pinpricks of light illuminating the constellations.

For a second Jenny wasn’t seeing the train station she knew so well. She was thinking instead of the palace in her dream. The majestic soaring space. The noise. The marble. She stole another glance at Ben. He was still looking up. Was he thinking of it, too?

“Come on,” she said finally. “This way.”

Jenny led Ben out of Grand Central and onto Vanderbilt Avenue. From there it was only a block to Madison, where they got on a bus and headed uptown.

They found seats near the back. She let him take the window, and he didn’t take his eyes off the view as the bus rolled forward.

“Have you ever been here before?” she asked as they headed uptown.

“Not since I was a kid.”

Stony Creek was less than two hours from Manhattan. Most of the kids Jenny knew came in at least a couple of times a year.

“How long have you been in Stony Creek?”

“Only about three weeks,” he answered, still looking out the window.

 “Where did you live before?”

“Further upstate. Near Albany.”

“Now that you live closer you should come in more.” She was thinking about his music. “There’s so much you’d love here. Like … ”

“Carnegie Hall,” they said in unison. They both laughed.

“And underground clubs,” he added.

They got off the bus on Seventieth Street and walked east. The tree-lined street was filled with a few old apartment buildings and rows of dignified but aging brownstones.

Jenny turned to Ben. “Which number is it?”

He pulled the crumpled newspaper ad from his pocket. “Uh … One hundred forty-six.”

“One hundred forty-six,” she repeated, looking at the building in front of them. “This one’s thirty-two. At least we’re on the right side of the street.”

They kept walking, Jenny tracking the house numbers as they went. They crossed Park Avenue and came to a narrow but elegant brownstone halfway down the next street. Jenny scanned the facade, smiling when she saw the bronze numbers.

She turned to Ben. “This is the one.”

He nodded. “Okay, let’s do it.”

They were halfway up the six stone steps when she put a hand on his arm. “Ben?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think we should say anything about the dream … thing. Or whatever it was.”

“Well, yeah,” he said, as if it were obvious. “The guy would think we were crazy.”

“Right,” she sighed with relief. She didn’t want to tell him that, for once in her life, it wasn’t crazy she was worried about. That something was gnawing away at her intuition, telling her that the dream had been more than a dream and that it was probably best if no one else knew about it.

They reached the top of the stairs, coming face-to-face with an enormous door and a gleaming brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head, its mouth open in a silent roar.

More melodrama, Jenny thought. Except this time she wasn’t laughing. Faced with the door, she felt like they were about to enter Dr. Frankenstein’s lair.

Or the house of Dracula.

Ben reached for the knocker, striking the polished ball at its end against the plate. They stood, shuffling from foot to foot and waiting for someone to answer.

“Does he know we’re coming?” she whispered.

“I’m not stupid.” Annoyance tinged Ben’s words. “I called ahead.”

“I didn’t say you were—”

She was interrupted by the sound of locks being disengaged. The door swung open to a darkened hallway. After the bright sunlight, she could barely see the figure in the vestibule.

“Yes?” The man spoke with the trace of an exotic accent.

“Uh … I’m Ben Daulton, and this is my friend, Jenny.”

Jenny tried not to show surprise at being introduced as his friend.

“We’re here to see Mr. Wozniak. I called earlier?” Ben continued. “About the music box?”

 “Of course. Do come in.”

Ben and Jenny stepped into the gloomy foyer. The man shut the door behind them. Jenny tried not to gulp out loud when she heard the locks click into place.

Her eyes were getting used to the low light. She could see the man clearly now. He wasn’t anything like the doddering old antiques dealer she’d expected from his name. His fingernails were too long—almost as long as a woman’s. Gold rings flashed on his fingers and he wore a black turtleneck over finely tailored slacks. His feet moved across the floor in black slippers with a crest embroidered in gold thread. When he moved, Jenny caught a whiff of exotic spices, like the incense Morgan burned when she meditated.

“I am Eben Wozniak,” he said. “Please, follow me.”