It’s been two years now since my brother, Si, was murdered. I’ve survived, although in some ways I’ve taken one step forward and two back.
I no longer have night terrors about Si, but now, I have the same dream every night where a girl talks to me, and strangely, I can’t see her or remember anything she says.
Is this some kind of displacement activity that my subconscious carries out to distract me from thinking of the tragic events that have lately ruled my life?
The dreams aren’t scary—they’re actually romantic, but frustrating at the same time. Sometimes I wake up tasting long, cold kisses and for hours afterwards, my body tingles with excitement.
It seems my arms remember well enough, even if my mind can’t, and they grieve her absence beside me in the night.
I have to put the thought of her out of my head though, because tonight, I’m struggling with a new manuscript and Harry, my publisher, is getting antsy.
Frankly, it’s been two years now since I’ve come up with a novel idea, and I suppose he’s got his rights. Okay, that’s a poor pun, but a sign I’m recovering some of my lost wits.
Anyway, I feel secure so I can relax. Jules, my dead brother’s dog, is guarding me—lying with his back against the study door.
I glance down at the I-phone display showing four of my security cams. One panel is showing motion, but then again, it’s snowing. I can hear the wind whistling outside the study window and the camera frames are filled with white streaks arcing like shooting stars.
Then, the driveway alarm sounds. Now I am concerned. I get up and go downstairs to investigate. Out front, the motion lights are on, but there are no footprints in the snow.
I could ignore the alarm and say it’s the wind, but doubt would niggle at me the rest of the night. There’s no alternative but to put on my parka and walk the property with Jules. Of course, I’m armed with my flashlight, billy club nightstick and can of Mace. But the only footsteps I find outside are mine.
I go back inside and call it a night. This will be a day when no one dies.
I head off to bed, to dreamland, and to my mysterious girl—protected by sentry alarms and with Jules, my protector, securely guarding the door.
The next morning I’m eating breakfast when the front doorbell rings. I open the door to a beautiful girl with honey colored hair and huge brown eyes.
“Sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if you’d mind if I set up my canvas outside and painted your house?”
“Really—you paint in the cold?”
“Sure. I just wear thin gloves and an extra layer of clothing. I’ll probably just be sketching for the first few days though.”
“Why don’t you come in and we’ll talk about it?”
Her smile is enchanting. She hangs her ski jacket on the coat stand and sits down on the red velour loveseat in the front room.
“Can I offer you coffee and toast?” I ask her.
“No thank you,” she laughs, “I began my day some time ago.”
I colour. “I’m a writer, and tend to stay up late… and get up late.”
“I won’t disturb you—I’m used to painting outdoors. You won’t even know I’m there.”
“Well, that’ll be a shame,” I say, “I don’t get many visitors and you’re welcome to drop in and chat.”
“I’d like that,” she smiles.
Suddenly, the sun comes out and lights up the room. I take that as a good sign.
Over the next few days, I get to know more about the girl. Her name is Celeste Warren and she’s researched the house and learned quite a bit of its history. I find that intriguing—or perhaps the truth is, I find her enchanting.
As we spend afternoons by the fire chatting and relaxing she tells me all about the bluffs where my house is built and draws me into her passion.
“I’ve got an idea,” she says, eyes dancing with excitement. “I’ll take you on a tour and show you all the house’s secrets, if you want.”
How can I resist?
She begins with the exterior of the house and grounds and insists we put on our parkas and go outside.
As we’re walking, she lapses into tour guide mode. “The house was built in 1928 and was owned by a Great Lakes sea captain named William Logan. He and his wife and stepdaughter lived in the house until 1935. The stepdaughter died in an accident and soon afterwards, the family moved away.”
“That’s very sad,” I say, trying not to think too much of my own sorrows.
She senses my somber change of mood and tries to carry on with her monologue.
“Over the years, various families came and went but none could stay in the house long. They all complained about it being too solitary and desolate.”
I look back at the house with its sage green siding and white trim—it looks so peaceful and cozy, but admittedly, the vast stretch of lake beyond and the wide vista of sky could easily make some feel desolate.
Suddenly, she stares at me with huge brown eyes, and whispers, “Don’t worry, Scott—I don’t find it desolate.”
I feel as if she’s peering inside me, reading my innermost thoughts.
“Do you know there’s a place where the cliff juts out—a narrow peninsula of land, about three hundred feet above the water? And if you stand there long enough you feel as if you’re flying—like a swallow or gull winging the air, veering over the water?”
She looks transported just thinking about it.
I get caught up in her enthusiasm. “Will you take me there?” I ask.
“Not today,” she smiles sadly. “Perhaps another time.”
But it goes like that—every day for several weeks—Celeste outside at her easel painting, and I inside working on my manuscript.
And then, we spend an hour or two in the afternoon, sitting in my front room—enjoying the fire and pleasantly chatting.
She never eats and rarely drinks, except for an occasional sip of champagne.
We’re falling into a comfortable routine and I find myself falling in love with her.
Perhaps the Fates ordained this as a way of allowing me to recover and get on with my life...
Or, is there a deeper meaning in this relationship?
