“Nothing out there,” I said to the cat in my most comforting voice. “It’s just the gate.”
He hissed once more, then turned and ran, unconvinced.
“Wuss,” I called after him.
I let myself out the front door, walked the paved steps to the gate and closed it, sliding the metal latch into the place, keeping my eyes averted from the pool. I was not ready to acknowledge the pool. But I felt it there, waiting for me, taunting me in the dark.
“Not tonight,” I said, and went back in the house, closed and locked the heavy front door, and clicked the dead bolt into place.
chapter six
June 15, 1929
Brandenburg, Vermont
Last night, after unpacking and settling in, we dined on brook trout and baby potatoes in an ornate dining room with cream-colored walls and lush velvet curtains. A man played low, moody music on the piano. Will produced a small flask of apple brandy from back home and tipped a little into my glass. I wore a new silver satin dress, and under the lights of crystal chandeliers it sparkled like fish scales.
Mr. Benson Harding, the owner of the hotel, visited each table with his wife, greeting his guests personally. He was a tall man with dark hair, a carefully trimmed mustache, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to be watching everything in the room at once. He shook Will’s hand and introduced us to his wife, Eliza, a stunning woman with bobbed black hair and eyes just as dark. She had a small raised scar under her left eye, which somehow made her face more beautiful. Her lips were painted red, her eyelashes heavy with mascara. Her dress was black but covered in sequins that shimmered under the lights. They looked so perfect and happy together, arm in arm in their fine clothes. “And are you enjoying your stay so far, Mrs. Monroe?”
“It’s delightful,” I assured her. “Like something from a dream!”
She smiled, leaned in so that her lips were just inches from my ear, her breath warm on my neck, and said in a low voice meant only for me, “Isn’t it just?”
* * *
As the evening wore on, the music turned lively and the piano player was joined by a drummer, bass player, and a man with a horn. He sang “Everybody Loves My Baby,” and some couples got up to dance. Will took my hand and led me to the small dance floor, and we spun until I was sure I would fall. The room was buzzing with music and people talking and laughing. Will whispered something in my ear, but I couldn’t make out what it was. “I’m afraid I’ve had too much brandy,” I admitted.
“No such thing,” he said, and suggested we get some air. His eyes looked impossibly green. I leaned against him, said, “Aren’t we just the luckiest people on earth? To have found each other?” He smiled and kissed me.
We took an evening stroll around the grounds, our arms linked. Crickets and katydids sang from the grass. The peacocks were tucked away somewhere for the night. We headed toward the springs, taking a stone-lined path, but they were roped off with DANGER and CLOSED signs. I could hear running water. There was a sharp, mineral tang in the air. Someone had clearly already disobeyed the signs, because I heard a splash and a giggle. I couldn’t see anything but the dark shadows of the trees that lined the pool area. “Maybe they’re skinny-dipping?” I said. I suggested that we sneak in, too.
“Scandalous, Mrs. Monroe,” he said, and raised his eyebrows, blushing slightly. “If there is a couple in there already, I’m sure they’d like their privacy.”
* * *
That night, I had the strangest dream. The sparrow’s egg was resting against my chest again. I picked it up and it cracked open, and water began to flow out of it. The water took shape, and a small child, about five or six years old, stepped out from beneath the stream of water. It was a little girl with dark hair and eyes, a narrow face, elvish features. She looked at me and smiled, and my heart banged hard in my chest as I smiled back. I recognized her dark, almond-shaped eyes as my own. She was me and yet not me. I knew at once that this was my child. My daughter.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” the child said.
I took her in my arms and wept, burying my face in her hair. She smelled like wind and summer rain, the forgotten afternoons of childhood. As I breathed her in, my chest ached with longing. I woke up crying, my arms empty. Moonlight filtered in through the windows, giving the room a pale blue glow, as if we were underwater. Will was asleep on his back beside me, his face slack and peaceful. I padded into the bathroom, latching the door. I opened my case, took out a pin, sat on the toilet, and scratched three short lines just above my right ankle, concentrating on the pain until the aching feeling in my chest began to fade.
* * *
This morning, after a lovely breakfast of poached eggs, toast, and fresh fruit, we went back to our room and changed into bathing costumes covered up with the plush robes the hotel provided. We followed the stone path from the back door of the hotel to the springs. It took us to the edge of the yard, to a small pool lined in granite, perhaps ten feet by ten feet. What struck me first was the smell: a sharp, mineral tang tinged with the rotten egg stench of sulfur. Will wrinkled his nose. “Smells haunted,” he joked. I gave him a reproachful glare. Birds chattered from the nearby trees. One of the peacocks came close and gave a screech, but there were no other bathers in the water—we had the pool to ourselves. The water was black! So dark that it seemed to take our reflections and pull them into the darkness, making us disappear. I was actually frightened to get into that obsidian water. Will must have sensed my apprehension, because he put his hand on my arm and said, “We don’t have to do this.”
Was I imagining the nervousness in his voice?
“Of course we’re going in. That’s why we’re here!” I said, slipping off my robe and shoes. I got to the edge and lowered myself in. The water stung the fresh scratches on my ankle. The cold was a shock! So frigid it was painful. I gasped. “I can’t feel the bottom,” I told Will. I held my breath and went down, trying to touch it, but could not. I resurfaced, teeth chattering. The pain of the cold was replaced by numbness. I could not feel the tips of my fingers and toes.
Will slid into the water. “Good God!” he exclaimed.
We swam in quick circles, moving our arms and legs to keep warm, teeth chattering. “You’re beautiful when you’re freezing to death,” Will told me.
The water had weight to it—Will said it was the minerals. As I swam, I felt as if fingers were touching my skin, wrapping themselves around my arms and legs, holding me up then trying to tug me down. After five minutes, we could take no more and got out. We were toweling off when I looked down at my ankle. I blinked in disbelief. The scratches I’d made last night were gone!
A funny little gasp escaped my lips as I rubbed at the unflawed skin.
“Are you all right?” Will asked.
“Ye-yess,” I managed. “Just cold.”
“Your lips are blue, darling wife,” Will announced. His were, too. His skin looked shockingly pale. Suddenly, his eyes focused on the pool, and he asked, “Did you see that?”
“What?” I asked.
He stared down into the dark water, frowning. “Nothing,” he said. “It was nothing. A trick of the light.”