“Is that who you are?”

We stare at each other and I’m afraid he’ll try to kiss me, which is not what a doctor is supposed to do with his patient. To my relief he doesn’t, but turns to look at the harbor again. “I’m sorry. That probably sounded really weird.”

“It makes me sound like a puzzle-box you want to crack open.”

“That’s not what I meant at all.”

“What did you mean?”

“I want to know you, Ava. All the things, big and small, that you’ll let me learn about you.”

I say nothing, thinking about what waits for me in the turret. How shocked Ben would be if he learned how eagerly I welcome both the pleasure and the pain. Only Captain Brodie knows my secret. He is the perfect partner in shame, because he will never tell.

My silence has stretched on too long and Ben gets the hint. “It’s late. I should let you get home.”

We both rise to our feet. “Thank you for inviting me. I enjoyed it.”

“We should do it again. Maybe out on the water next time?”

“I’ll think about it.”

    He smiles. “I’ll make sure the weather’s perfect. You won’t have a thing to worry about.”

* * *

—

When I arrive home, I find Hannibal sitting in the foyer, waiting for me. Watching me with his glowing cat’s eyes. What else does he see? Does he sense the ghost’s presence? I stand at the bottom of the stairs, sniffing the air, but all I smell is fresh paint and sawdust, the scent of renovation.

In my bedroom I undress and turn off the lights. In the darkness I stand naked, waiting, hoping. Why has he not returned? What must I do to lure him back? With every night that passes, every night that I do not see him, I grow more fearful that he never existed at all, that he was nothing more than a fantasy born of wine and loneliness. I press my hands to my temples, wondering if this is what insanity feels like. Or is it a complication of cat scratch fever, encephalitis, and brain damage, just the sort of logical explanation Lucy would accept. Microbes, after all, can be seen through a lens and grown in test tubes. No one doubts their existence, or the havoc they can wreak in a human brain.

Maybe this really is Hannibal’s fault.

I climb into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. At least this much I know is real: The crispness of linen against my skin. The distant whoosh of the ocean and the rumble of Hannibal purring beside me.

Nothing takes shape in the darkness; no thickening shadow congeals into a man. Somehow I know he will not visit me tonight; perhaps he was never here at all. But there is a man who could be in my bed, if I wanted him. A real man.

It’s time for me to choose.

Sixteen

The mainsail snaps taut and I cling to the starboard rail as Callista heels in the wind, her bow slicing through the swells.

“Nervous?” Ben calls out from the tiller.

“Um, a little!”

“There’s nothing to worry about. Just sit back and enjoy the view. I’ve got everything under control.”

And he does. From the moment I stepped aboard Callista, I knew I was in capable hands. Ben has thought of every detail to make this afternoon perfect. Sparkling water and wine are chilling in the cooler and the picnic hamper is packed with cheese and fruit and chicken sandwiches. I had offered to make lunch, but he’d assured me that everything was taken care of, and it has been. I glance around the pristine deck where all the ropes are neatly coiled, where every brass fitting gleams and the teak shines with fresh varnish.

    “This boat doesn’t look fifty years old,” I say.

“She’s wood so she’s a lot of work to maintain, but she belonged to my dad. He’d roll over in his grave if I didn’t take good care of her.” He glances up at the mainsail and unties the jib sheet. “Okay, ready about!”

As he turns the bow through the wind, I scurry across to the port side. The boat heels, tilting me once again over the water. “How long ago did your dad pass away?” I ask.

“Five years. He was seventy years old and he still had a full-time medical practice. He collapsed while making rounds in the hospital. Which is not the way I want to go.”

“How do you want to go?”

“Certainly not while at work. I’d rather be out on the water, like today. Having a good time with someone I like.”

His answer seems casual enough, but I hear his emphasis on that last phrase, someone I like. I turn away and gaze toward the shoreline, where the forest tumbles down to the sea. There are no beaches here, only woods and granite cliffs where seagulls circle and swoop.

“Right around that point, there’s a nice little cove,” he says. “We can anchor there.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Not a thing, Ava. I’m used to sailing solo, so I’ve got this.”

With a few expert tacks he steers Callista around the point and into a secluded cove. I’m only a spectator as he lowers the sails and drops anchor, and he moves around the deck so efficiently that even if I did try to help, I’d probably slow him down. So I busy myself doing what I do best: uncorking the wine bottle and laying out our picnic. By the time he’s secured the sails and coiled the lines, I’m ready to hand him a glass of wine. While Callista gently sways at anchor, we relax in the cockpit, sipping perfectly chilled rosé.

“I think I could learn to like this,” I admit.

    He gestures toward the cloudless sky. “A summer’s day, a sturdy little boat. It doesn’t get better than this.” He looks at me. “Think I can talk you into staying beyond October?”

“Maybe. I do like it here in Tucker Cove.”

“You’ll have to stop being my patient.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m hoping I can call you something else.”

We both understand where this is going. Where he wants it to go, anyway. I haven’t yet decided. The wine makes my head buzz and my face feels pleasantly flushed from the sun. And Ben Gordon has the most striking blue eyes, eyes that seem to see too much. I do not turn away as he leans toward me. As our lips meet.

He tastes like wine and salt and sunshine. This is the man I should be attracted to, the man who is everything a woman could want. This will happen if I let it, but is it really what I want? Is he what I want? He pulls me against him, but I feel an odd sense of detachment, as if I am standing outside my own body, watching two strangers kiss. Ben may be real, but his kiss fails to ignite any flame inside me. Instead, it makes me yearn even more for the lover I miss. A lover I am not even sure is real.

I’m almost relieved when his cellphone rings.

He sighs and pulls away. “I’m sorry, but that’s a ringtone I need to answer.”

“Of course.”

He retrieves the phone from his boat bag. “This is Dr. Gordon.”

I reach for the wine bottle and am refilling my glass when I hear the abrupt change in his voice.

“This is the final report? He’s sure about this?”

I turn to look at him, but he doesn’t see me watching him. His face has darkened and his lips have tightened into grim lines. He hangs up and says nothing for a moment, just stares at the phone as if it’s betrayed him.

“Is something wrong?”

    “That was the medical examiner’s office. About the body they pulled out of the bay.”

“Do they know who she is?”

“They haven’t identified her yet. But they have the results of the toxicology screen, and there were no drugs or alcohol in her system.”

“So she wasn’t drunk when she drowned.”

“She didn’t drown.” He looks at me. “They’re calling it a homicide.”

Seventeen

We are quiet as we motor back to the harbor, both of us silently processing the news, which will no doubt be all over Tucker Cove by this evening. For a town that relies on tourism, in a state whose motto is The Way Life Should Be, this news will not be welcome. We tie up at the dock and when I step out of the boat, I see the village of Tucker Cove with new eyes. On the surface it is still a pretty New England town with white clapboard buildings and cobblestoned streets, but now I see shadows everywhere. And secrets. A woman has been murdered, her body tossed into the sea, yet no one knows—or wants to reveal—her name.

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.