It takes me a dozen trips to the car to unload my suitcase, the cardboard boxes filled with books and bedding and kitchenware, and the two bags of groceries I purchased in the village of Tucker Cove, enough to last me for the first few days. From my Boston apartment, I’ve brought everything I need to sustain me through the next three months. Here are the novels that have been gathering dust on my shelves, books that I’ve always intended to read and will finally crack open. Here are my jars of precious herbs and spices that I feared I wouldn’t be able to find in a small Maine grocery store. I have packed bathing suits and sundresses as well as sweaters and a puffy down jacket, because even in summer, you can’t predict the weather in DownEast Maine. Or so I’ve heard.

    By the time I’ve carried everything into the house, it’s well past seven and I’m thoroughly chilled by the mist. All I want now is to sip a drink by a crackling fire, so I unpack the three bottles of wine I’ve brought with me from Boston. When I open the kitchen cabinet to look for a glass, I discover that the previous tenant must have had similar cravings. On the shelf, beside a copy of Joy of Cooking, are two bottles of single-malt Scotch whiskey, one of them almost empty.

I put away the wine and take out the nearly empty bottle of whiskey instead.

It’s my first night in this grand old house, so why not? I’m home for the night, I’ve had an exhausting day, and on this damp and chilly evening, whiskey is perfectly appropriate. I feed Hannibal and pour two fingers’ worth of Scotch into a cut-crystal glass I find in the cabinet. Right there, standing at the kitchen counter, I reward myself with the first sip and sigh with pleasure. As I drink the rest of the glass, I idly flip through Joy of Cooking. The book is stained and grease-spattered, clearly much used and well-loved. On the title page is a handwritten inscription.

Happy birthday, Charlotte! Now that you’re on your own, you’ll be needing this.

Love, Nana

I wonder if Charlotte has realized she left behind her book. As I turn the pages, I see the many notes she’s written in the margins of recipes. Needs more curry powder…Too much work…Harry loved this one! I know how upset I’d be if I misplaced any of my beloved cookbooks, especially one given to me by my grandmother. Charlotte will certainly want this back. I’ll have to mention it to Donna.

The whiskey is performing its magic. As its heat flushes my face, my shoulders relax and my tension melts away. At last here I am in Maine, just me and my cat, alone in a house by the sea. I refuse to think about what has brought me to this place, nor will I think about who and what I have left behind. Instead I busy myself doing what invariably comforts me: cooking. Tonight I will make risotto because it is simple and filling and its preparation requires only two pots and patience. I sip whiskey as I sauté mushrooms and shallots and uncooked rice, stirring until the grains begin to crackle. When I add white wine to the pot, I also splash some into my now-empty whiskey glass. It’s not exactly the proper sequence for beverages, but who’s around to raise an eyebrow? I ladle hot broth into the pot and stir. Sip wine. Stir some more. Another ladle of hot broth, another sip. Keep stirring. While other cooks may lament the boredom of watching over risotto, that is exactly what I love about cooking it. You cannot rush it; you cannot be impatient.

    And so I stand watch at the stove, stirring with a wooden spoon, content to focus on nothing more than what simmers on the burner. Into the pot I sprinkle fresh peas and parsley and grated Parmesan and the fragrance makes my mouth water.

By the time I finally set my meal on the dining room table, night has fallen. In Boston, nights are always polluted by city lights but here I see nothing beyond the windows, no passing ships, no pulsing beams from a lighthouse, just the black, black sea. I light candles, open a bottle of Chianti, and pour it into a glass. A proper wineglass, this time. My table setting is perfect: candlelight, a linen napkin, silverware flanking a parsley-dusted bowl of risotto.

My cellphone rings.

Even before I look at the name on the screen, I know who is calling me. Of course she is calling me. I picture Lucy in her apartment on Commonwealth Avenue, phone pressed to her ear, waiting for me to answer. I can see the desk where she’s sitting: the framed wedding photo, the china bowl filled with paper clips, the rosewood clock I gave her for her medical school graduation. As my phone rings again and again, I sit with fists clenched, nausea coiling in my stomach. When it finally stops, the silence is a blessed relief.

    I take one bite of risotto. Although I’ve cooked the recipe a dozen times before, this spoonful is as tasteless as wallpaper paste, and my first sip of Chianti is bitter. I should have opened the bottle of prosecco instead, but it was not yet chilled and sparkling wine must always be thoroughly chilled, the bottle preferably submerged deep in ice.

The way I served champagne last New Year’s Eve.

Once again I can hear the clink of ice cubes and jazz playing on the stereo and the chatter of friends and family and colleagues crowded into my Boston apartment. I had pulled out all the stops for my party and had splurged on Damariscotta oysters and a whole leg of Jamón Ibérico de Bellota. I remember looking around at my laughing guests, noting which men I’d already slept with, and wondering who I might be sleeping with that night. It was, after all, New Year’s Eve, and one can’t celebrate alone.

Stop, Ava. Don’t think about that night.

But I can’t help poking at that wound, unroofing the scab so it bleeds again. I refill my wineglass and cycle back through the memories. The laughter, the clatter of oyster shells, the happy fizz of champagne on my tongue. I remember my editor Simon tipping a glistening oyster into his mouth. I remember Lucy, on call that night for the hospital, virtuously sipping only sparkling water.

And I remember Nick skillfully popping the cork on a bottle. I remember thinking how jaunty he looked that night, with his tie askew and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Whenever I think of that night it always, always comes back to Nick.

The candle on my dining table sputters out. I look down and to my surprise I find the bottle of Chianti is now empty.

When I rise to my feet the house seems to sway, as though I’m standing on the rolling deck of a ship. I haven’t opened any windows, but the smell of the sea once again sweeps through the room and I can even taste salt on my lips. Either I’m hallucinating or I’m more tipsy than I thought.

I’m too tired to clear the dishes so I leave my barely touched risotto on the table and make my way to the stairs, turning off lights as I go. Hannibal darts past and I stumble over him, banging my shin against the second-floor landing. Already the damn cat knows this house better than I do. By the time I make it to the bedroom he’s already claimed his spot on the comforter. I don’t have the energy to move him; I just turn off the lamp and sprawl onto the bed beside him.

    I fall asleep, with the scent of the sea in my nostrils.

* * *

—

In the night, I feel the mattress shift and I reach out, seeking the warmth of Hannibal’s body, but he is not there. I open my eyes and for a moment I don’t remember where I am. Then it comes back to me: Tucker Cove. The sea captain’s house. The empty bottle of Chianti. Why did I think running away would change anything? Wherever you go, you drag along your own misery like a rotting carcass, and I have dragged mine up the coast to this lonely house in Maine.

A house where I am clearly not alone.

I lie awake, listening to the scritch-scratch of tiny claws moving through the walls. It sounds like dozens, maybe hundreds of mice are using the wall behind my bed as a superhighway. Hannibal is awake too, meowing and pacing the room, driven mad by his killer feline instincts.

I climb out of bed and open the bedroom door to let him out, but he won’t leave the room. He just paces back and forth, meowing. The mice are noisy enough; how can I sleep through Hannibal’s yowls? I am wide awake now anyway, so I settle into the rocking chair and gaze out the window. The fog has lifted and the sky is breathtakingly clear. The sea stretches out to the horizon, every ripple silvered by moonlight. I think of the full bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cabinet, and wonder if another drink might help me sleep through the rest of the night, but now I’m too comfortable sitting in this chair and I don’t want to get up. And the view is so beautiful, the sea stretching out like battered silver. A breeze wafts against my cheek, brushing across my skin like a cool kiss, and I smell it again: the scent of the sea.

    Instantly the house goes quiet. Even the mice in the walls fall still, as if something, someone, has alarmed them. Hannibal gives a loud hiss and every hair on my arms stands up.

Someone else is in this room.

I scramble to my feet, my heart hammering. The chair keeps rocking back and forth as I retreat toward the bed and scan the darkness. All I see are the silhouettes of furniture and Hannibal’s glowing eyes, reflecting the moonlight as he stares at something in the corner. Something I cannot see. He gives a feral growl and slinks away into the shadows.

For an eternity I stand watching, listening. Moonlight floods the window and slants across the floor and in its silvery glow, nothing moves. The chair has stopped rocking. The smell of the sea has vanished.