“The one up on the point. It’s called Brodie’s Watch.”

The sudden silence speaks louder than anything either man could have said. I catch the look that flies between them and notice Emmett’s eyebrows knit together, carving deep furrows in his face.

“So you’re the gal who’s renting Brodie’s Watch,” says Emmett. “You staying there long?”

“Through the end of October.”

“You, uh, like it up there on the point?”

I look back and forth at the two men, wondering what isn’t being said. Knowing that something is being left out of the conversation, something important. “Except for the mice, yes.”

    Emmett covers up his consternation with a forced smile. “Well, you come on back if you need anything else.”

“Thank you.” I start to leave.

“Ava?” says Dr. Gordon.

“Yes?”

“Is anyone staying up there with you?”

His question takes me aback. Under other circumstances, a stranger asking if I live alone would put me on guard, make me wary of revealing my vulnerability, but I don’t sense any threat from his question, only concern. Both men are watching me, and there’s a strange tension in the air, as if both of them are holding their breaths, waiting for my answer.

“I’ve got the house all to myself. And my cat.” I open the door and pause. Looking back, I add: “My very big, very mean cat.”

* * *

—

That night, I bait six mousetraps with peanut butter, leave three in the kitchen, two in the dining room, and the sixth one in the upstairs hallway. I don’t want Hannibal to trap his paw in any of them, so I bring him into my bedroom. Clever Hannibal is an escape artist who’s learned how to turn doorknobs with his paws, so I slide the latch shut, locking him inside with me. He’s not happy about this and he paces the room, yowling for a chance to go on another mouse hunt.

“Sorry, kiddo,” I tell him. “Tonight you’re my prisoner.”

I turn off the lamp and in the moonlight I can see him continue to pace. It is another clear, still night, the sea as calm and flat as molten silver. In the darkness I sit by the window sipping a bedtime glass of whiskey and marveling at the view. What could be more romantic than a moonlit night in a house by the sea? I think of other nights when moonlight and a few drinks made me believe that this man might be the one who’d make me happy, the one who’d stand the test of time. But a few days, a few weeks later, the cracks would inevitably begin to show and I’d realize: No, he’s not the man for me. Time to move on and keep looking. There’s always someone else out there, someone better, isn’t there? Never settle for Mr. Good Enough.

    Now I sit alone, my skin flushed from my day in the sun and by the alcohol that now courses through my veins. I reach down yet again for the bottle, and when my arm brushes across my breast, it leaves my nipple tingling.

It has been months since any man has touched me there. Months since I’ve felt even the faintest hint of lust. Not since New Year’s Eve. My body has been asleep, all desire frozen in a state of hibernation. But this morning, when I’d stood on the beach, I had felt something inside me flicker back to life.

I close my eyes and in an instant the memory of that night is back. My kitchen counter covered with used wineglasses and dirty plates and platters of empty oyster shells. The cold tiles under my naked back. His body on top of mine, thrusting into me again and again. But I won’t think about him. I cannot bear to think of him. Instead I conjure up a faceless, guilt-free someone, a man who does not exist. A man for whom I feel only lust, not love. Not shame.

I refill my glass with whiskey, even though I know I have already had too much tonight. My shin still aches from banging it on the landing last night, and this afternoon I noticed a fresh bruise on my arm, but I can’t remember when or where I got it. This drink will be my last for the night. I gulp it down and flop onto the bed, where moonlight, pale as cream, washes across my body. I peel open my nightdress and let the cool sea air whisper across my skin. I imagine a man’s hands touching me here, and here, and here. A faceless, nameless man who knows my every desire, a perfect lover who exists only in my fantasies. My breaths quicken. I close my eyes and hear myself moan. For the first time in months my body is hungry again to feel a man inside me. I imagine him grasping both my wrists and pinning them above my head. I feel his calloused hands, his unshaven face against my skin. My back arches and my hips rise to meet his. A breeze blows in through the open window, flooding the room with the smell of the sea. I feel his hand cradling my breast, stroking my nipple.

    “You are the one I’ve been waiting for.”

The voice is so close, so real, I gasp and my eyes fly open. In terror I stare at the dark shape hovering above me. Not solid, but merely a swirl of shadow that slowly drifts away and dissipates like mist in the moonlight.

I bolt straight up in bed and flip on the lamp. Heart banging, I frantically scan the room for the intruder. All I see is Hannibal sitting in the corner, watching me.

I jump to my feet and scramble to check the door. It is still locked tight. I cross to the closet, yank it open, and rake aside my hanging clothes. I find no intruder lurking inside, but I spy an unfamiliar bundle of silk in the deepest corner of the closet. I unfurl a rose-colored silk scarf—not mine. Where did this come from?

There’s only one more place in the room to look. Confronting every childhood nightmare about monsters hiding under the bed, I drop to my knees and peer under the box spring. Of course, no one is there. All I find is a stray flip-flop. Like the silk scarf, it was probably left behind by the woman who lived here before me.

Bewildered, I sink onto the bed and try to make sense of what I just experienced. Only a dream, surely, but one so vivid I am still shaking from it.

Through my nightdress, I feel my own breast and think of the hand on my skin. My nipple still tingles at the memory of what I felt. What I heard. What I smelled. I look down at the scarf I found in the closet. Only then do I notice the French fabric tag and I realize this is an Hermès scarf. How could Charlotte leave this behind? If it were mine, I’d make sure it was one of the first things that went into my suitcase. She must have been in a rush to pack if she’d left behind her well-loved cookbook and this expensive scarf. I think of what I just experienced. The hand caressing my breast, the shape swirling in the shadows. And the voice. A man’s voice.

    Did you hear him too, Charlotte?

Five

Two men have invaded my house. Not fantasy men but real men named Ned Haskell and Billy Conway. I hear them hammering and sawing up on the roof, where they’re now replacing the rotted deck of the widow’s walk. As they hammer upstairs, downstairs in the kitchen, I cream together butter and sugar, chop walnuts and blend it together into a batter. I left my Cuisinart at home in Boston, so I must now cook the old-fashioned way, using my muscles and bare hands. The physical labor is comforting, even though I know I will have sore arms tomorrow. Today I am testing a toffee cake recipe I found in an 1880 memoir by a sea captain’s wife, and it’s a joy to work in this bright and spacious kitchen, which was designed with a large domestic staff in mind. Judging by the grand scale of the rooms, Captain Brodie was a wealthy man and he would have employed a cook and housekeeper and several kitchen maids. In his day, there would have been a wood-burning stove, and instead of the refrigerator, a zinc-lined cold closet chilled by ice that would be regularly replenished by the local iceman. As my toffee cake bakes, perfusing the kitchen with the scent of cinnamon, I imagine the household staff laboring in this room, chopping vegetables, plucking chickens. And in the dining room, the table would be set with fine china and candles. Sea captains brought home souvenirs from around the world, and I wonder where all Captain Brodie’s treasures are now. Handed down to his heirs or lost to antique shops and landfills? This week I will pay a visit to the local historical society and see if they have any of the captain’s possessions in their collection. My editor, Simon, was intrigued by my description of the house and in his email this morning, he asked me to hunt down more information about Captain Jeremiah Brodie. Tell us what sort of man he was. Tall or short? Handsome or ugly?

    How did he die?

The oven timer dings.