Dark Dreamer (5 page)

Phoebe smiled. “I’d like that.”

CHAPTER THREE

 
“You had lunch,” Cara said.

There was a silence at the other end of the phone, then, “She’s our neighbor.”

“Is she gay?”

“I haven’t asked.” A defensive note. “Maybe. Probably.”

“So, what’s she like?” Cara kept her voice even. She had already heard enough about Rowe Devlin to have a pretty clear picture. The woman was a thirtysomething dyke with a crush on Phoebe. What else was new?

“She’s good company. It’s funny. She writes these bizarre stories, but she doesn’t believe in the supernatural at all.”

“Have you slept with her?”

“No!”

Cara ran a quick count. A week had passed since Phoebe had first encountered their new neighbor. They’d had lunch a few days ago. No doubt they would have dinner some evening soon, which meant by the time Cara got home they would be lovers. “Please don’t do this,” she said.

“I know what you think, but it’s not like that.”

“Okay. What is it like?”

“I’m being clear about boundaries. No mixed messages.”

That would last about five minutes if she found this woman attractive. “So, are you telling me she’s not your type?” Cara could hear Phoebe breathing softly into the phone. Her silence provided the answer. “Promise me something. Promise me you’ll wait.”

A sigh. “I wish you would trust me.”

“And I wish I didn’t have to get rid of your unwanted lovers.”

“Please don’t be angry at me.” Phoebe’s voice shook.

“People are not flowers. You can’t just pick them because they seem beautiful, then discard them when the bloom fades.”

“I don’t!” Phoebe burst out. “They pick me! What am I supposed to do? I hate disappointing them.”

“Oh, please. You hate that they disappoint you. They are never perfect. They are never what you dreamed of. How many times do we have to have this conversation?”

“All right. I won’t see her!” Phoebe choked on a sob.

“Smart move. Don’t see her. Don’t talk to her. And for Chrissakes don’t fuck her.”

A loud metallic click made Cara wince. Phoebe had hung up on her. In about three minutes, she would call back, imploring forgiveness. Meanwhile, Cara had time to make herself a whiskey sour.

*

Phoebe pulled on her coat, tied her headscarf, and marched out into the November sleet. A snowstorm bleached the early evening sky, the first of the season. Driven by the north wind, icy white flakes whipped her face as she plodded across the long meadow that led to Dark Harbor Cottage.

At the sight of the warmly lit windows, she stopped in her tracks and almost retreated. She knew she should go back home and phone Cara again. Her sister had enough to deal with. It was time Phoebe starting making some difficult decisions and taking responsibility for herself. She could begin by letting Rowe Devlin know they would only ever be friends. No flirting. No games. It was one thing to have short-lived relationships with women in Portland, most of which ended badly, quite another to mess things up with the next-door neighbor. Cara was right to be cross with her.

Phoebe pawed the snow from her face with her mittens. She had to stop expecting her twin to get her out of trouble every time she backed herself into a corner, romantically speaking. If only she could stay attracted to a woman for more than a few months. At first she always expected to, but that quickly changed and she would start dreading each date and finding excuses not to go. Some women caught on right away and stopped calling. Others pursued her, and eventually she would agree to see them. But it was Cara who showed up for those uncomfortable discussions. Women simply assumed she was Phoebe with a haircut.

Lately, trying to stay out of trouble, Phoebe had stopped going to social events in southern Maine. She was getting a reputation. It was really unfair. Other women had countless flings and no one thought badly of them. Why was it different for her? Why did she get sent a dog turd in the mail? She’d only dated a handful of women around Islesboro, and she’d tried not to hurt anyone. She hated the stricken looks and the crying and, as a consequence, she could never bring herself to say it was over like she really meant it. That’s why Cara took care of the breakup process for her.

She wished she had never allowed that. It was deceitful and cowardly, and Cara was still hung up over the last woman she’d had to dump. Hence the constant lectures on boundaries. Phoebe caught a brief mental glimpse of Bev Hagen and felt queasy. Bev was a captain in the Marines. She’d wanted them to get married in Vermont before her deployment to Iraq, and Phoebe didn’t have the heart to say no. So she’d gone along with the plans, told Bev what she wanted to hear, and tried to be in love with her. She’d figured if she procrastinated long enough, Bev would be shipped out and they would eventually lose contact.

But Bev was a very determined woman. She’d set a date, bought Phoebe a beautiful ring, and arranged a wedding breakfast for close friends and family. The week before, Phoebe knew she couldn’t go through with it and begged Cara to deal with Bev. It had gone badly. When Cara gave the ring back, Bev had slapped her face. Cara had been so mad, she told Phoebe she would never do her “dirty work” again and that she considered it a low blow to break a soldier’s heart a week before she was due to go fight in that miserable war in Iraq. That was almost a year ago and Cara still couldn’t let it go.

With guilty trepidation, Phoebe stared up at the turret room and made out a shape—Rowe working at her computer. This time, she was not going to break anyone’s heart, she promised herself. It was not like she set out to make women fall madly in love with her. In fact, she made a point of letting them know she wasn’t looking for anything long term. Was it her fault if they didn’t listen?

Rowe was not the type to run after a woman, she decided. In fact, women probably ran after her. She was a famous author, after all. And attractive. Maybe she had a girlfriend, although Phoebe doubted it. From their last conversation, it seemed pretty obvious that someone had played fast and loose with her heart and she was still getting over it.

Convinced she could keep their contact on a purely neighborly footing, she started walking again, leaning into the wind. It was snowing more steadily now, and the light was dimming by the minute. Thankfully the cottage was only a hundred yards away. If the air got any colder, her lungs would freeze.

When she reached the front steps, she shook herself free of snowflakes. Before she could even ring the bell, the dogs started barking and the door swung open.

“Jesus, Phoebe,” Rowe greeted her. “What the heck are you doing out in this?”

Phoebe suppressed an irrational urge to throw herself into Rowe’s strong-looking arms. “I felt like company.”

Rowe pulled her into the vestibule and kicked the door closed behind them. “Is everything all right? You look kind of teary.”

“It must be from the wind.” Chilled to the bone, she slid out of her coat and selected a hook for it.

Rowe shot her a quick, dubious glance. “Come and get in front of the fire.” She opened the parlor door and a blast of warm air engulfed them.

“I’m not interrupting your work, am I?” Phoebe asked.

“Nope. The cadavers aren’t going anywhere.”

“You’re still writing that scene in the morgue?”

“Yes ma’am. And it’s still blood out of a stone.”

Phoebe hoisted her damp skirt so the fire could dry the heavy fabric and warm her legs. “Maybe you should try writing something totally different.”

“I’m all ears,” Rowe said dryly. Her eyes were on Phoebe’s legs.

Out of pure mischief, Phoebe inched her skirt higher and said, “What about kids’ books?”

“Yeah, I guess JK Rowling isn’t going broke any time soon.”

“Or there’s romance.” As soon as she’d said it, Phoebe wished she hadn’t. She could almost hear Cara.
No hinting. No mixed messages.

“Do I strike you as the romantic type?”

Phoebe promptly let go of her skirt and sat down on the sofa, not wanting to answer that honestly. “Well, you write creepy books and you don’t believe in any of that stuff. Why not romance?”

“You have a point.” Rowe joined her on the sofa, slouching back and stretching her legs out, one foot crossed over the other.

She looked good in jeans. She had the right build. Long, well-muscled legs and not too much of a butt. Phoebe wished she could curl up with her head in Rowe’s lap and fall asleep. But that would be worse than a mixed message.

“Want to come back to my place for hot chocolate?” she suggested, and immediately wondered if it sounded like a come-on.

“Are you kidding? It’s getting worse by the minute out there. I’d never make it back home.”

Phoebe felt a rush of panic. Rowe was right. No one would be going anywhere once this weather really set in, herself included. What if Cara phoned later and found she wasn’t at home? Phoebe could just imagine what she would think. She would probably call Rowe’s place and make some tactless comment that would embarrass the woman.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she mumbled. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Hey, not so fast.” Rowe’s sensual blue-green eyes slid over her. Softly, she coaxed, “Tell me what’s wrong. We both know you didn’t come out in a storm because I’m irresistible company.”

Phoebe stared down at her soggy boots. She didn’t know this woman well enough to unburden herself. Yet she didn’t want to go home and spend days snowed in by herself with no one to talk to either. “I had a fight with my sister,” she said. “I should have phoned her back, but I—”

“Wanted to simmer down first?”

“Yes.”

“Smart move.” Rowe offered an encouraging smile. “If you want to talk about it, I’m a good listener.”

Here was her opening. Phoebe tried to frame what she needed to say, but it seemed ridiculous to tell a woman who hadn’t even come out to her that they could only be friends. She reminded herself that Rowe Devlin probably fended off smart, gorgeous potential girlfriends all the time. Phoebe was flattering herself if she thought her new neighbor had anything in mind other than friendship. Besides, Rowe didn’t even know Phoebe was gay. Cara hadn’t thought this through properly before she made assumptions. There was no basis for her paranoia.

Phoebe took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, relieved to have figured this out before she made an idiot of herself. “It was just a sister thing. But thanks.”

“Well, I’ll walk you back home later, whatever the weather is doing,” Rowe said. “Meantime, hot chocolate sounds pretty good. Don’t suppose you want to come wait in the kitchen again?”

The prospect evoked a shudder, but telling herself not to be a wimp, Phoebe said, “Sure.” There was nothing to be afraid of. It was just a room. What she’d seen in there last time must have leaked from her subconscious. There was no other explanation.

“The dogs don’t like it in there either,” Rowe told her as they left the parlor.

Phoebe fixed her eyes on the back of Rowe’s head and followed her down the long, poorly lit hall into the dank kitchen. The moment she crossed the threshold, her scalp started prickling and she felt a painful constriction in her chest. She took the chair Rowe pulled out and glanced toward the dogs. They were pacing back and forth in the doorway, tails between their legs.

Rowe placed the milk and chocolate in the microwave, then glanced quizzically in her direction. “Are you all right?”

“This room…it has quite an oppressive feel.” Phoebe hoped she didn’t sound rude. “Have you noticed?”

“It is pretty musty.” Rowe glanced casually around. “I’m going to rip everything out, go for maybe a Tuscan-type concept. What do you think?”

Phoebe clasped her shaking hands together in her lap. “Sounds wonderful.”

Rowe rattled open a drawer. “I still have some of your yummy pie left. Would you like a slice?” She set a small carving knife on the counter and took the pie from the fridge.

Phoebe wanted to speak but her mouth was frozen. The knife slowly drifted along the counter, spinning slightly until the blade pointed right at her.

Rowe’s hand arrested it. “There isn’t a level surface in this place,” she remarked. “No wonder the last owner didn’t go ahead with renovations. I’ll probably have to redo the foundations.”

Rowe continued talking but it was as if they were underwater. Phoebe could not make out a word. She watched the knife sink into the pie. As if from a great distance, a voice broke through the muffled silence, crying, “Run!”

She lurched to her feet, vaguely aware that her chair had crashed to the floor. Frantic, she ran from the room and along the hall, hearing hideous screams behind her. She flung open the front door and bolted out into the snow, terrified to look back. The shock of the cold made her gasp and the gasps became sobs as she heard someone behind her. She ran harder, her boots accumulating heavy white globs. Hands grabbed at her shoulders. Her foot caught on something and she fell. The hands were on her, turning her over.

“No!” she screamed, punching wildly at her captor. One fist connected before her wrists were seized and she was pinned down. She struggled helplessly for a moment, then lay still, eyes closed, waiting to die.