Late at Night (7 page)

And Everson, who had started it all, was staring into space—oblivious to Ernie, his guests, and just about everything else.

The worst thing was that no one interrupted Ernest with questions or flip remarks the way they had at the dinner table—it was as if he were giving a lecture. Those that were bothering to listen looked so
serious,
too. Any minute he expected one of them to raise a hand and ask if he or she could go to the bathroom. He paused a few times, hoping someone would speak up or change the subject, but instead everyone just sat there staring, waiting for him to resume.

So he told them how the island had been claimed by Charles Lammerty in 1625, who returned to England after selling it to Ezekial Pauling. Pauling then built the original mansion for his daughter and son-in-law, both of whom were killed during the Indian Wars. He reminded them that Edmund Burrows’s victims had been killed in different places all over the island, including the very room they were sitting in. And he talked about Winthrop North III, who had owned the island before Lynn’s aunt, and who had killed himself by jumping onto the rocks and smashing his body to pieces.

Finally Ernie stopped, got up, and said pleasantly, “I don’t really think we’re in the mood for a history lesson, are we? I know I’m not. I’m going to get myself a drink.” He smiled at everyone, then headed towards the dining room and that wonderful table of liquor. A nice strong scotch on the rocks would go perfectly just now.

Gloria let out a yawn so huge, long, and loud that it was almost vulgar. Ernie chuckled.

As he stood making his drink, he heard some scattered conversation begin in the living room.
Good.
He was plunking ice into the glass when Andrea came up to him, holding an empty goblet.
Even better.

“Felt like you were in front of a classroom, didn’t you?” she said. He smiled and nodded, and she gave him an understanding grin. “Make me a gin and tonic, will you?”

He grabbed another glass and looked around for the gin. She was giving him the opportunity to get to know her better, to make suave, sophisticated small talk, and he was blowing it. She could have made her own drink, let him walk back into the living room alone; instead she had given him an excuse to stay for awhile and chat. So chat, he told himself. But as he picked up the gin and poured two ounces into her glass, absolutely nothing came to mind except for “there we go.” Suave, sophisticated small talk was simply not his strong point. “Do you like a lot of ice?” he asked. “Or just a little bit?”

“Lots,” Andrea said. “I like my drinks good and cold.”

“Me, too.” He grabbed up some ice cubes with the handy metal tongs and dropped a few into her gin and tonic. Why not pursue the topic she had already opened, his impromptu “lecture”? he asked himself. Handing her the drink, he said, “I’m afraid I’m not the greatest public speaker. John sort of roped me into giving that history lesson back there. I think most of us know all there is to know about the island anyway.”

“You’re probably the resident expert,” Andrea replied. “The rest of us seem to know Lammerty Island for its occult legends and old-wives’ tales rather than for its place in history. Oh sure, everyone knows about the murders, the deaths and shipwrecks. But I think you have a better, larger perspective of things. Sometime I’d like to find out more about this place from you.”

“Thanks. Anytime you’re interested. Just let me know.”

“Relax. I won’t ask for any more history lessons tonight.”

“Okay.” He thought that he really wouldn’t have minded giving Andrea private tutoring that night or any other.

Andrea sipped her drink and complimented him. “Good and icy.” She picked up a cocktail napkin from the table and put it under the glass. “Actually most of our little group think of Lammerty Island as just a good place to put up a vacation resort. Do you think that would be a good idea?”

“It might be the only way Lynn would ever make any money out of it.”

“Lots of people would come out of
curiosity.
More than would be frightened away, don’t you think?”

“No question about it. People are titillated by stories of ghosts and monsters, but they never really think they’d actually meet up with one. Here—or anywhere else for that matter.”

Andrea chuckled. “I suppose you’re right.” Her eyes lit up and she said, “You know what I’d really like to see as long as we’re here?”

“What’s that?”

“The remains of that ship, the
Mary Eliza.
I’ve always had a fascination with ghost ships. How about you?”

“I could do without the ghosts, but I’ve always been a frustrated sailor at heart. I’d like to see that ship myself. In fact, that’s one of the great mysteries of Lammerty Island. How the remains of the
Mary Eliza
have stayed intact—comparatively speaking—for all these decades. Especially when you consider the harsh weather and the frequent storms in this area. Of course, maybe it’s all been exaggerated. We may go out there and find nothing left but a few splinters.”

Andrea’s eyes were so bright one could almost see the lightbulb over her head. “Why don’t we take a walk out there and see if we can find it! Really! It’s not
too
dark out. There’s a full moon tonight anyway. We can get a couple of flashlights, take a look around.”

“Remember what John said.” He mimicked the lawyer’s voice. ” ‘Stay close to the house.’ We wouldn’t want to become the object of a search party.”

Andrea was not to be put off so easily. “Well, what are we supposed to do all night? It’s too early to go to bed, and frankly I think we’re all getting bored with each other’s company.” Ernie smirked, then laughed in agreement. “As long as there’s no quicksand and we stay near the shore, there shouldn’t be any problem. We’re not going to go into the
woods
or anything like that. We’ll stick straight to the shoreline and come right back if we don’t find anything.” She thought for a moment, then added, “Or even if we do.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ernie said. “Let me just finish my drink—”

“Do you think we should ask the others?”

“Do you want to?” Ernie hoped the answer was no.

“It would be the polite thing to do.”

Ernie nodded, not bothering to keep the disappointment off his face. “Let’s be polite then.”

They went back into the living room and told the rest of the party about their plans. No one seemed particularly enthused. John renewed his warning, but didn’t try to deter them. Gloria was tired; therefore, so was Jerry. Betty looked as if she might want to go, but sensed that three would definitely be a crowd, especially since no one else was interested. Anton muttered something about “wanting to read” and getting a “proper view” of the island during the daytime. And Cynthia, though she mulled it over in her mind for a minute, ultimately decided against joining them.

They got a flashlight from Everson and set out to explore the vast darkness of Lammerty Island.

PART TWO

Reverberations

Chapter 10

Everson stayed with his guests for about half an hour longer, making chitchat and pouring drinks. Everyone seemed a little tired; he most of all. Andrea and his cousin hadn’t fooled anyone with their talk of looking over the shoreline for the wreck of the
Mary Eliza,
He recognized “young love,” or at least “young sexual attraction,” when he saw it. Perhaps his cool, quiet cousin was a firebrand underneath, and he and the lovely psychic were already making love under the stars. Or perhaps they were just walking along, talking about this or that, skirting the issue that really mattered, their interest in each other.

Everson sighed, rose from his chair, and yawned. He excused himself, admitting that he really felt like bed and must forego his duties as host for the remainder of the evening. He had been putting off his confrontation with Lynn, but was as anxious as he imagined everyone else must be for things between him and her to mend before it put a damper on the rest of the weekend.

“I hope Lynn will be feeling better tomorrow,” Gloria said in that spirited way of hers. She was obviously feeling “no pain.” Her bland boyfriend sat at her side conversing with Cynthia, who sat in a chair across from him. Gloria seemed like a third wheel, determined to drink her way into oblivion—the oblivion meant for older people like her and himself, Everson thought ruefully. People who dared to love those much younger than themselves. Now, now, he told himself, quelch the bitterness before it festers. Bitterness is so unbecoming. An unfit emotion for a gentleman of his stature.

He said good night to the others, then made his way up the stairs to his bedroom.
I should have asked
Gloria
to go for a walk,
he thought.
I don’t think I interest her physically any more than she interests me, but at least we would have had a lot to talk about.
How did she deal with it? he wondered. Having a young lover, the insecurity of it all? How did she deal with Jerry’s probable infidelities?

But it would have been a serious breach of etiquette to ask her, he knew. Older people simply did not go around asking one another about their younger spouses or lovers. It simply wasn’t done. It would have served to remind the person you asked that they were decades, generations, ahead of the one they were in love with—and
that
one simply did not do. He could not even imagine what his reaction might be if Gloria were to open the subject up to him.

He had one thing to be grateful for, at least. His lover’s aunt could hardly look down on him as some kind of “dirty old man”—how he hated that term—when she herself was “robbing the cradle” —and he hated that term even more. Yes, it was too bad; he and Gloria—both embroiled in similar romantic circumstances—might have given one another loads of comfort and advice, common understanding, yet they were separated by a wall of propriety that was as real and solid as an actual battlement.

Everson saw that the lights were off in the bedroom. He felt momentary relief—it could all be avoided for one more evening. But the relief was fast replaced by anxiety. He and Lynn had to have it out before morning, before they were again surrounded by all the others, incapable of coming to terms in private. He supposed he should have gone up earlier, excused himself, and spoken to her while she was awake. But she had been so unreasonable before dinner. Thinking back, he found he was incapable of determining just when and how it had all gone wrong. Everything had been so perfect; the trip over, showing Lynn and the others their quarters, getting dressed for cocktails. They had made love while the others were still getting ready—fast, hurried love, but no less enjoyable because of it. What had happened afterwards?

He went over on cat’s feet to the bathroom and turned on the light switch. The light from the bathroom would give him enough illumination to see by without waking Lynn. He could tell from the slow rise and fall of her chest that she was sleeping, genuinely sleeping. He knew the rhythm of her sleep well enough now to know when she was faking.

He sat beside her on the bed and stroked her hair. She was a pretty girl—
woman,
he thought, reprimanding himself—she was adamant about that and he couldn’t blame her. Women often mistook his fatherly affection for condescension. She was pretty, but not beautiful. Her face was broad, her features large. Without her makeup her skin was bad, red and oily, with open pores. She was short—about five-three—and someone might unkindly observe that her body shape was squat. Yet her personality was light and airy and gentle and humorous and warm, so many, many things that he admired.

He tried tactfully to get her to care more about her appearance, but nothing seemed to work. She was addicted to cream-colored sweaters that seemed to fall apart while on her shoulders, long, unbecoming skirts, unflattering shades and fabrics. Her hair had two styles: long and greasy, falling in limp strands onto her shoulders; and even worse what he called the B-girl style, when she pinned it up and around her head like early Connie Francis. What made her failure to fix herself up even more appalling was that she was not really an unattractive person, not like that poor Betty Sanders downstairs, sitting like a bump on a log on the ottoman.

Yet somewhere along the way he had ceased to care about her appearance. She was a refreshing change from the women he had known before— the primping and preening heiresses, the bubble-headed debutantes, the oh-so-serious professional women who could match him step for step in the boardroom as well as the bedroom. While he knew it certainly wasn’t true of most lady executives, the ones he’d met were cold and defensive and un-feminine.

Lynn didn’t seem to be all that interested in his money. Maybe that was the problem. He hadn’t realized it at first, but she had another kind of interest, and it was one he cared for not at all.

And then he remembered.

That was what the fight had been about. She had made a remark, some remark, about the island, how it fit in with certain things, certain interests she had, and he had made the mistake of making fun of her. And then it had all begun— the accusals, the recriminations, the yelling and crying. Luckily, he had been able to quiet her down by reminding her of her responsibility to her guests, how if she kept on with her childish tirade the whole house would hear her and everyone would know her business. She had an abject horror of losing her privacy, a fear of public humiliation. But she had fumed about it, and mulled it over, and finally left the dinner table to go up and stew. Just as well. She might have started carrying on at the dinner table. Oh, she wouldn’t have gone so far as to break down or tell the others her business, but the sniping would have started, the dirty looks, sullen stares, gratuitous rejoinders. Yes, it was better that she had gone upstairs.

Everson undressed in the near-darkness, watching her chest rise and fall, fall and rise.

Oh Lynn,
he thought,
I could put up with everything else. The age difference. Your appearance. I’m just a tired old man who needs the life blood you have to offer in your strange and unusual way, the warmth and companionship you give to me in my declining and insecure years.