Part 22 (1/2)

”All right” was all she said.

We made our way down the walkway, she close at my side, our bodies almost touching.

”By the way, did you ever get a new coat?” I asked.

She shook her head.

”You'll need one with winter coming on.”

”The one I have will do.”

”Perhaps I could get you one,” I said tentatively. ”You've been so good to Billy. I'd like to...”

She smiled. ”That's very nice of you, Cal, but I won't need a coat.”

We continued on, past Port Alma's main street, its few small lights flickering distantly behind us, then turned on to the narrow road that led to Dora's house. The moon was full and bright, enough to light our way.

As we walked, I began to feel and hear every sight and sound to a strangely heightened degree, all my senses suddenly on point, the night wind more delicate, the whispery movement of our bodies more tender, the whole world immeasurably soft and frail, as if caught in a hushed suspension, awaiting my next move.

I felt my hand reach for Dora's, then hesitate and draw back. It was a kind of fear I had never known before, and it seemed both anguished and infinitely thrilling.

As we neared her house, I could hear the sea churning softly in the distance.

”It's a beautiful sound,” I said. ”The sea. Especially at night.”

”Yes, it is.”

”Does it help you sleep?”

She shook her head. ”No.”

I inched toward the forbidden. ”What would?”

”The desert,” she replied. ”Sometimes, when the wind blows over it, the desert sounds like the sea. Very peaceful.”

”You've lived in the desert?”

”When I was a little girl.”

She glanced up at me. Her hair glimmered in the moonlight. It was all I could do not to touch it.

”You must have been a beautiful little girl, Dora.”

Something tensed in her eyes, but she said nothing. Instead, she tilted her head toward the stars.

I knew that the pa.s.sage of the years would surely modify the pain I felt when I was with her, smooth its sharp edges, and yet, at that moment, as I stood beside her in the darkness, saying nothing of what I actually felt, I could not imagine that this ache would ever end, that there would ever be a time when I no longer felt it.

All of that surged within me, but once again I managed to contain it, give no hint of the rising water I was drowning in.

”Well, good night, then,” I said.

She didn't turn, didn't go. Instead, she held her place, still looking up at the night sky. And I thought, She doesn't want to go in. She wants to be with me. Here. In this darkness.

”I had a telescope when I was a boy,” I told her. ”I learned all the constellations. But I've forgotten most of them since then. Except for Diana.”

She laughed, a soft, tripping laughter that seemed to lift her toward some world she'd only glimpsed before.

”What's so funny?”

”I thought she might be the one you remembered.”

”Why is that?”

”Because she's the huntress,” Dora said. ”She would appeal to you.”

”Why would a huntress appeal to me particularly?”

”You'd like the hint of danger.”

”Not at all. I like everything safe.”

She c.o.c.ked her head almost playfully, a gesture I'd never seen before. ”I don't believe that,” she said.

”I can prove it.”

”Go ahead, then,” she said in mock challenge.

I released truth like an arrow aimed at her heart. ”I go to wh.o.r.es.”

A darkness gathered in her face.

”It's the only kind of 'romantic' relation I've ever had,” I added. ”And what could be safer than that? No risk. No risk at all. Of anything.”

She smiled very delicately, and to my surprise took my arm and urged me forward, toward the house, leaves tumbling before us in small, frantic circles.

”I'll always remember you, Cal,” she said.

There was an unmistakable finality in her voice, so I realized absolutely that she was going, that she had always known she would be going, perhaps even known the date of her leaving on the day that she arrived in Port Alma. That was why she'd have no need for a new coat. Because by winter, she would be gone. It was also the reason she'd so emphatically refused even to discuss taking over the Sentinel. She was going. She was leaving me behind like something whirling in her white wake. And there was nothing I could do about it.

And so, at her door I said only, ”Well, I've brought you safely home.”

”Good night, Cal,” she said, then disappeared into the house.

I walked to the edge of the yard, stopped, and turned. I saw her step to the window, draw the curtains together. Then, one by one, the lights went out inside. And yet, I didn't leave. Instead I remained in place, watched the darkened windows, imagined her beyond them, sinking down upon her pillows, lying sleepless in the darkness, perhaps thinking of that very desert she'd mentioned minutes before, the one place where she'd found peace, and to which, I knew now, she would soon be returning.

And so, when Hedda Locke turned toward me, her face framed by the desert landscape that swept out beyond her window, I imagined that it might be Dora, the same green eyes upon me as they had been that night, a pair of gold-rimmed gla.s.ses held delicately in her hand.