"There you go again, dreaming," Marchent said. She put her arm around him and actually kissed him on the cheek as she laughed. He was startled, caught unawares by the soft pressure of her br**sts against him and the subtle scent of a rich perfume.
"Actually, I haven,t accomplished one single thing in my life yet," he said with an ease that shocked him. "My mother,s a brilliant surgeon; my big brother,s a priest. My mother,s father was an international real estate broker by the time he was my age. But I,m a nothing and a nobody, actually. I,ve only been with the paper six months. I should have come with a warning label. But believe me, I,ll make this a story you,ll love."
"Rubbish," she said. "Your editor told me your story on the Greenleaf murder led to the arrest of the killer. You are the most charming and self-effacing boy."
He struggled not to blush. Why was he admitting all these things to this woman? Seldom if ever did he make self-deprecating statements. Yet he felt some immediate connection with her he couldn,t explain.
"That Greenleaf story took less than a day to write," he murmured. "Half of what I turned up on the suspect never saw print at all."
She had a twinkle in her eye. "Tell me - how old are you, Reuben? I,m thirty-eight. How is that for total honesty? Do you know many women who volunteer that they,re thirty-eight?"
"You don,t look it," he said. And he meant it. What he wanted to say was You,re rather perfect, if you ask me. "I,m twenty-three," he confessed.
"Twenty-three? You,re just a boy."
Of course. "Sunshine Boy," as his girlfriend Celeste always called him. "Little Boy," according to his big brother, Fr. Jim. And "Baby Boy," according to his mother, who still called him that in front of people. Only his dad consistently called him Reuben and saw only him when their eyes met. Dad, you should see this house! Talk about a place for writing, talk about a getaway, talk about a landscape for a creative mind.
He shoved his freezing hands in his pockets and tried to ignore the sting of the wind in his eyes. They were making their way back up to the promise of hot coffee and a fire.
"And so tall for that age," she said. "I think you,re uncommonly sensitive, Reuben, to appreciate this rather cold and grim corner of the earth. When I was twenty-three I wanted to be in New York and Paris. I was in New York and Paris. I wanted the capitals of the world. What, have I insulted you?"
"No, certainly not," he said. He was reddening again. "I,m talking too much about myself, Marchent. My mind,s on the story, never fear. Scrub oak, high grass, damp earth, ferns, I,m recording everything."
"Ah yes, the fresh young mind and memory, nothing like it," she said. "Darling, we,re going to spend two days together, aren,t we? Expect me to be personal. You,re ashamed of being young, aren,t you? Well, you needn,t be. And you,re distractingly handsome, you know, why you,re just about the most adorable boy I,ve ever seen in my entire life. No, I mean it. With looks like yours, you don,t have to be much of anything, you know."
He shook his head. If she only knew. He hated it when people called him handsome, adorable, cute, to die for. "And how will you feel if they ever stop?" his girlfriend Celeste had asked him. "Ever think about that? Look, Sunshine Boy, with me, it,s strictly your looks." She had a way of teasing with an edge, Celeste did. Maybe all teasing had an edge.
"Now, I really have insulted you, haven,t I?" asked Marchent. "Forgive me. I think all of us ordinary mortals tend to mythologize people as good-looking as you. But of course what makes you so remarkable is that you have a poet,s soul."
They had reached the edge of the flagstone terrace.
Something had changed in the air. The wind was even more cutting. The sun was indeed dying behind the silver clouds and headed for the darkening sea.
She stopped for a moment, as if to catch her breath, but he couldn,t tell. The wind whipped the tendrils of her hair around her face, and she put a hand up to shelter her eyes. She looked at the high windows of the house as if searching for something, and there came over Reuben the most forlorn feeling. The loneliness of the place pressed in.
They were miles from the little town of Nideck and Nideck had, what, two hundred real inhabitants? He,d stopped there on the way in and found most of the shops on the little main street were closed. The bed-and-breakfast had been for sale "forever," said the clerk at the gas station, but yes, you have cell phone and Internet connections everywhere in the county, no need to worry about that.
Right now, the world beyond this windswept terrace seemed unreal.
"Does it have ghosts, Marchent?" he asked, following her gaze to the windows.
"It doesn,t need them," she declared. "The recent history is grim enough."
"Well, I love it," he said. "The Nidecks were people of remarkable vision. Something tells me you,ll get a very romantic buyer, one who can transform it into a unique and unforgettable hotel."
"Now that,s a thought," she said. "But why would anyone come here, in particular, Reuben? The beach is narrow and hard to reach. The redwoods are glorious but you don,t have to drive four hours from San Francisco to reach glorious redwoods in California. And you saw the town. There is nothing here really except Nideck Point, as you call it. I have a suffocating feeling sometimes that this house won,t be standing much longer."
"Oh, no! Let,s not even think of that. Why, no one would dare - ."
She took his arm again and they moved on over the sandy flags, past his car, and towards the distant front door. "I,d fall in love with you if you were my age," she said. "If I,d met anyone quite as charming as you, I wouldn,t be alone now, would I?"
"Why would a woman like you ever have to be alone?" he asked. He had seldom met someone so confident and graceful. Even now after the trek in the woods, she looked as collected and groomed as a woman shopping on Rodeo Drive. There was a thin little bracelet around her left wrist, a pearl chain, he believed they called it, and it gave her easy gestures an added glamour. He couldn,t quite tell why.
There were no trees to the west of them. The view was open for all the obvious reasons. But the wind was positively howling off the ocean now, and the gray mist was descending on the last sparkle of the sea. I,ll get the mood of all this, he thought. I,ll get this strange darkening moment. And a little shadow fell deliciously over his soul.
He wanted this place. Maybe it would have been better if they,d sent someone else to do this story, but they,d sent him. What remarkable luck.