rather than imposing on you any further, I’d stay here on the boat tonight.”
“Fine by me. You want to sleep together, who am I to argue?”
“ Together ?”
“There’s only one bunk, princess, and I’m sure as hell not leaving you here alone. No, I’d rather wake tomorrow knowing you and my boat are still around.” He locked the cabin and stepped off, inspecting the lines. “Now, are you coming?”
Grudgingly she climbed to the dock, marching like a condemned prisoner past rows of pricey boats. Near shore, things scaled down somewhat, ending with a row of daysailers, skiffs, and runabouts, though the parking lot was brimming with high-end cars. Stevenson unlocked a massive black Mercedes S600, opening the door for Hazel. The luxurious interior reeked of cigarette smoke, and the remains of the car radio hung from the dash by a bent bracket and wires.
“Rough neighborhood?” she said.
Stevenson seemed weirdly amused. “Doodle-dee-dah-dee-dah-doe-doe,” he chanted softly. “Doodle-dee-dah-dee-dah-doe.”
It reminded Hazel of something Micah had on his computer, where animated hamsters danced to an amusingly irritating melody. She couldn’t imagine how that tied to the vandalized car and decided against asking. Instead, she stared out silently as Stevenson pulled out of the marina.
Brick buildings converted to cafés and boutiques lined Piermont’s narrow main street, retaining their charm in a way that drew the stylish to shop and dine on the warm summer night. Antique sports cars and pricey sedans crowded every available parking space, and strolling couples wandered the sidewalks. Under better circumstances it might have been pleasant; at present it only underscored the feeling that she didn’t belong.
A half mile beyond town, Stevenson turned up a winding hill, passed several Victorian houses, and stopped before a pair of massive, rusted iron gates. Bathed in the cool white of the high beams, they opened ominously. Low branches scraped like fingers along the windows as Stevenson guided the Mercedes up a narrow drive.
Ahead, the unlit form of a Federal colonial, dark and forbidding, took shape in the moonlight. Vines snaked across the power lines and engulfed one corner of the house. In the beams of the headlights, weeds sprang from cracks in the drive and a dead tree stood to the side, bark peeling in chunks. Long strips of toilet paper hung from the branches, swaying in the damp breeze like ghostly Spanish moss. The lawn had grown so tall it collapsed on itself in places, and bushes obscured windows, yet even the neglected landscape couldn’t diminish the classic architecture.
“You live here ?” Hazel said.
“Timeshares are still available if you’re interested.” He pulled into a carriage house, parking beside a black Viper roadster, a tired white Mustang convertible, and a gleaming yellow Chevelle. Hazel scanned the cars, assessing her best means for escape. Sooner or later Stevenson had to sleep, and when he did, she’d be out of there. It was just a matter of time.
Driven by morbid curiosity, she followed him into the dark house, which looked as though it had been vacant for the last century. Moonlight slanted through the windows, stretching in pale rectangles across the entry foyer, and a broad staircase spiraled up three stories. Off the main hall, the surrounding rooms were filled with sheet-draped furniture like something from a gothic horror. Hazel paused before what might have been an ornately framed mirror, only the beveled glass was a void of blackness. Within the hall a cricket chirped softly, echoing through the open space.
“You actually live here? For real?”
Stevenson led her into an ancient but functional kitchen, the first room with any evidence of regular use. “Define live.” He switched on the light and dropped his keys and wallet on the counter.
The light shut off. Flickered on. Off. On. Off.
Stevenson grumbled, reaching up, tapping the unresponsive bulb.
“Fine by me. You want to sleep together, who am I to argue?”
“ Together ?”
“There’s only one bunk, princess, and I’m sure as hell not leaving you here alone. No, I’d rather wake tomorrow knowing you and my boat are still around.” He locked the cabin and stepped off, inspecting the lines. “Now, are you coming?”
Grudgingly she climbed to the dock, marching like a condemned prisoner past rows of pricey boats. Near shore, things scaled down somewhat, ending with a row of daysailers, skiffs, and runabouts, though the parking lot was brimming with high-end cars. Stevenson unlocked a massive black Mercedes S600, opening the door for Hazel. The luxurious interior reeked of cigarette smoke, and the remains of the car radio hung from the dash by a bent bracket and wires.
“Rough neighborhood?” she said.
Stevenson seemed weirdly amused. “Doodle-dee-dah-dee-dah-doe-doe,” he chanted softly. “Doodle-dee-dah-dee-dah-doe.”
It reminded Hazel of something Micah had on his computer, where animated hamsters danced to an amusingly irritating melody. She couldn’t imagine how that tied to the vandalized car and decided against asking. Instead, she stared out silently as Stevenson pulled out of the marina.
Brick buildings converted to cafés and boutiques lined Piermont’s narrow main street, retaining their charm in a way that drew the stylish to shop and dine on the warm summer night. Antique sports cars and pricey sedans crowded every available parking space, and strolling couples wandered the sidewalks. Under better circumstances it might have been pleasant; at present it only underscored the feeling that she didn’t belong.
A half mile beyond town, Stevenson turned up a winding hill, passed several Victorian houses, and stopped before a pair of massive, rusted iron gates. Bathed in the cool white of the high beams, they opened ominously. Low branches scraped like fingers along the windows as Stevenson guided the Mercedes up a narrow drive.
Ahead, the unlit form of a Federal colonial, dark and forbidding, took shape in the moonlight. Vines snaked across the power lines and engulfed one corner of the house. In the beams of the headlights, weeds sprang from cracks in the drive and a dead tree stood to the side, bark peeling in chunks. Long strips of toilet paper hung from the branches, swaying in the damp breeze like ghostly Spanish moss. The lawn had grown so tall it collapsed on itself in places, and bushes obscured windows, yet even the neglected landscape couldn’t diminish the classic architecture.
“You live here ?” Hazel said.
“Timeshares are still available if you’re interested.” He pulled into a carriage house, parking beside a black Viper roadster, a tired white Mustang convertible, and a gleaming yellow Chevelle. Hazel scanned the cars, assessing her best means for escape. Sooner or later Stevenson had to sleep, and when he did, she’d be out of there. It was just a matter of time.
Driven by morbid curiosity, she followed him into the dark house, which looked as though it had been vacant for the last century. Moonlight slanted through the windows, stretching in pale rectangles across the entry foyer, and a broad staircase spiraled up three stories. Off the main hall, the surrounding rooms were filled with sheet-draped furniture like something from a gothic horror. Hazel paused before what might have been an ornately framed mirror, only the beveled glass was a void of blackness. Within the hall a cricket chirped softly, echoing through the open space.
“You actually live here? For real?”
Stevenson led her into an ancient but functional kitchen, the first room with any evidence of regular use. “Define live.” He switched on the light and dropped his keys and wallet on the counter.
The light shut off. Flickered on. Off. On. Off.
Stevenson grumbled, reaching up, tapping the unresponsive bulb.
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