By Yvette Christofilis
Copyright © 2002
PART 4: "I should have known. Montauk. It's always Montauk."
Empty spaces--what are we living for?
Abandoned places--I guess we know the score.
On and on. Does anybody know what we are looking for?
Another hero, another mindless crime.
Behind the curtain in the pantomime.
Hold the line. Does anybody want to take it anymore?
The show must go on. The show must go on.
Inside my heart is breaking, my makeup may be flaking
but my smile still stays on.
Whatever happens I'll leave it all to chance.
Another heartache, another failed romance.
On and on. Does anybody know what we are living for?
I guess I'm learning, I must be warmer now.
I'll soon be turning 'round the corner now.
Outside the dawn is breaking, but inside in the dark I'm aching to be free.
The show must go on. The show must go on.
Inside my heart is breaking, my makeup may be flaking
but my smile still stays on.
My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies.
Fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die.
I can fly, my friends.
The show must go on. The show must go on.
I'll face it with a grin, I'm never giving in.
On with the show.
I'll top the bill, I'll overkill, I have to find the will to carry on
with the show.
The show must go on.
[THE SHOW MUST GO ON Words and Music by Queen
Copyright ©1991 Queen Production Ltd.
As performed by QUEEN
Used without permission. No copyright infringement intended.]
Chapter 1
Agnes shut the lights of her bed & breakfast and bolted the door. With the first frost, she knew that she probably wouldn't be having any guests for a long time--several months, most likely--until the start of the spring thaw. The best she could hope for would be a couple of adventurous souls who liked braving the harsh Maine winter but were not interested in the hunting, fishing and cross-country skiing that could be had as close as twenty miles away.
Isolated deep within the heart of Maine, The Bluff, Agnes's B&B, was far from the famed Maine coastline and nowhere near the famed Maine ski resorts. One came to The Bluff to get away from the busy tourist areas, to relax, or as a stopover on the way to someplace else. Most travelers knew, however, that if they got bored, The Bluff was within traveling distance of the state's famed Moosehead Lake. There was a lot to do at Moosehead Lake.
She made a cup of tea in the cavernous kitchen and brought it to the small parlor. The parlor was an intimate room, comfy with lots of chairs and sofas, rugs and pictures. It also had a piano, made up to look like an antique, and an ornamental fireplace. Agnes was proud of the fact that although the fireplace was not necessary for heat, it was quite usable and helped lend a romantic air to the parlor when she ignited it and real flames danced around the fake wood.
Settling into the deep couch, Agnes inevitably thought about the house in Montauk.
After Clarice died, Agnes had needed to throw herself into something to help her deal with the pain and loss, so she went looking for a house to convert into a bed & breakfast. Agnes always harbored the dream of owning a B&B, a dream that Clarice had never shared. Since owning a bed and breakfast was such a huge undertaking, Agnes had not minded that Clarice did not share that particular dream with her. The twenty years they had together saw other dreams come true, dreams they both shared.
They had been so very happy, so much in love in their life together, but their joy had been cut short by Clarice's tragic death ten years before.
So many diseases had been cured by the time Clarice got sick, but new ones were cropping up all the time and a few of the old ones resisted curing. It was Clarice's bad luck, and Agnes's, that Clarice got one of the old, resistant ones. There was still no cure for the deadly ovarian cancer, although there were sophisticated treatments. Clarice fought the disease for a long time, but in the end, the disease won.
Agnes sighed and took a sip of tea. She pulled the afghan off the back of the couch and wrapped it around herself, not so much to keep out the cold, since the thermal generators kept the house at the perfect, climate-controlled temperature, but to remind herself of Clarice. Fingering the colorful twists of yarn, Agnes thought about a very sick Clarice making this afghan during the last months of her life as she was wasting away, leaving Agnes by inches.
The image was vivid in Agnes's mind. There was Clarice, frail by then, and tiny, sitting in another room similar to this one, on this very couch, her crochet hook catching the light as it flashed in and out of the body of the afghan. Surrounded by skeins of very expensive wool, in all different colors, Clarice pulled the colors toward herself, taking them like tiny tributaries and weaving them into a broad, colorful river. Twisting and hooking, she crocheted them into a beautiful whole that was thick with tangible warmth. Clarice's warmth. It was a comforting reminder of the woman who so desperately wanted to leave behind a gift because she couldn't stay.
Shaking her head to get rid of the image, Agnes thought instead of the Montauk house. She had gone up and down the Eastern Seaboard looking for a suitable place and had heard about a house for sale at Montauk Point that might work. It was on a hill, in the middle of a meadow that was surround by woods. An anomaly in these times, and prohibitively expensive, but just what Agnes was looking for. Her vision was for a place that people would go to get away from everything else. The area was also perfect, with beaches, cliffs, and the majestic Montauk Light, the centerpiece for the entire area.
The house was wonderfully, beautifully preserved. It was made with wood that came from another time incredibly long ago, carefully, lovingly preserved with all that the current technology offered. She fell in love with it immediately and wanted it, but, perhaps fortunately, it was much too small. With only two small bedrooms and a tiny dining room and kitchen, it was completely unsuitable, even with a meadow and a patio in the back. The size prevented her from having to make the extraordinarily difficult decision of sinking most, if not all, of her money into a place she loved, but could not use as a bed and breakfast. It would have been perfect for times like this, however, Agnes mused over her tea, snuggling in her afghan.
So she turned the Montauk house down and kept on looking, until she found this place in the remote hills of Maine. About fifteen miles from the small town of Kokadjo on First Roach Pond, the house was in an area that was breathtakingly beautiful in spring, summer and, especially, fall. It was fairly isolated in the winter, although Kokadjo was nearby and there were people there, although not much to do.
Agnes sighed as the quiet of the winter's night settled around her. It had been more than two weeks since she had her last late-fall visitors and the silence grew around her. She was just considering putting on some music when the front door bell chimed.
With a slight frown, Agnes went to the front door. She opened it to find a young man on her doorstep, pale of skin and dark of hair and clothes. The young man's head came up then tilted to the side as he studied her with a frown.
Agnes waited for him to speak, but he only stared at her, staring at her with an odd look on his face. The man was very young, not more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight at most. His hair was black and fairly long. It was an unruly mass that fell over his forehead and curled around the edge of his collar. The coat he was wearing was also black and fairly fashionable. It looked like wool but was probably not, and had buttons running from neck to hem. He was quite tall, so the coat came only to mid-calf. Most people wore that coat at ankle length.
"Yes?" Agnes asked warily, a bit put out. Someone coming to her doorstep
at this time of night at this time of year should not be looking oddly
at her. He was the odd one.
He didn't answer for a moment. He kept staring up at her, his head still cocked slightly to the side, the light from the hallway behind Agnes throwing his face into bright relief. It was a strange face, all planes and angles with prominent cheekbones and a proud, Romanesque nose. Agnes could not understand what the young man found so fascinating about a sixty-five-year-old woman with a fair amount of gray in the hair escaping in tendrils from her neat little bun.
"Who are you?" The young man's voice was deep, rich with an accent that was impossible to place.
Taken aback by the abrupt question, Agnes snapped, "Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"
The man blinked as if he just realized what he had said. He didn't answer right away, his eyes narrowed, still staring at her. He looked like he was debating with himself.
"Well?" Agnes asked impatiently.
"Is this The Bluff Bed & Breakfast?"
"Yes, it is. Why?"
"I heard that you take in long-term guests during the off-season."
Agnes was silent, surprised. She had forgotten that she had put that notice out in the guidebooks and travel agencies when she first opened The Bluff. In the beginning, she hadn't known whether her peak season business would carry her through the winter and thought that taking in weekly or monthly boarders during the winter would help that. Fortunately, she hadn't needed them because none had shown up--until now.
"Well, yes," she replied slowly. "Why do you ask?"
The tight, suspicious look on the pale, angular face eased a bit. "I was considering renting a room here for the winter."
Agnes regarded the man. Now that he was looking at her more normally, he seemed nice, almost personable.
"There are more restrictions for long-term guests," she warned.
"Such as?"
Agnes suddenly realized that a potential guest was standing on her doorstep in the frozen dark. "Why don't you come in and we can talk about it over some tea. It's cold out."
The man suddenly smiled. It wreathed his face, changing it completely and making him seem even younger. "Thank you," he said, a little surprised. "That would be very nice."
Agnes returned the smile, suddenly liking this strange young man. There was something oddly compelling about him. She stepped back so he could enter the house and closed the door behind him. Gesturing up the hall, she led the way to the kitchen, already wondering about him.
The tea was quickly made and they sat at the huge kitchen table and Agnes began by laying down the house rules. She wanted to make sure he agreed to comply with them before she started asking the questions that were beginning to crowd her mind.
"Payment is on a weekly basis, although you may stay monthly. You may pay the full month in advance, if you wish. You may reserve the room through the spring, and perhaps even until the mid- or late spring, depending on how many reservations I get. By the beginning of May, you will have to follow the same restrictions as transient guests and I cannot guarantee you a room. You are allowed to have visitors, but I need to know about them in advance, especially if that guest is going to stay over. We're isolated here, and I don't like people just showing up unannounced."
"Like I did tonight?"
Agnes smiled slightly. "Yes, like you did tonight. Anyway, I would prefer one guest at a time, if possible, and overnight guests are limited to one, with advance warning."
The strange young man thought about this for a bit as he savored his tea. "I don't have any problems with your rules. I shouldn't need more than a few months. As for guests, you won't have to worry on that score. I seriously doubt I will be having any visitors."
Agnes lifted an eyebrow at the bitterness in the young man's voice. "May I ask why you're here? This is unusual for someone to want to stay so long in such an isolated place."
He leveled an intense stare at her. "You do it."
Her surprise made her pause, but only for a moment. She stared back at him. "I wasn't asking about me."
The man's eyes suddenly crinkled at their corners, the green and gold flecks deep within them radiating his amusement. Damn! Agnes thought. What is it with this young man? I really like him and I don't even know his name.
"What's your name, by the way?"
"Adam Stratton."
"Well, Adam Stratton?" She let her original question hang.
"I'm in the middle of writing a book and I need to get away from everyone and everything so I can get a handle on it. I figure I'll be done by spring, or so far along, it won't matter."
"How interesting! This will be a first for The Bluff. What's the book about?"
"Medieval weapons."
This caused Agnes to raise another eyebrow. "Medieval weapons?"
"You know, broadswords, daggers, maces and the like."
Her eyes narrowed. "Are you going to have these weapons around?'
"Some," he admitted. "I'm doing some illustrations, so I will need them around, or at least a few of them. That's another reason why I wanted an out-of-the-way place with few people around. I want to make sure there are no accidents."
"I see," Agnes responded slowly.
"Will it be a problem?" Adam watched her carefully.
"I don't know. Why don't you tell me? Will it be a problem?"
Suddenly Adam smiled that bright wide smile again, the one that wreathed his face and made him look so young. Agnes was lost at that point. Even if he said it would be a problem, she would let him stay.
"Madam, you are a wise and perceptive woman. No, they will not be a problem at all. And I just realized that I don't know your name."
Agnes returned his smile. "I'm Mrs. Vieilame."
" Ve-eel-a-may," he repeated slowly, sounding it out. "Interesting name, Mrs. Vieilame. Will I be meeting Mr. Vieilame any time soon?"
"No."
"Oh." He paused. Head tilting once again to the side, Adam Stratton looked at her like he did when he first saw her, oddly, as if she had two heads. There seemed to be a struggle going on within him. Finally he said, "Will there be a lease?"
"Don't you want to see the room before deciding?"
"No, I'm sure it's fine."
Nodding, Agnes stood. "Okay. I'll get it. When do you plan on moving in?"
"Right away, if possible. I have my stuff outside. Will that be all right?"
Agnes looked in the direction of the front door, once again surprised, and a bit concerned. This was moving very quickly and she was not getting any time to check references, if he even had any references. She didn't like the thought of allowing a stranger to move in at such short notice while she was so isolated, and this man was certainly a stranger, one who was planning on staying a while, with bladed weapons at his disposal, no less.
She looked down at him, biting her lower lip thoughtfully. Sitting comfortably at the table, still with his long, black coat on, he was staring up at her, his face calm and open, his eyes slightly wide, his raised eyebrows crinkling his forehead. He's waiting for my answer, Agnes thought. I wonder what he would say if I said no and asked him to leave.
Even as she thought it, however, she knew she was not going to ask him to leave, even with her misgivings. She wanted him to stay. She could not explain it, but she couldn't turn him away. She couldn't say "no" to him.
"Do you have a ground car?" she asked. It was a stalling tactic and the slight smile that quirked Adam Stratton's slim lips told her that he knew it as well.
"Yes, I do," he answered. "Is that all right?"
"Yes, it's better that way. It means you won't have to borrow mine. What about sky transportation?"
He shook his head. "Not necessary. I won't need it."
"Well, I have access to it if you find that you do need it."
The tiny smile quirked again. "Does that mean I can stay?"
She studied his calm, waiting expression. "You were planning on moving in tonight," she said.
"Yes."
"Suppose I didn't take long-term guests?"
He shrugged. "I'd move on."
Nodding slowly, Agnes went to the office and came back with the paperwork. He signed it without mentioning that she never answered his question. Ignoring the tension the unanswered question was building in the air, they finished up the paperwork while Agnes quickly went over the other house rules: meal times, what he could find in the way of supplies, food and clothing in Kokadjo and what he would have to go to Greenville for.
"Greenville?"
"That's a city on the southern most shore of Moosehead Lake. It's the biggest one around. It's a hike, but sometimes you gotta go. I usually take a trip there once a month or so. Get out, see my friends, see the sights, stay a few days."
"Do you use ground or air transportation for that?"
"Usually ground. I like to take my time."
"Sounds like fun."
Agnes smiled. "It can be."
Adam stood. "So, when will I meet Mr. Vieilame?"
"You're pretty persistent, aren't you?"
"Well, it's just that it's late . . . "
Suddenly annoyed, Agnes said, "You're getting pretty personal for someone who hasn't even moved in yet."
Adam Stratton nodded. "You're right. I'm prying too much. I'm going to start getting my things. I'd like to get settled as quickly as possible."
Adam went outside and started bringing his things in. He refused any help she offered except for holding the front door open. She watched as he brought in two large suitcases, a computer, several cases that must have held the weapons he was there to write about, and a couple large boxes. The last raised a question she couldn't resist asking.
"What's in the boxes?"
"Books."
"Books?"
He looked up at her tone of awe and smiled when he saw her staring at the boxes, her mouth hanging open. "Yes, books."
She bent to touch one of the boxes. Then she looked a question at him.
Not bothering to answer, he opened one of them and pulled out a huge book. It was exquisite. It was more than half a meter in length, and the binding was hard, almost like some sort of wood or board, and the pages were paper. She had seen paper before, a long time ago in a museum where they allowed you to touch it, and she had fallen in love with its texture. The book had a smell to it, of age, and of exotic, far-away places. She raised it to her nose and took a deep sniff. To her great surprise, she sneezed. Adam laughed, a deep, delicious sound that stopped her heart for a second. When it started up again, it was warm and beat just a little faster. She opened it up and felt the pages. She couldn't understand what was written in it and looked another question at the young man.
"It's Old English," he supplied. "It's a reference book for some of the old weapons."
"Do you have anything here that I could read?"
"What do you read?"
"The usual: French, English, Russian, Spanish, a little Arabic."
"I might. Let me take a look and I'll let you know."
She nodded and reluctantly handed the book back to him. He placed it lovingly into the box. Two boxes of books! What a vast treasure this man was bringing into her house!
"Why don't you have all this reference material on your computer? And what about the 'Net?"
"Most of it is digitized, but there's nothing like a book to help with research."
Agnes nodded, understanding the sentiment.
Within a few minutes, he had taken everything up to his room. Since he was the only guest, and a long-term one, Agnes gave him her best room, and he seemed delighted with it. It was a big corner room with two sets of windows that looked out in two different directions, one over the front of the house that faced the nearby rocky hills and the other, over a meadow with the inevitable pond that ran along the side of the house. Agnes loved her pond. It was too deep for swimming and very pretty, ringed by pussy willow and cattails.
Of course, it was dark, so he wouldn't be able to see much until the next day. That was not his concern, however. He seemed anxious to make the room his. With a quick, cordial good night, Adam Stratton closed his door.
Agnes sighed as she went around to lock the house back up again for the night. It was a very strange situation. She had broken quite a few rules here tonight, and she was more than a little nervous that it could lead to dire consequences.
Sighing again as she got into her own bed, Agnes faced the thought with resignation. Well, it was done, she thought, and what was done was done. She shoved all thought aside and allowed sleep to take her.
*************************
Agnes soon found out that she had nothing to worry about with her new boarder. He was as sweet and unobtrusive as anyone could be. He came down for breakfast and lunch at the correct times and was willing to follow her lead with what she wanted to do after dinner. If she wanted to be left alone, he went back to his room to resume his work. If she felt talkative, he would stay down and sit with her in the parlor with mugs of tea. Agnes was never really sure how he knew when to leave her alone or when to stay with her, but she didn't question it.
Oddly enough, she found that she questioned Mr. Stratton very little. She would ask about his book, its progress and some of the weapons he was writing about, but she didn't ask him where he was from, how he got this assignment and what he did when he wasn't writing books about medieval weapons. It seemed better that way. It seemed--better not to know.
One night they were sharing a pot of tea in the parlor. Agnes had lit the fire and Mr. Stratton was mesmerized by the tongues of flame that seemed to dance with a life of their own. Agnes was telling Mr. Stratton about Maine and of her dream of owning a boarding house. She was speaking of how the dream finally came to fruition and its great cost.
"It was a way to keep myself happy after Clarice."
"Clarice?"
"Clarice was my partner. She and I were--together for a very long time before she died."
"I'm sorry to hear that. How did she die?"
"Cancer."
"Cancer?"
"Ovarian cancer."
". . . oh . . . I'm sorry."
Agnes shrugged. "Thanks. It's been ten years, but sometimes it's still hard."
"Yes. Yes, it is."
The odd tone in Mr. Stratton's voice pulled her away from the fire and she looked at him speculatively. He was sitting in the winged-back chair by the fire, his mug cradled in his hands close to his body. He was staring solemnly into it.
"Mr. Stratton?"
He looked up at her. "Yes?"
Her head cocked to the side, she frowned thoughtfully. "Are you all right?"
He shrugged slightly and stared back at his tea. "It's just what you said. Sometimes it's still hard. Sometimes . . ." He shook his head.
"Did you lose someone as well?"
He nodded.
"I'm sorry. When did it happen?"
"Oh, a very long time ago."
"How did she die?"
He looked up. "He. His name was Michael and he was murdered."
Agnes gasped. "I'm so sorry."
He shrugged again. "It's okay. It was a long time ago. It just reminded me when you said it's still hard. Sometimes, even after a very long time, it's still hard."
Agnes's mouth tightened. "Yes," she agreed.
"So, I'm guessing that Clarice is why there is no Mr. Vieilame," Adam said, deftly changing the subject.
Agnes chuckled. "There never was a Mr. Vieilame," she admitted.
"So why are you Mrs. Vieilame?"
The older woman shrugged. "It's easier that way. I found that when I decided to go into business for myself, if people thought that there was a husband somewhere around, things went smoother."
"You're kidding! Still?"
"Oh, yes. You'd think that we'd come a long way, and in a sense, we have, but it's still easier for a woman if there's a man somewhere in the wings, even if that man doesn't exist."
Adam shook his head. "Too bad," he murmured.
They were quiet for a long time then Agnes got up to go to the kitchen.
"Are you making more tea, Mrs. Vieilame?"
"Yes, but please don't call me that. Call me Agnes."
"Agnes is your first name?" He looked up at her in wonder.
"Yes. Why? What is it?"
"That's a very old name. Nobody names their daughter Agnes anymore."
She chuckled. "I know. It's a family name."
"So were you named after a grandmother or great-grandmother?"
"Actually, I was named after a baby girl that died."
Adam frowned. "I don't understand."
"My mother had a daughter who was named after an ancient ancestor but she died in infancy. I was adopted and given her name."
The gaze Adam leveled at her was very solemn. "You were adopted."
Although it was not a question, Agnes said: "Yes. I don't know who my real parents were, so I'm quite happy with Agnes. It gives me a connection to a past that, although not mine, makes me feel part of a family, especially since it's such an old family and such an old name."
"It's a very old name. Agnes," he repeated the name to himself thoughtfully and shook his head. "Agnes. I haven't heard that name in--in--" he chuckled, "in centuries!"
Agnes laughed. "Well, there are times when I feel that old. Would you like some more tea, Mr. Stratton?"
"I would love some, Agnes, but if I must call you 'Agnes,' then you must call me 'Adam.'"
She smiled and said, "Fine. Adam it is."
She was just at the door when she suddenly broke into peals of laughter. She was laughing so hard it took her a while to calm down. Finally, she leaned against the door frame and looked at a very puzzled Adam who asked:
"What's so funny, Agnes?"
Agnes chucked. "Adam and Agnes. What a pair. The first man and a centuries-old woman!"
Adam chuckled softly. "The first man and a centuries-old woman. That's very ironic."
Agnes went to the kitchen, chuckling all the way.
Had she had not left so quickly, she would have seen her strange guest stare gravely after her, his amusement evaporating. "Very ironic," he repeated quietly, soberly, "very ironic, indeed."
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