to ceiling bookshelf, but this one held books that looked much older than those downstairs. The covers appeared to be homemade, some out of leather even, and must be absolutely ancient. Another difference between this bookshelf and the one downstairs was the lack of dust.
The room smelled of rich pipe tobacco and cold fireplace ashes. It must be Benjamin’s hangout. It fit him, somehow.
She walked behind the desk, which held an old oil lamp, one of those quill pen gadgets you can get at a hobby store, and several stacks of yellowing paper. A large book lay open in the middle of the desk, filled with lines of ornate and flowing handwriting, nearly impossible to read. Most of it was smeared and stained, too, which didn’t help.
Star leaned forward and raised the edge of the book toward the light from across the room. She could just make out something at the top of the page that looked a little like a date. March something, 1891. Damn. The book was old.
Wait. She leaned closer. Not 1891, but 1691. Holy shit. This thing was historic. It should be in a museum somewhere.
She studied the feel of the paper under her thumb and realized it wasn’t paper but material of some kind. Very carefully, she turned to the first page and worked to read as much as she could. “Log book…something…Spencer.” She gave up on a whole smeared paragraph and moved on. “Captain Benjamin Bartlett, Bofton. Bofton?” Scanning down the page, she realized the s’s looked like f’s. “Oh. I get it. Captain Benjamin Bartlett, Boston.”
A shiver ran through her. Another Benjamin Bartlett, and a captain, too, but this one had lived centuries ago.
Reopening the book to its original place, she tried to make out the flowing words, but only got something about “returning to Boston,” and “heavily laden,” and “impending storm.” The next page was empty.
“Wow.”
Straightening, she circled the room, admiring paintings adorning the walls. Most were of sailing ships, amazingly realistic and detailed like the huge painting downstairs. Benjamin must know the painter. Star stood before each and studied it as well as she could in the dim light.
The last painting she found, in a small round frame about a foot high and two-thirds as wide, was a portrait. The subject, a man, wore a dark coat with a tall, stiff collar and a white shirt with something frilly at his throat, and he looked directly ahead, which gave the illusion of his eyes following Star as she moved closer. She read the inscription at the base of the painting: Captain Benjamin J. Bartlett. So was this the man whose log book lay open on the desk? He had wild black hair that brushed his shoulders, black eyes, and dark, heavy eyebrows. The only thing delicate about his face was his mouth. He looked so much like the current owner of the house that he had to be an ancestor. Obviously Benjamin had even been named for him. Both Benjamins looked like someone you wouldn’t want to piss off. Or, if you did, you wouldn’t want to turn your back on either of them.
A small flame of jealousy flared in Star’s chest. What could it possibly be like to know exactly where you came from? And not just who your parents were, but your family back dozens of generations. It must be wonderfully stabilizing and comforting.
If the log book date really was 1691, the two Benjamins had been born about three hundred years apart. Was this house that old? She glanced around for some clue, but found nothing obvious.
The only light in the room came from above the narrow staircase. Star climbed it and found that it opened into one of the towers she’d seen from outside.
The tower room, about ten feet wide and round, had windows on three sides facing the inland forest. Trees displayed spectacular fall colors that danced in a breeze, and she saw no signs of another house anywhere. Far below to her left, she spotted the van, barely visible between tree branches.
The back of the room held a small, wooden door that opened to the roof of the house. A narrow walkway with a handrail on one side connected this tower to the one in front.
After testing the doorknob to be sure she could get back in, she started down the walkway. Although the roof was fairly wide at this point, the height still made her heart race and tightened her grip on the railing.
As soon as she made it to the front tower and stepped inside, she relaxed and enjoyed the unbelievable view. The smaller tower room had thick glass all the way around that reached almost from ceiling to floor, reminding her of a lighthouse without the light. She pulled one of two wooden chairs from the edge to the middle of the space, sat, and soaked it all in.
In front of her was the ocean. Waves crested in whitecaps and surfed into the shore. The sky, perfectly blue, stretched forever, drawing her imagination toward it. She pictured windswept islands and European castles defending the far shore.
Closer in, she could see a hint of the bar they’d driven past the night before, and the road appeared as dark spots among the trees. Birds flew past, some even below her, and a few chirped at the unfamiliar observer.
She’d never been in such a perfect spot, and found herself relishing the beauty and peace. All memories of Atlanta, her asshole boyfriend, Jones, and long hours at the Kitty Klub mixing drinks for horny old men slipped away. For the first time, she truly felt as if she were starting over. This was it, day one.
Smiling, she watched a large wave make its way inland, crashing against the shore somewhere out of her vision.
She should be able to see or hear Wendy and the guys coming back up the street, or any sign of Benjamin returning. Stretching her legs and crossing her feet, she leaned back and folded her arms across her chest.
As she watched, clouds grew on the horizon, broke loose, and blew by. The sky brightened to spectacular shades of orange, red, and yellow, and then darkened as the sun set behind her.
With a start, she realized she must have been sitting in the tower for hours.
Moving the chair back to the edge of the room, she turned and hurried along the walkway in the dusky light to the back tower, and eased the door shut behind her.
Wendy and the guys must have gotten past her. They had to be back by now. They could have gone halfway to Boston and still had time to return. Hopefully, they’d fixed the van and were waiting on her.
She descended the narrow staircase and started toward the door to the hallway when movement caught her eye.
Benjamin rose in front of the fireplace and spun to face her. The fire he’d just lit sparkled and spattered behind him. He looked ferocious with his hands balled into fists at his sides.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
4
Star stood frozen in place as if she’d stepped in Super Glue. She couldn’t have moved if the house had been burning down around her.
Fighting a suddenly dry mouth, she managed to get out, “I, uh, didn’t mean any harm.”
He took a step toward her, filling more space than he should. The top of his head seemed less than an inch from the ceiling. “You were told to stay on the first floor, were you not?”
Anger swelled inside her, bursting her bubble of terror. She dropped one fist to a hip and purposely slid her gaze around the room. “Yeah, I was told.”
“And do you always have difficulty following orders?”
