Light on snow_ a novel - Anita Shreve [52]
I call her name, but either she doesn’t hear me or she’s so absorbed in the view that she can’t acknowledge me. She has her hands in the pockets of her parka and gazes as if out to sea, as if waiting for a husband to return from a long voyage, as if searching for a child who has just wandered out of sight.
“Charlotte!” I call, my voice louder, more insistent.
She turns her head.
“Come in!” I yell.
For a moment I think she’ll ignore me. Then, as I watch, she twists her body in my direction and begins to retrace her steps, aiming each foot into a boot track, much as I saw Detective Warren do just days earlier. She stumbles once, picks herself up, makes some progress, then begins to hop through the snow like a child does through the surf at the beach. She is winded when she reaches the back door.
“I made hot chocolate,” I say. “Your mug’s on the bench.”
“Thanks,” she says as she slips past me through the door.
“You weren’t even looking in the right direction,” I say to her back.
She sits on the bench; I’m on the stairs. I can hear her, but I can see only her boots. I want to tell her to take them off—her feet will warm up faster that way—but I hold my tongue. I imagine her cupping the mug, warming her hands, her nose and cheeks red from the cold. I can hear her blowing over the hot chocolate and then taking a sip. “Will you show me the place?” she asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not.”
“I can’t see the harm in it.”
“There’s plenty harm in it,” I say, though if pressed I’m not sure I could explain precisely what the harm might be.
“I just want to see,” she says.
“Why? What possible good will that do?”
“I can’t explain it.”
“Don’t be stupid,” I say.
She is silent. I set down my mug. I put my head in my hands. “The hike would be wicked,” I say after a time. “And dangerous. You’ve probably never even used snowshoes.”
I hear her blowing her nose. “I certainly have,” she says.
She has? I know so little about her life. “I’m not sure I can even find it,” I say. “The snow has probably covered all the tracks.”
Actually I am pretty sure I could find the spot. I’ve done the trip, back and forth, twice now and am confident I could recognize the configuration of the trees in tandem with the slope. I certainly know in which direction to head.
“The snow’s stopping now,” she says.
“So?”
“It’ll be easy to retrace our steps. We’ll make plenty of tracks.”
“There’s nothing there, Charlotte. Just some orange tape.”
Again she says nothing, and in the extended silence I make a proposition I know is wrong, that I’ll almost certainly regret. But recklessness is alive in me and pushing to get out. “All right,” I say. “I’ll make a deal.”
“What deal?”
“You answer my questions, and maybe I’ll take you,” I say, knowing I’m on treacherous ground. If I ask a question and she answers it, I’ll have to fulfill my part of the bargain.
“Okay,” she says.
I let out my breath in a rush. “Who is he?” I ask.
“His name is James,” Charlotte says without hesitation.
James, I think. “How did you meet him?” I ask.
“At college,” she says. “How many questions are you going to ask me?”
“I don’t know. A few. Which college?”
There’s a pause. “I can’t do that one,” she says. “Ask me something else.”
“Do you love him still?” I ask, certain she can hear the quaver in my voice.
She hesitates. “I don’t know,” she says carefully. “I did love him very much.” She pauses. “I was crazy about him.”
There is something in her voice that reminds me of the way people talk about someone who has died. Or someone loved a long time ago; still loved, perhaps, in secret.
“Does he know where you are?” I ask.
“No.”
I’m relieved at this answer. I didn’t like the idea of his waiting for her, out of sight, at the B&B in town perhaps.
“He was gorgeous,” she adds quietly.
I have never heard a man or a boy described as gorgeous. “What does he look like?” I ask.
“He has very black curly hair that falls over his forehead. He pushes it back a lot—it’s this thing that he does.