He pulls away suddenly. The black-clad figures have floated past us down the hall. He watches them go, then looks back at me and grins. His beard is slightly askew now. In his gray eyes, I see the Saint Lawrence River rushing darkly beneath the bridges of my city.
“Home,” he repeats dreamily, tracing my cheek with his incredibly soft hands. “You’re going the wrong way.”
When he walks away this time, I don’t follow. I just stand there, panting from the kiss, watching him disappear down the dark hall.
Part II
8
Light from a bright sun. Burning my closed eyes. I open them. See myself in the ceiling mirror. I’m lying in a bed the color of blood. There’s a squeaking sound somewhere. Squeak, squeak, what the hell is that? Where am I? I look around. Blood-colored curtains. Black vanity with a three-paneled mirror. I’m in a vast four-poster bed that sags dangerously in the middle. The red silk sheets bearing the ghost of violets and smoke, a scent of flesh and sweat. Achingly familiar. And then I remember. Mother’s bedroom. Must have slept here. Must have found my way home somehow. How did I leave that house? How did I even leave that hall? Didn’t it seem to be stretching infinitely into darkness? And yet I’m back here, smelling ocean and roses, the stink of the seals on the cove. Still wearing the silk silver dress, the train now covered in dirt and ripped at the hem. The red shoes are still shining on my feet. I kick them off. Who were those people last night? Those strange people （proprietors?） who claimed to know Mother. To know me, too, didn’t they say so? We hope you’ll come back, Daughter. And then the man in the fake black beard. His kiss in the dark hall. And those red jellyfish…
The squeaking sound feels closer, why am I hearing this sound? And then I realize it’s coming from inside not outside. In the house. Oh god, Mother’s ghost. Here, now, in the middle of the day? Impossible. Get yourself together. There’s her red silk robe hanging on the back of the bedroom door. Get up and put it on, that’s it. A little light-headed, a little shaky, that’s all. That champagne, I remember. Those red bubbles I sipped and sipped. Cold, bittersweet, bright as forgetting. That’s all I wanted was to forget. Squeaking getting louder. Does a ghost squeak? Of course not, I’m being silly. Only a living intruder. They know Mother’s dead and now they’re breaking in. I make my way into the hall, looking for a weapon, any weapon at all. In the bathroom, a curling iron. Not much, but it’s something to grip, get a grip. Living room just like I left it. Couch. Table. Roses floating in a bowlful of water and black, slick stones. Roses seem redder, how is that possible?
“Hey there,” says a voice.
I scream.
And there he is standing by the windows. Long blond hair. Shirtless, as yesterday. More shirtless somehow. Tad, the merman handyman. Squeegee in his fist. The wet sponge dripping onto Mother’s floor. Her cat, Anjelica, slithering around his golden ankles, licking the drops at his feet like a whore.
“Belle,” Tad says. “Good morning. Whoa, wait.” He looks at his watch. “Afternoon now.” He grins. Looks down at the red robe that I’m pulling tighter around my body （does he recognize it?）， the curling iron clutched in my fist. “Uh-oh,” he says. “I scared you again. Did I scare you again?”
“No.” The curling iron slips from my fingers, clattering at my feet. Anjelica runs away, shrieking. “I mean yes, Tad. You did scare me a little. A lot. I thought someone was breaking in.”
“Oh no, I’d never break in. No, no. I have a key, see?” He points to it, one of several attached to his tool belt. I look at my mother’s key just hanging there on his hook.
“I see.” I try to smile. “I just didn’t expect to see you again. So soon.”
Tad nods. Waves a hand at the glass behind him. “Just here to do the windows.”
Though I don’t look directly at them, though I keep my eyes on Tad, I can see that the glass has indeed been cleaned again. So clear, it doesn’t even look like glass. It looks like there’s nothing at all between me and the palm tree–lined shore, the pelicans and cormorants flying through the blue sky. “Hope you don’t mind,” he says. “Tried to be quiet.”
“Didn’t you just do the windows yesterday?”
“Oh, I like to do them every day. Your mother liked it that way too.”
“Why?”
“Because they get dirty, Belle. All that spray. It may look faraway, but it finds its way here, trust me.” I look at Tad. His beautiful face so earnest, so shadowless. He reminds me of a golden retriever. I picture my mother patting his golden head. Tad barking happily.