Gayle Wilson - Echoes in the Dark

“Andre,” his sister chided, handing her a glass full of ice and some sort of mixed juices. It was very refreshing, its cold tartness chasing away the last of the grogginess.

She knew they were wondering if she had a problem with alcohol. Most people who didn’t drink at all were either alcoholics or had strong feelings about the use of spirits. She fell into neither category, but she couldn’t think how to phrase any explanation of her situation that would fit into this casual atmosphere.

She simply sipped her drink, watching Andre fix two Scotch-and-waters. He carried one to the fourth occupant of the room who had been sitting so quietly that she hadn’t noticed him in the low lighting. He had chosen the most shadowed corner, and she wondered suddenly if that might have been deliberate. It had certainly afforded him the opportunity to study her without her being aware of his scrutiny.

Suzanne spoke at her elbow, “You haven’t met my older brother. He’s the patriarch, the one who keeps us all in line. Come and meet Julien.”

Their footsteps sounded unnaturally loud against the stone tiles of the floor. She wondered suddenly if that’s why Suzanne had been barefoot this afternoon, to avoid this echoing parade across the room.

“Caroline, I’d like you to meet my favorite brother.”

They both heard Andre’s soft laugh behind them, but Suzanne ignored his response to her provocation and continued her introduction. “Julien, this is Caroline Evans. I’ve invited her to be my secretary and companion while I’m here.”

Caroline’s thoughts that night after she had gone to bed all concerned her stupidity in not putting it together sooner. The dark, aviator-style sunglasses in the dimness of the room. Andre’s solicitude with the drink. She hadn’t yet realized the reason those things were necessary. She had simply extended her hand and waited.

Suzanne reached out and took her hand quite naturally and, holding it gently in her own, lowered their joined hands between them as if they were such close friends they couldn’t bear to be apart. She smiled into Caroline’s eyes to banish the embarrassment, but they both knew that somehow the man who sat so quietly in that shadowed corner was perfectly aware of what had just happened.

He was very like his brother, as deeply tanned, with the same strong, squared chin and darkly curling hair. He was, perhaps, even better looking, his features more classically shaped. It was difficult to tell behind the dark glasses.

His tone was completely neutral when he spoke, his voice deep and rich, his English only slightly accented. Since she had expected him to address her in French, as the others had naturally done, his decision to greet her in her native language seemed a nice gesture.

“Ms. Evans, I’m delighted you’ve consented to join us here. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay. I doubt that even Suzanne’s social correspondence will totally occupy your time. Please feel free to enjoy the islands. If you need anything, I hope you’ll ask. Andre will make an excellent guide, and if I know my brother, he’ll be more than willing.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, still embarrassed by her faux pas, “but I’m here to work, to help your sister. I don’t think I’ll have time to play tourist.”

“Andre will probably insist you find time. He’s already been extolling your beauty,” he said. Realizing that comment demanded some explanation, he continued softly, “I hope you’ll forgive my curiosity which, I admit, prompted his comments. We don’t usually discuss our guests, but a brief description helps me to visualize someone I’m meeting for the first time.” The dark glasses were focused somewhere beyond her left shoulder.

“I don’t mind. Especially since your brother chose to be very flattering. I’m looking forward to staying here. Your home is very beautiful.”

“And not at all what you expected,” he suggested. His lips lifted into a slight smile, and something about that movement caused a flutter inside her already nervous stomach.

“No,” she managed. “To be truthful, I’d expected a much older house.”

“The original house was destroyed by Hurricane David. Not a very romantic name for a storm, and that house was very romantic, steeped in history and haunted, I’m sure, by several well-authenticated ghosts. I built this house to replace it. It’s about ten years old.”

“You don’t miss the other at all.” Suzanne laughed. “He hated it. He couldn’t wait to design and build this one. He talked for months about what the site demanded and stresses and forces and who knows what else. I don’t know how the workmen ever got anything done with him adjusting every beam and pillar.”

“You’re an architect?” Caroline asked unthinkingly and knew by the tension, by the sudden movement of the small hand that finally released hers, the error she had made.

“Not anymore,” he said into the uncomfortable silence that fell in spite of their well-bred politeness. “I finance houses. I invest in companies that build them, but I don’t design. Not anymore, Ms. Evans.”

His voice had softened on the last, and she could almost hear the effort he made to speak naturally when he continued, a change of the awkward subject her remark had forced. “Suzanne, if you’ll take me in to dinner?”

He rose too suddenly, unaware perhaps of how close they stood to his chair or still bothered by the insensitivity of her comment. He moved so quickly that her instinctive step backward unbalanced her, and she grasped the nearest object to keep from falling. The solidness of the muscle under the navy silk shirt was reassuringly steady. She quickly regained her balance, releasing his arm as if she’d been scalded.

“I’m sorry,” he began, his words conflicting with her own agonized apology, so that they both stopped and waited.

“It was my fault,” she said finally, knowing she was blushing.

“I don’t think so, Ms. Evans. I hope you’ll forgive my clumsiness. Suzanne?”

He fitted his hand around his sister’s upper arm, and she led the way to the small table that had been set on the patio.

The meal was long and the atmosphere relaxed. The food was simple and delicious, a mixture of French and Creole dishes that reminded Caroline of New Orleans. The conversation flowed easily with Andre and Suzanne bearing the burden, seemingly without any conscious effort.

The man at the head of the table said little, and Caroline wondered if that were because his full attention was required for the process of eating. She was fascinated by the movement of his long brown fingers against the array of crystal and china. He never made a mistake. There was no clink of misplaced glass or fork, no need for the use of the napkin. She would never have known he was blind, she thought, not from this.

She wondered how long since he’d lost his vision. Less than ten years. She thought of those long years of darkness and wondered if he had ever been as laughingly sensuous as Andre, as confident of his power to attract. He was still, in spite of the dark glasses that hid the sightless eyes, a very attractive man.

At the realization that she had been watching those lean, tanned hands, she dropped her gaze to her plate and tried to concentrate on the story Andre and Suzanne were telling together, running over each other’s best lines. Something about a visitor to the original house who had been a sleepwalker. It was an old routine they had obviously used often in the past to entertain, but, although she laughed when they finished, she had lost the thread. Eventually, a relaxed silence fell over the group.

“Why don’t you take Ms. Evans to the deck and show her the surf,” her host suggested to his brother. The glasses moved toward her face when he explained, “You can hear it even from this side of the house. It’s a sound that will become as familiar as your own heartbeat, but the first sight is awe inspiring.”