A Cottage in Maine E-Book

Christine Brendle

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 213

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

The winters in Maine are long and lonely. That's why it seems the perfect place for Karen to escape her golden cage in Boston. She moves into a secluded wooden cottage by the sea to write a book. There loneliness and diffuse doubts cause Karen to lose control of her novel. The events and characters of the story come alive. Karen feels observed and starts to hear voices. And there is that inexplicable knocking sound. Her fears invade her dreams. Suspense turns into a nightmare. Her story and her characters become more and more entangled with her own reality. Is the danger she perceives real or just a figment of her imagination? But then a very real crime occurs.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

1

The suitcases are packed; everything is ready for my departure. Once again I walk through the house, although I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything. Maybe I just need those few minutes. Sunlight floods the room in the attic. The Boston sky is blue, blue and clear. As clear as my decision. I’m sure about that at least, though about nothing else. What a view, the most beautiful one from anywhere in the house. Like a glittering ribbon, the Charles River flows wide and slow far below me. My study. Here I wanted to write my novel. I never got beyond the first few pages. A leaden paralysis prevented me from writing. It wasn’t because of this room. A deep depression overcame me at a time that was meant to be my happiest. I had made a terrible mistake.

I close the window. The room looks empty without the computer and printer. In the baskets on the empty desk there are some sheets of paper. Notes on my novel, flashes of thought that proved worthless the moment I wanted to put them on paper. At the bottom there is a note with window measurements for curtain poles and fabric. It dates back to the very beginning, when I had new curtains sewn for the bedroom and bathroom. I had bought plants and placed them all over the house. All my attempts were in vain; Dan’s house never became my home.

I tear the sheets into small snippets and throw them in the trash. My bed in the bedroom is made as if I were leaving for just a few days. I also left the bathroom unchanged. My toothbrush is still in its usual place, and so is the perfume I last used. Until the end I didn’t have the courage to tell Dan the whole truth. He is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. The luggage has disappeared from the hallway. Dan is breathing heavily.

»Is that all, Karen?«

»Yes, that’s all. Thank you, Dan.«

»Well, it’s about all that fits in the car.«

»Then I’ll carry Leo in his basket.«

My young tomcat lies in his basket, sleeping. When I pick him up, he barely stirs. The sedative drops I gave him are already working. I gently put him into the travel box and close the lid.

»If you’d at least leave him here, I’d know that you’ll be back soon.«

»Then he’d be alone with you all day.«

»Sometimes I think you love him more than me.«

»But you gave him to me.«

»To cheer you up.«

»He has often done a good job of cheering me up.«

»Karen, you can still change your mind.«

»Now?«

»It’s really simple: Just call and say you’ve changed your mind.«

»But I haven’t change my mind, Dan.«

»We could do things differently; we could travel more often ...«

»Let’s not start again.«

Dan looks more helpless than I’ve ever seen him.

»I’ll miss you. Will you miss me, too?« Tears glitter in his eyes. Suddenly he embraces me. »Won’t you give us a chance?«

I feel as if a web is spinning around me, denser and denser. It turns into a solid cocoon, making me rigid and motionless.

»Let me go, please, let me go.«

He clasps my hand. I start to feel annoyed.

»You can’t wait to get away.«

Suddenly I feel guilty. Living together was our dream.

»Dan, it’s not easy for me either.«

Finally he lets me go.

»Okay. Will you get in touch with me?«

»Yes, but give me time.«

I kiss him on the cheek, take the basket with the cat, turn around and walk out the front door, hurrying down the few steps, through the small front yard, along the footpath to the parking lot, where the packed car is waiting. Dan follows me. Time, I need time. I’m glad when I finally sit in the car and step on the gas. I catch only a brief glimpse of Dan in the rearview mirror. Then everything runs its course. I’m on the road. No one can stop me anymore. And I can‘t change my mind anymore.

2

The city is jammed with traffic. It's just before nine a.m., commuter traffic. The required concentration distracts me. Behind Boston things are getting quieter. It is the 28th of August, the summer holidays will be over soon. In the opposite lane, the vacationers are returning from Maine. There is little traffic going in my direction. I'm driving against the current, and on the highway that is finally an advantage. Trees fly past me, seagulls. Or am I flying? The Atlantic flashes dark blue through houses and bushes. I am leaving everything behind. Dan, Rita, Robert, my parents’ calls and letters, their disappointment. They would have loved to see me become a wife and mother. A dream so tangible – and now so abruptly destroyed. A family life that also corresponded to my idea of a perfect life: my mother, how pretty she always was, with her short brown hair, and how happy at my father's side. And Dad, my beloved dad, always calm and friendly, shaped my image of a perfect husband. My grandmother was happy in her marriage, too. Although her first husband had passed away too soon, »Grandfather Paul« had filled the gap he had left perfectly. Happy women, for generations. Suddenly I would see them everywhere: young wives and mothers, content, pleasant, patent, complacent, with rosy-cheeked angels in strollers or holding hands. It seemed to be the most natural thing in the world. Only I was obviously completely unsuitable for this. These thoughts upset me. I turn on the radio. Music blares. Pop music, cheerful and light, just the right music for this late summer day, blue and carefree, as if this summer had only just begun, not as if it were already coming to an end.

Surprisingly quick I’ve reached Portland, then Yarmouth, Freeport, Brunswick and Bath. At the Intown Pub I can pick up the key. Grace is busy behind the counter. The pub is crowded; it's lunch time. She only spots me when I am right in front of her.

»Oh, you're already here? I didn't expect you so early.«

»Yes, there was little traffic on the highway. I thought there wouldn’t be anybody in Maine anymore.«

»Well, as you can see, there are still enough people around. However, there’re not that many tourists here, rather the people who live here. Why don't you take a seat. Would you like something to eat?«

After a quick look at the crowded room I decide to drive on. Grace is pleasant, just like she was last spring, yet I feel strangely shy around her.

»I'll better just drive on; my cat is in the car. I gave him a sedative but he’ll probably wake up soon and get upset.«

Grace seems a little surprised but she doesn't urge me to stay.

»Will you find the way?«

»Yes, I think so.«

She briefly tells me how to get to 209. »You can take it to Popham Beach. Take a right turn shortly after the entrance to the national park.«

I almost miss the turn-off. The narrow path has grown over with weeds during the summer. At the last minute I turn the steering wheel and enter the green thicket. The car slowly rolls on. The thick foliage slaps against its sides. Shortly after, the wall of leaves opens up and everything is as I remember it. The endless surface of the Atlantic gently rocking in front of me. There is no one on the beach. The small inconspicuous wooden cottage, nestling close to the forest and facing the sea, looks as if it is sleeping with closed shutters. I drive up to the steps that lead to the front door behind its small wooden patio. Nothing moves in the basket on the passenger seat. Oh my God, what if the sedative was too strong? Panicking, I open the grid and shake the tiger-striped fur ball. Leo moves but he doesn't wake up. At least he’s still alive.

It is dark in the house, and I am greeted by hot air. The smell is familiar. It smells like my grandparents' cottage on Lake Michigan. Almost instantly I feel at home. I open the shutters to air out the room. I hardly remember the rooms except the living room with its dark wood and leather furniture. The dimly lit kitchen that faces the forest comes with the most necessary equipment: a stove, a fridge, a cupboard for food and dishes, and a sink by the window. In the center of the room there is a dark wooden table with four chairs. An envelope with the words For Karen in large, sweeping letters sits on the table. The letter is from Clifford. He wishes me a nice stay.

… If you have any questions, please contact Grace. She has been looking after the house in my absence for years and knows everything there is to know about the house. She is also a fantastic counselor.

Perhaps I will also get the chance to stop by myself. I would like to see our discussion from spring continued.

Best regards, Clifford

He thinks a lot about Grace, as I noticed back in May, when he urged me to go to her restaurant for lunch after the interview. She supposedly serves the juiciest steaks and biggest hamburgers. The two of them seem to have been friends for many years. Were they once a couple? But in the next moment this idea seems absurd. They are too different. Clifford has a strong personality, is cheerful and easygoing, while Grace seems so sober and austere. Does she think of me as Clifford’s friend? Or what reason did he give her for my staying in his house for the next months?

3

The rooms are meticulously clean. Nothing reminds me of the fact that Clifford lived here until just a few days ago. Did he take everything with him? Or was it Grace? It would suit her. I check the cupboards. Thank God, there are enough pots and dishes. I didn’t see the upper floor when I last visited the house. Now I realize that a single large room with built-in closets and a bed in the center takes up almost the whole space. In addition, there is only a tiny bathroom, which was probably once built into bedroom. It features an old-fashioned white claw-foot bathtub. A white pla-stic curtain is draped around it so it can also be used as a shower. The ceramic sink is modern and quite large, as is the mirror on the wall. My face looks pale in the glaring sunlight, and my hair, which is tinted red, reinforces that impression. I discover a few tiny wrinkles. My God, I look old! Am I getting old at the age of thirty-five or did I really age that much in the last year? I never thought about getting older. Why should I? Just a year ago I believed that my real life was just beginning. But what is that, a real life?

I turn away from the mirror and go back downstairs. In the kitchen I turn on the old-fashioned coffee maker and sincerely hope it won’t explode. The peaceful gurgling sound calms me down, and I start taking my luggage out of the car. While I am putting the noodle and rice packages away, I finally hear a soft mewing coming from the basket. Relieved I open the screen grid. Leo looks a bit sleepy but otherwise okay. I pet him and talk to him in a soothing voice. He sniffs my hand and climbs awkwardly out of the box. Looking astonished, he takes a few stiff steps. I fill up his food bowl, but he just sniffs at it, turns around and walks curiously towards the living room. I follow him. The new environment and the unfamiliar smells seem to fascinate him. Looking through the window, I can see a few people walking on the beach. It's almost four. I pour coffee into the largest cup I can find and walk outside to the patio with it. Leo wants to follow me, but a gust of wind makes him pull back. My spoiled cat has never been exposed to wind before. His puzzled face makes me laugh.

»Get used to the house first, there are plenty of new things for you to explore inside.« The door swings shut.

I sit down on the weathered wooden bench. In the same spot I sat in May of this year. It was only a short stay but it brought about a lot of changes. It was just a small job, but it was my first reportage as a freelancer for Globus. Until autumn of last year I had traveled almost all over the world as a salaried employee of the travel magazine publisher. After eight months of abstinence and a monotonous existence as a housewife the small job seemed like a lifeline. It had probably saved me at the last moment from sinking into lethargy and depression for good. A new amusement park had opened in Maine - with a fun pool, fitness rooms, saunas and solariums - as they have mushroomed in all parts of the country lately. I was to present it and the immediate surrounding region to the readers. The swimming pool turned out to be hardly spectacular, but the landscape enchanted me all the more.

I was fascinated by the rugged coastline with its picturesque harbors and lighthouses, the immensity of the maple forests, the charm of the frequently nostalgic, cozy towns. The lobsters tasted more delicious here than anywhere else in the world. I met Clifford towards the end of my stay. The actor of the Brunswick Music Theater was preparing for his 25th summer season. After eating at the pub, he invited me to his house on Popham Beach.

»You can't possibly go back to Boston without getting to know my beach. If you haven't seen it, you don't know the area,« he claimed.

The long sandy beach, which is unusually flat for the region, really amazed me. The cozy wooden cottage had a homely atmosphere, and the view from the terrace made me exclaim enthusiastically: »What a wonderful place! I could write here!«

Then I told him about my novel, which I hadn't touched in months, and Clifford suggested, »Why don’t you come here? I work in New York from September to April, and the house is vacant during that time. I’d be happy if you stayed here. This landscape is full of magic; it’s perfect for artists.«

At the time I had refused to take him up on his offer, laughing it off, but the idea stayed on my mind. It sat in the back of my head, growing day by day until I couldn't think anymore of anything else. I envisioned what it would be like to just get in the car and drive off. I wouldn't have to explain anything to anyone, I'd just go away, and no one would know where I was. I could write the story in the mornings and in the evenings, relax between long walks, and a few months later I would resurface with the finished manuscript. And in the meantime all my other problems would have disappear into thin air.

After returning from Maine, the days in Boston became even more unbearable. So one day I called Clifford and accepted his offer.

Sun rays tickle my face. I relax and close my eyes. The gentle breeze strokes my skin. Now it is rush hour in Boston. Countless cars are clogging the streets; the air is filled with noise and pollution. How infinitely far away all this seems to be. Much further away than just a three-hour drive. All of a sudden it gets chilly out here. The sun is gone; it is getting dark. There is no one on the beach anymore. The Atlantic gleams mysteriously; it looks like dark-blue ink. I’m wrapped in silence. Shivering, I step inside. Leo welcomes me happily. I pick him up and bury my face in his fur.

I spend half the night moving furniture and putting my things into closets while drinking the heavy red wine Dan gave me as a farewell present. At some point the day breaks away from time. What was that? A thump startles me. Suddenly the room is filled with bright light. Blinded, I close my eyes and sink back into the pillows.

»What do you want, Leo? It’s still too early.« With closed eyes I stroke his fur. I feel shattered. I can hear the sound of the waves and the screams of the seagulls outside. The last shreds of my dream fade in the bright daylight. I had gotten lost in the traffic chaos of a foreign city. At some point I lost my shoes and purse. I waved at the passing cabs but none of them stopped. Barefoot, I ran back to all the places where I had been. Many abandoned purses and shoes were shown to me; mine were not among them. Yet many people seemed to have lost their purses and shoes.

I am relieved when I realize where I am. My goodness, it's already ten - late in the morning! When did I go to bed? Did I have too much wine? I pad downstairs. The large living room table with the computers and printers on it is in front of the window. My workplace is ready, including the neat piles of paper. The wine bottle in the kitchen is empty. What I need first now is coffee. Then I change my mind. Still dressed in my bathrobe, I walk the few yards down to the deserted beach. Spontaneously I drop my bathrobe and run into the water. The cold water takes my breath away, but after a few strokes I am awake. When I leave the water a few minutes later, a cold breeze sinks its sharp teeth into my wet skin. I wrap myself into my bathrobe and hurry back to the house. Leo greets me loudly.

»Are you hungry?« Once again I fill his bowl, and this time he starts to eat greedily. I turn the coffeemaker on and take a shower. The hot water is steaming and my body starts to glow as if pricked with fine needles. After my shower I feel better.

4

After a quick breakfast I sit down at my desk. For the first time in months, I open the blue folder. I can hardly remember what I have written. I peruse the pages. What I read is not exactly thrilling. My main characters, Sarah and Tom, are colorless and shapeless. The whole story is a bone-dry skeleton. I remember my countless attempts to make it lively. But the sentences and words come along as if they were walking on stilts, the text seems to rebel against me. I start to get doubts. Is there something wrong with the story?

My gaze wanders outside. A red kite flutters in the sky, climbing higher and higher; it sways, seems to float, then it suddenly races along the beach and starts to tremble, tugging at an invisible string. I wish the string would break and it would fly away into the infinite blue.

I need to exercise anyway. So I close the folder and go to the beach. Soon I find myself in the middle of a happy crowd. The beautiful weather has drawn many people to the beach. Seagulls circle in one spot. Somebody is feeding them. Screeching, they swoop down to the morsels that are thrown at them. The red kite tugs at its string; a man tries to tame it while running. His two children stumble after him, squealing. I seem to be the only person without company. Suddenly I feel like a foreign body in this cheerful setting. I wander through the crowd, nearly bumping into a girl. A young man who follows her tries to grab her.

»Excuse me!« The girl giggles exuberantly behind my back. I walk faster. Suddenly the crowd becomes unbearable. I start to feel better when the voices become more distant and I have finally left them behind. Now all I hear is the sound of the waves. »Tourists are rare in the fall,« Clifford had said. Actually I prefer it that way. Maybe that was one of the main reasons why I came here. The road ends unexpectedly. It is blocked by a high cliff and water worn stones. I did not realize how far I've walked. I can’t see the other beach goers anymore. My hands are filled with shells I collected on the way. It is a passion I cannot resist whenever I am at the beach. Like most people, I'm fascinated by these beautiful filigree shapes, which are really just the shells of living creatures I hardly know anything about. Is it because they come from the depths of the sea, from where we humans originally came from, too? Or does our fascination come from their ability to form pearls in response to the invasion of foreign bodies? I don’t know. I sit down on one of the smaller rocks, put the shells into the sand next to me, forming them into a pattern. All that remains is the crashing of the waves and the smacking sound they make between the stones. At that moment I feel like a shell washed ashore. Somewhere there, far behind the horizon, is Europe. Paris, London, Berlin, Madrid, and Rome. My first trip for Globus had taken me to Rome.

Suddenly I am flooded with sadness. I fell in love with Rome the minute I laid eyes on it. Like an enchanted child I ran run through that vibrant city. At night I could hardly sleep; I would lie awake for hours in the small hotel right in the center, listening to the rattling of mopeds and the seemingly never-ending murmur of voices until dawn. I’d love to write about Rome, I suddenly think. Why doesn’t my story play in Rome? Sarah, a young American, visits this city for the first time. I see her in the narrow room with the endlessly high ceiling and the old dark furniture. I can envision her on the Spanish Steps and at the Colosseum, the Roman Forum and the Trevi Fountain. Tom would not be called Tom but Ricardo or Roberto. It could be a love story. A gentle story, a bit touching and wonderfully romantic. Roma, a city whose name, spelled backwards, already contains the word for love: amor. Cupid. Which city would be better suited for a love story?

Stop. I have to stop. Me and a love story… The idea seems absurd. I remember the series of unfortunate love stories in recent years. Most recently the abrupt end of my relationship with a colleague of mine at the Salem Post, which was why I quit my job and went to Globus. Rita, my co-worker and best friend, couldn’t understand it. It made her sad and angry at the same time.

»And just because of a man! If I changed my job every time I broke up with some guy, I wouldn’t stay anywhere for more than four weeks.«

She was right, and yet ... Rita was different from me. She fell in love all the time. As fast as the men showed up in her life, they would disappear again. Then Rita would sob miserably on her bed or mine for hours, swearing that she'd never fall in love again. But while I was still mad at the man who had made my friend so miserable, she would happily return with that telltale silky gloss in her eyes. She had just met the man of her dreams. Rita was a phenomenon. I, on the other hand, had decided to focus only on my job.

I wanted to travel, get to know the world and have a successful career. Two years later, Dan came across my way – or rather my plate. It was in Boston, at the opening of a new office wing of Globus. At the cold buffet I bumped right into him with my salad plate. Whereupon white salad dressing trickled in small rivulets over his dark blue jacket, and green endive lettuce curled on his tie. A few inches further up I looked into a pair of blue eyes that smiled in amusement. My helpless attempt to remove the stains with hot water from the tea kitchen were answered by his spontaneous invitation to the Margarita, the restaurant on the rooftop where he could eat without wearing a jacket.

It turned out that the handsome blonde man was one of the architects who planned the new part of the building. Something I had no longer believed could happen did happen. The man I fell in love with this time was single and faithful. For two years we were happy. I had felt safe with him and loved him until I made that fateful decision.