on his boat. Both needed new life. They’d both come under his care. But thehouse was a thing, and things could be picked up and discarded. The woman was different.
The rain stopped, leaving only the constant sound of water dripping from the tree limbs through the holes in the ceiling. The air was heavy, humid. Now tiny biting insects began to swarm, and Sean regretted not having grabbed a shirt.
A shirt.
His shirt.
The woman wearing his shirt.
Four
Carolina had hoped she was through needing so much sleep; instead, it seemed that she needed more. Once sleep had been a welcome escape from pain, from boredom, from the sameness of her illness. But this sleep was different. It came in gentle contentment. It was late afternoon when she opened her eyes and saw him standing just out of range in the doorway.
“You’re always in the shadows,” she said quietly. “Where you don’t look quite real.”
“I am not real, lass. I fear none of this is. I should not be able to converse with you.”
“You’re not Rogan, are you?”
“No. I’m—I’m not quite sure who I am.”
“Does Rogan see you?”
“No. I think not—not yet.”
“Well, you’re very real to me.”
“I know, and I don’t like it, lass. This is all wrong—your presence here—alone—now. You’re part of afuture to which I do not belong. And I will not watch you suffer again. Go back where you belong.”
“Do you really want me to go?”
“Do I want? I want—no, in truth I don’t wish you to go, but it’s best. There can be no purpose served by any of this. It was all settled long ago. Raising the schooner was a mistake. Trust me, Carolina. This isn’t right.”
“But you love the
Scarlet Butterfly
.”
“Yes—that, and more.”
And then he was gone, and she couldn’t be sure that she hadn’t dreamed him. Was the man Rogan? Something about him was different—his speech pattern, the way he kept his distance. He moved so softly. The stairs hadn’t even creaked as he’d left.
Trust him, he’d asked. He didn’t have to ask. For she knew that she already did. But he wanted her to go, and that was something she couldn’t do—not yet.
His shirt was still damp from the rain, so when she dressed she donned her own clothes. The tailored skirt and blouse hung loose on her body. She looked at them and frowned, trying to imagine why she’d ever bought anything so tacky. The answer was that she hadn’t. Her father had bought all her clothes, or he’d had someone else do it.
It hadn’t always been that way. There’d been a time, once, when she’d been able to do her own choosing—her last two years of college. She’d reveled in the freedom. After two years of attending a small nearby college while she’d lived at home, she’d transferred to a university in Dallas. For two years she’d lived in the dorm like an ordinary student, taking art classes from a renowned instructor. She’d even metsomeone, someone who had seemed content with her.
But that was as long as the dream lasted. Just before graduation she’d come down with a headache that wouldn’t go away. She’d thought it was the flu, or that maybe she was simply overworked, but it had intensified, until one day she had a seizure and awoke in the hospital. The rest was a blur of pain and disappointment.
After she’d been released from the hospital, Carolina had continued to live at home so that her doctors could monitor her condition on an outpatient basis. Void of energy and inspiration, she’d given up her art. She hadn’t picked up a sketch pad in over a year. She’d been sick and so very tired for so long. Who wanted to sketch hospitals and sick people?
But suddenly, on the
Butterfly
, she could feel a spark of creative yearning come to life again. The huge live oak trees with their branches curtsying to the ground, the cypress knees, the river, the birds. She knew there’d be birds when the rain stopped, for she’d heard them calling to one another.
The rain stopped, leaving only the constant sound of water dripping from the tree limbs through the holes in the ceiling. The air was heavy, humid. Now tiny biting insects began to swarm, and Sean regretted not having grabbed a shirt.
A shirt.
His shirt.
The woman wearing his shirt.
Four
Carolina had hoped she was through needing so much sleep; instead, it seemed that she needed more. Once sleep had been a welcome escape from pain, from boredom, from the sameness of her illness. But this sleep was different. It came in gentle contentment. It was late afternoon when she opened her eyes and saw him standing just out of range in the doorway.
“You’re always in the shadows,” she said quietly. “Where you don’t look quite real.”
“I am not real, lass. I fear none of this is. I should not be able to converse with you.”
“You’re not Rogan, are you?”
“No. I’m—I’m not quite sure who I am.”
“Does Rogan see you?”
“No. I think not—not yet.”
“Well, you’re very real to me.”
“I know, and I don’t like it, lass. This is all wrong—your presence here—alone—now. You’re part of afuture to which I do not belong. And I will not watch you suffer again. Go back where you belong.”
“Do you really want me to go?”
“Do I want? I want—no, in truth I don’t wish you to go, but it’s best. There can be no purpose served by any of this. It was all settled long ago. Raising the schooner was a mistake. Trust me, Carolina. This isn’t right.”
“But you love the
Scarlet Butterfly
.”
“Yes—that, and more.”
And then he was gone, and she couldn’t be sure that she hadn’t dreamed him. Was the man Rogan? Something about him was different—his speech pattern, the way he kept his distance. He moved so softly. The stairs hadn’t even creaked as he’d left.
Trust him, he’d asked. He didn’t have to ask. For she knew that she already did. But he wanted her to go, and that was something she couldn’t do—not yet.
His shirt was still damp from the rain, so when she dressed she donned her own clothes. The tailored skirt and blouse hung loose on her body. She looked at them and frowned, trying to imagine why she’d ever bought anything so tacky. The answer was that she hadn’t. Her father had bought all her clothes, or he’d had someone else do it.
It hadn’t always been that way. There’d been a time, once, when she’d been able to do her own choosing—her last two years of college. She’d reveled in the freedom. After two years of attending a small nearby college while she’d lived at home, she’d transferred to a university in Dallas. For two years she’d lived in the dorm like an ordinary student, taking art classes from a renowned instructor. She’d even metsomeone, someone who had seemed content with her.
But that was as long as the dream lasted. Just before graduation she’d come down with a headache that wouldn’t go away. She’d thought it was the flu, or that maybe she was simply overworked, but it had intensified, until one day she had a seizure and awoke in the hospital. The rest was a blur of pain and disappointment.
After she’d been released from the hospital, Carolina had continued to live at home so that her doctors could monitor her condition on an outpatient basis. Void of energy and inspiration, she’d given up her art. She hadn’t picked up a sketch pad in over a year. She’d been sick and so very tired for so long. Who wanted to sketch hospitals and sick people?
But suddenly, on the
Butterfly
, she could feel a spark of creative yearning come to life again. The huge live oak trees with their branches curtsying to the ground, the cypress knees, the river, the birds. She knew there’d be birds when the rain stopped, for she’d heard them calling to one another.
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