Albion, Vanessa, and I passed the days lazing on the sofa watching the massive collection of Agatha Christie and Alfred Hitchcock films Aunty Marlene had amassed, or sitting on the porch, rugged up in scarves, beanies, and jackets. Once, Albion took us wine tasting. I felt a little shy at the tasting, having never done anything like that before, but Albion took it all very seriously and actually seemed to know something about it. I was impressed with how he and Vanessa chatted with the staff and used words like oaked and tannins.
Albion had a membership to the local Country Club, and the day before he was to leave Vanessa and me alone in Darbon he took us there for dinner. First we sat in the hot tub with a couple of golf wives, Roz and Deb. They took me and Vanessa to shower in the sparkling club changing rooms, all decked out with hairdryers and soft towels. Roz invited us to use her makeup and perfume. In the restaurant, Albion requested a vertical Shiraz tasting session, whatever that was, and made me try oysters. Then he and Vanessa ordered a tasting plate full of more stuff I’d never eaten before, like venison and quail. I compliantly ate the meal but had far too much wine and by nine o’clock found myself with my face in a pristine white Darbon Country Club toilet, vomiting wine, oysters, and venison. I wobbled back to the table, complaining about food poisoning. Albion and Vanessa thought I was hilarious. I thought they were evil.
They finally took me home around eleven and spilled me into bed. But the trouble with getting drunk was that it let feelings past my cognitive gatekeepers. First, that horrible sunken feeling of despair and then―worse―the clambering tendrils of hope. Maybe there was a way I could see Cain again. Could I see him outside of the Gaunt House chamber? Then I could be with him but not impinge on his time with them, or have any effect on his capacity to see visions and help people. Maybe it could somehow work ...
Every time those hope tendrils reached a certain height, my sober common sense waded in and ripped them out by the roots. Then, slowly, the spores they’d cast would grow again, snaking into the cracks in my plan, wrapping themselves around my resolve to fix the mess Jude had created. In the small hours of the morning, after a couple of fitful hours of sleep, I found myself back in the bathroom, somehow vomiting the nothing left in my stomach until my ribs ached. Never again, I vowed. I’d never get this drunk again ... and not just because of the vomiting.
In the morning I drove Albion to the coach stand. As we sat waiting for his bus he took my hand and stared at my limp brown fingers, much smaller than his own.
“You should’ve stuck with Jude,” he said. “He was crazy about you and he’d never hurt you, either.”
Cold wind seemed to roar through the hollow in my chest. “He’s the last person who could make me happy.”
Albion looked at me keenly. “Would you just satisfy me on one thing, Frankie?”
“It depends.”
“I know you don’t want to tell me what’s been going on these last months but I just need to know no one’s been hurting you. Beating or abusing you.”
“Albion!” I shoved his hand away.
“Shit, Frankie. Why can’t you let anyone close to you?” The coach appeared and he stood, shooting me a hurt glare.
“Stop trying to get inside my mind,” I snapped. “What if you found something you didn’t like in there? You wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“You really underestimate me.”
He departed on the big, empty coach and I drove back to the beach house. I pulled over to look at an abandoned part of Darbon on the way. This was the town center long before the current town was constructed. I went into the old, half-ruined church. Rough limestone pews remained, as did the stone altar. I sat in a pew, pulling my legs up underneath me.
The visit gave me a little comfort, but I still couldn’t forget how far away I was from Cain in every single way. The distance was stretching my heart paper thin, ready to tear.