"Do you love it?" her friend Rachel asked.

Rachel almost always started a phone conversation in the middle, something Gray both enjoyed and wondered if she should disapprove of. She'd been taught to ask politely if someone was otherwise engaged before a.s.suming a conversation was mutually agreeable.

"The house," Rachel elaborated. "Isn't it perfect for a summer away?"

"Of course it is! But oh, Rachel, you won't believe what just happened to me!" She hunkered down into the plush leather armchair in the music room. It was her favorite chair, even though it put her in mind of how it must feel to sit in a giant leather baseball glove. "This morning was so beautiful I decided to go for a bike ride. And I was standing on the sh.o.r.e, over by the bay outside of town, and it was gorgeous and the water felt so warm, and I was thinking I really needed to be more like you-"

"Gray, I hate it when you say things like that." Rachel's voice showed her displeasure.

"I know you do, but it's true. I'm way too self-conscious, for one thing, so I decided what you would do would be to-"

"Wait! Let me guess. You stripped naked, went swimming, and got bitten by a shark."

Gray laughed, almost wishing that had been the outcome. "All but the last bit."

Rachel gasped. "No way. You? You got naked. In public."

"It wasn't exactly public. There was no one around. But yes, I went swimming. Skinny-dipping."

There was a pause. Then, "All right, who are you really and what have you done with Gray?"

Gray laughed again. Leave it to Rachel to cheer her up even on the heels of her biggest mortification. "Very funny."

"So, how was it, acting like me? Rewarding? Or did something bad happen?" Rachel's voice was wry.

"It was very very rewarding," Gray said, realizing she'd gone about this story the wrong way. "At first it was positively divine, and I could see why you follow your impulses, why physical freedom is so exhilarating. But then..." She felt breathless anew at the embarra.s.sing memory, flushing hot again. "Oh Rachel, you won't believe this, but a dog stole my clothes!" rewarding," Gray said, realizing she'd gone about this story the wrong way. "At first it was positively divine, and I could see why you follow your impulses, why physical freedom is so exhilarating. But then..." She felt breathless anew at the embarra.s.sing memory, flushing hot again. "Oh Rachel, you won't believe this, but a dog stole my clothes!"

"A-what?"

"As I was swimming, I saw this beautiful white dog running up the beach. I'd seen the dog before, actually. In fact, I saw it just yesterday on the beach, with a guy in a long, heavy coat. I remember because I thought it was strange that the guy was wearing a winter coat in June. Anyway, before I could do anything, this dog picked up my sundress and ran off. Just...ran off. I couldn't believe it. I started whistling for it. Calling it. But it disappeared up the beach without a backward look." I couldn't believe it. I started whistling for it. Calling it. But it disappeared up the beach without a backward look."

"Oh my G.o.d." Rachel paused, and was obviously having a hard time restraining laughter. "What about the guy in the coat? Was he around?"

"I didn't see him, but I did wait for him for quite a while. 'Til my fingers got pruney, and I thought I'd freeze to death. Then I ran out of the water, grabbed my underpants-thank goodness he didn't take those too-and pedaled home as fast as I could."

Rachel was openly laughing now. "Did anyone see you?"

"No! At least I don't think so. I didn't see a soul, thank G.o.d. Not that I was looking."

Rachel hooted. "And you had to go through town, didn't you? What other way is there?"

"I don't know! I went through town. It was mortifying. mortifying. Imagine it." Imagine it."

"Oh I am," Rachel said through guffaws, adding, after Gray moaned, "Come on. It's funny. funny. And nothing bad happened, did it? I mean besides being embarra.s.sed." And nothing bad happened, did it? I mean besides being embarra.s.sed."

"No, I just kept my eyes on the road and my feet on the pedals." Gray hesitated, struck by the idea that being embarra.s.sed didn't really qualify as something "bad" happening. "I guess I was only embarra.s.sed."

"And seen by no one, as far as you know."

"As far as I know," she repeated ominously.

"Gray, I promise you, if anyone saw you, they were struck dumb by your beauty. It's not like you know anyone anyway." She chuckled again. "Besides, you were probably pedaling so fast you were invisible."

Despite herself, Gray laughed. "It was was the fastest I've ever ridden." the fastest I've ever ridden."

"The fact is, I should try to be more like you," Rachel said. "This is exactly the kind of thing that would happen to me, except the town would have been throwing a parade, and everyone would have seen me."

Gray scoffed. "You don't want to be like me. I'm sick to death of who I am. Uptight and cautious and-well, my students call me the Gray Ghost. That should tell you something."

"It tells me they remember the time you caught them drinking beer in the woods."

"No, it means I'm practically invisible. I've spent a lifetime actually striving to be invisible. G.o.d forbid I ever made a show of myself, made a show of myself, as my mother used to say. And now look at me. I'm scared of my own shadow." as my mother used to say. And now look at me. I'm scared of my own shadow."

"You are not."

"Trust me, I am. Coming up here was the gutsiest thing I've done in years, and right off the bat I do something stupid."

"What you did, Gray, was-was make a show of yourself! make a show of yourself! And wasn't it kind of fun? You're already getting out of your sh.e.l.l, not even a week into your summer." And wasn't it kind of fun? You're already getting out of your sh.e.l.l, not even a week into your summer."

"Maybe," she conceded thoughtfully. Out of her clothes, out of her sh.e.l.l...same thing. "But mark my words. I'm going to change myself this summer. I'm determined. I'm going to loosen up. Follow my impulses. Be brave."

"Gutsy Gray! And you're off to a great start!"

Gray laughed. "I don't know about great. But getting naked in public was was a start." a start."

Rachel cracked up again, before getting down to the reason for her call. "Listen, I'm wondering if you've seen any sign of the so-called ghost yet."

"Not unless the ghost is an obnoxious sundress-stealing dog." Gray crossed her legs and picked at a terry-cloth pill on her robe. She wished Rachel hadn't brought up that d.a.m.n ghost. She had just been starting to feel comfortable. If it weren't for all the talk about this place being haunted, she was sure she wouldn't be imagining herself watched at every turn.

"Nope, the ghost is the Duke of Dunkirk. At least according to legend. Supposedly, he's buried right where our house was built."

One of the reasons Gray was house-sitting this summer was because Rachel and her husband, Robert Kinnistan, were trying to sell their house in the Cape Cod town of Wellfleet, Ma.s.sachusetts. The trouble, according to their Realtor, was that the place was old and rumored to be haunted. Rachel thought that if someone were living in it, that might prove to the squeamish it was both comfortable and ghost-free.

Before Gray arrived, she hadn't believed any of those reasons were why the house wasn't selling, most particularly the ghost. She'd thought their Realtor was lazy. Or maybe the squeamish one herself. But the opportunity to get out of DC and reinvent herself was more than she could pa.s.s up. Though she hadn't told her friends, she was thinking of moving there if she could find a job.

It wasn't until she'd gotten to the house that she'd been consumed by creepy feelings. Talk about the power of suggestion. She didn't even believe believe in ghosts, so it was ridiculous to feel spooked. in ghosts, so it was ridiculous to feel spooked.

"Why would a ghost haunt the place it was buried?" Gray asked, exasperated. "I mean, really, you'd think they'd haunt the place they died. Or the people who were responsible. These things never make sense."

"I know, ghost legends are all the same. Although I think some people say he didn't actually die until he reached the sh.o.r.e. And where he reached the sh.o.r.e is supposedly right where our house is. Others say he died in a house that stood where ours is. I just don't know."

"So have you ever noticed anything odd when you've been here?"

"Well..." Rachel's tone was reluctant. "I haven't, but Robert says he has. I can't remember what, exactly."

Gray swallowed. "Ask him if he's ever noticed this: every now and then I smell something burning. Not like the house is on fire but like a pipe or a cigarette. But when I look around, I can't find anything. It's weird."

The line went silent. Gray wondered if they'd been cut off. A chill swept through her again.

"h.e.l.lo? Rachel?"

"I'm here," she said. "I'm thinking. You know, Robert might have mentioned something about a pipe smell..."

Despite herself, Gray shivered. This was stupid. She wasn't the superst.i.tious sort. She was more interested in figuring out why why the house was considered haunted than whether or not it really was. Because she knew the answer to that. There were no such things as ghosts. the house was considered haunted than whether or not it really was. Because she knew the answer to that. There were no such things as ghosts.

"Then it must be something explainable. Like a light socket overheating or something caught in a radiator," she reasoned. "So who was the Duke of Dunkirk, and what was he doing here?"

Rachel sighed. "I don't know. Robert could tell you. All I know is, the duke is supposedly our ghost, and that bar in town, Dunkirk's Den, is named for him. Personally, I think it's Covington Burgess."

"You think someone named Covington Burgess is haunting your house?" Visions of an old sea captain or a long-dead fisherman pacing the crow's nest filled her head.

Rachel laughed. "No, he's all too alive, in my opinion. I think he's the one who took the legend of this duke and attached it to our house, saying it was haunted. He's also the rat who bought the Neely home for a song after claiming it was sinking into the marsh, and he's been after Robert's house for years. I guess we should feel lucky he hasn't sicced his engineering firm on us yet. No doubt he'd get them to claim four hundred feet of cliff face is getting ready to give way and send the place into the ocean. Though that would be easier to refute than the ghost thing."

"Covington Burgess," Gray repeated. "I'll remember that name."

"Do. And if you hear anything about him wanting to buy, let me know. Oh darn. Gray, the baby just woke up. I've got to go. I thought we'd have more time to chat."

"Don't worry." Gray felt a pang. She missed her friend. "I've got to shower anyway. We'll talk soon. And I'll let you know what I find out about this supposed ghost."

"Good," Rachel said, then finished, laughing, "And remember: go with guts."

Chapter Two

The swelling strings of a Puccini aria were spilling out of his stereo speakers when Sam heard the scratching at his back door. No doubt the dog had finally realized he'd taken off this morning without getting his breakfast first.

Sam finished wiping the windowsill where he'd spilled his coffee and glanced outside once more as if the woman might still be there.

Strange things happened all the time once the summer people came to the cape, but he had to say he'd never seen a woman riding naked through town on a bicycle before. In his opinion, it was an improvement over the typical tourist problems of drunkenness, litter, noise, illegal parking, and a formidable line outside The Lighthouse for breakfast.

Wadding up the paper towel in his hand, he headed for the back of the house and pushed open the screen door. The large white dog trotted in manfully, for all the world as if a fanfare of trumpets heralded his arrival.

"Good morning, Duke. Up to no good?" Sam asked conversationally.

One of Duke's ears flicked in Sam's direction, the only sign that he'd heard.

Sam had found the dog a year ago on the beach up near Truro. He'd been wearing no collar and sported neither a tattoo nor, as the shelter discovered, a microchip. Sam posted signs all over the cape and checked in with animal shelters from Hyannis to Provincetown, but n.o.body ever claimed him, so Sam decided to keep him. Or the dog had decided to keep Sam. One way or the other, they'd stayed together.

The name Duke had come easily. For some reason it was the first one that sprang to Sam's mind, and the dog responded to it immediately. Ever since then, however, Duke had acted as if Sam were born to serve him. With his thick white coat, p.r.i.c.ked ears, and high, curling tail, the dog had an att.i.tude of authority that one found oneself obeying before giving it any thought.

Duke, indeed, Sam had thought on many occasions. Still, he was a gentle animal, who rarely caused trouble. He just went where he wanted, when he wanted, and n.o.body could stop him. indeed, Sam had thought on many occasions. Still, he was a gentle animal, who rarely caused trouble. He just went where he wanted, when he wanted, and n.o.body could stop him.

Sam studied the dog's coat for evidence he'd been rolling in dead things, but aside from a shower of sand from his feet and a few bits of seaweed clinging to his fur, he appeared as white as when he'd left.

Grabbing the broom, which was always at the ready, Sam swept the offending grit out the door. Then he stepped onto the porch to sweep the sand into the gra.s.s behind the house. The yard was small, only about fifteen feet deep, but it was enough to buffer the house from the marsh beyond. He stood for a moment, looking at the morning sun on the water, the fresh smell of salt water mixing with the warmth of the soil making him take a deep, lung-expanding breath.

Between the view and the Puccini, he felt like the day promised something special. Something the bizarre spectacle of the morning had only portended. He smiled, surveying the yard. He was proud of the new bronze sculpture he'd bought that spring, an abstract that stood near the edge of the marsh, echoing the feel of the cattails and gra.s.ses. He planned to add more art pieces when he had the funds, maybe some iron and stonework, too.

As he turned to go inside, something on the gra.s.s near the short gravel drive caught his eye. For a moment Sam thought the white heap was a plastic shopping bag, but it looked too big for that. He stepped off the porch and strode toward it, thinking, Sure enough, litter hits the town the same time as the tourists. Sure enough, litter hits the town the same time as the tourists. It was like clockwork. It was like clockwork.

But when he reached the ma.s.s he saw that it wasn't white, but pale yellow. And it wasn't a plastic bag but an article of clothing. He plucked it from the ground with two fingers and held it aloft. Covered with sand and sporting bits of kelp, he saw that it was a dress. A woman's sundress, to be precise.

He looked from the dress in his hand toward the back door of his house, putting two and two and two together. And getting a mess.

Low laughter started in the back of his throat. A runaway dog, a naked bicyclist, and the sudden appearance of a dress all pointed to one thing: somehow Duke had stolen that poor woman's clothes. No wonder she'd been pedaling so fast. She wasn't an exhibitionist; she'd been robbed.

He took the thing up in both hands and shook it. Much of the seaweed and a lot of sand showered onto the ground at his feet. It was a flimsy little affair, made of some knit material with spaghetti straps and a three-b.u.t.ton vee at the front. Pale yellow. Like the woman's hair.

He folded it over an arm and headed back to the house. The chances of his figuring out where she was staying were slim. For one thing, he didn't have a lot of time this week to be searching out the rental houses along the oceanside. He had three articles to write for various publications on the latest cla.s.sical music releases.

For another thing, something he'd noted in the woman's posture told him she'd probably rather be without the dress than know that someone had seen her riding naked through the streets at the crack of dawn.

What the h.e.l.l, he thought. He'd wash it anyway. She'd probably be gone at the end of the week, and he'd never see her, but just in case he ran into her, he'd have it ready. Why should she care if some stranger had seen her panicked flight this morning? It wasn't as if she'd ever see him again.

Gray stood looking at the sign for Dunkirk's Den, the bar where all the locals reputedly hung out. Had she been interested in being herself, she would have gone to Aesop's Tables in the middle of town. With a lovely front lawn filled with tables, and the cozy lounge upstairs, it was just the type of place Cynthia Gray Gilliam of McLean, Virginia, would have patronized.

But tonight she was just Gray, of Gull Cottage Lane, Wellfleet, and despite her friend's protests, she was still convinced that trying to be more like Rachel was a good idea.

Look at this morning, she told herself. So what if she'd had to ride home naked on a bicycle? She'd had twenty minutes of exhilaration first.

She briefly put a hand to her forehead to forestall the automatic blush the memory incited. It was only embarra.s.sment, she reminded herself. And embarra.s.sment did not count as something bad happening.

She'd had an incredible, early-morning swim, learned what it felt like to be naked out-of-doors-something she was sure she hadn't done since she was a toddler, if then-and she had a hilarious story to tell her friends. No harm, no foul, as her ex-boyfriend Lawrence would say. she had a hilarious story to tell her friends. No harm, no foul, as her ex-boyfriend Lawrence would say.

She shook her head to rid it of Lawrence. It had been over a year since their breakup, and in that time he'd gotten married. It was past time to get him out of her mind.

Still, her stomach somersaulted at the idea of going into the bas.e.m.e.nt bar. It looked dark and seedy. She bet it sold only Budweiser. The bathrooms were probably disgusting. But music blared happily from within, and if she wanted to be different than herself, well, this seemed to be the place. Not to mention that somebody here might be able to tell her the story of the Duke of Dunkirk.

Go with guts, she thought, straightening her shoulders. she thought, straightening her shoulders.

She doubted if even Rachel or Robert had ever come here.

In deference to the venue she'd chosen, Gray had dressed down. She wore jeans with her Etienne Aignier flats and carried a small, Coach clutch purse. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore only the barest of makeup with her white Ralph Lauren sweatshirt. Simple diamond studs adorned her ears, her only jewelry other than a Cartier watch.

It was as casual as Cynthia Gray Gilliam got. And while she knew it was not what some would consider Dunkirk's Den material, she had to content herself with the fact that her mother would have tackled her at the front door if she'd been around to know her daughter was actually going out in these clothes and not painting the house.

Not that her mother was here, of course. No, she was home in Virginia, disapproving of Gray telepathically, as usual.