She pulled out a ten and dug around for a couple dollars.

The cabbie pocketed the bill. "It's fine." He raised a fin-ger to someone across the room and walked back into the rain.

A bell dinged and a man in a burgundy uniform appeared from a door behind the registration desk and headed toward her. Rachel's attention rested on him briefly before she did a double-take and stared at the girl who had rung for him, her palm still poised over the bell.

It was her head Rachel had seen in the vase.

Rachel staggered backward, covering her mouth; and was further shocked when the girl mirrored her movements, look-ing as startled and perhaps as white as she must. They stared at each other while the man grabbed up Rachel's bags and said, "Staying with us, ma'am?"

Rachel lowered her hand. How ridiculous. Of course she hadn't seen the girl's head in that vase. She was tired from the plane and then the train, and the bus. She should have rented a car. What a backwater place this was. Rachel pon-dered again her plan for moving here. It seemed less pleasing a prospect with every moment she spent in Greystone Bay.

Behind the desk, the girl also composed herself. She was quite lovely, very Scottish looking, with masses of long red hair, though not too well brushed nor too clean, and big-huge-blue eyes. Against the burgundy jacket of her uniform her skin was pale, as most people back East seemed to be; and short, perhaps no taller than five feet. She didn't seem old enough to be working a job. Perhaps she was related to the family who owned the SeaHarp: the Montgomerys, Mr. Mordicott had told her.

The girl mustered a smile as Rachel drew near and said, "Good evening. Welcome to the SeaHarp." She wore a little bow tie that matched the jacket, with small navy polka dots on it. Very-what did the kids call it?-preppie. Perhaps if she wore some makeup or tied her hair back, she would look more adult- -less like the head in the vase, with its sensuous, Art-Nouveau hair "I don't have a reservation," Rachel said, then realized that might sound rude and backtracked. "Thank you. Good evening to you."

"You don't need a reservation. We're nearly empty," the girl said artlessly. "This time of year." She gestured with her head toward the entrance doors. "There's nothing to do in the rain."

She pushed a leather-bound guest book toward Rachel as if it were a distasteful thing to be gotten rid of as soon as possible.

"Please sign this." A tone of pleading accompanied the request. She dropped her gaze to Rachel's hands and folded her own on the gleaming wood of the reception desk like an obedient child about to receive a reprimand. Her fingers were long and thin, her nails ragged from biting. There was blood crusted on her cuticles.

Wincing at the sight of the tortured fingertips, Rachel signed her name, then hesitated at the space for her paymentaddress. "I'm the new-"

"Single or double?" The girl whirled around and faced a brass plate from which hung rows of brass keys with numbers stamped on them.

"Single."

The girl nodded and moved her hand over the rows. "We have 303. It has a nice view of the bay."

"That'll be fine," Rachel replied, but privately wondered if she were serious. The rain was coming down harder now; she'd be lucky to see her own hand through it, much less enjoy any kind of scenery.

The girl held the key out with the same eagerness to be rid of it as the guest book. Rachel took it with her left hand and tapped the book with the pen in her right.

"Actually, I'm in transit. You see, I'm the new owner of Mr. Simpson's house. On North Hill?"

The girl dipped her head and mumbled something. Her forefinger flew to her mouth and she nipped at the flesh on the right side of the nail. She took another nip, then looked up.

"I'm Annie. I usually work in the dining room. But the desk clerk is sick and I had to fill in."

"Well, you're doing a fine job," Rachel assured her, but the girl-Annie-showed no sign that she'd heard.

"You don't need to write down anything. I-we all know where that house is."

"Oh." Rachel laid down the pen.

"I'll take you to your room," Annie said, and grew even paler, as if the prospect terrified her.

"I'm sure I can find my way. The bellman-"

"He's already gone," Annie murmured dismally. "He went up right away."

Annie moved from behind the desk. The polyester skirt that matched her jacket was baggy and too long; Rachel sup-posed she was wearing the uniform of the indisposed desk clerk. She looked like a waif in it, some poor, bedraggled creature someone had let in out of the rain and dressed in castoff clothing.

"But how did he know where to take my things?"

Annie pointed to the left, toward the stairs. "I don't know." She looked so agitated Rachel was afraid she might collapse.

"I think I can find it," Rachel said. "If you'll just tell me where the-"

"Oh, no, I must take you. I'll get in trouble if I don't."

"Really?"

Pursing her lips, the girl nodded.

They walked past the magnificent staircase to a row of three elevators, each with an attendant uniformed in bur-gundy. The three young men sat on stools, and appeared startled to have work to do.

"Hello, Annie. Evening, ma'am," said the operator whose elevator Annie chose. He was young also, and winked at Annie before she ducked her head.

"Third," Annie snapped. She and Rachel walked into the elevator after the man slid back the gate. It was upholstered in dark blue leather, quite grand, Rachel thought. They must be losing a fortune on this place with all the vacancies.

The girl hadn't asked her for a credit card or anything. And she had forgotten to ask the rate. Well, there was no where else to go, was there? She'd take care of everything later, after she got out of these soaking clothes.

The elevator lurched, then dragged itself upward on its cables, creaking. Annie methodically began to gnaw on hercuticles, thumb first, then forefinger, then middle finger, and so on. Rachel fought the impulse to brush her hand away from her mouth and concentrated on the semicircle of num-bers above the door. She wished Annie hadn't come with her; she made her nervous. She checked her turtleneck sweater and her hair; everything was all right. But still, she tensed when the young man looked at her with interest: was some-thing showing a tiny, little bit?

He grinned. "Nice weather we're having, eh?"

He wouldn't speak so casually if he could see. Rachel re-laxed a little and smiled with him.

"Liquid sunshine. That's what we call it back home."

"You must be from California."

"Yes. Los Angeles."

His dark eyes lit up. "Hollywood, eh, Annie? Do you know any movie stars?"

"Me? Oh, no."

The attendant looked excited. He was charming, really, with freckles over the bridge of his nose and flashing white teeth. Shiny hazel eyes and neatly trimmed, cocoa-colored hair.

"I'd like to meet Arnold Schwarzenegger. Or Clint East-wood."

Rachel nodded. "Well, Clint Eastwood's the mayor of Carmel now, so it's easy-"

"We're there," Annie said. She took one final chew, then pushed in front of the man and opened the gate. She stepped out and, without waiting for Rachel to follow, stomped down the hall.

"I'll wait to take you down, Annie," the man called. There was no reply.

Rachel found Annie standing on the threshold of a room done in soft grey and dark blue. There was a four-poster in one corner, and a window with open grey drapes beside it. It was dark outside; rain batted against the panes. The rest of the room was furnished with polished wooden antiques, a lamp with a Tiffany shade, and an old lavebo and bowl on a nightstand beside the bed.

"Why, it's charming!" Rachel said. She came up behind Annie, who didn't move into the room. "Much nicer than I . .

. well, it's nice."

"I'm glad you like it," Annie said tonelessly. "And there are your suitcases."

Side-by-side on a low sort of a booth, her luggage awaited.

"Well," Rachel said again. She took an awkward step around Annie and walked into the room.

"Bathroom's in there." Annie waved in its direction.

Rachel opened the door. A sink, a toilet, and a huge claw-footed tub surrounded by a curtain. She pulled back the cur-tain and scrutinized the tub. Spotless.

"Very nice."

"Okay." Annie turned on her heel.

"Wait," Rachel said.

Annie turned sharply around.

"Is there room service?" Rachel laughed apologetically. "I've gone all day without eating."

With a look of despair, Annie sagged against the door jamb. "I can bring you something. From the kitchen."

"If it isn't too much trouble." Rachel checked her watch. "What time is dinner downstairs?"

"In an hour. I'll bring you some tea and a sandwich.""No, I can wait."

Annie closed her eyes. A look of total exhaustion-or was it defeat?-stole over her features. "It's all right."

She left before Rachel could protest further.

And it wasn't until then that Rachel remembered it was Annie who'd found Mr. Simpson's body on the beach. Badly decomposed, Mr. Mordicott had said.

"Poor child," Rachel whispered, imagining the scene. She resolved to be very kind to Annie when she came back with the sandwich.

When Annie knocked on the door, Rachel met her at the transom so she wouldn't have to come into the room. But Annie bustled in as if nothing had ever bothered her, laid the tray on a small round table, and waited while Rachel seated herself and took a bite of the sandwich.

"It's wonderful," Rachel said, tasting ham. She wasn't a practicing Jew; nevertheless she rarely ate pork. But her res-olution to be careful of Annie pricked at her, and she took another bite in hopes of satisfying the girl.

"I'm glad you like it." Annie stood with her hands inter-twined, then hurried across the room to the bed and folded down the bedspread and sheets, puffed up the pillows.

"Oh, you needn't do that," Rachel said. "I'm sure the maid-"

"I don't mind." Annie worked around the bed, smoothing the blankets. "I know how."

"Yes, you certainly do." Rachel reached for her purse, intending to tip her.

But Annie darted out of the room and shut the door.

"Poor little mermaid," Rachel murmured after her. "Poor little Orphan Annie."

In the night, Rachel sat by the window and watched the rain. How lonely it was here. She huddled in the chair she'd dragged over and leaned her cheek on her hand. She had on a high-neck flannel nightgown and her salt-and-pepper hair was brushed over her shoulders, concealing everything, though there was no one to see. Had only been someone once, and he had recoiled- She shook the wounding memories from her mind. Her breasts made soft pillows for her knees as she drew her legs against her chest and stared at the grey torrents. What had she expected from Greystone Bay? She was intensely disap-pointed that Mr. Simpson's house was in such terrible shape. She hadn't much money and it would probably take a fortune to repair all the damage. He hadn't left her any cash; there was no mention of any in his will, except for a sum of ten thousand to go to Mr. Mordicott for legal fees.

She thought again of his raincoat. That sad coat. What had he worn sailing? When he was found-when Annie found him-what did he have on?

Unless the waves had ripped him naked.

She shivered. What a frightening thing, to die alone- -but we all die alone To drown, then; to call for help and no one comes- -almost as bad as screaming for help during a fire.

She dreamed the old dream that night, with a new twist: instead of the fire, a tidal wave emerged; the waves rising up and over her head- -then fire, not water, rains down on her. Fire engulfs her, and she is screaming. She's a writhing figure of flame, drown-ing in more flame, and her hair burns around her face like crimson petals.

The wave crashes again, water this time, pulling her under while she's gasping and clawing to reach the surface, the breath expelled from her lungs.Kelp wraps around her ankles and jerks. Things come at her, swimming at her, coming for her- But she wrestles free and escapes. It's raining on shore but at the top of the hill she can see the lights of her house, her beautiful home. Panting, she thinks of the rooms, of her cat, Maxie, sitting by the stove. She reaches out to the lights, and weeps with relief.

Steam billows around her and she gropes through it, sob-bing. And she runs to the house on North Hill, where she is welcomed by- by- Rachel's eyes flew open and she sat bolt upright; once she understood she was awake, she lay back down and pressed her fists against her chest. Her heart was thundering; had to watch that. A series of heart attacks had forced her early retirement from her secretarial job with the water district.

As she quieted, she became aware of something inside her clenched right hand. She explored it with her fingers. It was hard, and smooth, and circular.

Then she turned on the light. It was a ring, an ornate, heavy silver ring, with swirls of filigree around a large black stone. It was too big even for her thumb; she hefted it in her palm and gazed at it curiously.

It must have been on the night table. Evidently someone forgot to put it on when they'd moved out of the room.

Didn't say much for the maid service, did it?

It seemed very old; there were nicks in the circular smoothness of it. There was a luster to the single black stone that seemed more a patina of age than a natural glow to the gemstone, whatever it was. Onyx? Jet?

Shrugging, Rachel set it on the nightstand and turned out the light.

If she dreamed again, she didn't remember.

In the morning, when she woke, she was cradling the ring in her hand. The bath tub was filled with water, and there were wet footprints leading from the tub to the bed and back again.

She felt terrible, as if she hadn't slept at all.

When she went down to breakfast, she saw Annie bustling in the kitchen with a huge vat of something-head cheese, Rachel thought perversely. She waved. Annie's eyes widened and she disappeared farther into the bowels of the kitchen, where Rachel couldn't see her.

After breakfast, Rachel went to the front desk and asked the desk clerk to call a cab. The clerk was an older girl than Annie, and more robust. It was hard to believe she'd been ill the day before. While Rachel waited, she stuffed her hand in the pocket of her coat and touched the ring.

"Oh," she began, "I forgot. Did anyone* lose ..."

And then she thought, Even if this ring does belong to someone, this girl will probably keep it. She probably wasn't sick yesterday, just wanted the day off, and made Annie fill in for her.