The Widow's Walk by Robert Barclay Page B

head. “No thank you, sir,” she answered.
    After taking a generous swig, Garrett said, “So who are you, and why are you here at my home? This is the second night that I’ve seen you, and I don’t understand. You seemed to be in a terrible way the first time. Do you need help of some kind?”
    Constance closed her eyes for a few moments. And just how do I answer such questions? she wondered. How on earth do I begin explaining myself to this man?
    After a while she nodded. “Yes,” she answered. “That night I was in terrible straits. But I am in better form now, and there is much that you need to learn.”
    By now Garrett had calmed down, and he began regarding her with more skepticism than surprise. He could also see that her eyes were becoming shiny with the advent of tears.
    â€œI’m listening,” he answered politely.
    â€œI know of no other way to say this,” Constance answered, “so I’ll just speak plainly.”
    While again trying to summon up her courage, she turned and looked out over the ocean.
    â€œMy name is Constance Elizabeth Canfield,” she began. “I was born here in New Bedford, in the year of our Lord 1808. My husband was Adam Canfield, a whaler captain who died in a terrible storm while trying to round Cape Horn. On the same day that my beloved Adam died, I accidentally fell from the widow’s walk atop this house and crashed onto the shoreline only feet from where we now sit. Adam perished, but for some unknown reason I did not, and was instead caught between the worlds of the living and the dead. I have existed here in this house since then, invisible to all the others who have come and gone, while also watching the history of the world unfold before me. In all that time, no one besides you has ever been able to see me or to hear me speak. Moreover, for some inexplicable reason only you can see the clothing I wear. That is why I have come to you this night, and why I have told you my story. Something about my existence has changed, and I need to know why you are so different from all the rest.”
    At last she took her gaze from the waves and looked at Garrett’s face. By now her tears had come in earnest and were tracing their way down her cheeks.
    Please, God, she thought. Please make this man believe me . . .
    But to her deep disappointment, Garrett only shook his head.
    â€œI don’t know what you’re after,” he said, “but it must be something big for you to have made up a story like this! Did you honestly think I would swallow that? I know full well who Constance Canfield really was. All it took was a couple hours of research, something that you could have also done easily. So you tell me right now—who are you really, and what are you after? If I don’t get an answer from you that makes sense, I’m going to call the police.”
    The sudden change in Garrett’s tone stabbed at Constance’s heart. But who could blame him? Her story was totally absurd, at best. As tears streamed down her face, she began trembling. She was unsure of how to continue, but continue she must, for she sensed that her very existence depended upon it.
    â€œI beseech you, Mr. Richmond,” she said pleadingly. “Every word I’ve just told you is the God’s honest truth. I really am the same Constance Elizabeth Canfield who supposedly disappeared in 1840 and never returned.”
    Trying her best to compose herself, she wiped the tears from her cheeks and again cast her gaze out over the Atlantic.
    â€œGod’s truth is,” she added softly, “I never really left.”
    Her pleading tone softened Garrett’s heart a bit, but her story remained completely unbelievable. Then he suddenly remembered his dream about her. He also abruptly realized that the longing he felt for this woman was increasing in intensity, and becoming nearly impossible to resist. It was as if his