In the Midnight Hour.

Book by Spring Michelle

1

There's a time in England, toward the end of January—when the sociability of the Christmas season has long faded, and summer is far too far away—when it can sometimes seem as if the world has been drained of color. When the afternoon sky is so leaden and low that it presses down on people's spirits. When dawn doesn't stumble in until half-past seven. When grayness overhangs the morning like a shroud.

In the countryside surrounding Cambridge, the January scenery is unsparing. Any perspective on the landscape is like an X ray; it pierces straight to the bone. It lays bare the rural skeleton—the angles of a field, the line of a dike, the perimeter of a wood. Farmhouses crouching in barren fields look lonely and vulnerable. On the horizon stand the eerie silhouettes of oak trees, their melancholy branches stark against an aluminum sky.

There is rain everywhere. Moisture glimmers on the hedgerows; it trembles on the trees. The fields are spongy, the paddocks pooled with water. The ponies stand in mud and bow their shaggy heads before the downpour.

And always in the background are the desolate sounds of winter. The hollow rustle of reeds along the riverbed. The tap tap tap as the seedpods of poppies on their stiltlike stems knock together in the wind. The drip drip drip of water: gushing in the ditches, running through the roots of the field elms, falling from the gutters. The kaah-kaah-kaah of carrion crows.

The city of Cambridge, too, huddles against the damp and chill. Long gone are the May balls, the leafy walks, the picnics by the river. Rows of punts lie chained up together by Magdalene Bridge, with water puddling in the bottoms; the river is dark and deserted except for the odd indifferent duck. Rain makes greasy streaks down the front of fine old buildings. The branches of wisteria that clump on college walls are matted and dry like hag's hair. The trees along the Backs reach skeletal arms to a sunless sky.

And on the northern edge of the city, on a short street lined with nineteenth-century terraces, people trudge down the hill toward the River Cam, toward town, with their hoods raised, their heads down. I turn aside from the fire for a moment and watch them through my rain-streaked bay window. Then I dive once again into my daydream.

I imagine a wardrobe, blissfully empty, except for seven perfect outfits.

There's a silk dress, for starters, of surpassing simplicity, and an exquisite wool suit; there's a handsomely tailored casual outfit, straight out of a Katharine Hepburn film. Every piece of clothing is impeccable— no missing buttons; no strained seams; no coffee stains. There's a silk sweater or a fine shirt to complement each outfit, and footwear of Italian leather.

None of the shoes would pinch my feet.

All would be perfectly polished.

I add a mackintosh here, a miniskirt there, and consider the effect. Nothing hangs on my decision. This is merely a fantasy—an amusing speculation, as the dictionary puts it. A whimsy. A caprice.

In my twenties, when I was less sure of who I was, I was tempted once or twice to use these imaginary costumes as a standard of judgment. Against those seven perfect outfits, my own come-as-you-are wardrobe seemed distinctly wanting, and, by implication, so did I.

Not anymore. One of the most satisfactory things for me about growing up is learning to live with the choices I've made. To accept that, rather than scouring the shops, I've chosen on countless occasions to do other things: to hang out with my friend Helen, or cuddle up with Sonny; to take to the river in a rainstorm; to throw myself into work. These choices haven't provided a perfect wardrobe. They haven't left me with a model home with picture-perfect paintwork.

But they have left me with a life.

I comforted myself with this thought as I pulled away from the fire and peered into the awkwardly shaped space under the stairs. Even the feeble light from a forty-watt bulb couldn't disguise the fact that my cupboard was in chaos. It was a surefire, eighteen-carat, only-one-per-customer mess.

In all other respects, my house in Clare Street is the answer to a maiden's prayer. It's snug and bright, it's within walking distance of the center of Cambridge, and though it isn't big, it's big enough for me. From a room upstairs, I can run the Cambridge branch of Aardvark Investigations. When my partner, Sonny Mendlowitz, spends the night, we're cozy rather than crowded.

So far, so good.

But storage space, or rather the lack of it, is the fly in the ointment. The cupboard under the stairs serves as pantry, cellar, and lumber room combined. Inside, there's a chair waiting to be recaned and bottles to be recycled. There are board games and picture frames and camping gear. There's a whole case of baked beans marked twenty percent off that I purchased in a rare fit of frugality. And way at the back, at the most inaccessible point, there's an electricity meter. I suspect that the person who installed it in that position was a card-carrying sadist. And now another sadist, posing as an agent from the electricity board, has demanded that I take note of the numbers on the dial.

That's why I was to be found on a January morning leaning against the doorframe of the understairs cupboard with a mug of coffee in my hand and working up the courage for a clearout.

I was waiting for a client. I looked at my watch. Half an hour to go. Time to make a start.

I began at the beginning. The bulkiest items—sports equipment, rolls of wallpaper, tubs of paint—went immediately into the kitchen, where the door could be shut on them if the need arose. Most things had to be dragged out. It was dusty work and heavy, but not without its rewards. I found a forgotten gift and a box full to the brim of family photos. I found a fine bottle of Burgundy.

When only a stack of crockery and some in-line skates remained between me and the meter, I called time-out. I picked my way between boxes to the coffee percolator in the kitchen and refilled my mug, returned to the living room, settled onto a floor cushion and looked around.

My home may not be perfect, but I've been dripping away at it for several years, and it's more or less the way I want it. On the ground floor, two tiny parlors and a narrow hallway have now been melded together into a substantial living room with large windows at each end. The fireplace has a pine surround with vines carved into the wood; there are alcoves on either side for my books and stereo equipment. The old floorboards have been sanded and sealed so that in the light from the fire, they take on a golden glow.

Helen, my number-one girlfriend, never tires of saying that a woman can flourish with a room of her own, and I'm beginning to think she's right. For me, this is a place where peace comes dropping slow. Where I've lately noticed—somewhat to my surprise, because I'm not that sort of person—a core of happiness curled up in my chest, waiting for some small circumstance to set it free.

I sipped my coffee and sat very still while this lightheartedness swept over me again. Was this what other people meant by happiness? I wondered. It wasn't a wholly positive sensation; it left me, an essentially cautious person, feeling a touch too exposed. But it was, like a once- in-a-lifetime adventure, irresistible all the same.

The first time I felt it was three or four months ago. I'd been working my socks off on a long, drawn-out divorce case. A man had been shouting in court about his wife's infidelities; her solicitor wanted me to establish whether he had peccadilloes of his own. The issue turned out to be not if but how many. Long hours of surveillance numbed my brain and my butt, and the way the case ended left a nasty taste. I did my job, and I did it well, but when I came away it didn't feel like a job well done.

To compensate, Sonny and I took a rare day off together. We drove to Norfolk, to the weekend retreat which I own with two friends, fully expecting to have our fingers nipped by the October winds. Instead, the day took on a golden glow. By the afternoon, we were well into a spell of what used to be called an Indian summer. We headed for Holkham Bay, where we trekked out through the pine woods and across the mud flats and ate sandwiches by the sea. We rolled up our chinos and paddled in the waves. As the sun went down, we raced each other back across the dunes. Sonny slipped on the side of a muddy channel and lay laughing in inches of water like a stranded seal and had to be persuaded to strip off his trousers and sweatshirt and sneak back to the car park wrapped only in a rug.

That was just the beginning. When we pulled up in front of Wildfell Cottage, the electricity had failed. No hot bath, no comfort food. We couldn't find the matches and the village shop was shut and the neighbors were away. We considered ditching the day and driving back to Cambridge. But just at that moment, a cloud shifted in the evening sky. The moon emerged directly above the meadow, and suddenly, without speaking, we knew exactly what to do. We went back inside. And there, in perfect silence, I removed the rug from Sonny's shoulders and warmed his body in the old-fashioned way. We shook a duvet out beneath the French doors that gave onto the garden. We forgot about lighting a fire. We dispensed with candles and music. We didn't use condoms or wine or any of the other usual paraphernalia. We looked at each other naked, with the moonlight glinting off our eyes, and made perfect love; we didn't say a word.

It was an evening out of the ordinary. I didn't expect it to be repeated, and it hasn't been. But what has recurred since at odd moments is this feeling of sweet anticipation.

Even the clamor of a voice as I answered the telephone didn't dampen its effect.

"Laura? Laura! Are you there?" Speak of the devil, it was Sonny himself, with a chuckle in his voice. "Listen, you lucky creature! I think I've got the Baxter co...