A Stranger in Wynnedower (11 page)

She fell back, too
stunned to scream. He grabbed her arms.

“I see you found the
attic. Sorry I startled you. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”
Exasperated, she asked, “Why do you keep turning up like this?”

He released her arms.
“I heard a noise and wanted to make sure it wasn’t… I’m not used to outsiders
roaming the house.”

“Looters, right?” She
waved her hands at the furniture. “I need light up here.”

He pointed toward the
ceiling. “There it is.”

She pulled the string.
It wasn’t exactly a flood of light, but it cast a general glow.

“I presume we can get a
stronger bulb?”

“Of course. I’ll take
care of it tomorrow.”

“I’ll wait until then
to get started.” Fact was, it was a bit overwhelming. She wanted to plan out
the approach.

“Are you ready to go
back down?” Jack reached up to kill the light.

She preceded him down
the stairs. “How was all of this furniture moved up here?”

“One piece at a time?”

“Funny. How long has it
been up in the attic? Don’t you worry the elements will spoil it?”

At the base of the
steps, Jack closed the door firmly and waited while she locked it.

“If not up here, it
would have been vandalized or stolen. I hope not too much damage has been done,
but it can’t be helped. You’ve already had a first-hand look at the challenge
of keeping this place secure.”

Rachel said, “Most of
these rooms only need cosmetic work. Why don’t you spruce them up and move some
of the furniture down? You can store it in a few rooms and keep them locked as
you already do. Minimal heat in the winter and a few window air conditioning
units for the summer to cut humidity should do the trick. I’m not an expert,
but if there are valuable furnishings upstairs….”

“It costs and it’s a
lot of unnecessary effort when I can sell it right from the attic. Beyond that,
it’s one more chain.”

“You can still sell the
furniture, and you’ll get more for it if you can see exactly what you’re
selling, and if the buyer can see what’s for sale.”

The shadows had pooled
around his face. It wasn’t a physical shading, but more of an intuitive feeling,
like shadows seen by the mind’s eye. Though ready to argue her point, she let
it go.

“Jack, would you walk
in the garden with me?”

He ran his hands over
his face and shook his head.

Trying to dispel
whatever was troubling him? She almost reached out to touch him. Why? This man
didn’t need her pity or her kindness.

“What garden?”

“Walk with me. Please.”

They passed the closed
dining room doors and walked through the flower room to the garden door.

“This must have been
beautiful at one time. What are your plans for the garden?”

“Plans? No plans.”

As they traversed the
broken remains of the brick path, she persisted, “This is the time, Jack. The
time to clean it out, prepare planting beds, all that sort of stuff. Enrich the
soil now, plant in the spring. Of course, certain bulbs should be planted now,
but I don’t think we’re…you’re ready for that.”

“But–”

“It’s a small
commitment and can’t hurt whether you stay or sell.”

He walked forward. He
was thinking, and she stayed back to give him space. He looked to his right,
then to his left, and then turned all the way around. She thought how different
he appeared from that first time they met—that bad-tempered stranger with the
crazy hair and ragbag clothes.

She’d only been here a
handful of days, and he hadn’t really changed, had he? So what was different?

A trill pulsed through
her. A shot of fear. She didn’t know this man. This stranger. She saw the
character traits she wanted to see, but someone who’d known him much longer,
David Kilmer, saw him differently.

Jack was staring at her
as she stared at him. His fists were on his hips, and a lock of hair had fallen
forward across his temple.

She should leave now,
but she didn’t want to.

Was she using Jeremy as
an excuse to stay? Was it Wynnedower? The restoration? Maybe to help Jack? She
almost opened her mouth to tell him what David had said about Jeremy possibly
eloping, then closed it back tight. There was no point in bringing it up.

“What do you know about
gardening?”

Her mouth was dry from
fear or something else. She swallowed. “I read a lot.”

“You’ve never had a
garden or tended a garden, have you?”

“No.”

“But now you’re an
expert.”

No, not an expert.
Merely a gal who’d spent too many years in warehouses and shipping facilities
and anywhere else somebody needed something counted. At least, when it had been
books, there’d been something to feed her brain. But never creating. Never doing.
Only dreaming. Her fingers itched. This was a canvas—her canvas.

Rachel spread her arms
to encompass the garden area. “How hard or expensive can it be to weed and
amend the soil with manure?”

Jack glanced in the
direction of the dining room again. He massaged his hands, working the
knuckles. When he stopped, he said, “You’ll have your hands full with the attic
inventory. Never mind the garden.” He walked up to her and spoke gently. “I
appreciate the interest, but I don’t understand it. Regardless, forget the
garden. This…I’ll be gone from here long before spring.”

He left. She watched
him go. Frustrated, she set off in the opposite direction almost at a run,
going deeper into the garden. She needed a long, brisk, head-clearing walk, not
merely due to her annoyance with Jack, but for her own foolishness. She passed
the bench and brushed the Abelia as she exited through the arbor gate, going to
wherever her mood might take her.

****

“I’ve given it a lot of
thought, and you’re wrong.” She set two plates on the kitchen table.

Jack was leaning into
the oven checking the casserole. He stood and let the oven door slam shut.
“Wouldn’t be the first time. What am I wrong about?”

“The empty house and
the furniture crammed into the attic.”

Jack grabbed an oven
mitt, pulled out the casserole dish and turned the oven off. “You’ve given it a
lot of thought…for what? A whole hour? Two?”

“Don’t mock me.” She
folded paper napkins and set them next to the plates then added a knife and
fork. “You should appreciate an objective opinion. It’s up to you to decide
what to do with my suggestions.”

He smirked. “An hour or
two and you think you know what’s best. I’ve been living here on and off for
all of my life.”

“Exactly.”

Jack removed the knife
from his place and returned it to the drawer. “I don’t need this. No reason to
dirty it.” He turned back. “Exactly? Why do you say that?”

“Here and there. Back
and forth. All of your life.” Rachel pulled her chair out and sat while Jack
put the steaming casserole on the table. “This poor house was never a home to
you or to your parents, at least in later years. No wonder people think it’s
vacant. They don’t worry about intruding in someone’s home because it
looks…well, it doesn’t look like a home. Just a big, empty, forgotten pile of
stone and sticks.”

Jack was busy eating.
She let the banter die down and took a bite herself. Tonight, the casserole was
ground beef, rotini and Alfredo sauce. It was wonderful. Eating made sense.
Jack had the right idea about that.

He stopped to sip his
tea. “The furniture stays in the attic.”

She held the fork with
one hand and tapped the fingers of her other hand on the table. She took her
time chewing. Jack expected her to jump right back into the conversation, but
if he didn’t appreciate her efforts, why bother? Plus, if she annoyed him too
much, would he call off the deal? She wasn’t ready to leave yet.

She tried to pull back
the emotion. Shrugging, she said, “It’s your house and your furniture. Do what
you want.”

“Honestly, you’ve been
here three days.”

“Four.”

“First day doesn’t
count. In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t blocked it from your memory.”

“Yeah. Wasn’t at my
best, was I?”

“Nor was I. I apologize
for not realizing how seriously concerned you were for your brother.”

His apology caught her
by surprise. His attitude was usually hard and high-handed. Where had that
tender tone come from?

She cleared her throat
and sipped her tea. “I won’t be here long, Jack. Let me help you as much as I
can while I’m able. He’ll call or show up any day now. I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe.”

“Although I don’t
understand why he hasn’t called. He has a phone.”

“Phones get lost. I
remember in the men’s room at the airport, some poor guy’s cell phone fell in
the toilet. He started yelling like he’d lost a kid.”

“Lost. They also get
forgotten.” She sighed. “Why don’t you have one? You’re the first person I’ve
met in a long time who doesn’t have a cell phone.”

They’d finished their
simple meal. Jack leaned back in his chair as if in no rush. Rachel wasn’t in a
hurry either.

“I had a cell phone
several years ago. Not my thing. I’m better with—well, non-technical tools. I
don’t like to be that reachable. I don’t like interruptions.”

She waited. What didn’t
he want interrupted? What non-technical tools did he prefer? If he’d give her some
clues, she could figure out how he spent his time. She was clever that way. But
Jack didn’t take her silence as bait. He ignored it.

“I’d better get moving.
Sorry, I know you’re bored in the evening.”

“Not so far. I enjoy
the quiet.”

Jack scraped his plate
into the trash and left it in the sink. She lingered over her tea. He went
toward his quarters, not to the dining room.

She put her own plate
into the sink. She ran the water until it was hot and sudsy. It was an unusual
pleasure to wash up the few dishes. The smell of it, the tickle of the bubbles
on her wrists took her back into the distant past.

To momma? Back before
Aunt Eunice. Before Jeremy was born. She hardly remembered so long ago. Maybe
standing on a chair? A shrimpy kid with a dish towel pinned to the front of her
shirt like an apron? The dish cloth swirled the suds around the plate as she
laughed at the bubbles and momma, standing close beside her, reached out‒

“You don’t need to do
that.”

She jumped and sloshed
water up onto the counter. “You startled me.”

Jack came over and
pulled a clean dish towel from the drawer. He picked up a plate. “May will wash
these when she comes over.”

Rachel tried to shake
off the long-ago memory and return to the present. “No need to leave them for
her.”

He set the dry plate on
the counter and took another. “Leave them?” He laughed. “She has her way of
doing things. It doesn’t pay to upset her.”

“Then why do you keep
her around?”

“May’s been here longer
than forever. She’s allowed to be dictatorial anytime she wants. She’s—well,
like family. She’s earned it. Wynnedower means more to her than to anyone.”

Rachel put the last of
the utensils in the drainer. Jack picked them up all in one big handful and
gave them a quick wipe. He dumped them into the drawer and slammed it shut.

“Good enough?”

The damp towel dangled
from his fingers. She lifted it from them and folded the towel to hang it over
the oven door handle.

“Yes, good enough. If
any dishes are in the wrong place, I’ll put the blame on you.” She said it with
a smile.

His hand almost touched
her arm, and then abruptly he pushed away from the counter. “Remember, don’t
wander at night. No telling what, or who, you might run into.” He finished with
his own smile before he ducked out of the door.

****

Wandering implied a
lack of destination. Rachel knew where she wanted to go.

Jack’s little smile had
stayed with her well into the evening. Her restless mood took her from her room
to the end stairwell and down the steps to the first floor which ended near the
entrance to the conservatory. On cats paws, she walked, imagining herself
weightless, determined not to creak so much as a splinter.

The moon was up, and
the glass walls and ceiling of the conservatory were dirty. The light filtered
through the grime all the more delicately.

She held her breath.
Moonbeams surrounded her, disguising the cracked panes and bathing them in
surreal glamour. Even the cardboard patch over the glass broken by the vandals
took on a mystical appearance. The moonlight was kind to the dry fountain and
dead vegetation, casting it as stone—colorless and frozen. A work of art.
Sculpture.

A romantic place.
Rachel twirled in a solitary dance, and her robe swirled out around her.