A Stranger in Wynnedower (15 page)

“Why did you keep this
a secret? As if your art must be hidden?”

“It was a secret for a
long time. Painting, anything connected to art, was frowned upon in my family,
thanks to Griffin. It impacted all of us and our choices.” He added, “Do you know
much about art?”

“I hope so. I’m trying
to get a job in a museum.” She looked at the floor and her hair fell forward
like a black, silky curtain. “But enough? I don’t know.”

She pushed her hair
back behind her ear. “Museums and galleries are special places. I’ve picked up
a few things from going there, and from reading, of course.” She turned toward
him. ““Now I understand why you vanish for long periods of time. How long have
you been painting?”

“On and off for years.”

“But you said you moved
around a lot.”

“Crate it up and ship
it.” He shrugged. “Not hard.”

“Do you sell them?”

“I’ve sold a few. Had
some small showings.”

She walked over to the
stacked canvases, and he was there ahead of her in a flash.

“No, these aren’t for
viewing. I’m just not ready to trash them yet.”

She pulled her hand
back. “The trip you’re taking…is it connected to the painting?”

He smiled broadly. “I’m
going to be very busy for the next few weeks getting ready for the showing and
before that, I have to make this quick trip up to New York. If you could stay
at least until I return, it would be very helpful. In fact, I have a list of
contractors, painters and such. Could you meet with them and get estimates?”

“But you said not to.”

“I’ve changed my mind.
Since you’ll be here anyway, it makes sense. Just stay with them. Don’t let
them go anywhere in the house alone. Or anywhere they don’t need to be.”

“Jack, how do you
expect to have a career as an artist, oversee a renovation, and run a bed and
breakfast or party facility?”

“I won’t. I’ve painted
in lots of places, but nowhere do I paint as well as when I’m here at
Wynnedower. I guess that’s why I keep returning. In the end, I might sell
anyway.” He felt slightly dishonest. Selling was more likely than any other
outcome.

“Might? I saw that
realtor’s car, you know.”

“I thought I had made
up my mind, or close to it, but now I’m not sure. Those estimates will help me
decide.” And it would give her something to do, something that would keep her
here a little longer.

“I’m glad you’re staying
open to possibilities.” She refocused her attention on the painting. “This is
wonderful.”

She smoothed her hair
back, that dark hair that instantly fell back into its perfect lines.

“It gives me so many
ideas for Wynnedower. Your art. Old Griffin’s art. I’m feeling a theme here.
Those rumors of hidden paintings…surely we could use that in some way.”

She was staring off
into the distance again and he realized she was seeing a world somewhere inside
her head. When she returned her eyes glittered. “I’m happy to help in any way
that I can. Thanks for sharing this with me, Jack.”

It was a new
experience—someone who was helpful instead of needy. He liked that and he also
liked her enthusiasm. It was contagious. Maybe selling Wynnedower wasn’t a
foregone conclusion, after all.

****

They shared a late
night snack of pound cake and lemonade as they reviewed the list of
contractors. Sudden light lit the hallway and drew them like two people-sized
moths into the window arcade hallway.

She paused at the
flower room door. “What do you think, Jack?”

They stood together in
the open doorway and watched and listened, but heard nothing except the usual
night noises.

She followed him out
into the garden. “A deer maybe? Not necessarily a person.”

“No way to know, but these
lights might have done a good job tonight. If someone was warned off, then it’s
worthwhile.”

“Now no one can stumble
upon the house in the dark and mistake it for empty.”

“True.”

He stared into the
deeper shadows. “Who or whatever it was, they’re gone now. Let’s get back to work.”

“Speaking of light,
Jack, do you have a flashlight I can borrow?”

Rachel returned to the
attic. The flashlight pierced the pitch black area beyond the small door and
revealed a wide hallway that ran from the front to the back of the house. She
found an overhead light midway along, but nothing happened when she pulled the
string.

She ran her free hand
lightly along the wall while training the flashlight on it. Roughly opposite to
the door on her side of the attic, she found its twin. She searched the door’s
surface with the flashlight and found a tiny doorknob and almost flat hinges.
If it had locks or slide bolts, they weren’t on this side.

Rachel pulled the knob.
The door opened.

She listened and heard
nothing. Feeling braver, she opened the door wider and sneaked the beam of the
flashlight inside.

There were no formal,
sheeted rows of furniture. A jumble of stuff was grouped here and there and
scattered across the floor. Rachel entered, located the overhead bulb and
yanked the string.

Stacks of folded fabric
filled a doll cradle. The cradle was pushed up against an old vanity with a
cracked mirror. Around and between were odd and ends. These items had been left
here with no thought to their preservation. The wood finish of the vanity was
black and crackled like alligator skin. The mirror was discolored and peppered
with dark spots.

Rachel laid the
flashlight on the vanity and knelt to pick up a dried out leather shoe far too
narrow for her foot. A lopsided bag of cast-off clothing spilled over onto a
broken shoe shine box. A small glittery box sat atop a dark trunk with leather
strappings and tarnished metal fittings. She lifted the lid carefully. Jewelry
was tangled inside. None of it appeared to be more than costume quality, but
vintage, of course. Still valuable. She touched a strand of beads, and when she
tried to lift it out of the box, the beads scattered with a light, clicking
cascade across the bare floor boards.

She scrambled to gather
them up from the shadows into which they’d rolled, and poured them back into
the box. She put the jewelry box aside hoping she hadn’t upset any ghosts.

The trunk wasn’t
locked. She popped the two latches reminding herself these things were fragile
and she could break them, witness the beads, and while they appeared to be
forgotten and discarded, yet they didn’t belong to her.

She intended only to
peek beneath the lid. As she did, the fragrance of cloves embraced her. There
were layers of garments in here. It was too shadowy to see more than that.

The feel of eyes upon
her back stopped her. She closed the lid, looked around and called out softly,
“Is anyone here?”

No response. Not a
creak from the settling house. Nothing more than her guilty conscience at being
a snoop.

She lifted the lid
again. She reached into the trunk and, from the top, as she touched it, a shawl
all but floated out toward her. With the least encouragement, it spread about
her shoulders as if intended especially and only for her. The long black fringe
spilled across her forearm, and the silk draped across her hands. It was richly
embroidered in a hypnotic pattern of green peacock feathers.

How could she resist
touching it to her cheek? She stood, feeling the weight of it. Almost like a
living thing, it seemed to move around her shoulders. The fabric felt delicate,
not dry-rotted. She caught sight of herself in the vanity mirror. She raised
one end of the shawl and draped it across her chest from shoulder to shoulder.
She fancied her amber eyes had assumed an exotic tilt, and her lips looked full
with a secret smile. The girl in the mirror was intriguing. Mysterious. Not
like anyone she knew, but maybe someone she wouldn’t mind being.

Rachel swirled the
shawl dramatically, and it re-settled gracefully across her back and shoulders.

“The peacock shawl.”

Her heart faltered. She
froze, wondering if it would ever beat again. She saw his face reflected in the
mirror, staring at her. She opened her mouth, but couldn’t speak. She slid the
garment from her shoulders and tried to fold it. The silk and fringe kept
slipping and defied precise folds…crazy because it had spent so many decades
neatly tucked away in that trunk.

Jack stepped closer and
touched the fabric, his fingers to hers, stilling her attempts. “This was my
grandmother’s or maybe her mother’s. Roaring Twenties, I think.” He took it
into his own hands and laid it back on top of the other clothing in the trunk.

He didn’t yell or
complain, but his manner was cool.

She changed the
subject. “Why is it so different in here? The other side is neat, but this has
no order at all. Everything seems older and more…used.”

“Some of this stuff is
older. Certainly, it’s more used. Family things.”

Changing the subject
hadn’t lessened her guilt. Best to say it out loud and be done with it.

“I apologize for
handling the shawl.”

Jack nodded. He picked
up the flashlight. “This is why you wanted the light?” He shook his head and
looked disappointed. “How did you get over here?”

“There was a door from
the other side of the attic.”

He reached up and
scratched his head. “You came through the hall between the two?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t the door
bolted?”

He spoke, but his gaze
was focused beyond her, and she didn’t think he actually expected her to confirm
the obvious.

They walked back the
way she’d come, not the direction from which Jack had entered the attic. He
paused to kneel and check the slide bolts, then ushered her into the neat side
of the—her side of the attic.

“Stay over here,
please. No need for you to be over there.”

“Of course.” Chastised.
She gave him credit for style.

“Thanks.” He held out
the flashlight. “Take it just in case.” He walked back through the little door
and pulled it closed behind him.

She was pretty sure the
next time she tried to open the door to the other side, it would be locked.

Rachel scheduled
appointments with craftsmen for estimates and continued working on the
inventory. Jack didn’t mention her trip to the far side of the attic, but there
was reserve in his manner that reminded her of her inappropriate behavior, so
it was a relief when he drove off for a day in town.

He showed up to supper
with his hair trimmed, still longish, but the pony tail was gone. The ends
curled around his ears and the nape of his neck. The bearded stubble had
vanished, and his cheekbones and jaw line delivered all that the strong bone
structure had promised.

“Nice haircut,” she
said. “What time are you leaving tomorrow?”

“Early. Brendan will be
here by afternoon, and May will stay over, too. It’s only for two nights. This
trip is to meet with my agent and the gallery and work out some details.”

With both May and
Mike’s brother here, why did Jack need her to stay, really?

She asked, “Are you
nervous?”

“Nervous?” He sipped
his coffee. “This is only a meeting. The real test comes in a couple of weeks.”

****

When she came
downstairs in the morning, his suitcase was by the door. She hadn’t planned to
see him off, but the aroma of coffee had lured her back to the kitchen. Too bad
it never lived up to its promise.

Jack was wearing a real
shirt, one that fit properly and had buttons. And with a sports coat.

He waved as he walked
up the hallway from his quarters, but then his phone rang. He dashed back to
answer it, leaving his door open.

“Amanda, hi. Yes,
leaving shortly.” He listened, and then continued. “You have the flight info?
Okay, I’ll watch for the driver by the security gates.”

She had no place in
that conversation. She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

“Anywhere you like is
fine,” echoed up the hallway.

Were the new haircut
and the presentable clothing intended for more than a business meeting? Maybe
for Amanda?

He shouted, “Rachel?
Where’d you go?” He appeared in the doorway. “Why’d you leave?”

“You were on the
phone.”

He gave her a slip of
paper. “This is Amanda’s number. May has it, too. If anything happens, call
her, and she’ll get word to me.”

Rachel walked with him
through the central hall into the foyer. “You should get a cell phone. I can’t
believe you don’t have one.”

“I’ve gotten along fine
without it.”

A moment of
sentimentality pinched her, and she picked a piece of lint from his sleeve.

“There. Now you’re
perfect.”