The Girl Who Wrote in Silk (2 page)

Inara and Olivia had taken the early ferry, so it was not yet nine when they reached the twin stone pillars marking the entry to Rothesay. Inara turned onto the curving, forest-lined driveway, both sisters straining for their first glimpse of the manor. When she saw it, Inara gasped.

Everything looked desolate. Neglected. She’d wanted to feel her mom and Aunt Dahlia here, but the property felt lifeless. Her throat closed up and she felt cold, despite the morning sunshine flooding the grounds. She parked in front of what had once been a showpiece fountain but was now dry and black with mold. “It got to be too much for Dahlia to keep up, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Olivia agreed as she climbed from the car. “We should have come and helped her instead of believing her phone calls saying that she was doing fine.”

Inara didn’t realize Dahlia and Nancy were a couple until she was an adult. It wasn’t something the family discussed, but it was certainly the reason Dahlia’s father had hidden her away on the island, safe from tongue-wagging society in 1930s Seattle. But then, Dahlia had loved the island and wanted to be here as badly as her father had wanted her hidden.

Inara got out and went around the car to stand next to Olivia and consider the home they’d taken for granted all their lives. The sound of songbirds in the surrounding forest slowly soothed the ache inside, and she was finally able to see through the disappointment clouding her vision. She was surprised to see fresh grass clippings scattered along the edge of the asphalt driveway.

No one should have been here in the month since Dahlia died. Who could possibly have mowed the grass?

“Let’s go inside.” Olivia started toward the double front doors.

Inara hesitated a minute more as she studied the main house again. This time she felt a familiar thrill skitter through her body. If she squinted, she could look past the peeling paint and sagging porch to see the heart of the place, the magic and promise of adventure.

A spurt of adrenaline kicked her feet into gear, and she followed her sister toward the manor. She was a little kid again, arriving for summer vacation and eager to do everything at once, but she made herself approach slowly so she could take it all in.

The Colonial Revival–style main house stood a stately three stories tall, complete with white pillars along the wide front porch and curving steps welcoming visitors inside. From each of the front corners curved two-story galleries connecting the main house to the matching smaller buildings facing one another. The entire structure formed a wide U with the driveway and fountain in the middle.

On her left was the garage, and above it, the billiards and smoking room. On the right was Dahlia’s house, the original house built on this property. Duncan Campbell had updated it to seamlessly blend with the rest of the manor when it was built, including adding pillars to the tiny front porch. Dahlia should still be sitting on that porch with her steaming mug of tea.

Pain pierced Inara’s heart. She should have realized long ago how important Aunt Dahlia was to her. She should have figured out a way to spend time with her, no matter how difficult it was to be on the island. Dahlia had taken care of her and her siblings every summer. And Dahlia had held her all through that terrible night after her mom died.

But long before then, Dahlia had been like a special treasure, more important to Inara than any of her grandparents. Dahlia had let her tag along as she weeded the garden or gathered berries in the forest. She built bedsheet forts for Inara on rainy days, wove wildflower tiaras on sunny ones, and baked cookies and cakes in between, flipping a coin to see which of them got to lick the beaters. Inara was sure Dahlia had cheated to keep the chocolate ones for herself.

Had Dahlia known how much Inara loved her? Inara had left the island after the accident and had never come back. Damn, she hadn’t even come last spring when Nancy died. She’d told herself that Dahlia would understand it was too hard for her to come.

And yet, here she was.

When Dahlia passed away last month, Inara’s dad had arranged for her body to be taken to Seattle where they’d had a service and burial in the family plot. But being here again at Rothesay, feeling the magic of the islands come over her, Inara wondered if they’d made a mistake.

They should have buried her here on the island she’d loved, in the public cemetery next to the woman she’d happily grown old with, or somewhere on Rothesay land.

Inara took a deep breath and turned, raising her gaze to the towering, evergreen-covered mountain behind her, trying to shake the pressure in her chest by thinking of something other than Dahlia. From where she stood, the trees blocked her view of the neighbor’s property across the road, making her feel like nothing separated her from the steep slope of Mount Constitution that seemed to rise from the water of East Sound behind her.

One of these days she’d drive to the observation tower on top of the mountain like they used to do as kids. But today she found she preferred the feeling of being cradled at its base, safe from everything and everyone else. Like it was just her, the mountain, the water, and the forest, where things like student loans and new jobs didn’t exist.

Again she felt that stirring in her belly. The stirring of Orcas magic. Today, even with memories of all that was lost clouding her heart, she felt it.

The longer she was here, the more she felt like a snake shedding its skin, like something tight and constricting was falling off her. For nine years she’d focused on her studies and her goals for the future, and now that her future was upon her, she wanted only to sink into the comfort of the past. Of this island. This place that felt more like home to her than her father’s house in Seattle.

What
would
the estate be like as a bed-and-breakfast?

She shook her head and joined Olivia at the double front door, where she pulled the key out of her purse and fit it into the lock. It took some jiggling, but finally the tumblers fell into place and the lock clicked.

With a gentle shove, the door swung open, and together the sisters stepped onto the stained oak entry landing between the first and second floors. Even in the dim light coming from the open door behind them and the fanlight above it, Inara could see down the steps to the great hall that ran to the curtained back doors. Despite the dust covering everything, the scars and scratches in the wood showed through, evidence that the stairs and floors would need refinishing.

“Race you for the corner bedroom?” Olivia teased, without moving toward the steps.

Inara laughed at the reminder of their childhood, felt for the panel of light switches next to the door, and turned each one on. As the lights along the upper balconies came on, she lifted her gaze to the row of bedroom doors on the right side. “I’m sleeping in Dahlia’s house tonight, and seeing all this dust, I bet you’re going to want to as well.”

Making quick time, she and Olivia swept through the main hall, pulling back drapes, opening French doors to let in air and sun, and whipping dustcovers off furniture to reveal antiques they’d never appreciated as kids.

“Now
this
is Rothesay,” Olivia said with her hands on her hips as they surveyed the long hall, its floor covered by two piles of dusty sheets.

“Much better,” Inara agreed, but then her gaze flicked upward. “Except for one thing.” She sprinted up the stairs and continued down the long balcony until she came to the back of the house and the open sitting area where the ladies of the house would take afternoon tea and while away the hours knitting and gossiping. She tugged open the drapes covering the sitting room windows and then felt her breath catch.

The view was unbelievable. From the back terrace stretched a wide green lawn—freshly mowed like the front by some mystery caretaker—followed by a strip of native forest growth separating the lawn from rocks that dropped sharply into the sound. The water sparkled between the firs, cedars, and madronas, and it pulled at her, making her want to forget her inspection and go sit on the black rocks on the beach where the water, ripe with kelp, would lap just out of reach. There, every sense would be filled to the brim, and for once, she’d be alive.

Where
did
that
thought
come
from?
She hadn’t been dead these past years, just busy getting an education, making something of herself.

Shaking her head, she turned away from the windows, promising herself time at the water before they caught the ferry home tomorrow.

Ignoring the dustcovers on the sitting room furniture, Inara crossed to the balcony railing and looked down on the great hall. Olivia had disappeared, but several of the doors off the main hall were open, leading her to assume her sister was investigating the first floor.

She could almost hear her family’s laughter echoing through the house, her mother’s voice calling her to grab her purse because they were going to kayak to Eastsound for lunch. Olivia’s teenage voice protesting the venture. Nate’s begging for one more minute on the phone with his girlfriend.

Within a few months, Inara would hand over the estate keys to its new owner and then she’d walk away forever. Immediately on the heels of that thought came a sense of panic that surprised her. Why did she care? She’d done just fine without this place for a long time.

But she’d always known it was here, waiting for her. She wanted the kids she’d have someday to know the joy of summers at Rothesay. Her siblings’ kids had been missing out, but they were young and had plenty of summers left to spend here. If she sold the property, she’d be depriving the next generation of its birthright.

But she had to sell. She had no choice. She had to be a responsible adult and unload this place on someone who would put it to good use. Besides, she’d be busy with her new job. She didn’t have time to maintain a property she’d hardly ever get to see.

Inara headed back down the stairs to find her sister and get to work inspecting the manor and listing everything needed to fix it up before putting it on the market.

Three hours later, she unlocked the door leading into Dahlia’s kitchen. “You should bring the kids up here before it sells,” she told her sister as they stepped inside, but then she stopped short. The room settled around her, flashing her to the past while simultaneously stabbing her heart with Dahlia’s absence. “Oh my…”

“It’s like Dahlia and Nancy just stepped out a moment ago,” Olivia whispered.

Seattle
Times
newspapers overflowed from a wicker basket on the Formica countertop, and a stack of dog-eared novels graced the kitchen table. Next to the sink sat a fat, white tea mug with a lip-shaped pink stain on the rim. Dahlia’s pink. The one in the gold tube she always had with her. The same pink that matched the streak of pink she’d colored into her hair the summer Inara turned twelve. In all the years since, Inara still hadn’t met another eighty-year-old with the spirit to match her hair to her lipstick. The sight made Inara’s eyes sting and she had to turn away.

The stairs to the second floor started in the kitchen. A pair of fuzzy yellow slippers waited on the bottom step for their owner, holding down a corner of the worn carpet runner that had once been tacked onto the steps but was now curling up from the bottom.

Family lore told of how Duncan Campbell had purchased the property before the turn of the twentieth century and lived in this part of the house, which the previous owner had built, while adding on the rest of the manor where he eventually entertained guests with grand parties.

Other tales, shared only in private, told of the oddballs in the family. Like Duncan’s wife. She’d lived here year-round even though her husband spent much of his time in Seattle running the shipping company. She—Gretna, if Inara remembered correctly—had been diagnosed with a nervous constitution and preferred to live her days in the peace of the island, disturbed only by her husband’s many parties.

Each generation brought another oddball, including Inara’s favorite—Dahlia. Being a fiercely independent young woman uninterested in finding a husband or obtaining an education, Dahlia had jumped at the chance to move to the island in her early twenties to become the estate’s caretaker and live her life as she chose. After that, as far as Inara knew, Dahlia had rarely left the island.

Standing in Dahlia’s house now, away from her father’s expectations, Inara realized this was the only place where she’d ever felt encouraged to be herself. She had the somewhat uncomfortable realization that with Dahlia gone, she was the next one. The next family oddball.

How else could Inara explain the totally crazy thought that had been niggling at her mind since she’d stepped out of her car? She kind of wanted to stay here. She wanted to turn her back on a job most people would kill for and spend every day dabbling with paint and plaster and everything else she and Olivia had just listed that was required to put the estate back together.

A laugh escaped her before she even felt it coming, surprising her by echoing through the room.

Olivia stuck her head in from the adjoining living room. “What’s so funny?”

Inara laughed again as she reached for a pink-and-purple shawl Dahlia had left hanging by the back door and wrapped it around herself. “How do I look? Like a woman who could run a bed-and-breakfast?”

A bark of shocked laughter burst out of her sister, sending them both into a fit of giggles. “You’re not serious.”

Inara tilted her head to the side and considered. “What if I am? Dahlia left me that binder with all the plans and projections. Blueprints even. I think the hardest part would be telling Dad I was turning Starbucks down.”

Nodding in agreement, Olivia came fully into the room. “But how would you pay for renovations? I know I wasn’t the only one noting all the work that needs doing in the manor just to make it livable. And you still owe on your student loans.”

Inara considered. “Maybe I could take the job for a few years and work on the estate on weekends and holidays.” God, that sounded exhausting.