Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
Time Out of Mind (9 page)
The Homestead?” Corbin asked. His face had an odd
and dreamy look about it.
Do you know it?” She was dialing Greenwich information and did not see his expression.
No.” He blinked. “No, I've never been to Green
wich.” The Homestead, he thought. A common name.
You'd find an inn or restaurant called the Homestead al
most anyplace you went. But Corbin wondered if this one
was painted white with black shutters, and had a widow's
walk on top, and whether it sat high on a knoll above a
steep open lawn, and had a full-length veranda and a cir
cular driveway that approached from the right.
Two more weeks would pass before Gwen had cause to regret that she'd ever heard of the Homestead. But the
weekend they had there together was perfect. Utterly, ecstatically perfect. The room they shared was a delightful
confection of Victoriana. There was a heavy mahogany
sleigh bed, Tiffany lamps, stenciled wallpaper, an ancient bouquet of artificial flowers under glass, and a ponderous
dresser of walnut burl topped with pink marble. Although
modern baths had been discreetly added, their room contained an antique washstand whose pitcher was filled with
lilac-scented water. The dining room on the main floor had
once been an attached barn. They sat on Windsor chairs
under a high ceiling whose original chestnut beams had recently been exposed.
The menu, though excellent, disappointed Corbin at first
glance. He'd had his heart set on canvasback duck, but it
was not listed. And he thought a maraschino sorbet should
have been added between courses. And terrapin. How could
a proper menu not include Maryland terrapin. But no mat
ter. There was a wonderful mussel bisque that he could
almost taste from the menu although he could not specifi
cally recall ever having it. And a good selection of game
foods—quail, pheasant, venison, and partridge. But no
woodcock. There should have been woodcock.
After dinner, Corbin and Gwen stepped outside to the
open section of the porch, each with a cognac in hand. As
Corbin, with one arm around Gwen's waist, looked down
over the sloping lawn toward the road below, an urge to
take her by the hand and sneak off for a moonlight swim flitted across his mind. There was a small hidden cove, he
thought, or imagined, just through those trees down to the right. Smiling to himself, he shook off the notion. Even if
there was such a cove, and he had no reason to believe
there was, it was late October. The water would be more bracing than he bargained for. The very thought of it gave
him a chill, and he remembered the warmth and coziness of their room. Gwen read his mind.
“
I've never made love in a sleigh bed.” She squeezed
him.
Saturday morning brought a late breakfast in bed, another
turn at lovemaking, and then a long cool walk past the
impressive homes of the Belle Haven section of Greenwich.
Along the way, Corbin thought of that secret cove again
and the path that led to it. But there was no path, only the macadam driveway of a sprawling Tudor house. As they
returned to the Homestead, Corbin had his first daylight look at the inn. It was, in fact, much as he had envisioned
it when he first heard Gwen say the name. Except it was
painted brown, not white with black shutters. And there was
a sort of rotunda porch built on one corner. And there were
out-buildings that did not appear in the picture he'd seen in his mind. But the widow's walk was there, and it was
high on a knoll, and there was a circular driveway ap
proaching from the right. Corbin, however, did not dwell
on these similarities. He knew they could have applied to
a thousand other buildings. And anyway he didn't care. He
was having too nice a time with Gwen.
After a salad lunch there was croquet. Gwen changed, as
promised, into her old-fashioned blue summer dress with a
carved onyx brooch at her throat. And Corbin, to her
delight, had bought not only a straw hat and a pair of white
duck trousers for the occasion but also a white linen blazer
with wide brown vertical stripes. Several of the other guests
applauded when they appeared on the croquet court and
Gwen, given an audience, decided to play the dainty Vic
torian maiden for all it was worth. She insisted that he stand
with his arms around her from behind to help her hold and
swing the mallet, then pretended to be shocked when he
took that liberty. That scene played, she proceeded to
trounce him, cheating shamelessly and brushing aside any
protest with the reminder that she was only a mere girl and
he was so strong. Corbin loved it. All of it. Every minute
of that day and the next. On the Sunday evening train ride
to New York he told Gwen Leamas that it was easily the
happiest and most loving weekend of his life and that
Greenwich, what he saw of it, was the most beautiful place
he'd ever seen.
On the next day, Monday, Gwen was asked if she could
fly to London right away as part of a group going there to
negotiate the rights to several Thames Television proper
ties. She could scarcely refuse. The business sessions and
the obligatory entertaining would last well into the follow
ing weekend. After that, although she did not want to be away from Jonathan, she would have at least several days
in which to visit a few favorite relatives and carouse a bit
with some old chums from school. Corbin rode with her to the airport and walked with her to the gate. His voice broke
a bit when he said goodbye. He said he must be getting a
cold. I love you, too, she answered.
catch up on his reading. Maybe play some racquetball.
Maybe see a couple of those blood-and-guts movies that Gwen never wants to sit through. He'd halfway convinced
himself that he would enjoy the period of privacy. A nice
break. But he was back at her apartment for less than an
hour when he realized for the second time in a year how
hollow a place can be when the person who means every
thing to you isn't there anymore. He wished she hadn't
gone. He wished they'd never left the Homestead.
By Friday Corbin couldn't bear the thought of a whole
weekend alone in her apartment. When he left the Burling
ton Building at the day's end he found himself falling into
the stream of men and women who were walking in the
direction of Grand Central. Why not, he thought. There was
no use going back to the Homestead. It wouldn't be the same, but what would be the harm in seeing a little more of Greenwich. He could take a late train back. Or, if he chose, he could stay over. Whatever felt good.
why exactly, but it was better than feeling lonely, so he
was not about to look for reasons. It was certainly a pretty
town, full of attractive people who kept themselves looking
fit. Nice homes. Nice yards. Women in tennis dresses. The
leaves all red and gold like Japanese jewelry. After a morn
ing of walking and breathing the crisp clean air he decided
on lunch at a large hotel he seemed to remember down
along the shore of Long Island Sound. It wasn't there. He
must have been thinking of someplace else. But no matter. There were plenty of nice places to stop. On his way to the
nearest of them he passed the storefront office of a real
estate firm. In the window he saw about a dozen snapshots
of homes that were offered for sale. Corbin stopped and
looked. Two of the houses looked rather like the Home
stead. Victorians. But on a smaller scale. Corbin turned
away and had his lunch. That afternoon he returned to the
city.
Sunday passed, then three workdays. On Wednesday
evening, he once again took the train to Greenwich. He
knew that the trip didn't make much sense, spending a sol
itary two or three hours there and then catching a late train
back. But it couldn't hurt. And he liked it there. He went
again on Thursday night. Gwen called from London on
Friday to ask how he was getting on. Fine, he said. Hurry back. One more week, she told him. Love you. On Friday
evening he packed a bag for the weekend.
The real estate agent, a fortyish woman named Marge,
was friendly and helpful, but she didn't really have the
feeling that she had a live one in Jonathan Corbin. He
wanted to look at Victorians and she'd shown him six. The
last two were closer to a Federal style and Corbin didn't
even want to look inside. They weren't right. What is? she asked. I'm not sure. But you'll know it when you see it? I think so. Right.
bin's eye. On it stood a house that he could barely see
because it was largely hidden by two old and neglected
willows. He asked Marge to turn around.
“
That one?”
‘‘
I think so.”
that had fallen over.
“
Isn't this one listed with you?” he asked.
“
It's listed with everyone. Has been for almost two
years. I have to tell you it's not in real good shape. The
property will eventually go to someone who just wants the
land.”
“
They'll tear down the house?”
“
Wouldn't you?”
“
Let's look inside.”
Even before Marge opened the lockbox on the door, Cor
bin knew what the inside would be like. A small room on
the right, a stairway straight ahead, a kitchen all the way back. There would be a rose-colored runner on the stairs,
held down with brass rods. The kitchen would smell like vegetable soup. Upstairs, he didn't know. He could only
imagine what the bedrooms would be like.
But he was right about the first floor.
“
Do you know who lived here before?” he asked the
agent.
‘
Two or three families that I can remember since I was
a kid. The last was an old man named Mullins. As you can
see, he wasn't able to keep it up. He moved to a senior
citizens' home and then he passed on. An estate lawyer's
handling the sale.”
“
Outside”—Corbin pointed—“was there ever a trellis over the driveway with wisteria vines on it?”
“
There was until it fell down, yes. You know this
house?’'
“
No.” Corbin looked away. “Houses like this always seem to have them.”
”
Uh ... listen. Mr. Corbin—”
“
Jonathan.”
“
Jonathan. You're not really interested in this place are
you?”
”
I guess I am. Yes.”
“
You said you were single?”
“
I'm sort of engaged.”
”
I hope it's more than sort of. This really isn't the kind
of neighborhood a single man would be happy in. All cou
ples, most with teenage kids or older. You might find it hard to make friends.”
“
Marge, you don't sound real hot to make a commis
sion.”
“
I'd love the commission. I need a new car. But I'd want
to make it on a house you'd like living in. You can get a
good price on this place but it would cost you at least an
other thirty thousand to fix it up. Maybe twenty if you're a heck of a handyman. Are you?”