Читать книгу Moonrise - Cassandra King - Страница 11
ОглавлениеTHE GANG’S ALL HERE
My eyelids are so heavy that I dare not lean against the headrest. If I do, I’m liable to be asleep before we’re halfway up the driveway. I steal a glance at Emmet. Brow furrowed, his attention is focused on keeping the Jeep within the ruts of the narrow drive. Without taking his eyes off the road, he says, “You enjoyed the trip today, didn’t you, baby?”
“I had a great time,” I reply, but he doesn’t hear me so I have to repeat myself. Speak up, he’s always reminding me. Look directly at the camera with your chin lifted, and don’t mumble. If your audience can’t hear you, you’ve lost them.
“I’d never heard of the Biltmore Estate before,” I tell him, and glance over to see that indulgent half smile of his.
“No, sweetheart,” he says patiently. “The ‘before’ is unnecessary. Try it, and you’ll see what I mean.”
Dutifully I intone: “I’d never heard of the Biltmore Estate.” It sounds better with the “before,” I start to say, but don’t. I can’t expect him to help me if I’m going to argue about every little thing.
As though reading my mind, he says, “I’m not doing this again when the others are around, Helen. That’s why I stopped earlier. They already think I’m an asshole without giving them more ammunition.”
I smile and place a hand on his arm. “Oh, Emmet. Your friends might think you’re an asshole, but they still adore you.”
Emmet snorts, then turns his attention back to his driving. Both of us are right, I think, on all counts: His friends adore him, even if he is difficult at times. And he shouldn’t have corrected me in front of them, even though I’d asked him to. Begged him to, actually. Ever since the station manager called to say they wanted to expand my spot to a half-hour show, I’ve been in a panic. I’d just gotten comfortable with my seven minutes on the noon show, gotten to where I handled it pretty well, even when they threw this at me. Who would’ve ever expected “Fit to Eat,” my gimmicky little spot where I transformed fat-laden dishes into healthier ones, to be such a hit? The viewers couldn’t get enough of it, and suddenly I was in demand. Or, as Emmet put it, a hot item. At first I’d balked, terrified at the prospect of facing the camera for a whole show. Only after Emmet agreed to coach me did I think I could do it. I insisted that he be merciless in pointing out my shortcomings; otherwise, how would I learn? He didn’t want to see me humiliated, did he? After kissing my cheek, the smooth-talking devil said that I’d given him an impossible task because I was perfect, but I couldn’t afford to listen to his sweet talk. How about my tentativeness, I demanded, the too-soft voice, the way I bumble around searching for words? He’d reluctantly signed on, but was right that his coaching shouldn’t be done around anyone else. It makes him look bad, and me even worse.
We clear the rhododendron tunnel, and suddenly there it is, Moonrise. The storybook castle that has turned into my own personal House of Horrors. Emmet heads toward the carriage house in back, which serves as the garage. At the front of the house, however, he suddenly brakes and looks my way. I tilt my head curiously.
“You know what?” he says breezily. “I’ve changed my mind. Think I’ll go back and have a drink with Noel after all. That okay with you?”
“Of course,” I say as I reach for the handle, hoping I don’t sound too eager. All day I’ve had to fake it as we traipsed around the millions of gardens at Biltmore, then through the hundreds of rooms in the mansion. I dutifully oohed and aahed over everything, but was so exhausted I barely remember it. The only thing that saved us from a tour of the winery had been Linc, who begged off by saying he was too tired. I’d been horrified when Noel, who’d pushed Linc for the entire tour in a wheelchair, stepped back indignantly to say, “You’re tired? What about me, you ungrateful gimp?” Only when everybody else laughed did I realize that Noel was teasing. Linc caught my expression and shot back, “Look at poor Helen’s face, Noel. Gimp that I am, at least I’m not an insensitive brute like you.” I’d blushed like a nitwit, and Emmet had rolled his eyes my way. Unamused, he admonished me for taking everything that damn-fool bunch said seriously. “Don’t pay them any mind, sweetheart,” he’d said. “No one else does.”
Throwing Emmet a kiss, I’m out of the car before he can change his mind. After our return from Asheville to Laurel Cottage where we fetched the Jeep, Noel and Tansy had invited us in for a drink. Or rather, Noel had; Tansy told him rather curtly that she had an “engagement” tonight and would have to excuse herself. I begged off, too, though I’d secretly hoped that Emmet would stay and keep Noel company. If I could just have a little time to rest up before dinner, I might make it through the rest of the evening without collapsing.
I wave my unsuspecting husband off with a mixture of guilt and relief, then force myself to wait until the Jeep disappears before turning toward the house. My exhaustion isn’t just from my restless nights; the emotional drain is taking its toll as well. Walking up the stone steps to the house takes all the strength I possess. What I really want to do is get in my car and head straight back to Florida.
As soon as I reach the front door—propped open to catch the lake breezes—I realize that Willa is still here cleaning, and my heart sinks. I didn’t see her truck, which must’ve been parked on the side of the house. I glance at my watch to assure myself that she’ll be leaving soon. Stepping inside the entrance hall, I call out, and Willa answers from the back of the house.
Willa’d been the one who waited for me the first day I came here, a day that’s imprinted on my brain—and not in a good way, either. So much has changed since then, and in such a short time! I’d come to Highlands with such hope, so thrilled to be at a place I’d dreamed of since finding the photo album. As soon as I laid eyes on Moonrise, it was obvious that the pictures hadn’t even come close to capturing its astonishing beauty. The towering house and stately old trees, the parklike setting with its vast lake view—all of it was far grander than I’d imagined. The black-and-white photos failed to show how the slanted rays of the sun burnished the ivy-clad stone of the house, or how they reflected off the mullioned windows like thousands of crushed diamonds. Or the way the sun sent luminous streaks of light spilling across the grounds. Despite the silvery image of its name, Moonrise first greeted me silhouetted in gold.
Willa McFee had been another image from the photo album that turned out to be far different from what I expected. When she and I’d talked in preparation for my and Emmet’s arrival, her voice had been as hesitant and faltering as mine, with a brogue so thick I had trouble understanding her. I’d formed a picture in my mind of a roughhewn farm girl, shy and awkward, maybe a bit simpleminded. That was shattered the minute she flung open the door and peered at me in undisguised curiosity. Bright-eyed and apple-cheeked, Willa McFee had the sort of lush, buxom looks rarely seen these days. Although she was clad in jeans, a flannel shirt, and work boots, I could imagine her in a Botticelli painting, with that vivid red hair and creamy complexion. I liked her on sight.
I don’t think the feeling was mutual, however. Willa’s greeting to me had been friendly enough, but guarded. Wary, even. Emmet had tried to prepare me for the mountain folks, whom he described as a breed unto themselves. Most of them are descendants of the original settlers who came from the highlands of Scotland, he’d told me, and are a clannish, suspicious lot. They take their time warming up to strangers. I offered my hand, which Willa had taken in her large, sunburned one with a grip so strong I tried not to wince.
Today I pause in the entrance hall as my eyes adjust to the dim light, then see Willa coming toward me. Her backpack is slung over her arm, so she’s on her way out. “Y’all are back early,” she calls out in a hearty voice. “Everybody have a big time?”
I assure her that everyone had a “big” time indeed, then wait by the marble-topped table where I’ve been leaving my purse, easy to grab on my way out. Since our arrival here, Emmet and I’ve been out every single day, and most evenings. No wonder I’m exhausted. I sneak a glance at myself in the massive, gold-framed mirror that dominates the entryway. My God, I look like shit! I watch Willa’s reflection as she approaches, and her expression tells me that she agrees. She catches herself when her eyes meet mine, however, and she smiles.
“The stove wasn’t on, Helen,” she says as she hefts the backpack up on her shoulder. “But I still can’t figure out how you’re gonna cook fancy recipes in that thing, especially with the gas acting up.”
I eye my reflection as I run my fingers through my hair, pretending the reason I paused by the mirror was to primp. I’d rather Willa think I’m vain than crazy, checking myself out to see if the services of an undertaker are called for. “Believe it or not, hon,” I say in a light voice, “that’s a very fine and valuable old Viking stove, better than anything I’ve ever used.” Although her reflection is still smiling at mine, her blue eyes are troubled. I step closer to the mirror to smooth down an errant eyebrow. “Besides, none of my recipes are fancy.”
Her face falls, either in surprise or disappointment. I don’t yet know her well enough to tell. “Oh,” she says. “I thought . . .” When I turn to her questioningly, she looks embarrassed, and I wonder what she’s heard. It’s only natural that everyone’s curious about me, the new mistress of Moonrise, and I wonder what they’re saying. I’d love to ask Willa, but I’d never put her in such a position. Not that she’d tell me, anyway. Another thing Emmet’s cautioned me about, the fierce loyalty of the mountain people. If they like you, they’d die for you. If not, don’t turn your back on them. I’ve gone out of my way to try to make Willa like me.
Today I’m too exhausted to stand and make small talk, so I mention a much-needed bathroom run. Willa’s good-bye strikes me as a bit too hearty, then she pauses by the door to glance my way. “Helen? You okay?” she asks hesitantly.
It’s my turn for the too-hearty smile, the dismissive wave of my hand. “I’m great,” I tell her, practically pushing her out the door. “See you next week, okay?”
I stick my head out and wave as Willa crosses the driveway toward her truck, which I now see under the low branches of the hickory. I don’t want her carrying tales to the others, telling them how tired I appeared, or how I look like I hadn’t slept since I’ve been here. I can only imagine their response to that observation, considering the bawdy humor of that bunch. Emmet and I heard our share of newlywed jokes at the station. I wish to God that was the reason for my exhaustion, and I’m sure Emmet does, too. Despite his obvious bewilderment, he’s been remarkably patient with my lamebrain excuses for avoiding him in bed. I can hardly tell him the truth: Not tonight, dear. I can’t with the ghosts watching.
I close the front door behind me, only to stand lifelessly in the entryway for several weary moments. I wasn’t lying to Willa; I’m heading upstairs to the bathroom, then to change clothes. After which, I’m going to the coziest place I’ve found in this tomb of a house. Which happens, not coincidently, to be outside it, not in. Taking a deep breath, I ponder yet again what I’ve wondered so often lately: How could a place this beautiful be so unwelcoming? It wasn’t that way at first. I fell in love with Moonrise the moment I laid eyes on it. Entering the house, I marveled at everything I saw: the vaulted ceiling of the entryway; the diamond-paned windows with their stained-glass insets; the massive staircase looming through the shadows at the back of the hall. Stepping over the threshold of Moonrise was like taking a journey back in time, to another era, and I went eagerly.
Willa, my tour guide that first day, had been as keen to show me the house as I’d been to see it. My surprise at her knowledge of Victorian history and decor must’ve been obvious because she confessed that Rosalyn made her learn all that historical “stuff.” As impressive as it is, Willa’d confided, Victorian decor was not to her taste. Matter of fact, she’d added, she found it downright god-awful. I agreed that it was overwrought and way too formal for me, too, yet perfect for this setting. The front parlor was crammed with furnishings: a velvet sofa and wing-backed chairs facing the black marble fireplace; curlicued tables topped by old-fashioned lamps; brocade curtains and lace panels framing windows. I could picture corseted women in bustled dresses seated in little groups as they sipped tea from china cups, white-gloved pinkies aloft.
In addition to the parlor and a turret room with unique curved windows, the downstairs contained a formal dining room, extensive library, two sitting rooms (one of which would become my office), and the old-fashioned kitchen with an adjoining glassed-in porch. My gushing enthusiasm had not only pleased Willa but also egged her on; her formal tour gave way to a chatty history of the place and its occupants. I noted that she caught herself before revealing too much about Rosalyn. As eager as I was to know more about her, I made myself tread carefully. Any comments Willa made about my predecessor came casually, in some detail or the other about the house.
Even so, that first afternoon I was able to learn things about Rosalyn Justice that I wouldn’t have known otherwise. It’s funny how much a house can reveal about a person, more than just his or her taste and tidiness. I walked through the cavernous halls of Moonrise and began to understand why it was more museum than home. Rosalyn would’ve been raised in a place like this, I thought, a showpiece to good taste and breeding. I figured her childhood home had been an extension of the Harmon family image rather than a place to kick off one’s shoes and unwind. Although Emmet’d never admitted it, I felt sure that his and Rosalyn’s house in Atlanta had been the same, the one he sold before the move to Florida. The things most of us associate with a homey atmosphere would’ve been lacking in any of Rosalyn’s households: piles of mail and magazines; newspapers on the breakfast table or strewn around easy chairs; kids’ drawings taped to the fridge next to the shopping list. There’d be few cozy nooks; Rosalyn and her breed chose furnishings for historical significance and aesthetics rather than comfort. Her houses would always be showy and formal, even the summer places where they went to get away from such trappings.
That day I walked the hallways in the forever-stilled footsteps of a woman I’d never know, and looked for her everywhere. I paused to study the furnishings of each room for clues. What did it say about my predecessor that she had favored dark jewel tones over pastels, even in her boudoir? Or that her signature scent was a bold, heady floral (lily, maybe) that still lingered in the air like a sad melody? It was obvious that her kitchen was rarely used, yet the cookware and serving pieces were the finest I’d ever seen. The butler’s pantry was stocked with the most expensive liquor available. Because Emmet’s preference was Russian vodka, I knew the other bottles had been selected for their frequent visitors. To me, that meant Rosalyn was the perfect hostess, floating from guest to guest with the ease of a queen among her subjects. Did she enchant each of them with her beauty and elegance? And did her husband’s eyes follow her with unmistakable pride and adoration?
Today, as on the first day of my arrival, I have to force myself to stop thinking such thoughts. If I’m not careful, I’ll become obsessed with a dead woman—as I’m dangerously close to doing already. Sometimes, I go to the turret room and stare at a portrait of her, the one I initially failed to see. Only later did I realize that Willa’d stood in front of the portrait so I wouldn’t notice it. The turret room’s an extension of the library, which it leads to, and only has a small seating area against the back wall. The room’s main attraction is the circular wall of windows, two stories high and with bookshelves underneath, where Willa led me that first day, and where I stood gaping at the panoramic view of the lake. Willa moved me quickly from there into the library; the following day I saw why. Hanging on the wall behind where she had stood was an oil painting of a young woman in a silvery-white ball gown, a sheer tulle wrap draped around her bare shoulders. It wasn’t terribly large, as portraits go, being much too tasteful to be life-sized. Moving closer, I saw that the woman was Rosalyn.
I couldn’t blame Willa for wanting to shield me from the portrait as long as possible, or to avoid my questions about the subject. I only wish I’d left well enough alone, that I’d not seen it until I was more firmly entrenched into my new life and its strange setting. In the photos I’d seen of Rosalyn, she’d been a lovely, poised woman in her early fifties; seeing her like this, young and still untouched by life, I realized with an unwelcome twinge of jealousy how utterly beautiful she was. I stood before the portrait and studied her flawless ivory shoulders; her swanlike neck, unadorned by jewels; the tilt of her aristocratic chin; the silver-blond hair in that most elegant of styles, the chignon. The painter had captured a playful glint in her smoky blue eyes, a hint of a seductive smile on her lips. This was the woman whom Emmet had fallen in love with, the one I suspected he’d always love. Studying the painting, I could understand why. I’d heard from everyone that Rosalyn was near about perfect; that such a paragon should also be so beautiful told me all I needed to know about the fairness of life.
Every time I returned to the painting, I chastised myself for caring, for being intimidated by Rosalyn’s beauty. Why do women do that? I wondered. Until I saw the portrait, I’d taken pride in my fit, trim body, the result of a stringent diet and exercise; in my smooth, bronzed skin; in my tousled and highlighted coif that cost me a month’s salary with every trip to the salon, but gave me the confidence to appear before a camera. Looking at Rosalyn, I saw myself as I really was: coarse and blowsy, an overripe, sun-baked Cracker trying to pass herself off as someone of taste and refinement. What had I been thinking, prissing around town in a tank top with such a low-cut neckline? Sun-browned cleavage was not only tacky but so Florida. I studied my so-called shapely legs and firm upper arms, another source of pride, and realized I’d mistaken muscle-bound for fit. And whatever had possessed me to have a Celtic cross—tiny though it was—tattooed just above my right ankle? Rosalyn would’ve never done such a thing, nor painted her toenails a lurid shade of pink. I tormented myself by returning to the portrait of my predecessor over and over until I understood the difference between me and her. Rosalyn was a slender, single-stemmed white rose, while I was one of those passion flowers commonly found in ditches—purple, overblown, and going to seed, fast.
After changing into jeans and zipping on a hoodie, both blanket-soft from so much wear since my arrival, I hurry downstairs to catch the sunset from my newly discovered perch outside. I stop by the kitchen to grab a bottle of chilled wine and a paper cup, then exit the house through the side porch. The Victorians had been big on porches, according to Willa, which they called verandas and furnished like outdoor parlors. The porches of Moonrise are as formal and uninviting as the rest of it, so I pass quickly through the one on the far side of the house, overlooking the lake. It’s quite grand with a stenciled ceiling, a fireplace against the stone wall of the house, and antique wicker decor, and I’ll be entertaining out here again soon. But for now, I scamper down the steps and across an unused, neglected patio, then trod down a flagstone pathway that leads away from the house, toward the side of the mountain.
Whenever I’m outside, I’m careful to avert my eyes from the overgrown gardens in back. The sight depresses me more in the daytime than it does at night when I’m sleepless, and its sad, wild beauty calls out to me. In sunlight, the garden is unsightly but unremarkable, just another gone-to-seed backyard crying out for a Weed Eater. Being nocturnal, nothing much blooms there in the daytime, anyway. At night, however, the moon coaxes everything to life, with buds bursting forth from the dark earth like the souls of the dead on Judgment Day. It creeps me out, for some reason. The pathway veers away from the house and I raise my eyes in relief. Thankfully, the ruined gardens are now beyond my line of vision.
The flagstone path disappears into a sun-shot, shadowy tunnel of rhododendrons, much like the one at the entrance to the house. When I emerge, the pathway comes to an end on a secluded terrace nestled behind a copse of laurel. The terrace appears to be perched on the edge of the gently sloping mountain, in a cleared-off space that offers a bird’s-eye view of the lake. I make my way to a small sitting area at the far end, taking care not to slip on the mossy stones of the terrace. I was exploring the grounds a few days ago when I came across this spot, and could tell that no one had been here in a very long time. There’s only an old bent willow settee and chair here, and I plop on the settee gratefully. When I first stumbled on the terrace, I figured the seating was purely decorative, unable to imagine actually sitting on branches twisted into chair shapes without any cushions. Resting from my walk, I’d perched on the chair and found it surprisingly cozy, age having worn the willow as smooth as stone. I then dragged the old furniture to the edge of the terrace for a better view of the lake, making my own little tree house, and I had my refuge.
After pouring myself a cup of Chablis, I settle back into the settee, squirming until I’m comfortably situated. Funny, a house as grand and richly furnished as Moonrise at my disposal, and I can only relax when it’s out of my sight. I sip the wine and look down at the lake, where the last of the day’s sunbeams prance on its rippling surface like bright little seahorses. Looking Glass Lake is a long, spectacular body of water surrounded by woods; my lofty perch provides me a good view of the houses fronting its banks. A lot of them are hidden away in the woods; only the sight of a chimney or roofline above the treetops gives away their presence. Thankfully, the three houses that interest me the most are the ones most clearly in my sight.
Laurel Cottage is the closest, on the same side of the lake as Moonrise and right below us. Even from this distance, it’s so charming it appears make-believe, the dwelling of the seven dwarfs, and I halfway expect to see Snow White waltzing down the garden paths, singing to the birds. Despite the drought, the gardens surrounding the cottage are riotous with blossoms and butterflies. It’s a fanciful place, with koi ponds, a stone wishing well, and topiary cut in the shape of the Mad Hatter’s tea party. I spot Emmet’s Jeep parked in front. He and Noel are most likely having their martinis on the back porch, which has French country decor and is every bit as exquisite as the rest of the house. Laurel Cottage is the only one of the three that I’ve been inside.
Linc and Myna’s cabin is a bit farther down, perched on a little cove that juts out into the lake. The porch appears to hang precariously over the water, and Emmet told me they used to dive directly into the lake from the porch railing. The house is an authentic log cabin that I’m dying to see, but Myna can’t have guests over until Linc’s comfortable with the new handicapped features. Which made sense to me, though I overheard Tansy and Kit saying that Myna couldn’t be happier at having an excuse not to reciprocate dinner invitations. Emmet was amused when I repeated their conversation, and told me that Myna wasn’t highly regarded by the others. She seems friendly enough, I responded, but of course I hardly knew her. For that, Emmet responded drily, I should consider myself fortunate.
Kit also has an excuse not to entertain because her house, located on the other side of Linc’s, is in the final stages of a big remodeling project. She’s talked of nothing else since I’ve met her, which is good since I’d wondered how she’d take to me. I’m still wondering. I’ve not only sensed her reticence at accepting me into the fold; she’s made several remarks that could be interpreted as such. Plus she’s always studying me curiously, sometimes not even turning away when I catch her. One of those times I felt sure she was regarding me with something like pity. Because she seems so sweet on the surface, there’s nothing I can pinpoint as proof of her hostility. When we first arrived and everyone came over to meet me, I asked Emmet afterward if his friends had approved of me. His look was so scathing that I’ve dared not bring it up again. I should’ve known better than to ask him, of course. Emmet Justice is not a person to give a rat’s ass whether he has the approval of anyone else.
I pour myself a bit more wine, thinking back on the day I finally met Emmet’s group of friends face-to-face. Maybe enough time’s passed that I can get some perspective on that occasion. Since that rather unnerving evening, we’ve been in such a whirlwind of activity that I haven’t had a chance to process much of anything. Not only that, the long-awaited meeting happened the day after Emmet and I arrived in Highlands, before I even had time to get unpacked, or oriented to my surroundings.
My first glimpse of the Blue Ridge Mountains had been nearly a religious experience. The two-day drive from Fort Lauderdale was so long and tiring that when I hit the horrendous traffic of Atlanta on the second afternoon, I was sure I’d made a terrible mistake. What had I been thinking, insisting Emmet and I spend our first summer together away from home? There was no turning back; we’d already sublet our town house for the summer. But a couple of hours beyond Atlanta, the landscape began to change from rural to mountainous, and my despair lifted. Although still in north Georgia, I’d entered another world. At the foothills of the Blue Ridge, I turned off the four-lane highway and onto a narrow road that took me into North Carolina. For several miles, I clung to the wheel white-knuckled while the road, which appeared to be carved out of the side of a mountain, wound upward. At a scenic overlook halfway up the mountain, I pulled over, wide-eyed and weak-kneed. There I stood and looked down at a blue-hazed valley so beautiful that it brought tears to my eyes. I’d been born and raised by the sea, cradled by sun and salt water; but at that moment, I fell in love with mountain vistas.
The remainder of the journey only deepened my reverence. The dizzying mountain road continued through the storybook village of Highlands, then wound past Looking Glass Lake, a couple of miles outside town. Following Emmet’s directions, I turned off just beyond the lake; later I’d learn that the highway followed the Cullasaja River for several miles as it roared and tumbled down a rocky gorge, the site of several well-known waterfalls.
My arrival at Moonrise, then Willa’s informative tour, remains a blur to me. After two hard days of driving, I was exhausted, both physically and mentally. Moonrise was so much grander than I’d expected that I became irrationally angry at Emmet. Why hadn’t he told me? Fuming, I swore to myself that I never would’ve married Emmet if I’d known he ran with the jet set. Palm Beach was full of jet-setters, and I didn’t like them worth a damn. Fortunately I kept those foolish thoughts to myself, and Emmet attributed my sulky silence to exhaustion. To my further dismay, we ended up in the same bed he’d shared with his previous wife since the master bedroom was the only one with an adjacent shower. Why hadn’t I thought of which room would be ours before we arrived? I fell into such an exhausted sleep that I didn’t wake until noon the next day.
I awoke refreshed, my old self again, and bounded out of bed starving and eager for my first day at Moonrise. Following my nose to the kitchen, I made my way down the massive staircase to the back of the house. Emmet’d either just gotten up, or was brewing a fresh pot of coffee for me. More likely the latter; his years as an anchorman had made him an early riser. I paused at the kitchen door, stopped by the sight of Emmet at the old-fashioned stove, studying it in bewilderment. Because he was frowning in concentration and didn’t see me, I was able to watch him unobserved, one of my favorite pastimes. Sometimes I’d lie in bed and watch him dress, mugging his reflection in the mirror as he patted down his springy, gray-streaked hair impatiently. If he caught me, he’d strike bodybuilder poses until I giggled, but he was clearly disconcerted by my scrutiny. He couldn’t understand why I enjoyed simply gazing at him, watching him in action, and frankly I wasn’t sure, either. Although attractive in a craggy sort of way, Emmet was hardly eye candy. He looked more like an ex-linebacker than the classically handsome, square-jawed anchorman of most news shows. When we first met, he appeared so gruff and unapproachable that I avoided him, and he proved to be as scrappy, combative, and tough as he looked. Yet I melted like candle wax under a flame whenever his eyes met mine.
Spotting me at the door, Emmet called out his usual greeting, “Hey, Honeycutt,” and I responded with “Hi yourself, big guy.” My vexation of the previous day was forgotten, and I went into his arms, loving him again.
My joy was short-lived. To my surprise, Emmet announced that he had invited the gang over for drinks that evening, only a few hours away because I’d slept so late. At least he had the grace to look apologetic when I went into full panic mode. I reminded him that we’d just arrived, that we hadn’t even unpacked the car, and that I couldn’t possibly entertain on such short notice—I didn’t even know my way around the kitchen! Emmet knocked down my arguments one after the other. He promised to get us unpacked, and to help me get ready for the gathering. He’d already ordered a cheese and fruit tray from the caterer in town, and was about to make a run to the wine store. Plus, we’d entertain on the side porch, not inside the house, so I need not fret about fixing it up. With a defeated sigh, I gave in.
It had been surprisingly cool that evening, and I’d ended up changing clothes twice before our guests arrived. I’d never tell Emmet that the oh-so-smart black sundress I’d splurged on at one of Fort Lauderdale’s ritziest boutiques had been with this occasion in mind, hoping to impress his friends. As it turned out, I might as well have saved my money. The only sweater I brought was coral colored, which made the black dress look like a Halloween costume. Didn’t matter; I still had to wear it. Packing up, Emmet’d warned me about mountain nights being cool, but I hadn’t understood that to mean freezing-ass cold.
Taking pity on me, Emmet built a fire. The fire made the open, spacious porch cozier, especially after he lit the wall lamps, which gave off just the right glow for a twilight evening. As the time for our gathering grew nearer, my trepidation gave way to excitement. I’d wanted time to throw an impressive party, to wow everyone with my entertaining skills, but conceded that Emmet’d been right. His friends were as eager to meet me as I was them, and they’d understand that our getting together was the important thing, not a fancy spread. Or so I told myself as I awaited their arrival. Emmet watched me with such amusement that I dared not look his way at the sound of a car in the driveway. Instead, I busied myself at the wicker table rearranging Willa’s yellow zinnias, the only centerpiece I had.
Tansy was the first to appear. Emmet’d instructed everyone to park on the side and come directly to the porch, which would be easier for Linc than trudging all the way through the house. I had my back to Emmet, who was at the makeshift bar setup in the corner, when I heard him call out, “Tansy!” I turned to see him moving forward to greet the woman who was coming up the porch steps, her arms outstretched.
I watched as Tansy hugged Emmet, then stepped back to take his face in her hands and kiss him right on the mouth. Laughing, she used her pinkie to wipe the dark red lipstick from his lips. Their greeting gave me time to study her before she turned to me. As I’d feared, she was every bit as intimidating as I’d imagined from our brief, unsatisfactory phone conversations. As tall as Emmet, with glossy black hair in startling contrast to her magnolia-white skin, Tansy was the epitome of glamour and sophistication, the kind of woman who’d always made me tongue-tied and knock-kneed. Twirling around in a side-tied dress that showed off long, slim legs, she made her way from Emmet to me, and I gulped.
“So you’re Helen,” Tansy said as she eyed me with unabashed curiosity. “I’m Tansy Dunwoody.” Her black eyes boring into mine, she grasped my hand with a grip as strong as Willa’s had been.
“I guessed that,” I said with a laugh. I hated my nervous little laugh, which I seemed to have no control over, especially in situations like this. “It’s wonderful to meet you at last, Tansy.”
With my hand still held firmly in hers, Tansy glanced over her shoulder at Emmet and hissed, “Cradle robber.”
I was so taken aback I was speechless, but not Emmet. Eyes glittering, he raised his glass to her in a mock salute and said, “Ah, yes. My child bride.”
I gasped and freed my hand from Tansy’s as I cried out, “Oh, no—not at all, Tansy! I’ve always been told I look younger than I am. Emmet’s just teasing you . . .” My voice trailed off and I looked toward Emmet helplessly.
To my further surprise, Tansy waved off my protests, swung her head back to me, and said as casually as if we had been discussing the weather: “So, Helen. How do you like Moonrise?”
I took a deep, bracing breath before spouting out such overwrought hyperbole in praise of the house that I cringed hearing it. Mercifully, the rest of the gang appeared before I could make a complete fool of myself, and I stopped to wait for them. Their entrance was preceded by much laughter, and the sound of shuffling feet and scraping wheels on the stone walkway that led from the driveway to the side porch. The deep, cultured voice I recognized as Noel’s boomed out of the darkness: “Jesus, Linc—I’m dying here. Speed your ass up, man.”
Linc’s response was muffled, as though he held his head down, but we heard him say, “Hey, you wanna drive? Be my guest.” When a woman gave a sharp retort that I didn’t hear, Emmet and Tansy exchanged amused glances, and Emmet murmured, “Some things never change, do they?”
My initial impression of the others, Noel, Linc, Myna, and Kit, was a confused blur because everyone was talking at once when they emerged into the yellow circle of light spilling out from the porch. Pushing his walker, Linc led the way with Noel close behind as if to catch him if he got tripped up. Myna was at Linc’s side, and slightly behind her was a shadowy figure that must be Kit Rutherford. My eyes swept over them rapidly as I sorted out who was who and wondered if their greeting to me would be as unsettling as Tansy’s had been.
Emmet moved swiftly down the steps to help Noel get Linc onto the porch, pausing first to give Linc and Noel the back-pounding kind of greeting that men give each other, followed by a hug for the two women. Seeing Linc, I understood why Emmet’d been so concerned about him. Hunched over the walker, Linc appeared so frail that I wouldn’t have known he was the same man in the group picture by the waterfall. Since that photo was taken, he’d grown a sparse little beard that, like his hair, was heavily streaked with gray. Although his thin arms were still trembling with the effort of the walk, Linc threw back his head and whooped with laughter when Emmet and Noel picked him up, walker and all, and deposited him on the porch.
Noel Clements was a stunner, so impossibly good-looking that I had to tear my eyes from him to search out the others. I didn’t exactly recognize Myna from her photo, but knew she was the one climbing the steps while Kit remained in the shadows. Even if I hadn’t seen her picture beforehand, I would’ve picked Myna out as the artsy one of the group. Rail thin with a pale, sharp face, wire-rimmed glasses, and wild, frizzy hair, she had the look. I wasn’t sure what she was wearing, but it appeared to be some sort of coarsely woven dashiki, set off by a bronze cross and dangling earrings much too large for her small frame. Studying her, I understood why she wasn’t particularly liked by the others. Her strangeness set her apart.
Noel reached me first, wowing me by saying my name softly before bending his fair head to kiss me on the cheek. I flushed and fluttered like a schoolgirl, then took the arm he extended to lead me over to Linc. With a saucy toss of her head, Tansy left my side and headed toward the fireplace. I held out both hands to Linc, who had moved from his walker to sit in a sturdy wicker chair. “Helen!” Grinning, Linc grabbed my hands as though we were long-lost friends. “We meet at last. Please forgive me for not getting up.”
Linc Varner was a small, fine-boned man; his twinkling eyes, playful expression, and wispy beard made him look like a leprechaun. When he introduced Myna, who was putting away the walker, I turned toward her eagerly. I’d purchased her books and pored over the poetry, which was way too obtuse for me, but I was still anxious to meet a famous poet.
“This is such an honor, Myna,” I declared as I shook her hand. A huge silver ring on her middle finger jabbed my palm painfully. “I absolutely love your work.”
There was no mistaking a guffaw from Tansy, and I flushed in response. Standing erect, Myna gave me a tight smile. Behind the wire-rimmed glasses, her pale eyes glittered. “Thank you, Helen,” she said shortly. Her voice was clipped and nasal, definitely not Southern. “Always a pleasure to meet a fan,” she added. “Especially around here.” She glanced around at the others with something like malice.
As if to diffuse the tension, Noel moved in quickly. With a little bow, he handed Myna a glass of red wine, Linc a beer, and told me that Emmet was bringing mine over himself. Twirling around, Noel pointed a finger at the woman who had silently appeared to stand next to me. “Kit? Pick your poison.”
“Red’s fine,” she responded in a cool voice, then held out a hand to me. “Hello, Helen. I’m Kit Rutherford.”
With her hand in mine, Kit and I took each other’s measure. Because she’d been half hidden in the photos, I wasn’t expecting her to be quite so pretty. What a sight she and Rosalyn must have been together! A head taller than me and slender as a model, Kit had light brown hair, olive-hued skin, and hazel eyes. She was simply but stylishly dressed in a crisp white shirt, designer jeans, and sandals with heels, which struck me as the perfect attire for the cool evenings here. I had the sudden, unwelcome thought that Kit would’ve been a more suitable replacement for Rosalyn, her longtime friend and roommate, than someone like me. How had Emmet missed so obvious a match? Kit greeted me by squeezing my hands and saying it was a pleasure to meet me, and I forced those hurtful thoughts out of my mind.
This time it was Emmet who stepped up to diffuse the awkwardness. He strolled over to me with a white wine seltzer in one hand and his customary martini in the other. I took the wine from him gratefully, hoping no one noticed my hand trembling. Emmet placed an arm around my shoulder as he looked around at his friends, who had ended up in a semicircle around Linc’s chair. They waited expectantly, and I watched them watch my husband. Managing to look both rakish and elegant, Noel leaned against the porch railing with an amused expression on his face and a frosted mug of beer in his hand. Across from him, Tansy held a glass of wine to her full red lips, which were turned up ever so slightly at the corners. Over the rim of the glass, her coal-black eyes were directed at me. Myna’s eyes, on the other hand, darted from one of us to the other, while Kit’s remained remote and unreadable. Only Linc regarded the rest of us with what appeared to be genuine curiosity, oblivious to the tension that had crept into our gathering like the fog from the lake.
Scowling, Emmet looked down at me in sudden irritation. “Damn! I should’ve gotten champagne, sweetheart. Why didn’t you remind me?”
Before I could respond, the others chimed in. Linc hooted derisively and said, “Probably because she knows what a cheapskate you are, my man.”
“Yeah, Emmet,” Noel agreed. “Don’t blame it on Helen.” Turning to me, he added, “The cheap son of a bitch probably planned it this way. He’s the one who went into town for the booze, right? Pretending he was helping you out?”
“Well, he did, but—” I began when Noel stopped me with a shout of laughter.
“I knew it!” he cried, then leaned over to click his mug against Linc’s. While Kit and I were greeting each other, I’d been vaguely aware of a small drama playing out next to us. Myna had protested when Noel brought Linc a beer, and I heard Noel say curtly that the doctor had okayed one a day, if she recalled. Surely she wasn’t implying that he’d give Linc anything harmful, he’d added, but I’d missed Myna’s response.
Emmet turned to me and sighed in exasperation. “Now you see why I didn’t want you to meet my so-called friends, Honeycutt?” The fondness in his voice softened his words, however, and the others laughed good-naturedly. Waving them off, Emmet held his glass high. “Our next get-together, I’ll furnish the finest Moët. For now, we’ll toast with what we have. Helen and I would like to thank each of you for coming over tonight. As you know, she’s been quite anxious to meet everyone.”
On the other side of me, Tansy murmured, “Beware of what you want. You might get it.”
“Let me add a toast to the newlyweds,” Noel interjected in a hearty voice, “from all of us.”
With much clamor and clanking of glass against glass, we toasted old friends and new; Emmet and myself; the new bride (this from Tansy); our upcoming summer together; and at least a dozen other things. After so many refilled wineglasses (without the aid of my usual splash of seltzer), I got rather woozy, but at least the tension had dissipated. Or so I thought. Before another toast could be raised, I spoke up. “Before I get too smashed to remember my manners, please help yourselves to the food.”
“I cannot wait,” Tansy sang out as she waltzed over to the wicker table. “All Emmet’s talked about is what a great cook you are.”
Before I could explain that I hadn’t made anything, Tansy had grabbed a plate and started piling it high. “Hey, Tans,” Noel called out from his perch on the railing. “Don’t forget the rest of us are hungry, too. Fix me a plate while you’re at it.”
“Actually,” I began, “Emmet had to get the food from . . . ah . . . where did you say you got it, honey?”
But my voice was lost in the clamor of Tansy telling Noel to fix his own damn plate; Linc and Emmet laughing at their exchange; Myna announcing that she’d fix Linc’s plate, thank you; and Kit slinking over to the table to inspect everything. I cleared my throat and tried again, but by then Tansy had popped one of the miniature cheese rolls into her mouth, declared it better than anything she’d ever gotten from the caterer here, and said she simply must have the recipe. When I finally made myself heard, Noel threw his head back and laughed.
“So, Tansy, those cheese rolls are better than the caterer’s, huh?” he teased. With a bored expression, Tansy gave Noel the finger, and I let out a giggle, startled by the obscene gesture from such an elegant-looking woman.
Despite being catered rather than homemade, the party tray provided enough distraction to carry us through the cocktail hour. While everyone ate and refilled their glasses, they threw questions at me. Did I love the mountains, or find them claustrophobic? Did I think Moonrise was fabulous, or overwhelming? Were Emmet and I really working this summer, or had we made that up to get away from our jobs? And speaking of my job, what exactly did I do, anyway? So I actually liked to cook, then? Anything having to do with my and Emmet’s relationship was taboo, I noted. No one asked how we met, how long we’d known each other, or any of the usual questions you might ask a newly married couple. Even less was brought up about my personal life. Linc inquired politely whether my son, Adam, would be visiting. Adam was spending some time with his father in Miami, I replied, before heading north for his first year of med school. Johns Hopkins, I added casually, to which everyone responded enthusiastically, as duly impressed as I’d shamelessly hoped they’d be.
Kit Rutherford had contributed little to the conversation the entire evening, except to complain about the remodeling of her house. Since I hadn’t heard about it, I asked what she was having done. Making a face, Tansy cut me off with a dramatic wave of her hand. “Oh, God—don’t get her started on that topic, Helen. We’ll be here all night, and I’m sure you and Emmet are still exhausted from your trip.”
It was the perfect segue to end our get-together, and thankfully the others took the hint and made noises to leave. Despite the subtle tension that had hung around like an unwelcome guest, the evening might’ve come to a fairly pleasant close if Kit hadn’t insisted on helping me clear the table. I tried to discourage her, saying as forcefully as I could that Emmet and I would clean up after they left. Emmet, too, told her to let it be, and Tansy said if Kit was riding back with them, she’d better get her ass in the car. But Kit shook her head and said she wouldn’t dream of leaving us to clean up the mess—her mama had raised her better. No true Southern belle would do such a thing.
Later I’d wonder if Kit had merely been looking for an excuse to go inside. Because a small bathroom is located near the porch, there hadn’t been a reason for any of them to wander through the house. To my dismay, when Kit followed me into the kitchen, her arms full of dirty plates, she looked around wide-eyed before bursting into tears. Tansy came running in to glare at me, as though I’d said something to upset her friend. I stood by helplessly as Kit dumped the dishes into the sink with tears rolling down her flushed cheeks. Throwing me a look, Tansy enclosed Kit in her arms and led her out of the kitchen. From the porch I could hear the cries of concern, then Noel’s voice. “Was the kitchen that big of a mess, honey?” he said, but no one laughed in response.
Before everyone left, Kit apologized, saying how she never imagined seeing Rosalyn’s kitchen would affect her like that, but the harm had been done. The evening ended on a sour note, and I fretted as I cleaned up. Emmet was silent and unapproachable as he worked beside me. When I asked him if he thought it went well, he shrugged. “I guess so,” he said tonelessly. “Didn’t you?” Turning away abruptly, he announced that he was wiped out and hitting the sack. Before leaving, he stopped by the butler’s pantry and fixed himself a nightcap—a double, I noted glumly.
I lingered in the kitchen as long as I could, putting off the moment I’d be forced to climb the long flight of stairs to our bedroom. Somehow I knew that the previous night, my first in the house—in Rosalyn’s house—would be the last good night of sleep I’d have here. When I finally went to bed, I lay awake and listened to the strange noises of an old house. The sounds were unfamiliar and somehow frightening, as though they were whispering me a warning.
SHAKING OFF THE memory of that unsettling night, I see Emmet’s Jeep pulling out of Noel’s driveway and get to my feet, the wine bottle tucked under my arm. If the bright pink glow beyond the mountaintops is any indication, this evening’s sunset will be something to behold. I hurry down the pathway to join Emmet for the viewing, a favorite ritual of ours. He’ll be looking for me.
Just as I emerge from the suddenly dark rhododendron tunnel into the golden light of late afternoon I see it out of the corner of my eye and I blink in surprise. Someone is in the moon gardens, moving swiftly away from the house. From here, it appears to be a man. Emmet? But what would he be doing out there? He can hardly bear the sight of the gardens; I can’t imagine him suddenly deciding to wander through them. Plus, there’s hardly been enough time for him to get to the house, much less around back.
I’m almost to the house and about to call out, but I no longer see the dark figure moving through the trees. Stopping in bewilderment, I wonder if I really saw someone, or if my mind was playing tricks on me. Exhaustion can do that to you. I stand and watch the back of the house, my eyes scanning the overgrowth, the shrubbery, the trees, for any sign of movement. Nothing. If Emmet was out there, he’s back inside. Even as I think that, I know better. It wasn’t Emmet I saw out there. It was only a play of light at the end of the day, I tell myself. I speed up, anxious to get back, to sit on the porch and watch the sunset with my husband, leaving shadows behind.
