Читать книгу Haunting at Remington House - Laura V. Keegan - Страница 23

“Come on. This way, Mr. Gardner.” Jimmy and Tom entered the house through the back door. Tom followed Jimmy down a short hallway and into the kitchen.

“Jimmy, where are your manners? What’s wrong with you, bringing a guest in through the back? Your mama’s going to box your ears for sure,” a frail black woman scolded from across the room. She was stirring several pans, all emitted fabulous smells, making Tom’s mouth water. He was glad he'd come—at least for the food—not for the prospect of spending an evening with Vivian Harrison. He hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in weeks.

“Oh, Mannie. Mother won’t even know unless you tell her—she’s clear in the drawing room. We came up from the beach. Who the heck wants to walk all the way around the house when the door’s right here? It’s too cold outside. Who cares what door we come in anyway?”

“Your mama, that’s who. Now introduce me to your friend, then get on out of here before your mother comes checking on dinner.” She winked at Jimmy, then smiled at Tom.

“Mannie, this is Tom Gardner, our new neighbor. Mr. Gardner, this is Mannie Parker, the best cook in the world!” Tom and Mannie shook hands. “Come on, Mr. Gardner, before Mannie has a cow.” Tom followed Jimmy out of the kitchen and down a long hall toward the front of the house. They stopped in front of a set of mahogany, double doors, all the brass hardware buffed to a gleaming shine. “Wait here,” Jimmy whispered. He tiptoed to the front entryway and opened the door, then slammed it hard enough to make certain it would be heard behind the closed doors of the drawing room. Tom winked at him in understanding. Jimmy hurried down the hall to Tom. Smiling, he opened the doors and they entered the room.

Vivian stood in front of a black marble fireplace sipping a dark amber liquid from a cordial glass. She looked stunning in a simply cut, black silk dress. At her waist was a single, black velvet rose, accentuating her slim figure. Her pale blonde hair was pulled into a soft chignon, accenting her high cheekbones. Diamond and ruby earrings dangled from her ears. Her green eyes sparkled in the soft firelight.

“Good evening, Vivian.”

“Tom, darling. How wonderful to see you. Come here by the fire. You must be freezing.” She motioned for Tom to come and stand beside her. “Jimmy, take Mr. Gardner’s coat.”

Tom handed the boy his coat. “Be right back,” Jimmy said, leaving the room.

“Tom, what would you like to drink? I have brandy or sherry.”

“Brandy’s fine.” Tom watched Vivian, trying to guess her age. He guessed maybe thirty five, a few years younger than he. She certainly looked fabulous, obviously spent a lot of time taking care of herself. And probably a lot of money.

Sipping his drink, Tom discretely checked out the room. One thing was evident—the Harrisons had money. The room was furnished in what Tom guessed were authentic Louis XIV pieces, inlaid with gold and ivory. On one wall was a collection of Gainsborough landscapes. Very impressive.

“My, aren’t you the quiet one, Tom?” Vivian smiled coyly.

“I was admiring your paintings. Gainsboroughs?”

“Yes, aren’t they gorgeous? Such extravagant gifts from my husband, William. He bought them for me for my birthday last year. They were very difficult to come by, but somehow he managed to find them. He spoils me, but I do love it!” She laughed. “He’s such a dear. Come on, Tom, and I’ll take you on a tour of the main floor. That is if you’d like to see it?”

Not waiting for an answer, she took his arm and led him out of the drawing room. The rest of the main floor was just as extravagant; all of the furniture authentic antiques from this or that era— Queen Ann, Louis XVI or Louis XV. Tom was more and more curious as to what exactly William Harrison did to amass his obvious fortune. Another brandy or two, and he just might ask.

The mysterious cousin still hadn't made an appearance. When Tom asked about her, Vivian explained, “Sara's resting; she'll join us in a while.” Back in the drawing room, while they waited to be called to dinner, Vivian poured them another brandy. Tom began to relax. Billy came into the room and stood at the fireplace, glaring at Tom. Tom smiled and asked how he was enjoying his holiday vacation.

Billy mumbled, “Fine.”

“You’ll have to forgive Billy,” Vivian said. “He had a big disappointment today.” Vivian patted her son's shoulder. His friend George called, and he isn’t able to join us for the holiday. Billy was looking forward to having him here. My poor dear is very upset. Aren’t you, Billy?” Billy didn't answer, rudely pushing Vivian's hand off his shoulder.

“Sorry to hear that,” Tom said, thinking, Brat. “Maybe you could invite someone else. It’s still a few weeks until Thanksgiving. I’ll bet you have lots of friends who’d jump at the chance to spend the holiday here.” There must be a punk or two whose parents would love to get rid of them.

“What a good idea, Tom. Billy, I bet Alan would love to come,” she said, then explained to Tom, “Alan’s an only child, he's probably bored to death. Maybe you know the family? Alan’s father is Dr. Raymond James.” Vivian’s eyes were intent on Tom's.

“I don’t know Raymond, but I know his brother, Nicholas. We were at Yale together. I haven’t heard from him in years. I heard he’s a surgeon in Baltimore. I guess I should look him up sometime.” Tom knew he never would. Nicholas was a real jerk. Boring and arrogant as well.

“Billy, why don’t you call Alan before we sit down to dinner?” Vivian said, dismissing her son. Tom was greatly relieved to have him out of the room.

“I have some exciting news, Tom. I talked to one of my New York friends today. When I told her who I was having over for dinner tonight, she told me she knows you!” She watched Tom’s face. “Aren’t you curious who she is?”

Tom could tell by the frown that momentarily shadowed her face that she was expecting more of a reaction. He felt nothing, except perhaps dread.

“Don’t you want to know who?” Her eyes twinkled as she waited for his answer.

Not really. Vivian watched him, disappointment registering in her voice at his lack of enthusiasm, though he sensed she enjoyed putting him on the spot. Okay, he’d bite. “Of course I do. Who?” Tom didn't like the games she was playing. He’d get through this evening, then keep his distance.

“Catherine Connors!” She spat the name, almost giggling with delight.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Catherine Connors,” Vivian said again, obviously frustrated. She was quiet for a second. “Maybe you know her by her maiden name? Let me think. I know I know it. Hmm.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “I remember. Balantyne.”

“Cathy Balantyne?” Tom took a quick breath. “God, she was just a girl the last time I saw her. We used to compete to be the teacher’s pet. I actually believe Cathy hated me! Her sense of competiveness was all-consuming. I haven’t seen her since grammar school.”

“Really? Well, perhaps Catherine was trying to impress me. You know Catherine! She likes everyone to think she knows everyone!”

It didn’t sound like Cathy and Vivian were close friends at all. And, if they weren’t, Vivian probably knew nothing about Elise’s past friendship with Cathy. Several years ago, after Tom found several letters from her encouraging Elise to leave him, he’d contacted Cathy and rather forcefully severed all contact between her and Elise. He had no clue how or when Elise and Cathy met. It'd been quite a shock to him to find out that they knew each other. He could only guess why Elise kept the relationship a secret. Vivian cleared her throat. Trying to smile, Tom asked, “So, how is Cathy?”

“According to her,” Vivian said, slightly sarcastically, “she leads a perfectly charmed life. Catherine's married to a prominent New York plastic surgeon, Elrich Connors. They're the toast of the town. I see them whenever I'm in New York. They have fabulous parties!” Vivian winked, laughing.

Tom, though, knew from Cathy's letters to Elise that she was in a loveless marriage, relying on alcohol to dull her pain. She remained married to the ‘dear doctor’ to avoid the shame a divorce would bring to her and her family. Not to mention their prenup that would give a huge sum of money to her husband if they divorced.

“I can’t imagine why Catherine acted as if she knew you so well. But you haven't seen her since you were kids. I was so excited that we had a mutual friend, and it’s not even true. I don't know what game she's playing with me.” Vivian sulked, drew her lips into an ugly frown. Tom guessed from the look on her face that she was planning to get even with Cathy for her deceit. She grinned wickedly. Her mood changed immediately.

Tom drained his brandy snifter. And my sister wonders why I dread these social engagements. Not too hard to figure out. Tom prepared himself for the task of spending the rest of the evening with the self-centered, childish Vivian. I hope I’m up to this!

Vivian blushed. “You must think I’m awful, being upset over something so trivial. I only wanted to be friends with you! I thought having a friend in common would make it much easier. Well, never mind about Catherine. Since she obviously doesn’t know you well, I guess you’ll just have to tell me all about yourself.” Tilting her head slightly, she looked at Tom through her long lashes, her green eyes glistening, a seductive smile on her face.

Oh, great. Now she was flirting with him. Then Tom felt guilty. After all, what did he know about Vivian? She probably was lonely without her husband and friends here. Cassie said he had a bad habit of reading false emotions and traits into people. It ensured that he kept people at a distance. He supposed she was right to some degree; it made it easier to isolate himself. Tom smiled at Vivian and decided to give her another chance. Studying her, he tried to see nothing but the pretty, young woman who was trying very hard to entertain a difficult guest.

“I’m going to check on dinner. I’ll be right back.”

Tom poured another brandy and entertained himself by nosing around the room looking at the Harrisons’ extensive book collection. Vivian returned in a few minutes. Dinner was ready. He followed her to the dining room.

The room was hot and stuffy; beads of sweat gathered on Tom’s brow. Trying to be inconspicuous, he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and loosened his tie. Vivian, the all-seeing, gracious hostess, called for Amos, one of her household staff and the husband to Mannie, to open the window. Tom was moved from his seat in front of the fireplace to the other side of the table. He now faced Jimmy, who beamed at him.

Billy sat to Tom's right. He asked, “Mom, where's Sara? I thought she was eating dinner with us. I have some things to talk to her about.”

“I sent Mannie to get her. She'll be down soon.” Vivian had barely finished her sentence when the door opened, and Sara entered.

“I’m so sorry. I lost track of time. Did I keep you waiting? Oh, hello. You must be Tom Gardner,” she said to Tom’s back as he strained to turn around in the chair which had him trapped in its cushy, velvet embrace.

Quickly standing, almost tipping his chair over, Tom offered Sara his hand and a warm smile. Sara sat down across the table, next to Jimmy. While she told the boys about the trip she had just returned from, Tom took the opportunity to study her. She was in her mid thirties and very beautiful. Her dark, chestnut-brown hair fell in soft curls that framed her face—a stark contrast to her pale complexion. Her eyes were deep violet-blue, fringed with thick, black lashes. Her bright red lips were full, and when she smiled, revealed perfect teeth. Naturally high color on her cheekbones gave her a healthy glow. She radiated a sultry, sensual aura, while maintaining an innocent demeanor. He was immediately drawn to her.

Sara talked animatedly to the boys, her eyes expressive and intense. Her hands were as active as her voice. She excitedly recounted several stories about her travels in the Bahamas. The boys were a captive audience. Tom caught her eye. She blushed, her cheeks turning bright red. Smiling back, she continued talking to Jimmy and Billy, who hung on her every word. Her smile caught Tom off guard. It seemed directed straight at his heart. Pure, innocent, real. He hoped the evening would be long.

Vivian interrupted, ending Sara’s tale about her encounter with a white shark in the Sargasso Sea. “Jimmy and Billy, that’s enough. Sara can talk to you about her trip any time, for heaven's sake. You’re being very rude, monopolizing the conversation. Do stop.”

Jimmy’s face flushed red, Tom was afraid the boy was going to cry. Sara came to his rescue. “Jimmy, we'll go down to the beach tomorrow and have a picnic. I'll tell you all about my trip then.” She winked at Jimmy. “Sound like a good plan?”

He nodded.

“You too, Billy. We’ll even do some fishing.” Both boys agreed, and the awkward moment passed.

For the duration of the dinner, Vivian monopolized the conversation, talking about her remodeling plans for their New York brownstone, a property recently purchased by her husband. Vivian and her boys would stay here at the beach house until the remodeling was complete, probably for the rest of the winter. Sara, who was a teacher, had recently quit her job at a small private school and would be staying here to tutor the two boys. Tom’s mood quickly elevated.

While Vivian's high-pitched voice droned on and on about fabrics and wallpaper, name dropping as often as possible about her interior designers, Tom listened quietly, nodding from time to time, saying “sounds great, very nice, impressive, etc.” He caught Sara's eye and grinned. She returned his look with a knowing smile, silently toasting him with her glass. Vivian never noticed, continuing her diatribe, thrilled at having her rightful place as the center of attention.

***

Mannie prepared a delectable meal—Cornish game hens stuffed with wild rice and mushrooms; baby asparagus spears in a light wine sauce with slivered almonds; buttered, new potatoes and a fresh spinach salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing. After dinner, they returned to the drawing room where Amos served fresh peach pie and french vanilla ice cream. Giant mugs of strong, dark-roasted coffee steamed on the side table with an array of flavored creams and honeys. They savored the desert, eating the warm, cinnamon spiced fruit pie slowly, sipping coffee and making small talk.

After dessert, Amos poured each of the adults a glass of cognac, part of a private reserve that Vivian’s husband imported from France. “We're so spoiled,” Vivian purred as she sat down next to Tom on the sofa.

“Vivian, what all does your husband import?” Tom asked, curious and unable to let the mention of William Harrison’s business pass by.

“Almost anything you can think of: antiques, artwork, automobiles, textiles, gemstones. He imports artwork for museums and private collectors, too. His great-grandfather started the business, over the years building a large and varied clientele for his merchandise.” She glanced at Tom to make sure he was paying attention to her. “William became vice president of the corporation as soon as he graduated from Harvard. When his father died two years ago, he became president.” Vivian sighed. “Tom, you must find this boring. All this talk about business is so dull. Let’s talk about something else.” She took a sip of her cognac. “You haven’t told me about Remington House, yet. I hope you’ll invite me over soon, I can't wait to see it! Tell me all about it.”

Duty-bound and knowing no way to get out of it, Tom described the house and décor as well as a man could. Sara raised her eyebrows and tried to suppress her giggle with a yawn. Vivian seemed not to notice and told Tom she was ready and willing to take over his redecorating. “Don’t hesitate to call me before you make any changes, Tom. I totally know all the ropes. Promise?” He nodded, then glanced at Sara, who was lost in conversation with Jimmy and Billy. Disappointed, he looked back at Vivian.

Leaning forward, Vivian reached her hand toward Tom, gripped his forearm. Very subtlety, her demeanor changed. Staring at Tom with a look of grave despair, her eyes filled with tears that overflowed and ran down her cheeks in glistening rivulets. Her painted fingernails dug into his skin. Then she smiled, abruptly stood and walked over to the piano. She began to play—a melody whose chords sent chills down Tom’s spine. Slowly, hauntingly, her pale fingers gliding, stroking the ivory and ebony keys as she played Beethoven’s Für Elise. Tom had often played the song for Elise—when their relationship was new and they were immersed in their love for each other. The gentle refrains expressed his innermost passions for her. Over time, Elise grew to hate it because he loved it, loved her.

As Vivian continued to play, Tom walked over and sat beside her on the piano bench. She turned to him, her eyes filled with a look so cold and vengeful, it made Tom’s blood run cold.

“Vivian! Stop!” Tom’s voice was barely above a whisper. She continued playing. Beads of perspiration trickled down Tom’s back. He whispered again, “Stop!” He heard no other sounds in the room, only the ethereal sounds from the piano as Vivian continued to play Für Elise, the haunting chords reverberating deep in his soul.

Vivian turned to him. In a voice so quiet he had to strain to hear the words, she said, “You bastard!”

Tom stared at her in disbelief.

Vivian’s head jerked up. She stared at him, her face registering complete surprise. “Tom, what is it? Is my playing so terrible?” She seemed completely unaware of what had just transpired. “What was I playing? How odd, I can’t remember. . . .” Vivian rubbed her temples, gently shook her head. “Come here, Sara. Come play for us.”

“What did you say to me, Vivian?” Tom asked, his hand on her wrist, his eyes searching her face.

“Tom, I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t say anything. I was only asking Sara to come and play for us. Why are you looking at me like that?” She seemed to have no idea what Tom was talking about.

“Never mind,” Tom said, scrutinizing her face. “I thought you said something. I thought, well . . . that song you were playing . . . ”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, pulling her hand free from his grip. “I don’t remember. Sara, come over here and see if you can brighten Tom’s mood. You play, and Tom and I will accompany you. Billy and Jimmy, yes, both of you, come over here.” She opened a well-worn songbook to the music for Blackbird. As Sara began to play, Vivian started to sing. Soon the boys joined in.

Tom was too shocked to do anything more than watch and listen. As Vivian, Sara and the boys harmonized, he tried to make sense of what had just happened with Vivian, decided it was best to forget it. What was clear to him was that Vivian was not who she seemed on the surface. It’s possible she had some serious mental issues. He’d have to be on guard.

Vivian, Sara and the boys sang and played half a dozen songs. Prompted by Jimmy’s poking him in the ribs, Tom finally joined in, his deep bass voice blending well with theirs. He continued to study Vivian. Her face was flushed with excitement as she sang and played a few verses to accompany Sara. Vivian seemed perfectly fine, genuinely oblivious to what she’d said to Tom earlier. Maybe I imaged the whole thing. That’s the only explanation—too many cognacs. But . . . why did she play Für Elise—of all songs? Or did I imagine that, too? Tom took a long breath and tried to focus on Sara and Jimmy, their smiling faces a salve for his raw nerves. He began to relax. After several more rounds of the chorus, Vivian sent the boys to bed.

It had started raining again. Huge drops danced off the windows, sparkling in the moonlight. “It’s almost eleven. I had no idea it was so late. I should go,” Tom said. “Vivian, thank you for being such a gracious hostess. It was a memorable evening.” To say the least. Vivian smiled warmly at him, leaving him convinced that maybe he had imagined the whole incident.

Sara walked out onto the porch with him, shivering in the cold night air. “Wait a minute,” she said. She ran inside, returned wearing a heavy sweater. “That’s better. It’s cold tonight. Hope the rain doesn’t turn to snow.”

Tom nodded in agreement. “I’m glad we met tonight,” he said softly.

“Me, too. And,” she smiled, “I'm very glad you bought the house next door. It’s reassuring to know there’s someone close by. The winters can be very lonely. It’s pretty isolated here.” Sara pulled her collar up around her ears. “I’m grateful for Vivian, don’t get me wrong. She’s been a Godsend, inviting me here to tutor the boys. But she tends to focus pretty much on herself and her own agendas. It’ll be nice to have someone else to talk to.” She blushed, then kicked at the bottom porch railing, obviously embarrassed. “Listen to me! I talk too much. You must think I’m awful.”

“Not at all. I understand. Vivian is everything you said. I’m sure she has a good heart, as long as no one shadows her place in the limelight. I’ve known many women, and men, like her. Unfortunately, money tends to give them an inflated sense of self-importance.” Tom took her hand in his. “Whenever you need to escape—or to talk—come on over. In fact, Jimmy’s coming over tomorrow afternoon, come with him. I’ll show you around my place. I could use the company, too.”

“I’d like that—if I can get away.”

“Good. You should go inside now, you’re shivering.”

“You’re right. I’m freezing! Goodnight. Oh, Tom, there’s a path on the other side of the rose garden that leads up the hill to your house. It’s a lot shorter than going down to the beach.”

“Okay, good. I'll go that way, then. Well . . . goodnight, Sara.” Tom impulsively brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed it. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

“Nite.” Sara smiled, then watched him as he hurried down the walkway toward the garden.

It was raining much harder now. Tom hoped the pathway leading through the trees would afford him a little shelter. By the time he reached his property, the wind was blowing at near gale force. Rain pelted his hands and face like sharp needles. Pulling the collar of his coat up under his chin, he sprinted the last fifty yards on the narrow path to his house.

A darkened Remington House was silhouetted eerily against the stormy sky, the moon oppressively dimmed by the storm. Tom thought he’d left a light on, but maybe he’d forgotten. Or maybe the power was out again. He reached for the light switch inside the front door. The dark entryway immediately glowed with amber light. Good. The power was on.

Dense shadows followed him as he walked through the house. As he turned on one light after another, Tom began to feel at ease. Wiggins, lying on the kitchen rug, looked briefly at Tom, then curled into a more comfortable position and went back to sleep. Tom made a pot of coffee and took it to the living room where he built fire, then turned off the lights. The room glowed in mellow oranges and yellows, the firelight creating a warm, cozy nuance. Sitting at the table in front of the window, Tom watched the ocean’s choppy waves erratically reflecting slivers of pale moonlight.

His thoughts drifted—as he hoped they wouldn’t—back to Vivian and her disturbing behavior and spiteful verbal attack directed at him. Had he imagined it? Her look of hatred was so real—he’d seen that look often enough from Elise. Elise? No, it wasn’t possible! And yet . . .

Tom slept little that night, his dreams filled with visions of Elise, then Vivian, morphing back and forth until he could no longer distinguish one from the other as they chased about his house, alternately playing the piano, then mocking Tom with raucous peals of laughter.