Dozens of trees protected the property from neighbors on either side. “I got this listing because Uncle Mario’s good buddy Anthony died and he had it written in his will that his kids had to live in the house themselves or give it to Uncle Mario to sell.
“He and his buddies were like that—loyal to the end. Or maybe there was a favor owed, who knows? But the family is anxious to sell it and fast. Who wants a house with seven bathrooms? they said. Who does, right?”
Rose nodded. “It would be hard to fill a home like this. It’s beautiful, but, well, maybe if you had a big family.”
“I have a guy interested in the place. Really interested. It’s someone I knew as a kid who has come back to town and somehow fallen in love with this humongous place. I guess his dad tried to buy it once but the deal fell through. So maybe it’s a childhood dream. Or maybe he wants to pull off something his dad couldn’t do. Or prestige maybe? This guy is kind of like that. The bigger the better, you know the type.”
“Does he have a large family?” Rose thought about her mom and tried to imagine her in a house that was so close to the sea. Three rooms would have been plenty, even one if it had looked out onto the water.
“Just a wife.”
“Does she like the house?” Rose strained her neck to see all the way to the top of the house.
“That’s a good question. He’s the only one I’ve talked to. In fact he’s been over here a lot. He even brought Mario a bottle of his favorite bourbon the other day and spent most of the morning in with him, schmoozing. Talking about what, I don’t have a clue. I left to do more productive things.
“But anyway, these are just more reasons why I am so grateful you came into my life, Rosie. The house isn’t on the market yet. I promised this guy I’d show it to him but only after we had time to take care of a few things. You’ll understand why when we go over. The kids want it sold ASAP. But believe me, the problem we’re about to fix—well, it could have turned the most reasonable buyer away.” Stella rolled her eyes, then opened the car door. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
The house had been closed up for several months except for Stella going in a few times to check on things. Inside it was clammy and gathering the stale, unwelcoming smell of unused spaces. Heavily draped windows blocked out sunlight and Stella clicked on lights as they walked through the massive entryway. Then she pulled out a key.
“There’s an elevator but it needs a key. Here’s yours.” She handed Rose a brass ring with a several house keys and one smaller key hanging from it. “I have one, too, and Uncle Mario has one in the office. I guess the Bianchis had little grandkids running around and were always afraid they might get stuck on the elevator. Anyway, it’s a good thing for us that they have it, because the repairs are on the top floor. It was where old Anthony Bianchi used to spend his days. He and Uncle Mario were great pals along with a couple of others, and according to folklore, they spent many happy hours in their ‘tree house,’ as my uncle called it.”
Stella inserted the key in the lock and the walnut-paneled elevator door opened, then whisked them up to the third floor. The doors slid open and they stepped off, finding themselves in an open room with windows on two sides, bookcases and paneling and a giant television screen on the other.
There were no drapes on the windows, and sunlight flooded the cherrywood floors, the fine Persian rugs, leather couches and chairs comfortably worn and cracked and showing the shape of bodies. A wooden stand still held an assortment of Rinaldo pipes, and a brass telescope at one of the windows looked ready for use. And at the street-side end of the room, a massive mahogany pool table took center stage.
It was an amazing place. Except for a fetid odor that caused Rose to take a sudden step backwards. Her hand shot up to cover her nose and mouth. It felt like a deadly gas attack. She gagged.
“I’m so sorry, Rosie.” Stella pulled a small white cloth from her bag and handed it to Rose, using another to cover her own nose. “You’re probably thinking Uncle Mario’s dead friend is still up here somewhere, right? It’s awful, I know. But you can see why I need help before I show it to anyone. Even my eager-beaver client would be turned off.”
Rose covered her nose with the cloth and looked in the direction of the odor, noticing a rug that was pulled back near the wall, a chair moved.
“It was a squirrel,” Stella explained. “I guess the little missus knew this would be a great family house. Except she got trapped, along with a baby or two, inside that wall.”
Stella followed Rose over to the scene of the damage.
“The good news is that they’d done some renovations up here and it’s drywall, not plaster. Gus McGlucken knew someone from animal control who came out and removed the recently deceased family a couple days ago, but he had to cut through the wall and left a mess. Finding someone to do the rest of the work on such short notice and for such a small job was nearly impossible—even for Gus, who knows everyone. He even had his son come up and give it a look, but he declined the job. Robbie is more into computer video games than this kind of work. Oh, but look at what Robbie showed me while he was here.”
She walked over to a wall of paneled bookshelves, moved one book, pressed something, and stepped back. The panel began to move, turning like a revolving door, until it clicked into place and the shelves holding the World Book Encyclopedia were replaced by a tidy, mirrored bar, still equipped with fine brandies and Scotch.
She gave Rose a Can you believe it? kind of smile, as if they were both in on some private joke, and then returned it to its more literary façade.
“Things like this happen more than you think. House secrets, I call them. Secret bars, squirrels. One never knows. Yet another reason I need you, Rosie. Is that the thirtieth or fortieth now?”
Rose warmed inside. She didn’t even mind the nickname, one she had worn for more years than not. She looked more closely at the wall, the damage. “It will be easy, Stella. Fun.”
“How long will it take?” Stella checked her phone. “I promised the interested buyer an update. And Uncle Mario says there are other people calling him about the house, too.”
“A few days?”
“Perfect.”
“Fixing this kind of thing reminds me of the work I did in the college rentals we lived in. Landlords loved me—their houses were in much better shape when we moved out than when we moved in. But I must admit, I never found a hidden bar.”
“Ah, college days. I loved college. Many memories. I went to Salem State, near here, and lived with six girls. We had great fun, but none of us were much into fixing anything, even meals. Four years of pizza and ramen noodles.”
“I didn’t have that problem. My roomie and I were, well, nerds I guess you’d stay. We had a good time together talking and sharing ideas. We were both quiet, and helped each other study, usually at the house. Maybe that’s why I fixed up the places we lived—we spent so much time in them. Prem made amazing Indian meals, did sweet things for me, and told funny stories. I was a great rehabber and a good listener and helped him through English lit and math while he helped me through science classes. We were best friends. We even had the same therapist for a while, but we both knew we were best friends and didn’t need therapy.”
“Oh?” Stella waited.
“And then when we graduated, we got divorced.”
Chapter 9
Rose turned her key and rode the elevator up to the third floor in the seaside mansion as if she’d been doing it all her life. She’d been over several times the day before. Then earlier today. And one final time, before calling it a night. It gave her a thrill each time the elevator started to move and she felt the lightness of her body, the lift and the pleasant flip of her stomach. And then the slight lurch as the cables locked in place and the doors slid open.
At first she had thought she would be afraid, being in the enormous house alone—especially toward the end of the day. But the dark emptiness of the mansion below disappeared quickly, her world restricted to the elevator and th
e cozy room at the top. She opened the windows wide each time, ushering out the fetid odor, paint and plaster smells refreshingly taking its place.
She imagined that Mr. Bianchi—she had learned the owner’s name from the framed awards still hanging on the walls—was somehow pleased with her efforts.
Anthony Bianchi. The name rolled off her tongue dramatically as she had worked on the gaping hole. She imagined his life in this room with his friends, and she smiled, even laughed sometimes as she let her imagination take her into an imaginary world of pool, tobacco smoke, and good whiskey. And great friends. She’d sashay back and forth, her brush in her hand as she adhered a mesh patch to the wall, feathering the edges.
The room was hers, Anthony’s, and his good buddies’, and she smiled at the pleasure of it all.
She had told Stella earlier that day that she’d be finished in one or two more days. A sober Uncle Mario happened to be in the office, and he’d congratulated her with a vigorous slap on the back that made her cough. Then he told her what she already knew, that Anthony Bianchi was his paisano, his great lifelong friend. And he proceeded to regale her with wild stories of the great times they’d had in the third-floor room. “Old Gus McGlucken would join us, too. Harry from the deli. It was our private little place,” he said, his eyes bright with memories and merriment. “Did you feel the secrets packed into those little nooks and crannies? There’re plenty of them, Rosie my girl.”
And then he kiddingly asked her if she’d found the hidden bar and explained that Anthony’s wife, Mirabella, didn’t believe in evil spirits—which is what they henceforth called their stash of whiskey. Evil spirits! Mario had shouted, his belly shaking and his raucous laughter echoing in the small office.
Stella had calmed him down, and then congratulated Rose on how fast she was getting the work done. “Hurrah, Rosie,” she’d said. “So how about dinner tonight? We’ll celebrate our first major success together.”
Rose had happily accepted. She gathered up her things and headed over to the house, plans unfolding in her head. She’d apply a coat now and leave it to dry overnight. Shower away the paint and odors. And off to dinner at the Ocean’s Edge.
A great celebratory spot, Stella had said.
Rose rested her brush on the edge of the paint can and looked up at a ship’s clock on the bookcase. It was later than she thought. Shadows fell across her canvas tarp and onto her bag. She sat back on her legs and looked once more at the freshly painted sheetrock. Time to finish up. She’d be a little late, but Stell would understand.
Stella seemed to understand everything about Rose in that accepting way of hers. But Stell didn’t know everything, and it was bothering her. It hadn’t mattered at all when Rose first came into the town, when she was planning to stay just long enough to make things right in herself, for herself. But it mattered now. Stella mattered. She would talk to her. Soon.
The thought made her feel better, cleaner somehow. She’d head back to the apartment, clean up, and meet her at the restaurant. She was looking forward to sharing her day—and hearing Stella’s full-throated laugh when they talked about Uncle Mario’s stories and life and the houses waiting to be fixed.
And maybe tonight was the night to bare her soul to someone who had come into her life unexpectedly, and someone whom Rose hoped would stay. No matter what she had to tell her.
She peeled off her work gloves and walked over to close the windows, breathing in the bracing air. Below, waves crashed against the shore, white curls of froth exploding.
Power and glory. Truth and redemption. The last poem her mother had written about the sea. Rose could almost see her, sitting by a window in the sterile hospital room, a smile lighting her sweet face, her spirits rising even as her tiny body was disappearing, reciting her poem out loud. She was somewhere else that day. Her special place. Power and glory. The majesty of the sea.
Suddenly Rose’s head jerked. A movement below pulled her close to the window, her palms on the sill, and her eyes peering into the near darkness, searching the grounds below. At first the shadows near the steps appeared to be from the bending branches of the massive old oak trees surrounding the stone patio.
But the shadows began to move across the yard, away from the trees, coming together then moving apart. And finally, as they moved closer, two figures emerged. They moved apart, a wide space between them. One stood stiff and rigid, the other moving, arms lifting and falling.
Rose squinted, trying to see what was happening. The Bianchi family had asked Stella to hire a man to come by each night to make sure things were secure, but it was too early for that. And this was clearly a man and a woman. She frowned, wondering where they had come from and why they were trespassing in such a bold way, as if they owned the place. And then it came to her. Of course. They did own the place. They were probably Mr. Bianchi’s adult children.
But from the looks of their bodies, the waving arms and loud voices tossed around by the wind, they weren’t happy. They were arguing angrily, the man towering over the woman. She couldn’t hear words, only angry, hateful voices.
For a minute she thought the man was going to attack the woman, but as Rose watched, she spun around suddenly and walked away, fiercely, as if daring anyone to stop her or come after her. And then she disappeared into the heavily treed property along the side of the house.
The man didn’t move.
Rose hadn’t explored the property enough to be sure where the woman was headed. But she supposed she was going around to the front of the house. Is she coming into the house? The door was locked, but the family might have a key. It was still their house. Of course they would have a key.
Her heart began to pound, but she took a deep breath and tried to dispel the anxiety, realizing the foolishness of her thoughts. The family had pressed Stella to have the repairs made. They had every right to be there, but so did she. Maybe they had come to see the progress—or simply to check on the house.
But the thought of being caught in a family argument wasn’t appealing, no matter how proud she was of her work. She reached out to pull the casement window closed, and then she stopped, her fingers frozen around the brass window knob. Her heart pounding wildly in her chest.
The automatic patio lights had gone on, lighting the steps like a stage. And standing in the center of it was a tall man. His hands were in his pockets, his legs apart, as if the earlier anger hadn’t happened, or if it had, he had come out the victor. He was looking around the property, his eyes lingering on a guest cottage near a copse of white pines, and then the winding path down to the boathouse.
Suddenly, the man’s head swiveled, as if hearing someone near the trees. Then he relaxed again, settling back, his shoulders down as he continued to survey the grounds. Finally he turned around toward the house. His eyes moved across the lighted patio. Then the first story with its curtained mullioned windows, its heavy French doors. Then up to the balconies ringing the second floor.
And finally, resting directly on Rose Chopra’s face.
Rose spun away from the window, a small cry escaping her lips.
She looked frantically around the room as if Anthony Bianchi himself might show up, might help her through this. Help her to think clearly. To get away.
But her fear was foolish, ridiculous. Why would he be here, at this house? Tonight? Her memory was playing games with her, her imagination blowing up like a balloon.
She took her phone from the table and stared at it, begging it to tell her whom to call. But she had no reason to call anyone. This wasn’t her house; she wasn’t the person to report someone on the property. She took a deep breath, then released it slowly as she’d practiced over the years. Then another, and the calm slowly came back into her, moving through her body, finding its way into her limbs and her mind and the shadowy corners of her memory.
What would Patti say? Her friend and therapist had once compared her to a butterfly, slowly emerging from that shy, folded-in person into a glorious spirit.
Don’t go back into the cocoon, she’d say. Your fear—that’s your enemy, Rosie. Not people. Face it, cast it out, and don’t ever let it back in.
And she didn’t. She wouldn’t. Each time it tried to gain entry, she’d push it away. Again and again, whenever fear reared its ugly head.
Logically she knew there was no reason to be afraid. Practically, the house was locked, the elevator was operated with a key. And emotionally, she was finally in charge of herself. She was no longer the child who let others define her.
But deep down Rosie knew the elevator would start. And she knew without question whom she had seen out the back window. And she knew it would finally be okay.
You are Rose, as Patti would say. And Rose is wonderful, a lovable person. Love her.
Another breath. She dropped the phone into her backpack and walked quietly across the room to the elevator. Her eyes stayed on the door, knowing that the elevator would soon be ascending.
And then it was, and her ears were ringing as the steady grind of the cables brought the walnut paneled car higher and higher.
Chapter 10
The glow of candlelight turned the Ocean’s Edge dining room into an inviting magical place.
The large dining room was crowded tonight, but made intimate with well-placed ficus trees, wood-carved mermaids that lured diners to the high-backed booths, and a sea of white clothed tables. A small piano trio played soft jazz in the lounge. Although it was too chilly to sit outside, the back deck was lit with tiny lights framing the harbor, and a canopy of stars shone down on sailboats and fishing boats, bobbing side by side.
“It truly is magical,” Izzy said, as Sam pulled out her chair. “And my favorite season. Well, along with spring. And I love summer. But the smell of burning leaves, the hint of snow in the air—it makes me feel alive.”
“Well, you are very alive, my dear,” Birdie said, leaning over and kissing her cheek before sitting down. “This weather also gives you reason to wear that amazing coat.” Birdie held the edge of Izzy’s long cashmere cardigan between her fingers. Izzy had worked on it for months. It was simple and beautiful, with muted navy and gray blocks, and an occasional orange circle placed across the coat willy-nilly. “Bree suggested I add the ping of color—a treat for the eyes, she said.”
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