by Linda Mooney
"Stay here while I see if he's free to talk to you,” the woman said, adding, “Don't get your hopes up.” Johana nodded and watched the woman exit to the left into what appeared to be a sitting room. It wasn't long before she could hear a deep male voice in the distance. An undeniably angry male voice that was drawing closer. The words were difficult to understand, but the tone was definitely harsh.
Well, it wasn't as though she had not had to interview her share of belligerent artists in the past. Most of the time their attitudes were the result of being interrupted in the middle of an inspirational moment. When the muse struck, artists and writers were quick to jump. And anything that dared to break that concentration often met with a quick temper. Steeling herself, Johana stepped into the adjoining room.
It was richly furnished, but with more modern furniture and accessories. The huge, lit limestone fireplace dominated one side of the room. The place radiated warmth from the fire and its surroundings, but otherwise, Johana sensed an emptiness, as though the room was rarely used. Gee, showrooms in furniture stores have more charisma. They probably see more traffic, too, she mused.
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Chapter Three
The angry voices were closer but still indecipherable. Suddenly, the noise ceased. Seconds later a door at the far end opened, and the woman emerged. Her face was flushed, proving she had been part of the argument Johana had overheard.
"I'm sorry, Miss Reese, but Mr. Castle is unavailable at the moment. Perhaps you could try calling his agent in New York. I can give you that information if you need it."
For some unknown reason Johana had a feeling the man was just on the other side of the door and listening in on their conversation. It irked her to be so close and still be losing ground. Pasting a smile to her face, she accepted the piece of paper held out to her. “Thank you for the offer. Perhaps tomorrow?"
Her persistence drew a frown from the other woman. “I don't believe that will be possible, either. He's a very busy man."
"So what you're telling me is that I can pretty much accept the fact that Mr. Castle won't be seeing me at all, is that correct?” Johana knew she could be just as bullish as the big guys, and in her line of work she had locked horns with some of the best.
The woman smiled apologetically. It appeared sincere. “Actually, Mr. Castle doesn't give interviews to anyone. I'm sorry."
"But you would prefer that he did,” Johana pointedly remarked. The comment got a sigh out of the other woman. Seeing that she had a possible cohort, Johana held out her hand in greeting. “Call me Johana."
The woman took her offer. “Gracie. Crawford. I'm Mr. Castle's housekeeper, secretary, and assistant for anything and everything he can't do himself.” She motioned toward the sofa. “Please. Take a seat. I guess you overheard our, uhh, little disagreement."
Johana flashed her a smile. “It was hard to ignore. Gracie, I'm not here to exploit Mr. Castle, if that's what he's thinking."
"No, no.” Gracie waved a hand to dismiss the thought. “That's not the problem."
"Is it because of his accident?"
"Partly."
"How long have you known Mr. Castle?” Johana questioned her. She'd deliberately kept her notebook in her purse. After getting this close to actually seeing the man, the last thing she needed to do was lose the trust his secretary was placing in her by whipping it out and writing down every word she spoke.
"Close to sixteen years. I was originally hired by his father. After Brenden died, Bill asked me to stay on and help manage the estate, since I was already familiar with the job."
"How long ago did the senior Mr. Castle die?"
"Brenden and Anita died in a freak car accident in Germany about eight years ago. Their car hit a patch of ice and they slid over the side of the mountain. I took care of the finances until Bill came of age to assume the responsibility.” She sighed loudly. “I have nothing but respect for my employer, Johana. When his trust was released to him, he put every penny back into this place and the company to keep it running. And, believe me, it was a considerable sum."
Nodding, Johana mentally chewed on that fact. “I came here because I saw a reprint of his painting at a gallery in New York. To be honest, I was drawn into the piece. If I had a few thousand dollars to spare, I would have snapped it up in an instant. But seeing Castle's Keep is what got me into researching it and Mr. Castle. After talking to my editor, he gave me permission to come here to interview the artist."
A soft, almost indistinguishable sound came from behind her. Johana fought the urge to turn around and see what caused it. Gracie, on the other hand, glanced up then back at her. To cover up the woman's growing embarrassment, Johana continued as if nothing had happened.
"What do you know about Mr. Castle's painting?"
"Well ... it's a big painting. He began it a couple of years ago on a whim. You see, his mother was a professor of art, and she dabbled in watercolor. Bill learned a lot from her."
"I assumed that much when I read his short biography online. How long did it take for him to complete it? There's a lot of attention to detail."
"It took him almost a year to finish it. Of course, he only worked on it in spurts."
"What medium did he use?"
"Oils, mostly. Some watercolor, too."
"Both? How unusual,” Johana commented. “Is there any chance I might get to see the original?"
This time Gracie visibly shied away. “I'm sorry. That's impossible."
"Can you at least tell me if it's on the premises?” Johana hurried to asked. There was more sound coming from behind her. It had to be Mr. Castle. Why else would the secretary appear this flustered?
"Yes,” Gracie managed a slight nod. “It's here."
Keep her talking, Johana told herself. Keep her talking to divert her attention away from the fact that her irate boss is listening in on every word we say. “You said earlier that the painting was big. How big is it?"
"Very large. Quite large.” She started to say more but someone began ringing a bell. Quickly rising to her feet, Gracie gestured toward the entryway. “I'm sorry, Johana, but I'm needed elsewhere. It was good talking to you. Let me escort you to the door, please."
The abrupt ending to their conversation irritated her, but it also piqued her curiosity. For some reason, either discussing Mr. Castle, or discussing his work, was off limits. Johana followed the woman into the foyer without question, but as the woman opened one of the massive double doors to show her out, Gracie whispered, “Go back to the café and tell Martha Gracie gave you a blue ribbon. She'll give you several numbers where you can reach me.” Stepping back, a polite smile fell over her face once more, and she raised her voice back to normal levels. “Thank you again for your interest in Mr. Castle. I'm sorry we couldn't be of any further help. Have a safe trip back to New York."
Accepting the charade, Johana smiled and nodded. “I'm sorry, too. If Mr. Castle changes his mind, would you please notify me? My number's on the card."
"I certainly will. Goodbye, Miss Reese."
Johana went back to her car and drove away, but not without glancing back at the house via the rearview mirror. She could swear she saw a figure peering through one of the windows when she left the driveway. It was either a short figure, or one sitting down. There was no way she could tell in that brief glance if it was Warren William Castle, but she would bet money it was.
"All right, Mr. Castle. I'll play it your way. I'm backing away. For now. But this isn't over yet. There's some reason why you won't let anyone in to see your painting, even though you're sending out reprints of it. But one way or another I'm going to find out why."
* * * *
* * * *
"You brought that woman into my house when I specifically gave you standing instructions to permit no strangers without my okay!” the man roared.
Gracie let the man fume. It wouldn't matter if she tried to placate him or even argue the fact. Once Castle got rolling on a topic,
he wouldn't stop until he was good and ready.
"She wasn't here to exploit you, Bill."
"She's a fucking reporter! It's her job to exploit people. That's what sells magazines!” He gave a puff on the tube leading down to the mobilizing unit on the wheelchair and smoothly rolled over to the far side of the office. Other than his desk, the room was barren of furniture, a necessity that enabled him easy access with the cumbersome conveyance.
Once he got to the door leading into the library, he looked over at her with eyes glittering in anger. “If she tries to come back here, leave her waiting at the door. I don't want her anywhere near my painting, do you understand me? No one goes near my painting, especially nosy reporters!"
Closing his mouth over the tube, Castle shot through the adjoining door renovated to swing freely on its hinges. Gracie watched him go without a rebuttal.
That Johana woman would be back. Gracie was certain of it. And when she returned, the secretary would see that the reporter got a good look at the painting in question.
She just wished there was a way she could explain to her employer that this woman was different. Yes, Johana was a reporter, and, yes, she was initially in it for the story. But for some reason Gracie could sense there was another underlying reason why the woman was pursuing information on the painting. The magazine interview was her reasonable excuse. The truth was something much deeper. She would bet money on it.
Shaking her head, Gracie got up from her chair and went back into the small adjacent room on the other side of Castle's office. She checked her emails then checked her voice mails. There was a brief message from Johana, time stamped not twenty minutes ago.
For a full five minutes Gracie remained sitting and staring out the narrow window without actually seeing the lush fall foliage surrounding the estate. Her instincts had served her well these past many years. It had been her decision to have the painting made into limited edition prints in a last-ditch effort to keep Bill Castle from committing suicide after his debilitating injury. The ultimate sales had bolstered Castle's almost non-existent sense of self-worth to the point where he was willing to return to humanity.
But then, what happened on that hot, muggy summer afternoon nearly two months ago...
"Oh, God, please let me be right this time,” she muttered softly. “Please. Let me be right. It would make everything he's suffered worth it."
She stared out of the window for a few more minutes before resigning herself to getting a little more work done. She wouldn't be able to make her next move until later in the day when Castle settled down for his required afternoon nap. Until then, there was plenty to keep her mind occupied and her hands busy.
* * * *
* * * *
Johana got back to the café and confronted the older woman, explaining that Gracie had given her a blue ribbon before asking for the secretary's phone number. Martha grinned. “You've probably guessed by now that we're very careful about strangers approaching Mr. Castle."
Chuckling, Johana accepted the piece of paper with three phone numbers written on it, thanked her, then took a corner booth and ordered coffee since it was still mid-morning. The first call went straight to voice mail, which didn't surprise her. The second, ditto. The third number was busy. No doubt Mr. Castle had reamed out his secretary for talking to the reporter.
"Any luck?” Martha asked, dropping a few containers of half-and-half on the table beside the coffee mug.
"They either go to voice mail, or it's busy,” Johana admitted.
The woman shrugged. “The first one is Gracie's cell. The second is her personal number to her suite."
"Suite?"
"Yeah. Gracie moved into the mansion after Bill's accident."
"And the last number?"
"Her office phone. Hey, at least you got your foot in the door. That's more than most people accomplish."
"What I don't understand is why Mr. Castle continues to be a recluse. He's still very active in the running of his father's business, from what I can gather. And he's not the only quadriplegic in the world. So why the animosity?"
Martha gave her a rueful smile. “You'll have to ask him."
It was a trite but true answer. But there were other ways Johana knew she could glean a few more meager scraps of information if Castle continued to be inaccessible.
"Do you have a city hall or library?"
"Yeah. Library's across the square. Town hall is one block over, near the courthouse."
Johana thanked her, finished and paid for the coffee, and took off on foot to see what she could find.
By early afternoon she had perused every public document pertaining to the Castle family history, but nothing that could explain the man's propensity for isolation. On top of everything else, she was getting a headache from eyestrain. When her cell phone buzzed, she answered it with relief.
"Hello?"
"Johana Reese, please,” a woman's voice softly asked.
"Speaking. Gracie?"
"I'm sorry I missed your call. I was unavailable for a while after you left."
Johana answered with a chuckle. “I can imagine what he might have said to you. I'm sorry if I got you into trouble."
"Don't worry about it. Bill's getting harder and harder to live with as the days go by. Where are you?"
"At the newspaper morgue, reading up on Castle history. For a wealthy and prominent family, it appears they were well-loved by the community."
"And still are, Johana, despite Bill's lack of social communication. Have you had lunch yet?"
"No,” Johana sighed. “I was just about to leave here when you called."
"Can you come back to the house? Bill has had his meds and is lying down. He'll be out until around four. We can have sandwiches and talk."
"That sounds like an offer I can't turn down. I'm leaving now,” Johana promised her.
The secretary was waiting in the entry when Johana pulled up. Following the woman back inside, Johana found herself led through the big dining hall and into the kitchen where a corner table was already set for two. The sandwiches were turkey on croissants, the soup was homemade split pea, and the atmosphere relaxed and quiet.
Johana noticed how the woman tried to avoid staring at her gloved hand, or at how Johana tended to favor her right hand for everything. After another awkward moment, she opened up to the secretary.
"Hey, it's only fair I return your gesture of friendship. The reason I wear a glove is because I was born with a withered arm. The doctors aren't sure if it's genetic, or a result of some medication my mother took that affected me. But thankfully it didn't affect my development or growth."
"I'm so sorry,” Gracie said. “Forgive me for staring."
Johana shrugged. “Don't worry about it. You didn't know. Actually, it's the main reason why I normally don't go out to personally research a story like most reporters do."
"So you're here because your editor ordered you to?"
"That's pretty much the truth.” Johana flashed her a smile.
"Why? Because she—"
"He. My editor is Milo Holden."
"He, then. Your editor thinks that you might be able to get Bill to open up to you because the two of you are both handicapped?"
"Ridiculous, isn't it?” Johana replied, not caring to mask the irony in her voice. “I fought his reasoning. What he proposes is flat-out exploitation, and I almost didn't come. But in the end, I couldn't pass up the chance to see the real painting up close."
Gracie nodded, and they spent the next minute eating in silence. Finally the secretary spoke again. “You've probably been wondering why I'm being so friendly with you."
Johana grinned. “It had crossed my mind. Oh, and thanks for the lunch."
Gracie smiled in return. “You understand you can't work for someone as long as I have and not develop feelings for them. I love Bill, but not in the way you think. I'm more like an overprotective aunt sometimes. Or an older sister. Which brings me to why you're here.” Neatl
y folding her napkin and laying it beside her plate, she turned to give Johana a worried look.
"When Brenden and Anita died, Bill didn't want to assume the company, even though his father had hoped he would. But he shouldered it anyway, and it was as if this enormous blanket of despair settled over him. He worked feverishly, many times eighteen to twenty hours a day, to learn the business and take care of it. He worked until he collapsed one day during a shareholders’ meeting. Doctor Cox told him to either take some time off or take up a hobby."
Gracie shrugged. “That's when he picked up the brush and began painting Castle's Keep. Bill got his love of creating pictures from his mother, and he's dabbled in it on and off since he was a child. But this time he practically threw himself into this project. For a year Bill was either working for the company or working on his painting. He had just finished it to the point where he was satisfied when I convinced him to get away from the house for a while and go on vacation. ‘Go skiing,’ I told him. ‘You used to love going skiing when you were growing up.’”
Running a shaky hand through her short hair, she sniffed and tried to fight the tears rising in her eyes. “If I hadn't convinced him to go skiing, none of this would have happened. Not the accident, not the—"
She choked, then broke into a soft sob. Immediately, Johana rose from her chair and went over to lay an arm across the secretary's shoulders. “Shhh. You can't keep blaming yourself for the accident, so stop it. Stop it right now. You didn't cause him to run into that tree. All you did was try to give him a moment's peace from everything."
Grabbing her cloth napkin, Gracie wiped her eyes as she nodded. “I know that, but I can't help but wonder...” She took a deep, ragged breath before continuing. “Anyway, since the accident Bill's temper has gotten shorter and fouler. He's never happy, he's never able to relax anymore, never willing to give anyone the benefit of a doubt. I've done everything I can think of to give him a reason to accept his turn of fate, but it's as if he's given up on enjoying what life he has left ... and he has a lot of life left, Johana. The man's just twenty-eight, but he's given up on ever having a personal future. All he lives for now is keeping the company solvent. That and his one painting."
