by Wendy Webb
Cassandra Abbott I felt like I knew already because of our phone call the day after Miss Penny died. Henry Dalton, painter. Brynn Kendrick, fiction writer. Diana Cooper, poet. Richard Banks, photographer. My eyes lingered on his name, and my heart seemed to skip a beat at the thought that he’d be at Cliffside very soon.
But I shook the thought out of my head. What was I thinking? It was like I was anticipating the arrival of a long-lost friend, or a celebrity. But I had never met the man before and although I knew his work, I wasn’t anything near starstruck.
I chalked it up to opening-day jitters and took a long sip of water before pushing my chair back from the table. I was as ready as I was ever going to be.
CHAPTER 14
I stood at the window of the director’s office, staring out into the rain. It hadn’t lessened at all, and indeed seemed to have grown stronger as the day went on. As I watched it coming down in sheets, I fretted about the condition of the road leading to the property, remembering the narrow shoulder and the cliff below. I wondered, all of a sudden, why they hadn’t put a guardrail up after the accident. I’d ask Mr. Baines. Maybe we could make that happen.
At the stroke of noon, the Bentley pulled into the drive and came to a stop in front of the door. Good old Charles, punctual to a fault. Harriet would, no doubt, be pleased.
Another car followed, an enormous SUV, and pulled in behind Charles.
I watched as one of Mr. Baines’s men ran out from under the archway, a huge umbrella unfurled. Another two scurried to the second car and popped the back hatch. Ah, I thought. One car for the fellows and another for their luggage and equipment. So that’s how it works.
The first man opened the back door of the Bentley, and out came the fellows. I couldn’t get a good look at them because of the umbrella—I saw a flash of a blue shirt, a long leg ending in a high-heeled shoe, another in jeans. They disappeared under the archway, and, I assumed, were now inside. My stomach seized a bit—this was really happening. They were here.
Mr. Baines’s other two men were busy with the luggage, hauling suitcases and trunks, computer bags, and what looked to be painting supplies—an easel and several canvases stretched over frames.
As I stood there watching the scene unfold from my perch on high, I understood why Miss Penny and her father had watched the fellows arrive rather than greet them. I was always one for questioning traditions, but I had to admit, sometimes things were done a certain way for a reason. Even though I didn’t quite see everyone clearly as they arrived because of the umbrellas blocking my view, I did get a sense of . . . not power, exactly. Superiority? That was closer to it. I was here, watching them, making my first impressions. They couldn’t see me and didn’t know I was doing it.
The Bentley pulled away, and, as soon as the SUV was unloaded, it did the same, parking across the lot near the gardener’s quarters. I watched as the drivers, Charles and another man, got out of their respective cars, shut the doors behind them, and loped off around the building.
I looked at my watch. Twelve fifteen. What was I going to do with myself for the next hour or so until it was time for the welcome reception? I heard a commotion on the stairs—voices and footsteps and laughter—and knew that Harriet was showing the fellows to their rooms on this floor. I shouldn’t go to my suite. Harriet might have a stroke if I was seen by the fellows before the reception. No, my instructions had been clear. She was going to ring me on the intercom when it was time for my grand entrance.
So, I stayed where I was at the window and watched the rain pelting the two black cars, puddles pooling in the gravel drive.
A few minutes later, another car pulled in, a gray SUV of some kind. Richard Banks, no doubt. He was here! He parked next to the other two cars, and before Mr. Baines’s man could get out to him with an umbrella, he opened the driver’s side door and slid out, seemingly unconcerned by the downpour. Something about it made me smile. No arriving in a fancy Bentley for this man.
He flipped up the collar of his jacket and hurried to the back of the car, popping the hatch and drawing out a large duffle bag and another heavy-looking black bag—his cameras, no doubt—which he slung over his shoulder.
He looked familiar to me somehow, this man, his head full of dark hair, his broad shoulders. I leaned in to get a better look, my heart beating in my throat as though I were a teenage girl catching sight of a boy-bander. Pull yourself together, Norrie. Just then, he glanced up toward my windows. He saw me. So much for peering down from on high, unseen.
We locked eyes, and in that moment, a jolt of electricity sizzled through me so strongly that it might have been a lightning strike had I been outdoors. He broke into a wide grin, his face soaking wet from the rain, and raised one hand in greeting. I smiled and did the same, my own face reddening.
Just then, the man arrived with his umbrella, obscuring Richard Banks from my view. I watched as the blue umbrella came closer and closer to the house and then disappeared under the archway.
A few minutes later, I heard more voices in the hallway. Someone was showing him to his room. I listened until their footsteps faded.
Everyone had arrived. All of the fellows were at Cliffside.
One thirty came and went. I expected Harriet to buzz me on the dot, but apparently the fellows weren’t as concerned with punctuality as Harriet was. I smiled at the thought of her waiting in the winter garden, hand on her hip, toe tapping.
I had checked my hair and makeup in the mirror over and over again, eyeing my black dress darkly. Now I wished I had chosen something a little less dour. I was contemplating dashing to my suite to change when the intercom crackled and buzzed.
“Miss Harper?” she said, the connection scratchy. “It’s time.”
All feelings of superiority that my window-watching had afforded me dissipated.
I pushed myself up from my chair, opened the door, and walked through it, very conscious of my own movements. What am I doing here? This is Miss Penny’s place, not mine. I felt every inch the fraud as I descended the staircase. I had no business being the director of Cliffside, no business at all. Please let me not screw this up.
But as I walked through the foyer, my footsteps echoing on the marble tile, I tried to counter those thoughts, taking deep breaths in time with every fourth step. In and out, Norrie. In and out. These people weren’t here to see me, I told myself. I didn’t have anything to prove to them. I was simply their hostess. Just the person who was on hand to make sure things ran smoothly. And, really, I told myself, the person who would see to that was Harriet. I was just the figurehead. There was really nothing I could ruin, nothing I could get so horribly wrong as to mar somebody’s experience here. There was nothing to fear. So why was I quaking?
I took one last deep breath and walked into the winter garden, trying to exude a confidence I wish I felt.
The women were seated at the round table; the men stood by the wall of windows. Harriet was positioned by the sideboard, ready to serve. They all looked at me as I entered.
On cue, three of Harriet’s girls appeared carrying trays. One held glasses of red wine, another white, and the third, hors d’oeuvres. The girls circulated with the trays until everyone had a glass, including me.
“Hello, everyone,” I said, my voice a bit too loud as I held my glass aloft. “Welcome to Cliffside!”
A weak chorus of hellos came in response. I didn’t know quite what to do or say after that. I had prepared a welcome speech, but it flew out of my mind the moment I entered the room. Thankfully, Harriet came to my aid.
“This is Eleanor Harper,” she said, her tone stern. “Miss Harper is the director of Cliffside, as you know.”
Another man, who I assumed to be Henry Dalton, crossed the room and extended his hand. I judged him to be in his mid-fifties or early sixties, his shock of gray hair betraying his age, although his face was quite youthful. He wore khakis and a crisp, blue-striped shirt, and looked as though he’d be more at home at a polo club than in a studi
o. This was no starving artist.
“Hello, Mr. Dalton,” I said to him, smiling as I took his hand. “I do hope you find inspiration for your wonderful paintings here in the gardens, although today isn’t the best day for that.”
He raised his eyebrows and smiled, lifting my hand to his lips and kissing it softly. I was very glad I had studied those dossiers.
“I’m sure I will, ma’am,” he said, bowing his head, a slight Southern accent making music of his words. “The Cliffside gardens are legendary. Thank you so very much for this opportunity.”
At this, the three women scrambled to their feet and joined us, all of them beaming. I didn’t know who was who among them, so I was glad when they introduced themselves.
One of them, a petite woman in a cream-colored Chanel suit, her dark hair styled in a neat bob, grasped both of my hands. “We already know each other, but I’m afraid I didn’t make a very good impression.” She turned to the others. “I was quite rude to Miss Harper on the phone a few days ago, I must confess.”
“Were you?” I smiled, squeezing her hand. “I had forgotten. Cassandra, I’m eager to hear all about your research into TB sanatoriums. We must sit down one day soon and talk about it.”
“I’d like that very much,” she said. “I’m just so thrilled to be here. I feel the inspiration already!”
“Yes, we heard all about it on the drive,” said another of the women, drawing out the all as though it had several syllables.
I saw a twinge of something in Cassandra’s eyes—hurt? Or was it anger? I squeezed her hands as we exchanged a look.
“I’m Brynn Kendrick,” the woman said, pushing her long, blond hair behind her ear. She was a young woman, mid-twenties to early thirties at most, her slacks and tight-fitting top accentuating her slim figure.
“You’re the novelist,” I said, turning to her, managing a smile.
“Yes,” she said. “As it happens, I’m writing about TB, too. Fiction. I’m setting my novel here at Cliffside. She didn’t know that”—she glanced over to Cassandra and narrowed her eyes—“but I’m sure you do. It was in my letter of application, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, but I didn’t know anything of the kind. Those letters of application weren’t in the dossiers. It made me wonder, again, what Miss Penny had done with them.
I took a sip of my wine and turned to the third woman. Her long, dark hair was a mass of curls. She held it at bay with her glasses, pushed up on her head as a sort of headband.
“And you’re Diana,” I said. “Our professor.”
She smiled a warm smile. “I, too, am very glad to be here,” she said, glancing at Henry. “It’s going to feel like such an indulgence, having nothing to do but focus on my poetry. No phone calls, no Internet. No students! I hope you all don’t mind if I’m a bit antisocial, but that is why I’ve come. To be inspired by solitude.”
I took the lead, then, filling them in about meals, the policies of the house, giving them the rules of the road, so to speak.
“Your time is your own to do with as you wish,” I said, “but we do ask everyone to gather in the drawing room at five thirty. One of the many perks of being at Cliffside is the opportunity to talk with like-minded people about their work and yours. Miss Penny told me about the wonderful discussions people have had during that time. The fellows before you have all enjoyed this, and it is our hope that you will, too. It’s an important part of what we do. We’ll have a drink, and then if you wish to have dinner with the group, it will be in the dining room. If not, you’re welcome to take it in your room or elsewhere in the house.
“There is one other thing you should know,” I said. “If you need anything, day or night, I’m here. My office is on the second floor, as is my suite of rooms. Please don’t hesitate to seek me out if you need anything at all.”
And then I raised my glass. “To your first day at Cliffside,” I said to them. “May you find inspiration and creativity here, as so many have done before you.” The words rolled off my tongue easily. I didn’t know where they came from, but I was glad they did.
“To Cliffside,” Henry said, the others repeating it.
They finished their drinks and filed out, each thanking me as they went. All but Richard Banks, who was leaning against a window frame grinning at me.
“Something I can do for you, Mr. Banks?”
He walked across the room and extended his hand. “I didn’t get to introduce myself before you started in on your spiel,” he said. “So very nice to meet you, Miss Harper.”
I slipped my hand into his, and that same jolt of electricity flowed through me that I had felt when I first saw him get out of the car barely more than an hour earlier. I could feel the heat rising to my face, and I prayed I wasn’t blushing. I fought to suppress a giggle. What was I, twelve?
“Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Banks,” I said.
We stood there for a moment, not letting go of our handshake, until Harriet and her minions burst through the door, there to collect the trays and glasses, no doubt.
She narrowed her eyes at us, and I dropped his hand as if it had stung me.
“I’m wondering if you’d be so kind as to give me a tour of the house,” he said, his accent—certainly not upper-crust British—sounding almost Irish, even though I knew he was from Cornwall. “There’s not much photography to be done outside on a day like this.” He flashed Harriet a smile and winked at her. “Isn’t that right, Mrs. Baines?”
“Yes, yes, I suppose,” she stammered, and I swear I saw a flush come to her cheeks. He was a flirt, this one. After giving a few short orders to the girls, Harriet hurried out of the room.
I stifled a chuckle, but when she had gone, I caught his eye and let it out. “There aren’t many people who can disarm Harriet, but I think you just did.”
He grinned. “Now, how about that tour?”
CHAPTER 15
As we strolled from room to room, I told him what I knew about the property, that it had been a sanatorium for TB patients back in the day before Chester Dare decided to make it a retreat for artists and writers.
“And why did he do that, do you suppose?” he asked, running a hand through his dark hair.
“I really don’t know,” I said. “She would have been the one to ask about that.” We were in the drawing room now, and I gestured to a painting that hung above the fireplace. Chester, Chamomile, and Penelope. The girls looked to have been teenagers when it was painted.
“Ah, yes, the famous Penelope Dare,” he said, staring at the portrait. “I was so sorry to learn of her passing. Both sisters gone, now.”
“Thank you,” I said, remembering the way she had looked when we discovered her on that horrible day. So grotesque compared to the beautiful girl in the painting. I shook my head, as if to shake that image away. “It was such a shock to everyone.”
“And you had just arrived, isn’t that right?”
“It was my first day. She had just hired me.”
“It’s a wonder you stayed on.”
“Oh, no,” I said to him. “Not at all. I made a promise to Miss Penny that I’d be the director of this place. Her death didn’t change that. It made it more difficult, because I’ve had to muddle through without her, but it didn’t change the promise I made to her.”
“Well, I personally thank you for it,” he said, leaning against the sofa. “For purely selfish reasons. I don’t know what would have become of our session had you not stayed on.”
“That’s my point exactly,” I said to him. “Life had to go on here at Cliffside. There’s a whole staff of people dependent on Cliffside for their livelihoods, and an entire year of fellows, you included, who were counting on coming here. I had to make it work.”
“You’ve had quite the trial by fire then,” he said, reaching over and touching my arm. That small, caring gesture was enough to make tears sting at the backs of my eyes. I turned around and whisked them away. Trial by fire, indeed. He had no idea.
&nbs
p; “I’m sorry,” I said, turning back to him. “It’s just that—” My words dissolved into a sigh.
“It’s stressful, I know,” he said, his deep voice and musical accent acting like a balm on my frayed nerves. I felt myself exhale. “Not to mention that everyone’s still in a state of grief,” he went on. “You’ve pulled it all together beautifully, if I may say.”
I managed a smile. “I’m only the third director in Cliffside’s history. First Chester Dare, then Penelope, and then me.”
“Quite the responsibility, carrying on somebody’s life’s work,” he said.
This man truly understood.
“I still can’t get over it,” he said, “her dying on the very day you came. She handed over the reins and then passed away. Almost like she planned it.”
Almost, indeed. I nearly told him everything right then—it felt so good to have someone to talk to. But I kept quiet about Miss Penny’s suicide. That she died was public knowledge. How she died was her own business.
“Maybe she knew she was dying and wanted to put a successor in place,” he offered.
“Yes, I think that’s probably right,” I said. “We had known each other before, twenty years ago. I hadn’t talked to her since. But I had just left my job right around the time she announced she was retiring, and everything seemed to fall into place for me to come to Cliffside.”
“Interesting,” he said. “That’s how I came to be here, too.”
I squinted at him. “How so?”
He shook his head. “I met the Dares”—he furrowed his brow—“it must be twenty years ago now. Chester had seen my work in National Geographic and wanted me to shoot Cliffside—the grounds, the shoreline, his daughters. I wasn’t interested in that kind of portrait work, but then he mentioned how wild and untamed Lake Superior was, and I got interested.”
