Al turned completely around once, seeing nothing but trees. “Does the bus come down this road?”
“No, this is a back way. The bus takes the Shackley Road.”
“Is this a shortcut?”
“No, it’s a long-cut.” He checked to see if she was being sarcastic, since she never was, and she said, “I don’t like to walk the Shackley Road alone.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d want to walk this road alone.”
“It’s not much farther.”
They reached a low point where the road dived down toward a bridge over a creek.
Al said, “Looks like Sleepy Hollow. I could just see the Headless Horseman galloping through here.” Halloween was two weeks away.
“Ugh. Stop it. I don’t like to be scared.”
“But it’s not really being scared. It’s just fun.”
In the ravine, the wind didn’t reach them, but the air was colder. She shivered. “Did you read The Turn of the Screw? It’s scarier than any ghost story.”
“I thought it was a ghost story.”
She shook her head. “There aren’t any real ghosts in it.”
He stopped to look into the creek from the bridge. “What about Quint and Miss Jessop?”
“They’re dead.”
“Right. And the governess sees them hanging around.”
“Not really. She imagines she sees them.”
They stood side by side at the rail of the bridge. Clear water rushed under them.
“She does see them.” With less confidence he added, “She thinks.”
“It’s all in her head. No one else sees them.”
“The children see them. Miles and Flora.”
She shook her head again. He couldn’t see her face, just the aura of red-gold hair. “They deny it. She’s just convinced they do, so she says they’re lying because they’ve been corrupted by the ghosts.” She pushed off from the rail and moved on. “She was crazy.”
He trailed after her. “I like ghost stories.” They trudged up the steep hill on the far side of the ravine. “There’s one about a haunted lake around here somewhere.”
She stopped. They had reached the level road. “What lake? Where?”
“I don’t know where exactly. I went there once with some friends. It was dark, so I just followed them. We were on bikes.”
Judging from her expression, she thought he should grow up.
He felt his face reddening in the chill of coming darkness. “It was just a story kids told around Halloween at my old school in Lynchburg.” A story he’d found thrilling not too many years before. She resumed walking, and he fell in beside her. “They said a lady drowned herself in the lake because her lover left her, so now she pulls under little kids who swim there and drowns them to keep her company.”
That got a murmured exclamation from her.
“It was cold like this when we went there, but later, like nine o’clock. One of my friends swam in the lake on a dare.” They stopped again, and he hastened to add, “I didn’t go in. It was too cold for me. Anyway, I was afraid we were going to be arrested for trespassing.”
She looked up at him from under her eyebrows. “Where was this?”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t be able to find it now. I just went along with the others.” He grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “I take it you don’t believe in ghosts.”
She answered seriously, “I don’t know if I believe in ghosts or not. But I know about suicides and drownings, and they’re not fun.”
He had no reply for this, and Ree headed up the road.
Over her shoulder, she added, “There’s such a thing as being haunted. You don’t need ghosts for that.”
He caught up to her and apologized. “It was kid stuff. Stupid. It was Halloween.”
She smiled, to his relief. The road ended a hundred feet ahead, where he saw a small house backing onto woods, a weathered picket fence in front. It faced a hilly orchard to the east. The mountains loomed to the west. She slowed and fell silent, coming to a halt at the gate in front of the cottage. The sun had sunk and the trees were still. Not another house or soul in sight.
She held out her arms for her books and gave him a serious look. “Do you really believe in ghosts?”
He thought before he answered. “I don’t have any idea if there’s such a thing as a ghost. I used to think it was fun to get spooked on Halloween when I was a kid.”
She shivered as if with dread. That, surely, was his own overactive imagination. The moment—if it even happened—passed.
She slipped through the gate, looking back the way they’d come. “Do you live near here?”
He didn’t. He lived on the other side of town.
She tipped her head to the side. “Where?”
“On the other side of Panther Hollow.” Four miles away, at least.
Her jaw dropped. “You’ve been walking the wrong way the whole time!”
“It seemed like the right way to me.” He laid a hand on his chest and made a stiff and silly bow. “For the pleasure of your company, mademoiselle.”
And she burst out laughing.
He was still smiling when she closed the door to the cottage.
He had wondered then, as he wondered now, about the intensity of her reaction to a stupid local ghost story.
Al tossed his pen across his desk. Back then, once a month, he’d looked for her on Latin club day, and as if they’d agreed to it, though they never had, they walked together to the cottage where she lived, talking books all the way.
Anyway, for sure she lived in that cottage. So what was all this about living in a castle? Did she paint a castle and tell Rosa that she’d grown up in it? Had she invented a fantasy past? Which brought him around to the other confounding aspect of the morning’s revelation—she claimed to be a Hannon. The Hannons were an unseen and mysterious old family who lived outside their town, reclusive, from another era, with some sort of notorious, unnatural death or deaths in their past. He racked his memory for details but came up with only something vague, hushed, from the dinner table when he was in junior high school. Something about a murder. Or murders. An old story, from long before he knew Ree, who was Ree Medina then, not Hannon, unconnected in his mind.
The Hannon house was, now that he thought of it, in that same part of the county where Ree lived. He consulted his mental map. The cottage could possibly have backed up on Hannon property, but he’d never seen her come from or go to any place but the cottage. When I was in high school, I often stayed with my sister. Whose name was Medina. He couldn’t quite square it. Her name had been Medina too, and she had lived in that little house. He was sure of it.
He had to see her again. He had to know—why had she left? Where had she gone? How could he have gotten it so wrong?
4
Wasn’t it Murder
Regina felt, rather than heard, a presence at the door to her office. Al MacDonald. The look on his face made her smile. He was the type who could conceal nothing in his manner. Hesitation, uncertainty, and heart-on-his-sleeve eagerness were all plain to see.
“Are you busy? Is this a bad time?”
“No, come in. It’s so nice to see you.” Her feelings were more turbulent than she wanted him to know. She was warmed by the sight of him, as she always had been, but she dreaded his questions.
“How about lunch?”
She hesitated, looking at the project in front of her. “I was going to work through lunch…” But he looked so transparently crestfallen that she had to smile again. Plus, she was struck anew by the man he’d become. Handsome, relaxed, assured. “Where have you been all these years, Al?”
“Where have I been!”
He laughed, and she felt a blush rise as she realized she’d opened the door on herself. “Oh, Al, I know I—left abruptly.” She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. Not right away anyway.” That disarming grin hadn’t changed. “Quick lunch?” He held up
his fingers in a pinch. “Just a little one?”
She sighed and dropped her head in her hands, suddenly overwhelmed. “I can’t.”
“Ree—Regina—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. Do you want me to go away?”
“No!” She tossed her hair back, annoyed that her eyes were wet. “It isn’t you. It’s—I have to go home.”
“Home meaning Piedmont?”
She nodded and heaved another heavy sigh. “My father’s sick.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” He looked a little set back. “Is there anything I can do?”
“You can shut the door.” He did. “Just—give me a minute.”
With characteristic tact, he turned away and studied the watercolor on the wall. “That’s the Hannon place.” And after a moment, “It is kind of like a castle.”
“What?” She followed his gaze to the painting of a large house on a hill, overlooking an expanse of water and surrounded by trees in fall colors. The house didn’t resemble a castle at all—it was a distinctly American country house, large, old, and comfortable. “I’d say it’s Colonial, if anything.”
“The way it sits on the top of the hill. Looks out on all that land.”
“Oh. I guess. Yes.” And true, it had once felt like a castle to her.
“It’s beautiful.” He leaned in to read the initials RH in the lower right-hand corner. “Did you paint this?”
She barely nodded.
“So you lived there? In the Hannon house? I never knew that. You lived in that other house when I knew you. When I used to walk you home.”
“Right.” She moved the papers on her desk around. “That was my sister’s house. Mary’s much older than me.” Don’t ask. I don’t want to do this right now.
He turned back to the painting. “The place had a name…”
“Blue Lake.”
“So your father is Old Man Hannon—oh!”
He colored, and she laughed in spite of herself. This was so Al. “Right. Old Man Hannon.”
“I’m sorry. Sometimes I can’t get my foot out of my mouth.”
“It’s okay. My father and I aren’t close.” She closed her eyes for a moment. She felt him waiting, watching her, and said, “It’s a long story. But I do have to go home.”
“I’m sorry he’s sick. He must be pretty old, your father.”
“Eighty-four. He’s dying.”
“Oh, wow. You said sick. Is he really?”
She nodded. “I think so. Mary says so.”
“You’re going for the weekend?”
“I guess. I don’t know. I have this project.” She pushed the papers in front of her. “My boss is nervous about me leaving town right now.”
“Do you go often?”
“More like never.” He was so easy to talk to. So nice. She always told him more than she intended.
“I wondered. Because I go pretty often, and I’ve never seen you there.”
“Because I haven’t been there. Only once since I last saw you.” Again she thought, Don’t ask. And again, he didn’t. But she explained anyway. “I don’t get along very well with my family.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets, listening.
“I need to go. I don’t know why exactly. He’s unresponsive. Not that it matters. I don’t know what either of us could say now that we couldn’t have said before.” She picked up the pages on her desk and dropped them. “Mary wants to talk about the house and the property, which seems a little premature, but she wants me there.”
“Oh right. You’re going to sell the house.”
“Oh no, we won’t sell it.”
“No? Oh. I thought—”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She thought with a flicker of impatience, How would he know? “What?”
“Well, you know my mom’s in real estate.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“She thought the Hannon house was already listed.”
“The Hannon house was listed for sale?” Her voice sailed up before she could stop it. What had Mary said? We have to figure out what to do with it. She willed herself to remain calm. “Look, we do have to figure out who’s going to take care of it, pay the bills. My father used to handle all that. My mother’s helpless when it comes to money and practical matters. But it’s not for sale. Your mother said it was?”
He lifted his hands. “Hey, I don’t know anything.”
“I don’t know anything myself, frankly. I haven’t been home in three years. Last time I went was the first time he had a stroke, but he recovered, or it looked like he would.” The words tumbled out. “I’ve been estranged from my family for some time.” He waited, but she reverted to the house. “But they can’t sell the house without my consent, and I’ll never give them that.” She stood. “I think I have to go. I’m sorry about lunch. I should have gone sooner.”
“No, sure. We’ll do it some other time.”
Her heart caught at the note of resignation in his voice.
“No, wait.” She tore off a scrap of paper, grabbed a pen, wrote, and handed the paper to him. “Here’s my number at Blue Lake. I’ll be there for at least the weekend, I know that much. Call me.”
His smile reassured her. “I will. I’ll go home this weekend myself. Mow the lawn.” He studied the paper, folded it carefully, and tucked it away. “If you want to talk, I’ll be there. But I know you’ll have to be with your family.”
“Actually, I’ll probably be desperate to get away from them.”
He looked at the painting of Blue Lake again. “I went there once.”
“Really?” she said absent-mindedly, clearing her desk. She’d assured Ron she’d think about the project over the weekend and be ready to put something together quickly as soon as she got back. She tuned back in. “What, you were there? What were you doing there?”
“Trespassing.”
“Why?”
“Curiosity.” He turned back to the picture. “It was sort of a local legend when I was a kid, like the lake was haunted. Or unlucky. Cursed. I know you don’t believe in that kind of thing, and I don’t either really.” He caught her eye. “That house you lived in—I mean, where you were staying with your sister—is that right near the Hannon place?”
“Yes. You can’t see it because of the woods, but the cottage is at the edge of the property. It used to be the gardener’s house, a long time ago.”
“When I was a kid, I lived in Lynchburg, you know. We knew there was a lake hidden in the woods out near Piedmont, but it was private, so it was kind of mysterious. My brother’s friend said it was really dangerous, and whenever somebody went in, they got sucked under.” He waved. “Cursed. Haunted. He said if you went in to help, you got sucked under too. So my brother and his friends snuck in and swam there on a dare, on Halloween. Not me. I didn’t swim. Too scary. And too cold to swim. But I tagged along. I told you this once, but I didn’t know it was the Hannon place at the time, or that it had anything to do with you.”
She said nothing, just looked at him until she realized her mouth was open. She shut it. She couldn’t decide whether to scold or laugh.
He opened his hands. “It seemed like that lake had a bad reputation for drownings.”
She told herself he had no idea what he was saying. “People drown in lakes. It’s happened. But haunted? Cursed? Sounds like foolishness to me.” She gave him a little warning frown.
“It was a kids’ ghost story, that’s all. A lady drowned herself in the lake and her ghost pulled little kids in to keep her company.” He thought for a moment. “They said there really was a little girl who was drowned.”
“Right. One of my sisters.”
He winced. “Oh no! I’m sorry, Ree—I mean, Regina. I don’t know why I brought that up. I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. I don’t even remember. I was only three years old and she was just a little older, five, when she died.”
“I’m still trying
to get it straight in my mind. I never knew your name was Hannon, and I didn’t make the connection. I forgot—oh man, the murder. I’m really sorry.”
“The what?”
“I didn’t put it together—the stories I heard as a kid about little girls getting drowned, and the whole thing about—sorry.” He shook his head and kicked the carpet.
“No, wait.” Regina pulled her mind around to what she thought she’d heard. “Did you say murder?”
He looked hesitant.
“Tell me what you said.”
“There was an unsolved murder. Wasn’t there?” He shrugged. “Before our time. I don’t remember it, I just heard about it before I knew you. I wouldn’t have connected it with you anyway, because I had your name wrong. I’m sorry. It’s an awful thing to bring up about somebody’s family.”
“But no, it was nothing like that.” She calmed. This was a mistake, as wrong-headed as the idea of a lake with a curse on it. “You have us mixed up with someone else. Eugenie drowned. It was—” She opened her hands and shook her head. “An accidental drowning. Fell in the lake and drowned.”
He looked a little baffled. “I thought the police got involved. I thought there was a suspect. Some guy who got away or disappeared. Something like that.”
“I don’t know what you heard, but no. No one has ever said anything about police. And certainly nothing about murder.”
5
Blue Lake
Regina swung by her apartment to pack a bag, put the top down on her MGB, and headed west into a sunny, dry summer afternoon, away from the clamor and modernism of the city. Tree-lined back roads opened onto timeless fields of cotton, corn, and peanuts. The air was fresher, cooler in the country. Every time she remembered that her father might be dying, she pressed the accelerator, though she hardly knew what she expected to accomplish and felt only dread.
Mountains rose in the distance as she approached Piedmont. She looped around to avoid the town and picked up the road that she used to take home from school, when she walked with Al so many years before. She braked to dip down to the creek and downshifted to climb the steep far side. It was after four o’clock, warm and still. When the cottage loomed near the end of the road, her mood darkened as if a cloud had passed over the sun, despite the late-afternoon brightness. She coasted by, noting an absence of cars. Good. No Robert. He had a way of showing up unannounced.
Blue Lake Page 3
