Robert called from the living room, “Girl walking out on the roads alone after dark is an open invitation. You got what you asked for.”
It was a long time before Regina got up the nerve to walk home alone again, and when she did, she avoided the Shackley Road and walked fast, head down, eyes darting, always a little frightened. She’d been at her wit’s end as the afternoons got darker the fall of her junior year, when to her immense relief, Al started walking with her.
A few days after the encounter with the angry old man, on a Sunday afternoon when she found Mary alone in the kitchen, Regina described what had happened. She couldn’t bring herself to repeat the old man’s words. She couldn’t even quite remember all the strange things he’d said, just the hatred and the anger.
She told Mary, “He kept saying, ‘You Hannons!’ Crazy things. And something about driving an innocent girl to her grave.”
“Oh, Ree, that’s a very bitter old man you saw.”
“You know him?”
“He’s talking about something that happened a long, long time ago.”
Mary made a pot of tea, and when they sat down, Regina said, “Well, what? What was he talking about?”
“When Alice was a little girl, she had a sister who died.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yes, well, the nanny who was supposed to be taking care of her felt so bad that she hanged herself.”
The memory of Mary’s words brought Regina back to the present. She was sure that Mary’d said the girl hanged herself, not drowned. Who was the nanny to the old man? She would have to ask Mary. She winced. Mary wouldn’t like that.
She could hear the old man’s voice, hoarse and rough, and fragments of his ravings. You Hannons. She folded her arms. What had the old man said? A man’s name, not a woman’s. Tyrone? No, Tiberius. Who was Tiberius? A Roman emperor? She almost laughed. The man must have been drunk. Or crazy. Or both. Let it all go, she told herself. But she shivered anyway, alone in the dark, in the attic of the big old house.
The moon spread its cool light on the calm surface of the lake. Regina crawled under the sheets on her mattress, propped her arms behind her head, and drowsed in a cross-breeze of sweet-smelling night air. She could see the sky out the dormer window nearest her—not the moon, but stars and wisps of moonlit clouds.
No one had drowned herself in Blue Lake. Some poor girl had hanged herself a lifetime ago. Long, long ago. Alice was almost seventy, and the nanny had killed herself when Alice was a little girl.
Was Blue Lake cursed? No! That was foolishness.
Haunted? Maybe. Not by ghosts. By memories and death.
8
The Prodigal Daughter
Regina woke with a thought lodged in her mind like a thorn—her whole life had been knocked off course by her sister’s death. Her mother had been taken from her. She’d been turned out of her bedroom and her home. The drowning, she thought with mounting emotion, had made her into a hand-me-down child, exiled to the cottage and passing her days in the attic like an unwanted piece of furniture.
Awake and sitting on a mattress in the raw-timbered, unused attic of the old house, she was struck for the first time, fully, by the stark contrast between her reality and the life she should have lived as the youngest Hannon child.
She crawled out of bed and dressed in jeans and a white cotton blouse, shivering. Chilly night air had pushed through, driving out the mustiness of old wood and exchanging it for the fresh smell of treetops, open water, and piney hills. She pulled on a sweater and checked the time—only six thirty. She closed the windows and looked at the mist-enshrouded lake, rubbing her arms against the chill.
In the cold light of morning, the whole murder idea seemed melodramatic and ridiculous, but the impact of Eugenie’s death on Regina’s life was impossible to overstate. Yet no one had ever talked to her about it. She knew next to nothing. The questions she had only ever asked of Mary had been answered with the barest facts, delivered always with the clear admonition that this was something she should not talk about and certainly never in Alice’s presence.
Fell in the lake and drowned was all she’d ever heard. Al had said the police were involved. It occurred to her for the first time that the death, the drowning, might have been reported in the newspapers, even if it hadn’t been regarded as suspicious. Would there be clippings? There might have been letters too, in those days when people corresponded more. Would anyone have kept them? If they had, they would be hidden well out of sight. Possibly under lock and key. If anything was held suppressed at Blue Lake, it was the death of that child.
She scanned the dusty, jumbled contents of the attic, peered into the dark and sloping corners, and thought again about Eugenie’s clothes. She pushed aside a little upright wooden chair and a box of chipped dishes. There. A creeping in her spine held her back momentarily before she reached for the dusty green suitcase with white piping and a battered brass lock. She dragged it toward her and knelt.
The latch popped at a touch. She sat back on her heels, expelling all her breath at a gut-spike of anger. She’d found these little girl’s clothes as a child. Not knowing whose they were, she’d held them up to herself. They were too small, kindergarten-sized, but all so pretty, much prettier than anything she owned. Lace, little crinolines of fine organza, ribbons, sashes, and embroidery.
Then at the bottom of the suitcase, she had found a silver hairpin fashioned in the shape of a flower with a clear stone winking in the center, which Regina innocently thought might be a diamond.
That night, she’d told Mary about finding a diamond pin.
Mary was blank. “A diamond? In the attic?”
So the next day, Regina brought the pin to Mary in the kitchen at the cottage.
Mary blanched, hand on her throat. “No, Ree, that was Eugenie’s.” She took it from Regina and held it against her chest with both hands. She whispered, though they were alone, “She was wearing it when she died.”
“It’s pretty,” Regina said, eyes glued on Mary’s hands, trying not to sound as disappointed as she felt.
Mary sighed. “Yes, it is, and it’s old. There were two, a pair, but we never found the other one.” Again her voice dropped to a whisper. “It must have been lost in the lake. It’s just glass or crystal though, not valuable. Not a diamond. Tarnished too.”
“Can I polish it?”
“Oh, I think we’d better put this away. Eugenie died, and we don’t like to remind Mama. It hurts her feelings and makes her too sad.”
“I’ll put it back,” Regina offered, fingers itching. “I won’t let anybody see.”
After a long moment, Mary relented. “Just don’t show it to Alice.”
“Can I polish it?”
“Okay. Then wrap it in a paper towel and put it back where you found it.”
Regina polished the pin to a bright shine, wrapped it up, smuggled it back into the attic of the old house, and tucked it into a pocket in the lining of the suitcase.
Shaking off the memory, Regina ran her fingers through that same pocket and retrieved the small, flat parcel. She stood, unwound the paper towel carefully, and found the hairpin just as she remembered it, hardly even tarnished, with three silver prongs to form a comb, the silver leaves, stem, and petals of a flower, and a clear crystal in the center. She stood transfixed by the delicate piece of jewelry that had been found on her sister’s lifeless body. She closed her eyes and held it to her heart, searching for a feeling of connection. After a long moment, she rewrapped it and laid it reverently on her desk.
Across the landing, she pushed back into the children’s rooms and scanned the contents of her father’s study, gravitating to the locked writing box. A quick search by morning light failed to turn up the key. Chances were the key was still somewhere downstairs.
She trotted down the attic stairs and paused to make sure no one else was stirring. The door to the Girls’ Room was ajar—Regina could see that Mary had spent the night in the house—and the
door to the Master Bedroom was closed. Regina headed for the first floor. In the study-now-sickroom, her father’s huge mahogany desk had been pushed up to the wall, drawer side in. She lugged the desk outward from one corner, nearly toppling a lamp. She held her breath and listened, heard no one. The middle desk drawer was locked. She made a quick search of the drawers on the sides. Nothing. Disappointed, she surveyed the whole room. Nothing. No ideas.
She wasn’t sure why she was being so furtive, but it felt necessary. What reason could she give for wanting to look at what her father, who was still alive, kept under lock and key? She heard movement on the stairs and pushed the desk back in place, slipped out the front door, and walked around the lake, scrambling over the old log bridges up and downstream.
By the time she got back, the sun was hot and she had pulled off her sweater. The house smelled deliciously of bacon.
Mary was hanging up the telephone. “Oh, there you are. Bebe flew in late last night and stayed at the airport hotel in Richmond. Edith is going to pick her up this morning, and they’ll come together. They’ll stop at the hospital on the way and be here in time for lunch.”
Regina’s stomach knotted and her appetite disappeared. “Great. Bebe will be so thrilled to see me.”
Mary threw her a sympathetic little smile. “Frank’s coming too. He’ll be here early.”
Regina’s heart lifted at the thought of seeing her oldest brother, who always welcomed her with open arms, even when she’d stayed away for years at a time.
“And Sophie called,” Mary added.
“Ah!”
“She’ll stay at Mrs. Marsden’s, of course. I thought maybe you could take her to the hospital tomorrow.”
“Oh, I’d be glad to. I would love to see her.” But Regina’s thoughts turned back to Edith and Bebe and her other brother, Pace. “They’re all mad at me, aren’t they?”
“No, of course not.”
“They are,” she insisted. “They blame me for staying away. Not writing or calling. They all hate me.”
“Oh, Ree, you know that isn’t true. You’ve always been a favorite of Frank’s. And Sophie thinks the world of you.”
“Edith and Pace blame me for not coming home.”
“They worry that it hurts Mama and Papa.” She stopped what she was doing. “Papa has his regrets.”
“Bebe hates me. You know she does. She always has.”
Mary said nothing, tacitly admitting that Regina was right.
“And they believe all the terrible things she says about me.”
A thumping on the front door interrupted them.
Tall, dark, and square-jawed like their father, Frank beamed at Regina. “Hello, sugar!” Her stiffness collapsed in the warmth of his embrace. He pounded her back gently. “So glad you could come.”
Like Mary, Frank had grayed as he approached fifty. Despite how little time Regina had spent with Frank in her life, Mary’s words were believable—you’ve always been a favorite of his. But as soon as he released her and turned to Mary, coldness came back over her. Frank made everybody feel like his favorite. That was Frank.
Her feeling of isolation grew as Frank and Mary resumed what was obviously an ongoing conversation—about oxygen and pills, the nurse by name, the doctor. They were not excluding her, but Regina knew none of it. Had been there for none of it. She listened, said nothing, felt dumb.
Alice appeared, snow-white hair freshly French-twisted, the fine tendrils on the hairline escaping and curling into ringlets framing her face. On Alice, even sorrow was lovely and fragile, a beguiling work of art. As always, she said little, exclaiming and radiating pleasure to see Frank, remarking on Regina’s presence, graciously declaiming gratitude as Mary served and waited on her. She lit up at the news that Edith and Bebe were coming and that Pace would arrive that afternoon.
Regina hovered at the edges, sitting uneasily, neither guest nor at home, hopping up too late whenever Mary rose to pick up plates or refill coffee cups. When Frank at last suggested that Regina come with him to the hospital, she leapt at the chance and barely refrained from bursting out the door as if released from prison.
“I’ll drive,” he said. “He’s in the hospital in Bedford.”
“I thought he’d be in Lynchburg?”
“He was, but there’s no reason for him to be so far away now. They can do as much for him here as they could do there, and this way he’s closer to home.”
In the car, Frank chatted easily about his law practice in Roanoke, the morning, the weather, the roads, until Regina felt comfortable again.
He wound up with, “It’s good to see you, Ree. It’s been a while.”
“I know. I should…” She couldn’t quite bring herself to apologize, and Frank patted her hand.
“We’re all busy with our own lives.”
She bit her lip, thinking on impulse that she should seize the opportunity, which didn’t come often, of confiding in Frank. “Frank.” Her heart sped up, and her thoughts were too wild to offer her a smooth transition. “What happened that summer? When Eugenie died?”
He continued looking at the road, but she saw his chin pull in and his brow knit. He opened his mouth as if to speak but didn’t.
Regina hastened to add, “I don’t remember it. I was too young. And nobody ever talks about it.”
Frank glanced at her, composed again, and sympathetic. “I’m not sure what to tell you. I was in Charlottesville at the time. I came home as soon as I heard. Mary called me.” He shifted in the seat. “It was awful. Worse than anything I’d ever been through, and I’d just spent four years in a war. Papa was in shock. Alice was raving out of her mind. I’d never seen her discomposed like that. And poor Mary was physically ill.”
“All of you were there?”
He nodded. “By the end of the day. Pace was in Blacksburg. Edith still lived in town. This was before they moved to Petersburg.”
“And Bebe? Where was she?”
“Visiting friends, I think. This was the summer before she went off to school. She was sixteen, and she’d just gotten her driver’s license, so she was gadding all over town.” Faint smile. They’d reached Bedford, and he slowed to navigate the center of town.
“You remember Eugenie, I guess. I don’t.”
“Oh, she was the prettiest little girl you ever saw. Sweet little thing. What a shame it was. Papa adored her.” His face relaxed into a smile. “I remember you too. You were a cute little rascal, and just as pretty as Eugenie when you got to be her age. That summer was the first time I’d seen either of you. I went in the army right before she was born.” He glanced at her. “You don’t remember her?”
“I-I’m not sure.” She was genuinely perplexed. Did she have any actual memories of Eugenie?
“You two were inseparable. You followed her everywhere. You called her Gigi.”
They rode in silence until they saw the sign for Mercy Hospital, a small rural facility, one-story, brick, set well back from the road.
Frank said, “Why this sudden interest?”
“It isn’t sudden. It’s always been right in the middle of everything for me. It’s why I lived in that cottage with Mary instead of at home. It’s why Alice was never my mother. It’s why he was never my father.” She was gathering steam and knew she was getting too emotional but couldn’t stop.
Frank nodded, listening, concern pinching his eyes.
She hated that her voice quivered, but she had to ask, turning in the seat so she could see his face. “How did it happen?”
Frank didn’t answer.
She collapsed back against her seat. “I’m not supposed to ask, right?”
“No, no. I’m just trying to think what to tell you. They said Eugenie was alone near the lake. No one saw her go in. No one really knew what happened, and that’s just it. They all feel like they should have been watching her. Mary used to watch out for us all, but that summer, she and Robert were engaged, so maybe she was distracted. But that puts it down to Alice. N
obody thought she was careless, but you can see how it might look that way. That’s why nobody wants to talk about it. She never really took care of her children herself. She feels like if she had…”
“I’m just trying to understand.”
“What don’t you understand?”
“What I don’t understand is, why did that mean I had to be expelled from the family?”
“It wasn’t like that, Ree. It wasn’t about you.”
“I ask Mary and she acts like it’s a crazy question. But then she says, You were too much for her. Like I was nothing but trouble. Like she lost Eugenie, so she didn’t want me anymore.”
Frank sucked air between his teeth but said nothing.
Regina forged on. “She doesn’t even include me when she talks about ‘the children.’” She made finger quotes, shifting to anger. “She doesn’t say the other children. And she never says anything to me. She says things about me to Mary. ‘Look who’s here. Isn’t she all grown up?’”
Frank pulled to a halt in a parking slot and frowned at the keys as he switched off the engine. “I haven’t seen that. I only saw you at holidays. I guess I haven’t been very observant.”
More words rushed out. “I was only three years old, so I don’t remember and I don’t understand, but it was like the door closed on me when Eugenie died.”
Frank sat back and looked at her, puzzlement replacing concern in his expression. “Well, it’s not as if everything was just fine before Eugenie died. Maybe it was more like her death was the last straw. We’d been through the Depression and World War Two by that time.”
He opened the door and got out. Regina got out too, angrier than ever. She wanted to cry out, How does that explain anything? Everybody went through the Depression and the war.
But Frank was still talking. “During the Depression, it was all Papa could do to keep his head above water. He closed his office in Piedmont, got a PO box so he’d have a business address, and traveled to Richmond and Petersburg. He wasn’t home much.” Frank came around to her side, touched her back, and pointed toward a far entrance. “During the war years, he stayed home more, worked out of his office at home, and we thought things could return to normal. Then Eugenie died, and Alice fell apart.”
Blue Lake Page 7
