“Oh, good grief,” she exclaimed, realizing she had no key with which to open the door. Exasperated with herself for having overlooked this one little item, she paced back to the top of the steps, then sat down.
“Damn. I can’t believe this,” she growled. “I can’t believe I drove all this way to reach a house I cannot get into.”
The last motel she’d passed was about sixteen miles back. She figured she had roughly enough gas to make it to Mr. Foster’s General Store.
She rose with great annoyance, shaking her head in disbelief at her stupidity. As she turned her head to the left, she saw the outline of the planter on which Aunt Leila had kept her African violets in the warm months. Small clay pots lined its white wrought-iron shelves. Abby paused, a memory begging for attention. When she was a child, Aunt Leila had often left a key for her under the third pot on the third shelf. She lifted the pot and ran her fingers across the spot where it had stood. Grinning broadly, she held up the key.
Thank you, Aunt Leila.
Abby fitted the key into the lock, hoping Aunt Leila had not had cause to change it. As the key and the knob turned simultaneously, the door opened with the greatest reluctance. She gave it a tentative push, and it swung an arc into the big, dark entrance hall. Taking a deep breath, she entered—slowly and on tiptoe—into the hushed halls of her childhood.
Through the inky darkness, Abby could see the stairwell rising some twenty feet back from the doorway, along the right wall. The interior of the house was as familiar to her as her name. Even in the dark, she knew that to her immediate left was the music room, which opened into Thomas’s library. A wide hallway led past the stairwell and on to the dining room, beyond which was a butler’s pantry and the kitchen. To her right was a formal parlor, which opened to a sitting room, from which one entered a small conservatory, which Aunt Leila had called her morning room.
Standing in the middle of the entrance hall, Abby peered into the two front rooms without taking a step toward either. The furniture was covered with sheets, giving a ghostly form to every chair and settee. There was an eeriness about the house that she had not anticipated. Over all, the scent of lavender—Aunt Leila’s signature fragrance—seemed to preside.
What had Aunt Leila’s letter said about dear and gentle spirits?
Goosebumps sped up her arms, across her shoulders, and straight down her back into her legs and didn’t stop until they reached her toes.
Don't be an idiot. There’s no such thing as…
The floorboards overhead creaked menacingly.
Old houses have noises. It’s just the pipes, she told herself.
She forced the air out of her lungs slowly, then set her purse down on a nearby chair while she turned on the overhead light. One last bulb of the large, ornate crystal chandelier flickered uncertainly, the sudden dim light causing shadows to lengthen across the spacious hall. She took four steps forward when she heard it again.
Abby froze.
This time, the creaking was accompanied by a light shuffling sound. Inching toward the wall parallel to the stairwell, Abby tried to disappear into it, straining her ears to try to identify the sound.
A soft footfall on the top step was followed by another equally as faint. Someone was making a slow, deliberate descent. It was not Abby’s imagination, nor was it a ghost. Someone very real—a burglar? a vagrant?—was making his way downstairs. Abby flattened herself against the wall, her fingers fanning out on either side as if searching for something to hold on to. Without a sound, she slid sideways toward the back hallway. She hoped, the intruder, whoever he was, didn’t know the lay of the house as well as she did.
Unless, of course, he’s been camped here since Aunt Leila died.
Maybe he somehow found out the house was vacant and decided to move in.
Maybe he used it as his base of operations, lying low during the day and sneaking out to commit murder and mayhem in the dark of night.
The shadow cast by the figure paused momentarily, long enough for Abby to move toward the dining room. She took two quick steps and hit the table that stood, obscured in darkness, against the wall. Something crashed to the floor.
“If you’re looking for money, you’ve come to the wrong place. I don’t have any,” a woman’s voice—forced firmness barely concealing fright—announced from somewhere halfway up the stairs.
Abby slowly stepped out of the shadows and peered up the steps. An old woman, wrapped in a bright yellow chenille robe, her hand tightly clasping the handrail, stared down at her.
“Go on, do whatever it is you’re going to do,” the old woman bravely demanded, her voice holding a hint of the soft eastern Carolina accent Abby had heard so often in her childhood. “Just don’t hurt me. Rob me, take what you want. But don’t hurt me.”
“Who are you?” Relief washed over Abby like a warm ocean wave.
“Now, what the devil of a difference would that make?” The woman’s shoulders were tiny under the robe, frail, like the rest of her. Only her voice—the voice of one accustomed to being obeyed—appeared strong. “The silver’s in the dining room. That’s about all there is that you could carry away. Help yourself. Then get out of here so I can go back to sleep.”
Abby approached the bottom of the steps.
“You don’t look much like a burglar.” The old woman eyed her suspiciously.
“I’m not a burglar,” Abby told her.
“If you’re not here to rob me, then what the Sam Hill are you doing, breaking in here in the middle of the night and scaring an old lady half out of her mind?” snapped the woman. “Unless you’re one of them serial killers you hear about on the news these days…”
“I’m Abby McKenna,” Abby told her gently. “I own this house.”
“Abby McKenna,” the woman repeated. “Abigail McKenna? Leila’s grand-niece?”
“Yes.” Abby nodded. Clearly, this was no vagrant. “Who are you?”
“Belle. Belle Matthews.” The woman came down the remaining steps to study Abby’s face. “Well, mercy me. You’re Abigail, all right. Well, then, ’bout time you got here.”
The two women eyed each other for a long moment. In spite of the old woman’s bravado, Belle was flushed, her hands trembling as her white-knuckled grip on the baluster eased.
Taking great pains to present as dignified and controlled a front as possible under the circumstances, Belle asked, “Want some tea?” Without waiting for an answer, she pulled herself up to her full height of almost five feet and swept past Abby toward the kitchen.
In the poorly lit kitchen, Belle placed a pot of water on the stove and opened a cabinet to bring down two cups and matching saucers.
They sat at a small table overlooking the darkened backyard. Abby stirred her tea and wondered how she could go about asking Belle why she was living in Leila’s house.
“Guess you’re wondering what I’m doing in Leila’s house.” Belle looked at her from over the top of her cup.
“Well… yes.” Abby’s eyebrows rose in mild surprise that Belle’s words so closely echoed Abby’s own thoughts.
“If you’d made the time to visit once in a while, you’d have known that Leila invited me to move in with her about two years ago. Right before I sold my house.” She nodded her head, presumably to indicate the house across the street. “Not that I wanted to. Sell it, that is. Couldn’t pay the taxes. Sell it or watch it be sold for back taxes, that was my choice. Leila kindly offered me shelter. I kindly loaned Leila money to have the roof replaced, once I had cash from the sale.”
“And she paid you back?”
“Nope. I figured it would come out of Leila’s estate, once you got around to coming down here.”
Abby’s face took on the appearance of plaster of paris as she tried not to choke on the thought.
Belle finished her tea and rinsed the cup out in the sink. “I’m glad you finally got here, Abigail McKenna. I was wondering how I’d keep that dinosaur of an oil tank filled this winter. Lei
la and I used to pool our social security checks, you know, just to eat and pay our utilities. Never would have been able to keep the furnace running by myself. Guess now that you’re here, I can quit worrying about that. Leila promised me I’d always have a home here. Nice to know it’ll be a warm one. See you in the morning. Oh.” She turned around to face Abby, who sat silent and wide-eyed as she tried to digest the news of her indebtedness. “Which room you figure on using?”
“I… I hadn’t thought about it. My old one, I guess.”
“Linens in the closet where they’ve always been.” Belle tottered off down the hall, her voice trailing behind her. “Take a quilt from the chest at the foot of the bed. It’ll be chilly by morning.”
Abby sat motionless at the table, Aunt Leila’s letter to her suddenly very clear.
“…care for… any dear and gentle spirit you may encounter here—as best you can, as I have done…”
Leila had passed not only her home but her best friend as well into Abby’s hands.
5
Lost in a dreamless sleep after her marathon drive of the previous day, Abby had no sense of time or place when she finally awakened. The windows permitted no clue of dark or dawn beyond their heavy drapes and tightly clasped shutters. She reached for her watch on the table next to the bed. Seven a.m.
Grabbing her robe from the bedpost, she tied it loosely at her waist and opened the door. The house lay as silent as it had the night before when she had first crossed the threshold. She wondered if Belle was an early riser.
Wandering down the stairs, she checked for coffee. Even instant coffee will do, she thought, suddenly craving the gourmet beans she used to splurge on back in her more affluent days. The cupboards held nothing but a box containing a half-dozen tea bags.
She pushed aside the narrow blue-and-white-striped curtain that hung across the glass in the back door. Looking around, she found a wall hook upon which a key dangled on a thin piece of string. She fitted the key into the lock and turned it, the hinges protesting with a low-pitched shriek as she pulled it open. Abby took a few steps out into the morning air and peered at the old thermometer on the outside wall. Fifty-eight degrees. The sun was trying its best to will away a veil of clouds and make its appearance. Abby sat on the top step and stretched the long robe to wrap around her bare ankles.
That the grounds had fallen into a sad state of neglect pulled painfully at Abby’s heart. Aunt Leila had been celebrated for her gardens. The local garden club had for many years included Leila’s property on its annual summer tour. More often than not, the event would culminate in a garden party, for which a young Abby would be pressed into service. From her perch on the back porch, she could almost see herself, dressed in a starched white summer dress that had once been worn by Aunt Leila herself, offering delicate tea sandwiches to the ladies who clustered around Aunt Leila’s lilies or her arbors of roses. Here, Leila had hosted family weddings and grand parties. Abby’s own parents had exchanged their vows right there, under that very arbor, when the white roses that once wound overhead had been at their very peak.
What a shame. She lamented the sight.
Vines and shrubs neglected for years had overtaken all. The cobbled paths that had once led from one pampered bed to another were obscured now, as were the beds themselves. Vestiges of Leila’s herb garden remained around the ornate birdbath which had once stood proudly in the center of the garden. The birdbath was cracked now, one section hanging off its base at an awkward angle.
What a shame.
“Broke Leila’s heart to let it go,” Belle said softly from the doorway, “but, of course, these last few years, neither of us could tend to it. And there’s been no money to hire out the work. ’Course, now that you’re here, you can tidy things up a bit.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.” Abby turned to look over her shoulder at the slight figure behind the screen.
“You start with the obvious, Abigail,” Belle sighed with exaggerated patience. “First, you pull out what doesn’t belong there, then you tend to those things which do.”
“I doubt I’d know the difference,” Abby muttered.
“Read Leila’s journals. Wrote down everything she did out here for almost seventy years. Sketched every plant she put in and dated every one of the sketches,” Belle told her with a mild drawl. “You can read, can’t you? Tea’s ready, if you’d like some.” Belle disappeared into the kitchen, and the whistle of the kettle ceased abruptly.
Abby tapped one foot quietly on the step, measuring out her patience.
“Gentle spirit,” my ass.
“How about if I make breakfast for us?” Abby suggested as she followed Belle into the house. “We could maybe eat in the morning room and get reacquainted.”
And maybe I can find out where your family is, and what their plans are for you now that… well, now that Leila’s gone, and soon the house will be passing into other hands, so to speak.
“That would be nice.” Belle nodded agreeably. “I’ll set the little table in there.”
“What would you like for breakfast?” Abby asked.
“I’d like soft-boiled eggs, sausage, and biscuits with blackberry jam,” Belle told her as she passed into the pantry for some dishes.
“Sounds easy enough.” Abby smiled and opened the refrigerator door. The relatively new appliance was virtually empty, except for half a stick of butter in a pink Depression glass dish, a jar of grape jelly with only the faintest remnants of purple streaks up one side, and five slices of bread in their plastic wrapping.
“Belle,” she called into the next room, “there are no eggs.”
“And no sausage and no biscuits.” Belle appeared momentarily in the doorway. “You asked me what I wanted. That’s what I want. But we’ll both have tea and toast, because that’s all we have.”
Abby put two pieces of toast in the ancient toaster, removed the butter from the refrigerator, and took it into the room Aunt Leila had called her morning room. She stood in the doorway and watched as Belle placed the teapot and cups on the small round table that stood between two straight-backed white wicker chairs. How many times had she watched Aunt Leila do these exact tasks in preparation for their morning meal?
The sun was beginning to beam through the back windows, casting aside some of the gloom that seemed to encase the entire house. As the light spread across the worn carpet, the shabbiness of the room became more apparent. In Abby’s memory, the chintz on the settee was always fresh and new, the window ledges lined with lushly flowering plants, the lace curtains sparkling white. Now, all seemed faded and dusty, the paint on the window ledges peeling and the curtains almost gray. A few of the windows sat at slightly odd angles, the panes no longer solidly affixed to their frames.
As if reading her mind, Belle told her, “We just couldn’t keep up with it, Abby. It was all too much. Before Leila died, we did manage to keep most of the downstairs open, but since she… it’s all I can do to keep the dishes washed and the floors clean and the bed linens changed.”
“You’ve had no help at all?” Abby whispered.
“Naomi, across the street—she and her husband bought my house—has been my salvation. She does my laundry, picks up some groceries for me when my social security check comes every month, brings me soup and homemade bread once a week or so.” Belle’s voice wavered slightly, and she gazed out the window to avert her eyes. It was a hard admission from a woman who had once presided over a handsome home of her own, who had been admired and sought after for her lofty social position as much as for her wit and charm.
“Belle, where’s your family?” Abby set the plate of butter on the table.
“Abigail, the toaster…” Belle pointed toward the kitchen, from which the aroma of charcoal drifted.
“Good grief.” Abby flew back into the kitchen and unplugged the toaster. She dumped the charred remains of bread into the sink.
“Well, there goes breakfast,” Belle announced with a wry smile.
“I’ll make two more.” Abby shook out the last of the burnt crumbs.
“Not if you want lunch,” Belle told her matter-of-factly.
“Belle, you can’t live on tea and toast.”
“Abigail, you can live on much less than that.”
“This is ridiculous.” Abby shook her head. “I’m going upstairs to change, and then I’m going down to the store for some groceries.”
“What a lovely idea.” Belle nodded slowly. “Abigail, while you are there, could you possibly see if Mr. Foster has any blackberry jam? Not the regular store-bought kind, the kind Annie Thurman makes and jars, if it isn’t too much? Young Foster will know.”
No wonder the woman’s so frail, Abby thought angrily as she pulled a sweatshirt and jeans from her suitcase and slid into them. Living on the barest of necessities for who knows how long. Where in hell is her family?
“What might you like for dinner?” Abby paused in the doorway.
“Dinner?” Belle spoke the word as if considering a foreign concept.
“Is there anything in particular you’d like?”
“Why, whatever you think, Abigail.” Belle cleared her throat. “Though a roast chicken might be nice. I haven’t had roast chicken since Leila passed on. She did all the cooking, you know.”
“Fine. Chicken it is.”
Abby grabbed her jacket and purse from the chair in the front hallway, where she’d deposited them the previous night. She checked her wallet and found she was low on cash. Opening the glove compartment, she withdrew some bills from the envelope and relocked the compartment. It was as safe there, she surmised, as it would be anyplace else.
She stopped at the new gas station on the corner. A tall, thin man in his early thirties dressed in jeans and a green and white flannel shirt came out to greet her.
Carolina Mist Page 4
