“When was this photo taken?” he asked, and there was a touch of fear in his voice. She could almost hear the unasked question of, How many birthdays ago was that?
“Actually, it was quite a while ago,” she said mischievously. “So, shall I see you at the end of the week?”
“I’ll be there,” he said, but his voice was no longer so buoyant.
Jocelyn hung up and mentally began a list that started with “go to the gym every day this week.” The photo of her in the bikini had been taken just last summer, but who knew what had happened under her clothes during the winter?
So that was Ramsey McDowell, she thought as she got up and began to look through her closet. Tomorrow she’d stop by her professor’s office and resign. She knew he wouldn’t be bothered; there were four applicants for every job on campus.
She paused with her hand on the clothes. Maybe now she could write her own book. Something nonfiction, historical. Maybe she could write the history of the town of Edilean. She’d start with the Scotsman who stole a man’s gold and his beautiful daughter, then ran off to the wild country of America. What was Edilean like in 1770? For that matter, what was it like now?
Ten minutes later, she’d Googled the town. The history of the town was much what Miss Edi had written. It had been started by a Scotsman named Angus Harcourt, who’d built a large house for his beautiful wife, then set about putting in acres of crops. But his wife, Edilean, had been lonely, so she’d designed the streets of a tiny town that had eight small areas of parkland in it. Smack in the middle she’d planted an oak tree from an acorn she’d taken from her father’s estate. Over the centuries, the tree had been replaced three times, but each time the transplant had been a scion of the original tree.
Jocelyn went on to read that in the 1950s, her Edilean Harcourt had led a four-year-long court battle when the state of Virginia tried to evict the residents, as over five thousand acres of the surrounding land was being turned into a nature preserve. “It was because Miss Edi—as she is called by everyone”—Joce read—“won the battle that the tiny town of Edilean survives today. No new houses are allowed to be built, but the ones that are there are preserved so that it’s almost like stepping back into time.
“The town has several upscale shops that draw tourists from Williamsburg, but the crowning jewel is Edilean Manor, built by Angus Harcourt in 1770, and lived in by the same family since then. Unfortunately, the house and grounds are not open to the public.”
“I’m glad of that,” Jocelyn said, then moved closer to the screen to see the photos and thought she could see a sign in front of one of the pretty white houses. Was that Ramsey’s office? Did he live in the same building where he worked? He’d asked her if she had a boyfriend, but did he have a girlfriend?
She clicked on the button that said EDILEAN MANOR, and there it was. Jocelyn stared at it with wide eyes. The façade was perfectly symmetrical: two stories, five windows wide, all brick. On both sides were single-story wings with little porches on them. “I guess that’s where my tenants live,” she said, marveling at the idea that she now owned this wonderful old house.
Five minutes later, she was tearing through her closet like a leaf blower. She was going to get rid of all the things that she no longer wore, then see what was left. Fifteen minutes later, she looked at her nearly bare closet and said, “I’m going shopping.”
The next few days had been a blur of activity as she hurried to get ready to leave, to go to her brand-new life.
And now, she was in Williamsburg, it was 11 A.M. Saturday morning, hotel checkout time, everything she owned was stuffed into her little Mini Cooper, and she was about to see “her house” for the first time. She didn’t know if she was elated or scared to death. New town, new state even, and all new people—one of whom she had a sort of date with tonight.
“You can do this,” she said again and opened the hotel door.
2
SHE CLUTCHED THE MapQuest printout in her hand as she drove. The directions were simple: leave Williamsburg on Highway 5, the one that led to all the plantations, and just a few miles out she’d come to McTern Road. Three miles later, she was to take a right onto Edilean Road, then drive through the town until she ended up at her new/old house.
McTern Road was easy to find, but she thought there was a mistake because it meandered through forest that seemed to have been there since the earth began. She’d read that Edilean was in the middle of a nature preserve, but she hadn’t expected it to be this close to primordial forest.
She moved to one side as a couple of men in a big black truck pulling a fishing boat with two motors on the back rushed past her. They waved their thanks for giving them the right of way.
Edilean Road was clearly marked and she was glad to see that the surface was well maintained. She’d been a little concerned that it would be a gravel road with weeds down the center.
About a mile before she reached the town, the wild-looking forest gave way to specimen oaks and beeches and big sycamores. She didn’t have to be told that she had entered land that at one time had been part of a rich plantation.
When she reached the center of Edilean, she paused for a moment to look at it. The Web site had been only partially right. The town was half as big as it seemed in the photos, but it was twice as charming. Big willow trees hung over the street so that all the parking was in the shade. There wasn’t a new building anywhere, and the old structures had been maintained beautifully.
The church was on her left, and on impulse, she turned right so she’d go through the heart of the place. She wanted to see the “park-like” areas that the original Edilean had designed, and she wanted to see that oak tree.
Another left took her to the main street, Lairdton. Joce had seen that nearly all the street names were of Scottish origin and the road through the middle was Lairdton. Since “ton” was an old way to shorten “town,” that meant that Angus Harcourt had named the street Laird’s Town. She guessed that back in the eighteenth century, the stable lad, Angus Harcourt, had raised himself to being the laird of a clan and wanted people to know that he owned all of it.
Jocelyn saw an ice cream parlor that looked like something off a movie set and a store of used books. “Gold mine!” she said aloud. Out-of-print books were some of her favorite things in life.
She saw a little grocery with produce in a bin in front, and a woman wearing a long skirt with a tasseled belt. There was a bandana tied around her head and her shirt had been tie-dyed. “Wonder if she went to Woodstock?” Jocelyn muttered.
There was the usual store full of old furniture and some other businesses.
And in the middle, on a big, grassy circle, was an enormous oak tree. There were half a dozen benches under its shade and two teenagers were kissing, while some younger kids were laughing at them.
The last two houses before the road disappeared into overhanging trees were the ones in the photos on the Internet. They were big, white, and looked inviting. In front of one a woman was sweeping the porch, and as though she knew who Jocelyn was, she halted her broom and stared.
Jocelyn was so absorbed in looking back at the woman that she almost missed the turn at the end of Lairdton. One block down was a sign that said TAM WAY. She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw that the woman was no longer on the porch. She probably went inside to start the gossip line. What would they say? That the outsider is here to take over our beloved Miss Edi’s house?
Jocelyn drove slowly down the country road. There were only three houses along the way, and unless she missed her guess, they’d once been part of the plantation of Edilean Manor. She could see that there were old sections on the houses, but they’d been remodeled and expanded over the years.
When she came to some stone columns that were nearly hidden by vines, she knew she’d reached it. There was a little marble plaque in one of them and she could see enough letters to know what it said.
This is it, she thought, and pulled into the drive. There were so
many huge trees that she could see nothing, and it occurred to her that maybe what she’d seen were photos of the house before it was torn down. She knew from the research she’d done at school that you had to read the fine print under the pictures to see if the house still existed.
Suddenly, the trees parted and she saw the house, and it was exactly like the photos. Because she’d visited many old houses in her life, she immediately saw that the house was in pristine condition. There were houses less than a year old that weren’t as well kept as this one was. Every window, shutter, and rain gutter was perfect.
On each side of the house was a wing with its own little porch, and for a moment Joce thought about knocking on the doors and asking permission to go inside. But that was ridiculous.
With her eyes on the house, looking at every inch of it, she got out, opened the back of the car, and took out her suitcase. She pulled it behind her as she climbed the wooden steps up to the small porch in front of the door.
She took the key out of her jacket pocket, inserted it into the old lock, and when it turned, her heart began to beat quickly.
“Hello? Anybody here?” Jocelyn called as she opened the old door. From the look of it, the door was original to the house, which made it over two hundred years old. She left her big black suitcase by the door and slowly walked farther inside, her heels echoing on the bare wooden floor.
She was in the entrance hall, and as she’d hoped, it went all the way through the house. To her right were two closed doors and to her left on either side of the staircase were two more closed doors. She hoped the house hadn’t been altered and that behind the doors were big rooms and not little cubicles that had been cut up by centuries of owners.
The staircase was magnificent, and she felt sure that the banister was one piece of mahogany. Turning, she looked up to the top of the stairs and saw more closed doors—and, just like in the hallway, there wasn’t a stick of furniture to be seen.
She walked to the far end of the big, bare hallway and looked through the window. Outside were giant trees that might be as old as the house. She wanted to walk under them and sit on one of the little white-painted iron chairs.
As she watched, a young woman walked from the right side of the house with what looked like a dress wrapped in a towel and a sewing basket in her hand. Joce blinked a few times, thinking she’d walked into a time warp. Who sewed today? Who carried a big basket with what looked to be a pincushion top? Had Miss Edi sent Joce into a place where time stood still?
She smiled at the idea, then, instantly, the smile was gone. Even though it had been months since her friend died, Joce still wasn’t ready to let her go. No more funny e-mails, no more telephone chats that could go on for hours. No Miss Edi to run home to whenever she had a chance. No more sitting together over a steaming pot of tea and confiding all her worries, fears, and triumphs. Never again would she hear those familiar words, “Of course it’s none of my business, but if I were in your place, I would—”
Joce blinked back tears and gave a glance at the closed doors leading off the big hallway, then back at the woman sitting under the shade tree. There were rooms to explore and she should see about groceries and whether there was a bed for the night. But she looked back at the woman—and she won.
Joce had to use her key to unlock the back door, then she went out into the fresh spring air and toward the woman. She was so absorbed in her sewing that she didn’t seem to hear anyone approach, so Joce had time to look at her. She was quite young, early twenties, and she looked like a poster child for Innocence. Her face was a perfect oval and her skin like porcelain. Her brown hair had golden highlights that looked natural, and she wore a dress that could have come out of a Kate Greenaway drawing.
Joce didn’t want to startle her so she said, “Hello” from several feet away, but the young woman went on sewing and didn’t look up. It wasn’t until Joce was just an arm’s length away that she saw the woman was wearing earbuds. Smiling, Joce pulled out the chair on the other side of the table and sat down.
“Hello,” the woman said, not at all startled. She pulled the earbuds off and turned off her iPod.
“Let me guess,” Joce said. “Enya.”
The pretty young woman blinked, then smiled. “Oh, I see. I look like I’ve never seen a dirty movie in my life, so I must play angelic music.” She pulled the earphone peg out and turned it back on. Out blasted ZZ Top. “I have a hippie mother,” she said. “My father’s a doctor and as conservative as they come, but my mother likes hard rock and plays it as loud as she can—when my father’s not home, that is.”
“The neighbors don’t complain?”
“One of them did, but my mom poured her a margarita, and when my dad got home they were dancing together. There haven’t been any complaints since.”
Joce laughed, still looking at the pretty young woman. “Do you get your face from your mother or your father?”
“My Great-aunt Lissie. Or so I’ve been told. She used her looks to snare the richest man in town, had half a dozen kids, then proceeded to spend all her husband’s money.”
Jocelyn didn’t let her face show her recognition of the name “Lissie,” the woman Miss Edi had mentioned in her letter. Instead, she said, “My kind of woman. Is that your dress you’re sewing?”
“Heavens no! I couldn’t afford something like this.” She held up the garment to show Joce. It was midnight blue and had an intricate pattern of beads and crystals across the bodice, but several lines of beads were hanging loose. “I told her to be careful. I told her there were to be no trysts in the moonlight, and no fumbling in the backseat of the car. This dress cost thousands, and I said it had to be treated with care. But did she listen to me? Of course not.”
“From the look of it, she did a lot of fumbling.”
“I think so, and since she was banging on my door at six this morning telling me I had to fix it by tonight, it’s my guess that she did not fumble with her husband.”
Joce laughed. “Are you my tenant?”
“Oh! Sorry. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Sara Shaw,” she said. “I live in that side and Tess Newland lives over there.”
“I’m—”
“The entire town knows who you are. Everyone’s been waiting for you since the crack of dawn.”
“The woman at the grocery store stared at me.”
“My mother,” Sara said. “She’s already called and told me you were on your way.”
“And the woman on the porch with the broom?”
“My aunt Helen. She called Mom and got a busy signal because Mom was calling me. I would imagine that by now the sheriff has looked up your license plate number.”
Jocelyn didn’t know what to say to that, so she just blinked.
“Would you like some iced tea?” Sara asked. “I just made a pitcher.”
“I’d love some, but—” She hesitated.
“Only if it’s not half sugar?” Sara asked as she stood up, carefully rolled the dress in the big towel, then put it on the little white table.
Joce could feel her face flushing red.
“Don’t worry about it. We’re used to Yankees down here.”
“I’m far from being a Yankee. I’m from Florida,” Joce said as she followed Sara toward the big brick house. “That’s south of here.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said over her shoulder. “I think maybe Southern is a state of mind as much as a place. And haven’t such a lot of people moved from up North down to Florida?”
Joce couldn’t help smiling. They’d reached the screen door of the east wing, and yet again she paused to look up at the house. There were no oddly shaped windows, no rooms that jutted out, nothing that in modern terms made a house “interesting.” Edilean Manor was as plain and therefore as beautiful as a house could be.
Sara stepped into the coolness of her side of the house, Joce behind her. They were in a kitchen that looked like it had been put in in about 1965, and although it had been maintained, it certainly hadn
’t been renovated. “Is that Formica? And is that…?”
“Avocado,” Sara said, looking at the drab green refrigerator. “Personally, I think the Smithsonian would be interested in this place. They should move it just as it is into a museum.”
Joce looked at the big, white enamel sink under the window and agreed. The kitchen wasn’t old enough to be charming. It was just ugly.
“I think I’ll complain to my landlord,” Sara said.
“You should,” Joce said, looking at the old stove. It matched the refrigerator. Her head came up. “Oh! Wait. I’m your landlord.”
Sara laughed as she went to the refrigerator and got out a big pitcher of iced tea. “Took you long enough.”
“This whole idea of owning a house hasn’t sunk in yet. I haven’t even seen the inside.”
“You’ll have time to explore. There are some old buildings outside too, but maybe you know that.” Sara nodded toward the little chrome table against the wall. It had a red surface and matching chrome chairs with red seats and backs.
Joce sat down and watched as Sara poured two glasses of tea and put what looked to be homemade cookies on a plate.
“I know very little. All of this is new to me,” Joce said. “I’m still recovering from…from…”
“Miss Edi’s death?” Sara asked softly.
Joce nodded. “Did you know her?”
“No, I never met her. But I’ve certainly heard enough about her.”
“Have you?” Joce drank deeply of the tea. She hadn’t realized she was thirsty, then she ate a cookie in two bites. When she started on the second one, she looked at Sara’s wide eyes. “Sorry. I’ve been driving for days and I guess I forgot to eat.” The truth was that she’d been so nervous last night she couldn’t eat her dinner, and this morning she’d skipped breakfast.
“Now that is true concentration!” Sara didn’t say anything else, but went to the refrigerator, took out a bowl of something, then got some lettuce, mayonnaise, and bread. She put it all on the counter, then held up the bread. “Look! It’s Yankee bread. No Wonder Bread allowed in my house.”
Lavender Morning Page 4
