“If that suitcase is too heavy for you, you can leave it there on the landing. I’ll come back down for it—”
Pru’s voice cut off as the doorbell rang. Her hands flew to her cheeks and the tear tracks beneath her reddened eyes. “That’ll be Seven. Oh, Lord! I can’t let him see me like this.”
“Seven?” Barrie asked.
Pru stared down at the front door like she wished it would spontaneously combust. “Beaufort,” she said, and Barrie couldn’t quite tell if it was a name or a curse. “He handled the papers with Lula’s lawyer.”
“Mr. Ferguson?”
“Yes, the one who did the will. He—Seven—said he might come by to introduce you to Eight, but he can’t know I didn’t get you at the airport. He’ll think I’m certifiable. Which is what you must be thinking, finding me on the steps like that. Maybe I am losing my mind—”
The bell chimed again, and whatever else Pru had been going to say was swallowed by another wave of tears. She looked so small and trapped that Barrie wanted to run and hold her. Which was strange.
Pru wiped her eyes again and vacillated on the step. Anyone who saw her would know that she’d been crying. What if the lawyer actually thought Pru was crazy? He might try to ship Barrie back to San Francisco. Mark would panic all over again—
“It can be our secret,” Barrie blurted. “No one has to know. You go hide, Aunt Pru, and I’ll get the door and tell them you’re in the shower.”
Pru gave her a grateful nod. “Ask them to come back after dinner. Say I have to finish the baking for the tearoom, but I’ll make a peanut butter whoopie pie cake if they come back later. That always used to work on Seven.”
The bell rang for longer this time, and then chimed at short intervals. Barrie waited until Pru was out of sight before walking down to yank the door open.
The Beauforts loomed on the stoop, their shoulders swallowing all the light. The older man, brown-haired and hard-edged, stood poised to jab the bell as though he were used to mashing the world beneath his thumb and making it obey. His green eyes were narrowed in concern. Or maybe temper.
His smile came slowly, but it transformed him enough to make Barrie slightly less inclined to slam the door. “You must be Pru’s niece.” He held out his hand. “I’m Charles Beaufort—Seven, people call me. And this is Eight, my son.”
“Nice to meet you.” Barrie shook Seven’s hand awkwardly, and finding another hand thrust out at her, reached for that one too, before she looked up at its owner. Eight grinned down at her, a half-moon flash in his tanned face, electric green eyes blazing as if so much life had been crammed inside him that it was pushing to get out.
Barrie’s brain telegraphed an only slightly milder version of the returning click she had felt when she’d first touched the bricks by the gate. The air felt clearer, lighter, as if a layer of static interference had been peeled away.
Whether he felt it or was reacting to her reaction, Eight’s slouch and his grin both disappeared. Barrie tried to will herself not to turn the same pink as his rumpled oxford shirt. Her cheeks didn’t listen. She pulled back her hand and tucked it behind her, pasting on what she hoped would pass for an honest smile.
“Aunt Pru’s in the shower,” she said, “and she’s behind getting ready for tomorrow. She asked if you could maybe postpone until after dinner. Sorry. That’s my fault, not hers. We got to talking, and . . .”
Seven’s frown deepened the lines around his eyes. “I was hoping Eight and I could take you both out to eat for your first night here.”
“Pru said she’ll make you a peanut butter cake if you’re willing to come back later,” Barrie said, praying he wouldn’t argue—he seemed the type to argue.
“One of her whoopie pie cakes?” Seven waited a beat before he continued, “Is eight thirty late enough?”
Barrie gave a manic nod and waved good-bye. Then she closed the door and leaned against it until her legs stopped shaking.
“Was he mad?” Pru leaned over the top of the banister. She suddenly looked too familiar: the curve of her shoulders, the angle of her neck. Barrie had seen her mother peer down from the second floor like that a million times at home.
Lula’s twin.
The realization struck Barrie all over again, and she tried to memorize everything about the moment so she could sketch it later. If not for the scars, Lula might have looked like this. Years ago, Barrie’s mother might have bent over the upstairs railing here, the same way Pru was leaning over it now. Lula might have looked down to greet whoever had come through the door to stand in the foyer. Maybe she had smiled and been happy to see—who? A boyfriend? A best friend?
For the hundredth time since the reading of her mother’s will, Barrie wondered why Lula had left. Why had she run away to San Francisco and stayed there even after the fire that had killed her husband? Why had she let everyone on Watson Island believe she had died too, instead of letting them know she was horribly burned and had a newborn baby she couldn’t care for?
The answers had to be here at Watson’s Landing. Barrie could find them if she stayed. And however strange it all seemed, she was going to stay. Mark wanted her to. Pru clearly needed someone. No one in all her life had ever needed Barrie before. Not really. Not enough.
She fought to keep her voice even as she spoke to Pru. “They said they’d be back at eight thirty.”
“They’ll be early. Seven never waits,” Pru said, too bitterly for someone discussing dinner plans.
Barrie climbed to the second floor. The staircase opened onto a gallery with corridors on either end leading into the two wings of the house. Pru carried Barrie’s suitcase toward the one on the right, but a stomach-clenching sense of loss pulled Barrie in the opposite direction. Rubbing her head, she stopped and peered into the gloom of the unlit corridor.
“Are you coming, sugar?” Pru called behind her.
Barrie edged closer to the hallway. “What’s down this way?” she asked.
Her aunt glanced back. “It’s best you stay clear of that whole wing up here. It’s dangerous, and I haven’t gotten around to doing any repairs. Really, there’s not much point, when I’ve got too many rooms to clean as it is.”
Barrie studied Pru’s back as she followed her aunt down a hallway hung with brooding portraits of more Watson ancestors. Pru’s battered Mary Janes moved evenly over the Oriental runners. Didn’t she feel the awful pull pulsing from the other end of the house? Or the other pings of loss from behind the closed doors they were passing?
It shouldn’t have been possible for anything to be lost at Watson’s Landing. But the crushing pull from the other wing faded the farther Barrie walked, and whatever was lost behind the other doors didn’t hold much significance. By the time her aunt stopped near the end of the hallway, Barrie could almost forget that the finding gift had exerted itself at all.
Pru threw one of the doors open with a flourish. “This has the best view of all the bedrooms, I think. The French doors open onto the balcony. Your mama used to love to sit out there and watch the river.” Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. “Lord, what a first impression I’m giving you, sugar. I swear, I’m not like this all the time.”
“It’s all right. Lula was your sister,” Barrie said. “I understand.”
And maybe for the first time, she was starting to. Learning that Lula had survived the fire must have been a shock after all this time. Especially if Pru had loved her twin.
One phone call. One letter. That was all it would have taken for Lula to spare Pru years of grief.
For that matter, Lula could have come home and gotten help after the fire. Barrie would have given anything to have a sister or a brother. Someone of her own to love and fight with, grow with. So why had Lula thrown away her twin without a second thought?
Barrie stepped into the bedroom. It was even bigger than her old one in San Francisco. Another tattered Oriental rug softened her footsteps, its faded silk colors echo
ing in the drapes, the embroidered canopy of the four-poster bed, and the two armchairs squatting in the corner. She parked her suitcase beside a desk that held a basket of bougainvillea, which Pru must have picked fresh that morning, and crossed to the balcony. Beyond the French doors, the gardens sprawled toward a marsh and a gleaming river live with birds and singing frogs. Across the water a second mansion commanded a shallow hill.
Eight Beaufort was wrangling a sailboat down at the Watson dock. Unmistakable even from the back, he stooped to untie the lines, then stepped onto the deck and settled himself beside his father, who yanked the outboard motor to life in a puff of smoke.
“This is your closet here. Your bathroom’s through there on the right,” Pru said. “Be careful with the faucet in the bathtub. It came loose this morning. It should be all right as long as you don’t turn it fast or yank it, but make sure the water isn’t too hot before you get in. I don’t want you scalding yourself.”
A yellow Labrador paced the end of the dock across the river. He gave a bark that Barrie could see but couldn’t hear, trying to hurry the Beauforts across. Or warn them away.
“Is that where Seven and Eight live?” Barrie asked as Pru came to stand beside her. “The house over there?”
Pru’s gaze fastened on Seven with an expression between pain and hunger. “Yes, that’s Beaufort Hall. Now, you should clean up and unpack before they come back. I’ll leave you to it and go fix supper.”
“And a pie cake,” Barrie said, smiling.
“And a pie cake.” With a rusty laugh Pru threw her arms around Barrie and gave her a hug. “Oh, I am glad you’re here, sugar. Lula’s daughter. Imagine that.”
Pru held her tight, and Barrie felt the returning click again. She stood stiffly at first, then relaxed into the embrace and squeezed back harder than she intended.
“Come down whenever you’re ready,” Pru said when she pulled away at last. “Turn right at the bottom of the stairs and go to the end of the hallway. That’ll be the kitchen.” She crossed the room, and her footsteps retreated down the hallway.
Barrie turned back to the French doors and the view. The small boat had crossed the river and pulled alongside the Beaufort dock. Eight jumped out to tie it off while his father hurried toward the house. After meeting Eight with a wagging tail, a dropped ball, and a silent bark, the Labrador bounded away in invitation. Eight picked up the ball from the wooden planks and threw it.
He used a pitcher’s throw, arm and leg coming up, his whole body fluid. The dog ran an impossibly long distance before retrieving the ball. Eight meanwhile kicked off his flip-flops and stripped off his shirt. Barrie caught her breath. Eight Beaufort would make any girl catch her breath.
Almost as if he’d heard her thoughts, he looked toward her window. Could he see her all the way from there? Guiltily, as if he’d caught her spying, Barrie ducked back behind the curtains and kept watching.
With the dog at his heels, Eight sprang into a run. He pounded down the dock toward the river, but the dog reached the water first and jumped in with a splash. Eight launched into the air, knees clutched to his chest. Barrie didn’t breathe until both he and the dog had bobbed back to the surface. She could almost hear Mark giving that beautiful body a nine on a scale of ten. But only because Mark didn’t believe in giving tens.
Mark had to be frantic about her by now. Barrie had to call him. Get it over with. She had so much to hide, she wasn’t sure how to keep him from making her confess, but she dug her phone out of her purse and dialed the number.
“It’s about damn time,” Mark answered. Then his voice turned velvet on a sigh. “You doing all right, baby girl? All settled in? How’s your aunt? What did you think of her? Is she anything like Lula?”
“Pru is great,” Barrie said. “She seems . . . nice. More grounded than Lula.”
“Well, that wouldn’t be exactly hard. Now, tell me you’re going to be happy. I need you to be happy.”
“I love you,” Barrie whispered. “I miss you.”
There was a long pause, and then Mark said: “I miss you more than you can possibly imagine.”
Barrie needed to get a grip. She couldn’t let Mark down. Sinking to the floor, she wrapped her arms around her knees as if that would hold her together. “So,” she said, channeling cheerful Barbie for all she was worth, “there’s not much to tell yet. The house is great.”
“Ooooh, you have to send me pics. I need to compare it—”
“Compare it to what?” Barrie’s trouble-meter pinged to high alert. “What do you know that I don’t?” Already she was smiling, picturing Mark’s graceful fingers drumming against his leg, impatient to share whatever he was keeping secret. “What are you up to now?”
“I’ve been going through the attic. Who knew Lula was hoarding stuff up there all these years? Trunks full of clothes, and the shoes . . . Don’t even get me started on the shoes. Of course, not a speck of wear on any of them. You should let me send you the shoes.”
“Hey—”
“Well, I know you two didn’t wear the same size, but it’s a crime to give shoes like these away.”
“You got me plenty of shoes. Now, what else did you find?”
“Oh, no. You deserve to be tortured for making me wait today. Besides, you’ll see soon enough. I already mailed it to you. Trust me, you’ll be floored when you get the package.”
Barrie drank in the excitement in Mark’s voice. She could almost believe he was the pre-cancer Mark. The words were only a little breathier, a little weaker.
How much weaker?
Barrie’s hands began to shake. She’d been having nightmare thoughts like this ever since Mark had broken the news, since the initial shock and Lula’s— Well, after all the shocks. How was she supposed to track Mark’s decline from clear across the country? How was she supposed to know how much time he had left? She hadn’t even seen how sick he was when she’d been right there with him.
If she had noticed and made him go to the doctor sooner . . . If they had caught the cancer earlier . . .
But the doctor had said that pancreatic cancer had hardly any symptoms. Not until it had been too late to save Mark. Why did it have to be too late? How was that even fair?
Barrie pushed back the questions that only left her bleeding. She couldn’t help Mark anymore. She could help her aunt, though. The idea sprang fully formed into Barrie’s head, and she blurted it out before she could reason it through or ask Pru if it would be all right.
“Is it too late to cancel the auction?” she asked. “I think I want Lula’s things.”
“I said you would regret not taking anything. I’ve got just a few more closets to sort through, and the rest of the attic. Tell me what you want.”
“Everything. The furniture. Lula’s clothes. Don’t sort anything else. Just call the movers and have them take it all.”
“Is that going to be okay with your aunt?” The phone line crackled, as if Barrie’s words had knocked the connection off frequency. “Is there even room?”
Barrie couldn’t explain what the place was like. The loose banister, the falling shutter, the broken faucet. Pru had talked about cleaning the house herself. Barrie could help with that, but if they had Lula’s furniture, they could replace the scratched and faded stuff, sell whatever was left, and use that money to fix Watson’s Landing. It was a great idea. Best of all, it wouldn’t involve lawyers or the complicated trust fund Lula had left for her.
“I’d like to go through Lula’s things myself,” she said. “I know I said I didn’t care, and I’m a pain in the ass—”
“Yeah, you are.”
“But I’m your pain in the ass. So you’ll do it?” In the long silence Barrie imagined Mark pursing his mouth and drawing slow circles on the table with his crimson-tipped index finger.
“You know I’ll make it work,” he said, “if you’re sure it’s what you want.”
Pain sliced through Barrie, a bitter blue pang of homesickness and nostalgia and gu
ilt. “Please let me come back and take care of you,” she said, breaking all her resolutions again. “Don’t make me stay away. I don’t mind going to the hospice, and I don’t mind coming back here after school has started.”
“We’ve been over this a hundred times, baby girl. I need to know you’re settled before I . . . go. And I have no intention of letting you change my diapers and fluff my pillows while I gasp out my last breaths on a morphine drip. Anyway, it’s all arranged. I even won a vintage bed jacket on eBay this morning. I’ll be the best-dressed queen in the place, and I’ll be as happy as a . . . Hell, I don’t know what’s happy anymore. Clams sure aren’t. But I’ll make friends. Imagine that! I’ll finally have people my own age to talk to.”
Barrie pressed her fist to her mouth to block the sob bubbling up her throat.
“I’ll be happy knowing you are happy,” Mark said. “So concentrate on settling in like I asked. Get ready for your senior year. Art classes, boys, homecoming, college applications, prom, graduation. All that. You promised, remember?”
Across the river, Eight Beaufort pulled himself onto the dock and tossed his hair to get the water out. Beside him the dog shook all over, while Eight threw his head back, laughing.
“I’ve found a hottie already,” Barrie said, turning from the window. “Dark hair, acres of shoulders. You’d love him.”
“Prove it. Send me pictures. Put some wear and tear on those shoes of yours for me.”
“All the places you’ve always wanted to go. I know,” Barrie said. “I won’t forget my promise.”
CHAPTER THREE
The armoire smelled of jasmine and magnolias from the sachets Pru had left inside it. Trying to shove the conversation with Mark out of her head, Barrie set a speed record for unpacking and stowed her empty suitcases in the corner of the room. Then she washed her face and headed toward the stairs.
Every sound seemed magnified. Watson’s Landing was quieter than Lula’s house. No soap operas emoted from Mark’s television; no beach music bounced defiantly under the door of Lula’s room. There was only the reverberation of Barrie’s heels and the groan of old wood, as if the house itself protested her intrusion. Even the portraits hanging along the hall looked disapproving.
Compulsion Page 2
