by Jade Astor
“Well, we survived adolescence,” Victor was saying when Darian managed to refocus on their conversation. “That’s something we can be proud of, as long as we don’t dwell on the details. Looks like things turned out okay for you. Birchwood’s a special place. Now and then, when I’m away, I still see it in my dreams. Or should that be my nightmares?”
Darian nodded. The starkness of late fall, with the trees stripped of leaves and the sky an indifferent gray, retained a certain raw beauty. On the other hand, the horrors he had seen earlier that fall now acted as a filter, casting gloom over everything.
“I guess you heard about the unpleasantness last month,” he said when he noticed Victor looking at him curiously.
“A little. I was busy with auditions, so I didn’t pay much attention. They found one of the students floating in the pond, my mother said.”
“Yeah.” Darian decided not to mention he had been unfortunate enough to discover the body. What did it matter now? “Bad business.”
“I have to admit, I don’t really keep up with Birchwood gossip. It all seems so long ago, and my life has moved on in other directions. I still get the alumni magazine, but I usually put it right in the recycling bin along with the requests for donations.” Victor paused and smiled. “I kind of regret that now. I missed out on reading the new faculty profiles.”
Darian changed the subject, uncomfortable with Victor’s attempt at flirtation. “Were you involved in theater here when you were a student?”
“Nah. I didn’t get into that until college. My friend Logan was the catalyst. He had big dreams—still does. And we were more into filmmaking than stage plays.”
“He’s the one doing your current production?”
“That’s right. The one we’re filming at Reece Hall. Hey, I just had a brainstorm. How about coming up to see the place now—if you’re not busy, I mean? Stay for lunch. I’m all alone up there until the cast and crew arrives tomorrow, and I’d enjoy the company.”
Darian started to refuse, but stopped himself. What did he have to look forward to today otherwise? Argo had pretty much told him not to call until later. The student quizzes could wait until Monday as originally planned. And considering that local reporters were probably still keeping a lookout for him, Reece Hall might be the perfect place to hide out for a while.
“Okay. Why not?”
Victor beamed. “Excellent! Are you parked nearby? You can follow me in your car. That way you can take off whenever you like. No pressure, right?”
“Right. Sounds like a plan.”
Half an hour later, Darian followed Victor’s speeding silver Miata along a steady incline that cut through a vast woodland. On either side of the road, hulking pine trees and jagged granite formations blocked the struggling sunlight, webbing the road with gnarled shadows. Darian wondered how Victor’s ancestors had managed in earlier eras, before the advent of fast cars and modern paved roadways. The harsh winters, too, must have presented a challenge. Delivering food and supplies in bad weather would be difficult, not to mention heating the place. He supposed the Reeces used wood they—or their servants—harvested from the abundant forest around the place. Still, even their obvious wealth wouldn’t, in Darian’s opinion at least, be enough to counteract the eeriness and isolation of their property.
The house stood at the midpoint of a wide, circular drive. At first glance, it struck Darian as a cross between a European cathedral and a luxury hotel, with a dash of medieval castle thrown in for good measure. The dark red-brick façade looked damp and weather-worn, as did the steeply pitched copper roof. Its discolored surface shone dully, like the surface of a swamp. At each corner, sharp spires twisted upward like skewers. A series of gables festooned the roofline, framing two glum square turrets.
He heard Victor laughing as he slammed the door of his sports car.
“Quite an eyeful, isn’t it? The style’s called Romanesque, and it was all the rage in the 1870s. It was modeled on a design they also used for lunatic asylums in those days. Fitting, I’ve always thought.”
“What were the towers used for?”
“What else? Ostentation, pure and simple. Everyone needed towers in those days, from what I understand. The more the better, which is why this place has two. I guess they came in handy for storage. Victorians were the original hoarders, meaning they had so much stuff they eventually ran out places to keep it. Now it’s up to their descendants, like me, to sort out and sell the junk online. Sorry, was that insensitive? I get that way sometimes. Comes from growing up in a place like this.”
“I see what you meant about stepping back in time,” Darian said as they walked into a high-ceiling foyer complete with a marble floor and chandelier. “You could probably make money by letting people tour this place.”
“You think? I can’t imagine why anyone would care. But then, I’m not exactly objective. It’s never held that much mystique for me.”
“Or your mother, it sounds like. You said she heads for Arizona the minute the leaves start to turn.”
“Exactly. She’s got the right idea, as far as I can see. Fully modernized condo, patio overlooking the desert, private pool with a gorgeous shirtless dude who comes once a week to provide service.” Victor winked. “To the pool, I mean. You know how it is with those things. You have to keep the water at just the right chemical balance.”
Again Darian decided to steer the conversation in a less suggestive direction. “Do you have a housekeeper? Maybe even a sinister one like Mrs. Danvers?”
“No, sadly enough. We use a more modern but probably safer method, considering Mrs. Danvers eventually torched Manderley. A cleaning service comes in twice a month when my mother and I are in residence. Less frequently when we’re not. So far, they haven’t broken or stolen anything—not that I’d probably say a word if they did. Sometimes I fantasize coming back from New York and finding that burglars have cleaned out the entire place from tower to basement. Alas, it’s never happened and probably never will. Even thieves have better taste than my ancestors.”
Despite his self-deprecating humor, Victor exhibited obvious pride in his home as he showed Darian through various rooms filled with antique furniture and vintage Oriental rugs.
“My great-grandfather was a wealthy man, as you’ve probably guessed. His own father had the good sense to invest in the new industries were just popping up in those days. He inherited enough dosh to indulge himself any way he wanted, so he chose to build himself a palace according to the standards of the time. Not really to our taste now, I admit, but at least the old pile is sturdy enough.” To demonstrate, he rapped on a polished oak doorframe as wide as his fist.
“Impressive,” Darian agreed as they moved on. The overall impression was of an elegant structure now little used and seldom appreciated. A nominal attempt had been made to maintain it, Darian could tell, though the marble floors no longer sparkle and the carpets and textured wallpaper showed definite signs of wear. “Seems a shame to let it sit empty all winter.”
“Maybe someday, when I’ve achieved international stardom thanks to my amazingly lucrative film career, Reece Hall will be my escape from society. Maybe then I could afford the upkeep. Besides, all these rooms can feel a little lonely. I might like living here more if I had someone to share them with.”
“That makes sense.” Darian kept his voice casual. “Solitude has its benefits, though.”
Victor grew serious for a moment. “Does it? I have to admit, I’m generally hard-pressed to find any.”
They moved on to a pair of enormous doors fitted with brass doorknobs in the shape of lions’ heads. They reminded Darian of some of the older fixtures in certain areas of Birchwood Academy, which dated from around the same time. He wondered if Victor’s family had been donors back in the day. For all he knew, they still were, even if Victor hadn’t enjoyed his short time at the school.
“Now you’re in for a treat.” Victor opened the doors with the kind of flourish honed by years of theatrical
experience. “This room was the center of my great-grandfather’s social life back in the day.”
They walked into a vast room that made Darian blink. The entire space gleamed gold and white, from the furniture upholstered in tawny velvet right down to the foil damask wallpaper and bronze sconces positioned between the tall, heavily draped windows.
“This is where my ancestors did all their entertaining—they had some pretty famous people over, from what I understand, even a couple of people whose names we’d recognize today. Pity I can’t think of them right now.” Victor grinned at Darian’s dazed expression.
“It’s a lot to take in,” Darian said politely.
“And how. Maybe I should give out sunglasses at the door. Apparently my ancestors weren’t familiar with the concept of understatement. But then, that was the whole idea behind having so many different rooms. They had a different one for every possible mood or occasion. My mother said they even had a special space where they held funerals, though thankfully that one was eventually repurposed. Can you imagine having your own mortuary right down the hall? Yikes.”
“On the whole, I’m glad I didn’t live back then,” Darian admitted. “Sure, there’s a certain romance to the clothes and antiques, but I can’t say I’m a fan of all their customs.”
“Tell me about it. You and I would have had to be especially careful back then. They’d put us in an asylum, or worse, just for being who we are. Still, the past is with us every day in one form or another. We have to celebrate the good and leave the bad behind.”
As his eyes adjusted to the glare, Darian began to focus on the details of the room. Framed pictures, both painted and photographed, hung at regular intervals along the walls and occupied nearly every shelf. Darian noticed several shots of Victor at various ages, including one of him at college, posing with a group of friends. In another, the same group wore makeshift Shakespearian costumes as they performed at some open-air theater event. He moved over for a closer inspection. Along with Victor, the photo showed four other young men. One, apparently playing Caliban, was husky and bearded. Two others were about the same build, though one was slightly taller and had a ruddy face, while the other wore round wire-rimmed glasses. The fourth was a lean, long-haired blond who looked vaguely familiar.
“Are these the people you’ll be making the film with?”
“Three of them, yeah. Do you recognize Jamie London? That’s him playing Trinculo. And Logan, his boyfriend, is the guy with the glasses. It’s his script we’ll be using, and he’ll be directing, too. Jamie’s playing one of the leads, along with Wes—that’s the bearded guy—and me.”
“Jamie London—the no-show at Bryce’s party? The soap star?”
“You mean the so-called soap star, currently unemployed. Secret Hearts killed off his character when he started causing too much trouble behind the scenes. He’s always happy to tell anyone who’ll listen about how the powers that be sabotaged his career because they’re so jealous of his talents. He’s been driving Logan crazy. I suspect that’s why Logan stepped up his efforts to get this film done. He’s been talking about it forever, but suddenly it became a priority.”
“To make Jamie happy, you mean?”
“To keep him busy. Jamie’s a handful, if you know what I mean. If he’s got a role to play, he’s less likely to be running around the city looking for ways to break Logan’s heart.”
“Ah. I see. One of those situations.”
“Exactly.” Victor fixed Darian with a look that sent an unexpected jolt through his chest. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “Has anyone ever broken your heart, Darian?”
He fought back a blush. “Not yet.”
“That cop—the one you were at the play with. He’s your partner?”
“Yes.”
“So things are going okay?”
Darian paused. Until that very morning, he would have had no trouble answering in the affirmative. Now he couldn’t say it and feel he was being entirely truthful. In fact, he found himself unsure exactly how to answer.
“I think so,” he hedged. “You know how it is. Every couple hits a rough patch now and then. A relationship’s all about negotiation and compromise.”
“That’s exactly what it is. I guess that’s why I’ve never been lucky in love. I’ve never met anyone who was actually willing to compromise for me.”
“That’s too bad. But then again, I know how rare it is to find the right person.”
“Is that what your cop is for you? The right person?”
“It clicked for us, yeah. I’m not saying it was easy.” Darian smiled uneasily. “But you ought to stop calling him the cop. His name is Argo.”
“I don’t think he’d mind. He seems like the type who loves what he does.”
“Yeah. He does. No doubt about that.”
“Well, I hope at least the handcuffs are useful.” Victor laughed. “I’m sorry to pry. You two just struck me as totally different personality types. Still, I know that can sometimes work out fine. Maybe next time you visit me, you’ll bring him along with you. He doesn’t seem to have a very positive view of Reece Hall, so I’d like to correct that impression. Outside appearances to the contrary, this isn’t some lawless house of horrors. It’s just a dingy old ark that happens to be a great place to stage a creepy indie film.”
Darian seized on the chance to take up a less sensitive subject. “What’s the movie about?”
“Oh, it’s going to be awesome. Real edge-of-your-seat stuff. It’s set back in the eighteen hundreds, like an Edgar Allen Poe story. These two brothers live in a gloomy old house, which coincidentally looks a lot like this one, and they both fall for the same man. The younger brother kills the older one in a jealous rage, or so he thinks—but the older one comes back and takes revenge on both him and their mutual lover. I’m going to play the younger brother, and Jamie’s the guy we both fall for. Okay, so it’s going to take all my acting skills to pretend I’m going crazy with yearning for Jamie. But I’m a professional. I can handle the challenge.”
Despite the playful lilt to his voice, Victor’s words pinged Darian’s skepticism. Had Victor and Jamie once been an item, maybe back in their college days? He couldn’t help but wonder. He glanced at the photo again but saw nothing conclusive in either of their expressions. Then again, they were both in character in the shot.
Later, after Victor had shown him a second floor that seemed to consist of nothing but guest rooms, they settled into a modern glass-paneled solarium with coffee and sandwiches cut into small, delicate squares that struck Darian as more appropriate for dolls than grown men. But somehow the quaint tradition seemed to fit with the décor.
“They’ll all be staying upstairs while we film, of course. I have a feeling Logan will be running us ragged day and night. Then again, there’s nothing like complete immersion to get a project done on time.”
“Exactly what I tell my students,” Darian said, prompting a smile from Victor.
“I admit I was an indifferent student while I was at Birchwood. If I’d had a teacher like you, things might have gone better for me.”
Darian turned his attention to the impressive view outside the sunroom. Victor’s grounds must have been magnificent a few weeks ago with the foliage season at its height. Now, the stripped-down husks of maples and oaks, punctuated here and there with as more robust pine, stretched for miles up the mountainside.
“How far back does your property extend?” he asked.
“Quite a ways. My family owns just about this whole half of the mountain. We’ve never allowed it to be developed, with one exception. Don’t laugh, but up until thirty years ago there was a monastery on the other side of those trees.”
“A monastery? Like with priests?”
“Yep. Can you imagine? They lived up there for decades, making their own wine and living off the land in between their trips to town. Eventually the older ones died out and the younger ones moved on. They still run their winery, but in a more hospitable en
vironment with modern facilities.”
“Wow. They just left everything and walked away? That’s incredible.”
“Pretty much. You can still see the old buildings, which they left just as they were. If you’re ever up for a hike, I’ll show you.” Victor paused to break his tiny sandwich into ever smaller pieces. “We can’t get too close, though. The area’s not really safe.”
“I’m actually more into jogging than hiking.” Darian finished his coffee and stood. Victor followed him to his feet. “It’s probably time I got moving. Thanks so much for the tour. It’s been…enlightening.”
“I’m glad to hear it, and I hope you’ll come again.” Brushing off Darian’s offer to help clear away their lunch dishes, Victor followed him out to his car. “I mean that. I’d love for you to meet Logan and Jamie London, too. A real soap star in the flesh. How can you say no?”
“I’ve never watched that show,” Darian admitted. “Still, it’s tempting. And yes. I’d like to come back sometime.”
They shook hands, though Darian sensed Victor would have been open to more intimate physical contact. He felt a twinge of guilt as he pulled out of the driveway, watching Victor wave in the rear-view mirror.
A glance at his cell phone’s screen showed that Argo hadn’t tried to call him while he’d been hanging out with Victor, though two more reporters had left pleas for interviews. After deleting those, he punched in Argo’s number and pressed the speakerphone button.
His call went straight to voicemail. He felt a surge of panic until he realized Maddy would have been there for hours by now. If Argo had suffered any type of setback, she would certainly have phoned on his behalf. More likely Argo was avoiding him.
Of course, there could be a good explanation for that. Maybe Argo was heavily medicated and sleeping. Or maybe he and his sister were deep into a serious conversation and he didn’t want to break away. Either way, the best thing he could do for Argo would be to remain patient. He settled for leaving an overly casual message that would probably sound suspicious to Argo, given the circumstances. But maybe that was good in a way. It wouldn’t hurt him to wonder what Darian had been doing while in exile. Not that Darian enjoyed thinking in those terms. Quite the reverse, in fact. The more he tried not to think about what Argo’s strange behavior might mean, the more agitated his thoughts became.
