No Place to Hide

by Susan Lewis

  Most importantly of all, what I want to say to you is that the shame you feel about Ben and that my mother felt about Phillip has no place in your hearts. She couldn’t help the way Phillip was any more than you can help the way Ben is. You have no reason to feel any guilt either; it wasn’t you who killed those children, and nothing you did drove Ben to it. Whatever he did is in his character, or the chemical makeup of his brain, not his upbringing.

  Though I realize Ben’s crime was very different from Phillip’s, that the two can’t even be compared, I think it’s important for you to realize that you are in danger of going the same way as your grandmother. No, I don’t think you’re about to commit a murder-suicide, but I am sometimes afraid that only Lula and a prison sentence are saving you from that.

  I understand that, as Ben’s mother, you needed to get away; it wasn’t possible for you to carry on living here in this country without everyone knowing who you were, and though not everyone blamed you, it’s true that some did. It’s all too easy for people to have opinions about those they don’t know, have never met and are not even likely to meet; in my own small way I get it all the time. In your case I could see how difficult it was becoming, and I now deeply regret not helping you more. My only excuse is that I was so shocked, and then afraid when you decided to go to Culver, that I couldn’t make myself think straight. I felt I had somehow to dissuade you from going; your grandmother had been very clear that she didn’t want you or Rob to find out what she’d done, or know anything about Phillip. Yet, perversely, she dearly wanted you to have the house. It was in trying to reconcile these contradictory wishes that I went about everything in completely the wrong way with you when you decided to make Culver your home. I know I upset you, and of course I confused you very much indeed. This was most definitely not what you needed at such a difficult time in your life, and I can hardly begin to tell you how sorry I am.

  I know you will have many questions going round in your head now, such as why did I keep the house and never visit? Why didn’t I offer it to you when you decided to go to Culver? You might even want to know how your grandmother committed her final act.

  Of course I wasn’t there, but when we speak I can tell you what I was told and I’ve never had any reason to doubt it.

  If you go to the cottage you will see that the boathouse has gone. I believe it was burned to the ground, but again I can only report what I was told. Your father and I didn’t fly over for the funerals; this is another of my many regrets. I often think if I hadn’t turned my back on her she might not have done what she did, although I remind myself too that there was no cure for AIDS at the time Phillip was diagnosed, so perhaps there really wasn’t anything I could do.

  I know you’ve more or less turned your back on Ben, and of course no one can blame you for that. However, I implore you to let go of the guilt and shame you are feeling and start living again. As I’ve already said, it doesn’t belong in your heart any more than it belonged in your grandmother’s. You need to take your life back for your own sake and for Matt’s. I say Matt and not Lula, because I think he needs you even more than she does right now. The decision you took to separate so you could give Lula a life was understandable, but wrong. I heard someone say recently that the experience of trauma has many far-reaching effects, and we certainly know that is true for us. You should not be allowing Ben to break up your family; he’s caused enough damage already, and you simply can’t make it possible for him to cause more. If you do, you’ll forever be hanging on to your misplaced guilt and shame as a reason for why you can’t have a full and worthwhile existence. You’re punishing yourselves, both of you, for a crime not of your doing or making, and believe me, no good will ever come of that.

  So, Justine, please listen to your grandma, because I believe in her way she is talking to you now, through me, through her letter, and through the feelings that drew you to Culver. She doesn’t want you to suffer for something that you never had the power to control, the way that she did.

  Call me when you’re ready.

  With my love,

  Mum

  Keeping hold of the letter, Justine lay back against the pillows and turned out the light. Her grandmother and mother had left her with much to consider, and already her mind was trying to sort through it all, to make sense of why things happened the way they did, or in some instances didn’t happen at all. I heard someone say recently that the experience of trauma has many far-reaching effects, and we certainly know that is true for us.

  It would go on and on, Justine was in no doubt about that. How could it not, when Ben’s crime had affected so many? She didn’t have it in her heart to forgive him, in spite of knowing that somewhere deep inside she still loved him. Nor did she feel that her forgiveness would carry any great significance; how could it when it would be a mere drop in the ocean of what was required?

  She was tempted to call her mother now, if only to thank her for showing an understanding and love that Justine had never really credited her with before.

  It just went to show how hard it was to really know someone, and how easy it was to get it wrong.

  Aware of how tired she suddenly felt, she gathered up the letters and put them on the nightstand along with the keys. If she dreamt about anything tonight, she’d like it to be something beautiful and simple, such as Lula and Daisy, the sun on the lake, the whispering fall of leaves from the trees. There would be time tomorrow to think about Ben and Matt, her grandma and uncle, and what else she might yet find inside the lake house.

  Culver, Indiana

  “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Sallie Jo asked warily.

  Justine was gazing through the chain-link fence to where the gabled rooftops of her grandmother’s mansion of a cottage were nestling among a canopy of bright coppery trees. There was no movement, no signs of life apart from the darting scurry of a squirrel crossing a power line and the occasional drift of leaves as they meandered to the lawns below. From their neatness and the piles of fall debris stacked on the roadside, it was clear that the gardener had been since their last visit.

  She was about to answer when she spotted the remains of a tree house in the outstretched limbs of a giant maple. She wondered if she was really remembering climbing the slats nailed into the trunk, or just wanting to remember it.

  Finally responding to Sallie Jo’s question, she said, “Yes, definitely,” and, holding on to Daisy, she pushed open the car door. Though it was sunny and crystal-clear, the temperature had plummeted overnight, and even now, in the middle of the day, it was struggling to make it past thirty-five degrees.

  Reaching the padlocked gate, she tried both the keys, but neither of them fitted.

  Apparently amused, Sallie Jo said, “Then I guess we’re climbing this here fence.” Waiting for a passing car to disappear in the direction of the woodcraft and Academies, she slotted a foot into the chain-link, swung a leg over the sagging top, and dropped nimbly down to the other side.

  Handing Daisy over, Justine followed suit, wondering if anyone could see them from the neighboring houses. Though both were a good twenty or thirty yards away, the change of season was offering brief glimpses through the trees of glinting windowpanes and red-brick chimneys. However, she felt confident that their unconventional entrance had most likely gone undetected.

  Following Sallie Jo and Daisy along the cracked and uneven footpath, she caught herself thinking of Cheryl and how exciting she’d have found this peculiar adventure. Abby would have loved it too, and Chantal. Probably her mother would have liked to be here, but from their brief chat on the phone this morning she knew that much as Camilla might wish it otherwise, there was no real chance of her getting away until just before Christmas.

  “I’d like to come then, if I may,” Camilla had added, managing to sound uncharacteristically humble, for her. She was worried, Justine realized, about how harshly she was being judged over the treatment of her brother. However, it hadn’t been the time to discuss it, with Camil
la on location and cameras likely to roll at any second. So, deciding to put her mother’s mind at rest, at least for the time being, Justine said, “Of course, we’d love that,” and she’d meant it. “Will you fly out with Rob and Maggie?”

  “I’ll have to check when they’re coming, but it would be nice if I could. When do you think you’ll go to the cottage?”

  “Today. Sallie Jo’s coming with me.”

  “That’s good of Sallie Jo. I can’t vouch for how safe it is after all these years, so you shouldn’t go alone.”

  “Would you rather I waited until you came?”

  There was a moment before her mother said, “You have the keys, it’s as much your place to explore as mine, and I have a feeling Sallie Jo might expire with frustration if you told her you’re not going in yet. Has she read the letters?”

  She hadn’t then, but Justine had given them to her when she’d arrived earlier, so she knew as much as Justine now, and was clearly every bit as intrigued about what they might find—though Justine was perhaps a tad more apprehensive.

  Descending a set of crooked steps at the side of the house where Daisy was sniffing around an abandoned bistro-style chair barely visible among a small forest of brambles, Justine almost collided with Sallie Jo as she stepped onto a ruined patio. It ran the entire length of the house and had apparently once been sheltered by some sort of wooden structure, the remains of which now lay rotting among the weeds and nettles pushing their way up through the old slabs of stone. The view of the lake spreading widely into the distance was exquisitely uninterrupted, due to how carefully the sloping gardens had been tended right up to the edge of the patio, where everything suddenly fell into disrepair. She saw no sign of a pier belonging to the property, nor of any other structure that could once have been a boathouse.

  Turning back to the once stately old residence, whose formerly whitewashed walls and coal-black paintwork were almost lost behind rampant ivy, she could only wonder why the gardener didn’t clear the ragged clamor of briars and scrub that assailed the place with such vigor. It could only be because he’d received instructions not to go near the house.

  Or maybe someone had told him it was haunted and he was afraid of disturbing the occupants.

  With that cheering thought she used her phone to take shots of the exterior, careful to include the striking contrast between the forlorn-looking property and immaculate gardens. It was like coming across a once dignified old lady gazing nostalgically upon a shining array of young girl’s clothes.

  Following Sallie Jo past four lofty windows, all firmly shuttered from within, to a centrally placed set of double doors with rusted hinges and handles, she took out the keys again.

  “Do you think these doors are going to fall apart when we open them?” she asked, struggling with the lock. “We should have brought some WD-40.” Withdrawing one key to slot in the other, she started as Daisy gave a sudden yelp. The door was tipping toward them.

  Managing to catch it, Sallie Jo said wryly, “Well, I guess you’ve got your answer to that.”

  Slightly shaken, Justine stepped out from under it. “Amazing that the wind’s never taken it down, with it being so fragile,” she remarked.

  After carefully leaning both doors sideways against the frame, Justine stepped cautiously into the dark, moldering interior, just able to make out two weatherstained walls either side of her that opened out after a few steps to form a large, dome-ceilinged circle. There were doors all the way round the entrance hall, and a very grand, exquisitely carved oak staircase was still struggling to look proud of its sweeping rise to the upper floors. Hearing something crunch underfoot as she moved forward, she looked down. Guessing much of the debris mixed with old leaves and ragged particles of carpet was made up of mouse droppings and perhaps even decayed animal bones, she glanced at Sallie Jo, pulled a face, and inched on.

  “Anything coming back to you?” Sallie Jo joked as Justine craned her neck to look up at the shadowy landing.

  “Let’s just say it’s not happening yet,” Justine responded. “Do you think it’s safe to go up there?”

  “Don’t you want to look down here first?” As she asked, Sallie Jo pushed open a door to the right, went to go in, and suddenly shrieked. “I think it was a rat,” she gasped as Daisy shot past in hot pursuit.

  Not doubting this was the long-term residence of all sorts of rodents, bugs, birds, and maybe even snakes, Justine crossed to the door and peered warily into the room. Apart from Daisy sniffing at the scratched and rotting skirting boards, there was no sign or sound of anything moving. “We should have brought a torch,” she whispered.

  “If we can get the shutters open, we’ll be able to see,” Sallie Jo pointed out. Bravely striking forth, she went to draw back the heavy drapes.

  Minutes later, still fanning away clouds of silvery dust and picking off strings of clinging cobwebs, they were standing in a dazzling stream of sunlight, gazing around the spacious room. In spite of its shapeless mounds of covered furniture, mildewed wallpaper, and crumbling cornices, its former grandeur was crying out to be recognized.

  “Wow,” Sallie Jo murmured, taking it all in. “This is one of the best examples of an early lake cottage I’ve ever come across.”

  Justine was watching Daisy nosing around the hems of a dust sheet that clearly covered a sofa. “You don’t think anyone’s still sitting there, do you?” she murmured drily.

  Sallie Jo laughed. “Actually, that might not be funny,” she decided. “Oh my God, will you just look at that fireplace? I swear the only time I’ve seen anything like it was in a chateau in France. All that beautiful white marble and filigree work, the cherubs, flowers, and moldings. I bet they had it shipped, or maybe specially made?”

  Deciding it was ostentatious enough to create a new level of style and elegance, Justine was about to go for a closer inspection when she caught the sweet scent of oranges. She turned, half wondering if she might find someone behind her. “Can you smell it?” she asked Sallie Jo.

  “Smell what?” Sallie Jo inhaled deeply and said, “Yes, I can. It’s like…roses?”

  “Oranges?”

  “Maybe that. Where’s it coming from?”

  Undecided, Justine moved toward the window, as if following the scent, but it had disappeared.

  “Daisy, what are you doing, honey?” Sallie Jo laughed.

  Looking down to where Daisy was growling as she tugged at the corner of a dust sheet, Justine said, “I hope she hasn’t found the rat. Daisy, let go.”

  But Daisy was on a mission, and before Justine could stop her she’d dragged the linen cover to the ground, sending up a billowing cloud of dust—and in its midst, almost like an apparition, was an ornate lady’s writing desk.

  Justine almost gasped. “Oh my God, this must be where my grandmother was sitting when she wrote to my mother,” she said, looking out at the lake. She felt sure she was picking up the sweet scent again, but could find no obvious source for it as she pulled open the drawers of the desk in search of stationery or perhaps some sort of potpourri.

  What she did find, however, was a handful of silver-framed photographs, the first of which showed a sharp-featured young man with slick fair hair and vaguely haunted dark eyes. She showed it to Sallie Jo as she came to look over her shoulder.

  “Do you think that’s Phillip?” Sallie Jo murmured.

  “I’m guessing so,” Justine responded, noting his resemblance to her mother.

  “He sure was handsome. How old would you say he is there?”

  “Early twenties, maybe.”

  Wondering what had been going through his mind as he sat for the photo, how many fears and demons he’d been trying to hide, how much prejudice and misunderstanding he’d already suffered, she moved on to the next, and felt her heart give a sudden and painful lurch. “This is definitely my mother,” she said hoarsely. “I hadn’t realized until now just how much Abby resembled her.”

  “She’s beautiful,” Sallie Jo remarked sof
tly. “Like a young Grace Kelly.”

  Justine couldn’t help but smile to think of how her mother would glow with pleasure at the flattering comparison.

  Tearing her gaze from the face that was so like Abby’s, she moved on to the next and gave a little laugh. “This is me in a boat with Rob and…Oh my God, it’s my father. Proof we were once here. I can’t be much more than five, which would make Rob three. He’s so cute, isn’t he?”

  “You both are.”

  Thrilled that her grandma had kept a picture of her and Rob close by, Justine turned to the next photograph and felt herself melting with affection. “Her wedding photo,” she said softly. “Doesn’t she look beautiful? Don’t you just love her dress?”

  “Your grandpa is very like Phillip,” Sallie Jo commented, and returning to the moody-looking young man in the first photo, she held the two pictures side by side.

  Justine wasn’t going to say so, but she was sure she knew what Sallie Jo was thinking—of the two, her grandfather looked the more effeminate, which made her wonder if it was his own suppressed sexuality that had caused him to find his son’s proclivities so frightening and abhorrent.

  She guessed they would never know—unless, of course, there was a diary waiting to be found.

  Discovering in another drawer a small album filled with shots of her and Rob during their summers here, she wondered if she could take it away with her, but for some reason it seemed important for everything to stay as it was, at least until a decision had been reached on what they were going to do with the house.

  “I wonder what happened to the paintings,” Sallie Jo pondered as she gazed around the walls. “You can see where they were hanging…You don’t guess someone has taken them?”