“Being a Lancaster has nothing to do with it,” Janet said. “And I would in no way be insubordinate to you. I ask for nothing more than might be given to Chelsea or Hilda.”
“Of course,” Miss Austin said. “You have my permission to leave early. Were it possible, I’d offer you the whole day, but you know that wouldn’t be practical.” Janet thought she detected a hint of mockery in her words. “So you may leave at four, and have a nice weekend.” Her voice was honeyed with a sincerity that never quite reached her guarded eyes.
“Thank you,” Janet said. “I’m sorry I blew up. I guess I’m a little worried about Grandmother.”
The coffee cup in the older woman’s hand rattled against the saucer. “I thought you said she was okay.”
“Well,” Janet said, nibbling her lip, “she assured me she was. But I didn’t like the way she sounded on the phone last night, and I can’t help but worry. After all, she’s almost ninety.”
“I’m sure she’s fine.” Amanda Austin’s voice was clipped and brittle. She patted Janet’s arm. “But you go on up there and see for yourself.”
The show of compassion was interrupted as Chelsea stuck her head through the door.
“Good morning all,” she greeted.
Chelsea Parker was a fixer. A healer. Her very presence had a kind of cleansing effect. She was Janet’s best friend, and they were as different as beer and champagne. Where Janet was jazz and denim, Chelsea was symphonies and silk. Chelsea only succeeded to prove the point that class was born and not bought. She reminded Janet of Grace Kelly in the movie Rear Window.
Standing directly behind Chelsea was the fourth and final member of the staff, Hilda Jamison. Hateful Hilda, Janet secretly thought of her. Bird-like and peckish, she was middle-aged, perhaps, although it was hard to tell. Janet thought she was the reincarnation of Mrs. Danvers from the movie Rebecca. Stooped and hunched beneath woolen plaids, she seemed to be in a permanent state of despair. Janet wondered if she ever laughed.
Janet grinned at Chelsea.
“Well, hi there,” she said, stepping to the sink, dumping the last of her coffee down the drain and giving the cup a quick rinse. At the door, she reached for Chelsea’s arm.
“How’d you like to do me a favor this afternoon?”
Chelsea laughed. “I’m all yours.”
“I’m going to Heather Down and I’ll be leaving work at four. Could you keep an eye on the reference section for me? I think some history students from the community college will be coming by and may need some help.”
“It’s done,” Chelsea said with a wave of her hand. “And tell Mrs. Lancaster hello for me.”
Janet smiled. “Thanks.”
Hilda swiped by them, mumbling to herself. “... better not expect me to do the work of Miss High-and-Mighty.”
Chelsea whirled around. “Don’t stress yourself out, Hilda,” she said. “She doesn’t.”
Hilda harrumped and slouched away, her rounded shoulders slumping lower into herself. How pitiful she looks, Janet thought and wondered what bitterness had crept into her life and stolen away her spirit.
But she had no time for Hateful Hilda. There were more pressing things on her mind, and she wanted the second hand on the clock to sweep around the dial faster and faster. And the apprehension about her grandmother continued to grow.
TWO
At four-thirty Janet pitched a weekender onto the black leather seat, slid in behind the steering wheel, and tugged the Orioles baseball cap down against the evening sun. She drove past the trendy boutiques and quaint shops of Middlebrook and headed toward Briar’s Point.
Driving up the coastal highway, her apprehension returned. Was anything wrong at Heather Down? She was anxious to be there and see for herself. Turning her attention to the autumn scenery, she sped along, enjoying the solitude of the drive. Since the interstate had come through, few motorists chose to travel the narrow and winding road of Laurel Mountain, so Janet had the highway to herself. The squatty little car whipped around the sharp curves and climbed with minimal effort. Her grandmother’s plea to drive carefully echoed in Janet’s mind and forced her to relieve the pressure on the gas pedal.
The mountainous road had dozens of switchbacks that could be treacherous, as Janet had experienced firsthand when she was six years old. She had not allowed herself to think about that night for a long time; but sometimes, especially driving this stretch of road, the memories pushed though the maze of her mind and she could hear the sirens and feel the cold. A chill shook her body as she brushed away twenty-year-old cobwebs and remembered the auto accident that had claimed the lives of her parents. Why she escaped with only minor injuries had long remained a mystery to her, and she never quite stopped feeling guilty.
“Be careful, Jay,” she could still hear her mother say; hear the softness in her voice. “The road’s a solid sheet of ice.”
Janet was sitting directly behind her father. She watched as he patted her mother’s hand. “Don’t worry Lynn, we’ll be fine.”
The glare of the oncoming headlights and the reflection from the glossy black asphalt made Janet’s head ache and she scrunched down among the Christmas packages on the back seat and closed her eyes. She could feel the vibration of the engine as the big car slowly continued up the side of the mountain on its way to Briar’s Point. Before long the steady hum lulled her into a light sleep. Janet never saw the approaching car, out of control, as it swerved in a sharp curve and struck the Lancaster car. She awoke to the sounds of sirens and the feel of frozen earth beneath her body. Voices and flashing lights penetrated her brain.
“My God, it’s Jay and Lynn Lancaster!” someone had shouted. “Wonder where the kid is?”
Janet remembered trying to call for help.
“Over here, Chief,” a man yelled. “I’ve found her.”
“How is she?”
“Alive. Get Doc over here quick.”
Janet felt herself being covered with a warm blanket.
“Here, let me see about her,” said yet another voice. “There’s nothing I can do for her parents now.”
Warm hands touched Janet’s face, caring hands that brought comfort and a measure of security. She opened her eyes. Hovering shadows stood silhouetted against red and blue revolving lights and she thought she was going to throw up. Then she felt herself being lifted and sleep came again.
Elizabeth Lancaster was sitting beside the hospital bed holding Janet’s hand when next she woke. Her grandfather was standing at the foot.
“Janet?” Her grandmother spoke softly. “Can you hear me?”
Janet turned her head toward the sound of the voice. A gathering of unshed tears glistened in her grandmother’s red-rimmed eyes.
She looked from her grandmother to the man in a white coat bending over her.
“What happened?” she asked.
Her grandfather hurried to the opposite side of the bed and took her hand. He looked tired and old.
“There was an accident, Janet,” he said.
“Mama? Papa?”
Janet struggled to lift her head. Gentle hands restrained her and eased her back down on the bed. The doctor looked at her grandmother and gave a slight nod.
“Janet, they’re gone, baby,” she said as tears rolled down the lined face. “Your mama and papa are in heaven now, with God and all the beautiful angels.”
She could hear her grandfather huff a rather indignant snort. Lionel Lancaster was not big on religion. Even so, she could feel the increased pressure of his hand on hers as her grandmother spoke, and Janet was aware of the doctor’s eyes.
Little things she still remembered, insignificant things: a nurse squishing by the door on creped footsteps, cold shards of December sunshine slanting through the windows, a steady drone of the heating system thrumming the air.
As with all Lancaster interments, the double funeral was private, with only the family and a few close friends in attendance. Her parents joined the ancients and were laid to rest in
the family cemetery located to the leeward side of the estate. It was a miserable day as fog tumbled in from the ocean and made Janet’s eyes water. She stood beside the open graves and stared at the mounds of dirt scooped from the earth to make room for her parents. Clumps of ice crystals had already scabbed over the edges of the raw earth piled neatly beside the gaping holes. In anger, she jabbed the toe of her shoe into the frozen honeycomb and watched as the fragile crystals crumbled. Then she peed on herself.
The memory of the mist that hung in the air that day still lingered heavy on her cheeks, and Janet shook her head now to revive herself from the past and to clear her mind.
“Yes, Grandmother,” she repeated the promise. “I’ll be careful.”
Returning her attention to the drive, Janet drank in the scenery. Across the highway and to her left the wooded hillside was at its glorious peak.
Laurel Mountain had gotten its name from the over-abundance of wild blossoms; great spattering and splashes of smoky purples and muted magentas, fused colors that ran on for miles up the mountainside. Below, and to the right, the waves of the Atlantic continued to assault the coastline at the foot of a deep bluff. The highway climbed and curved close enough to the shore to hear the waves breaking against the rocks. Out the window, well below the level of the road, seagulls screeched as they darted and dipped over the water, their dark-tipped wings flashing in the fading light. The clock on the dash showed almost six-thirty. In a short time she passed the familiar welcoming sign.
Briar’s Point was a small fishing village with a few businesses and stores, a couple of churches, a post office, and a municipal building. It also had its own funeral parlor. The Point’s residents were a rascally bunch; not a one had ever come off the mountain to be buried. “Damn right,” the old timers would growl. “Plant me where the soil knows the sound of my footsteps.”
The Point’s one claim to fame was the pier that docked more than its share of boats and boasted great fishing. From where she drove past, Janet could see the teeter-totter of the boats as the waves slapped against the hulls of the anchored vessels. Nothing much ever happened in Briar’s Point. Most of the houses had no locks, and the ones that did were seldom used. The size of the town had dwindled, as many of the young people went away to college and never found their way back again. Someone once figured the average age of the town’s citizens to be around sixty-seven, far too old for the town to survive unless there was an infusion of new blood. The thought of the village dying saddened Janet beyond words.
The main street was empty as Janet drove past windows shuttered against the wind. She slowed the car at the post office to make a sharp turn right onto a smaller lane. Soon the town lay behind her and ahead, where the tip of the land jutted out to meet the sea, lay Heather Down.
The driveway was lined on either side by trees whose ages were measured not in decades but in centuries. Their topmost branches intertwined and wove themselves into a palate of splendor that brought out the artist in Janet. On sunshiny days, when the light played through, Janet considered it her own private Sistine Chapel.
But now, beneath the canopied ceiling, the seams of twilight deepened to a gauzy gloaming and ghostly shadows flickered across the windshield in an almost hypnotic trance. At the end of the driveway, the three-storied house traced against a slate-gray sky. In the background, pushed further against the horizon, was the ancient and crumbling shot tower. Like an embattled warrior, weary but faithful, it continued to stand guard over the house, as it had for so many generations. Janet drove through the open wrought-iron gates, past the gatehouse that no longer required a keeper, and parked in front of the double doors of the carriage house. The only noise to break the silence was the distant roar of the restless ocean.
The weekender bumped against her leg as she hurried across the grass and up the steps to the front porch.
“Hello,” she called, pushing through the door.
The old butler came forward.
“Miss Janet,” he said in a voice of crushed velvet. “I’m so glad you’re here.” He looked drawn and his bony hands trembled.
“Trent, what’s wrong?” Janet’s heart quickened. “Is Grandmother ill?”
“She says not,” he said. “But you know Madam. She hasn’t felt well for several days now but absolutely refuses to let us call Doctor.” His eyes mirrored Janet’s concern. “You’ll talk to her?”
Janet nodded. “I’ll go straight up.”
“She’s in the study,” he said.
Janet tossed the denim tote on the library table that sat at the foot of the stairs and dumped her carryall on the floor. She whipped around and headed across the black and white marble squares that tiled the salon floor.
“I’m here,” she said, shoving in the door.
Elizabeth Lancaster sat in front of a low-burning fire. A new hand-knitted shawl, no doubt the result of Lettie’s skillful fingers, was draped about her sloping shoulders. She looked up from the book on her lap.
“I expected you sooner.” Her voice held more relief than accusation.
“I left as early as I could,” Janet said and hurried to kiss the wrinkled cheek. The faint fragrance of lavender and old age drifted upward, familiar and intimate. “How are you, Grandmother? Trent said you hadn’t been feeling well.”
“Trent worries too much.” The older woman removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m fine,” she insisted with a delicate but unconvincing smile.
Janet took the small, vein-lined hand and sat down on the ottoman at her grandmother’s feet.
“You know, it might be a good idea to have Doctor Darby come out and give you a good going over.”
“No need to worry Doctor,” her grandmother replied and gave a weak smile. “He has enough to do without taking time to come way out here to see about an old woman.” She patted Janet’s hand. “Besides, now that you’re here everything will be fine.” She pulled her hand away, folded the glasses and laid them on the book. “It’s going to be a while before dinner, Cook said about eight. Are you hungry?”
Janet laughed. “As a lumberjack—as usual. But I can wait.”
“Splendid. We can have a nice talk. How have you been, dear? You look tired.”
“I’m great.” Janet stood up and stepped toward the fire. “Never been better.”
“How are things at our library?”
Janet turned. “Grandmother, it’s not our library. It belongs to the people of Middlebrook. It’s only the name that’s ours.”
The old lady smiled again. “I always say that, don’t I? And you always get your back up. I suppose I don’t have to worry about you—being alone after I’m gone, I mean. You have spunk, Janet. I like that.”
“You raised me well. You and Grandfather were the best.”
“Still, I wish you weren’t alone so much of the time.” Her eyes clouded and she picked at the knotted fringe that bordered the shawl. “You could move back up here.”
“Grandmother, I can’t do that. Much as I love you, I have to be on my own, make my own way.”
“Well,” Elizabeth Lancaster said, affecting a posture of compromise, “at least let me help you financially.”
“No.” Janet was adamant. “I love you for offering, but Grandmother, please let me do for myself.” Then her voice softened. “I have very little living expense, and I get along nicely. You’ve already done too much.”
“How much are they paying you at our—at the library?”
“Enough.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred a week—which is plenty to live on.”
“Before or after taxes?”
Janet turned back to the fire.
“Before or after, Janet?”
“Before.”
“One would think they’d pay you more than that. After all, you’ve been there a long time. Perhaps I could ring up Ethan Chandler and speak with him. He’s an understanding man.”
Janet jerked around.
; “Don’t you dare.”
She was shocked that her grandmother might intercede on her behalf with the chairman of the library board. “If you do that, I’ll quit and never go back. I mean it, I will. I couldn’t bear to work there if I were treated any differently than the other staff members. It’s bad enough as it is.”
Her grandmother’s cloudy eyes reflected the firelight. “Oh? In what way?”
“Nothing.” Janet shook her head, leaned down, and took her grandmother’s hand. “You won’t do anything, will you? Promise me you won’t do anything.”
The old lady pulled away, her eyes flickering up at her granddaughter.
“I promise I won’t do anything if you’ll tell me what it is I’m not supposed to do anything about.”
Janet straightened up and flexed her arms over her head.
“Really, it’s nothing,” she said, tugging the waistband of the Save-The-Whales sweatshirt down around her hips. She glanced up at the portrait over the mantel. The painter had captured the stern glint in Lionel Lancaster’s eyes and the hard line of his mouth.
“He was always so serious, wasn’t he?”
Elizabeth Lancaster was slow in answering. “He was.”
Janet turned. “You miss him still?”
“I shall always miss him.”
Janet sat back down on the ottoman. “Were you happy?”
“Yes dear, we were happy.” She returned the glasses to her face and peered up at the picture. “Oh, there were a few rough times, I suppose there always are. But he was considerate of me. I was still a young woman when my health commenced to fail and he was most solicitous of my feelings and privacy. That’s when he moved from the master chambers and established his own quarters in the west wing on the third floor.”
“Just down the hallway from my art studio.”
The old lady closed her eyes for a second. “He seemed happy there and we continued to be good friends to the end. We shared many hours of interesting and stimulating conversation. Companionship seemed to suffice for both of us.” She wagged a bony finger. “Oh, but there was never any doubt who was head of the household.” She reached for Janet’s hand. “And what about you, young lady? Is there no special man in your life?”
Moonshadows Page 2
