by Vicki Delany
Chapter Thirty-three
By the end of the week, tempers were fraying. Alison and Elliot escaped back to the city, dragging a reluctant Brad with them. They had jobs to return to and Brad, who was in his first year at University, had missed quite enough school. Amber somehow managed to convince her parents over the phone that she was desperately needed to help her grandma. Fortunately for her, they didn’t try to verify that fact with Maeve, who had scarcely seen the girl since she returned from the hospital, and so Amber remained free to sneak out to the boathouse in the evenings. Maeve had fallen into a black hole of depression and spent most of the day in her room, only coming down for dinner at Moira’s insistence, and then to sit morosely at the table staring at her plate and saying nothing. Charles’ arm was wrapped in a cast, and he had assumed the temperament of a bear that couldn’t find anything to eat upon emerging from hibernation. Megan bustled about him constantly, trying to be useful, but managing only to annoy both Charles and anyone who really tried to help. Lizzie was run off her feet, taking trays up and down the stairs to Maeve and feeding the unexpected crowd. Only Alan carried on in his normal fashion as he continued moving about the property, doing whatever he did with quiet efficiency. Moira shut herself up in the study for most of the day, reminiscing about her life to Elaine and the eager tape recorder, complaining about the influx of visitors, and trying to alternately coax and bully her sister, Maeve, out of her depression. Ruth brooded with a quiet anger, accentuated by the fact that she was now expected to fetch and carry for Charles, Megan, and Maeve as well as attend to Moira. Elaine and Phoebe continued to plough through the boxes and papers. The girl’s dark eyes reflected her own enthusiasm, and Elaine loved educating the eager student in matters of research and biography.
It was a surprise one day when she found herself thinking that she hadn’t been so happy for a long time. She’d scarcely thought of her ex-husband, Ian, since Thanksgiving. And now that she was thinking of him, it was to realize that she really didn’t care any longer.
By Friday night tension crackled throughout the venerable old cottage. Charles had invited the Josephesons to dinner, throwing Lizzie and Moira into a fit. Lizzie grumbled under her breath about the workload, and Moira seethed over being forced into yet another formal dinner.
Greg arrived bearing a huge bouquet of yellow roses mixed with babies’ breath for Moira and a single red rose for Elaine. Both women almost melted under the force of his charm.
He bent over Moira’s chair and whispered, “This must be a huge inconvenience for you. You have your work to do. But I thank you for making my parents so welcome.”
Moira melted some more.
The only person truly happy about the extended stay of the Madison family was Patty, the woman who came in to help. She was making so much extra money, she confided to Elaine, that she hoped she and her husband would at last be able to afford their longed for dream—a Caribbean cruise, perhaps in the new year.
Alan served drinks in his customary formal manner, and Patty brought in the canapés. Slivers of smoked salmon dotted with capers served on thin slices of toast, prosciutto wrapped around slices of fresh Parmesan, tiny hot pastries. Elaine popped a slice of warm Brie into her mouth and took a sip of Pinot Noir from Oregon and reminded herself once again that this life did have something going for it.
“How are the memoirs coming along, Moira?” Mr. Josepheson asked politely, declining a canapé.
“Extremely well, Desmond. Thank you for asking. Elaine is a dream of a biographer. If you ever hear of anyone looking for a writer I can’t recommend her highly enough.”
Elaine blushed. But she was hastily brought back to earth.
“Humph,” Megan snorted. “Like anyone else would be foolish enough to waste their time and money on such a vain effort.”
“Can I get you another drink, Mrs. Stoughton?” Alan asked. He looked rather handsome in a black tuxedo, his freshly washed hair a tumble of black and gray waves.
Megan lifted her glass. “No one’s interested in your memoirs, Moira. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times….”
“And so you have, dear.”
“The long distance forecast is for a mild winter,” Charles said, anxious to change the subject before the two elderly sisters came to blows.
It was a semi-formal dinner party. Even Moira had, bullied by Megan, put on a dress and a long string of pearls for the occasion. But Olive Josepheson was attired as for a pre-revolutionary soiree at Versailles. The rich burgundy taffeta dress crackled every time it moved. Which was often considering that the skirt billowed around her legs like a cloud. The bodice was low and tight, revealing yards of wrinkled skin and sagging bosom. She ignored attempts to change the subject. “I’ve said for a long time that we should tell the story of the Josepheson family. Haven’t I always said so, Desmond?” She pulled a slice of smoked salmon off a cracker, deposited the fish on her napkin and demolished the cracker in one gulp.
“I don’t think so,” Desmond muttered.
“Of course we should. I’m sure that Mrs. Benson would be absolutely delighted to hear all about your adventures in England during the war.” She smiled at Elaine. “He was such a hero. Decorated many times over. But he’s terribly modest, aren’t you, dear? Why don’t you come for lunch tomorrow and we can discuss a contract.”
“Uh,” was all Elaine managed to say.
Megan saved her. “The idea. Waste of time anyway. If I’ve told Moira once I’ve told her a thousand times, but will she listen? No, not at all. And it’s hardly as if you have anything worthwhile to say. The Josepheson family. Nouveau riche. Ha.” She laughed.
The shocking breach of good manners struck Charles and Moira dumb.
“I’m sure Ms. Benson is more than occupied helping Miss Madison, Mother,” Greg interjected. He stood beside the fireplace, which was alive with blazing logs and glowing embers, one arm resting on the mantle, a scotch and soda loosely held in the other hand. “But perhaps when she’s finished here, she can come over and get a feel for our story.”
Olive Josepheson grinned. Elaine nodded stupidly, Megan took a healthy slug of her drink, and the tension broke.
Patty arrived to announce dinner, and everyone departed for the dining room.
***
As was her custom, Moira excused herself shortly after dessert. Ruth took her upstairs, and the rest of the party returned to the front room. Someone had stoked the fire back to life and lit an arrangement of tea candles that were scattered throughout the room.
“Anyone mind if I smoke?” Desmond Josepheson asked. Not waiting for a reply, he pulled out one of his enormous stogies and touched his silver lighter to the tip. Just as well he didn’t wait for permission, no one would have granted it. Alan poured liquors, and the older people settled around a card table. Amber stretched nonchalantly and looked at her watch. She had paid an inordinate amount of attention to the timepiece as the evening progressed. It was still early by her timeframe, one of the advantages of having older relatives and guests.
“It’s a beautiful evening, Elaine. I feel like a bit of fresh air, would you care to join me?” Greg stood over her chair, smiling brightly.
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
He held out one hand and she took it, allowing him to guide her to her feet. She caught a glimpse of Alan, still serving after dinner drinks; catching her eye, he looked away.
Greg was right: it was a stunning evening. They stood on the deck together, watching the last rays of the sun disappear over the lake, while behind them the stars rose thick and fast in a sky turning the color of an old bruise.
“Beautiful,” Elaine murmured.
The soft light of a campfire broke through the trees on the island, and the harsh cry of a loon echoed across the lake. “They always sound so sad, so lonely.”
“The loons? They do,” Greg said. “They are lonely, but they like it that way. They’re not at all hospitable. A nesting pair wants to have a lake all to themsel
ves. I agree with them on that point. But because their numbers are so few, they’re particularly susceptible to pollution and human interference.”
In the darkness Elaine smiled to herself. Normally so polite and composed, Greg babbled: always a good sign.
“Let’s walk a bit,” she suggested.
They descended the steps and strolled along the flagstone path. There was a touch of wind, enough to stir the lake waters. Gentle waves lapped against the shoreline.
“Have you ever been to the deserted cabin through there?” Elaine pointed, once they had reached the end of the path.
Greg narrowed his eyes and tried to peer though the trees. It was fully dark now, the stars brilliant overhead. The forest loomed before them, gloomy and foreboding. “No, I don’t think I ever have. Is there anything back there? When we were kids we played down here, by the dock and the water, or further up, behind the guesthouse and into the woods. I don’t think I ever continued past this path. What is it?” He caught a trace of something in her voice. “Are you okay, Elaine?”
“Yes.” She forced herself to sound bright and cheerful. “Let’s explore, shall we? The Madison grandchildren love to tell stories of dark happenings and strange noises under these trees.” She stepped off the edge of the flagstone path and into the dark embrace of the woods.
Chapter Thirty-four
Moira tossed a pair of dog cookies into the air, one each for Hamlet and Ophelia. The dogs’ long nails scratched at the hardwood floor as they scrambled for the treats.
“Thank you, Ruth,” she said, settling into the soft downy pillow and pulling up the comforter. “Thank you for everything.”
Her words hung, unacknowledged, in the air. Ruth snorted. “It’ll be a wonderful to have this place back to ourselves, won’t it?”
“It will,” Moira sighed. “Then Elaine and I can continue with our work.”
That wasn’t exactly what Ruth meant. But she busied herself putting pill bottles away and placing a water glass on the night table, within reach. She checked the baby monitor. Everything normal. Switching out the light she pushed Hamlet and Ophelia out the door ahead of her.
“Good night, Miss Madison.”
“Good night.”
Ruth closed the door firmly.
Moira didn’t sleep well any more. She hadn’t for a long, long time. Most nights passed at a snail’s pace, while she watched the moon rise outside her window, and the bare branches of the trees beat against the glass. But she was always so very tired, that she dared to hope as she excused herself from a dinner party or a gathering in the kitchen, that this one night she would be able to sleep long and deep and serene.
She missed casual dinners around the kitchen table terribly. Hopefully this dreadful business could all be sorted out soon, and Charles and Megan and Maeve and all their hangers-on would depart for the city, leaving Moira and her household at peace.
Moira’s bedroom occupied pride of place, overlooking the expanse of lake, the dock and the beautifully crafted boathouse. It had been her parents’ room, and before that her grandparents’, and now it was hers. Many nights she’d struggled over to the big bay window and settled into the soft cushions to watch the play of light on water and the gentle movement of wind through the trees. She had seen that obnoxious young man, Dave (if not for Rachel and Kyle and little Willow, whom she loved dearly, she would have sent their miserable friend packing long ago), creep into the boathouse. And later, all mysterious as if she were a heroine in a Hitchcock film, that brainless idiot Amber would tip-toe down the steps carrying plastic containers of food, a bottle of good wine, and crystal stemware. Amber wasn’t her granddaughter. Moira knew that she really shouldn’t interfere, but she’d considered hinting to Maeve that she should keep an eye on the girl.
It wasn’t the first time Moira had seen young women slinking around the boathouse at first dark. At least Amber was in the position of power, although Dave might not care to think so. She belonged to the owners’ family, a woman with money and a mind of her own, unlike the others Moira had watched, late at night, following no will of their own. She hoped Amber was using good protection and kept her mouth shut. If Charles found out he would feel obliged to attempt to do something about it. Although the girl wasn’t his granddaughter, either.
The wind was high tonight. She could hear branches striking the bedroom window, the lapping of waves against the dock, and the soft rustle of the few leaves that still clung desperately to the trees. She drifted off, remembering as if it were yesterday the dear young airman with whom she had spent one heavenly week in the hell of wartime London. Sometimes she struggled to remember his face. For that week, and the months before, he had been the center of her universe. He had been exceedingly fair, his blond hair more white than yellow, blue eyes the palest she had ever seen. He was tall, and heavily built to match, yet he moved with a gentleness that hinted at the fairy ancestor who had given him his coloring. Shot over France, he had forced his smoking plane back over the English Channel, rather than risk crashing it into a French village or farmer’s cottage. Spiraling out of control, the fragile craft hit the water and dissolved into flotsam and jetsam. There were no survivors.
For weeks Moira alternately raged and sorrowed when she didn’t hear from him, terrified that he had abandoned her, sated with his conquest. Her mother’s bitter words mocked her at every turn. “Why buy the cow when you can have the milk for free?”
When they first cleaned out his possessions, they’d missed an unposted letter, addressed to Nursing Sister Moira Madison, Bramshott. His mother found it, the first time she’d had the strength to go through his few things, and sent it to Moira, unopened, with a note of explanation. The letter was short, a few lines of script in an awkward hand, written by a man in a hurry. He told her how much he loved her, he asked her to marry him, and he vowed that in his next leave, if she were willing, they would be married in the chapel near her hospital and his mother’s home. Time to go: they were knocking at his door. An easy flight, nothing at all. He would mail the letter when he got back. I love you, he scribbled.
She had read the letter, wept, and gone on duty.
The soft sound of a door opening, a dark shape moving against the background light of the hall before it was extinguished. “Grant, is that you?” Moira sighed, not awake, not asleep.
The shape moved to her bedside. It clutched a pillow to its chest.
“You silly, silly boy,” Moira giggled. “This is a good hotel, they provide the pillows. We don’t have to bring our own.” She had bought a precious bottle of perfume, along with the silk and lace negligee, in an attempt to make herself desirable. The smell drifted through the room. She stroked her chest lightly, feeling her breasts tingle under her fingers, strong and firm. She lifted her arms, ignoring the high-pitched drone of the Spitfires as they headed out towards the Channel.
The pillow fell across her face.
Chapter Thirty-five
“It’s cold back here,” Greg said. “Must have dropped ten degrees in the last two minutes.”
His voice was as insignificant as a fly buzzing around Elaine’s head. She pushed dead brush to one side and stepped further into the circle of trees.
“Dark, too. The stars have gone out all of a sudden. We should turn back, Elaine. At least to get a flashlight. I can’t see my hand in front of my face.”
A chill wind curled around the foot of the boarded-up cabin, lifting decaying leaves off the forest floor and tossing them in the cold air to rise above the ground in a dance gone mad. Old planks and aging shutters groaned as they shifted under the force of the wind. The scent of cheap toilet water was all around her, filling her nostrils, soaking her clothes.
Elaine swallowed repeatedly, trying not to gag.
The air and the dancing leaves swirled, struggling to form substance out of nothing, to pull light out of black darkness.
“Shit,” Greg swore furiously as a dead branch struck him full in the chest. Rotten wood cracked, bre
aking against his weight.
Elaine stopped and stood still, rooted to the ground as thoroughly as one of the old white pines, transfixed by the sight before her. The darkness shifted form and consistency under the force of the cold wind, but slowly it assumed a shape, transparent and illusive but still a force present and visible. It didn’t utter a sound and made no further attempt to move, except to undulate rhythmically where it had stopped. Elaine stood and faced it. In the far recesses of her mind she was aware of Greg all around her, banging into stumps and tripping over logs, swearing a blue streak and calling out her name, in tones of rising, but still contained panic. Like one would hear the inconsequential noise of a TV in the other room, while preparing dinner or washing up the dishes. Her eyes fixed on the shape moving before her. It was there, but yet not. She could look right through it, see the outline of the dark cabin and the row of trees behind it. A mouse dashed across the forest floor, straight through the bottom of the shape to disappear into a minuscule crack under the cabin steps.
Elaine watched, saying nothing, not moving, as ethereal fingers reached into her mind. She was not afraid, but a black cloud settled over her heart. She was not afraid, but suddenly she knew that she had to move.
Moira!
She whirled around. Knowing now that she had nothing to fear, she turned her back on it, whatever it might be. “Moira. Something’s wrong.” She thought she called to Greg, but couldn’t be sure if the words were actually passing her caked, dry lips, or echoing around and around inside her head.
“Elaine, stop! I can’t see a blasted thing. You’re going to fall. Wait for me.”
They crashed through the trees, breaking out onto the remains of the wildflower bed that curved along the waterfront. The bare, broken stems and crushed leaves, dying in the cold of autumn nights, were gone, replaced by a riot of color, movement, light, and scent. A Monarch butterfly settled softly on one perfect purple petal. Girlish giggles broke out from the dock, and a motorboat roared as it went past. The boys piloting it were dressed in white flannels. They waved enthusiastically. A maid, managing to look beautiful in a severe black dress that must be almost unbearable in the heat, cap and apron starched until they could stand up on their own, passed in front of Elaine. She carried a silver tray, polished until it reflected sunlight, bearing a glass pitcher filled to the brim with lemonade and dancing ice cubes. There were also neatly cut sandwiches and slices of pale sponge cake. Elaine jogged in place. It was so hot. The lemonade looked so refreshing. The cubes of clear ice melted as she watched. One glass and she would continue on her way.
