by Wendy Webb
“What was that back there?” I asked him, wishing he could give me an answer.
I eyed my watch. With a couple of hours to go until lunchtime, I hurried up the stairs and, after several wrong turns, found my way back to my room. Once I was finally safe inside, I shut the door behind me, sunk into the armchair next to the window, and propped my feet on the ottoman. Covering my legs with an afghan that had been draped over the back of the chair, I turned my face to the window and stared out at the snow, imagining the original owner of the house and his children playing there, the painting come to life. Suddenly I wondered if it was one of their voices I heard, a tiny moment in time somehow caught and replayed.
A while later, there was a knock at the door. Marion poked her head into the room.
“Lunch, ma’am. Please come with me.”
I followed her back out into the hallway, down the stairs, across the massive foyer, and into a part of the house I hadn’t yet seen. We walked from room to opulent room until we reached a closed set of ornately carved double wooden doors.
“Mrs. Sinclair wishes to take lunch today in the west salon,” she informed me, opening the doors to reveal a high-ceilinged room with an entire wall of paned windows on one side and a grand fireplace on the other. The wood floors gleamed.
Whereas many of the rooms that I had seen at Havenwood were formal and imposing, this one had a more casual feel. A long window seat, strewn with colorful pillows and afghans, ran from end to end in front of the windows, and two couches, upholstered with a deep tapestry print, faced each other in front of the fireplace, flanked by wing chairs with ottomans. Four tables with accompanying chairs stood in the corners of the room, almost as if this were set up as a library or place of study. One of them, a round table nearest the wall of windows, was set for two.
“Mrs. Sinclair will join you in just a moment,” Marion said before she turned and made her way back down the hall.
I settled onto one of the couches, sinking down into its soft cushions, and as I did so, a slight coldness brushed past me. A whisper of a breeze. I glanced toward the windows, but none of them was opened. Why would they be on a winter day? I crossed my arms in front of my chest and reasoned that, in a house this size, breezes must waft down halls and through corridors and around pillars all the time.
“Julia!” It was Mrs. Sinclair, entering the room with her arms wide, as though she were alighting after floating here on that very breeze. “You haven’t gotten lost yet in this maze of a house, I trust?”
She had changed clothes since breakfast. Now she was wearing a green velour jogging suit, accented by several long strands of silver beads around her neck. Silver bracelets jangled on one wrist, and on one finger, an enormous diamond ring, so big it seemed to weigh her down. Her hair, colored bright red, was cropped short and tousled, bangs framing her face.
She seemed somehow much younger now than she had just hours earlier. This was the Amaris Sinclair I remembered from book jacket photographs and talk show appearances.
I got to my feet and smiled. “Hello, Mrs. Sinclair,” I said, moving across the room toward her. “Did you have a pleasant morning?”
“Oh yes, oh my yes,” she said, pulling out one of the chairs at the set table and gesturing toward the other. “Are you a fan of yoga, my dear?”
I sat down across from her and placed a napkin on my lap. “I’ve done it a few times at my gym in Chicago. It’s more difficult than it looks!”
“Indeed,” she said, taking a sip from her water glass, her green eyes shining. “I highly recommend it as one ages. It keeps these old muscles on their toes.”
Marion returned, pushing a silver cart.
“Ah, Marion. What do you have for us today? Not scallops, I hope.” She winked at me, a slight smile curling up at the corners of her mouth.
“After fifty years, if I would be serving you a scallop, you’d know to call the paramedics for I’d be out of my mind,” Marion huffed, sliding open the roll top on the tray to reveal two earthenware crocks, a basket of bread, and a pitcher of water. “It’s French onion soup today.”
She set the bowls of soup in front of us, golden-brown cheese still bubbling across the rims, and the basket of crusty French bread and butter in the middle of the table. The sweet aroma of caramelized onions swirled between us. It smelled heavenly.
“Well now, dear,” Mrs. Sinclair began, raising a spoonful to her lips and blowing on it slightly, “let us set about the business of getting to know each other, shall we?”
“I’d like that very much.”
“Tell me all about yourself, Julia. I love nothing better than to hear the story of someone’s life. It’s so much more interesting than fiction.”
“Well, I don’t know about that, at least where my life is concerned,” I said, taking a spoonful of the caramelly soup. “My story is fairly ordinary.” I winced as I thought about Jeremy.
“Oh, I doubt that,” she said, and looked at me with expectation in her eyes. “As in any good story, let’s start at the beginning. Where were you born?”
“In Minneapolis,” I said. Long-forgotten memories flooded back as I told Amaris Sinclair about growing up in a split-level house three doors down from a creek that ran through the suburban neighborhood where I lived until I left for college. I told her of playing outside during the endless summers of childhood with a gaggle of friends who had long since faded from view, of catching crayfish in the creek and listening to the frogs sing at night. It seemed so old-fashioned and simple in comparison to the way my life had evolved.
“Lovely! And your parents? What did they do?”
“My mom was a secretary and my dad was in sales,” I said, the words catching at the back of my throat as my parents’ faces floated through my mind.
“They’re both gone now, I understand.” She reached across the table and covered my hand with hers.
“Yes,” I said, dabbing at my eyes with my napkin. “It’s been more than fifteen years already. Mom was killed in a car accident on the way to work, and Dad died just after her funeral. Everyone said it was a broken heart.”
She squeezed my hand. “That thing people say about time healing all wounds? Rubbish. Complete and utter rubbish.”
This brought a smile to my lips. “You learn to live with it, but the pain never goes away.”
“You had finished college by that time, yes?”
I nodded. “I was in Europe—a graduation gift from my parents. I rushed home and…” I sighed, not really knowing how to continue.
“That’s when you wrote your novel,” she prompted.
“I didn’t know what else to do.” I gave a halfhearted shrug.
She cleared her throat. “Now that Adrian has gone, we might as well be honest with each other,” she said. “I know he has hired you as a companion for me. It’s a little game we play. He hires them; I drive them off. Since we mentioned your novel, I thought I’d simply let you know that he is trying to do this under the guise that you are a writer in need of mentoring. I suspect this isn’t quite the case. Am I correct?”
Her candor caught me off guard. Was I about to be ejected from this house like so many other “companions” before me? I grasped for the right words.
“Both are true,” I said, thinking quickly. “Adrian—Mr. Sinclair—wants to make sure you are well cared for during his absences. After knowing you for just a few hours, I can see you don’t need a companion. But I can also see a son who wants to do all he can for his mother.”
Mrs. Sinclair smiled. “Adrian is a good boy.”
“I’ve been a fan of yours for years, and frankly, that’s the main reason I accepted his offer,” I continued. I didn’t bring up anything about my recent life and my desire to drop out of sight. I didn’t know how much she knew about that, and I figured the less, the better.
“Thank you, my dear.”
She took another spoonful of soup and a silence fell between us. I waited until she spoke again.
“You see
, Julia, just as my son had ulterior motives for bringing you here, I must confess to harboring ulterior motives of my own for agreeing to the situation, and agreeing willingly.” Her green eyes danced.
A trickle of fear crept up my spine. Her comment seemed to tint my current state of affairs in very dark hues. It occurred to me that I was sitting across the table from a famous horror novelist—a woman whose character I really didn’t know at all.
The look on my face must’ve betrayed what I was thinking, because Amaris Sinclair giggled, eyeing me as she took a sip of her drink. “It’s nothing nefarious, I assure you. Don’t worry, my dear. I probably shouldn’t have brought it up at this time. It’s just that something in your background made it especially attractive for me to welcome you here.”
She gazed at me, her eyes wide with expectation. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, until a thought entered my mind then, chilling me from the inside out. “You’re not—you weren’t one of my husband’s investors…?”
I thought I detected a look of sadness wash over her face that dissolved into a sigh. “Oh, goodness, no,” she said, breaking off a piece of bread and dipping it into her soup. “It’s nothing to do with that.”
So she did know about it. I squirmed in my chair. “I want you to know, Mrs. Sinclair—” I began, but she waved her hand in the air to stop me.
“You owe me no explanation, Julia. Adrian told me all about the particulars of your husband’s less-than-savory business affairs, and how public opinion is against you. Unfairly, he thinks. And so do I. He explained to me that this house would be living up to its name with you here. It will indeed be a haven in the woods for you just as it has been for me, and so many others, I have no doubt.”
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding. “My life for the past year has truly been a nightmare.”
“Nightmares.” She smiled at me, rather sadly I thought. “Now, I know all about those. Many of my books were inspired by nightmares I had in this very home. It is good to awaken, isn’t it?”
I thought about the dark nature of Amaris Sinclair’s novels and shuddered, but at the same time a tingle sizzled through me.
“So you wrote here, in the house?”
“At this very table, my dear,” she said, running her hands across its wooden surface. “Just me, my typewriter, and the various monsters and mishaps that were swirling around me begging to be put onto the page. Those were the days!”
“I’ve read all of your books. And the short stories.”
Her face lit up. “Do you have a particular favorite among them?”
“Seraphina,” I said, referring to her book about a psychic medium who got more than she bargained for when she contacted the spirit world during a séance in a house, I just then realized, that was a great deal like Havenwood. “I read it so many times when I was growing up, I think I knew every word by heart.”
She stared at me then, her spoon suspended midway from her bowl to her mouth. It was as though her eyes were grasping at mine, trying to see into my brain. My skin began to prickle, and I felt like a mongoose in the thrall of a cobra.
“Of course you did, my dear,” she said finally.
Her gaze was directed at me, but her eyes seemed to be looking at something else, not beyond me, but through me. As though I weren’t there. Was this one of the “episodes” Adrian had warned me about?
“Mrs. Sinclair?” I reached across the table and grasped her hand, which still held her spoon aloft. This seemed to startle her, bringing her back from wherever she had gone. She shook her head and blinked several times.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” she said. “The mere mention of my books seems to have sent my thoughts hurtling back into the past. It was such a wonderful time, you see. I loved it all, the writing, the book tours, meeting my readers.” She sighed audibly. “Glorious, so glorious.”
“Mrs. Sinclair, forgive me for asking, but why did you give it all up?” I asked her. “The world thinks you died.”
“Oh, I know what the world thinks,” she said, finishing the last of her soup. “But the real reason I gave it up? That’s a conversation for another time, my dear.” She turned her gaze to the window and seemed to be looking at something I couldn’t see. “No, today the sky is too blue and bright for a tale as dark as that one.”
SEVEN
I stood stock-still as three giant dogs bounded toward me. Mrs. Sinclair had suggested we take a stroll around the grounds, so we bundled up and headed out into the chilly air. In the pasture, I saw the dogs Adrian had told me about—three giant Alaskan malamutes, chasing one another and yowling. He had told me they were large, but I was unprepared for exactly how large. They saw Mrs. Sinclair and raced toward us, and I braced for impact.
Before I knew it, I was on my back in the snow, a giant red-and-white dog on top of me, licking my face. I held my breath, not quite sure what to do. One bite from this dog’s mighty jaws would break a bone, I had no doubt.
“Molly!” Mrs. Sinclair barked. “That’s enough now!” She snapped her fingers at the dog. “Get off, Molly, for goodness’ sake.”
The dog hopped into the snow next to me and wagged her tail furiously as I scrambled to my feet, brushing the snow off my backside. My knees were knocking.
“It’s not every day you get a greeting like that,” I said, trying to sound steadier than I felt.
“The old girl has taken to you, Julia!” Mrs. Sinclair informed me. “I knew she would. Reach out your hand and let her sniff it.”
I did as I was told, and Molly moved her great head toward me, nuzzling her snout against my palm. I scratched behind her ears; her fur was as soft as cashmere.
The other two dogs, both gray and white with bright yellow eyes, circled us, looking like two gigantic wolves on the hunt.
“You mustn’t be afraid, my dear.” Mrs. Sinclair smiled at me. “You live at Havenwood now. You are a member of their pack.” She turned an adoring gaze back to the dogs. “Tundra is the alpha,” she said, gesturing at the largest of the three. “And Molly is just positively an angel.”
She reached down and gave Tundra’s back a good scratch.
“Think of them as your bodyguards, Julia. They take that responsibility very seriously.”
We took a few steps and the dogs fell into line, the largest of the three walking ahead of us and one on either side of Mrs. Sinclair and me. They did seem like bodyguards, I thought, as we walked along, me relaxing more and more with each step. Lions and tigers and bears had nothing on those three.
Soon we came to the creek that I saw from the breakfast room, which meandered its way to Lake Superior, and Mrs. Sinclair pointed out a path that led to the village, some three miles away.
“It’s a lovely ride on horseback,” she said. “Nelly is quite gentle and slow, just right for someone new to riding. Would you like to do that one of these days?”
I could almost see myself there, in the distance, trotting through the landscape on a horse. “It sounds wonderful,” I said.
“It’s decided, then,” she said. “We shall have a riding party. But it will have to be another day.” She sighed deeply. “Now, my dear, let’s make our way back to the house, shall we?”
I took her arm and she leaned on me as we walked through the snow, the dogs leading the way.
Back inside, the dogs loped off to parts unknown as we peeled off our jackets and hats.
“I believe I’ll have a nap now, Julia,” Mrs. Sinclair said, her usually bright eyes suddenly filled with what seemed to be sadness.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Sinclair?” I asked, moving toward her. “May I help you upstairs?”
“Thank you, my dear, but no,” she said. “I’m just a bit tired, but I can make it on my own.”
She then took her leave of me, and I watched as she walked slowly up the grand staircase, seeming to age with every step.
I hurried after her. “Are you sure I can’t help?”
She touched my cheek with on
e papery hand. “This old gal still has a bit of kick in her.” She smiled at me. “Please, darling, feel free to make yourself comfortable. Explore the house. Snoop! You never know where secrets might be lurking!”
I got the distinct impression she didn’t want me to help her to her rooms—why, I had no idea—so I respected her wishes but stood where I was on the stairs to make sure she reached the second floor with no trouble. As she disappeared into the dark hallway, I turned and walked back down to the foyer alone.
After what had happened that morning, I didn’t want to venture too far afield into the house. I found myself in the living room once again, with the massive portrait of the man in the kilt. I had been drawn to this painting, so I decided to sit down and spend some time with the man who already seemed like an old friend. The room was rather dark—all of that wood paneling seemed to capture whatever sunlight was coming through the windows—so I flipped on a table lamp and gazed upward.
“I see you have found Mr. McCullough.” It was Mrs. Sinclair with Marion behind her holding a tray with two cups and a pot of tea. Mrs. Sinclair settled onto the sofa next to me while Marion lit a fire that had already been laid in the fireplace.
“I thought you were having a rest!” I said, surprised to see her again so quickly.
“It didn’t feel right, leaving you on your own on your first day,” she said, patting my hand. “We can both rest here.”
Marion served the tea and left us. We sipped in silence for a while, both gazing at the painting.
“Most visitors to Havenwood are curious about its origins, Julia,” Mrs. Sinclair said, as the flames began to crackle and dance. “The man who built this house, Andrew McCullough, the handsome fellow right up there, was quite the colorful character. Would you like to hear about him?”
I smiled broadly. Adrian had told me his mother wanted to talk about stories with another writer—this must be just the kind of thing he meant. I couldn’t believe it. I was about to hear a tale spun by the great Amaris Sinclair.
“I’d love to!” I said.
