The Vanishing

by Wendy Webb

  Simple, as Drew said, but delightful all the same. There wasn’t a strip mall or a fast-food restaurant in sight. I hadn’t been in too many small towns like this, where the main street was still the hub of activity. It was like a slice of life from another time.

  I found Drew waiting for me in front of a building with a wall of windows overlooking the lake. The colorfully painted sign of a very happy-looking otter told me this was the place. I jumped down from my saddle as Drew took the reins and tied them to a hitching post on a side street, where three other horses stood, along with a young boy of about fifteen years of age.

  “Give them some water, will you, Ben?” Drew asked him, slipping a few bills into the boy’s palm. “We’ll be about an hour or so.”

  I stumbled a bit as I followed Drew inside—my legs felt wobbly from hanging on for dear life on the ride—and found the Laughing Otter to be a Northwoodsy place with tongue-in-groove pine-paneled walls decked out with bright paintings of whimsical-looking woodland creatures. Wooden booths with fabric seats in a bright mosaic pattern lined the wall with floor-to-ceiling windows facing the lake. The opposite wall was dominated by a long, wooden bar with rows of interesting microbrews on tap. Several tables stood in between.

  Drew unzipped his parka, pulled off his glasses and hat, and took a seat in one of the booths facing the window. As I slid in across from him, a tall man with long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail appeared with a beer in hand.

  “The usual for you, I’m assuming,” he said, setting the beer down in front of Drew with a smile.

  “Scottish ale,” Drew said, and took a long sip. “There’s nothing finer.”

  “Unless it’s an icy shot of aquavit.” The server turned to me and raised his eyebrows. “What can I get you?”

  “I’ll have a chardonnay, please,” I said.

  Sitting across from Drew, I got my first good look at him. Curly auburn hair with just a hint of gray dancing throughout it. Bright blue eyes. An easy smile. Something about his face was familiar and yet distant at the same time. And then, as the realization of where I had seen him before washed over me, my entire body began to shake.

  “You are Andrew McCullough,” I said, remembering the painting above the fireplace—those same blue eyes, that same jawline. Put a kilt on him, and he’d be the same man.

  He held my gaze, and in that moment, the room seemed to fall away. I no longer saw the paneling or the whimsical artwork; I no longer heard the chatter of other patrons. I only saw a man who had lived forever, a living curse.

  Then the server came back to the table with my glass of wine and broke whatever spell had overtaken me. I felt completely foolish for saying what I said, and for even thinking it, as Drew exchanged jokes with the server. Immortal, indeed.

  “So,” I said tentatively. “You look pretty good for a guy who died more than a century ago.”

  “It’s the cold northern air.” His eyes twinkled at me over the rim of his glass.

  “So, you’re a descendant, I take it?”

  He looked at me, silent for a bit longer than it would take most people to respond to a question like that. “Fourth generation,” he finally said, twirling his glass on its end. “Havenwood is part of my family’s history, and I had heard stories about it my whole life. A proper manor house, just like ours, built in the middle of the American wilderness by a rather eccentric ancestor making his fortune here but longing for home. My grandmother had told me the tale so often, it seemed more like a legend than reality.”

  “You never visited as a child?”

  He shook his head. “No, my family—my grandfather’s brother—sold it to Mrs. Sinclair before I was born, but she extended an invitation to us to visit whenever we liked. When I was old enough, I took her up on it. I just had to come and see the place for myself.”

  “And you stayed.” I smiled.

  “And I stayed.” He smiled back at me. “Havenwood has a way of getting under your skin.”

  “And so you take care of the horses?” I wanted him to tell me more; I was so enjoying listening to the music of his words and the softness of his voice.

  “And the dogs,” he said, taking another sip of his beer. “About a week after I arrived, one of the horses went lame. The vet in town wasn’t available and Mrs. Sinclair was frantic, so I took a look. I had spent a lot of time as a lad in our own stables at home, learning from our stable hand, who was miraculous with animals. Had a real gift. But Mrs. Sinclair had some clown from the village looking after the horses, and I could see right away that he was useless. The stable was a mess, for one thing.” He wrinkled his nose at the memory of it. “I spent an afternoon cleaning and organizing, brushing the horses and filling their water troughs. Mrs. Sinclair was very keen on having me stay on after she saw what I had done.”

  “She offered you a job?”

  “She did indeed. I knew my mother wouldn’t be too thrilled about the McCullough heir being a stable hand, but somehow that didn’t matter to me. I had already fallen in love with the place, and working with the horses was so natural, it felt like breathing. It was like Mrs. Sinclair had found my true calling, here, so far away from my home.”

  “If it’s working with the horses that you love,” I said, “why not just do that back home in Scotland? Why stay here?”

  “Oh, it’s not only the horses,” he said, downing the last of his beer. “I’m invested in Havenwood. This place goes to me when she passes on.”

  I coughed on my sip of wine. “You? Not Adrian?”

  “It was more like a long-term rental arrangement than an out-and-out sale. If Amaris Sinclair owned it for a while, fine. But it had to revert to family after she died. That’s something the first Andrew McCullough made very clear.”

  I blinked a few times and looked at him. “What do you mean, family?”

  “Family,” he repeated. “The McCulloughs.”

  “But she is family,” I said. “She told me so.”

  “Oh, did she now?” Drew said, amused.

  “She did! She told me she was first here as a little girl, and a cousin owned it. When he came into financial difficulties, she was a successful novelist and able to buy it to help him out. She said she’s always loved Havenwood.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s true.” He smiled. “Her mother’s sister married one of my great-uncles, or some such thing. She’s on an outer limb of the family tree, you might say. Not related to us by blood, in any case.”

  “So Havenwood will be yours one day,” I said. “Forgive me for asking, but how does Adrian feel about that?”

  At the mention of Adrian’s name, a vision of flames shot before my eyes and extinguished just as quickly. I toyed with the idea of bringing up the fire to Drew, but thought better of it. If I was supposed to be starting a new life as another person, I might as well begin with him, I reasoned. I had no desire to tell him who I really was, even if he might have some insight to share about the fire. No, I’d keep quiet about that for now.

  The server appeared with another round of drinks and Drew took a sip as he considered this.

  “I’ve never asked him. He’s always known about it, so he’s under no illusions. When she does pass away—and I pray it’s a good many years from now—I don’t think anything much will change at Havenwood, other than it’ll be emptier without her. I’ll go on as I have been, Adrian will go on as he has been, Marion and the rest of the staff will go on as they have been. Nothing much ever really changes there.”

  Something about the way he said that sent a chill up my spine. Lightening the mood, I said, “So you’re not going to kick everyone out and turn it into a nudist colony, then?”

  He laughed. “That hadn’t crossed my mind. But now that you mention it…”

  “Of course, that would extend to the town as well”—I looked around the bar—“but somehow, I don’t think these folks would mind.”

  “I’ve got big plans for the town, once it’s mine.” He smiled. “I’m planning to c
hange the name to Drewville, where there will be free drinks for ladies on Wednesday nights, no beets sold anywhere in the city limits, and cell phone use in public will result in immediate death.”

  “I think you should outlaw rude people as well. And the truly nasty ones should be exiled.”

  “We’d make a fine pair of rulers, you and I.” He chuckled. “We can joke about it, but it’s really not like that, you know. It’s more of a rental situation, in the name of the estate. Havenwood, for all intents and purposes, is the town’s landlord.”

  “All the merchants pay rent to Havenwood?” I asked. “What about the homeowners?”

  “Merchants, yes, homeowners, no,” he explained. “Mrs. Sinclair terminated that contract a long time ago at great personal expense. She didn’t want any homeowner beholden to her. Gave them their land. The merchants, that’s another matter. They’re doing business, a great deal of business during tourist season, and they can well afford to pay the rent she charges.”

  I took a sip of the oaky wine and lowered my voice further. “Does anybody know who she is? I mean, Adrian told me she dropped out of sight and…” I paused for a minute. “The whole world thinks she’s dead.”

  He nodded. “Indeed. If any people here know who she is, they don’t say. I think it’s part of the arrangement she has with the town—they don’t ask, she doesn’t tell. But the thing is, Julia, she never shows her face here. Well, let me think,” he backpedaled a bit. “Not never. But rarely. I’ve seen her in town rarely. And now she’s running off to Tom’s office like it was nothing. And in that getup, yet!”

  “As though that won’t call attention to her.” I tried to stifle a giggle.

  He grinned. “What do you think old Tom will do when she shows up in his office, dressed like that? Call the paramedics?”

  “For her or for him?”

  We laughed together about that for a bit, and I marveled at how easy it was to talk to this man. It was like we had known each other forever.

  “Do you know why she did it?” I asked.

  “Did what? Dressed like Barbara Stanwyck and paraded through town like a lunatic?”

  “No. Dropped out of sight in the first place. Stopped writing. Let the world think she was dead.”

  A cloud passed over Drew’s face and he folded his hands on the table. “That’s something you’re going to have to ask her.”

  “I did. She changed the subject.”

  “How about those Vikings?”

  “Very funny,” I said. “Do you know and just won’t, or can’t, tell me?”

  He shook his head. “Whatever it was happened a long time ago. Because of it, she said she’d never take pen to paper again.”

  I sighed and shook my head. “It’s truly bizarre.”

  He nodded. “One of a myriad of bizarre things swirling around Havenwood.”

  Drew and I were still on our second round of drinks when Mrs. Sinclair breezed through the door. At the sight of her, all heads turned, all conversation stopped. She didn’t seem to notice as she slipped into the booth alongside Drew and pinched his cheek.

  “Hello, poodles!” she said, beaming at us. “You should have seen Tom’s face when I materialized in his office! You’d think he had seen a ghost!”

  Drew caught my eye and grinned before quickly looking away. “I’ll bet. Did you have to call the paramedics for him, then? I didn’t hear any sirens.”

  “Oh, you.” She dismissed his joke with a wave of her hand as the server appeared at the table, slightly unnerved by the sight of her.

  “Can I get you something, ma’am?”

  “Oh, my goodness, yes,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “But what? Do you have any mulled wine?”

  Drew couldn’t suppress a snort. “Did you just step out of a Victorian English Christmas, then? Mulled wine?”

  Mrs. Sinclair scowled at him. “I thought it would be nice on such a cold day.”

  The server tried to suppress a grin. “No mulled wine, I’m afraid. But we do have wine.”

  “That sounds wonderful.” Mrs. Sinclair smiled broadly at him. “I’ll have what Julia is having.”

  When he had gone, she looked around the bar. “What an adorable place!” she said. “I’ll have to come here more often!”

  “Who are you?” Drew asked her. “And what have you done with Amaris Sinclair?”

  “You’re quite the comedian today, Mr. McCullough.” She squinted at him. “But the fact is I do feel as though I have a new lease on life lately. Julia brought a fresh perspective with her when she came to us.”

  Drew looked at me and furrowed his brow, and then looked back at her. “Whatever you say,” he said, and lifted his glass. “To new leases.”

  THIRTEEN

  Back at the house, I had just enough time to clean up before dinner, the first formal one since I had arrived.

  Marion had instructed me to be in the drawing room by six thirty. Mrs. Sinclair and I would have drinks by the fire before adjourning into the dining room for dinner at seven. And I was to dress for dinner tonight, Marion had sniffed, eyeing my jeans and turtleneck.

  As I was showering and getting ready, I thought of what a delightful distraction the day had been, especially after my rather unsettling night and my discovery of the east salon. Riding on horseback through the pristine wilderness with the cold air nipping at my cheeks, seeing the town, and chatting with the great Amaris Sinclair. It all worked together to lighten my mood and lift my spirits, and made me forget about the fire and my troubling “side effects” for a while.

  All of it got me thinking. Maybe I would start to write again. After all, I’d have hours of free time during the days when I wasn’t with Mrs. Sinclair. I didn’t have my computer, of course, and didn’t have much hope of finding one here—I hadn’t noticed anything more modern than an old rotary telephone at Havenwood—but there had to be pen and paper around the house somewhere. Or maybe a typewriter! I could start by simply jotting down notes and ideas, and see where they led.

  And then a thought hit me. Just hours earlier, I had been wondering about my own safety here at Havenwood, coloring Adrian and even Mrs. Sinclair in very dark hues. And here I was now, busily planning how I’d spend my days at Havenwood for the foreseeable future. I realized that the fact of my house in Chicago burning to the ground seemed very small and far away. Like it existed in another world and didn’t matter in the least.

  All I knew was that I was getting ready for a formal dinner in the grandest home I had ever seen. This was my world now.

  I slipped into an ankle-length jersey knit dress in deep purple that I had bought the year before, grateful that I had thought to bring it, and found a pair of black flats in my suitcase. I wound a colorful scarf around my neck, put on a dash of lipstick, and took a last look in the mirror. I wasn’t exactly the lady of the manor—the dress was much too casual—but it would have to do.

  I made it to the drawing room, which I found just off the formal living room, without taking too many wrong turns and discovered a blazing fire in the fireplace, candles flickering everywhere, and Drew sitting in a leather armchair by the fire. He stood when I entered the room.

  “Hello.” I smiled, rather surprised to see him. I didn’t know he was going to be joining us, but apparently that was part of the plan.

  “Don’t you look lovely,” he said.

  I could feel myself blushing, and was grateful for the darkness in the room. “You clean up quite nicely as well!” I said, eyeing his dark suit and tie. “But what kind of Scotsman are you? No kilt?”

  “I save that for Sundays and holidays.” He smiled and I noticed how his combed-back hair was curling around the collar of his shirt. As he moved to the bar to pour us both some drinks, I was thinking about how handsome he was. But then I shook my head and put it out of my mind. My husband had been gone only a few months. Whether our marriage had been a sham or not, I had no business finding this man, or any man, attractive. Not now. Not yet.

  “What’s your
pleasure?” he asked me, bringing another blush to my cheeks. “We’ve got just about anything.”

  I moved closer to the bar and saw several crystal decanters and mixers of all kinds. “Wow, they certainly like their liquor, don’t they?”

  “It’s a tradition, like everything else here at Havenwood. Drinks before dinner, wine with dinner, cognac or Scotch after dinner. That’s just how it’s always been done. Livers be damned. Gin and tonic for you?”

  “Make it a weak one,” I said, grateful to see him pouring much more tonic than gin. “I’m not used to drinking this much.”

  “Luckily, you don’t have to drive home.” He grinned and handed the drink to me.

  “That is lucky. But finding my way back up to my room after a few of these might be a little challenging, though.”

  I followed him back to the armchairs by the fire and we both sunk into them.

  “So, it’s formal dinner here most every night, then, unless Mrs. Sinclair doesn’t feel up to it?” I asked, remembering the lonely dinner in my room the night before.

  He shook his head. “Oh no. Once or twice a week at most. And some Sunday afternoons. But Sunday isn’t formal, the way this is. It’s more of an all-afternoon affair of movies and games in the entertainment wing and constant nibbling throughout the day.”

  “It sounds like fun,” I said, wondering where the entertainment wing might be.

  “Marion will let you know when we’re expected and when we’re not,” he explained. “It’s at Mrs. Sinclair’s whim. Whatever she feels like doing.”

  “Hello, darlings!” It was the lady herself, floating into the room dressed in a green-and-indigo gown embroidered with a pattern of peacock feathers. “I see you’ve already got your drinks. Splendid!”