Ryan's hands tightened around the steering wheel. That aspect of the situation hadn't fully hit him before. But it did now, like a heavyweight champion's jab to his gut. Sunny would be spending the nights in his room.
As if her thoughts were traveling down the same disconcerting path, the silence between them suddenly hummed with tension. Ryan chanced a glance in her direction; she looked as unnerved as he.
"I assume we can arrange for a two-room suite?" she ventured. "You know, with a sleeper sofa in the living room? We can say we need the extra room for your work space."
"Of course."
They both breathed easier with this plan firmly in place.
After they'd turned north on the Blue Ridge Parkway
, the terrain had grown more mountainous; the slopes and curves of the two-lane highway more dramatic; the elevation higher. The air blew fresher and cooler through the open windows, scented with spring grasses and mountain laurel.
Ryan's ears blocked with the altitude, and his occasional glances over the sharp precipice to his right afforded him mild, pleasurable rushes of vertigo. He had once known every curve of these mountain roads. He'd been gone too long. Ten years.
He veered westward off the parkway. Pines, oaks and poplars grew tall and majestic on hillsides, then twisted and sideways on vertical slopes. Colorful wildflowers laced the greenery. Crystal streams trickled down russet boulders, gleaming silver in the afternoon sunshine.
They crossed the Honeysuckle Gorge Bridge. He remembered skipping stones across the French Broad River that gurgled and sang below them. And pushing a laughing, bare-legged Sunny into its gray-green waters on hot summer days.
Ryan slowed the car in anticipation of a hidden turn. Before long, he came to the sign reading Windsong Place
. Next Left.
Sunny whispered, "We're here," as if entering a church.
He turned the wheel sharply and ascended a steep drive.
And then Windsong Place
appeared. Grand and imposing, the Victorian mansion dominated the entire mountaintop, facing east toward the river. Fluted chimneys, projecting turrets and a multitude of gables rose in graceful angles against a backdrop of smoky blue mountain peaks. The mansion's once-weathered exterior now gleamed a sunshine yellow, trimmed in cool forest green. The expansive verandas and wraparound front porch with slender columns were brilliantly reconstructed.
Ryan had never seen Windsong Place
looking more splendid. And never had he felt more like a stranger at its threshold.
He drove past blossoming dogwoods and redbud trees. A young couple strolled through carpets of daisies; a man and a boy carried fishing gear toward the river. Guests, he presumed.
How odd to see strangers here. When he'd been a boy, his father had never entertained. The only people to enjoy this land, other than he himself, had been employees. And his pal, Grady Barrett, whose father owned the adjacent property. But Grady had stayed with his divorced father only every other weekend. Which left Ryan alone most of the time. With Sunny, of course.
As Ryan rounded a curve in the drive, Sunny cried, "Ryan, stop the car. Stop! Now!" She was gazing out her passenger window into the forest.
Ryan immediately steered off the concrete drive and applied his emergency brake to stop the car from rolling back down the incline. Only when Sunny flashed him a purely mischievous smile and opened her door did Ryan realize she was not about to get sick. She was merely up to something.
Mystified, Ryan switched off the motor and followed her into the woods. In her white eyelet peasant blouse and brightly colored layered skirt, with gold hoops sparkling at her ears and playfulness in her steps, she looked like a gypsy luring him to her caravan.
"Look," she urged, pointing at a granite boulder shaped like a huge Indian arrowhead. "Remember this?"
Ryan stared at the boulder for a moment. Without answering, he paced into the woods—ten long strides, at an exact right angle from the point of the rock. To his immediate left was an oak tree. And neck-high—actually, waist-high to him now—was a small round opening in the tree trunk.
Tagging along at his elbow, Sunny grinned delightedly. "Go ahead. See if there's any messages for you."
He frowned at her. She was studying the knothole in the tree with intense interest, nearly holding her breath, her hands clasped in front of her as if she expected him to pull out a treasure.
Ryan peered into the hole. When he was sure no living creature had made its nest inside, he reached in. Suddenly, as if a mighty vacuum had sucked him in, Ryan slammed against the tree trunk, his entire hand swallowed into the bowels of the tree, clear up to his forearm. "Aaaahhh!" he yelled.
Startled, Sunny screamed in alarm, grabbed hold of his forearm and yanked with all her might. "What is it, Ry? What is it?" she cried, tugging and tugging, to no avail. His body shook spasmodically beside her, deepening her panic.
Until she managed to pull his hand free from the tree. And she realized he was shaking with laughter.
"Oh!" she gasped, staring at him in utter disdain. "You scared the pie-doodle out of me." She dropped his forearm disgustedly. Ryan leaned his shoulder against the tree for support, racked with uncontrollable mirth.
"You! You—!" Unable to think of a word foul enough to describe him, she slugged him in the shoulder.
Which only set him off into a fresh bout of laughter.
"That's it. I'm going back to the car." As she stalked away in a fit of mock indignation—her own traitorous lips threatening to twitch into a smile any moment—Ryan lagged behind her, his laughter winding down as he wiped his streaming eyes with the back of his hand.
"Got to watch out for those tree goblins," he warned.
"Shut up." She reached the car and slung open the door. Before she could slide into the passenger seat, he grabbed her arm and firmly turned her around to face him.
"How did you know about that knothole, anyway? That was Grady's and my secret message place."
"I followed you."
Ryan stared at her appraisingly. "Did you ever take any of our messages?"
"Of course not. I read a few, though."
Ryan shook his head in stern disapproval.
"Well, I didn't have anyone to send messages to me."
"You—" he tapped his index finger beneath her collarbone "—were a girl." Sure he'd made his point, he left her standing at the open passenger door and rounded the front of his car.
"So?" she called across the car roof, her tone emphatic, sarcastic and reminiscent of the brat who'd tagged around after him every summer.
"So," he explained with great patience, "you were too busy fooling around with Betty Sue."
"Betty Lou," Sunny corrected him. Her eyes then widened in surprise. "You remembered her!"
Embarrassed, he muttered, "How can I forget? You dragged that doll around with you everywhere."
Sunny laughed, leaning her forearms on the roof of his sports car. "Remember when we played cops and robbers, and you had to tie up Betty Lou, too? Toughest outlaw you ever brought to justice."
"I was the outlaw. You never could get that straight." Ryan slid into the car and slammed the door.
Sunny did the same. "You were the good guy. So was I."
"Girls," he uttered in mock disgust as he started the engine. "You even brought that doll with you during storms."
"Of course. She needed protection, too."
Ryan fell silent as he steered the car up the driveway, remembering. During thunderstorms, the wind whipping around the house's peaks and gables whistled and hummed like an eerie song. Ryan felt certain the house had been named for this peculiarity. But to two children alone in their separate beds late at night, the wind sounded more like supernatural wailing than a song.
Sunny would sneak into his bed whenever the winds began to sing, afraid of the mansion's ghost. They'd fall asleep together, he and she, listening to the house's eerie music.
"You were the one who told me about the ghost
in the first place," Sunny said, in perfect timing with his thoughts.
"The ghost of the mountain climber who died on Devil's Ridge." Ryan grinned. It had been his best story. And based on pure fact. A man had died trying to climb Devil's Ridge. And there had been times that Ryan had felt a ghostly presence in the shadowy corridors of the house.
Those had been the innocent days. Those days he could share his bed with Sunny and not think about anything but ghosts.
Parking the car in the circular front drive, Ryan took a moment to gaze at her. Her sunny, chin-length curls were wind-ruffled now, the gold hoop earrings glittering among them. Her dimple played merrily beside her smile.
In ten years, he hadn't laughed as hard as he had today.
He had missed her friendship. Unnerved by the realization, Ryan switched off the motor and muttered gruffly, "Let's go check into a double suite." And he led the way up the flight of stairs that rose through a fragrant pink azalea garden to the wide, white-columned front porch.
An elderly couple emerged from the inn carrying croquet mallets and headed across a small paved parking lot.
Ryan paused, staring at that parking lot. Open grass had once stretched there. Sunny had pitched him baseballs on it. And he'd thrown her a few football passes. Tackled her. Kissed her beneath that canopy of ancient oaks until they'd both been quaking with the need for more…
"Want to go explore?" Her voice was soft as a mountain breeze.
"No," he replied brusquely. "I'm ready to go inside."
The camaraderie between them had somehow changed; he no longer wanted to reminisce. Without waiting to see if she followed, he strode to the front entrance.
At the massive, polished oak door, an inexplicable urge overtook him. Slowly he turned and stared out over the sloping front lawn toward the long, winding drive that disappeared into a sea of treetops.
A bewildering emotion gripped him. A sudden sadness, a hollow ache. A haunting sense of loss.
He scoffed at himself. He hadn't lived here for ten years. Why should he feel the loss so keenly now? His home was his New York apartment. Or his London flat. But neither place seemed even remotely deserving of the title "home."
Gradually he became aware of the woman who stood beside him, gazing up into his face with a troubled look of her own. "It's the porch, isn't it?"
His brows drew together as he tried to make sense of Sunny's words. "The porch?"
"It always did upset you. No matter how happy you were, your mood always soured when you stepped out here."
"My mood's not soured," he replied with mild mockery. But as he thought back, he realized he never had spent much time out here, although comfortable rockers had always lined the shady porch. With a dismissive shake of his head, Ryan turned away from the view of the front drive that disturbed him even now.
He would concentrate only on the business aspect of his visit—not on his emotional reaction to it. He wanted Windsong Place
; it was his birthright. And he would do anything to stop his father from taking it away from him again.
Muted voices could be heard from the dining room that lay just beyond the front parlor on their right. But the spacious Oak Hall, which comprised the heart of the house, was blessedly empty of strangers as Sunny and Ryan ambled through it.
Sunny wished she could read Ryan's thoughts. His gray eyes remained coolly impassive, his strong jaw determinedly squared, as he surveyed the twelve-foot ceilings with exposed oak beams and the walls of native oak paneling polished to a warm, rich glow. He said not a word as he walked across the familiar burgundy, mauve and gray Oriental carpet that still decorated the dark oak floor. Potted ferns and freshly cut roses perfumed the air, just as they had in years past, along with the scent of furniture polish.
The familiar ambience of the place transported Sunny back through the years, to a time when she belonged here. Glancing toward the entrance foyer, she clearly remembered.
She hadn't been dressed as a bride; she had worn no long bridal gown, no lace veil. Only a simple white sundress, a single strand of pearls and fresh orange blossoms in her hair. But when she descended the Grand Staircase, Ryan's eyes had made her feel beautiful.
They were married in Asheville, then returned directly to Windsong Place
. Her groom—strong, handsome and vibrant—had carried her across the threshold.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Alexander." He had breathed the words in a triumphant whisper against her hair; a whisper underscored with anticipation, for they were young and ruled by a passionate physical need for each other.
The house was exclusively theirs for the night. The staff was off; his father was residing in his New York City town house. They were entirely alone.
Ryan had whirled her through the great Oak Hall, around and around, until they collapsed, dizzy and laughing, into the winged armchair beside the immense fireplace.
With kisses that stoked a feverish longing, he had unclothed her, item by item, until she wore only the strand of pearls. They had made love there, for the first time as husband and wife, on the Oriental carpet in front of the hearth, beneath the huge oil painting of his great-grandfather in its gilded frame above the mantel.
Sunny diverted her gaze from the hearth; the memories were too strong and vital. And she noticed that Ryan, too, was staring at the hearth.
She carefully avoided his eyes. The idea that he might be remembering that same time in their lives played havoc with her serenity. She concentrated instead on the portrait of a stoic-looking Victorian gentleman that now hung above the mantel. A stranger to them, of course.
Sunny wandered toward the foot of the Grand Staircase, where the ceiling rose to a startling height of thirty-two feet. Bordered by hand-turned spool balusters with a stacked-bead effect, the staircase ascended from the rear quarter of the Oak Hall and turned several times on its way to the upper floors.
Three stained-glass windows above the oak staircase admitted a colorful stream of muted light that illuminated the stairwell like mystical rays from heaven.
The effect, as always, was dazzling. And again, transported Sunny back through time, to when they had climbed this stairway together…
Another topic she'd avoid.
"Mr. and Mrs. Alexander?"
Momentarily confused by the salutation—almost as if the past had suddenly come to life—Sunny whirled from her private musing to face a portly woman with graying hair and a maternal smile in her almond brown eyes.
Ryan stepped forward and smoothly introduced himself and Sunny—as Mr. and Mrs. Alexander, of course.
A false title, she reminded herself. Just as it had been ten years ago. But despite that knowledge, the introduction infused Sunny with an illogical rush of pleasure.
"Welcome to Windsong Place
. I am Mrs. Lee, the assistant innkeeper. Mr. and Mrs. Tanner have been detained in town for the evening. But they will be back tomorrow morning. They'd like you to join them for breakfast on their veranda. Seven o'clock, if that's okay with you. For now, please step to the registration desk and I will give you your keys."
They trailed Mrs. Lee past a chattering group of middle-aged couples carrying blankets and picnic baskets to the registration desk that had been built in the small room beyond the Oak Hall, where a music room had once been. It seemed irreverent to Sunny, building something as commercial as a reception area in Windsong Place
.
She had to remind herself of the purpose of her visit—to obtain the manager's position. This reception area and the office behind it would undoubtedly be her base of operation.
"We'd like a double suite," said Ryan, not visibly affected by the practical renovations. "I'll be working late on my paperwork, and I'd rather not disturb my wife's sleep."
Dismay creased Mrs. Lee's forehead. "I'm sorry, sir, but our only double suite is occupied. Mrs. Tanner has already reserved a suite in your name."
"Can't we reserve two suites, then?" suggested Sunny hopefully. "That way Ryan ca
n use one as a workroom, while I…"
"We are filled to capacity for a private wedding being held this evening in the ballroom, ma'am. Besides, Mrs. Tanner very specifically reserved this particular suite for you." Mrs. Lee looked quickly around, as if to be sure no one else was listening, then said in an undertone, "She even made a young couple move to another suite so you could have this one. She was very excited about arranging this for you."
A terrible foreboding filled Sunny.
"I'm sure we'll be happy with any room Mrs. Tanner reserved for us," Ryan assured her. Mrs. Lee handed him and Sunny each a key and gave directions to the room.
Upon hearing the location of the suite, a blush crept into Sunny's cheeks. She sensed Ryan stiffen beside her. They did not look at each other.
Ryan broke the silence between them by clearing his throat. "Maybe you'd like to tour the grounds before we … go upstairs?"
"Yes, yes, a tour of the grounds would be fine."
"And afterward, we can try out the restaurant."
"Wonderful idea."
Neither mentioned the specter that loomed bright and mocking between them. For the suite that Lavinia had booked in their name—third floor, last room on the right—was the very room they had occupied as husband and wife.
* * *
5
« ^ »
They wandered through the rose gardens, the apple orchard and the gazebo overlooking the river, engaging in meaningless small talk about the minute changes they could detect in the landscaping, but darkness finally forced them inside.
They shared what should have been a leisurely supper of freshly caught mountain trout, served in the dining room, complete with candlelight and piano music. Both of their plates remained virtually untouched. Nevertheless, they ordered a sinfully rich French chocolate silk pie—left mostly uneaten—until neither of them could think of a single reason not to climb that Grand Staircase to the room awaiting them on the third floor.
They did so in tense silence.
SOMETHING OLD, SOMETHING NEW Page 6
