Monarchs

by Rainey, Stephen

  "Had some dusting to do. Hey, what's the matter with you?"

  Courtney drew a deep breath to steady herself. "Nothing I can't deal with. Thank you."

  Arlene's eyes narrowed. "Only old Martha could make anyone that upset."

  "It was my fault," she said softly. "I was stupid and upset her."

  "You don't have to do anything stupid to upset that old biddy, Ms. Edmiston."

  She gave Arlene a weak smile. "Oh, it was stupid, all right. I should have known better. What am I saying? I did know better."

  "Oh, my. You went up there, didn't you?"

  She nodded. "I guess nosiness got the better of me."

  "Old Martha doesn't take kindly to anybody trespassing on her floor, no ma'am."

  "It was worse than that. I went into her room."

  "Oh, Ms. Edmiston. Oh, no."

  "Please. Call me Courtney."

  "All right, Courtney. From the looks of you, Martha must have had a rectangular spasm."

  She couldn't help but chuckle. "If you mean did she let me have it, I'll say she did."

  Arlene frowned, but her eyes were kind. "Listen. She's a temperamental old thing, as you've well discovered. I'd steer clear of her, or she'll go out of her way to make your life miserable. Don't think she won't."

  "I believe it. Like I said, it was my fault. I knew better, and I went on and did it anyway." She laughed wryly. "Not like I haven't done that before."

  "I'm sure you've learned your lesson."

  She nodded and then gave Arlene a searching look. "Hey. Martha said something about 'the Monarch.' Do you know what she was talking about?"

  The black woman's eyes widened. "She said that to you?"

  "Yes."

  "Mercy. She wouldn't do that unless she was some kind of angry."

  "So what's it mean?"

  Arlene took a deep breath. "The Monarch. It's an old folk tale. Supposed to be something…something terrible…that lives out in the swamp. She used to tell stories about it to frighten David and Jan when they were just young'uns. Nowadays, she brings it up when something has her all upset. It's a bunch of nonsense, but if she's carrying on about it, that woman's on the warpath."

  "She said that if she told it my name, it would be a sad day."

  "My goodness!"

  "I know she's a bit oddball," Courtney said. "But I couldn't help getting the feeling she was completely sincere."

  "Yeah, she's sincere. Sincerely hateful. Like I said, you'd do well to avoid her. She'll be happier and so will you."

  Courtney nodded thoughtfully and started toward her room. "You're not the first person to tell me that. Well. Thanks for listening. You're a nice person."

  "So are you, I'm sure," Arlene said with a smile. "I expect you should try using better judgment, though."

  "You can count on that."

  Arlene went on her way, and Courtney returned to her room, feeling somewhat less burdened now that she had confessed her sin to Arlene. The old housekeeper seemed very sweet — the Anti-Martha, she thought with a little giggle.

  Then, as she glanced out her window toward the deep woods, her mood turned somber, for shadows were falling fast, and the wind was picking up again. She pulled the drapes together as far as they would go. It wouldn't do to have "the Monarch" looking in at her, now would it?

  She froze at the thought, remembering the weird voice that had seemingly responded to Martha's gibberish, the indistinct but ghastly "face" that had peered in through her window, the absurdly heavy footfalls heading into the woods at the end of it all.

  What kind of incredible thing was loose in this place?

  There was another prospect, far less incredible but hardly more comforting: that certain twisted individuals were perpetuating some horrific trickery, for purposes she couldn't fathom. If so, Martha was not acting alone.

  While Courtney could not desire for one instant to return to the conditions from which she had fled, neither could she have anticipated stumbling into such a daunting, perhaps even perilous environment as this one. She could never doubt Jan's intentions for bringing her here, but she did have to question her friend's timing and prudence. Surely, whatever was happening had commenced before her arrival, and now, like it or not, events had overtaken and ensnared her.

  Trespassing in Martha's territory certainly hadn't helped; if anything, it had served to bring her into the light of the old woman's scrutiny, where she might have otherwise passed unnoticed.

  "God, stop the bus, I want to get off," she whispered to herself.

  Usually when she was upset she preferred to be alone, but now, under the circumstances, she hoped Jan would wake up and come downstairs soon. With any luck, she could tell her side of the story before Martha spun it her own way. At any rate, Jan would be the first to understand, for they had both committed their share of indiscretions — oftentimes together — back in their glory days. Such as sneaking into the Pike fraternity house and depositing a few exotic undergarments in strategic places, resulting in more than one serious relationship turning precarious. In the grand scheme of things, her latest offense seemed so trivial; yet this was the Blackburn's domain, and Courtney was a guest, who had no business upsetting any member of the household, no matter her personal feelings.

  She heard footfalls and some rustling somewhere down the hall, probably in the kitchen, and she started out the door, thinking it might be Jan, or even David. But the possibility that Martha had ventured forth stopped her, and she stood at threshold, indecisive, absolutely unwilling to face that old woman and her temper again so soon. It wasn't dinnertime yet, though, so it was unlikely she would have already come down. Probably just Arlene, preparing to start dinner.

  How silly to be so intimidated. If anything, she should just carry on as if nothing had happened, behave pleasantly around the old woman, and maintain a semblance of good humor. It was the best way to get past any bad feelings.

  But her feet wouldn't move.

  Somewhere beyond the door, the floor creaked. Someone was coming down her hall. It must be Jan, she thought. Martha had absolutely no reason to wander this way.

  Gathering her nerve, she stuck her head out the door and, to her relief, saw David coming toward her, his smug little smile an oddly welcome sight. He was wearing black jeans and a gray button-down shirt, the top two buttons open, and his lightly bronzed face looked as if he had gotten some sun today. Her heart leaped just a little.

  "Good afternoon." He glanced at his watch and raised an eyebrow. "Or evening, I should say. I hope I'm not intruding."

  "No," she said, "not at all. What's up?"

  "I noticed my sister was sound asleep. Wondered if you were awake or if you had crashed and burned as well."

  "I'm awake. Doesn't mean I haven't crashed and burned."

  "Well, you don't look much like a heap of charred wreckage." Then he gave her a long, thoughtful look, and she realized that her face probably still bore the traces of her tears. "Is everything all right?" he asked.

  "Fine," she said, offering him a little smile. "It just wasn't the world's best afternoon ever."

  "Sorry to hear it. You feel like feeling better?"

  "How so?"

  "Go to dinner with me."

  "I take it you mean something other than sitting across from you at the dining room table."

  "Something other, yes."

  "Such as?"

  "You have two choices."

  "If we eliminate Tall Ships, that leaves one, right?"

  "I didn't figure you'd want to go back there two nights in a row — especially given certain of the clientele. How does Woodard's grab you?"

  "That's fancy, isn't it?"

  "Fancier than Tall Ships. Not that that means a whole lot, as you might guess."

  She tugged on the sleeve of her T-shirt. "I'd need to wear something nicer than this, right?"

  "Wouldn't hurt."

  "That sucks."

  "Do it for me."

  "What about Jan? Does she like W
oodard's?"

  "Jan is asleep."

  "Doesn't mean I want to leave her behind."

  "You could do that for me, too."

  She could feel her face flushing. "I'm her friend. What would she think about me running off to have dinner without her?"

  "She's a big girl. I'm sure she'll understand. Besides, once she's down, she's down for the count. She might not get up before tomorrow anyway."

  "She would if one of us woke her."

  "Now, this is just me, but if I were really her friend, I wouldn't want to wake her because disturbing her sleep would be unthinkably rude."

  "Unthinkably, huh?"

  "Yes."

  "You're terrible. Do you know that?'

  "Yes, I do."

  Her face turned serious. "I don't know, David. I'm not sure it's such a good idea, just you and me."

  He clasped his hands behind his back and stared at the floor for a moment, mulling things over. Then he nodded to himself and raised his eyes to hers. "Tell you what. I am going to have dinner at Woodard's tonight. I'll be ready to leave in forty-five minutes. If you decide you'd like to go too, meet me in the foyer, and we'll have an excellent dinner together. If not, then I'll have an excellent dinner without you. Your choice. No pressure."

  "Forty-five minutes?"

  He nodded. "Don't be late."

  "Don't wait for me."

  He offered her a curt bow, smiled, and then turned and disappeared down the hall in the direction of the kitchen.

  "Damn it," she whispered. If she had one lick of good sense, she would go upstairs, wake Jan, and insist that she accompany them to dinner. That was the smart thing to do. However, it would also be rude. Unthinkably.

  No pressure. Right.

  She went to the closet and began to rummage through her clothes, thankful that she still possessed a reasonably decent wardrobe. After a full five minutes of indecision, she settled on a comfortable, floral-print wrap blouse and plain white cotton skirt, and then spent two more minutes pondering whether to go hose or no hose. No hose. Dressy casual was probably more than sufficient for fine dining in Fearing, North Carolina.

  Confronting her surviving collection of shoes, after another couple of minutes' deliberation, she finally chose her pair of Ellen Tracy dress sandals.

  "Stupid, impetuous twit," she muttered to herself.

  Woodard's dining room wasn't busy — she would have been surprised if it was — and its sophisticated décor and menu struck her as dramatically out of place in a town whose number of wealthy residents could be counted on one hand and whose tourists numbered no more than could fill the tiny inn's guestrooms. Still, a dozen or so diners occupied other booths and tables, so dinner promised to be an intimate, though not entirely private affair.

  Which suited her just fine.

  Dark, Tudor-style beams and glowing sconces above the tables gave the dining room an old-world flavor she appreciated, and a single rose in a tall vase on the tabletop added a romantic flair. David had ordered a bottle of Cabernet Franc because he knew she preferred it, and she took an approving sip from her glass. "So," she said. "How does this place make money? Does your family have a hand in it, too?"

  He chuckled. "No. Old man Woodard was in the shipping business. He made a fortune in Newport News, back in the sixties. This was how he occupied himself after retirement. He died a while back, but his sons keep the place running just because they enjoy it. They don't need to turn a profit."

  "I see. Around here, the rich are really rich and the poor are really poor, aren't they?"

  He shrugged. "Like a lot of places."

  She sighed. "I never thought I'd be one of the poor."

  "Courtney, as long as you're with us, you've got nothing to worry about. I promise you, Jan would never let you hurt for money." He smiled. "I wouldn't."

  "How can you say that? You barely know me."

  "That's not entirely true. You don't think Jan and I ever talk?"

  "It's not the same."

  "Still. You're more special to Jan than you know. So to me, you're special by proxy."

  She laughed, but then gave him a solemn look. "You know, I don't want to be somebody's project. I've been self-sufficient for a long time. This is all still a blow to me."

  "Look. I know you're not a charity case. But we're here to help you get back on your feet. You've got a cushion beneath you."

  "And I appreciate everything you've both done." She then drew a long breath. "Though I don't guess I've shown it very well."

  "Why do you say that?"

  This was her chance to come clean about her run-in with Martha, and a cold lump rose slowly in her throat. Still, it was better for him to hear it from her first. After a bracing gulp of wine, in a measured, matter-of-fact tone, she proceeded to relate all that had happened since she and Jan had returned from the beach that afternoon. By the time she finished, her mouth was parched, and she drained her glass in a single swallow.

  David stared at her for so long that she became uncomfortable, and the lump began reforming in her throat. Finally, he smiled reassuringly, though something in his eyes let her know he was troubled.

  "You're right," he said. "It was a foolish thing to do. Aunt Martha values her privacy, maybe more than a rational person would understand. But it's easy to see why you'd be curious. Big house like ours, a secretive old witch upstairs. Given some of the things I've heard about you over the years, I'd say snooping was a foregone conclusion."

  "Look, I came clean with you about today. Anything else you've heard about me, I deny it."

  "How do you know it's bad?"

  "Because I know your sister."

  "Okay, so it's bad. Big deal."

  They fell silent as their server — a young man with far better manners than Deena — approached to take their orders, and Courtney used the moment, with a little help from the wine, to allow her nerves to settle. At David's suggestion, she ordered a petite filet mignon, while he chose the heftier cut. When the waiter finished jotting the orders on his pad, he gave her an earnest smile and said to David, "Thank you, Mr. Blackburn. You two have a wonderful evening."

  "Let me guess," Courtney said, as the young man left, "this dinner is 'covered' too?"

  He grinned and patted his wallet. "Covered by American Express."

  "I get the impression they like you better here than down the street."

  "They're just paid more to be friendly here."

  She shook her head in bewilderment. "This is so different than what I'm used to — the way you know everyone, and they know you. Even if they don't like you. That would bother me."

  "They'll know you in no time, too. I can introduce you to the whole town in about an hour."

  "I'm not complaining. I've always preferred anonymity."

  "It may be too late for that."

  She sighed, unhappy about the direction of the conversation. "So, David. Tell me about Aunt Martha's Monarch. Arlene was surprised she would bring it up to me."

  "It's just a crazy story that woman used to tell us as children, to frighten us," David said, quickly and somewhat defensively. Then, with a little more reserve, he added, "She's just hoping to rattle you. In her eyes, you're no more than a child. Hell, Jan and I too, for that matter."

  "Why is it called the Monarch?"

  "Because it ruled the swamp, of course. A horrible, horrible thing. If it came for you, it would drag you away and impale your body on a tree, just to show everyone who was boss. It's probably some campfire story Martha herself heard when she was young." He chuckled. "As if she ever was."

  "So what makes her so spiteful? Did she have issues with your parents?"

  "She actually got on pretty well with Dad, though she never much liked Mom. Mom wasn't afraid to stand up to her."

  "I guess she wouldn't like that, would she?"

  "In Mom's case, it was a recipe for disaster," he said, his eyes taking on a faraway look. "There were many unpleasant nights in the house, not long before the end."<
br />
  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up anything painful."

  He made a dismissive gesture. "No, it's all right. All that is past now."

  "Were you close to your parents? I know Jan was."

  "We were once. In the last few years, things had gotten a bit…strained. Dad always expected me to carry on the business, but that was never for me."

  "So, David, what is your calling? Or do you have one at all?" She challenged him with her gaze.

  "Art. Computers. Graphic design in general. Despite what Aunt Martha says, I've done rather well with my commercial art. It's my fine art she doesn't get."

  "How fine is it?"

  "I dabble in abstract expressionism. I'd like to exhibit it someday. For the moment, though, things are kind of bleak on that front."

  "That's a shame."

  "Do you like art?"

  She shrugged. "Not particularly. Certainly not abstracts. I prefer something that looks like something."

  He chuckled. "I'll have to show you a few things. Maybe you'll change your mind."

  "I wouldn't hold my breath."

  David looked a tad bemused, but before he could say more, their server arrived with their salads, and the conversation died abruptly. Their entrées followed almost immediately, and Courtney forgot about everything else to enjoy one of the finest meals she'd had in years — certainly since Frank had destroyed everything in her world that meant anything to her. She had to admit that she was glad she had come. So far, David's company had been anything but unpleasant.

  When they were finished, he asked if she cared for coffee, but she declined, too full for even a small cup. So he called for the check, and once he had paid it, they rose, and he escorted her to the door, one hand tentatively on her arm. As they stepped into the fresh, evening air, facing a picturesque inlet of the Moratok River, he gave her a hopeful smile.

  "So, it wasn't so terrible having dinner with me, was it?"

  She smiled back and shook her head. "No, it wasn't terrible."

  "I didn't think you were going to come. What made you decide to chance it?"

  She glanced down at her feet. "These shoes," she said. "They haven't been out for months."

  "I hope they enjoyed themselves."