The House on Sunset Lake

by Tasmina Perry

  His New York agent, Saul Black, had decided something must be done and ordered Bryn to lock himself away and write. He found a small cottage with adjoining boathouse on an acquaintance’s estate and bought them all one-way tickets. Create something, he had said, or don’t come back.

  Jim snapped back into the present and looked down the drive, an arrow-straight avenue of overhanging trees. Ninety-six live oaks. The Wyatts had always made a great deal of the fact that every one of the trees planted by the original owners of the Casa D’Or estate was still standing, lining the driveway, staring at visitors in silent witness. They had survived hurricane, disease and civil war and it seemed they had managed to survive the last twenty years too. Jim felt their imaginary gaze as he engaged ‘drive’ and slowly rolled down the unpaved road, swerving to dodge potholes and puddles. He peered up, looking at the wispy grey Spanish moss interlacing the overreaching branches and blocking out the sunlight. He felt as if he had fallen into the rabbit hole, and he wasn’t sure if there was going to be a Wonderland at the other end.

  As he approached the house, he stabbed a foot hard on the brake, skidding to a stop.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he whispered, opening the door and stepping out.

  The house was exactly as he had remembered it – tall windows, a wide terrace running front to back and a high gabled roof that spoke of grandeur, a desire to join a more elegant age – though when he looked closer, Jim could see it was in a fairly advanced state of disrepair. Tiles were missing from the roof, the once proud pillars were grey with bird excrement, the gardens hopelessly parched and overgrown. Even the front steps, once gleaming with their blue and white Italian tiles, were choked with unswept leaves and creeping weeds.

  He walked towards it, gravel crunching underneath his feet. It was warm and balmy in Savannah compared with the cold grey winter that Jim had left behind in London, but still he shivered.

  Casa D’Or represented the outer limits of his emotions: utter joy and crashing despair. Sometimes he had hated it, wished it had burnt to the ground that night, reduced to ash, but standing here now, he could see it for what it was: just a house, unique and beautiful. And someone had let it fall apart.

  ‘Hello, James.’

  He turned to see a tall woman walking towards him, a familiar smile on her face. Marion Wyatt, or Marion Wilson as she had been back then, when she had been Casa D’Or’s housekeeper. He’d heard that she had married David Wyatt, her employer – inevitably there had been gossip. He supposed she must be early to mid-fifties: she was certainly still a beautiful woman, with alert dark eyes and smooth coffee-coloured skin. Perhaps a little heavier, and the gamine crop she had sported with such verve twenty years ago was now worn to her shoulders, but the cheekbones and the elegant bearing were still there. He could see how she had caught David’s eye.

  ‘Marion,’ he grinned, offering a hand. ‘So good to see you again. I didn’t know you were here. Couldn’t see a car.’

  ‘Oh, I parked at the back, by the staff quarters,’ she said. ‘Old habits, even now.’

  ‘Even though you’re lady of the house.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’ She smiled as she touched him on the shoulder and led him into the house, where the temperature seemed to drop by twenty degrees.

  The first thing that hit him was the smell, a cold, stagnant mustiness that reminded him of churches. The second was the sight of the wide sweeping staircase that dominated the wood-panelled hall. He found himself looking away, not wanting to think about that night, his last night in America. He imagined Sylvia Wyatt’s thin body lying on the polished walnut floor like a puppet with broken strings, then took a sharp inhalation of breath, forcing himself not to think about it.

  ‘I thought we’d have lemonade on the terrace, if that suits?’ said Marion.

  He nodded, grateful to keeping moving and get out of the hall.

  As he followed Marion, his eyes darted left, then right, towards the library and the kitchen. Corners of the thick paisley wallpaper were peeling away from the plaster, the paintwork was cracked, but everything else remained exactly as he remembered it. He could see the black grand piano by the arched windows, pages of sheet music still on its stand; a cookery book open on the farmhouse table, gathering dust.

  He knew he should be looking at the house with a developer’s eye, working out how much work there was to do and how quickly it could be done, but it was impossible not to think about his last days there. The place looked as if it had been so hastily abandoned that the family had not even stopped to pick up their belongings.

  He remembered that night so clearly. The sound of an urgent siren piercing the thick, swampy night air; running round the lake so fast he thought his heart would burst; then his memories dissolved into fragments of noise and images: the red light of the ambulance, the frantic, panicked conversation. Looking back, there hadn’t been many people at the scene – Marion, her parents, Jennifer, and the paramedics, – but even now, despite the eerie stillness of the house, he could feel the sense of chaos and despair that had consumed them all.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Marion quietly. ‘How did we let it get into this state?’

  Jim forced his attention back to her, welcoming the distraction from his thoughts.

  ‘Big properties are my stock in trade. I know how high-maintenance they can be. Unless you have the staff and finance to maintain them on a day-by-day basis, all it takes is one bird’s nest in the wrong place, or a split pipe, and it’s a downward spiral.’ He stopped in his tracks as they reached the back of the house. ‘But wow, the view, that view is still amazing.’

  For all the grandeur of Casa D’Or’s architecture, the terrace had always been its show-stopper. Sweeping and elegant, it faced green lawns that ran down to a forty-acre expanse of water, known as Sunset Lake on account of the early evening light that transformed it, most days, into a pool of liquid copper.

  There was a single wrought-iron café table set up under an umbrella, a jug of lemonade beading with condensation. Jim took a glass gratefully and settled into a wicker chair with a creak. Across the lake he could see the boathouse where his father used to work, the cottage where they’d all lived for two long, heady months.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about David.’

  ‘I bet you never expected that, did you?’

  ‘David’s passing?’

  ‘No, the fact that I married him.’

  Jim shrugged, spread his hands in a ‘none of my business’ gesture, but he could see Marion was waiting for some sort of response.

  ‘I’m not surprised, no. After that summer, I can see that anyone would need . . .’

  ‘Comfort?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  She nodded and looked out over the water.

  ‘After Sylvia died, David went to Charleston. He told us it was to be nearer to work, but we knew he didn’t want to be in the house. We were all so worried about him, especially when we didn’t see him for three months. When Christmas came around, I hated to think of him on his own, so I went to Charleston with a turkey, determined to cook for him. I only went for an hour or two. I never left.’

  ‘And you never came back here?’

  Marion shook her head. ‘David used to say, “We’ll go back soon.” But soon never came. There were too many ghosts. Too many memories. Besides, I think we were both happy to have a fresh start.’

  ‘What about Jennifer?’ He was almost afraid to ask.

  ‘She went to New York not long after the funeral.’

  ‘With Connor?’

  She nodded. ‘Her father had become a recluse. She was lost, bereft, and Connor was there.’

  She paused and looked at him more directly.

  ‘So you became a hotshot.’ It was said with a note of surprise, and he didn’t blame her. He doubted that he would have been anybody’s pick for most likely to succeed. Not compared to Connor.

  ‘I work for Omari Hotels. I’m their global investment and
project manager.’

  ‘I know, I read your sales pitch.’

  Jim sipped his lemonade and seized the opportunity to keep this as professional as possible.

  ‘My boss, Simon Desai, saw Casa D’Or and thought it would be a perfect addition to the Omari portfolio.’

  Marion put down her glass, the ice cubes clinking.

  ‘Don’t talk about it like a business asset, Jimmy,’ she said. ‘You know Casa D’Or is more than that. This house has been the Wyatt family home for nearly seventy years. The thought of getting rid of it makes me want to cry.’

  ‘So is it for sale?’

  She glanced at him, then sighed. ‘I didn’t bring you here to play games. Of course it’s for sale, although I’ll be honest with you, Jim. I don’t feel comfortable doing it. You can imagine the whispers about me when David and I got married. People called me a gold-digger, a whore. Part of me thinks that if I sell now, I’m just confirming everything those people believed was true.’

  ‘So you were the sole beneficiary?’ He chose his words carefully.

  Marion nodded. ‘Jennifer didn’t want the house. She always made that clear. Not after what happened. And what do I need a place this size for? If I don’t do something soon, it’s going to fall down of its own accord. David would have understood that, even though he could never quite instruct the realtors himself.’

  ‘Why didn’t he?’

  Marion gave a low, soft laugh. ‘You know there were an awful lot of good memories that happened in this place, not just that one tragedy.’

  ‘How is she?’ he asked, trying to keep his voice as level and casual as possible. Marion responded with a soft smile.

  ‘I wondered when you were going to ask. She’s still in New York.’

  ‘Does she still sail?’

  ‘Not sure Manhattan’s quite as good for sailing as Georgia.’

  He looked out at the water. A shame, he thought. She really had loved that boat.

  ‘Are you ever in New York?’ said Marion, breaking into his thoughts.

  ‘Quite a lot, actually.’

  Marion laughed. ‘I miss that word, “actually”. You never hear it around here.’

  ‘That’s what Jennifer used to say.’

  ‘You should look her up. She’s on the Upper East Side. 61st Street, I think. I’ll give you the address.’

  He nodded politely, knowing he would do nothing of the sort.

  ‘Promise me you’ll look after her,’ said Marion after a moment.

  ‘Who?’ replied Jim, awkwardly.

  ‘The house, of course,’ she said, her eyes trailing over the water. ‘She has such a dark history. Not just what happened here that summer. But the past. I’ll never forget the stories my father used to tell me about the plantation, and how the original owners of this place got so wealthy. Dozens of slaves used to live here, harvesting the fields, working the cotton gins. And since the Georgian landowners couldn’t get the workforce from Africa, not legally anyway, they used to smuggle them in, up the creeks all around here.’

  She paused and looked at Jim directly.

  ‘Sometimes I think Casa D’Or deserves to fade away. But David was right when he said there were golden times too.’ A tear glistened in the corner of her eye.

  ‘So you’ll sell?’ ventured Jim carefully.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, standing up and taking a long look at the house. ‘Sometimes you have to know when it’s time to let go, no matter how much you love something. Have you ever felt that?’

  Jim smiled. But he wasn’t at all sure he had. Not yet, anyway.

  Chapter Five

  Jim stared at Casa D’Or, unfurled on the table in front of him. Only it wasn’t Casa D’Or, not any more.

  ‘Thierry, this is an amazing job. Really, truly amazing. I love every inch of it,’ he said warmly, looking up into the eyes of the elderly Frenchman.

  ‘They’re only plans at the moment, my friend,’ Thierry said, smiling. ‘I am still struggling with the structure: she was built as a private house, not a hotel, but we will overcome. And yes, I think she will be trop belle when we are finished.’

  Jim knew it was an understatement. Thierry Dupont was one of the most in-demand architects in the business. At seventy, he was semi-retired but had agreed to the Casa D’Or project as a favour to Jim.

  ‘Now you do know we have a tight schedule on this?’

  Thierry gave a Gallic shrug. ‘We always need more time, no? But this house has good bones, structurally it is sound. And with the outbuildings, I think we can extend your room capacity.’

  Jim fixed his eyes on the computer screen as Thierry moved his mouse around, slowly spinning a 3D computer image of the house. The picture was only made up of blue lines, the walls and roof transparent, but it was still wonderfully evocative. Jim could see exactly how Thierry was planning on dividing up the existing rooms; he could even zoom inside the entrance hall, giving an idea of how the space would look and feel. This was the part of his job he enjoyed the most. He supposed it was the creative part of him being exercised, the part he’d always thought he’d use for composing songs or writing books. Instead he was here in his New York office, breathing life into an idea, creating a space people could actually move through, a place they could live in. There was a satisfying and creative value in that.

  ‘Thierry, this looks great. Seriously.’

  The Frenchman gave an ironic bow. ‘I aim to please.’

  Jim stared at the image of the entrance, picturing how it had looked all those years ago – and for some reason, all he saw was Sylvia Wyatt, the lady of the house, standing by the fireplace, a look of distaste on her face. Yes, the Johnsons had been the poor neighbours – literally – and Sylvia had always made it clear she didn’t think they were good enough for her social circle. At the few parties they had attended, even his father, the great author, had been viewed by Sylvia and her wealthy friends as an object of curious interest, but not quite respect. If Sylvia Wyatt were still alive today, he wondered what she would think of him now. Jim Johnson, CEO of Omari Hotels – or he would be if Casa D’Or was ready for guests by Thanksgiving.

  Thierry closed the laptop and rolled the plans into a tube.

  ‘Now, how would you like to take an old man for a drink?’

  Jim clapped him on the shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

  ‘I’d love to, but I haven’t even unpacked yet. If I don’t get back and turn the heating on, I swear the front door will be iced shut when I get there.’

  Thierry chuckled. ‘I can’t believe you’ve finally moved to New York. I thought you were too much of a diehard Brit to ever leave.’

  ‘It’s a temporary thing, Thierry, just until the project is done.’

  The Frenchman nodded, but Jim saw a twinkle in his eye that said he didn’t quite believe it.

  ‘Thanks again, Thierry. I think Casa D’Or is going to be your best yet,’ he said as they walked towards the lift.

  ‘Oh, no doubt about that,’ said Thierry, tapping the rolled plans against Jim’s chest. ‘When a seed is planted with passion, the fruit is always the sweetest.’

  The lift doors closed and Jim let out a long breath. He glanced at the clock above the reception desk and realised that their meeting had dragged on for three hours: everyone else had gone home. He walked back to his office, still quietly pleased by its size and grandeur, even though he knew it was all relative. Omari’s Manhattan outpost was tiny compared to the London office, taking up just a single floor of the Commodore Tower on 57th, but still Jim loved it. Here at least he was solely in charge, the master of his own destiny, which was exactly how he liked it. Here he could show Simon just how good he was, with no one questioning his decisions or taking credit. Plus he had an amazing corner office with uninterrupted views along Lexington and across to Park. At night, from the twenty-fifth floor, the ebb and flow of the neon traffic far below was mesmerising.

  For a moment, he thought of calling Melissa, or at least sending her a t
ext, checking she was all right. He looked down at the street below and shook his head. No, Melissa had been right that night, and it wasn’t fair to either of them to prolong it. She’d been half right about something else too. She’d overstepped the mark when she’d suggested that he needed to change, but perhaps he needed a change.

  He’d been apprehensive about coming to New York. There had been a moment at Heathrow when he’d almost turned back, but he was a grown-up, not the Peter Pan figure Melissa had suggested, and he knew he could handle the Casa D’Or project and whatever emotions it threw up. He had another theory too, that moving away from London, facing the demons of his past, could only help him move forward.

  He poured himself an espresso from the machine in the corner and sank down in his ergonomic office chair, tapping casually through his emails: nothing that couldn’t wait, messages from colleagues in the London office. Right now he just wanted to grab some Korean takeout – it never got old just how good the to-go food was in New York – and head back to his neglected flat to watch the football. But just then a new email popped into his inbox.

  Re: NetworkMe request from Jennifer Wyatt-Gilbert

  Do you know Jennifer Wyatt-Gilbert? She would like to link with you . . .

  It was a standard introduction email from a networking site Jim subscribed to, but this was anything but standard. It was from Jennifer, from her. Remembering to breathe, he read and reread the bland form letter, but of course there was nothing personal there except for her name. There was a link button to the right, and Jim hovered over it for a moment. All he had to do was click; what harm could it do? She was just being polite after all, personally acknowledging the letter he’d sent her several weeks earlier.

  Jim had written to Jennifer as soon as Marion had agreed to the sale of Casa D’Or. Marion owned the property outright, but Jim wanted the transaction to go through without any hitches, and ultimately he’d decided that it was only right to ask Jennifer’s permission to buy the house.