They hugged good night and walked together as far as the foyer. When Geneva turned past the plywood elevator shaft toward the bedrooms, Ellie opened the front door and stepped out into the silky night air. The rain had stopped for the moment. She stood still, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. Gradually, she made out the dark forms of trees, shrubs, and the contours of the castle. She tilted her head back, searching for the moon, but found nothing but a lighter spot in the sky where clouds were shrouding it. Thunder grumbled. She settled on the top step and dialed Scott’s number. Should she ask him about keeping in touch with Evangeline?
He picked up almost instantly and she could hear the snark of Fox News commentators in the background. He must have muted it because the voices cut off when he said, “Hi, El. How’s it going?”
His voice, steady and familiar, brought a lump to her throat. What the heck? She swallowed and said, “Hi, honey. It’s going great. Evangeline’s engaged.”
Did she imagine his hesitation? “Really? That’s great. Who’s the lucky guy?”
He sounded totally unconcerned, and she let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she was holding. “No one you know, or me either. His name’s Ray. I’m not sure what he does.” Crinkling her brow, she realized she’d picked up remarkably little about Ray. She didn’t even know his last name. “Seems nice enough. They act like teenagers in love for the first time, hands all over each other. I can’t decide if it’s nauseating or sweet.”
His laugh warmed her. “I’d be happy to get my hands all over you.”
She could just see him waggling his brows suggestively and a wave of longing surprised her. “Me too. When I get home.” She bit her lip. She had to ask. “Evangeline mentioned that you and she had talked,” she said in a would-be casual voice. “I didn’t know you were in touch?”
“She said we talked?” The confusion in his voice seemed genuine, and her throat relaxed a notch.
“Um-hmm. She knew what schools the boys were going to.”
“Not exactly a state secret,” Scott said drily. “That’s on my Facebook page.”
“You’re Facebook friends?” Not that she was happy they were in touch at all, but Facebook was pretty innocuous. She stopped herself from asking who’d sent the friend request.
“Yeah, I think so. For a few months now. Aren’t you?”
Come to think of it, she wasn’t. The last time she’d looked for Evangeline on Facebook, she hadn’t found her. Huh. She let the subject drop. They talked for five minutes about his work, the chores he had planned for Sunday, and the surprising news that his group commander, a woman in her early forties, was pregnant. Midway through that discussion, he broke off to say, “Oh, Aidan called today. He’s met a girl. He’s in love.” He turned “love” into “luuuuv.”
Aidan had called Scott, not her? Ellie quickly checked her texts. Nothing. “Hmm,” was all she could manage. Being jealous that your son talked to his dad was beyond petty. She knew that, and yet she couldn’t help feeling hurt. “Does she have a name?” she made herself ask.
“Cyndabelle, with a Y,” he said.
Despite herself, she laughed. They discussed Aidan’s love life for a few minutes and her worry that Shane was doing more partying than studying. Then the first heavy raindrops chased Ellie inside with a hurried exchange of I love yous and good nights. She entered the B and B feeling more secure about Scott and looking forward to their Charleston weekend. Maybe being an empty nester wouldn’t be all bad.
Balked of a shower by the still-icy water, Dawn slipped on the white satin pajamas Kyra had given her for Christmas two years back and called her lover, in the mood for a spot of phone sex. The phone was picked up with a breathless “Hi!” on the fourth ring.
“Kyra?” Dawn asked, knowing it wasn’t.
“No, this is Flannery,” the young voice said. “Kyra’s not here. Can I take a message?”
May, Dawn mentally corrected, and who the hell was Flannery? “This is Dawn. Who—”
“Oh, hi, Dawn,” Flannery said, greeting her as if they were best buddies. “Kyra’s told us so much about you that I feel like I know you. I’m in her hatha yoga class. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays at eight. I’ve been taking class with her for two years now and it has totally changed my life. Totally!”
“Um, why are you—?”
“In your house? Kyra asked me to pet sit your cat, your precious Mr. Bojangles. Who’s the best kitty? Mr. Bojangles is, yes he is.”
Her voice got muffled. She must have bent over to pet the cat. “Where’s Kyra?” Dawn asked, beginning to lose patience.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Flannery said sunnily. “She didn’t say, and it really wasn’t my business to ask. I’ve got her cell phone number, if you want it.”
“I have it,” Dawn said. Idiot. “Do you know when she’s coming back?”
“Before Wednesday, for sure,” Flannery said. “I’m teaching classes on Monday and Tuesday for her, but she didn’t ask me to do Wednesday, so I’m thinking she’ll be back by then.”
Dawn hung up with a curt goodbye, hoping Mr. Bojangles survived Flannery’s airheadedness. She dialed Kyra’s cell number, but it went straight to voicemail. Where the hell was she? Unsettled now, Dawn paced the room, the wide pajama legs flaring. Kyra had been miffed when Dawn made it clear she wanted to come to North Carolina by herself. Was she acting out? She couldn’t have gone to see Lexie, could she? A spark of jealousy flared as Dawn thought about Kyra’s former girlfriend, a svelte history professor at Rice University in Houston. Easy weekend distance.
That was ridiculous. She and Kyra were solid. She would call soon. Her mother! Maybe her mother had fallen again. Dawn almost dialed Kyra’s folks’ number, but it was coming up on midnight in Pennsylvania. She would wake them and scare the crap out of them if there was nothing wrong. She opened the door and stepped into the quiet hall, which was dimly lit by a sconce midway down its length. A strip of light showed under Evangeline’s door, but that was all. She considered knocking and actually stood outside the door for a moment, listening. No voices. A snick, like a drawer opening, or maybe just an old board creaking. As soundlessly as possible, she moved away, padding down the hall barefoot. Talking to Evangeline would only wind her up again. And she couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t feel the old attraction, the magnetic pull that was part chemistry and part witchcraft and had to do with the mischievous sparkle in Evangeline’s eyes, her long, sensitive fingers, the fragrance of Opium and warm skin, her laugh. She’d been conscious of the old feelings, dormant and muted but not gone, ever since Evangeline arrived.
Dawn passed the ugly plywood box around what would be the elevator shaft and began to ascend the stairs. Now, with the workmen gone, might be the only time she could peek upstairs. The floorboards were chilly against her soles.
She automatically turned right at the top, getting a whiff of sawdust and raw lumber. She tried the light switch but nothing happened; the construction crew must have the electricity turned off to this part of the castle. She started down the hall, moving slowly in the dark. It was echo-y without the drawings and prints that had always hung on the walls, the baronial chair that used to sit just off the landing, the piecrust table in the window embrasure that had held three or four potted violets. She couldn’t see that they were gone, but she knew it. Cleared out to make room for the renovations.
Halfway down the hall, she barked her shin and stubbed her toe on something stacked against the right-hand wall but extending into the middle of the hall. The pain brought tears; she was sure her big toenail had ripped up from the bed. “Aagh.” Hopping on one foot, she steadied herself with a hand on the wall. She leaned over to inspect her toe and her hand slipped. One moment, the wall was supporting her, the next her hand sank into emptiness and she was tipping. The elevator shaft! Fear lit up every neuron, and Dawn hurled herself sideways, away from the emptiness. She landed with a
thud on the floor and lay for a moment, panting.
Sawdust grains impressed themselves on her cheek. She raised her head slightly to brush them off and a glimmer, fainter than a firefly’s glow, grayed the dark near Evangeline’s old room—Villette’s old room. Blinking, she tried to focus on it, but her eyes swam. Had she hit her head when she fell? She rubbed her eyes and her hand came away damp. Tears. She pushed to a sitting position and dried her eyes with her sleeve. Her gaze sought the faint light. It resolved into a womanly shape, misty and undefined. Villette! Her heartbeat quickened with the thrill of it. She wasn’t afraid—Villette’s was a sad spirit, not an angry or vengeful one. Using the stack of drywall or lumber that had tripped her up, Dawn levered to her feet. Before she could take a step toward the ghost, it melted into the room.
Favoring her injured foot, Dawn hobbled after it. As she neared the room, a breath of cooler air washed around her. Her silk pajamas absorbed the chill, and she wrapped her arms around herself. It didn’t deter her, though, and she crossed the threshold without hesitating. Her head swiveled as she searched the room for the wraith. A sense of movement took her toward the French doors that opened onto the balcony. She hesitated. The door was slightly ajar, and the wind was teasing a single forgotten sheer panel. It fluttered, wisping toward Dawn, and she jolted back.
Embarrassed by her reaction, she reached to pull the French door wider, eased it fully open with a cree-eek. The wind tangled her hair. She could smell the approaching rain. She didn’t approach the balustrade, now topped with a foot-high iron railing, but hovered in the doorway. This was as close as she wanted to get to a memory she’d avoided touching for ten years. Closing her eyes, she strained to sense Villette and felt a force willing her onto the balcony, drawing her to the rail. Panic welled, making her blood pulse loudly in her ears. “No,” she whispered, and then more loudly, “No!”
A crack of thunder and zigzag of lightning chased her back into the room. She shoved the French door shut, tugging on it to be sure it had latched. Rain pelted the glass. She quickly retraced her steps and descended the stairs, balancing on her heel to spare her mangled toe, and resolved not to mention her midnight wanderings to the others. She could just hear them explaining away her experience as a slight concussion from the fall, Villette’s manifestation as a trick of moonlight, the open window as evidence of the workmen’s careless practices. She was tempted to tell them, tempted to cling to the rationale she knew they would offer, but you couldn’t reason away the truth, not even when you wanted to.
Clutching the manila envelope in both hands, Geneva listened at her bedroom door. When she’d passed Evangeline’s room earlier, Laurel had still been there, and they’d been arguing. She’d listened only long enough to figure out that they might be a while yet before continuing to her own room. She’d been on the verge of setting out fifteen minutes ago but had heard a door open and close, and then soft footsteps. She couldn’t imagine where Ellie or Dawn or Laurel would be going at this hour. It was coming up on midnight. Being back at Cygne might be affecting all of them, making it hard to sleep. Maybe someone was off to the kitchen for a snack or a calming cup of chamomile. She yawned. If she didn’t do it now, she’d fall asleep. The baby tired her out.
The urge for a drink, dormant for years, burbled up again as she eased her door open and slipped into the hall. Should she find an AA meeting in Asheville? No need. She could hold out for another day until she was back in Chicago. She was still dressed in the clothes she’d had on earlier. Pajamas and a robe would not give her the confidence she needed for this encounter. The hall was dimly lit by a sconce. Light made a faint line under Ellie’s, Evangeline’s, and Laurel’s closed doors. Steeling herself, she passed two empty rooms and neared Laurel’s. She paused, listening, and thought she heard the toilet flush. She crossed the hall to Evangeline’s room and laid her ear against the door’s smooth wood. The action released memories of listening at Mama Gran’s door before sneaking out to meet her friend Shalimar and their boyfriends in high school. She’d heard recently that Shalimar was in rehab and her four kids in foster care.
There was a sharp click and the hall got inky dark. Geneva startled, and then realized the bulb in the sconce must have blown. The envelope crinkled loudly as her hands tightened involuntarily. She relaxed her grip, telling herself the sound hadn’t traveled. Anger, no longer white-hot after almost a decade but nonetheless powerful, drew her shoulders back. It was time, way past time, to have it out with Evangeline. Her therapist had been suggesting for years that she write a letter to Evangeline and put it behind her, but Geneva insisted she had to do it in person. She raised her hand to knock.
A stair tread groaned, whipping her head around. Was that—? Yes, a footstep. Another. Someone was coming down the stairs. She didn’t want to have to explain why she was hovering outside Evangeline’s room at midnight. Moving silently, she hurried to her room and slipped inside, leaning her back against the door when she closed it. Her pulse beat too fast, and Lila’s head wedged under her rib cage made it hard to breathe. She’d waited this long. She could wait until tomorrow. Placing the envelope on her bedside table, she got into bed and lay on her side, the only halfway comfortable position this late in her pregnancy. She was drifting off to sleep before she wondered who she’d heard on the stairs, and what they’d been doing wandering around the deserted upper floors in the middle of the night.
Eleven
When Laurel entered the breakfast parlor, Geneva, Dawn, and Ellie were already seated. Sun streaming through the windows seemed extra bright, as if the night’s rain had washed the air clear of pollens and dust that had previously muted it. Only one table was set, with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth and white stoneware, a far cry from dinner’s formality. Happy daisies bloomed in a centerpiece, and a large coffee urn sat on a buffet. The Abbotts brought in platters laden with fluffy pancakes and scrambled eggs, and the aroma of coffee and crisp bacon pervaded the room. “I’ll bet you won’t miss cooking breakfast for a dozen or so people every morning,” Laurel said, filching a piece of bacon from the serving tray.
“You’ve got that right.” Mrs. Abbott shoved her glasses up her nose with the back of her wrist. “I’ve told Stephen that we’re eating at the IHOP or Denny’s every morning. I don’t plan to even own a waffle iron or griddle.” She set the platter down and bustled out as they laughed.
“Did you sleep okay?” Laurel asked Dawn, who was seated beside her. The other woman seemed quieter than usual, and she’d limped when she rose to get coffee from the urn. Even her curly hair seemed subdued, lying flatter against her skull and draping over her shoulders without its usual verve.
“So-so,” Dawn said. “The storm.”
“The rain woke me, too,” Geneva said. “I left my window open and it came blasting in at about—what? One or so?” She dunked an herbal tea bag in the white ceramic pot Mrs. Abbott had left her. “I can’t wait to go back to caffeine. At the beginning of this pregnancy, I told Geonwoo I might kick my caffeine habit forever, but that was just stupid talk. Now I’m counting the days until I can have a cup of extra dark coffee. No sugar, no flavorings, just pure unadulterated coffee. Mmm.”
Her expression, reminiscent of a puppy hankering after a juicy bone its owner was dangling, made all of them laugh.
“A cup of coffee at this point isn’t going to fry Lila’s brains,” Ellie said. She added, “I’d forgotten how noisy old houses are. Thumps and creaks and what sounded like mice gnawing inside the walls kept me awake half the night.” She helped herself to a heaping spoonful of scrambled eggs.
“Where’s Evangeline?” Laurel asked.
The others shook their heads, and Geneva said, “Haven’t seen her this morning. She might need help getting ready. I’ll go check on her.” She started to rise.
Feeling guilty about the way she’d walked out on Evangeline the night before, Laurel waved her back. “You sit. I’ll go.” She took a big s
wallow of coffee to fortify herself and headed toward Evangeline’s room. Pausing outside the closed door, she listened for a moment. No rustlings, running water, or shushing of wheels over carpet. It didn’t sound like Evangeline was up. She tapped lightly. When that got no response, she knocked a bit harder and called, “Evangeline?”
Silence. A silence so deep it was beginning to creep her out. Hesitantly, Laurel turned the knob. It moved smoothly under her hand and the door sighed open. A blast of heat smacked her, raising instant sweat on her forehead—the space heater working overtime in the closed room. Whew. The room held the quality of dusk, the sun trying to burn through the cotton drapes providing barely enough light for Laurel to make her way in. One step inside the door, the smell grabbed her. The toilet had overflowed, or a sewer line had ruptured, she thought. How could Evangeline stand to be in here? Another step showed Evangeline’s bed. The linens were smooth, the bed clearly not slept in. Unease tickled at Laurel. Something was off. Something more than the plumbing problems.
“Evangeline,” she called sharply. She flicked on the overhead light.
A scene of chaos met her widening eyes. A floor lamp had tipped over, knocking the shade askew and shattering the bulb. The thin glass bits winked in a beam of sunlight that infiltrated through a narrow gap in the drapes. Evangeline’s suitcase was upended on the floor, her undies and shirts and socks bleeding out of it. The collapsed luggage rack lay beneath it. The wheelchair was on its side in the middle of the room, and Evangeline sprawled half in and half out of it, torso twisted and arched in a horrible spasm. One hand reached toward Laurel, the fingers curled into a claw. Two of the painted nails were broken off, lying like tiny tangerine smiles on the dark rug. The other arm was trapped under her body. The worst part was her eyes, wide open and filmed, and her mouth, stretched open in a silent scream. A glass had rolled not far from her outstretched hand; Laurel had almost kicked it.
That Last Weekend Page 10
