Gates of Paradise (Casteel Series #4)

by V. C. Andrews

  It was pretty in the maze, the hedges growing as tall as ten feet and making precise right-angle turns.

  Of course, like most of the greenery about Farthy, it needed trimming and care. But it was dark and green and soothing in there, and I felt the tension of the day, the worry, the fear, the struggle ease away from me.

  "What do you think so far?" he asked as soon as we had made our first turn and gone in deeper.

  "It's so quiet. I can barely hear the garden birds chirping."

  "Yes, the peaceful serenity is what I love about the maze."

  I looked up. Even the plaintive shrieks of the sea gulls flying overhead seemed muffled, faraway.

  He paused as we made another turn.

  "Are you seated too low to see the roof of Farthy?"

  "No, I can just make it out above the hedge. It looks so far off already."

  "In the maze you can pretend you're on a different world. I often do," he confessed. "Do you like to pretend, to live in fantasy from time to time?"

  "Yes, very much. Luke and I often did that, and if we were both home now, we probably still would, even though we would seem too old for it."

  "Luke?"

  "My . . . cousin . . my aunt Fanny's son Luke Junior."

  "Oh, yes . . . your aunt Fanny. I had forgotten about her."

  "You knew her, too!"

  "I knew of her," he said.

  He knew more than he was saying. I could tell.

  Who was this man? Had I been too adventurous to accept his invitation so quickly? We were heading deeper and deeper into the--great maze. I wrapped my arms about myself protectively. Part of me wanted to go right back to the house, but a stronger part of me wanted to see the cottage, wanted to know more about this mysterious, fascinating man.

  "Are you cold? It does get quite cool in here."

  "I'm okay. Is it going to be much longer?"

  "Only a few minutes more. We take this turn and then that and then go straight into another turn and another and then we'll be on the other side."

  "I can see how someone could easily get lost."

  "People do. Your mother once did."

  "She did? She never told me about it."

  He laughed.

  "The first time I saw her. She couldn't find her way back."

  "Please tell me about that," I begged. "She was so reluctant to talk about her days at Farthy."

  "It was the first time she had gone into the maze. I was working in the cottage—making little suits of armor for tiny knights, I think—when suddenly she appeared at the door. She looked innocent and lost, almost like an angel who had stepped out of the mist . . . so beautiful and so full of determination. It was very foggy that day and had grown dark quickly. She was afraid she wouldn't find her way back."

  "Was Troy there, too?"

  "Yes, he was."

  "Well, what happened next?" I asked, impatient with his dramatic pauses.

  "Oh, we calmed her down. Gave her something to eat, as I recall, and then directed her back through the maze."

  "It's funny to think of my mother as a young girl."

  "She was a very beautiful young lady, much like yourself."

  "I'm not feeling particularly beautiful these days, though."

  "You will. I'm sure. Well, here we are, one more turn." We went around a corner and emerged from the maze.

  Before us lay a path of pale flagstone lined with tall pines. Directly ahead was the small stone cottage with a red slate roof crouched low amidst the pine trees. I couldn't keep the small cry from escaping through my lips.

  It was Mommy's toy cottage, the one she had given me on my eighteenth birthday. The Tatterton replica was exact. How eerie, I thought. It was as if I had just stepped into a fantasy world, truly a toy world where people lived their dreams.

  Oh, I thought, if only Luke were here. He

  would see that all our make-believe could come true.

  Those two toy figures in the toy cottage really would be us.

  There was the knee-high picket fence, not

  meant to keep anything out, winding its crooked way around the cottage, giving support to climbing roses just the way they were in the replica.

  Unlike the rest of Farthy, the grounds around the cottage were well cared for, maintained with a loving hand . . . grass rich and trim, the fence whitewashed, the walk clean and smooth, the windows glistening.

  "Well . . . there's the cottage."

  "Oh, it belongs in a picture book. How I wish I could come here to paint it!" I exclaimed.

  "You paint?"

  "Oh yes. Painting is my passion. I'm even doing it now while I recuperate. I want to study art and work on my talent forever and ever," I added hopefully.

  "Of course. Of course," he repeated, once again sounding distant, lost in his own memories. "Well, then maybe you will paint it someday. Why not?"

  "Can we go inside?" I asked.

  "Certainly; but won't they be missing you back at Farthy by now?"

  "I don't care. I feel like a prisoner in there, anyway. Please, take me into the cottage."

  He pushed me forward down the path of

  flagstone to the front door, opened it and then wheeled me in. There were Tatterton Toys

  everywhere, on shelves and on the mantel above the fireplace, and at least a half-dozen antique clocks, all on time. As if to punctuate this realization, the grandfather clock in the corner struck the hour and the light blue music-box clock that was shaped like the cottage itself opened its front door. The tiny family within emerged and then retreated to a sweet, haunting melody, a melody that was familiar.

  It was the same melody that played whenever the roof of the toy cottage back at Winnerrow was lifted: Chopin's nocturne. We looked at one another as the melody came to an end.

  "My mother had a toy cottage that looked exactly like this cottage, with the hedges and the pine trees, and it played the same tune. She gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday. It is as old as I am and it still works. Someone sent it to her right after I was born."

  "Yes," he said. He could barely utter the word..

  He looked frightened, his eyes a little wider. Then his expression changed and he looked very sad, his head tilted as he went into deep thought for a moment.

  Suddenly he realized I was staring, and smiled.

  I turned away quickly and continued to inspect the cottage. It was quaint, cozy, and warm, as I imagined a gardener's cottage might be. Although the furniture was old, none of it looked worn. Shelves, floors, curtains—everything looked neat and clean, looked like it belonged in the home of a meticulous person. There were really only two rooms, and in the living room right before the fireplace was a long table, covered with tiny pieces of metal, tools, and what was an unfinished toy medieval village. The church with its spiral roof and stained-glass windows was completed. There was even a priest standing in the doorway waving hello to his approaching parishioners.

  There were shops and fine stone houses and the huts of the poorer folk. Some tiny wagons drawn by horses were only partially completed, as were some of the buildings and walkways.

  "I have some ice tea, if you'd like."

  "Yes, please." I wheeled myself into the living room to look more closely at the Tatterton Toy village.

  "That one's taking me a lot longer because I keep adding something here and there," he explained.

  "It's so beautiful, so lifelike! I love it. Look at how you've captured the expressions on their faces.

  No two are the same." I looked up and caught him gazing intently at me, a soft and wonderful smile on his face. He realized how he was staring.

  "Oh . . . the tea. One moment," he said, and went into the kitchen. I sat back and looked around the cottage.

  "Here you go," he said, coming over quickly to hand the ice tea to me. I took it but didn't drink it. He tried to avoid my eyes, and turned away to busy himself putting tools back in their little niches on the wall.

  "You're the man I saw from the
window of my room," I declared.

  "Oh?"

  "I saw you at my parents' monument, didn't I?"

  "I stopped there once, yes."

  "More than once," I insisted.

  "Maybe more than once." He flashed a smile and sat on the wooden rocker beside the fireplace. He put his hands behind his head, his long slender legs stretched out,and looked up at the ceiling. Now that I studied his profile, I saw that he was quite good-looking in a special way. He radiated a sensitivity that reminded me of Luke when Luke was his most loving, most intense and poetic self.

  "My walks are my only form of exercise these days. I wander all about the grounds."

  "You were at the service, too. I saw you," I said pointedly. "Why couldn't you come out of the woods and stand beside the other mourners?"

  "Oh . . I'm just shy. So," he said, anxious to change the topic, "how is your recuperation coming along?"

  "But why wouldn't you want to be seen there?

  Are you afraid of Tony?"

  "No." He smiled.

  "I can't understand why you keep yourself so . .

  so hidden, then."

  "It's just my way. I suppose there's something peculiar about all of us if we care to look closely. I'm the type who likes being by himself."

  "But why?" I pursued.

  "Why?" He laughed. "You do hang on once something bothers you, don't you? Just like your mother."

  "I don't understand how you know so much about her if you like to keep to yourself all the time."

  He laughed again.

  "I can see where I'm going to have to keep my life's secrets well undercover when you're around. I like to keep to myself," he said quietly, "but I did like to be with your mother and I do talk to people, just like I'm talking with you light now. Now, tell me about your recovery,"

  "Yesterday I stood up by myself for the first time since the accident."

  "How wonderful!"

  "But the doctor and Tony think I should go slowly. No one tried to get me to stand up today, and I have yet to use the walker. They keep insisting I take naps and sleeping pills and remained locked away from people. This is the first time I've been out of the house since, and I've been here nearly a week; I can't even call anyone and talk. I have no' phone!" I cried.

  "Oh?"

  "I haven't seen my cousin Luke since I left the hospital, which is six days now. I sent- him messages through Tony and Drake."

  "Drake?"

  "My mother's half brother."

  "Oh yes, Luke Senior's son,"

  "You seem to know a lot about my family for a worker .

  an assistant at that," I said suspiciously.

  "I'm just a good listener when people talk around me,"

  "What a remarkable memory for details you have."

  I narrowed my eyes to show him I thought there was a lot more he wasn't telling me.

  He smiled, a boyish smile.

  "And what happened to Luke?"

  "He hasn't called or come. I wheeled myself into Tony's office and called Luke's dorm at Harvard and left a message for him with his roommate before I came outside."

  "I see. Well, I'm sure he'll soon pay you a visit, then."

  "I don't know. Everyone's different . . . Drake is

  . . . in love with being a businessman, working for Tony, and Luke would never ignore me before. We've grown up together and we have always been very close. I've told him things other girls would never dare tell another boy, and he's told me things boys would never dare tell girls. Because we're special to each other," I emphasized. He nodded thoughtfully. "We're more than just cousins." I paused. For some reason I felt Lcould share the family secrets with this man. I sensed his sincerity and I felt so comfortable in his presence. It was as if I had known him all my life.

  Complete strangers in Winnerrow knew about Luke.

  Why not him? I thought. "Luke and I have the same father," I finally blurted.

  "I see," he said, but he showed no surprise at the revelation.

  "You don't see. No one could see how hard it is, how hard it has been," I cried. "Especially for Luke.

  He's had so many, many obstacles to overcome, mountains to climb. People can be very cruel sometimes, especially in small towns like Winnerrow. They won't let you forget the sins of your . . ."

  "Sins of your fathers?" he offered.

  "Yes."

  "Luke must have grown into a very

  extraordinary young man for you to care so much for him."

  "Oh, he did. He's so bright. He was the class valedictorian! And he's thoughtful and polite. Everyone who's fair loves Luke and respects him, too!

  Mommy loved him. It was hard for her, but she cared just as much for him as she would have had he been her own son," I declared firmly.

  "Tell me about your hair. When did you dye it?

  You did dye it?"

  “Yes.”

  "When?"

  "A few days ago, Tony brought a beautician to Farthy and talked me into doing it. He thought looking brighter would make me feel better about myself."

  "Tony had you do this?" I saw the concern in his face.

  "Yes. Why do you ask?"

  "How has Tony . Mr. Tatterton, been these days? I haven't seen him for a while."

  "Strange. He's forgetful and he confuses things." "Confuses? Like what?"

  "He often mixes me up with my mother, my grandmother . even my great-grandmother Jillian."

  "How do you mean?" He leaned forward in his chair, his graceful hands clasped together, his arms resting on his knees.

  "He talks to me as though he's talking to one of them, mentioning things I wouldn't know or remember."

  He gazed at me, that look of concern firmly planted in his face. "How long will you remain here at Farthy?"

  "The intention was for me to remain until I was fully recuperated, but I told Drake today that I want to go home and recuperate there." All the pent-up feelings of being imprisoned, of having been tormented by a cruel nurse, and now living with Tony, who moved from one world to another, flooded over me, "I do!"

  "Then you should go. If you're not happy here, if you're not comfortable, you'd better go," he said, but so intensely, his eyes so determined, that I suddenly felt very frightened,

  "Who are you. . . really? You know too much about this family to be a mere employee."

  He sat back again and gazed at me for a long moment, My heart was pounding now, for I knew I was right.

  "If I tell you, will you keep the knowledge locked away, for it is very important to me that few, if any, people know. I am happy here living an anonymous life, protected by the maze. My solitude is very precious and important to me. I am happy living with my memories and my work, which, as you can see, can take up a great deal of my time." He paused and said, very sadly, "It's the life I've chosen for myself. I didn't think I would live this long, anyway."

  "Why not? You're not very old."

  "No, I'm not very old, but when I was younger, I was sickly and I had dreams I would die very young

  . . I wouldn't live past thirty. But I did. Death refused to claim me. I don't question why; I go on, doing what I do, living this quiet life, content with what I have. In a way I've made peace with myself, with all ray fears and sorrows. My past is like an old wound that's healed; I don't want to do anything to open it up again." He fixed his eyes on me, his soft, warm eyes, which urged me to trust him.

  "So . . . can you keep a secret as important as this one?"

  "Oh yes," I assured him.

  "I think you can. I don't know why I should feel this way, but l trust you . . just as I would trust . . my own daughter, had I gotten married and had a daughter."

  "My mother always taught me to respect what is precious to other people, even though the same things may not be precious to me."

  "She would tell you that."

  "There, you see. You knew her too well to be a mere employee."

  He smiled.

  "I should have remained in
the shadows, Annie.

  I should have known you would see the truth." "What is the truth?" I waited, holding my breath. "I am not Troy Tatterton's assistant; I am Troy Tatterton."

  Strange how Troy's revelation didn't shock me as much as it should have, for everyone had told me of his death and spoke of him as long gone. Yet it was as if I had somehow always known.

  "When Rye Whiskey sees you, he probably thinks he's seeing one of his spirits," I said.

  "Rye." He smiled. "I'm not sure what he thinks, but I suppose you're right."

  "But now that you have told me the truth about who you are, will you tell me why you have let everyone believe you are dead and gone?" I asked.

  "Has anyone ever told you the circumstances of my supposed passing?" He eyed me carefully after he asked.

  "I've learned a little here and there; I learned the most from Rye Whiskey, but I don't know how much of what Rye tells me is true and how much is in his vivid imagination. I know you rode a horse—Jillian's horse—into the sea and were never seen or heard from again."

  "Yes, that part is so."

  "How did such a thing happen?"

  There was a smile around his eyes again.

  "When you ask like that—so passionately—you remind me so much of your mother when she was your age. I think you are just as attentive a listener.

  Will you listen?" he asked, sitting back again.

  I nodded, somehow scared by his new, serious tone of voice.

  "What I told you was true: I was a sickly, melancholy child and teenager. All my young life I was depressed by heavy, sad thoughts. My brother Tony, who was more like a father to me, tried his best to get me to change, to be more hopeful and optimistic, but it was as if a gray cloud had been planted over my head when I was born and it grew wider and wider and wider until one day, when I looked up, all I could see was an overcast sky, no matter how bright and blue a day it was.

  "Can you understand that?"

  I shook my head because I couldn't. I couldn't understand how anyone could go on living his life forever under overcast skies. Sunlight was so important; it was important to flowers and trees and grass and birds, and especially to young children who needed to bathe in its loving warmth. How else would anything grow? He anticipated my thought.