“Alright then,” said Nate. “So, how is restoration coming along on the castle, Anika?”
“Not a lot can be done to the outside right now, but the three years of neglect didn’t affect the exterior much. Although, the guest house does need work. The roof leaks, and that’s a mess. Restoration on the inside of the estate itself, is going awesome. I think our cleaning crew is beginning to wonder if the house goes on forever though, they still haven’t gotten to every room yet. What they have freed from years of dust, is amazing.”
“That’s right,” Jenny said. “I heard about that, Mom was telling me about your job. That’s really cool.”
“It is. I love it. I can’t imagine a job I’d enjoy more,” I said.
“I’ve never been so anxious for spring to arrive,” said Nate. “I’m looking forward to getting back out to the estate again, and watching the grounds come to life. It’s going to be amazing.”
A couple more people arrived and joined in, and the topic quickly switched to games.
I like Jenny a lot, we got along well. I could see being friends if we had enough time to get to know each other. Nate is a nice guy, too. I am not a fan of board games though, so that part was rather torturous. I can’t say for sure, but I’m not exaggerating much, when I say I just might prefer being alone with my dog for a hundred and forty years.
I did my best to be engaged in what was going on around me, in spite of it. The majority of the guys in her group, with the exception of Nate, were awfully immature. They really got on my nerves. But then again, I was used to Miles. I’ve come to the conclusion they just don’t make ‘em like they used to. I would so much rather be hanging out with him, instead.
I said goodbye around eight-thirty, and left. I wanted to get an early start in the morning.
I drove home carefully. Mom’s car is not suited to mountain driving in the winter, and I had no opportunity to learn proper driving technique in the past, considering we lived in a desert before coming here. The snowplows did a good job of keeping the snow cleared and the roads de-iced though, so it wasn’t too bad. Still, it was a relief to get home.
I parked the car and waded through the snow to the cabin.
“It is so cold out there!” I said, as I closed the door behind me and stomped the snow off my feet.
“So how was it?” Mom asked, obviously thrilled I went out.
“It was okay,” I said neutrally.
“Well did you have a good time? Did you make any new friends?”
I made a face.
“Well, I do like Susan’s daughter. She’s nice.”
“That’s great!” said Mom. “So do they get together every Sunday night?”
“Uh, well, maybe. I’d have to ask, I guess.”
“That would be so wonderful if you could have something like this to look forward to every week,” said Mom brightly.
Who looks forward to torture?
“Why’s this so important to you?” I questioned.
“Well,” Mom was a little taken aback. “You’ve given up a lot in your life, and I know how social you’ve always been. You had a crowd of friends around you all the time, and now you’re so isolated.”
“I am not isolated!” I protested.
I had to bite my tongue to keep from mentioning my unmentionable friend, who I talk to almost every day. But no longer on weekends, apparently, I thought with some annoyance.
“Well, I just want you to have a chance to make some friends, you need that. Interacting with the people you hire to care for the Bannerman estate isn’t the same thing.”
I almost laughed out loud at that. Nate, a person I hired to care for the estate, is part of this group she’s so gung-ho about. So technically, that ought to make the group invalid.
I didn’t think she’d accept that logic as a reason to avoid game night from now on, though. Instead, she’d borderline insult me and suggest I become a lawyer since I’m so good at twisting truth and arguing technicalities. We’ve had this conversation before.
“Okay Mom,” I said. I was not going to win this one, I couldn’t put all my cards on the table. “I’m fine though, so please. Do not worry, and please do not pressure me. Friends either happen or they don’t, you can’t force it, or you end up with the wrong friends.”
“Alright, fine,” said Mom, holding up her hands. “I just want what’s best for you.”
“I know you do, Mom,” I said, giving her a hug. “I’m going to bed, I’m really tired. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I got ready for bed as quietly as possible so I wouldn’t wake Doreen, and slid under the cold sheets. Brrr! Maybe I ought to switch to warm pajamas, instead of a tank top and yoga pants as my sleepwear of choice.
I lay there thinking about game night at the coffee shop. Honestly, if I clicked with the people there like I do with Miles, I think I would’ve enjoyed it. But I didn’t really know them, and I don’t really like games, and Jenny was the only one I sort of clicked with, and that still wasn’t on the same level as Miles.
In spite of spending quality time with Dad, I was glad the weekend was over. I missed hanging out with Miles. My last thought as I fell asleep was how much I looked forward to seeing him in the morning.
Chapter 12
Monday morning on the way to the castle, I made my usual phone call to Polly.
“Hi Polly,” I said.
“Oh hello, Anika dear.”
“How are you doing?”
“Hanging in there,” said Polly. “No change, I’m sad to say. We’re not giving up hope, though.”
“Of course not,” I said.
“How is the estate, dear?”
“Great! Right now, it’s covered in snow. The grounds are in great shape for spring though, and the inside of the house sparkles.”
“And how about the mystery, dear? How is that going?”
“It’s going. I haven’t found anything conclusive yet, but we... I’m making progress.”
“Well, wonderful dear. Oh... visiting hours have begun, I’ll let you go for now.”
“Talk to you tomorrow,” I said.
I really felt for Polly. How disappointing, that after months of being in a coma, there was no improvement. I could only imagine how hard that was for her.
I ran up the steps of the castle, looking forward to the warmth I would find inside.
“We’re searching the house again today!” I said, as I walked in the door, and Trixie tore past me and ran outside to hang with Chip in the snow-covered garden. The wind wasn’t howling, and the sun was shining, making the day much more pleasant than it was on Friday.
“Okay, where do you want to start?” Miles asked.
“There you are, you usually meet me at the door. I was wondering where you were! I thought maybe you got your days confused, and were still boycotting me.”
“No, I’m not boycotting you today,” he smiled. “So, where to start?”
“Do you have an attic? We’ve searched the storage areas on the first floor. Instead of moving to more rooms on the second, let’s start over from the top this time.”
“Follow me,” Miles said.
Three staircases later and approaching the fourth, I gave him a sideways glance.
“Miles and miles to go before we sleep, huh?”
“Very clever,” said Miles, “Never heard that one before.”
He was obviously teasing. Still, I slapped at his shoulder unsuccessfully.
“Nice try!” Miles smiled. “Being semi-transparent may be a good thing after all, seeing as you’re so violently inclined.”
That earned him another attempted whack before we reached the end of the fourth set of stairs, and started up another. At the top was the door to the attic. It swung open with a wave of Miles’ hand, and we stepped inside.
“What an awesome place,” I said. “This is an Antique Roadshow dream come true!”
It was truly a treasure trove of history. Dust motes sparkled in the rays of soft light th
at shone through the small windows that dotted the walls of the room. A Singer treadle machine stood against one wall, a dress maker’s dummy wearing an unfinished dress, beside it. Multiple steamer trunks were scattered about the room, intermixed with furniture, lamps, paintings, rolled up rugs, vases and small statues, a harp... It was overwhelming, there was such a conglomeration of items.
And dust.
Of course Miles took care of that part, straightaway.
“Show off,” I said.
He just grinned, then looked around.
“I haven’t been up here in a very, very long time. I forgot what it was like.”
We walked around, looking at the contents. It was hard to know where to begin.
“What a gorgeous old wardrobe,” I said, admiring the detailed carving on the huge piece of furniture in the center of the attic. “The mirror is perfect, it doesn’t warp the reflection at all. Only the edges have lost a little bit of their silvering.”
I continued to study the design carved in the beautiful grain of the wood.
“That was my parents’, I think,” said Miles reflectively. “It was a long time ago, but I seem to remember it being theirs.”
“Then let’s start here,” I said, opening the single door on the front left side of the wardrobe.
I searched through the items that filled the interior, while Miles searched the drawers.
“I found something,” Miles said suddenly.
I leaned back and looked. It was a set of old pistols like I remembered seeing in western movies.
“These were mine,” he said softly. His eyes had a far-away look. “And this, was Delevan’s. The one he had with him that day.”
Miles lifted a small gun with an odd looking barrel from the open drawer in front of him.
“Here,” he said, after making sure the guns weren’t loaded. “Take these for me, please…”
I reached out and took Miles’ gun belt and Delevan’s odd little gun, and Miles returned to his search of the drawer.
“Nothing there…” he said, searching another.
A thorough search of the entire wardrobe revealed nothing more. No bullet casings, no letters, no documents, no written information of any kind. No one would guess those were the guns Miles and Delevan had in the clearing that day, just by looking at them.
“I don’t suppose that helps the cause much,” said Miles.
“At the moment, perhaps not. That could change though, we might find something else that will make them useful.”
“I used to be a pretty good shot,” Miles said, taking back the gun belt and spinning one of the revolvers on his finger. “Of course I never did that, I’ve only ever seen it done in movies.”
“How about Delevan? Did you target practice together?” I asked.
“We did. There was always a competition between us over who was the better shot. We had business dealings in the west you know, and it paid to be prepared. I never did run into trouble, but if I didn’t have these, I would have.”
“So who was the better marksman, you or Delevan?”
A smile flickered across Miles’ face.
“I was. But Delevan was stiff competition.”
He thought some more, as he turned the pistol in his hands.
“Three against two… not including the guy that ambushed us. Delevan only had this derringer, and it’s got such a short barrel, it isn’t very accurate. Dan and his men weren’t very good shots. It would have been over a lot faster, if they were.”
“I’ve wondered… why did you only shoot to disarm Dan that day?”
“I believe in defending oneself, but given the chance, I’d prefer to disarm rather than shoot to kill. I didn’t have that chance when Dan’s men first fired at us, and neither did Delevan. With Dan, I did. I was shaking with pain and had to take time to steady my arm to shoot straight, anyway. Might as well take Dan’s gun out of the equation, rather than kill him.”
It was so unfair what happened to Miles. It was just wrong on so many levels.
Miles sighed, and put the guns back in the drawer.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to think about something else.”
I said the first thing that popped into my mind.
“Any idea where the photo albums would be?”
“They could be in this trunk by the wall, it was my Mother’s,” Miles said.
“Bingo, look at all of these…” inside were several albums from the various generations of Bannermans. I found them fascinating, but they didn’t contain anything helpful to the cause.
I sat looking at a page covered with pictures of Miles and his family.
“Well, weren’t you cute when you were little,” I said. He really was adorable. I felt sad though, looking at that little boy, and knowing what happened to him later.
“I hope you know that all boys under the age of six dressed that way at the time,” said Miles.
I laughed.
“Yes, I do know that. I can’t imagine why they made boys wear dresses, but I know they did. I wasn’t making fun, you really were cute.”
In every photo of Miles, he was smiling, like he did in the portrait. I turned several pages and found one that must have been taken when he was nineteen or twenty, he looked just like he does now. Well, other than the semi-transparent-ness.
“How old were you in this photo, nineteen or twenty?” I asked, holding up the book and pointing at the photo in question.
“I was nineteen,” Miles said. “I didn’t quite make it to twenty.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” I said. Going by the years 1850-1870 on his portrait, I assumed he was twenty-years-old when he died.
“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he said.
I looked back at the photos of Miles, always smiling. In so many early photos I’d seen, people looked so serious, but not Miles.
“Why is that?” I mused.
“Why is what?”
“Why did other people look so serious in photographs back then?”
Miles sat on the floor beside me.
“If you didn’t hold very still for several very long minutes, the picture wouldn’t come out right. It would be blurry. It’s easier to have a straight face than to hold a smile, so that’s what most people did.”
“You’ve never stopped smiling, have you,” I said. “In spite of everything, you’ve kept your sense of humor.”
“So have you. You don’t make a big deal of it, but I know it’s hard seeing your little sister so sick, your Dad being out of work for so long, and losing so much. It’s been a big disappointment having to sacrifice college, but you’ve kept your sense of humor, too. You’re pretty amazing, Anika.”
I felt myself blush.
“Yeah, well, nothing I’ve gone through compares to what happened to you,” I said. I looked back at Miles’ picture. “Can I keep this?”
Miles looked at me, and I felt myself start to blush again. Cut that out, self!
“It’s just… when we get the proof we need, you’ll go, you won’t be stuck here anymore. I’d like to have a picture to look at, and remember my old friend.”
“Sure, you can have it,” Miles smiled. “And I won’t be your old friend until I’m at least two-hundred.”
I slipped the photo out of the album, and set it carefully aside.
“Looks like someone made themselves a little nook here,” I said, pointing out a pile of old pillows in a corner, next to a round window looking out on the back gardens.
Miles’ eyes softened as he walked over to look at the spot.
“My sister,” he said. “This must have been her hiding place. She told me she had one, but never where it was.”
He picked up a delicate paper doll and held it in his hand. I stayed silent, hesitant to intrude on his memories.
Suddenly his forehead creased. He looked intently at the paper doll, then held it out.
“Do you see what I see?”
I bit back the desire to
sing a Christmas carol in response. After all, ‘tis the season.
“I think so, those are words. Your sister must have recycled a piece of paper to make her doll,” I said, wondering why it mattered.
“Anika… look again,” he said intensely.
I looked closer, and on the foot of the doll was written the name Sarah.
“A letter?” I said, as understanding began to dawn.
“A letter!” Miles said back, searching for more dolls and paper scraps.
Feverishly, we lay all the bits of paper we could find on a patch of empty floor, and pieced them together.
Thank goodness Cynthia didn’t keep a trash can up here, and no one ever cleaned out her corner! I guess in a house this big, it wouldn’t be hard to have places that were seldom visited. That’s what Polly said, there were still places she’d never been.
All the pieces assembled, we hurriedly read Sarah’s letter.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Bannerman,
I hope this letter finds you well. I was reminded recently of a poem Delevan once wrote, and am moved to share it with you. I hope you will understand.
Down the path and through the hole,
Does the little rabbit go.
Count to three, and through again,
Wonder where the carrots been?
Find the little pile of stones,
Lift it out and take it home.
I know Delevan would like to think of his sister reciting this in one of their favorite play places. I pray that you will understand.
I will write again soon.
With the greatest of sincerity,
Miss Sarah Williams
We each read it over a few times. Miles looked very puzzled.
“Your brother wasn’t very good at poetry, was he,” I finally said. After pausing to consider it some more, I added, “I wonder why she never wrote again… or if she did, what happened to the letter.”
Miles continued to focus on the words, as if fighting to understand or remember.
Finally he shook his head.
“I don’t know, whatever Sarah was trying to tell my parents… it’s a riddle. Delevan never wrote that.”
We stared at the words some more.
“Do you remember any of the places that you liked to play as a kid?” I asked.
Miles Page 17
