Evergreen Falls

by Kimberley Freeman

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with such an awful business,” she said.

  He smiled, that warm smile that sneaked under her defenses. “You are too kind, Flora. How is your brother?”

  “A little better, I believe.”

  “That’s good news.”

  Silence stretched out. “Well,” he said, “I must be on my way.”

  Flora stepped aside as he crank-started his car, then climbed in and drove off. Only then did she turn and head inside where it was warm.

  * * *

  By dinner that evening, word of the tragedy had surely spread to every hotel guest. Rather than causing them to be sober and reflective, it seemed the unhappy event had awoken a party spirit. They ate and drank and danced as though warding off their own mortality. Even the orchestra played with unusual vigor.

  Flora sat close to Tony, but he spent most of the evening turned away from her, talking, offering her little comfort. Sam, however, paid close attention to her and seemed almost eager in his rehashing of every detail.

  “Imagine, Sissy, that’s the same bath I sometimes bathe in.”

  “Don’t, Sam, you’re making my skin crawl.”

  “He went in, filled the tub, just as I would . . . but then—”

  “Please don’t. He must have been so unhappy.”

  “I saw him when they brought him out, all wrapped in towels like an Egyptian mummy. One of his hands was free, though, and dragging on the floor. It was all blue and wrinkled.”

  Flora pushed his shoulder roughly. “I said don’t.”

  “Steady on. No need to get violent with me.” Then his eyes were drawn across the room, and Flora noted with an inward groan that the pretty waitress was back.

  “She’s not for you, Samuel,” she said quietly.

  Sam turned and gave her a bright smile. “You know, I think you’re right.”

  Violet served the guests at the next table, not once looking Sam’s way. Flora watched discreetly. Had they had a tiff? Perhaps nothing had ever passed between them. Perhaps, just once, Sam had been able to control himself.

  As the evening wore on Tony paid her a little more attention. Vincent pined aloud for Eliza and passed around a photograph of her in a swimsuit that left very little to the imagination. Sweetie was up to his usual nonsense, making off-color jokes about the photograph. Cordelia Wright and Lady Powell were head-to-head on the other side of the table, oblivious to everyone but each other. Flora felt a pang, missing her close friend Liberty, who was so far away.

  A bump against the back of her chair startled her, and she looked around in time to see Violet leaning over at an awkward angle at the next table—and Sam rubbing the back of his elbow across her buttocks. A spark of rage ignited inside her. She slapped Sam’s shoulder.

  “Ow. Why so rough this evening, Sissy?”

  “I saw what you just did,” she hissed near his ear.

  “I did nothing!” he protested.

  “You rubbed that girl’s bottom.”

  “Nonsense. I can’t help if the young woman is a little clumsy.”

  “You’re doing it on purpose. Both of you. I’ve a mind to report her to Miss Zander.”

  “Why would you do that? On an imagined caress? Have you such little faith in me, Flora?”

  Flora had less than a little faith in Sam; she had none at all. But he continued to protest his innocence, eyes wide and hands spread, until Flora was forced to back down. She excused herself to go to the powder room.

  On her return, she nearly ran straight into Violet, who was ferrying a pile of dishes back to the kitchen.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am,” Violet said, with a little deferential nod, and kept moving.

  “Wait,” Flora said, grasping her arm and holding her in place. “You’re Violet, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” She had the most unusually colored eyes under her black lashes: somewhere between blue and violet, and Flora found herself wondering if she had been named for the color.

  “I’m Flora. Sam’s sister. You know Sam, don’t you?”

  Violet nodded. “I know both of you. You have been here the whole time I’ve been here. I know many of the guests.”

  “I know what you’re doing.”

  Violet glanced down at Flora’s hand, firm on her upper arm. “What am I doing?”

  Flora dropped her hand. “Flirting with him.”

  “I assure you, ma’am, I’m not—”

  “You both think I’m a fool. But I can see, with my own eyes, that something is passing between you. Some lovey nonsense.”

  Violet took a step back, drew her spine very straight. “With all respect, ma’am, you know nothing about me, and you ought not think to judge me.”

  “I don’t judge you. I’m trying to warn you.”

  Violet turned and stalked back to the kitchen, leaving Flora standing awkwardly between the tables and the powder room.

  Then Tony was there. “Well, that went badly,” he said.

  “Did you hear?”

  “No, I saw. Let them be, Florrie. It’s not worth it.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder. “What a strange day it’s been.”

  “Come and dance, my dear. That will take your mind off the shadows.”

  * * *

  That night, in Sam’s room, Violet sat naked on the end of his bed, laughing about Flora.

  “And she got all puffed up and said, I know what you’re doing . . .”

  “I told you. I told you she’d try to destroy our happiness.”

  “I’m trying to warn you, she said. Warn me! Oh, what a lark. All because you, terrible boy, couldn’t keep your hands off my bottom.”

  “It’s a lovely bottom, Violet. All pale and plump. I want to kiss it all over.”

  She leaned over him, snuggled against his chest. “Warn me,” she said again. “Of what, I wonder? You’re not dangerous, are you, dear?”

  “Not a whit.”

  “Then all will be well.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You’ll see.”

  She hesitated, then said, “Sam, will we really be together?”

  “I know we will. It’s written in our stars.”

  “No, not stars. Not dreams. Real life. Will you stay with me? Will we make a life together? Will you take care of me when I grow old?”

  “Of course,” he said. “You’ll never want for anything.”

  She smiled, then hesitated again before speaking. “My mother can’t work anymore.”

  “She won’t need to. I’ll buy her a house next door to ours.” He slid down and kissed her collarbone, stirring her desire from the embers. “I’ll give you whatever you want, because you’ve made me so happy.”

  “Do you promise me?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die,” he said against her lips. “Now kiss me, or I’ll think you don’t love me.”

  She offered her mouth to him, with all the passion she felt in her heart.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sam wandered into the dining room for breakfast just as Violet was clearing away the last of the crockery from the empty tables. Aware that Hansel was lurking nearby, she forced a polite smile and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Honeychurch-Black, but breakfast service is finished. Can I have something sent to your room?”

  Sam glanced around, then leaned in and said, “Meet me at Lovers Cave as soon as you’re free.” Then he straightened his back, nodded at Hansel, and headed back out, closing the dining room door behind him.

  “What did he say to you?” Hansel said, in his clipped German accent. “Does he want something brought up?”

  “No. No, he said . . . he’s not hungry.”

  Hansel looked puzzled, but Violet ignored him, taking a last tray of plates to the kitchen. The morning’s flying fox had just arrived, and the back door was open so Cook and the kitchen hands could bring in the crates. This was the first time Violet had seen such an operation in a hotel kitchen. Certainly, she had seen dumb waiters, large enough for a tray or tw
o of food, that went between floors. But this was another operation altogether. The cables were anchored on points all the way down the rocky outcrops into the valley of farmland below. Every morning, one of the farm managers would fill several crates with fresh produce: cuts of meat, freshly picked fruit, bottles of milk, and sacks of vegetables. Then one by one, with a system of pulleys, the crates would be hauled up inside a metal box to the top of the escarpment. Miss Zander called it the next best thing to living beside the farms. The process cut out hours of winding trips by car or sulky every day. Violet loitered while the boxes were opened, and then swiped a couple of apples and hid them up the leg of her bloomers before grabbing her coat and making her way out of the hotel and down to the bush track.

  It was a bright, clear morning, mild in the sunlight but cold in the shadows under the rocky overhangs and trailing ferns. Birds and lizards crackled in the dry, fallen leaves, and insects buzzed and cricked. At length, she found her way through the gap to Lovers Cave, where he was waiting inside. He’d brought a blanket—she recognized it as a hotel bedspread—and had his tray of opium-smoking equipment beside him. But he wasn’t smoking, and he wasn’t in his glazed torpor. He sat with his knees tucked under his chin, his arms wrapped around himself, in thoughtful contemplation.

  “Hello,” she said.

  He unwound himself. “Sit down. Do you like it?”

  “It’s very nice,” she said. “If a little cold. How did you get the bedspread here without somebody stopping you?”

  He shrugged. “People usually let me do what I want.”

  She pulled out the apples and gave him one, and he bit into it eagerly. She sat down on the bedspread and leaned into him.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  “It’s only been a few hours.”

  “I miss you every moment I’m away from you. It’s as though my skin craves your skin.” He ran his hand over her arm, but the gesture was dulled by the heavy weight of her coat. They sat quietly a few minutes, finishing their apples. Then he went to the entrance of the cave and flung the core as hard as he could. It arced out over the ledge, then rolled and thudded away. She joined him and threw her apple core, too, but she wasn’t as strong as he was, so hers didn’t make it to the valley three hundred feet below; instead, it landed on the bush track in front of them. She giggled. He encircled her waist with his arms and drew her back against his chest, his hot breath in her ear. “Come and lie down,” he said.

  She hoped he didn’t want to make love; a cold cave in broad daylight was not to her taste. But it seemed he really did simply want to lie down, and they lay with limbs entwined listening to the quiet forest and the soft wind.

  “I’ve been coming down here a lot,” he said suddenly. “I’m afraid to go back to my room.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ever since that man died up there . . .”

  “Are you superstitious?”

  “Not at all. It’s just . . . there’s a bad feeling up there now.”

  “What kind of bad feeling?” Her fingers reached for his cheek and stroked it gently.

  He closed his eyes but didn’t answer.

  “It will pass, my love,” she said.

  “Have you ever seen a dead body?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He opened his eyes and spoke urgently. “I saw the dead man’s hand. It didn’t seem real. It seemed like a puppet’s and somebody had forgotten to pull the strings. I keep thinking about it.” He tapped his temple. “I don’t want to go into the bathroom where he died. I’ve been using the one at the other end of the hall.”

  “You could ask Miss Zander to move you.”

  “Yes, but . . . I don’t want to be away from it either. It’s as though . . . if I turn my back, something bad will happen.”

  Violet struggled to understand. He was making little sense—perhaps it was the opium—so she didn’t argue with him. “You’ve nothing to worry about, Sam.”

  He closed his eyes again and snuggled against her breasts. “If I could just lie here, with your hands in my hair . . . ah, that’s it. That makes the bad feelings go away.” He grew quiet, his breathing rhythmic. Despite the cold and the lumpy ground, Violet felt herself drifting off. The constant nights of interrupted sleep were taking an unforgiving toll. Some days, while in the middle of some mundane task, a flash of memory would come to her, and she would be unable to say for certain whether it was a real memory or a shred of a dream. Her whole mind was filled with Sam, with his skin and his mouth and his pale arms.

  She woke with a start sometime later. Sam lay on his side, smoking his pipe, watching her. The cave smelled of sweet smoke.

  “You looked so peaceful,” he said.

  “I’m tired all the time, Sam.”

  He frowned. “Why is that?”

  She sighed. It was too much to expect him to know what a day of physical labor was like, let alone five or six days a week of it. “Because I only sleep a little every night. I come to you at one, then go back to my own room before dawn and try to catch a few hours before work.”

  “Are you saying you don’t want to come to me at night?” His face hardened, an expression she hadn’t seen before.

  “Of course I want to come. I live for it. But perhaps not every night. Perhaps every second night.”

  “So, my spell is wearing off already?”

  “No, Sam. Don’t be upset. I work. I work hard, all day. I can’t sleep when I want to like you can.”

  He continued to draw on his pipe, his eyes fluttering closed. “I knew it couldn’t last,” he said. “It never does.”

  Violet’s heart lurched. “Don’t say that! I still love you as much as I ever did. Forget I mentioned it. I will be there for you tonight.”

  “Reluctantly, no doubt.”

  “No. Eagerly. Wanting you. As I always do.”

  He waved her away. “Don’t bother.”

  Violet searched her mind for something to say that would reassure him, but he was slipping away into his private oblivion, so instead she simply stayed close, laying his head in her lap and stroking his hair while he floated away on a river of bliss.

  * * *

  Violet became desperate to show Sam that she loved him. She thought of writing him a letter, but she wasn’t as good with words as he was, and besides, she couldn’t get in and out of his room to put it under his pillow. He could do it because he was rich. As he said, people let him do what he wanted. If Violet was found in possession of a love letter for one of the guests . . .

  No, she needed to find another way, to do something that showed her love was passionate and undying. The idea came to her in a flash: the love heart in the rock at Lovers Cave. Imagine, somebody had to carve this with a hammer and chisel, to prove his love to his girl. Well, she could do the same, to prove her love to her man.

  Violet hadn’t seen Clive much of late. It had become too cold for dances in the drafty, unheated house; and he had finished repairs on the windows and was ensconced in his workshop over on the eastern side of the back fence most days. She had seen him once or twice in the staff dining room, but her enforced bed rest and then several days straight of breakfast shifts had meant they didn’t often cross paths there anymore. She presumed, though, that he would still be glad to see her. Perhaps glad enough to loan her a hammer and chisel for a few hours.

  Between shifts the following day, she left through the back kitchen door and followed the path beside the low stone columns that lined the escarpment. On the tennis court, two men and two women were engaged in a game of doubles, laughing and teasing each other, their voices carrying away on the wind and the sunshine. Christmas in June was only ten days away, and then most of the guests would head back down the mountain. The tennis net would come down and the court would be closed, the remaining guests would be relocated into the west wing—Sam’s wing—and the orchestra sent home. The dining room dividers would be slid into place, and staff would pack their bags. Violet had gleaned all this
from overheard conversations in the staff dining room, or in directives from Miss Zander. When Myrtle left, so would most of the other waitstaff. Only Hansel and Violet would be left. Alexandria, Miss Zander’s elegant deputy, was heading home for the holidays. Most of the staff who were wintering over were men, and they occupied the bottom of the east wing. It would be quiet. She would have to work hard, but there would be a special freedom that came with the quiet: she would have no wait for the bathroom and privacy in her bedroom, and she could more easily sneak out to Sam’s room.

  The workshop door was open, but Violet still knocked. Clive, who had his back to her and was hunched over something on his workbench, turned and smiled.

  “Violet! What a lovely surprise.”

  “I haven’t seen you much lately. I’ve been on breakfasts.” She glanced around the dim space: a wall of tools; another wall with a rack that hung with overalls, waterproof gear, fishing equipment, buckets, mops, and brooms; racks full of bits and pieces of metal and wood.

  He grimaced. “I’ve been up and down the valley, perched in precarious spots, refitting all the flying-fox anchors. Good thing I’m not afraid of heights, eh?”

  She sidled up next to him, peering over his shoulder. In front of him was a collection of brackets and screws. “What’s that?”

  “Brackets for curtain rods. They need repainting. I was supposed to have this done by the end of May. I’m a little behind.”

  “Miss Zander works you too hard.”

  “I’m glad to have a job somewhere nice. She’s very kind to me. There will be time to catch up over winter, when there are fewer guests breaking things.” He smiled.

  “Can I borrow a hammer and a chisel?”

  He blinked, his smile fading. “Ah . . . why?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “You’re being mysterious.”

  “Not on purpose.”

  He put his tools down and turned to face her fully. “If I loan you a hammer and a chisel, will you promise not to break anything that I have to come to fix later?”

  “Oh, I absolutely promise. I’ll bring them back same time tomorrow. Before, if I can.”