AUTUMN LADY
by
AnneMarie Dapp
TORRID BOOKS
www.torridbooks.com
Published by
TORRID BOOKS
www.torridbooks.com
An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC
Copyright © 2017 by AnneMarie Dapp
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-68299-234-0
Credits
Cover Artist: Kelly Martin
Editor: Dennis Hays
Printed in the United States of America
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank my friends and family for their support during the writing of this novel. My husband, Dale, and our children, Eric and Lindsay, were true inspirations.
I am forever grateful for my best friends, Darci and Maria. Your encouragement and feedback was priceless.
Thank you, Steven and David Rockwell, for your belief in your little sister.
I’d also like to give a huge shout-out to Torrid Books and their amazing staff. There were so many wonderful people that helped me along the way. Your names could easily fill an entire book.
Lastly, I want to thank our Heavenly Father for his guidance and strength, during this beautiful journey.
~ AnneMarie Dapp
Dedication
For Grandmom John
BOOK ONE
Chapter 1
Her high heels clicked over the marble floor. A pleated skirt brushed against her long legs. She stopped in front of the black door, hands trembling. Taking a deep breath, she reluctantly turned the cold doorknob. It opened to a well-lit penthouse. An impressive view of downtown San Francisco behind a walnut desk. Floor to ceiling windows revealed a thick fog moving between shimmering skyscrapers. Seagulls floated by like lost souls in the mist. A portly man quickly stood up from his leather chair, hands outstretched, eager to please.
“It’s been quite a while, Mary.”
“Yes. It’s been a long time,” she answered numbly. It took some effort to force a smile on her face. She reached out and shook her lawyer’s hand. It was soft and plump.
“Please have a seat. Something to drink? A coffee? Soda?”
“That’s very kind. No. I’m fine.”
“Well, I’m sure you’re anxious to get down to business. I imagine you’re exhausted after all of the funeral arrangements.” He smiled gently.
“I’ve been trying to take it day by day.”
The lawyer pulled out the drawer next to his desk. He opened a large manila folder, pulling his glasses away from his face, examining the paperwork.
“The details regarding the estate are in these documents. I’m sure it’s no surprise…your grandmother, Helen, left everything to you.”
Mary pushed her dark curls behind her ears. A nervous habit. She let out a deep sigh. Mom should be in this chair. Not me. She strained not to give in to the tears welling behind her eyes.
“Mary, did you hear what I said?”
The young woman looked up startled. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”
“Of course. I was just saying that your grandmother made sure to include her housekeeper and gardener in the will. Their salaries have been taken care of for the remainder of their service to the estate. They will be paid monthly from the bank account.”
Mary smiled at the news. Joseph and Margaret had been taking care of the home for decades. It was a relief to know they would continue working for her. They were the closest thing to a family she had anymore.
“That’s great. I’m thrilled they’ll be staying on.”
“Very good. I’m glad that works for you.”
Over the next couple hours, she signed the seemingly endless copies of paperwork. When she left the office, the young woman was officially a homeowner. This was not how she imagined her life playing out.
She changed out of her pumps, into a pair of tennis shoes from her backpack, and climbed onto her bright green Vespa. After she secured her helmet, she turned on the engine and zipped through the downtown Financial District. The cold air gave her a shock. She made her way down Van Ness Avenue, passing Saint Brigid Cathedral along the way. An old memory surfaced, her grandmother leading her down a long aisle. Shiny Mary Janes squeaked as she walked. She looked up at Father Peter offering Communion. God bless you, child, in his thick Irish accent. The elderly priest gently making the sign of the cross over her forehead. The scent of candles was comforting. She gazed upwards in anticipation. Soon they would be going to Sunday Brunch. She’d have a grilled cheese and French fries. That was her favorite. There would be ice cream afterwards. The light turned red as her Vespa eased to a stop. A taxi driver cursed at a bike messenger cutting out in front. The boy peddled by grinning. The light turned green and she made her way down toward Pacific Heights. After finding her turnoff, she took a left and continued her way onto the sidewalk. She shifted to neutral and searched for her keys in her backpack. Finding them, she walked down to the wrought iron gate. Sharp, metal points rose towards the heavens. The lock clicked and the gate opened with a loud groan. She brought her bike through and locked the door behind her. Once inside, the sound of falling water eased her mind. An impressive fountain stood at the center of the lush lawn. Two porcelain angels embraced as water rolled down their snowy wings. Pansies were planted at the base. The purple and orange petals matched the rich paint of the old Victorian. She walked the bike down the cobblestones, following the curve of the manicured lawn. The ancient estate waited. Rose bushes lined the walkway. Shaded behind a large pink tree rose, an elderly man was busy pruning. He looked up for a moment from his work as a smile spread over his wrinkled face.
“Mary…”
She smiled at the gardener. “Joseph, I hope you’re not working too hard.”
“This work is good for an old man like me. Keeps me out of trouble, the misses says.” His kind eyes shone through the fog.
Mary smiled.
She walked toward the old home lost in thought, eventually finding herself at the bottom steps. Two regal lions rested on each side of the banister. The old Victorian had always left her breathless. The estate had been built in the 1870s. Her great-grandfather had seen to every detail of the spectacular home— a wedding present to his wife, Great Grandmother Mara. Stained glass windows framed the double doors. The glass was flecked with a mixture of deep orange, purple, and yellow. Looking through the oval windows offered a colorful view of the parlor. A figure eclipsed the glass and made her flinch. The large bronze doors opened. The smell of cinnamon and warm baked bread greeted her. An elderly woman beamed as she held out her plump arms.
“Mary, dear girl, what a pleasure. Come in.” The matronly woman wrapped her arms around her like a soft blanket. The scent of rose petals and fresh linen.
“Margaret, I’m so happy you’re staying on. I couldn’t imagine this place without you.”
“Ah, Mary. We wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else. Now, my poor dear, you look exhausted. Why don’t yah come in an’ have a cup of
tea and some scones. You look thin as a bean pole, my poor child.”
Mary smiled at the housekeeper. She accepted her offer happily. Her eyes searched the grand room. The home never failed to fill her with a sense of awe. Two dramatic staircases of polished mahogany spiraled on each side of the parlor, leading to the second story. The upstairs featured richly decorated bedrooms, sitting areas, and baths. Each room contained a collection of vintage antiques acquired over many decades. On sunny days, the stained glass windows illuminated the parlor, transforming the room into a colorful lightshow. The back wall displayed a large oil painting. The artwork had been completed the year the house was built, 1873. The sun’s rays managed to penetrate the fog belt outside the windows. A colorful beam of light caressed the face of the portrait subject.
A young woman stood beneath the flowing branches of an old oak tree—its leaves reflecting the vibrant autumn colors of the stained glass. Strawberry blonde curls flowed from beneath a cheery blue bonnet, her hair the color of smoking cinders. Flecks of gold appeared to have been mixed into the paint. The brushstrokes reminded Mary of paintings created by Impressionist artists in the 19th century. The composition seemed to be moving with an electrical rhythm, broken up by dabs of color; but you could still make out the minute details, like the long lashes framing soft blue eyes. A rosy blush shone on her fair skin. Delicate pursed lips lifted slightly in the corners as if she found the moment amusing. A blue satin gown was cinched tightly around the tiny waist and flowed softly against the autumn colored leaves. Her gloved hands held the reins of the petite sorrel mare standing at her side. The horse’s crimson mane shone brilliantly in the afternoon light as she eyed her mistress with affection.
Mary studied the image with fascination. Her musings were suddenly interrupted by the sound of Margaret’s voice calling her from the kitchen. “The tea’s ready if you’d like some, dear.”
She moved away from the portrait, toward the kitchen. Not much had changed since she was a child. The room was still the same collection of old teakettles, cups and vintage wallpaper. An old-fashioned stove was in the corner. The antique oak table was set for two. A crystal vase filled with fresh roses rested on a flowered tablecloth.
Fog moved past the windows, darkening the room. Margaret poured tea into Mary’s cup. Little shamrocks decorated the fine china. Margaret placed a blueberry scone on a matching pastry plate.
This warm kitchen brought back so many memories. She recalled her grandmother busy stirring a cocoa while sugar cookies baked in the oven. The scent of cinnamon hung in the air. Rain pattered gently against the window in a room which was always a sanctuary.
“Well now, child, it’s so good to have you back. It’s been quite lonesome without your grandmother in the house. We miss her so. I know she’s watching after you from heaven, just like your dear mother.”
Mary looked up, her large brown eyes glistening with tears. “Thank you, Margaret. Yes, I definitely feel close to them here. I’ll be bringing my things at the end of the week, but I brought an overnight bag with me today. I just don’t have the energy to go back to my apartment tonight.”
“Well, I’m so happy you’re staying. I’ve readied your old room, though I was thinking…you might…consider…your grandmother’s room. It’s the biggest in the house and has a wonderful view of the bridge. I know she would have been happy for you to use it for your own.”
Mary looked up in surprise. It pained her to imagine staying in her grandmother’s bedroom. She would have to think about it. She looked down into her teacup and felt lost. “I might take a look at the art studio tonight. It’s been a while.”
Margaret smiled understandingly. “I thought you might.” She nodded. You and your grandmother spent a lot of time in there.”
The fog touched the kitchen windows as the sun began to set in the west. Mary stifled a yawn and stretched. “The day wore me out more than I realized. I think I might get settled and unpack my clothes.”
“That sounds smart, dear. There’s some dinner warming in the oven. Joseph and I will be down in our cottage in a bit. Give us a ring if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Margaret. It…really is good to be home.” She smiled.
Mary leaned over and gave her a quick hug. She breathed in the scent of rose petals. She lifted her overnight bag over her shoulder and moved toward the staircase closest to the kitchen.
Mary climbed the spiraling stairs. Framed photographs lined the walls. Some were as old as the house itself. Each step captured another year, another decade. Precious memories captured in gilded frames. As she reached the top step, her eyes were drawn to a small photograph, Mary and her mother enjoying an afternoon at Pier 39, their arms wrapped around one another as they smiled for the camera. Sea lions slept peacefully in the sun, basking behind them on wooden docks. So many precious moments slip by, lost forever. What she wouldn’t give to have her mother’s arms around her now, to hear her laugh. She would even welcome the old arguments. They’d had some big ones over the years. She smiled sadly. Anything would be better than feeling her absence—that cold silence. The desire to see her mother’s face was overwhelming. She pushed through the moment of pain, trying her best to endure it. The waves of grief were relentless. She took a deep breath and looked over the stair rail. She noticed the large chandelier above the parlor. A breeze blew past her face and the crystals jingled like soft laughter.
She made her way down the dark hallway, past framed oil paintings dating back to 1870. The largest canvas displayed the Embarcadero Train Station. Several horse drawn carriages waited the arrival of passengers. The frames matched the dark mahogany doors, which opened to bedrooms and baths. The rooms were closed to trap in the heat. The last door at the end of the hall led to a bedroom. Turning the crystal knob, she made her way inside the cold room. Everything was just as she’d left it. Mementos from her childhood—stuffed animals, porcelain dolls, and Breyer horses arranged neatly along the walls. She walked over to the cherry wood bookshelf and looked at her old novels, Black Beauty, Nancy Drew, The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe.
She smiled as she held Black Beauty. The pages were worn, the corners bent. Raindrops pattered softly against the bedroom window. She walked over and lifted the glass a few inches, inhaling the crisp, clean air, a partial view of the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. A thick blanket of fog obscured it. She turned away, her eyes drifting toward the wardrobe in the corner of the room. The cherry wood antique was recently polished. The furniture was as old as the home. She marveled at how Margaret maintained the house so beautifully. Mary often asked her to take it easy and she always laughed and echoed her husband’s words, Working keeps me healthy and out of trouble. Mary opened the wardrobe and the wood creaked on its hinges. The aroma of Old English and mothballs filled the air. She sorted through her tote bag and hung her clothes for the next day.
Something caught her eye on the top shelf, an old music box. She reached for it. A porcelain figure stood with her arms outstretched, ready to dance, her right foot peeking out from beneath a blue ball gown. Mary turned the golden key in the back. Music chimed as the Victorian lady twirled in a graceful circle.
Casey would waltz with a strawberry blond
And the band played on.
He'd glide 'cross the floor with the girl he adored
And the band played on.
But his brain was so loaded it nearly exploded,
The poor girl would shake with alarm.
He'd ne'er leave the girl with the strawberry curls
And the band played on.
She smiled as the notes slowly came to an end. The song had been her grandmother’s favorite. She carried the music box and placed it at the top of the nightstand.
Darkness drifted into the room. She switched on the lamp next to the bed, an old Tiffany with bright pink roses. The soft light was comforting. She was inclined to climb into bed and read one of her old books, perhaps Black Beauty, for old time’s sake, but resisted the urge
. Mary quickly undressed, slipping on a comfortable pair of pajamas and slippers, and headed out of the bedroom down the hall, passing the collection of vintage paintings. The wind shook the trees surrounding the house. Branches raked the mansion’s walls. The hall was dark. She flipped an overhead switch. Her slippers padded down the marble floors until she found herself standing in front of the old art studio. A flood of memories surfaced as she entered the room.
Relax your grip, Mary. Her grandmother gently placed her wrinkled hand over hers. Long, sweeping strokes. No worries. There are no mistakes in art. Remember? She smiled. It all comes from here, she pointed to the child’s heart. Draw what you feel.
Mary studied the teddy bear sitting on the table. She looked at the soft, cinnamon fur and took a deep breath, biting down onto her bottom lip in concentration. Slowly her pencil moved across the page. Before she knew it, the stuffed animal’s likeness appeared on paper. A smile lit up her face. It was just like a magic trick.
There you see! You have the gift. You’re an artist. Her grandmother grinned proudly. Mary smiled back. She looked up, her heart filled with wonder.
She fumbled for the light switch until the shadows were banished to the corners of the room.
The old studio had stayed pretty much the same. A large bay window was at the back of the spacious room. She opened the curtains and was greeted by fog encased city lights. The winds howled and branches swayed as the evening’s storm picked up energy.
Her eyes wandered over the paintings on the walls. A collection of oil and acrylic canvases created over the years. The back window set up two easels. She noticed the one closest to her held an unfinished painting. Mary peered down at the long, sweeping brushstrokes. A partially completed face gazed back. Large blue eyes peered under thick lashes. She would have known those eyes anywhere. It was a portrait of her Great Grandmother, Mara. Mary knew the artist at once. It was obviously her Grandmother Helen’s work. She recognized the delicate brushstrokes at a glance. When did she start this painting? She always shared her art projects with her. Why not this time?
Autumn Lady Page 1