The road bent to the left and ended in the woods, turning into a smooth drive guarded on both sides by signs—Private Road, Keep Out. Another hundred yards in, pines gave way to sycamore trees lined up on both sides to present the house. She pulled around the vacant circle drive and got out to stretch, finger-combing her windblown hair.
The house rose as a broad, bland prospect on the side that faced away from the lake. Steps mounted to a massive door, once always unlocked, now locked. Regina banged the heavy brass knocker without expecting an answer. Alice had never driven. Mary probably had taken her to the hospital. Regina didn’t have a key, having never lived in this house.
Below her stretched the open lawn and beyond it, Blue Lake. It glimmered opalescent in the last afternoon sun, a living, breathing thing, serene with a light surface ripple from the breeze. A sheen slid from east to west, a slow current from the creek that fed the lake and drained over a dam on the other side. Its beauty never failed to calm her, but as she absorbed its breadth and the details of its unspoiled wooded edges, Al’s words echoed in her mind. Dangerous. Mysterious. And scary.
Never to Regina. The sight of Blue Lake always filled her with light. But more dark words came back to her, unwelcome. About a little girl getting drowned. Police. A suspect. The very idea shocked her. She had never heard of such a thing, but then she had never heard anything but hush, don’t talk about it. Could there be any grain of truth to what he’d said? Had there been so much as a suspicion?
Uneasy now, Regina wandered toward a walled rose garden on the far side of the house. She stopped at the gate, and a soft Oh escaped her. The garden lay in ruins, choked by weeds, the stone paths heaving with runaway grass. Dead canes marked the once-orderly rows of the beds. A few hardy survivors had surged to the size of ungainly shrubs.
The garden touched off a rush of memories. Of tagging after Papa as he clipped and pruned and sprayed, always deploring the state of the garden, which seemed grand and magical to her. Mary wanted to talk about what to do with the house as if he were already gone. Regina ran her fingers through her hair, tugged a handful. What was there to discuss while their father still lived? And the house surely would be Alice Hannon’s after that.
She walked back around to her car and appraised the house with fresh eyes after three years’ absence. It looked worn, smaller, a big old red brick house that had seen better days, but she felt the pulse of an old love and longing for what should have been her home. Where she should have been happy to return and sure of welcome.
With the sound of wheels on gravel, Mary’s Impala rolled up past the MG and stopped directly in front of the doorsteps. Stomach fluttering, Regina waited while the two women got out of the car. Mary appeared first, dark-haired like her father. Never beautiful, indifferent to her clothing, hair blunt-cut. Sun broke out on her face when she saw Regina.
Mary came around the car, gave Regina a little wave and smile, and opened the door to help her mother out. Alice—everyone, even grandchildren, referred to her as Alice—stepped out on a sleek three-inch heel and laid a slender hand in Mary’s. Her husband had always helped her out of cars. Or her sons. Or any man in sight. Regina had never seen Alice alight from a car unassisted.
Only when Alice was out of the car and on her feet, did Mary exclaim, “Ree!” And to Alice, “Look, Mama, it’s Ree.”
Regina took a couple of shy steps forward, and Mary enveloped her in a hug so warm and familiar that Regina melted into it as though her body knew better than she how to respond. Close up, she could see fresh streaks of gray in Mary’s hair. The oldest of the Hannon children, Mary was twenty-three years older than her late-arriving youngest sister.
“Look who’s here!” Alice lifted delicate hands ringed with diamonds that sparkled in the sun. Regina’s body knew what to do with Alice too. She touched her mother’s forearm and shoulder and leaned forward so their cheeks brushed, Alice’s offering no more resistance than the finest wisp of silk curtain. She smelled ever so faintly of the Chanel No. 5 she had always worn. As they drew apart, Alice held Regina’s wrists in a fragile grip, then released her with a gentle squeeze. The gesture charmed Regina to her core.
Alice said, “Look how lovely she is!” She turned to Mary. “Isn’t she a perfect young beauty?”
Everything about Alice was beautiful, as usual, utterly undimmed by age. She wore a slim, ivory tailored skirt and a fine silk blouse. Regina stole a look down at her own simple cotton shift, the hem well above her knees in the fashion of the day, and felt brash.
“My heavens.” Alice’s eyes followed Regina’s. “The skirts get shorter and shorter.” She said it lightly, teasingly, and fingertips soft as feathers touched Regina’s cheek. “I’m so glad Regina’s come to help her Mimi.” Mimi. Regina’s childhood name for Mary. “You do so much for me, Mary,” she continued, linking her arm through Mary’s. “I feel awful about it. When are the children coming?”
Regina was momentarily off-balance. Were all the grandchildren coming?
Mary said, “I expect everyone to arrive tomorrow. Frank early. The others later in the day. I don’t know what time.”
Comprehension dawned—Alice meant her other children, Regina’s older brothers and sisters. Regina collected herself. “How is Papa?”
Mary answered. “No change.”
Alice closed her eyes, and a spasm rippled through her lovely face. She shook her head almost imperceptibly and seemed to crumble inside. Her eyes traveled across the surrounding tree line with a wariness of open spaces that Regina had forgotten about. “If you all will excuse me, I’m going to have to go inside and lie down.”
Mary pulled out her keys, and Regina said, “I’ll just get my bag.”
As the two older women disappeared into the house, Regina retreated to her car and fumbled with the latch of the trunk. Alone, she was breathless, heart in her mouth, reduced to the status of a bashful child. She grabbed her bag and trotted up the steps after them.
In the entryway, a graceful curving staircase divided the sitting room from the dining room. Despite lace curtains pulled across the huge windows, natural light poured through on all sides, illuminating heavy old woodwork painted white and contrasting dark, wide-planked walnut floors. Alice climbed the stairs with Mary in attendance, while Regina wandered through the downstairs rooms, feeling, as always, like a visiting stranger. Molded ceilings arched over the dining room table and rosewood chairs, the mahogany side table with hand-carved legs, and the ornate gilt-framed mirror over it.
In the dining room, above a mantel of black Italian marble, a family portrait painted in 1929 showed Alice holding the infant Bebe, Elizabeth Hannon, whose nickname played on the French word for baby. William stood behind her chair with Mary, Frank, and Edith gathered round him. Three-year-old Pace sat on the floor at his mother’s feet. They were the whole family in that idyllic time before the stock market crashed: William, Alice, and their five perfect children. The children.
Beyond the sitting room, Regina pulled up short at the sight of William’s study. The furnishings she knew were gone, except for his vast walnut desk, which had been pushed up against the wall. A hospital bed sat in the middle of the room, gracelessly attended by a straight chair and a pair of side tables. These changes had occurred since Regina’s brief visit three years earlier. Her heart sank.
A vision flashed before her eyes of Mary providing all those services that sick and aging parents needed, of which Regina had only the vaguest idea. Mary would have taken them to doctors’ appointments, gotten their prescriptions filled. Regina didn’t even know who their doctors were, or how often they had to go, or whether they had prescriptions that would need filling. Mary had stayed with their parents after all the other children, including Regina, left. Mary had been living either in the house or in the cottage all these years, tending to them every day.
With growing trepidation, Regina climbed the stairs. Large as the house was, it had only five bedrooms on the second floor. The back half of the hous
e was divided into three rooms, all spacious, west-facing, and sunny, with French doors opening onto a covered balcony that ran across the back of the house and looked out onto the lake. In the distance, hills rolled up to blue mountains.
The master bedroom suite occupied the back corner to her left. Regina glimpsed the sitting area surrounded by bay windows.
As Regina paused by the door, Alice asked again, “When are the children coming?”
The door shut quietly on Mary’s patient answer. “Tomorrow is all I know.”
The rooms had names dating from the early years, the nineteen-twenties, the first decade of William’s and Alice’s marriage and the first flush of wealth and happiness. The middle room, at the top of the stairs, was the nursery that had received each of the Hannon children as babies. Regina peeked in at the dainty white four-poster twin bed, French Provincial style, with gold-painted trim and a pretty eyelet canopy. The bed of any little girl’s dreams.
A smaller child’s bed with rails sat by the window, alongside an old rosewood crib on heavy rockers. At one time, many years later, the little lost girl Eugenie, and Regina herself, would have occupied those beds, but Regina had no recollection of it. In her memory, she had never passed a night of her life on this floor of the house.
The room at the far corner, called the Girls’ Room and almost as large as the master bedroom, had for many years been shared by the two oldest sisters, Mary and Edith. At the door of the Girls’ Room, Regina took in the two four-poster beds, immaculate with homespun counterpanes.
The two bedrooms at the front corners of the house, on either side of the staircase, were smaller—Frank’s room and Pace’s. Regina stood uncertainly in the hallway, an old anger blooming in her chest. Bebe would expect to stay in the nursery. Edith would stay in the Girls’ Room with her husband, if he came, or with Mary, if Mary stayed at the house. Her widowed brother Pace was coming, too, with his new wife Fran, so his room was spoken for. Then it occurred to her that Frank might not stay overnight; he lived only an hour away in Roanoke. After a moment’s hesitation, she headed for his room.
Mary came out of the master bedroom and closed the door. “Oh, Ree, not Frank’s room.”
Regina turned to face her. “Frank doesn’t usually stay overnight, does he?”
“He might. He sometimes does.” Mary clasped her hands in front of her waist. “I’d like to keep it for him.”
Regina couldn’t hold in a flash of heat. “You keep a room for everyone but me?”
“You don’t come, Ree. They do.” Devoid of reproach, her tone was reasoning, almost soothing.
“Fine. I’ll stay in the attic. I always sleep in the attic.”
Mary gave her a look, and Regina blushed. Once, exactly, she had come home since running away at sixteen, and that once, she had stayed in the attic, refusing the cottage she’d grown up in.
“I don’t suppose you’d want to stay in your old room in the cottage.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Never! Never again in my life.”
“Mary.” It was Alice behind them.
Regina flushed, caught between shame and anger.
Alice clutched the lace collar of her robe. “I believe I will have that tea after all. I would get it myself, but I’m awfully tired. If you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not. Let me bring you something to eat too, Mama. You haven’t had anything since lunch. How about a little dinner in your room?”
“Thank you, darling. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“I could get it,” Regina said, but too late—Mary was already on her way down the stairs.
Alice said gently, “You ought not to talk that way to Mary. It hurts her feelings.” And she returned to her bedroom and closed the door.
A lump in her throat, Regina snatched up her bag, dropped it by the door to the attic stairs, and headed for the kitchen, where Mary lit a burner under soup in a saucepan.
“Are you staying here or in the cottage?”
Mary placed a silver tray, set with a wide-brimmed china bowl on a plate and a glass of milk, on the kitchen table. “With Papa gone, I’ll stay here to be with her, as long as…” She bit her lip.
Regina crossed her arms and guessed with a sinking feeling when Mary would move back to the cottage. “You said he wasn’t coming.”
“I said he wasn’t here.” They squared off. “I don’t think he will come, at least not right away. But if Papa dies—Regina, he’s my husband.”
Tension seized her like an electrical storm. “If he comes, I leave.”
Mary opened her mouth to argue, then looked at the spoon in her hand and returned to stirring the soup on the stove.
Regina huffed out a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll want to be here if Papa dies, to see what he can get out of it.”
The sound of the metal spoon scraping the bottom of the pan intensified. Then Mary let out a breath, and though Regina only saw the side of her sister’s face, she could see how Mary’s mouth and eyes drooped. Remorse pulled at her, warring with anger. Sympathy. Frustration.
Regina made her voice level. “Where is he?”
“Mountain Missions. It’s a youth summer Bible camp.”
“All summer?”
“Another week.” Mary met Regina’s eyes. “It’s run by a big church. St. Peter’s Hillsborough, outside of Charlottesville. They have a very active youth program, and they’ve put him in charge of it. It’s a good position.” Chin lifted, a note of modest pride in her voice. Her eyes asked understanding.
Robert Medina, though ordained, had never quite managed to lock in a position as minister to a congregation. He had temporized for years, working missions—some as far away as Alaska—youth camps, and faith-based non-profit ventures, some of which he had funded with his wife’s money.
Regina moved to the window and looked at the lake, awash with silver in the light of early evening. The kitchen, where Alice never came, was the only room without curtains pulled shut over the windows. “What is she afraid of?”
“Alice? She’s afraid of people watching her. From the woods. Looking in the windows. It’s just nervousness. Oh, not always. But you know. It’s just the way she is.”
The water glimmered, reflecting the light of an early moonrise. “Is she afraid of the lake?”
“No.”
She heard Mary behind her, opening a drawer, and turned to watch while her sister filled the soup bowl. “It’s like you’re a servant.”
“It’s a job,” Mary agreed. She lifted the tray. “Do you want soup?” Her voice had regained its calm. “Why don’t you set the table? I’ll be right back.”
Mary surely meant for her to set two places at the table in the kitchen, but Regina went to the dining room and took out two place settings like the one on the tray. She found placemats to protect the polished surface of the table and set out china soup bowls on plates with silver soup spoons and linen napkins. She stopped short of lighting the white tapers in the brass candlesticks, instead setting the chandelier and wall sconces at a soft, rosy level. The windows, dark now, reflected glimmers of crystal and the portrait of the perfect family of five.
Mary reappeared, took in the setting in the dining room without comment, and said, “If you’ll bring the bowls, I’ll serve them out here. No use getting out a serving dish.”
Regina did as she was told and watched while Mary ladled a rich homemade beef barley soup. “She seems absent-minded. She asked you twice about who was coming.”
Mary tilted her head and lifted one corner of her mouth wryly. “Asked me twice since you arrived. It’s not so much her memory. She doesn’t pay attention.”
“Is he conscious at all?”
“Some. But not clear. Confused. You’ll see. Maybe he will have improved by tomorrow.”
The soup was delicious, velvety-thick, with tender mushrooms and diced carrots.
They ate in silence for a few minutes before Regina said, “You wanted to talk a
bout the house.”
“When everyone comes. We need to agree on it.”
“On what? You’re not going to sell it, surely?”
“We need to.”
Regina gaped at her sister. “How can you do that while she’s still alive? It’ll be hers, won’t it?”
“Papa is leaving it to his children.”
“I doubt he envisioned you putting his wife out on the street the minute he was dead.”
“She can’t cope with this house, you know that. You know she’s not strong.” Before Regina could reply, she added, “You never come here, Ree.” She said it mildly, concentrating on her soup.
“Are you doing everything?” Regina suddenly felt guilty, thinking how little she knew of what her sister had been facing.
“We have a cleaner who comes once a week. She takes home laundry and brings it back. I shop and cook. Wash the dishes.”
“Has he been staying down there”—she tipped her head at the study—“since I was last here?”
“No, he recovered enough to go back upstairs. He stayed downstairs if he had a bad spell.”
“I thought maybe you stayed here too, in your old room.”
“Sometimes I do, when Robert’s not here. In any case, I stop in for their meals. I join them if Robert isn’t home.” She repeated, “It’s a job.”
“You can’t pay someone to do this?”
“I have time.”
Mary, who had come of age before the second world war, had never worked. Regina, growing up in the fifties and sixties, was the first Hannon girl to study at a college that was more than a finishing school, and the first to work for a living.
“But why sell the house? You have money.”
Blue Lake Page 4