by Jane Toombs
"But I'll be p-pretty like you?"
Samara nodded.
"Then maybe Mark'll wait till I grow up and marry me," Johanna said.
He certainly seems to hold a fatal attractions for Gregory girls, Samara thought. She smiled at Johanna. "Who knows?" she said. "Maybe by then you'll fall in love with someone else."
"Do you t-think so?" Johanna asked.
"I can practically guarantee it."
"Then I g-guess I'll have to wait and see." Johanna spoke so seriously that Samara was touched, reaching down to hug her.
During breakfast Samara carefully didn't look at either Mark or Uncle Vince. Afterwards, she went up to visit Aunt Adele and Theola.
"It is about time, young lady," Aunt Adele scolded.
"I'm sorry."
"No doubt it is my own fault, Vera got me that contraption for the steps so I would go downstairs more and, of course, I do. Still, one grows accustomed to the peace and quiet of these rooms. Theola's company is often quite enough for me."
"As yours is for me," Theola replied.
"Come closer and sit by me," Aunt Adele ordered and Samara obeyed.
"I believe you're beginning to resemble Delores, especially around the eyes," she said.
"She has the Gregory look," Theola argued. "I see nothing of Delores at all."
"I will admit one would place her as a Gregory," Adele conceded. Focusing on Samara, she asked, "What do you think of our young German?"
Samara felt her face redden. "He's very capable."
Both the old women smiled.
"I told you," Theola said. "She's already taken with him, I told you she would be."
"He is a handsome young man," Aunt Adele said. "I am sure you've noticed that."
Samara nodded.
"A little romance won't hurt you," Adele advised. "You have turned out pretty enough so he's bound to pay attention to you. Maybe that will keep Marie from making more of a fool of herself than she has already."
Chapter 24
Samara left Aunt Adele's room and climbed the stairs to her old hideaway in the south tower. There was no dust, the floor was clean and new window seats ran half-way around the room. Vera's influence showed in the house as well as it occupants, making everything and everyone brighter and happier.
Sitting on the window seat, Samara gazed out over the trees. What had Aunt Adele meant about Marie. She could hardly believe Marie would be throwing herself at Mark. How could she possibly think he'd look at a woman older than se was, someone who'd let herself go the way Marie had. Why, Mark could have any woman he wanted.
She closed her eyes and relived the feel of his lips on hers, the warmth on his body, and the delicious sensations rushing through her. After a moment she sighed and stood up. Poor Marie--it must be awful not to be young any more.
Though Samara wanted, in the worst way, to go where Mark was, she'd made up her mind not to intrude on his lessons with Johanna today. Later she'd observe him at work with her sister, not only to be in the same place he was but to learn his methods of therapy.
Before she sent downstairs, she opened the door to the north tower to see if Vera had made any chances there. To her surprise, the room was filled with painting equipment--an easel, canvases, brushes--and smelled of turpentine. Inside, she examined a partially completed landscape on the easel. Mountains--dark, brooding. Not the Sierra, the dense growth of trees told her that. Besides, the mountains had an alien look.
She glanced at other, presumably finished canvases. Some showed other versions of the unknown mountains and one was a painting of the view from this tower. She recognized the groves and pines, but everything seemed stiff and formal. It was signed, so she bent to read the name. Schroeder. These were Mark's,
Samara smiled. Another facet of his personality. Though she could see he wasn't a great artist, the pictures conveyed a certain quality--ominous in the case of the mountains. Unless she imagined it, she felt the Hallow House landscape was about to erupt. Is that how he saw her valley?
She stared out the window and the familiar scene below, but it looked as it always had to her.
What does he think of me? She wondered. He called me a princess and here I am in the tower--a princess in a tower. But not locked away, not from Mark.
When she came out she averted her gaze from the room between the towers. Jose, she knew had repaired the wood and replaced the lock on the black door after Sergei--died.
Samara descended the stairs quickly, not looking back. She didn't want to dwell on the room behind that black door. She must find something to distract her as she did at school whenever she was reminded of Sergei. The twins--she'd play with Naomi and Katrina.
She found them with Frances.
"No, that's not the way to wash your hands," Frances was saying. Proper hand-washing is important, so you pay attention to me, Naomi, or no story for you afterward. " Catching sight of Samara, Frances said, "Here's your big sister come to visit. No, don't you dare touch her with those wet hands. Come back here."
"I thought the twins might like to take a ride in my new car," Samara said. "You, too, Frances."
"Thanks, but no. Take the two of them--I can use the breather. The sheer energy of those twins is enough to power a locomotive."
Samara drove to her favorite spot along the Tule River and waded with the girls in the shallows. She remembered Uncle Vince taking her wading like this--just her, not Sergei--and how she'd enjoyed it. Before Vera came, he was the only one who ever seemed to notice she needed attention. Usually her brother got it all.
Why did her uncle dislike Mark? Just because he was German? She shook her head. No, that wouldn't be like Vince. Maybe it had something to do with Marie. As a child she'd once seen her uncle and Marie kissing. When she'd asked her mother if they were going to get married, Mother had laughed and said, "Not unless hell freezes over."
Which reminded her of what her brother had told her about their mother and Uncle Vine. "Old Grosbeck, too," he'd added. "She took him to her secret hiding place but I got there first so I watched. She doesn't know I can see everything she does. She wore the red robe, the one she's so pretty in..."
Samara grimaced, recalling how she'd run from the room so she wouldn't have to listen. Not possible to run from what was permanently etched in her mind.
I'm not like my mother, she told herself. How could Uncle Vince even think such a thing? Here I am twenty years old and I've never been with a man. Never even wanted to be. I've never been in love, either. Until now.
I refuse to believe it's wrong to fall in love, to want Mark to kiss me.
Poor Mark. Hounded from his own country because he didn't want to be a Nazi and now mistrusted in American, the country of his choice, because he was German.
Seeing Naomi heading for a deeper part of the river, Samara grabbed her, hauling her back into the shallows. "I told you not to go over there," she scolded. "It's dangerous because the water's too deep."
"I can swim."
"Not in a river, you can't. Rivers aren't swimming pools. Either you stay where I tell you or we go home right now."
"Be good girl," Katrina said, he lower lip trembling.
"Honey, it isn't you."
But it was no use. Try to punish Naomi and invariably Katrina felt bad, too. By now she was able to tell the twins apart without having to check the tiny yellow wedge in the brown of Naomi's left iris. Naomi had a more aggressive stance, a more vivid smile, a boldness that Katrina lacked. Katrina, though, had a sweeter nature.
When they got back, Samara found Johanna pouting because she'd missed going with them. "Two times now you didn't take me," she complained. "Don't you l-like me?"
Samara put her arms around Johanna and whispered in her ear, "You're my favorite sister." It was true. Though she loved the twins, Johanna was special to her.
"Don't ever think you aren't important to me," she said aloud. "I'm sorry you feel bad, but you and I will do something tomorrow--just the two of us. Maybe drive into
Porterville and have an ice cream cone."
"Chocolate?"
"Sure. You were busy with Mark this morning—that's why I didn't take you along."
"I was, only Uncle Vince came in and told me to leave the room 'cause he wanted to t-talk to Mark. So I looked for you but you were gone."
"Sorry," Samara said, her mind fixed on what her uncle might have said to Mark.
"Will you come and watch me ride my pony?" Johanna asked. "I still need help putting on his saddle."
"Let's go."
To Samara's surprise, she found Sal in the stables. He grinned at her in greeting.
"Hi, Sal, this is my sister Johanna. Johanna, this is Salvatore Guerra. He taught me how to ride when I was little."
Johanna looked from Samara to Sal and back. "When you were little wasn't he little, too?"
Sal laughed. "I'm older than your sister, Johanna. Do you want me to teach you to ride like I did her?"
"Thank you, but Mark already taught me." Her big gray eyes examining him. "your n-name sounds hard to say."
"That's why everyone calls me Sal. You can, too."
"Okay. Maybe you can help me s-saddle Zazy--he's my pony."
Later as they watched Johanna trotting Zazy around the riding ring, Samara said, "What are you doing here, Sal? Did my father--?"
"Yes, thanks. I'm working her for the summer. This fall he's promised me a job in his Sacramento cannery. He thinks maybe I can work out a schedule to go to the agricultural college over at Davis part-time. They have a veterinarian course there. He talked to me a long time, actually remembered me from the time I worked here."
"Why wouldn't he?"
Sal shrugged. "You get used to Anglos thinking all us Mexicans look alike."
She stared at him.
He offered her a wry grin. "Don't worry about it. You're a nice girl and you've done more for me than you'll ever realize."
"Watch me, Sal," Johanna called.
"You've made a conquest," Samara said as he applauded Johanna's maneuver.
"She's cute."
"Wait'll the twins descend on you. You'll be sorry you ever heard of Hallow House." She laughed, but her tone grew serious once more. "I'm really glad you're here, Sal. You know, before Vera came, you were the only one I could talk to."
"Yeah, your brother was a regular little bastard, as I recall. Excuse my language. I know he's dead, but that's how I felt about him."
She didn't take offense, either at his opinion of her brother or his language. The way some of the girls at Stanford talked made Sal's word pale by contrast. And it was true Sergei had treated him meanly.
"There you are," Mark said from behind her. She whirled around, her heart slamming against her ribs.
Collecting her wits, she tried to steady her voice as she said, "You're just in time to see Johanna perform. And I don't believe you've met Salvatore Guerra. Sal, this is Mark Schoeder."
Mark looked Sal up and down, not offering his hand. "How do you do? We have not met before. Are you the new stable hand?"
Sal's face was impassive. "I'm happy to meet you, Mr. Schroeder. Yes, I'm the new stable hand.
"Sal's an old friend," Samara began, but stopped when Sal shook his head slightly.
"Excuse me," he said. "I have to help Jose."
Watching him walk away, Samara said to Mark, "Sal's not exactly a stable hand. He--"
Mark took her hand. "One of the charming things about you is your friendliness."
His touch made her forget everything else. She gazed into his blue eyes, every nerve aware of him.
"You're not w-watching me," Johanna accused.
Mark released Samara's hand. "Will you join Johanna and me in the pool this afternoon?"
In the mid-afternoon, when Samara came into the pool area, the first person she saw was Marie, relaxing in one of canvas lounge chairs. Marie had twisted her hair into an elegant French knot and wore wide-legged lounging pajamas in a pale blue that became her coloring and flattered her figure. Her makeup was impeccable and she managed to look younger as well as most attractive.
"A black swimsuit, Samara?" she said languidly. "So out of date. I'm sure you could find one that does more for you." She fitted a cigarette into white holder. "A suit with more sophistication." Smoke drifted above her head.
Yesterday Samara had though the black swimsuit fit her very well. She'd even believed black was sophisticated. Now she wondered anxiously if Marie was right. Did she appear gauche? She glanced at Mark in the hope he might be looking at her and she could find reassurance in his eyes. But he was busy instructing Johanna in the backstroke.
"After all, you're no longer a schoolgirl," Marie went one. "Why continue to dress like one?"
To think I felt sorry for her at diner last night, Samara told herself. I forgot how she can undermine people. She's just trying to make me feel like a dumb child again, the way she used to. The worst of it is, I know what she's doing, yet I let what she says bother me.
"Come on in, Samara," Mark called. "Show your sister a proper back stroke."
Samara jumped into the pool knowing there, at least, she was in her element. No one could fault her swimming. But when at last the three of them pulled themselves out of the water, there sat Marie, dry, poised and elegant, while Samara stood with dripping hair. She wrapped herself in her robe and hurried to her room where, after drying off, she yanked open her closet and glared at her clothes.
Everything she owned seemed hopelessly juvenile. After a moment she deliberately took out and put on the most babyish dress of all, a white on white dotted Swiss with puffed sleeves and a Peter Pan color.
Gazing at her reflection in the mirror, she decided she looked like a little girl making her First Communion. All she lacked was the veil. Making a face at herself, she applied pale pink lipstick, then tied a pink ribbon around her head Alice in Wonderland style.
An dinner, no one reacted to her appearance. Samara watched Mark covertly to see if he paid attention to Marie, but all she noticed was that he looked several times at the new maid, Rosita.
Rosita was pretty with her olive complexion, large brown doelike eyes and curly black hair piled high on her head. She wore the neat tan uniform Vera insisted on, but she gave the modest dress a flair all her own. Not at all a bold girl, but noticeable. Samara saw Uncle Vince watching Rosita, too,
Samara didn't care about her uncle, but when she caught Mark staring at Rosita for the fourth time, a huge hand seemed to squeeze her chest until she couldn't breathe. The food she tried to eat stuck in her throat. At last she excused herself and fled to her room. There, she tore off the white dress and her slip, put on her oldest robe and flung herself miserably onto the bed.
Vera tapped on her door a few minutes later, then entered. "Don't you feel well, dear?" she asked.
"I'll all right," Samara mumbled, wishing to be left alone.
"You didn't eat much." Vera reached to touch her forehead. "You're not feverish. What's the matter? Can I help?"
Samara shook her head, afraid to say anything for fear of bursting into tears.
"Well..." Vera retreated to the doorway, hesitating there. "If you want me I'll be in the library with your father."
Samara sighed in relief when Vera closed the door. She pushed her bare feet into slippers and quickly climbed to her refuge in the south tower before someone else found her.
From the window seat she watched the evening shadows creep down from the hills and engulf the valley. Stars appeared in the dark blue of the sky. She began to relax. Mark hadn't promised her anything. He had every right to look at a pretty girl if he wanted to. There was nothing wrong with him inviting Marie to watch him swim, either.
I have no right to be jealous of him, she chided herself, dropping her head to allow her hair to screen her face, forgetting that pink ribbon that held it in place. She lifted her head, shoving the ribbon aside until it slipped down around her neck.
Unfortunately, she was jealous. Right or wrong, she wanted hi
s exclusive attention, wanted him to feel about her the way she did about him. But that was no reason to slip back into the days when she'd used her hair to hide from people.
As she raised a hand to until the ribbon around her neck, she froze. What was that weird noise? A high whistling whine, unlike anything she'd ever heard, infiltrated the tower. An inhuman noise that no human throat could possibly form. Where was it coming from?
A bizarre image filled her mind--wind whistling through the skull Sergei had stolen from the cave. Or was it the skull trying to speak?