by Adrianne Lee
Within minutes, Karl had moored the ferry, lowered the ramp, and removed the blocks securing her tires. Maneuvering the car ahead, she rolled down the window, actually welcoming the cooling rain on her flushed face. “Would you like a ride to the house?”
“Naw, I got a few things to finish here first.”
“Okay. See you later.”
April disembarked. The car’s tires spun and caught as she drove onto wet asphalt and began a steep ascent. Although the narrow lane seemed to wind aimlessly away from her destination, she knew it eventually circled back and led to the spacious parking apron in front of the house.
Leafless madronas lined the road like a naked garrison guarding the way. They’d grown so tall.
The boathouse had disappeared from view, and seconds later she was passing the six-car garage. Wind railed against the rented compact. Trees bobbed and bent and moaned. Branches snapped and leaped into her path. The wipers were useless against the onslaught of rain and debris.
April squinted into the failing light, recalling the beauty of this place in high summer. She shivered. This was January at its ugliest: soggy, matted grass, flowerless bushes, and puddle water. The bleakness struck a chord within her. Arizona and Dr. Merritt suddenly seemed far away, too far away.
Her headlights pierced the darkness as she peered uneasily into the shadowed gloom.
In the distance to her left, she spotted what appeared to be a cluster of sporadic lights. The housekeeper’s cottage. Even that cozy abode looked forlorn today.
Trying to ignore a chilling sense of foreboding, she managed the final curve.
Lightning speared the sky, illuminating the area for a split second.
Her foot hit the brake. April blinked.
Calendar House!
It hid in the rainy mist, angling this way and that, like some huge stone and mortar monster waiting to destroy her.
Chapter Two
Bone-chilling wind drove sheeting rain against April’s backside as she rushed to the porch and knocked on the heavy pine door.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Where was everyone? Granted she wasn’t expected until tomorrow, but there were lights on inside; surely someone was home. Finding the door unlocked, April stepped into the immense foyer. Her stomach seemed to be in her throat. Swallowing hard, she wrestled the door shut, and then set her single suitcase on the planked floor.
For a long moment, she stood motionless, listening for approaching footsteps or the sound of voices. All she heard was the pelting rain and the thundering of her heart. She drew a quivery breath. The faint aromas of roasting beef and lemon oil tangled in her nostrils. Inexplicably, these homey touches lifted the fine hairs on the nape of her neck.
Her gaze flicked uneasily from the sweeping staircase at her left to the rough-hewn, open beamed ceilings, to the hammered pewter chandelier overhead, and lastly, to the gleaming pine floors beneath her feet which sported a hodgepodge of subtly-shaded Oriental rugs. Nothing to be frightened of, she chided herself.
It did look different though. Redecorated. Except for its grander size, Calendar House brought to mind an old English hunting lodge, best suited to antiques, natural woods, and overstuffed furniture in natural fabrics. Twelve years ago it had looked that way.
April frowned in disbelief. Black lacquered tables and low slung couches with frilly flowered throw pillows and matching drapes adorned the sunken living room. Valuable looking Oriental vases sat in the foyer. It was so inappropriate, she wondered if someone had deliberately tried to remove every trace of Lily and her era here.
Trying to shake the unsettling notion, April removed her wet parka and dropped it atop her suitcase. A blast of wind slammed against the leaded windows on either side of the door. She jumped. It felt nearly as cold inside as it had outside. Had it always been so?
A sudden lull in the downpour exposed heretofore unheard voices coming from the vicinity of her father’s den.
With her nerves taut, April headed into the wide hallway at her right. As she neared the den, she realized her Aunt March was speaking; the elderly woman’s grating tones were unmistakable.
“Not thinking, as usual.” The clack of knitting needles punctuated her words. “If ever you’d consider the ramifications of your actions, brother dear, instead of leading with your heart….”
“For the love of God! Must I remind you…April is my daughter. Your niece! She belongs here as much as either of us.”
April froze. Her pulse skipped, her mouth dried. She knew she should walk in and let them know she had arrived. Unaccountably, she stood rigid, inches from the doorway, listening.
“Humph! How do we know she’s strong enough?” Her aunt had neither dropped a stitch nor a beat. “What if the shock of returning to Calendar House sets her off again?”
“Really, March!” Her father’s voice resounded in anger. “Hysterical amnesia is hardly schizophrenia!”
Another furious clack of needles followed. “Bad genes! That’s what. Never been insanity in the Farraday family…’til you married that actress, August. Show people! Hah! Unstable, the lot of ‘em.”
No insanity in the Farraday family? April pressed her palm to her mouth, stifling an angry “Hah!” Generations of Farradays named for the month in which they were born. Perhaps not insanity, but definitely a strain of eccentricity.
“Shame on the both of you.” The reproach pulled April back to the conversation. The soft southern drawl, she realized, was that of her stepmother.
“I want not more of this, this ancient history,” declared Cynthia Farraday. “We have the future to consider. Promise me you’ll refrain from this distasteful subject while Vanessa and the twins are here. I won’t have my son’s fiancée—the governor’s niece for heaven’s sake—gettin’ the wrong impression of our family. Not to mention the press. Why, if some snoopy reporter heard the two of you and dragged up all that old business, it could ruin the engagement celebration, the weddin’—or possibly Thane and Spencer’s careers.”
April had heard enough. She stepped into the room and, for the first time since her return, into the past. Her father’s den was exactly as she’d remembered: the rock fireplace dominating one wall, the red leather sofa and high-backed chairs on either side of it, the cluttered bookshelves, the even messier desk, the old braided rug and knotty-pine paneling. Taking heart from it, she moved closer to the three people seated before the roaring fire.
A nervous quiver stirred in her stomach. “None of you need to worry. I’m not insane.”
Three heads jerked toward April.
Above the crackle of blazing logs she heard a tight gasp escape March Farraday. The old woman’s hand flew to her ample bosom and color drained from her florid face as she sank back into the worn leather of the high-backed chair. “Dear God! It’s Lily.”
“Don’t be absurd, March.” Sitting on the sofa next to his wife, August Farraday smiled up at his daughter, but made no move to rise. At sixty-nine, he was three years younger than his sister, and, whereas March was plain with a mannish jaw, a prominent nose and hair the color of corroded steel, August was head-turning-handsome. Still. The only signs of aging were the silver strands in his thick russet hair and a slight stoop, a by-product of years bent over a work bench bringing his inventions to life.
His navy blue eyes suddenly clouded with confusion. “I thought you weren’t due until tomorrow, April. Did I get the dates wrong?”
“No dear, you didn’t. April honey, we weren’t expectin’ you today. How did you get across the strait from Friday Harbor in this foul weather? Surely, Karl didn’t come get you?”
“I had intended to spend the night in Friday Harbor, but the working ferry was at the dock.”
There was the slightest twitch in Cynthia’s cheek as she clasped hold of the gold cross hanging from a lengthy chain around her neck. April wondered if her stepmother’s discomfort sprang from her presence, or from worry as to how much of the conversation she might have heard.
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Cynthia sighed, and then smiled sweetly at her. “Y’all must have made it back just as the storm hit. You look chilled to the bone.” She lifted a silver carafe from the coffee table and poured steaming brown liquid into a mug. “Here’s some hot spiced tea. Come warm yourself by the fire.”
Wind wailed against the double French doors and lifted the sheer curtains in a ghostly dance as April strode to the fireplace, accepted the cup and curled her icy fingers around it. The hot glass burned her skin, but she didn’t mind.
It smelled of apples and cinnamon, and tasted delicious. Taking a second sip of the steamy brew, she sank to the raised hearth. The sudden heat at her back felt as unnatural as being in this room with these three people. Too many years had passed.
“Now doesn’t that feel better?” Cynthia piped.
April nodded and hid her discomfort in another swallow. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why her father had married Cynthia less than one year after Lily’s accident. As much as she had hated her mother, April would not have chosen her social secretary as a replacement.
Oh, there was no denying Cynthia had a certain exotic appeal, with her long dark brown hair pulled severely off her face, accentuating her almond-shaped, dove-gray eyes, but at fifty, she was young enough to be one of August’s daughters. Was that the attraction? Her age?
The knitting needles clicked anew, startling April. She eyed her aunt through lowered lashes. The elderly woman stared back, boldly, assessing. Probably waiting to see her fall apart, she thought angrily.
The leather sofa squeaked as Cynthia shifted position and leaned closer to April. “Welcome home, sugah. We intended to have the red carpet, so to speak, rolled out for you, but you caught us unaware. I do hope you won’t be sneakin’ up on everyone the whole time you’re here visitin’?”
Cynthia’s tittering laugh grated against April’s nerve endings. It was a struggle to keep her voice level. “I knocked. No one answered.”
“Never mind about all that. You’re here now, safe and sound, and that’s all that’s important,” August said.
“Of course it is.” Cynthia smiled at her husband. “Now give your daughter a hug, dear, or she’ll think we aren’t glad to see her.”
“What? Oh!” August’s confusion lasted but a second. Always a bit preoccupied, her father often forgot amenities. Usually April found it an endearing trait. Today it hurt. He was the one ally she felt certain of and he hadn’t thought to welcome her on his own. However, now that the defect had been pointed out, she couldn’t fault the speed with which he strove to correct it.
Setting aside the tea cup, she rose to meet him, allowing herself to be wrapped in his comforting embrace. He pulled her to his chest, flattening her nose against his breast pocket. The smell of pipe tobacco clung to his shirt, evoking bittersweet memories from her childhood.
“Of course, we’re glad to see her,” he said. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
Several reasons occurred to April, starting with the anonymous note and ending with the conversation she had just interrupted.
August grasped her by each shoulder. “Why, April, your sweater is damp. You must be freezing. Let’s show you which room you’ll be using and you can change out of those wet clothes.”
“Which room I’ll…?” April frowned. “Won’t I be staying in my old room?”
“Humph!” The knitting needles silenced, drawing more attention than when they clacked. “Imagine…expecting to move back in here as though the past twelve years hadn’t even happened.”
The breath in April’s throat seemed as hot as the fire. Obviously, Aunt March was unhappy about her presence here. Unhappy enough to have penned an anonymous note? April wouldn’t put it past her, but it would take more than a sharp-tongue old lady and a scrap of paper to intimidate her.
No longer the meek fourteen-year-old her aunt remembered, she returned the elderly woman’s stare, undaunted. “You’re right, Aunt March. It was silly of me to assume I would have a room I haven’t seen for twelve years.”
Making a silent vow to curtail all future impulsive presumptions about anything, or anyone, as long as she remained in Calendar House, April swung her gaze up at her father. “Life changes so many things. I’m glad to see, though, that this room is exactly as I remembered it.”
Chuckling, August caught her around the shoulders and steered her out into the hallway. “Can’t change me. Don’t even try. Your little sister has your old room, by the way.”
“It really is the best room for a child, what with the eastern exposure and all.” Following on their heels, Cynthia continued, “July is so excited about meetin’ you. It’s all she’s talked about for days.”
In the foyer, April retrieved her suitcase and coat. “I’m anxious to meet her, too, but Daddy’s right. I’d better get out of these wet clothes.”
“Certainly.” Cynthia’s eyes widened, telecasting a frantic message to her husband.
He stepped forward and caught April’s wrist, loosely. “When you do meet your little sister, please don’t mention the sanitarium.”
“Why not?” A frown weighed heavy on her brows.
A blush stole across her father’s face and he looked relieved when Cynthia saved him from answering. “Small children ask such embarrassin’ questions and have the most vivid imaginations. We wouldn’t want her to have nightmares, hon, now would we?”
More likely Cynthia was afraid July would ask some of those “embarrassin’” questions in front of the reporters who had been invited to Thane and Vanessa’s engagement party. Oh yes, April understood. Better than they thought. Anger swirled in the pit of her stomach.
She gazed from one to the other. “Where exactly does July think I’ve been—traveling the world—too busy to ever come and meet her?”
This time Cynthia was the one with the red face. “Well—I must admit, sugah, we were less than honest. However, I do believe we came up with an ingenious story. She thinks you’re a, ah, missionary, workin’ in some obscure little town in South America. We even showed her on the map.”
Wide-eyed, April stared at them both, opening and shutting her mouth, unable to do more than sputter.
“It was my idea.” Her father’s look pleaded for her understanding. “It seemed right at the time. Please, Darling, say you’ll go along with it.”
The bellowing wind matched April’s screaming inner protest. For the last few years, everything in her life depended on the truth, no matter how painful. Now they were asking her to lie about the very thing she’d had to confront to overcome. Her illness.
The prospect of meeting her seven-year-old half-sister was becoming less and less appealing. On the other hand, she’d decided before setting out on this journey, she’d do whatever it took to unlock the truth about Lily’s “accident” and if that meant lying, so be it.
Nodding, she said, “All right. But what about Thane and Spence and Karl and Vanessa?”
“The twins and Karl know and will maintain our little deception, but Vanessa will be told the same story as July, for now. We’ll tell them both the truth after the weddin’.”
“I know this will be hard on you and we appreciate your cooperation.” Her father’s relief was evident.
If only she shared his confidence. Fielding questions from a child didn’t worry her, but Vanessa was an adult and might inadvertently ask some “embarrassin’” questions April would not be able to answer.
Aunt March tramped into the foyer like an army drill sergeant. “I’m going to take a nap. Vicious headache. Lordy, girl, haven’t you got out of those wet clothes yet? All we need around here is some fool catching pneumonia. Come along. I’ll show you which room is yours.”
A clap of thunder drowned April’s muttered retort as she grabbed her suitcase, slipped her damp parka over her arm and hurried up the stairs after the formidable figure of her aunt.
When she reached the landing, April paused, letting her eyes adjust to the reduced light. Peering down the dar
kened hall at the line of closed doors, she felt an ancient familiarity creep around her as cold as the air sneaking through the drafty walls. She shivered and let her gaze flick to the master bedroom door, then on to her old room beyond. Her sense of loss seemed to echo through the long corridor.
A brilliant flash exploded next to the window at her back and, for a few seconds, light danced through the hallway. Momentarily blinded, April blinked. Dear God, it was unbelievable. The Oriental decadence extended to the upstairs as well. Her mind reeled in confusion. Had Cynthia also hated Lily—so much so that she had needed to erase every reminder of her existence?
Thunder boomed overhead as though a cannon had fired from the rooftop.
Suddenly, the thought of being alone held no charm and April hastened after her aunt, who had just disappeared around a corner. As she reached the turn, she stopped, engrossed by two huge doors on her left. “Aunt March, why is the west wing closed off?”
Slowing, the old woman glanced over her shoulder. “No sense heating a ballroom and servant quarters no one uses. You want to see your room or stand here jabbering all day?”
April said nothing, but hurried to catch up. “When will the others be arriving?”
“The others? Do you mean Vanessa and the twins?”
“Of course.”
“They’re due sometime tomorrow. But then so were you.”
Sometime tomorrow. The thought sent an anxious twinge to her stomach and a bittersweet lump to her throat. She’d been as close to Cynthia’s sons as if they were her older brothers, yet neither had made any attempt to see or talk to her during her recovery or since she’d left the sanitarium.
Attorneys now, Thane and Spencer Garrick shared a practice in Bellingham, Washington, and according to her father, aspired to the hierarchy of politics. Thane was campaigning for State Representative while Spence actively sought the mayor-ship. But busy careers didn’t explain their silent rejection of her.