“Welcome to our little acre of paradise.” He leaned in for a peck on both cheeks.
From the front entrance, I could see through the expansive open living space, with its cathedral ceilings, to the wall of windows along the back of the house and the unobstructed views.
“This is breathtaking.”
“Come and see.” Jimmy guided me to view the immaculately manicured lawn gradually sloping down from the large terrace, like green velvet flowing into a private little cove and spilling into the ocean beyond. There was a barrier island in the distance that served to shelter the cove during angrier weather.
“Edgar doesn’t need paintings of the sea. He has the sea.” I was referring to Jimmy’s comment about Edgar’s description of Percy’s Bluffs.
“Ah, yes, this personifies tranquility.” I turned toward Edgar’s voice. “As the pendulum swings in the opposite direction, Percy’s Bluffs has a certain passion that infatuates the spirit. It is the compelling nature that you’ve captured in your paintings. Percy saw it. That’s why he chose the spot to build his home.”
“Still, there’s nothing wrong with peace and calm.”
Edgar raised his brows to Jimmy. “Did you already tell her?”
“I most certainly did not,” he answered in feigned offense. “This is one intuitive lady.”
“Tell me what?” I asked.
“How we came upon Alcyone for the name of our home. But let’s go to the sunroom, where it’s bright and cozy. We can talk in there while Jimmy creates his magic in the kitchen.”
“Just a few finishing touches,” said Jimmy as he sashayed through one archway, and we ambled under another into what I would consider the perfect room. It was spacious and open, yet cozy and bright from the natural light, fresh white woodwork, clean colors, and cheery decor. There was, of course, the same stunning ocean view from southern-facing windows and French doors out to the terrace. But the scene continued through tall westward windows as well. On winter afternoons, this would be where I’d want to curl up with a book, basking in the warmth from those west-facing windows, a crackling fire alight in the large corner hearth, beautifully finished with exotic sea creature tiles.
I turned to see another dramatic feature; on either side of the archway were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. And there was one of those cool library ladders on gliders I’d always thought to put in my own library at home, but had never gotten around to it, mostly due to lack of funds. The single remaining wall was decorated with an exquisite piece of art portraying a magnificent winged woman painted against a starlit night sky, the wind whirling about her being as she hovered above an inky sea.
“I would never leave this room.” I inhaled deeply. The scent was fresh, like the sea.
“When Jimmy’s not sleeping or in the kitchen, he can be found in here. Please.” Edgar indicated one of the plump inviting sofas for me and he took the nearest side chair. “I need a straight back. Disc problems, I’m afraid.”
“Too much time bent over a keyboard?”
He offered a rueful smile.
“You were going to tell me about Alcyone.” I prompted.
“I imagine you’ve heard of halcyon days?”
“Restful, untroubled times?” How I longed for those.
“That’s right. Well, the ancient Greeks believed the halcyon birds were responsible for bringing us those days of peace and calm. But do you know how those birds came to be?”
I shook my head.
“According to Greek mythology, Alcyone, daughter of the god of the winds, was the devoted wife of Ceyx, son of the morning star. They had a blissful life together until tragedy struck when Ceyx set off on a sailing venture to consult Apollo, god of prophecy. Having spent her childhood watching storm clouds and lightning dance around her father’s palace, Alcyone was fully aware of the power of the wind and feared something terrible would happen to Ceyx. Her dread was not without merit, for a violent storm destroyed her beloved’s ship, drowning all aboard. When her husband did not return, Alcyone asked the gods for a dream to tell her what had happened. They granted her plea by sending the dead Ceyx to tell her the truth. She awoke grief-stricken and wandered to the shore, where she looked out upon the gentle waves and saw Ceyx’s dead body floating homeward. Alcyone threw herself into the sea to go to her husband, and upon seeing her deep anguish, the gods breathed life into both her and Ceyx again and gave them wings. The couple was turned into halcyon birds flying happily across the sky, a symbol of the unbreakable bonds of love.”
My breath caught at the familiarity of the story. From what I’d learned from Lu, I could see how Jimmy and Edgar would be inspired by the symbolism of Alcyone and Ceyx. However, to my mind the Greek allegory was a much more striking parallel to what happened to my great-grandparents: Percy’s pain and sorrow had been so strong and compelling that he’d hurled himself and his soul mate over the cliffs and into the sea, only to rise again and live on as the protective spirits of my home. I wondered if Edgar had made a similar connection.
“So that’s Alcyone.” I gazed up at the painting of the winged woman.
“Edgar is my Alcyone.” Jimmy had returned and affectionately placed his hands on the other man’s shoulders. “He leapt into the ocean to save me when I was drowning.”
“Love triumphs over tragedy.” He reached up to pat Jimmy’s hand, giving me my answer. He preferred Jimmy’s interpretation.
It was a concept I wanted to believe, but sadly—at least within the last few generations of the Mitchell family—tragedy had been the victor. First Percy and Celeste, followed by Fiona and Ambrose, then Mama and Papa, recently Ethan and me. There was a reason the Mitchell lifeline was teetering on extinction. The cycle of misfortune needed to be shattered.
Edgar broke through my lugubrious reflections. “Jimmy has a deep fascination with Greek mythology.”
“It’s those Greek gods who so beguile me.” Jimmy winked suggestively. “Anyone hungry?”
* * *
After a lunch that could only be described as scrumptious, Edgar and I retired to his study, located on the opposite side of the house. The views still amazed; however, this room was darker, more masculine with its leather chairs and dark hickory wainscoting. I could envision immediately where my paintings should make their home, specifically the unadorned area above the fireplace, which could handle the drama of Percy’s Bluffs. Edgar’s desk backed against the opposing wall, giving him the advantage of the views, the fireplace, and presumably my paintings.
“So, what do you think?”
“It suits you.”
“My hiding place from the world.” He made a theatrical swirl with his raised arms. “Jimmy thinks it a dreary room.”
“Inspiring, not dreary. The perfect atmosphere for writing. When I first stepped into this room, I knew my paintings belonged here. I’m honored you would want my work for your”—“man cave” was both an inaccurate and an indelicate description for the retreat of such a cultured and dignified man—“exquisite sanctuary.”
“These walls have remained spartan far too long. But we never found anything that worked, until now. Come back again after they’ve been hung. We’ll drink a toast to Percy.”
“Speaking of which, would you mind if I took a look at those letters?”
“Of course. Please sit by the fire, where it’s toasty. I’ll just get my files.” He shuffled off to a built-in cabinet as my anxiety mounted over what would be learned from those ancient missives.
“Here we are.” The leather creaked as he sank into the armchair next to mine. He settled his glasses onto the edge of his nose and began to flip through papers. “These are the letters your sister sent to me.”
So Lu was right. I took the small pile of envelopes he held out to me and touched them reverently before setting them on the side table.
“I hadn’t been aware she helped with the article.” I hoped my tone didn’t betray my bitterness.
“Oh yes. I in
terviewed Zoe by phone on several occasions. I even have a notebook dedicated to our conversations.”
I may have been cross with Zoe for keeping these from me, but I was saying a silent thank-you to Lu for making the suggestion to visit Edgar.
“Could I see it? Maybe take it with me?”
Edgar squinted at me over his glasses in a way that made me squirm. Evidently, I had presumed too much.
“I never allow my annotations to leave this sanctum.” His voice was stern.
“I didn’t mean to be so bold.”
His expression softened to kindness again. “But stay if you like. You are welcome to peruse any of the notes and research pertaining to your home.”
“Could I come back in a week or so?” I suggested, knowing the lengthy to-do list I had before Aaron returned from Boston.
““Of course. Shall we go find Jimmy to say goodbye?”
“Before I go, I’d like to ask you something.” I took a deep breath before leaping into the mire. “From all the research you’ve gathered and the people with whom you’ve spoken …”
“Yes. Go on.” Edgar leaned forward and offered an encouraging smile.
“Do you believe my home is haunted?”
He fixed a serious gaze first at me and then into the fireplace flames. “Wouldn’t you be the best person to answer that question?”
“I do know the answer.”
He appeared startled.
“I’m curious why, in the many hours we spoke, you never asked the question of me.”
He sat pensively before responding. “I felt it would be intrusive. I worried the question might disturb you, so I danced around the subject, making subtle innuendos and waiting patiently for you to offer your own insight.”
I probably wouldn’t have admitted it for fear of being quoted in the book and looked upon by everyone in Whale Rock as that crazy Mitchell girl. “I would still like to hear your thoughts.”
He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I found your great-grandparents’ story to be fascinating, suggestive of a Greek tragedy. In fact, more like Alcyone and Ceyx than any other true life story I’ve heard about.”
So he had grasped the significance after all.
“I first heard the tale of Percy and Celeste at a Halloween party many years ago. We were talking of Cape Cod ghosts, and someone mentioned Battersea Bluffs. That’s when I began to gather research for my book. I tried to interview your grandmother shortly before she passed, but she’d have nothing to do with it.”
I did not find this to be a surprising revelation. Granny Fi was very protective of the Mitchell family secrets.
“It seems you did well without her input.” I pointed to the framed award. “And thanks to you, the Mitchell family will never lose their place in the annals of Whale Rock lore.”
Edgar dipped his head, taking it as a compliment. He paused reflectively before asking, “Have you read it lately? The chapter about Battersea Bluffs?”
I shook my head. “Actually, not for many years.”
I’d read it when it was first published, then had filed it away. I knew the story well enough. Didn’t I live it every day?
“You might want to do so.”
“I will. But you haven’t answered my question.”
“I think you will discover the answer in what I wrote. We’ll talk more when you come back.”
It was the best I was going to get today, so I tucked the packet of letters inside my backpack.
“By the way, I found the journal entries to be as enlightening as the correspondence,” Edgar said. “I apologize for not returning those to you years ago, but I’d quite forgotten I had them until just last week.”
Journal entries? What gold mine had I stumbled into?
* * *
I was so eager to read the documents Edgar had given me that, after saying my goodbyes, I found a small diner, empty save for a waitress playing solitaire and the cook who stood at the counter, reading the newspaper. I sat in a corner booth, and in the quiet privacy offered by the afternoon lull, I poured over the old-fashioned, cursive handwritten words on crinkled, yellowed pages.
~
October 22
Dearest Celeste,
I write to tell you of my sailing to America. The journey will not be easy, as I have been unwell. If the Lord is willing, the sea air might restore me. If not, my time in this world will not be long. But I must attempt to see you one last time before I die.
It’s been bad blood between myself and Percy, and he may forbid you seeing me, I know. Still, I must try. If I am able, I will send word in advance of my arrival. It will be sometime in December. Until then.
Yours,
Robert
~
November 1
My dearest friend,
Forgive me for not writing often enough. Willie has been down with the fever, and Lottie’s little Mick is a handful. Just like his grandfather that one is.
But no time today for idle news from home. I write to send you fair warning. There is talk that Robert Toomey is crossing the Atlantic to America. I know not of his intentions, but surely you would want to know and not be caught unawares if he were to show up at your door. My Michael says that Percy would shoot him on sight. So I pray you hide the bullets. I don’t know what the prisons are like in America, but if they are at all like ours, I would not want to see our dear Percy locked up in one.
Your sister in friendship,
Mattie
On a sticky note attached to two other letters:
These are dated the day my
great-grandparents were killed.—Z
December 13
Dear Ambrose,
Your father and I are fit as fiddles. You remember how fond I always was of the Christmas holidays. This year will seem strange without you and your special Christmas grog, but we will try to make do. I’ll be starting my baking soon now that my larder is full of butter, flour, and all the fine sugars. It’s not nice of me to be making your mouth water, now is it?
I am hopeful your days are full of the adventure you were seeking. It gives a mother the greatest of pleasure knowing her son has found happiness. I had a visit a few weeks ago from your young Miss Patrick. I’ve not mentioned it sooner, as I knew she wanted to be the first to tell you the wonderful news. I was quite taken with Fiona and wanted to assure you that I approve of your choice. I also wished you to know that your father and I will watch over your bride-to-be and the baby, when it arrives in the spring. I selfishly hope the happy news will hasten your return to Whale Rock and your loving mother’s arms. Of course, now I will have to share you, but I don’t mind.
I am planning to tell your father this weekend. It’s his birthday, and I can’t think of a more special gift. I know you never took the curse of Robert Toomey seriously, but it was hard for your father to do otherwise after the deaths of Jerome and Edwin. The news of a grandchild on the way will uplift his spirits greatly, especially with you being so far away.
I will be inviting Fiona and her family for Christmas Eve, to begin a new tradition between our families. We will raise a glass to you and to your safe return.
With love always,
Mother
~
December 13
Dear Mattie,
I hope you and your dear ones are in good health, especially your Willie, who had the fever last time you wrote. Even though he’s wedded, it’s still a mother’s healing hands a son finds most comforting. I suspect Lottie inherited your sweet nature and must be a fine mum. And I can envision our old Michael, the proudest grandpapa, following little Mick around like a guardian angel.
I have news of my own to share, although I fear the simple act of writing the words will make us vulnerable to the curse. But tell you I must, and it is not with an ounce of shame, our Ambrose has gone off and joined the Navy and left behind a local girl with child. The girl is called Fiona, and she wears an emerald promise ring my son gave her before he shipp
ed off. She swears he didn’t know, and I believe her, for certainly my Ambrose would have stayed and made things right. She is clever and pretty and has a sweet disposition. She will make a good and true wife.
Indeed, Robert Toomey is coming to America. I’ve received a letter from him but have not yet told Percy, as I fear what he will do. I pray for an end to the hatred.
Mattie, a stranger approaches on foot. He limps. I must see what he wants and tell you of it later.
Another sticky note attached at the end:
One could speculate the stranger was
Robert Toomey.—Z
~
Included in the stack was an older letter from Celeste’s mother, telling her of Robert Toomey’s destruction of their fleet of boats. There was also an original newsprint article, written the day after the fire, in what was then known as the Cape Cod Standard Times.
The headline read: Fire Brings More Devastation to Prominent Whale Rock Family ~ Percival Mitchell’s Last Words: “I am not finished!”
Having read it before, I almost dismissed the article but then noticed a second page I didn’t recall having seen previously and which I now read with interest.
From page 1 … Rescue workers noted an oddly pleasant smell at the house, not the normal bitter odor of ash and debris. Some men said it smelled of vanilla, others claimed it was the smell of burning sugar or molasses. It was deduced that the odor originated from a pantry that had been stocked with sugars and other baking ingredients. Celeste Mitchell was a baker of renown, and with the holidays approaching she had received a large shipment days before the fire.
The Constable has posted a guard at Battersea Bluffs after unnamed persons were witnessed removing items from the property. One woman admitted to having taken just a small memento from the fire, as it was likely to be famous one day.
As of this printing, it has been learned that a gentleman visiting from England has claimed a relationship with Percy and Celeste Mitchell and will be questioned by police once he’s dried out from a bender at Whale Rock Tavern. Lloyd Grant, proprietor, has told officials that the man all but confessed to setting the fire. Grant told us, “He kept mumbling over and over again, ‘Lake of fire, lake of fire.’ ” In the Englishman’s bible, a page marker opened to the book of Revelations, with these verses boldly underlined: ‘And the devil who deceived them was thrown into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet are also; and they will be tormented day and night forever and ever. This is the second death, the lake of fire.’
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