“My health,” I repeated. “Yes.”
“Perhaps I can join you in the garden so that we don’t bother Tuttle. I’m not in the mood for her sulking if we interrupt her daily schedule.”
“How about we eat lunch in the garden?” I tried. “The wind has died down, and even if the sun doesn’t break through, at least the fresh air will do me good.”
“If you really want to eat out there, then I suppose it’ll be fine.” Davenport shrugged, his hands snapping the newspaper upright. “I can accommodate you, Ms. Ryan, for your health.”
He grumbled a bit when I made him take his medicine, but his mood seemed to lift.
Mine lifted too. The old house did little to help me sleep well, the creaking and groaning coupled with my restlessness made for long tiresome nights. Lying awake, Lavender’s warning about ghosts would come back to me. I needed to get outside.
We ended up disrupting a hefty portion of Mrs. Tuttle’s day. She insisted on having O’Shay drag out the garden furniture, set up a chaise longue for Davenport, and a table for me. She then went out of her way to make a meal that would be considered extravagant for high tea with the queen.
“Really, Mrs. Tuttle,” I said as I trailed behind her. She carried a tray full of cream puffs and fruit cut into little shapes. “I was just going to make some sandwiches and maybe bring out a pitcher of tea. We would’ve eaten in the gazebo. There’s no need for all of this fuss.”
“Nonsense,” she scolded and set the tray on the white iron table. She turned to face me, her cheeks red with exertion. “You can’t expect Mr. Hale to eat his meal amongst the cobwebs and dead leaves of the gazebo, Ms. Ryan.”
“No, but I would have gladly swept it out—”
“There are black widow spiders. We need to call a man to spray.”
“But—”
“Maybe next time you can give me more than a moment’s notice,” she uttered and turned to leave.
I sighed as she walked away, then sank onto the cushioned seat near the small round table.
O’Shay walked down with Davenport. Wrapped in a large sweater and sagging pants, Davenport looked old. His gaze grazed the table set with the meal and he chuckled.
“Can’t imagine she’s happy with you.” He slumped onto the chaise and took a moment to catch his breath.
“I tried to help.” I took the small plates from the tray and doled out treats for both of us.
“She’s used to running the place the way she sees fit. With a house full of men, no one ever gives her notice.”
“Are you saying I’m a fly in the ointment?” I poured us some tea and took a tentative sip. At least it wasn’t Simon’s nasty brew.
“I’m saying she’s never liked anyone new here,” Davenport said. His gray eyes held mine. “Lavender seems the only one who isn’t impressed with Tuttle’s fussing.”
“Lavender’s certainly spirited.” I licked the homemade whipped cream from my pinky.
“She misses her mother.” He looked at me over his half-moon glasses, the cup to his lips.
I got the impression he was weighing my reaction.
“Did she pass away?” I picked up my cup and mirrored his position. The steam from the tea rose up in lazy rivulets.
“Yes,” Davenport said. “Terrible accident.”
“I’m sorry.” I spotted bouncing ringlets just over the rose bushes. A giggle floated to me on the breeze. “I think that’s Lavender.”
He turned in his seat and nodded.
“Right here on the island,” he said quietly and took another sip. “Fell right off a cliff.”
I stopped chewing, a strawberry halfway to my lips.
“What?”
“Amanna fell to her death over at Echo Cliffs.” Davenport leaned in, his shaky hand cupping his words at his cheek. “Almost two years ago.”
“That’s…I’m so sorry,” I said again. “I had no idea it was so recent.”
I expected Davenport to say more, but instead he pulled the napkin from his lap and nestled into the chaise.
I sat quietly, watching his steady breathing before pulling the blanket from the armrest and covering him. He muttered and fell back into a light snore.
I leaned back and stared through the trees to the heavens pocked with gray clouds. Light struck through them, shards of brilliance against a sad sky. Leaves swooped to the ground on a cooling breeze.
I closed my eyes and listened to the tinkle of the chimes.
“Are you sleeping?”
Lavender’s voice right next to my ear sent me bolt upright. I yelped, and she stumbled back, her eyes wide. Her lip trembled.
“You scared me, sweetie.” I let out a nervous chuckle. “I must have jumped ten feet in the air!”
Lavender’s face relaxed, and she smiled. “You didn’t jump that high.”
I put my finger to my lips.
She looked at her grandfather sleeping, and then tiptoed with cartoonish exaggeration over to the other seat.
I noticed how genuinely beautiful she was. Her deep, dark hair against alabaster skin, with piercing blue eyes, was striking. Her father’s eyes.
I remembered the pictures on the library mantel and wondered why the house had no pictures of her mother.
“Are you hungry?” I pushed a plate to her. “Mrs. Tuttle made a ton of goodies.”
“You think I can have a sweet first?” Her eyes were pleading.
“How could I possibly say no to that face?”
I nodded and she dove into the cream puff, most of it squirting out the other end.
I giggled as I helped her wipe the whipped cream from her dress. She ate my lunch and half of Davenport’s. I watched her, my throat squeezing with sadness. To lose a mother so young, under any circumstance, tore at one’s heart. I knew this.
She caught me staring and offered a bite of her strawberry. “Want a bite?”
“How very nice of you,” I said with an ostentatious English accent, and then leaned forward to bite the tip of the berry with a chomping sound.
She giggled and copied me with her own monster sound.
“Lucien told me that you walk around at night.” Lavender picked up my teacup and held it with her pinkie sticking up. “Do you have bad dreams?”
I did walk the halls at night. My nightmares were getting worse since I got here and I didn’t like to stay in my room brooding.
“Did I wake you?” I asked.
“No. But Lucien doesn’t sleep, so he saw you.” Lavender took a sip, frowned, and put the cup down. “I have bad dreams, too, sometimes.”
I put elbows on the table and rested my chin on my fists, watching her fiddle with the tea and sugar. “You do, huh?”
She nodded.
“You can come visit me if you want.” She proceeded to fill her teacup almost halfway with sugar.
I winced. “What do you dream about?”
She stopped stirring, and stared at me, her eyes narrowing. Then, apparently deciding something, she glanced sideways at Davenport, and leaned in.
I did the same, our faces close over the table.
“My mommy falling,” she said, and the tears rimming her eyes made my heart ache.
“I’m so sorry, sweetie.” I swallowed hard. “That’s really tough.”
“Maybe if you’re walking around at night…” She hesitated and then leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “Never mind.”
I bit my lip, blinking back the burn of tears.
“Maybe I can come and visit you if I have a nightmare?” I said. “You know, so I won’t be scared. We can go and steal ice cream from the kitchen.”
“Well, if it means you won’t be scared.” A smile spread across her face, and there were dimples in both pink cheeks.
“So I won’t be scared,” I repeated.
Mrs. Tuttle’s voice sounded, calling for Lavender.
In a flash, the girl was off in the other direction, hair flying as she ran through trees. Her giggle floated back.
Why was this so hard?
I thought of Lavender and how tragically she’d lost her mother.
“It’s not too late, Rose,” I whispered to myself. “Just write the first word.”
I didn’t know where to start or what to say. I closed my eyes, the memories of the trial and the crowd muttering behind us as I walked to the front of the courtroom.
Her face, tight and pained where she sat near my father and his defense team, as I raised my right hand and looked at her over the bailiff’s shoulder. She wouldn’t look at me. Hadn’t spoken to me since the day my father was convicted.
I stared down at the letter, the first two words all I could pull from the silence of our standoff. A ragged breath tore from my chest, and I grabbed the paper, crumpling it in my hand. I held my fist to my mouth, pushing back the sobs that threatened to pour out of me.
For six months now, my mother and extended family behaved as if I didn’t exist. Had enough time passed to soften hearts, to repair severed ties?
“Maybe tomorrow, Lord,” I breathed. “Maybe I can tomorrow.”
8
Saturday morning, my day off, I stood at the kitchen sink eating a bowl of granola and looking out at the woods. Fatigue made me feel slower than normal. I wasn’t getting any sleep. I walked the halls last night and thought I heard muffled sobbing. When I found Lavender’s room, I peeked in. She was fast asleep. I listened at her door for almost ten minutes, but the sobbing or whatever it was, had stopped.
I heard O’Shay’s shuffling gait behind me and turned as he came in. “You’re up early.”
“Morning,” I said.
“We have a table,” he grumped and took a teacup from the tray on the counter, poured himself a cup, and sat on the chair nearest the door. “You eat like a bachelor.”
I crunched down on the hard cereal, smothering a smart retort, and sat down opposite him.
“I was thinking of going down to the village,” I said between spoonfuls. “How would I get there?”
“You’ll need to take the golf cart.” He sipped his tea and frowned. “On second thought, we need it in good working order. It’s not too far to walk.”
I kept my eyes on my cereal so I didn’t scowl.
“I don’t crash every vehicle I climb into, Mr. O’Shay.”
He cleared his throat, and I looked up.
“I apologize, Ms. Ryan,” he said. “I can show you if you like. I need to get some packages from the post anyway.”
“That would be lovely,” I said and forced a smile. “I’ll get my things.”
I met him five minutes later outside the front of the house. He pulled up in a weathered green cart. I was happy to see that it was enclosed with tiny plastic windows and a canvas door. He pulled to a stop, and his breath sent vapor clouds rising into the foggy morning air. I’d donned Simon’s sweater over a T-shirt and a pair of slacks. O’Shay started moving before I’d fully climbed in, and I jumped aboard before I was thrown.
Morning mist flew in through the gaps in the canvas and I shivered.
“No heat,” O’Shay said. “You own a coat?”
“I…no,” I said and clamped my teeth down to stop their chattering. “In southern California, T-shirts and flip-flops are a year-round thing. A jacket is a waste of closet space. Especially in San Diego, where I come from.”
“Maybe Simon can lend you his,” he said, and his gaze slid sideways to look at me.
I bit my lip and nodded.
We took the driveway to the front gate and turned left, opposite how I arrived that first night, and puttered down the road along the shoulder. Strange cawing and high-pitched trills from the forest birds punctuated our silence. Ten minutes later, we crested a hill and the forest opened to a seaside village. The fog hovered low over the white clapboard buildings that lined a cobbled street. Arching black lampposts extended gracefully over walkways. Sea air, ripe with salt and brine, whooshed past me as I stepped out of the golf cart.
“This is out of a painting,” I said. “I didn’t see this on my way in.”
“I leave in an hour.” O’Shay walked past. “Don’t be late.”
Walking along the small shops, I reveled in the smells of the village. Spices and coffee mingled with the faint scent of roasting meat. My flip-flops slapped against the wood slats of the boardwalk as I passed boutiques with flowers and beautiful long scarves. One sold all sorts of candy from hand-pulled taffy to colorful rock candy clinging to sticks. I passed another doorway and paused, inspecting the strange blown glass offerings. Stooping to look at a purple curl of glass being used as a business card holder, I thought of Simon. The ancient bottle nestled in his strong hands seemed all the more delicate. I sighed heavily and a twinge tugged, but I caught myself.
How could I miss a man I’d only just met? Remembering his gaze, how it felt like I was warmed from within, I cleared the thought of him from my mind.
“You like?” An old woman behind the counter called to me. “We have more.”
Head swathed in a colorful babushka, her mocha complexion and dark eyes looked exotic—a gypsy woman. I looked for the crystal ball and tarot cards. I noticed that a great many of the people milling on the walkway had a similar old world style. Men in baggy coarse pants, vests, and long knit shirts walked with women in flowing skirts and gauzy blouses. I did a double take. They looked like a clan of wandering carnival performers. How had I not noticed before?
“I, uh, no thank you,” I managed. “I’m looking for something warm. A coat?”
She eyed me and then pointed out the door with a long withered arm. Gold bangles jangled from her thin wrist.
“Across the way,” she said. “You will find something over there. Tell Yasmine I sent you.”
I thanked her and headed to the shop.
An old woman, who could be the cousin of the glassware woman, they looked so similar, sat on a stool by the front counter. She wore a babushka over her gray hair as well. A gold tooth peeked out from her painted lips when she smiled.
“Help you?”
“Yes, uh, the glass lady across the way sent me,” I said. “I need a coat.”
Yasmine toddled around the counter, leaning on a carved wood cane as she came to me. Her head barely reached my shoulders. She reached out, took the hem of Simon’s sweater in her wrinkled fingers, and rubbed the material between them, muttering.
“This will not do, copil,” she said and led me towards a wooden rack. “How do you not have a coat out here?”
“I’m new,” I said. “Just moved here from California.”
And apparently unable to dress properly.
“California?” She helped me try on a pea coat. “You are the new companion for Mr. Hale?”
“Companion?” The coat was warm, but scratchy. “I’m his caregiver, yes. How did you know?”
“This island is very small.” A frown pulled as she helped me out of the coat. “No secret stays hidden here for long.”
“Well, I don’t think I was meant to be a secret,” I said and turned to slip into another proffered coat. Shrugging into it, I felt the coarse collar irritate my neck and shook my head.
“A beautiful woman once again living at Shadow Bay Hall?” Yasmine clicked her tongue, pulled the coat off. “I was told Tuttle hired a male nurse.”
“Who told you?”
“This will not do for you,” she muttered, ignoring my question. “Your frame is so…”
She took a knitted shawl from the wooden hangar and pulled it onto my shoulders. The thick, blood-red yarn felt wonderful on my neck. I looked in the mirror on the wall and smiled.
“It’s beautiful.” I took a swath of it in my hand and rubbed it against my cheek. “So soft.”
“Hand knit,” Yasmine said. “For you, I give it to you for sale.”
“For sale?” I looked for a tag a
nd found none. “Really?”
“The wind off the Sound is very cold up in that big house, no?” She walked around the counter, punched on the ivory keys of an old brass register and it dinged. “Too many things up there that are cold.”
“Pardon?” I looked up from digging in my purse.
She slipped a receipt across the counter, a strange look on her face. “What is your name?”
“Uh, Rosetta.” I glanced at the price and handed her some money. “Rosetta Ryan.”
She nodded, took a pencil from the cup near the register, and wrote my name down on a piece of paper. She folded the paper, closed her eyes, and muttered something under her breath. She slipped the paper in the pocket of her skirt and looked at me as if it was normal to do such a thing.
“You need another shawl?”
“I—I.” I shook my head and smiled. “No, thank you.”
Sensing I’d been dismissed, I left the shop feeling a little thrown by her odd behavior. Tiny brass bells jangled over a door a few yards down catching my attention. A wooden shingle hung from the roof on black chains, the word Apothecary painted in sweeping script across the surface.
I pushed through the door, and a wave of sweet and spicy scents greeted me. I smiled, breathing it in, and took a turn around the small shop. Countless glass jars lined wooden shelves filled with dried herbs and teas of every color. Over my head, bunches of flowers hung from the ceiling on lengths of twine. Sheaves of lavender, chamomile, and other grasses, dried and arranged in a large basket, sat on a nearby counter. I wandered to a table set with brass bowls. They held flower petals and shells. I ran my fingertips through the potpourri feeling the soft rustle of delicate dry flowers.
“Looking for something in particular?”
I turned towards the velvety voice. A woman with long raven locks, ruby lips, and dark almond eyes leaned on her elbows over the counter.
“I’m not sure,” I said and walked over. “It’s just so wonderful in here.”
“Well, I thank you.” Her gorgeous features lit up with a smile.
She wore the same type of shawl that I did, but black with small silver beads hanging off the fringe. Her page-boy blouse skimmed a shapely figure. A silver butterfly dangled on a chain around her slender neck.
Raquel Byrnes Page 6