by Webb, Wendy
“I’ve been feeling exactly the same way,” I told him. “Like I’ve walked onto my own deserted movie set.”
“You get it, then.”
I nodded. But I didn’t get it, not really. To me, the emptiness was more than a little unsettling, as if I were wandering alone in a graveyard. I felt it encircle me as we walked out the door and into the wind. The scent of rain was hanging in the air.
“My car’s out back,” he said, leading me around the building.
Car? As we rounded the corner, I saw what he meant. An enormous white horse—the kind of animal that I imagined had pulled fire trucks in the past—stood tied to a railing. Behind it stood a contraption that could only be described as a buggy. It had two wheels, a seat designed for two, and a canopy over the top. Looking up at the heavy gray sky, I wished for a real car—or at least an enclosed carriage like Henry’s.
“This is Tinkerbelle,” he said to me, reaching up to scratch the horse’s nose.
It struck me funny, such a dainty name for such a massive, muscular horse. “I had a very tiny cat named Tinker-belle once,” I teased him. “It suited her.”
He laughed, held out his hand to help me into the vehicle, and glanced upward at the rain clouds. “I hope we make it before the downpour.”
I heard a rumble of thunder in the distance and hoped so, too. “How far do we have to go?”
“Only a couple of miles.” He untied the horse, hopped into the driver’s seat, took the reins, and made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Let’s go, Belle.”
And we were off. At a snail’s pace. Belle was in no hurry to deliver me to my past and seemed unconcerned about the impending rain. I, on the other hand, couldn’t get to the house quickly enough. “You know, I could run faster than this,” I said, giving William a sidelong glance.
“You’re free to lope ahead of the buggy any time the mood hits you. But don’t lag behind. It can get quite unpleasant in back of a horse.”
I laughed. “Hey, you must have a whole staff of people who do nothing but clean up after horses. I haven’t seen any—evidence—the whole time I’ve been here.”
“We do indeed,” he said. “It’s the most glamorous job on the island. We usually save it for the spoiled children of wealthy seasonal residents.”
I was grateful for the bit of levity. As we got closer and closer to the house, the reality of my past life here was looming larger. I felt almost suffocated by it, but somehow the sound of Belle’s hooves on the cobblestones, along with the swaying of the buggy, had a calming, almost hypnotizing effect. It was the heartbeat of this place.
“I love that sound,” I murmured, referring to the hoof-beats. “It’s a sound from the past, isn’t it? Our ancestors heard it constantly as part of their daily lives, but now it’s almost nonexistent in our world.”
“It’s funny you picked up on that. I always imagine what it might’ve been like in New York or Chicago a century ago: no cars, people coming and going in carriages, business deliveries being made by horse-drawn wagons. Hoofbeats everywhere. That sound was the constant din of traffic back then. They probably didn’t even hear it or register it, because it was always there, every time they went out in the street. We’ve replaced it with engines and motors.”
“And radios.”
“And most recently the constant chatter of people on cell phones. That’s my pet peeve, by the way, the privilege of listening to somebody else’s conversation.”
“I know. I can’t stand it.”
“Another reason to love the island,” William said. “No cell service.”
I snuck a glance at his ring finger—empty. Why? He was an eligible, presumably well-off lawyer. You’d think he’d have to beat women off with a stick. Living in Seattle, he certainly would have.
“So, William—” I began.
He interrupted. “Call me Will. Everybody else does.”
“Will.” I smiled, forgetting what I had intended to say. We rode in silence for a while, the swaying of the buggy and Belle’s hoofbeats calming me. My eyelids felt heavy. For the first time that day, the adrenaline that had been stirred up the night before seemed to dissipate, leaving my body. Tired from too little sleep, I might have nodded off if a rumble of thunder hadn’t pealed through the sky.
“We’re almost there,” Will said to me. “We’ll make it before the rain starts. Madlyn lives just up the hill on the cliff.” And then, quietly: “Lived.”
It occurred to me for the first time that he was grieving for her, too. “Did you know her well?”
“Quite well, actually.” He sighed. “Not only was I her lawyer, Madlyn and my mother were the best of friends. They grew up together.”
Suddenly, it clicked. How could I have been such an idiot? The ease I felt with this man, roughly my age, whose mother and mine had known each other so well . . .
“Will.” I looked deeply at him, trying to spark any hint of memory. “Did we know each other, before?”
He grinned broadly but stared straight ahead. “I was wondering if you’d remember.”
“We were friends?”
“We played together all the time when we were kids. I practically lived at your house.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was five years old when my father took me away from this place—still a child, yes, but plenty old enough to remember a friend, a mother, a home. But a huge expanse of nothingness existed in my brain where those memories should’ve been. I felt empty, my entire childhood covered by a dark shroud. Who or what had draped it there?
“I don’t remember anything, not one thing,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s crazy. The only memories I have of my childhood involve me and my father in our little town north of Seattle, just the two of us. Why can’t I remember this place? My mother? You? It’s not like I was a baby when—”
My words evaporated in the air. We had turned into the driveway of the house where I was born, just as fat raindrops began to fall. I could swear I saw my mother, long auburn hair, fisherman’s-knit sweater, colorful scarf, and all, standing on the front porch, waving.
· 7
The sky opened up and the rain fell to earth with a fury, beating down so hard it was difficult to see much past the rim of Will’s buggy.
“You run up to the house, and I’ll put Belle and this contraption in the stable,” he directed.
I did as I was told. I jumped out of the buggy and hurried up a set of steps onto a covered front porch, where I paused to catch my breath and look around. Rain pounded down behind me, but the porch was dry. It was difficult to make out the view, in all the rain and fog, but I could tell this much: The house sat on top of a cliff overlooking the water.
My entire body was humming with electricity. This had been my home. It had not been destroyed by fire then, all those years ago, as my father had told me. My one clear memory of that time, the fire, was a lie.
Will hurried up the steps to the porch, shaking the rain off a large umbrella.
“You had an umbrella all along!”
“I found it in the stable.” He laughed. “Sorry.” He pointed out into the rain. “You can’t tell now, but the view from this house is incredible. You can see downtown, the harbor, and the lake beyond it. I think it’s the best view on the whole island, and that’s saying something.”
I turned, catching a glimpse of a porch swing swaying back and forth in the wind, as though an unseen rocker were admiring the view.
“Shall we go inside?” Will suggested.
“Not just yet,” I said, not realizing how heavily I had been breathing until I settled onto the swing. “This is a lot to process at once. Can we sit here for a minute?”
He sat down next to me and we swayed back and forth in silence for a while. I noticed containers filled with wilting autumn plants and flowers—black-eyed Susans (my favorite), mums, and several other kinds I didn’t recognize—scattered here and there on the porch. The welcome mat in front of the bright red front door said go away. That mad
e me smile.
“After you—well . . . died”—William’s eyes were on the ground—”I didn’t come here for years. I couldn’t.”
For the second time that day, something obvious occurred to me. This man had lost a friend all those years ago and now she had reappeared, back from the dead. I wasn’t the only one having a tough time with this new reality. I wasn’t the only one with a lot to take in.
“What did everybody think happened to my father and me?”
“Boating accident,” he said quickly. “They found your overturned kayak. The entire island put their boats in the water to search for you, but . . .” His words trailed off into a sigh.
I didn’t quite know what to say. “How about we go inside?” I offered, trying to push out of my mind the image of dozens of colorful kayaks, rusting fishing boats, and elegant cruisers all searching for me. Will produced a set of keys from his pocket, unlocked the front door, and held it open as I walked through it into my home.
I found myself standing in a large square foyer, the living room on one side, the dining room on the other, and a grand wooden staircase ascending in the middle.
“Where’s the welcoming committee?” Will looked left, right, and up the stairs. “Girls! Tundra! Tika!”
I heard a clatter of toenails on the wood floor, and two enormous dogs burst through the swinging door separating the dining room from what I assumed was the kitchen. They looked like huskies but were much bigger; their thick white and gray fur, bushy tails, long legs, and dark masks around steely golden eyes all hinted at ancient timberwolf ancestors. One was carrying a twisted rope bone in her mouth; the other had a stuffed rabbit. The dogs wiggled and curled around our legs, their great tails wagging, ears pinned back in greeting. Will was scratching and petting them in return, murmuring, “Good girls! Such good, good girls!”
One of them, the bigger of the two, jumped up on me, putting one saucerlike paw on my shoulder and the other on the top of my head. I was afraid to move. “They’re friendly, right?”
“Down, Tundra!” Will commanded, and the dog dropped to the floor and sat in front of me. “She loves visitors. They’re the highlight of her day. And yes, they’re both friendly—but protective, too.”
I reached down gingerly to scratch this beast behind the ears. “So these were my mother’s dogs.”
Will nodded. “Tundra and Tika. They’re giant Alaskan malamutes. The breed is traditionally used as sled dogs, though the most work these two do is to walk from the couch to their food dishes. I’ve been taking care of them at home since Madlyn’s death, but I brought them here this morning before going to the office. I knew you’d like to meet them at the very least, even if you don’t end up keeping them. The girls belong to you now.”
“They’re magnificent,” I murmured, staring into their fierce golden eyes.
The greeting complete, both dogs settled down, curling up next to each other on the floor. I noticed they didn’t take their eyes off Will and me.
“We don’t have to stand here in the foyer, you know,” Will said, as he shut the front door behind us. “Take a look around.”
As I wandered farther into the house, images flashed in my mind like a slide show on fast forward: A little girl dressed in white pounding up the stairs. The same girl, squealing as she slid down the banister. A glowering woman in a long black dress. Was I remembering snippets from a long-buried childhood or just imagining what might have been? I didn’t know. It seemed real, but after seeing a person drowning in the water earlier and hearing that singsong tune on the street in front of Will’s office, I wasn’t certain I trusted my own mind.
In the living room, I ran my hand gently over the back of the sofa as I took a look around. Like those in the Manitou Inn, the floors here were made of gleaming hardwood, and the woodwork around the door frames and windows shone as though it had been freshly waxed. An overstuffed brown leather sofa sat in the middle of the room, along with a love seat and an armchair. Worn rugs were scattered about. A stone fireplace stretching all the way up to the vaulted ceiling stood in one corner, a flat-screen television in the other. Cherrywood paneling lined the walls that did not face the lake.
Photographs were everywhere—on the walls, the coffee tables, the raised stone hearth—as were framed covers of several magazines: Time, National Geographic, Vanity Fair. I had already seen many of the shots on Madlyn’s website, but several were new to me.
I picked up a photograph here, a candle holder there, fingering the stuff of my mother’s world in an attempt to leave my imprint. Dust floated in the air. The energy in the room was electric and alive, as though the house itself were watching me.
Will came over to me. “You okay?”
“I guess I’m a little overwhelmed,” I admitted. The truth was, I was a lot overwhelmed. The house was bigger and more opulent than I had expected, and I was having trouble wrapping my mind around two notions: that it was now mine, and that I used to live here.
“Check out the sunporch.” William pointed toward a set of sliding doors at the far end of the room. “It won’t be sunny out there on a day like this, of course, but you’ll get the idea.”
I pushed open one of the doors into a room with windows on three sides. It overlooked the lake to the front and the side gardens to the back. Rain was hitting the windows in gusts, mixed with a little icy sleet. Lovely. I heard the thunder again, and then a crack of lightning arced through the sky.
“Wow,” I murmured, settling onto a chaise in the corner of the room. “It’s great to watch a storm in here.”
Along with the chaise, a couch with a muted floral print and an overstuffed striped armchair formed a sitting area, next to a small glass table and an enormous wooden rocking chair. The style could be described as the shabby chic that was popular a few years ago, but this furniture seemed just plain old. Comfortable but old. Magazines were strewn in racks, books sat on end tables. It occurred to me that this was where Madlyn spent much of her time. I could feel her—or something—alive here.
And then I heard it, as clear as crystal: Hallie! Halcyon Crane! Have you done something with your mother’s camera? It was a female voice, a loud female voice, coming from behind me.
I spun around and onto my knees to look over the back of the chaise. Nobody was there.
“Hallie—” William poked his nose into the room and began to speak but stopped when he saw my expression. “What’s the matter?”
I was breathing heavily and could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I rubbed my hands on my jeans. “Nothing. It’s just—I thought I heard something.”
“The dogs?”
“No, it was a voice. I think it was my mother’s voice.”
He stood there for a moment, eyeing me carefully. Sizing up the lunatic, I thought. But then he said, “You know what? Maybe your memories are coming back.”
Could that be? A childhood memory of this place? My first one! “I’ll bet I played in here a lot as a child,” I said, smiling and turning around in a circle. “I love this room.”
“You did.” He smiled at me. “We did.”
I imagined a little girl, that same girl in white I had seen in my mind before, playing with toy horses in the corner. I saw her reading a picture book, sprawled out on her stomach, feet kicking up toward the sky.
“What do you say we join the dogs in the kitchen and make ourselves a cup of tea—or something stronger?” he suggested. “With this rain, we might as well settle in for a while.”
“You’re sure it’s okay?” I felt I was trespassing, as though the real owner of the house would come barging in at any moment, demanding to know what we were doing there.
“It still hasn’t sunk in. This place is yours, Hallie.”
Right. I smiled. “Onward to the kitchen.”
He led me back through the living room, the foyer, and the dining room into the kitchen, and I couldn’t muffle the squeal of delight that escaped from my lips. Of all the rooms I had seen thus far, I liked th
is one the best.
The walls were painted a muted red; the windows were framed in dark wood. A long counter was topped with wooden cabinets that stretched all the way to the ceiling. An ancient armoire with glass doors displayed china and glass-ware, a rack of brightly colored plates stood in a row over the sink, and a small bookshelf was filled with cookbooks. A butcher-block center island was ringed with bar stools, and the mammoth stove sat sentinel beneath a set of copper pots and pans. A long rough-hewn table with chairs all around took up the end of the room by the back door and windows. A chaise sat in the far corner. What a perfect spot for curling up with a cookbook and figuring out what’s for dinner!
“Madlyn had a lot of parties,” Will explained, as though he were a tour guide through the mystery world my mother had inhabited. “She loved bringing people together for informal meals: professors and artists and bankers and grounds-keepers, men and women from all walks of life. She liked the mix of viewpoints, I think. This kitchen got a lot of use.”
I had always lived in places with cold utilitarian kitchens, long slim rooms with metal cabinets on one side and a tiny table shoved into a corner. This kitchen had a feeling of life to it, a warmth that seemed to envelop me. It was as though the room itself were matronly and loving, ready to offer me a cup of tea or a freshly baked cookie. For the first time on the island, I felt truly at home.
“All my life I’ve wished for a big old kitchen,” I said, but the words caught in my throat. “Exactly like this.” I looked at Will. “When I was wishing for my ideal kitchen, I was actually remembering this one, wasn’t I?”
“It’s possible,” he said, reaching up into one of the cabinets. “It makes sense that your memories are slowly taking shape, the more you see of your old surroundings.” He retrieved a couple of teabags, ran some water into a teakettle, and set it on the stove. “Do you want to explore the rest of the house while the water boils?”