by Webb, Wendy
It was as though she took the gloom with her and left a fresh breeze in its place. Suddenly, I was parched. I looked into the refrigerator for something to drink and found a single bottle of water. I was mid-gulp when I realized with a shudder that my dead mother had purchased it.
I left the bottle on the counter, grabbed my bags, and headed back upstairs to the master suite where I had discovered Iris. There I found an enormous main room with a fireplace tucked into one corner. On the wall across from the king-sized bed (cherrywood headboard: antique, I assumed) hung a flat-screen television. A nice mix of old and new. It was, in a word, awesome, and I don’t use that word lightly. It was a perfect place for me, an Eden. I didn’t need any other part of the house; I could’ve lived right there. I’d had apartments that weren’t as big, and none, certainly had been as beautiful. Books were piled on the nightstand: a couple of recent best sellers, a nonfiction work about the discovery of a long-lost book of the Bible, and a crossword puzzle dictionary. I picked them up, one by one, and smiled. Her bedtime reading told me the most I had learned about my mother since I had been here.
A big bay window, bigger than the one at the Manitou Inn, looked out onto the lake. It seemed to be a feature of many of the houses here; the islanders apparently loved their views. Next, I poked my head into the bathroom. I was delighted to see a huge claw-foot tub under one of the windows—a nice view from the bath—and a tiled shower in one corner. This was an old house, but obviously Madlyn had renovated it. I could get used to this.
The bedroom opened up to another room, a study. Bookshelves lined the walls; another fireplace stood in a corner; photos in frames were everywhere. Two big overstuffed leather chairs with ottomans stood in front of the fireplace, with a comfy chaise on the opposite wall.
Back in the bedroom, I opened a door to find a walk-in closet, with clothes hanging from long racks on both walls. My mother’s clothes. I embraced an armful of blouses and buried my face in the fabrics; they smelled like lilac and herbs and lavender. Behind my closed eyes, I saw my mother’s face, smiling. I love you, Hallie girl. A memory of her at last. At the realization of this, I slumped down to the floor. I missed her so intensely right at that moment, there among her things.
“Why couldn’t you have stayed alive long enough for me to get here?” I asked her, out loud. I sat there awhile, in my mother’s closet, until it was time to get myself together and start unpacking.
I pushed some of my mother’s things aside to make room for my clothes. Seeing my shirts there, hanging side by side with hers, gave me a feeling of belonging that nothing else had. There we were, my mother and I, together. Her house was my house now, and I felt it, through and through.
I looked at the clock in her bedroom, surprised. Nearly five o’clock already. Will would be here in less than an hour. I wanted to shower and change, so I went looking for towels. I didn’t have to look far; there was a linen closet in the bathroom where I found everything I needed: fluffy white towels, shampoo (my favorite brand), body wash, and even a few extra Puffs. I smiled. My mother and I shared the same tastes.
I undressed, placing my necklace and earrings on the vanity, and hopped into the shower; the steaming water promised renewal and optimism. Afterward, I pulled on a white robe that was hanging on the back of the door. Using her things and wearing her robe made me feel so close to my mother. Maybe I could find something of hers to wear for my dinner with Will.
I wasn’t sure if the restaurant where we were going was casual or fancy, but I knew one thing: We’d be riding in an open-air carriage to get there. No short skirts or high-heeled pumps tonight.
I stood there awhile staring into the closet. I didn’t want to give Will the wrong impression—this wasn’t a date, it was a friendly dinner. How could I convey that, exactly? I found a long black stretchy cotton dress with a scoop neckline—casual enough so I wouldn’t look like I was dressed for a prom if Will was in jeans, yet dressy enough if he showed up in a suit. I had a pair of black flats in my suitcase that would go perfectly with the dress.
I pulled on the dress and scrutinized myself in the mirror. It hugged in all the right places and camouflaged the trouble spots. As I stood there gazing at my reflection, a second vision of myself swam into view behind me. The mirror itself was vibrating and swaying, as though someone had thrown a rock into the glassy surface of a pool, and I saw another me, wearing the same black dress, brushing the same hair. Me, but not me. Older. I took a sharp breath. Was I seeing my mother’s reflection in her own mirror?
I was afraid to breathe or move or do anything to disturb the image of my mother standing behind me. I watched as, in slow motion, she raised her arms and wrapped them around my shoulders. I felt her gently stroking my hair. After a lifetime of wishing for it, it was finally happening. My mother was embracing me. Hoping to feel what the image in the mirror reflected, I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, she was gone. I turned around and looked behind me, not sure she had been there at all. How could she have been? No, I reasoned, it was just a fantasy, brought about by standing in my mother’s house, wearing my mother’s dress, staring in my mother’s mirror.
I shook my head to bring me back into the moment. Will would be here soon, and I had to finish getting ready. All I needed now was my jewelry. The necklace was on the vanity where I had left it, but when I went to put on the earrings they were gone.
That’s odd. I looked on the floor—maybe they had fallen off the vanity?—but found nothing there. Maybe I had put them into my purse? They weren’t there either. I wondered if they had fallen down the sink, but no, the drain was closed. That reminded me: I needed to brush my teeth. I retrieved my toothbrush from my suitcase, came back into the bathroom, and was lifting the brush to my teeth when I saw the earrings. They were on the vanity, just where I had left them.
What was going on? Those earrings were not on the vanity a moment ago. Or were they?
I didn’t have long to ponder this mystery, because the doorbell and the barking dogs told me Will had arrived. I slipped my earrings into place, grabbed my purse, and headed down the stairs.
“Hey,” he said, as I opened the door. “You look great!”
He looked great, too, in jeans (I was glad I wasn’t too dressy), a striped shirt, and a soft brown leather jacket. The bunch of black-eyed Susans in his hand made my stomach do a quick flip.
I flashed a teasing grin. “Did you pull these from the flowerpots on the porch?”
“No, I stopped at the cemetery and took them off a grave.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Wherever you found them, thank you. Black-eyed Susans are my favorite.” I buried my nose in the deep yellow petals.
A short while later we were in the buggy clopping toward our dinner reservation. Will turned off the main road and headed into the forest, explaining that the restaurant was on the other side of the island, where I hadn’t yet been.
“We’re about to go through an ancient stand of trees,” Will explained, as we jostled along. “The native people who first lived on this island thought these trees were enchanted, that at any time one or all of them could come to life, reach out, and—” He made a grabbing gesture with his hand and chuckled.
Although the night sky was filled with stars, the darkness was inky and dense around us. Tufts of fog drifted here and there like ghosts flitting through the trees. I looked nervously from one side of the carriage to the other. It felt as if a set of eyes was out there, in the woods, watching. Maybe even in the trees themselves. This island’s native residents weren’t so silly in thinking these woods were enchanted.
I tried to make light of it. “I’m getting a definite Ichabod Crane feeling—” I started, but I choked on the word Crane. That I shared the name of a character who had been decapitated in woods like these on an autumn night did nothing to assuage the gnawing in my stomach.
“It does feel a little strange out here at night, I’ll give you that.” Will chuckled, clearly amused at my nervous ne
ss. “Especially since we’re about to go by the oldest cemetery on the island.” He looked at me wide-eyed, in mock surprise.
“Oh, right.” I stifled the urge to pinch him.
“I’m not kidding.” He grinned, pointing to the left. There I saw an old wrought-iron fence, decaying gravestones, and dead leaves swirling around like restless spirits.
“I actually sort of like cemeteries, especially very old ones.” I chattered away loudly to fill up the dread that was hanging in the air. “Graveyards give a sense of tangible history to a place, names of people, dates when they were born and died.”
“Oh, I agree completely. This one is very cool in just that way. You can find gravestones from three hundred years ago. It’s amazing.”
I was hoping he wasn’t intending to give me a tour right then. “Maybe we’ll come back sometime during the light of day.” I smiled. “High noon. Bright sunshine.”
“You know,” he mused, “I had an experience in that cemetery not too long ago that I’ll never forget.”
“Are you going to tell me a ghost story now to further terrify me? I’ll pinch you if you do. Hard.”
Will laughed. “It’s not a ghost story,” he said, and then, thinking for a moment, changed his mind. “Well, it might be. Do you still want to hear it?”
“Okay. Yes . . . yes!”
“All right. I was riding my bike along the path that climbs the hill near here, and I got the urge to go into the cemetery and take a look at all those old gravestones,” he began. “I hadn’t been in there since I was a kid. I was looking around, and I came upon an old, white, crumbling stone. It looked ancient. I read the names: Persephone, Patience, and Penelope Hill. Triplets, apparently. They were born on the same day in 1905 and died on the same day in 1913.”
A tendril of chill slithered its way up my spine.
“Of course, I was struck by the fact that they died on the same day and thought about the family that had to bury their three young children,” he went on. “But the thing that really got to me? Somebody had been there recently, within a day or so, and placed fresh flowers on the grave.”
I shuddered. “That is the creepiest thing I’ve heard, on a day of hearing very creepy things.”
“You haven’t heard the creepiest part yet,” he continued. “Does the name Hill mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
“It’s your family name. On Madlyn’s side. Your house? Built by Hills.”
I crossed my arms over my chest in a kind of hug. “Was it my mother, tending those graves? It speaks to the enduring nature of grief, doesn’t it? I mean, somebody is still thinking about those long-dead girls, even though they couldn’t possibly have known them while they were alive.”
The forest opened up and revealed a massive Tudor-style building and barn, quite unlike any of the breezy wooden Cape Cod houses that dominated the other side of the island. This looked solid and masculine and regal, like something you might find deep within the forest of a Grimm’s fairy tale. We pulled up to the barn, where an attendant loped out to take Belle’s reins. I saw the barn was full of similar carriages and horses. Will helped me down, and we walked toward the house.
“Wow,” I said, looking around. “This is something.”
“I thought you’d like it.” He smiled. “It was built as a hunting lodge by an industrialist from Germany in the late seventeen hundreds. It was passed down through the generations but stood empty for almost a century until the current owner bought it and restored it. Now it’s an inn and restaurant. The best on the island, to my way of thinking.”
We walked through enormous double doors and into a hallway lined with dark wood paneling. A candle chandelier, similar to the one at Madlyn’s house, blazed in the foyer, bathing the room in soft flickering light. A bar stood to the left, where several men were enjoying what I assumed were predinner cocktails.
A maître d’ wearing a tuxedo greeted us. “Mr. Archer, Miss Crane, so nice to see you both.” How lovely to be greeted by name. Will must’ve told him who I was when he made the reservation. The maître d’ smiled over his shoulder and led us into the main dining room. “Right this way.”
A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall. Above it hung a boar’s head, complete with tusks. Long dark wooden beams lined the ceiling. Candle chandeliers similar to the one in the foyer, along with candles on the tables, provided the only light. The walls were a deep red, and there were several stained-glass windows, although, without sunlight streaming through them, I couldn’t see the scenes they depicted.
I was surprised to see every table was occupied; I hadn’t thought that so many people were even on the island at this time of year. With everyone talking and laughing, the room should’ve been very noisy, but the chatter was muted by the high ceiling to a dull, seemingly faraway roar.
Everyone looks so happy, I thought, as the host held a chair for me to sit down. People would catch my eye, one after another, and nod or smile my way. If word about my return had reached these folks, they were certainly not upset about it. The flickering candlelight made the air in the room seem hazy and swirling, made people’s faces look slightly out of focus, as though I were looking at them through the lens of an old spyglass.
“What looks good to you?” Will’s voice brought me back from my dreamy reverie. “Steaks are good here.”
They were. Over dinner, our conversation meandered this way and that, from island life to national politics to favorite movies. We shared our important stories, some funny and some heartbreaking. I told him of my year traveling in Europe and my marriage; he told me of his college days and the time he nearly drowned in a rip current just off the island.
I could feel the air between us changing, morphing into something tangible and electric and real. In an earlier time in my life, this would have been the moment I thought I was falling in love with the man sitting across from me. But I was more cautious now.
When we finished our meals, the waiter brought the check. “Why don’t you go to the bar for some hot cognacs to go while I get the buggy?” Will suggested. “That’ll take the chill out of a cold ride home.”
Hot cognacs to go. What a fabulous concept. “A capital idea, Mr. Archer.” I smiled and headed to the bar as he walked out the door.
When, cognacs in hand, I pushed my way outside into the night, I was met by a faceful of chill. Will was standing alongside Belle, waiting to help me up. I climbed in and he draped a thick woolen blanket over my lap before jumping up himself. I handed him one of the cups and took a sip of my own, the warm spiciness lighting me up from inside.
“This is one of the benefits of a horse and carriage,” he said, as we touched paper cups in a toast. “You can have your nightcap on the drive home.”
When Will pulled Belle to a stop in front of the house, I was glad I had left so many lights on—the warm yellow glow from the windows looked inviting and homey.
“Thanks for a lovely time,” I said, gathering up my purse and pushing the blanket off my knees.
“Thank you,” he said softly, reaching up and grasping a lock of my hair, twirling it lightly before letting it fall back into place as he leaned in to kiss me.
I stiff ened and pulled back, jumping out of the buggy just in time and calling a hasty farewell as I ran up the steps.
· 12
I’ve brought you a house warming gift!” Mira announced the next afternoon. She stood on the porch, holding a wicker picnic basket. “Welcome to the island!”
“Thanks so much, Mira!” I exclaimed, as I took the basket from her arms. It was heavier than I had imagined. “This is really thoughtful.”
We stood in the doorway for a moment, smiling awkwardly, and then I said, “Come in, come in!”
We trooped into the kitchen, where I turned the heat on under the kettle and opened the basket. I found it lined with a red-and-white checked tablecloth and filled with gourmet items: fancy mixes for scones and soup and cardamom bread, island-made jams and s
alsa, a crock of lemon curd—even a bottle of red wine.
It was a very kind thing for Mira to do, to search out these various treats, put them in a basket, and haul it over here, especially considering that our last encounter had been rather chilly.
I handed Mira a cup of tea and she held it aloft in the air between us. “To your new beginning!”
A new beginning. That’s exactly what this was for me, wasn’t it? I hadn’t thought of it that way before. I was so wrapped up in death I had failed to appreciate that I was beginning to build a life, albeit a small one, here on the island. And it wasn’t half bad.
“Why don’t we go into the sunroom with our tea?” I suggested.
“This is such a gorgeous place,” she mused on our way from the kitchen. “It’s been years since I was here.”
I was sure that was, at least partially, the reason for her visit—to get a look inside Madlyn’s home. She also would want to find out if I had made any plans. What was I going to do with the house, turn it into an inn? Live in it? I imagine she wondered about all these things. Still, I didn’t care. It was nice to have a visitor, even a gossipy one.
We spent the next hour or so chatting as she told me some island particulars: Thursday was garbage day, the wine bar on Main Street was closed on Sundays, Henry didn’t like to drive people to the other side of the island anymore so I shouldn’t ask. I told her I wasn’t sure about my long-term future, but for the short term I intended to stay.
“Excellent news! It’ll be wonderful to have another interesting Crane woman on the island.” She grinned.
She left with the promise to meet me for lunch sometime the next week. After her visit, I felt warm inside. I wasn’t a stranger on the island anymore. I knew people and they knew me. I would have garbage to put out next Thursday! Little by little, despite the uncertainty surrounding my departure from here thirty years ago, and the ugliness of my encounters with the group of islanders at the coffee shop and with Julie Sutton’s mother in the grocery store, I was starting to belong.