by Нора Робертс
Even then he'd felt displaced, in a way he'd never been able to explain, in New England.
The house had pulled him, in some deep chamber. Like a hook through memory, he thought now. He'd been able to visualize the interior even before he and Remy had broken in to ramble through it.
Or the gallon or two of beer they'd sucked down had caused him to think he could.
A drunk boy barely out of his teens couldn't be trusted. And neither, Declan admitted ruefully, could a stone-sober thirty-one-year– old man.
The minute Remy had mentioned that Manet Hall was on the block again, he'd put in a bid. Sight unseen, or unseen for more than half a decade. He'd had to have it. As if he'd been waiting all his life to call it his own.
He could deem the price reasonable if he didn't consider what he'd have to pour into it to make it habitable. So he wouldn't consider it-just now.
It was his, whether he was crazy or whether he was right. No matter what, he'd turned in his briefcase for a tool belt. That alone lightened his mood.
He pulled out his cell phone-you could take the lawyer out of Boston, but … Still studying the house, he put in a call to Remy Payne.
He went through a secretary, and imagined Remy sitting at a desk cluttered with files and briefs. It made him smile, a quick, crooked grin that shifted the planes and angles of his face, hollowed the cheeks, softened the sometimes– grim line of his mouth.
Yes, he thought, life could be worse. He could be the one at the desk.
"Well, hey, Dec." Remy's lazy drawl streamed into the packed Mercedes SUV like a mist over a slow-moving river. "Where are you, boy?”
"I'm sitting in my car looking at this white elephant I was crazy enough to buy. Why the hell didn't you talk me out of it or have me committed?”
"You're here? Son of a bitch! I didn't think you'd make it until tomorrow.”
"Got antsy." He rubbed his chin; heard the scratch of stubble. "Drove through most of last night and got an early start again this morning. Remy? What was I thinking?”
"Damned if I know. Listen, you give me a couple hours to clear some business, and I'll drive out. Bring us some libation. We'll toast that rattrap and catch up.”
"Good. That'd be good.”
"You been inside yet?”
"No. I'm working up to it."
"Jesus, Dec, go on in out of the rain.”
"Yeah, all right." Declan passed a hand over his face. "See you in a couple hours.”
"I'll bring food. For Christ's sake, don't try to cook anything. No point burning the place down before you've spent a night in it.”
"Fuck you." He heard Remy laugh before he hung up.
He started the engine again, drove all the way to the base of what was left of those double stairs that framed the entranceway. He popped the glove compartment, took out the keys that had been mailed to him after settlement.
He climbed out and was immediately drenched. Deciding he'd leave the boxes for later, he jogged to the shelter of the entrance gallery, felt a few of the bricks that formed the floor give ominously under his weight, and shook himself like a dog.
There should be vines climbing up the corner columns, he thought. Something with cool blue blossoms. He could see it if he concentrated hard enough. Something open, almost like a cup, with leaves shaped like hearts.
I've seen that somewhere, he mused, and turned to the door. It was a double, with carvings and long arched panels of glass on either side and a half-moon glass topper. And tracing his fingers over the doors, he felt some of the thrill sneak into him.
"Welcome home, Dec," he said aloud and unlocked the door.
The foyer was as he remembered it. The wide loblolly pine floor, the soaring ceiling. The plaster medallion overhead was a double ring of some sort of flowers. It had probably boasted a fabulous crystal chandelier in its heyday. The best it could offer now was a single bare bulb dangling from a long wire. But when he hit the wall switch, it blinked on. That was something.
In any event, the staircase was the focal point. It rose up, wide and straight to the second level, where it curved right and left to lead to each wing.
What a single man with no current prospects or intentions of being otherwise needed with two wings was a question he didn't want to ask himself at the moment.
The banister was coated with gray dust, but when he rubbed a finger over it, he felt the smooth wood beneath. How many hands had gripped there? How many fingers had trailed along it? he wondered. These were the sort of questions that fascinated him, that drew him in.
The kind of questions that had him climbing the stairs with the door open to the rain behind him, and his possessions still waiting in the car.
The stairs might have been carpeted once. There probably had been runners in the long center hallway. Some rich pattern on deep red. Floors, woodwork, tabletops would have been polished religiously with beeswax until they gleamed like the crystal in the chandeliers.
At parties, women in spectacular dresses would glide up and down the stairs– confident, stylish. Some of the men would gather in the billiard room, using the game as an excuse to puff on cigars and pontificate about politics and finance.
And servants would scurry along, efficiently invisible, stoking fires, clearing glasses, answering demands.
On the landing, he opened a panel. The hidden door was skillfully worked into the wall, the faded wallpaper, the dulled wainscoting. He wasn't certain how he'd known it was there. Someone must have mentioned it.
He peered into the dim, dank corridor. Part of the rabbit warren of servants' quarters and accesses, he believed. Family and guests didn't care to have underfoot those who served. A good servant left no trace of his work, but saw to his duties discreetly, silently and well.
Frowning, Declan strained his eyes to see. Where had that come from? His mother? As tight-assed as she could be from time to time, she'd never say something that pompous.
With a shrug, he closed the door again. He'd explore that area another time, when he had a flashlight and a bag of bread crumbs.
He walked along the corridor, glancing in doorways. Empty rooms, full of dust and the smell of damp, gray light from the rain. Some walls were papered, some were down to the skeletal studs.
Sitting room, study, bath and surely the billiard room he'd imagined, as its old mahogany bar was still in place.
He walked in to circle around it, to touch the wood, to crouch down and examine the workmanship.
He'd started a love affair with wood in high school. To date, it was his most lasting relationship. He'd taken a summer job as a laborer even though his family had objected. He'd objected to the idea of spending those long summer days cooped up in a law office as a clerk, and had wanted to work outdoors. To polish his tan and his build.
It had been one of the rare times his father had overruled his mother and sided with him.
He'd gotten sunburn, splinters, blisters, calluses, an aching back. And had fallen in love with building.
Not building so much, Declan thought now. Rebuilding. The taking of something already formed and enhancing, repairing, restoring.
Nothing had given him as big a kick, or half as much satisfaction.
He'd had a knack for it. A natural, the Irish pug of a foreman had told him. Good hands, good eyes, good brain. Declan had never forgotten that summer high. And had never matched it since.
Maybe now, he thought. Maybe he would now. There had to be more for him than just getting from one day to the next doing what was expected and acceptable.
With pleasure and anticipation growing, he went back to exploring his house.
At the door to the ballroom he stopped, and grinned. "Wow. Cool!”
His voice echoed and all but bounced back to slap him in the face. Delighted, he walked in. The floors were scarred and stained and spotted. There were sections damaged where it appeared someone had put up partitions to bisect the room, then someone else had knocked them out again.
But he cou
ld fix that. Some moron had thrown up drywall and yellow paint over the original plaster walls. He'd fix that, too.
At least they'd left the ceiling alone. The plasterwork was gorgeous, complicated wreaths of flowers and fruit. It would need repairing, and a master to do it. He'd find one.
He threw open the gallery doors to the rain. The neglected, tumbled jungle of gardens spread out, snaked through with overgrown and broken bricked paths. There was likely a treasure of plantings out there. He'd need a landscaper, but he hoped to do some of it himself.
Most of the outbuildings were only ruins now.
He could see a portion of a chimney stack, part of a vine-smothered wall of a derelict worker's cabin, the pocked bricks and rusted roof of an old pigeonnier-Creole planters had often raised pigeons.
He'd only gotten three acres with the house, so it was likely other structures that had belonged to the plantation were now tumbling down on someone else's land.
But he had trees, he thought. Amazing trees. The ancient live oaks that formed the allйe dripped with water and moss, and the thick limbs of a sycamore spread and twisted like some prehistoric beast.
A wash of color caught his attention, had him stepping out into the rain. Something was blooming, a tall, fat bush with dark red flowers. What the hell bloomed in January? he wondered, and made a mental note to ask Remy.
Closing his eyes a moment, he listened. He could hear nothing but rain, the whoosh and splash of it on roof, on ground, on tree.
He'd done the right thing, he told himself. He wasn't crazy after all. He'd found his place. It felt like his, and if it wasn't, what did it matter? He'd find another. At least, finally, he'd stirred up the energy to look.
He stepped back in and, humming, walked back across the ballroom toward the family wing, to check out each of the five bedrooms.
He caught himself singing under his breath as he wandered through the first of them.
"After the ball is over, after the break of morn; After the dancers leaving, after the stars are gone …”
He stopped examining baseboard and looked over his shoulder as if expecting to see someone standing behind him. Where had that come from? he wondered. The tune, the lyrics. With a shake of his head, he straightened.
"From the ballroom, idiot," he mumbled. "Ballroom on the mind, so you start singing about a ball. Weird, but not crazy. Talking to yourself isn't crazy, either. Lots of people do it.”
The door to the room across the hall was closed. Though he expected the creak of hinges, the sound still danced a chill up his spine.
That sensation was immediately followed by bafflement. He could have sworn he smelled perfume. Flowers. Lilies. Weddings and funerals. And for an instant he imagined them, pure and white and somehow feral in a tall crystal vase.
His next feeling was irritation. He'd only sent a few pieces ahead, including his bedroom furniture. The movers had dumped it in the wrong room, and he'd been very specific. His room would be the master at the corner, overlooking the garden and pond at the rear, and the avenue of oaks from the side.
Now he'd have to settle for this room, or haul the damn stuff himself.
The scent of lilies was overpowering when he shoved the door all the way open. Almost dizzying. Confused, he realized it wasn't even his furniture. The bed was a full tester draped in deep blue silk. There was a carved chifforobe, a tall chest of drawers, all gleaming. He caught the scent of beeswax under the floral. Saw the lilies in that tall, crystal vase on a woman's vanity table, its legs curved like the necks of swans. The chair was delicate, its seat an intricate needlepoint pattern of blue and rose.
Silver-backed brushes, a brooch of gold wings with an enameled watch. Long blue draperies, ornate gaslight sconces set on a low, shimmering light. A woman's white robe tossed over the back of a blue chaise.
Candlesticks on the mantel, and a picture in a silver frame.
He saw it all, snapshot clear. Before his brain could process the how of it, he was staring into an empty room where rain streamed outside uncurtained windows.
"Jesus Christ." He gripped the doorjamb for balance. "What the hell?”
He drew in a breath. There was nothing in the air but must and dust.
Projecting, he told himself. Just projecting what the room might have looked like. He hadn't seen anything, or smelled anything. He'd just gotten caught up in the charm of the place, in the spirit of it.
But he couldn't make himself step over the threshold.
He closed the door again, walked directly down to the corner room. His furniture was there, as ordered, and the sight of it both relieved and steadied him.
The good, solid Chippendale bed with its headboard and footboard unadorned. The one point of agreement he'd had, always, with his mother was a love of antiques, the respect for the workmanship, the history.
He'd bought the bed after he and Jessica had called off the wedding. Okay, after he'd called it off, he admitted with the usual tug of guilt. He'd wanted to start fresh, and had searched out and purchased the pieces for his bedroom.
He'd chosen the bachelor's chest not only because it appeared he was going to remain one, but also because he'd liked the style of it, the double herringbone inlay, the secret compartments, the short, turned legs. He'd selected the armoire to conceal his television and stereo, and the sleek Deco lamps because he'd liked the mix of styles.
Seeing his things here in the spacious room with its handsome granite fireplace in dark green, the arched gallery doors, the gently faded wallpaper, the pitifully scarred floors, clicked him back into place again.
The adjoining dressing area made him smile. All he needed was a valet, and white tie and tails. The connecting bath, modernized from the look of it sometime in the woeful seventies, had him wincing at the avocado-green decor and yearning for a hot shower.
He'd take a quick walk through the third floor, he decided, do the same on the main level, then take the ugly green tub for a spin.
He headed up. The tune was playing in his head again. Around and around, like a waltz. He let it come. It was company of sorts until Remy showed up.
Many the hopes that have vanished, after the ball.
The staircase was narrower here. This level was for children and staff, neither of whom required fancy touches.
He'd save the servants' wing for later, he decided, and circled around toward what he assumed were nursery, storage, attics.
He reached for a doorknob, the brass dull with time and neglect. A draft, cold enough to pierce bone, swept down the corridor. He saw his breath puff out in surprise, watched it condense into a thin cloud.
As his hand closed over the knob, nausea rose up so fast, so sharp, it stole his breath again. Cold sweat pearled on his brow. His head spun. In an instant he knew a fear so huge, so great, he wanted to run screaming. Instead he stumbled back, braced himself against the wall while terror and dread choked him like murderous hands.
Don't go in there. Don't go in.
Wherever the voice in his head came from, he was inclined to listen to it. He knew the house was rumored to be haunted. He didn't mind such things.
Or thought he didn't mind them.
But the idea of opening that door to whatever was behind it, to whatever waited on the other side, was more than he cared to face alone. On an empty stomach. After a ten-hour drive.
"Just wasting time anyway," he said for the comfort of his own voice. "I should be unloading the car. So, I'm going to unload the car.”
"Who you talking to, cher?”
Declan jumped like a basketball center at the tip-off, and barely managed to turn a scream into a more acceptable masculine yelp. "God damn it, Remy. You scared the shit out of me.”
"You're the one up here talking to a door. I gave a few shouts on my way up. Guess you didn't hear.”
"Guess I didn't.”
Declan leaned back against the wall, sucked in air, and studied his friend.
Remy Payne had the cocky good looks of a con arti
st. He was tailor-made for the law, Declan thought. Slick, sharp, with cheerful blue eyes and a wide mouth that could, as it was now, stretch like rubber into a disarming smile that made you want to believe everything he said, even as you caught the distinctive whiff of bullshit.
He was on the skinny side, never had been able to bulk up despite owning the appetite of an elephant. In college he'd worn his deep-brown hair in a sleek mane over his collar. He'd shortened it now so it was almost Caesarean in style.
"I thought you said a couple hours.”
"Been that. Damn near two and a half. You okay there, Dec? Look a little peaky.”
"Long drive, I guess. God, it's good to see you.”
"'Bout time you mentioned that." With a laugh, he caught Declan in a bear hug. "Whoo, boy. You been working out. Turn around, lemme see your ass."
"You idiot." They slapped backs. "Tell me one thing," Declan remarked as he took a step back. "Am I out of my fucking mind?”
"'Course you are. Always have been. Let's go on down and have ourselves a drink.”
They settled in what had once been the gentlemen's parlor, on the floor with a pepperoni pizza and a bottle of Jim Beam.
The first shot of bourbon went down like liquid silk and untied all the knots in Declan's belly. The pizza was good and greasy, and made him decide the strangeness he'd experienced had been a result of fatigue and hunger.
"You planning on living like this for long, or buying yourself a chair or two?”
"Don't need a chair or two." Declan took the bottle back from Remy, swigged down bourbon. "Not for now anyway. I wanted to cut things down to the bone for a while. I got the bedroom stuff. Might toss a table up in the kitchen. I start buying furniture, it'll just be in the way while I'm working on this place.”
Remy looked around the room. "Shape this place is in, you'll need a fucking wheelchair before you're finished.”