Dark Garden

by Jennifer Fulton

  It probably didn’t help that she was semi-closeted and cautious. Vienna knew she was quite a catch for anyone more interested in the material than the emotional, so she tried to avoid revealing her background. It wasn’t easy to get close to someone when she was reluctant to invite the women she dated back home. They started to wonder what she was hiding, and after a few dates, if they seemed genuinely nice, Vienna didn’t want to insult them by admitting she hadn’t trusted them.

  She wished she’d cared deeply enough for someone to make an effort. But the women she liked most were the kind she’d rather be friends with. She didn’t want to believe, at only thirty-two, that she was unlucky in love, but it was starting to look that way. Worst of all, whenever she tried to gaze into her romantic future, the face that gazed back through the mists of fantasy was Mason Cavender’s. That wretched first kiss haunted her like a bad melody; the more she tried to erase it from her memory, the more tenaciously it stuck.

  Aggravated that she’d let her mind wander in that direction, Vienna hit the gas and overtook an idiot driving a huge SUV at about thirty miles an hour. Normally she would stop at Monterey for old time’s sake, but she wasn’t in the mood, so she took the turnoff to Tyringham. The blue tranquility of Lake Garfield always calmed her, signaling that she was about twenty minutes from home. The trees were rapidly changing color, donning the splendor of autumn. The maples were etched in red and gold, and yellowing willows skirted meadows of pale olive green. Goldenrod and asters linedthe roads, and the Japanese hydrangeas were in full bloom in the gardens she passed.

  An avalanche of leaves would descend after September, burying the cowpaths around Penwraithe in a rustic mantle that inspired local hobby artists to paint ever more tacky homages to the New England fall. Vienna allowed them access to the grounds of Penwraithe at this time of year and was always stumbling over someone with an easel. To her annoyance, the most popular view they wanted to paint was the one with the absurd Gothic towers of Laudes Absalom in the background. She had switched to a different bedroom years ago so she wouldn’t have to see the place every time she opened the drapes. Yet she often gravitated to her old room, watching for a dark figure walking a dog.

  With a sigh of annoyance, she fell in behind a line of traffic crawling along Main Street, a stretch of small-town America made famous by Norman Rockwell. Thanks to him, Stockbridge was always packed with tourists posing for the mandatory photo op in front of the Red Lion Inn before heading up the line to Williamstown. Vienna bypassed a minor traffic jam and evaded a group of charm-struck visitors standing in the middle of the road. The famous inn seemed to expand farther around the corner every year, its storybook white façade serving as both a landmark and a fixture on souvenir mugs.

  Vienna turned off and drove up past Naumkeag, the mansion that overlooked the village. She was thankful the Blakes had built their own summer “cottage” deeper in the surrounding hills. Penwraithe didn’t attract the kind of attention reserved for the mock castles of its era. Occasionally tourists would drift from the imposing iron gates of Laudes Absalom to the more welcoming entrance of the Blake estate, but the house wasn’t the stuff of dramatic photographs. Modest by Gilded Age standards, it comprised a mere eighteen rooms. Originally it was supposed to be an Italianate mansion, but after the building began Vienna’s ancestor, Benedict Blake, decided he wanted a more American feel and switched to a Georgian style with white shutters and balustrades around the terraces. Not a man who liked to waste money, however, he retained the imposing white marble entrance hall that had already been built. With its black-and-white mosaic floor, high barrel-vaulted ceiling, huge marble urns, and ornate wrought iron stairway, it promised a home of shameless opulence. Guests were subsequently disconcerted to step into rooms that could only be described as underwhelming, both in dimension and décor.

  Vienna slowed her car as she passed the gates of Laudes Absalom and approached Penwraithe. Ahead of her, two riders had stopped near the entrance. One of them, her barn manager Rick O’Grady, waved at her and dismounted, leading his horse onto the estate. The other, on a spectacular white mount, continued along the road without looking back. Vienna’s pulse accelerated. She was certain, from the noble carriage and Baroque conformation, that she was looking at a Lipizzan. And there was only one in the vicinity.

  Trying not to show her irritation, she rolled slowly up alongside the man who took care of her four horses. The chestnut he was exercising was their boss mare and had a suspensory ligament strain. After months of stall rest, they’d brought her through almost a year of rehabilitation. Rick had just started riding her again.

  Vienna lowered her window and greeted him with a smile. “How’s she doing?”

  “Better every day. It’ll take a while before we can try a canter, but she has normal flexion so I think we’re out of the woods.”

  “Who were you riding with?” Vienna struggled to sound casual. “That white is spectacular.”

  “He’s immaculate, all right.”

  “From the Cavender stables, I take it?”

  Rick looked slightly abashed. “Yes, that’s Dúlcifal.”

  “Of course.” Everyone in the county knew of the stallion after he’d appeared, along with one of Mason’s famed Andalusians, in an Animal Planet documentary about so-called horse whispering. “Is he as smart as they say?”

  “I don’t know if it’s strictly intelligence.” Rick looked thoughtful. “He’s been extensively schooled and he has the most amazing manners. That’s partly his gene pool, but they also use special training techniques over there. I’ve been picking up a few pointers, as a matter of fact.”

  Listening to him enthuse, Vienna reminded herself that her staff had every right to associate with other grooms in the neighborhood, regardless of what she might think about their employers. In a pleasant tone, she said, “Well, I’m glad you’ve found someone nearby to work the horses with. Maybe I’ll get to meet Dúlcifal sometime.”

  She felt another rush of shame at her spiteful comment about sending Mason’s animals for slaughter. She wished she could take back her vicious words, less for Mason’s sake than her own. The very idea was unthinkable and to say such a horrible thing was beneath her. That woman had a knack for bringing out the worst in her.

  Rick seemed to miss her hint about meeting the beautiful Lipizzan. Tightening the wrap around the chestnut mare’s hind leg, he asked, “Are you riding tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, no preferences. Whoever needs the work.” Vienna avoided disrupting the training regimen on her intermittent visits. She wanted to help out when she was at Penwraithe, not have her staff drop everything to pander to her whims.

  Hers were strictly pleasure horses, all of them rescues. She really didn’t have the time to be the best of owners, but she could afford to pay for good care. Until recently she’d had six mares, but two were close to thirty and she’d finally let them go before the winter made their arthritis unbearable. Some time soon she would rescue a couple more. She hated to think of unwanted horses neglected and turned out to fend for themselves, and since she could only stable a few personally, she donated to a long list of equine rescue organizations.

  “Eight o’clock?” Rick queried.

  Vienna normally rose at six but on her days at Penwraithe, she caught up on sleep and appreciated a slower start. “Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”

  She glanced in the side mirror as she drove toward the house and smiled at the sight of Rick patting the mare and feeding her a carrot. He was very calm with the horses and an expert at reading temperament and mood. Her father had employed him on a recommendation from friends in the racing industry after Rick had a serious fall and needed lighter work. He’d been with the Blakes for three years and showed no sign of wanting to return to the race track. Vienna felt fortunate to have him. He was overqualified for his job, having been a head groom with trainer responsibilities, but she gave him a free hand to employ the stable help he needed and he seemed genuinely happy at P
enwraithe.

  She parked in the garage behind the house and let herself in the back door. A herd of cats immediately laid claim to her, rolling and smooching and coaxing her toward the kitchen.

  “You’re early.” Bridget Hardy dropped a lump of dough on the long butcher block in the center of the room and shook flour off her hands. The Blakes’ housekeeper for the past fifteen years, she baked whenever she knew Vienna was coming.

  “I got away before the rush hour.” Vienna inspected the jars of preserves lined up along the counters. “You’ve been busy.”

  “If I see another bucket of zucchinis…” Bridget shaped the bread into two focaccia loaves, placed them on a baking stone, and smothered them in olive oil. “Stick some garlic and rosemary sprigs in one of those, would you, while I make us a pot of tea.”

  Vienna washed her hands and did as she was told. Working in the kitchen with Bridget was one of her great pleasures while she was at home. The only reason she could cook was that Bridget had taken the time to teach her. She drew a deep breath, inhaling the sweet pungency of the herbs and the yeasty aroma of the dough. “God, it’s good to be here.”

  “You should come more often,” Bridget said. “I know it’s hard, but you have to pace yourself better. Your father learned that lesson the hard way.”

  “I know.” Vienna set the rosemary aside and poked split garlic cloves into the dough. “Parmesan or kosher salt?”

  “How about one of each?” Bridget removed the whistling kettle from the flame and made the tea. In the Blake household coffee was only served with breakfast and dinner.

  “How did that new girl from the village work out?” Vienna asked as she slid the focaccia into the oven.

  “She managed to show up for about a week, but she spent most of her time texting her friends and living on that bird-watching Web site, whatever it’s called.”

  “Twitter?” Vienna smothered a grin.

  “Sounds familiar.” Bridget selected the Darjeeling tea canister. “So in the end I suggested she pursue the important things in life at home where paid work wouldn’t interfere.”

  Laughing, Vienna rinsed her hands and sat down at the table near the French doors. The kitchen opened onto a bluestone terrace where Bridget grew her herbs in huge decorative planters. Steps down from the terrace led to the heated pool and a sprawling outdoor patio.

  “New outdoor furniture,” she noted, fending off the two tortie cats that always vied for her lap.

  “Your mom was sick of those green umbrellas.”

  Marjorie had completely redecorated the house when Vienna was a child, bringing her Palm Beach sensibility to the décor. Dark woods were removed, walls were painted in warm shades of butter yellow and pumpkin, and previously austere furnishings were replaced with more casual, comfortable styles. Marjorie still continued to update the rooms and Vienna was happy to leave her in charge. The latest transformation had brightened their pool area, replacing the dull but serviceable patio furniture with yellow striped umbrellas and deep wicker seats with white cushions. Yellow and turquoise throw pillows were artfully arranged for splashes of extra color.

  “It looks very…Caribbean.” Vienna wondered where they were going to put the oversize club chairs and loungers when it snowed in a month or two. Their previous furniture, bistro tables and chairs, had been stackable and easy to store in the cabana. Vienna stared at some new yellow planters. “Are those banana palms?”

  “Mmm-hmn. And hibiscus. Your mom wants them moved into the conservatory at the end of the month.”

  “I’ll bet she does.” Banana palms and tropical shrubs in New England. Only Marjorie would imagine she could make that idea work.

  Bridget set traditional bone china cups and saucers on the table along with slices of lemon. As she poured the tea through a strainer, she said, “A gentleman came by and left his cell phone number. You just missed him.”

  “Another decorator?”

  “I doubt it. His suit was crumpled and he smelled like a hot dog.” Bridget handed Vienna a slip of paper. “Personally, I wouldn’t touch him with a pair of tongs, but he seemed to think you’d be happy to receive him.”

  Vienna read the name on the note before slipping it into the pocket of her jeans. “Mr. Pantano is an employee of mine.”

  “Indeed.” Bridget lowered a slice of lemon into Vienna’s tea before sliding the cup and saucer across the table to her.

  “I’m surprised he made it out here today. I should have warned you.”

  “About his gun or his body odor?”

  Vienna sipped her tea. Bridget didn’t miss much. Tazio Pantano was New Jersey muscle Vienna hired occasionally. After Mason’s unheralded visit to her office a few days earlier, she’d decided to import some protection for her days in the countryside. And while she was at it, she planned to make good use of Pantano.

  “He’ll be staying in the carriage house while I’m here,” she said.

  Bridget’s neat eyebrows rose above her bright blue eyes. Even in her mid-fifties, she still looked youthful, with her rounded features and rosy cheeks. As a girl she’d probably been the strapping kind, Vienna thought, ruddy and energetic. Time had softened her stocky muscularity, but the distinctive bounce never left her walk. She was the antithesis of their neighbors’ housekeeper, the stiff-backed Mrs. Danville. The two knew each other, maintaining a mysterious cordiality that involved exchanges of preserves and smoked meats, chats after church, phone calls after especially bad weather, and modest gifts at Christmas.

  Once a year they went out to dinner together, a housekeepers’ tradition established long ago, when the households were on friendly terms, and not abandoned when relations soured. On the one occasion when Marjorie had questioned the practice, Bridget had replied that she and her colleague next door were obliged to rely on one another for certain matters of no consequence to their employers but vital to the smooth running of each household. She had invited Marjorie to stock the pantry herself and organize all the household repairs, should she have a problem with that.

  “Is there something I should know about Mr. Pantano’s visit?” Bridget asked. “Other than his dining preferences.”

  Vienna saw no reason to create concern. Bridget was at no risk from the Cavender temper. Mason might be angry at Vienna, but she would never menace a household staff member. Such trashy behavior was unthinkable. “He’s also here on a business matter for a friend of the family,” she said with calm affability.

  She could hear her father saying those very words, in that very tone, when no further discussion was welcome. Catching a brief flicker in Bridget’s eyes, she knew the housekeeper had recognized the evasion, too. They sipped their tea, then Bridget checked on the focaccia.

  “Do you know if our neighbor is at home?” Vienna knew better than to ask Bridget to spy for her, but she couldn’t resist making the occasional query about Mason.

  “I saw her yesterday.” Bridget was still bent over the oven, poking around in the warming drawer. She lifted the lid off a large casserole and inspected the contents. The rich aroma of beef Bourguignon added to the mouth-watering smell of the bread. “Will Mr. Pantano be dining in the house tonight or shall I make a tray for him?”

  “We can all eat here in the kitchen,” Vienna said, sparing them the formality of a meal in the dining room with a man whose colleagues called him “The Tank.”

  “While he’s in my kitchen, there’s no gun,” Bridget said. “And that shirt he’s wearing, with the ketchup stain and the sweaty-man pheromones, needs to go in the laundry. I’ll soak it for him.”

  “Thank you,” Vienna said meekly. “I’ll let him know.”

  Once she was upstairs she called Pantano. He didn’t pick up, so she left a voicemail message letting him know he was expected for dinner. As she showered, she pondered her plans. If all went well, she would own Laudes Absalom before she returned to the city.

  *

  “Are you lost?” Mason asked the hulk loitering near her barns. With lus
h dark hair in a sculpted Elvis Presley style and gold rings on most of his fingers, he didn’t look like a reporter or a tourist who’d taken a wrong turn trying to find the Norman Rockwell Museum.

  A pair of beady brown eyes blinked up at her. In a Jersey accent that was pure cliché, the stranger asked bluntly, “You the owner here?”

  Mason felt the horse beneath her twitch, and his heartbeat rose up between her legs. Shamal, her black Andalusian stallion, regarded all men as members of a tribe of vicious horse-eaters. Rolling his eyes, he backed up, ready to spook at the first provocation. Mason dismounted, preferring not to find herself clinging to him as he pigrooted his way up the long drive. She held the reins loosely to signal her confidence and stood between him and the stranger, leaning back a little so her scent dominated those Shamal was taking. She always dabbed her clothing with a mix of frankincense and lavender oils when she rode him. The combination helped him relax.

  “What are you doing on my property?” she asked, opening the gate to Shamal’s grazing paddock. Mrs. Danville would never just buzz someone in.

  Her visitor didn’t explain how he’d gotten inside the gates. Maybe he’d followed her earlier when she’d returned with Dúlcifal. He waited until Mason removed Shamal’s bit and halter and turned him out, then handed her a business card. A name was printed in a swirling font. She read with disbelief: Tazio “The Tank” Pantano. Who included their nickname, especially one straight out of a mobster movie, on a business card?

  He got right to the point. “My boss is looking for a country joint like this. You interested in selling?”

  From the relative safety of his paddock, Shamal glared and snorted noisily. Mason hushed him. “Laudes Absalom is not for sale.”