An ancient feather mattress lay draped across a pile of old rugs some yards back along the way they had come. Rip turned toward it with her held close against him. He took an unsteady step.
It was then that they heard the slow shuffling on the steep access stairs. The sound was followed by the creak of a floorboard.
“Mist’ Rip?” Papa Vidal called, his voice quavering in the wide emptiness of the attic. “You and Miss Anna up here?”
Anna was grateful to Papa Vidal for saving her from a grave mistake. Of course, she was. Not that his intervention had been necessary. She would have broken away from Rip’s sensual spell, she really would. It had only been a matter of finding a way.
She should never have let it go so far. She wasn’t an innocent; she knew the effect that kind of cooperation had on a man. It hadn’t been something she’d intended; it had just happened.
She was afraid Rip had the wrong idea, that he would expect to take up where they had left off at the first opportunity. It wouldn’t work. The mood was gone; it would be all wrong. She would make that clear at the first opportunity.
In the meantime, Papa Vidal, lonely old soul that he was, stuck to her and Rip like a cocklebur. His presence encouraged attending to business, so they went through the house with pad and pen in hand, making notes on all that must be done. He was handy to have along since he remembered the house the way it was before it went out of the Montrose family. He knew what it had been like before the parlor and upstairs rooms were redone, and before the kitchen was brought inside from its separate, outdoor location and installed in the smoking parlor.
Since this last renovation had taken place in the early 1950s, and Rip planned to return the house to its 1850s decor, there was little from that more modern time worth saving. He wanted to add an extension on the back in the style of a garçonniere, one which would blend with the main house but include a modern kitchen and breakfast room. It sounded both convenient and architecturally pleasing. Talking, planning and reminiscing, the three of them rambled from room to room, winding up finally on the upper front gallery.
Rip left Anna and Papa Vidal while he ran down to the motor home for cold drinks to revive them from their hot, dusty morning’s work. Anna moved to the railing, where she stood staring out at the massive oaks on the lawn and beyond to the tumbled headstones of the overgrown cemetery under its ancient cedars.
“Best take care, Miss Anna,” Papa Vidal said as he came to stand beside her. “That old railin’s none too steady.”
He was right; the railing wobbled under her experimental touch. She gave him a quick smile as she stepped back a pace. “I’ll have to be more careful.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, nodding. “You was thinkin’ deep thoughts, I reckon. Don’t suppose it’d be anything you want to talk about?”
Papa Vidal’s faded gaze was entirely too keen. She suspected he knew what he had interrupted in the attic. He had always known what was happening at Blest, always kept everybody’s secrets.
Anna looked away. As her gaze rested on the cemetery once more, she seized on it as a distraction. “Strange isn’t it, how people used to bury their dead so close by? Though it must have been comforting to be able to visit any time they liked.”
“Real cozy, it was,” he agreed. “Now they got regulations about everything. Got to crowd everybody into special graveyards where hardly anybody goes once the funeral’s over. Such a shame.”
It was indeed. Anna’s father had wanted to be buried at Blest. It would have been possible, since it was an established cemetery. Matilda Montrose had vetoed the idea after her husband’s death. It was too old-fashioned, she declared, too eccentric. Instead, he had been installed in a neat and featureless Garden of Memories.
“We need to put cleaning and restoring the cemetery on our list,” she mused. “Even the old fence is falling down.”
“Oh, no, Miss Anna,” the old man exclaimed. “Can’t do that. No, ma’am.”
“I don’t mean we should change anything,” she answered in response to his vehemence, “but I’d like to at least be able to get inside the gate. Anyway, it’ll be an eyesore in contrast to the rest of the lawn once that’s back in shape again.”
“It can wait a bit, can’t it?” he persisted, an anxious look on his face.
“I suppose so, since it’s not a pressing part of the restoration. Still, I don’t see why—”
“I’m paintin’ it, Miss Anna. Just like it is right now, briars and all. Got to catch the ghosts before they get away.”
Her smile was warm as she reached out to touch his bent shoulder. “Why didn’t you say so? But I didn’t realize you were working again.”
“Started a week ago. Been a while since I tried my hand. First time since…well, you know.”
She did indeed. Papa Vidal hadn’t picked up a paintbrush since Rip went to jail and her brother disappeared. “It’s another mural then? Where are you doing it?”
“Out to the old schoolhouse.”
“That Rip means to fix up for a guest house?”
The old man nodded. “It’s a present, like, just for him. Don’t suppose he’ll mind me messin’ up one wall.”
“He’ll be honored,” she said with assurance. “And just as glad as I am that you’re back at your painting.”
“Mood was on me. Feels good, as I’d about decided it never would be again.” He made a vague, painterly gesture with a hand stained with ultramarine blue.
“That’s great,” Anna said, rubbing his bony shoulder blade under his multicolored vest in sympathy and affection. “It’s about time.”
Rip returned and they all rested on the antique church pew that sat against the shaded inside wall of the gallery, while they talked and sipped cold pineapple juice. Papa Vidal took Henrietta from his pocket and let her stalk around, pecking at the pill bugs and spiders that had made their home in the rotted canvas covering the floor.
As they watched the Silky hen, they discussed the possibility of replacing the cypress shutters that had once hung as sunscreens at the west end of the open space. Papa Vidal was reminded of a tale told about one of the previous owners. Back in the late forties, the elderly lady had enjoyed taking her morning bath in a washtub secreted behind the original screens. That was until she was surprised one day by the arrival of the meter reader, a new man who couldn’t find the meter and was in search of someone to ask for directions.
As if on cue, a utility truck drove up just then. Rip had arranged for power to be brought to the house for use by the crew who would soon be working there. He went down to confer with the driver, taking Papa Vidal with him to help find that old, well-hidden meter.
Anna, left to her own devices, wandered back into the house. She made her way to one of the back bedrooms and slipped inside, walking up to another of Papa Vidal’s murals that covered the interior wall where there were no windows. It was the last thing he had completed years ago, the mural he had been working on that fateful summer before everything changed.
The colors were muted, soft and serene. The composition was dominated by a huge oak that stood so stalwart and tall that its upper branches slid onto the ceiling, giving a sense of sheltering protection. Its shade pooled a darker blue-green than the sunny lawn that surrounded it, while Blest, in the background, was so bright with glassy-hot sunshine reflection that it seemed to shimmer like a mirage. And on the upper gallery of the house could be seen the silvery shades of a couple in Victorian dress, standing arm in arm, watching with loving approval some encounter that was taking place in the oak’s shade.
A boy and girl, teenagers, lay in the warm grass beneath the great oak. The blue of his jeans was a slash of pure color; the pink of her sundress had all the shades of a wild rose. His hair was dark, hers silken pale. They held each other close, the boy hovering just above the girl in his protective clasp, the girl touching his lean cheek in a gentle caress. And in their faces was such wonder, such glory in the discovery of young love, that it suffused
the painting. Its brilliant glow added so much depth and vitality that it seemed possible to step into the mural, to live, once more, in that shining and tender moment.
The couple were Anna and Rip.
Moving closer to the wall, she put out her hand and brushed Rip’s painted face with her fingertips. If she closed her eyes, she could sense again the warmth of his skin, also the prickly cushion of the grass at her back. She could hear the sigh of the breeze in the leaves, know the welcome weight of the boy who lay with her and the gentle, untried magic of his kiss. Somewhere there, crickets and cicadas sang of heat and love. Somewhere a bird trilled, bees hummed and a hawk sailed on warm air currents, calling in plaintive hunger for its mate.
They’d thought they were alone, those two in the painting. Matters between them would quickly progress beyond tender touches and gentle kisses. As they had in the attic just two hours ago.
But soon Tom would appear from behind the big, shimmering house. With his face twisted in outrage, he would call his friend a bastard and a snake-in-the-grass, and tell him to get his dirty hands off his little sister. Rip would scramble up, wiping his palms on the sides of his jeans. Then they would fight, Rip and Tom, rolling in the sweet green grass. Only Rip would do no more than protect himself against Tom’s flailing fists, and when Anna pulled Tom away, there would be blood in Rip’s face and intolerable pain in his eyes.
So much pain.
Thinking, remembering, Anna squeezed her eyes shut and rested her forehead against the cool, dry painted wall. No, she didn’t want that moment back after all. It hurt too much, even now.
A quiet footfall came from behind her. She stiffened, then straightened. Even as she turned, however, she knew who was there.
“So you do remember?” Rip’s voice was soft with satisfaction from where he stood with one shoulder propped against the door facing. “I wondered.”
“I remember,” she whispered, blinking the haze of tears from her eyes.
“Then you’ll know why I intend to hold you to your pledge to marry me.”
“For revenge,” she said, the words a little stronger. “Because of all the things Tom said to you that day.”
It was a moment before he answered, a moment in which he turned his back to the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest. “One thing you can be sure of. It isn’t for the sake of a virgin kiss.”
“I never thought it was,” she returned, putting as much scorn and courage as she could find behind the lie. “But it will only happen if I fail to give you what you want.”
“If,” he repeated. Then he added more quietly, “I’ll have what I want, one way or another.”
Her glance was scathing. “For what good it will do you.”
“Oh, it will do me fine. I intend to see to it.”
“You would.” He meant, she thought, that he would take her as well as the house, and see that she enjoyed it. The terrible thing about it was she easily might. At least as long as the pleasure lasted.
He hesitated, then tipped his head toward the ceiling over their heads. “About what almost happened up there a little while ago—”
“Nothing did,” she said with some force.
“Wrong. You almost got carried away, a little like sixteen years ago. Except this time you’re the one remembering that I’m not on your level.”
“I don’t care about levels,” she said in stringent denial. “What I care about is being used.”
“My worry exactly.”
It took her a second to figure that one out. “If you’re suggesting I might’ve thrown myself at you to find out what you know, after all, then I feel sorry for you!”
“You always did, didn’t you. But I guess that’s honest enough, which is all I want. That, and to regain what was taken from me.”
“Oh, and to be a Bon Vivant member, we mustn’t forget that. Well, heaven forbid I should stand in the way. Maybe we should speed up this program. Maybe you should give a reception, an open house to kick off the restoration of Blest.”
“A reception?” His brows drew together over his nose as if she had suggested setting a bomb under the house.
“Why not?” she inquired, improvising rapidly under the spur of angry grief. “People have been anxious to get inside this place for years. You can impress them with all its decadent splendor, then present your plans for how it’s going to look when you’re done.”
“What if nobody comes?”
The stark question, and the insecurity it revealed, touched her briefly before she pushed it aside. “They’ll come,” she said. “Curiosity will bring them, if nothing else.”
“They’ll come for you.” His gaze was almost hostile.
“Possibly. Isn’t that what you’ve been counting on?”
“It’s entirely possible,” he said in tight disdain, “that what I was counting on isn’t available, may never have been there at all.”
Without waiting for a reply, he pushed away from the door frame and walked away down the hall without looking back.
“People are talking about how much time you’re spending with that man,” Anna’s mother said, her mouth set in a straight line as she stared across the breakfast table. “Going over there every day, taking him to things like Sally Jo’s barbecue and the civic club luncheon. It’s disgusting.”
“Mother—”
“I’ve told everyone I know that it’s merely on account of Blest, that you want the restoration done right for the sake of the community. But now I hear there’s to be a party with you as his hostess.” She slapped the table with the flat of her hand. “That’s carrying things too far.”
“He wants to be reestablished, I told you that. It can’t happen unless he gets out and meets people.” Anna kept her attention on the coffee she was swirling in her cup. It and a piece of toast were all she felt able to face. Her stomach was tied in a permanent knot these days.
“Let him meet them by himself!” The words were venomous.
“I promised to help,” she answered as patiently as she could. “This open house seems a good way to let more people know what he has planned. There’s a lot of interest among the businesses in town.”
“All our friends are going to think your interest is personal,” her mother returned with acid emphasis.
“They’ll be wrong.” Anna wasn’t sure of that, but had no reason to think her mother would understand, much less sympathize, with the confusion in her mind.
“You’ll be embarrassed. No one of any importance will show up.”
Anna put down her coffee cup and pushed it back. Without looking at her mother, she said, “You had better hope they do, and are extremely nice to Rip as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“If they don’t, and aren’t, you may find yourself with John “Rip” Peterson as a son-in-law.”
“Of all the preposterous—” Her mother stopped and sat forward, her gaze sharpening. “How can you say such a thing when you have just told me there’s nothing between you?”
“I said nothing personal.” Anna used a fingertip to follow the warp of the linen tablecloth. “I suppose I should have mentioned it before, but I didn’t really think Rip would go through with it.”
“What are you trying to say?” her mother demanded with alarm threading her voice.
Anna told her, sparing no details.
“Oh, dear Lord.” The older woman fell back limply in her chair. “You couldn’t, you can’t. It isn’t possible.”
“I gave my word.”
“It’s insane. People don’t do things like that, not in this day and age.”
“I gave my word,” Anna repeated. “The word of a Montrose.”
Her mother stared at her with stricken eyes, as if absorbing the finality in her voice, the determination in her face. “We have to do something. The Bon Vivant midsummer dance is less than two weeks away.”
“We?” Anna inquired in sardonic disbelief.
“I won’t have you sacrificing yourse
lf!” Matilda Montrose put shaking hands to her face, wiping at the pudgy flesh. “If only I’d known, I would never…”
“Never what, Mother?” Anna asked.
“Nothing, nothing.”
“What have you done?”
“Oh, all right!” the older woman cried. “I told everyone I know just how underhanded and pretentious Rip Peterson is for wanting to own Blest, how like him to try to buy a heritage since he has none of his own. I told them the only way he could have gained a fortune was through some kind of dirty dealing—drugs, money laundering, or some illegal scheme cooked up while he was in prison. I told them—”
“I get the picture,” Anna cut her off with a swift gesture as sick dismay flooded through her. “How could you do it? Why would you be so hateful and vindictive toward someone who is trying to put his life back together?”
“That man ruined my life!” her mother declared in choked tones. “He led my son into criminal ways, then destroyed him. He killed your father as surely as if he had shot him dead. If it wasn’t for Rip, I would still have a decent house, nice friends, still be someone.” Her mouth worked a moment longer, but sobs robbed her of words. She put her head down on the table, crying in despair.
“Rip paid for what he did,” Anna said quietly as she took a fresh napkin from the holder on the table and reached to press it into her mother’s hand. “More than that, he says he’s innocent.”
“Of course he does,” her mother said, the words sarcastic in spite of being muffled as she wiped her face.
“What if it’s true? I’ve been thinking—”
“Don’t!” Her mother jerked up her head. “Don’t you dare say it! Your brother was the sweetest, most gentle boy who ever walked this earth. I won’t have his memory defiled in this house, do you hear me?”
Anna stared across the table with a frown between her eyes. “I didn’t mention Tom.”
“But you were going to.”
She was right. “Tom was my brother, and I loved him, but he was hardly a saint. Besides, he was running with a bunch that—”
Southern Gentlemen: John Rip PetersonBilly Ray Wainwright Page 10