“Must be nice,” Russ agreed, his voice without the least hint of envy.
Laura turned away. “That still doesn't make it right for him to set himself up as my judge.”
“Maybe not, but all you have to do is show him he can trust you to handle the job.”
It was the same thing, more or less, that her mother had said. Laura squared her shoulders. “Yes.”
They left the town behind them, traveling through the countryside. Laura stared at the leafless trees and the bare, tangled undergrowth that lined the road, her mind on what lay ahead. At a sudden thought, she turned to the man beside her.
“Have you met this fiancée of his?”
“Once.”
“How did she strike you?”
“She is very attractive,” Russ said, his tone neutral.
“But?” Laura prompted, tilting her head to one side.
“But not my style,” Russ agreed, slanting her a grin.
“What's that supposed to mean?” she asked with a frown.
Russ refused to be drawn. “You'll see soon enough.”
That was indisputable. They were at Crapemyrtle, turning into the drive. Passing through the boxwood hedge, they saw a number of cars and trucks parked before the house, among them a low-slung foreign sports car in a vivid, nail-polish crimson and Justin's older-model classic car. Woodsmoke hung in the air, and from one of the chimneys of the house rose a thick, dark column.
“Someone has started a fire,” Laura said. “I sincerely hope they know what they are doing.”
His eyes on the smoke that rose against the sky, wafting through the trees on the slight breeze, Russ nodded. “It had better be Justin.”
It was. The reason why he had braved the dangers of clogged chimneys, cracked brick firewalls that might leak flames to tinder-dry timbers, and sparks in the trash and leaves of years that had accumulated in the gutters of the slate roof was not hard to find, however. A woman crouched near the flames under the marble mantel of the sitting-room fireplace. Though she wore a mink jacket draped around her shoulders, her dress was a flowing burgundy jersey worn with backless high-heeled sandals of the same color. Her petulant voice rose in the high-ceilinged echo chamber of the bare room, demanding to know why the meeting could not have been held at the motor hotel, where a person could find a place to sit down and something warm to drink, to say nothing of such modern conveniences as central heat.
As Laura and Russ entered, the woman straightened. Tall, of statuesque proportions, she wore her hair in a mass of tight curls. Her eyes, with their coating of green shadow, were so brilliant a shade of jade that they suggested at once she was wearing contact lenses to enhance their natural color. Her mouth and her nails were the same shining burgundy red as her dress. At her scooped neckline was a multitude of gold chains. Enormous gold hoop earrings hung from her ears, and every movement caused the clang and jangle of the rows of gold bracelets that weighted her wrists.
Introductions were completed with dispatch, since Laura and the other woman were the only two who had not met. Justin's fiancée was named Myra Devol, and she was from Baton Rouge, information that came as no surprise.
“How do you do?” the dark-haired woman said. Her bright-green gaze raked over Laura in her bulky clothing. Her indifference as chill as the air in the room that caused their breath to fog in front of them, she turned back to the fire.
She could not be budged from that source of heat, not even to hear what was to be done to the house. They left her there, Laura and the men moving away through the lower rooms. They examined the entrance hall with its freestanding staircase, the dining room and pantry, the back loggia, and on the opposite side of the hall, the double parlors and the library-study, before returning to the entrance once more. They ascended to the upper floor, where they inspected the various bedrooms and also the dressing rooms that had been converted to baths, before moving out onto the galleries and down the back stair to make a slow tour of the exterior. As they went, they spoke of the Halon-gas fire-extinguishing system that was to be used, the necessity of a security system, the type of climate control needed, where the air-conditioning and heating units would be placed, and how the necessary outlets would be concealed by vents in the ceilings or slits in the cornices. They discussed the problems with plumbing and the outmoded wiring currently in place, with the repairs needed on the roof, and whether the gray or the purple slate tiles, both of which were found, were original to the house. The question of reinforcement for support timbers was brought forward, as well as repairs for three of the eighteen columns around three sides of the house, that were losing the stucco covering from their bricks.
When they came to the kitchen addition that was being built on the back, connecting with the pantry off the dining room, Laura left them to go on without her. She had looked over the plans for it to be certain in her own mind that the new construction would not clash in any way with the older building, that its component parts, the slate roof, stuccoed brick, wooden window blinds, and white columns would blend. She had little more interest in it at this stage, though she would become involved again once the interior finishing was begun.
She found Myra still in the front parlor, standing on the hearth with her back to the fireplace opening. The girl's thinly arched brows snapped together in displeasure at the sight of Laura alone.
“Where in heaven's name did everyone go?”
“They are looking at the kitchen wing just now.” Laura tugged off her gloves and moved to stand beside Justin Roman's fiancée, holding her hands out to the welcome warmth of the fire.
“You mean they aren't through yet? What's taking so long?”
“There's a great deal that has to be discussed for an undertaking this large.”
Myra sent her a quick glance through narrowed eyes. “You are the interior designer, I think Justin said?”
“And consultant for historical detail,” Laura agreed.
“Do you enjoy your job, that is, do you actually like mausoleums like this?” The other girl moved to one ride a little, her manner suddenly confiding.
“They are fascinating, don't you agree?”
“Me? Good Lord, no! If Justin had listened to me, we would have built something with cedar siding, cathedral ceilings, and skylights in one of the more exclusive subdivisions in Baton Rouge. I couldn't believe it when he told me this was where we were going to live.”
“You mean he bought it without consulting you?” Though Laura's tone indicated polite disbelief, she could not be surprised. From what she had seen of Justin Roman, she thought that was exactly what he would have done.
“Ridiculous, isn't it?” the other woman said with a pettish shrug as she allowed her green gaze to roam over the plaster medallion in the ceiling and the friezework of the cornice moldings high above them. “I suppose as long as this is what he wants, I'll have to get used to the idea. It shouldn't be such a bad old place once I put my stamp on it.”
Myra's proprietorial gaze sent dismay along Laura's spine. If the way the woman was dressed was any indication, her ideas of what went into a house of this kind would be disastrous.
“I expect I can stand anything,” Myra went on, “as long as I have a game room for entertaining and a pool.”
“Game room?” Laura asked in a voice as calm as she could make it. “I understood your fiancé was interested in historical accuracy, that is, that he wants to return the house to the way it was when it was built in 1840.”
“That's what he thinks he wants. When I get things fixed up the way I plan, he'll discover that it's perfect, just the way he would have done it himself if he had thought about it. I've seen it happen dozens of times with my father.”
Privately, Laura thought nothing was more unlikely than that Justin would follow in the footsteps of Myra Devol's father. She refrained from saying so, however. Choosing her words carefully, she said, “The character of the house may not lend itself to that kind of modernization.”
�
�Who cares? That would be your problem as the interior designer, to make it blend. This means so much to me. Miss —”
“Nichols, Laura Nichols,” Laura supplied, unsurprised that her name had been forgotten.
“Laura, then. As I was saying, this means so much to me that if you should be able to help me convince Justin that what I want is feasible, there may be a handsome bonus under the table for you. My father is not a poor man, and he likes to see his daughter happy. Or better yet, it would be marvelous if Justin could be persuaded that the idea for these little amenities came from you.”
“I couldn't do that,” Laura said, an edge to her voice.
“Couldn't you? Too bad. It would have made things so much easier.” The other woman drew her fur coat closer around her face, a hard look descending over her features.
“I think it would be better if you discussed the changes you have in mind with your fiancé. If he okays them, then I suppose something will have to be done.”
Myra Devol opened her green eyes wide. “But I already have, and he paid no attention.”
“Then there's nothing I can do.” The relief at being able to make that statement was tremendous. Laura was only just able to prevent herself from a smile of triumph.
“Oh, I'm sure there's something, if you will just think about it and about the bonus I mentioned. At least you can look the other way while I put in my improvements. It was nice having this little chat with you, Laura, but for now I've had enough of this cold storage. Besides, I have an appointment with my hairdresser this afternoon, which is why I brought my own car, that and a strong suspicion that once Justin came out here he would be hard to pry loose again. Tell him I will see him back in the city, will you?”
Laura moved to the window in time to see the crimson sports car wheel out over the lawn, leaving tracks in the long brown grass before it shot away down the drive. The nerve of the woman, actually offering her a bribe to help push through the changes she wanted, even suggesting that she pass off the other woman's bad taste for her own. If it wasn't for Crapemyrtle and the way she felt about the great old house, she would be strongly tempted to tell both Justin Roman and his bride-to-be what they could do with their restoration project.
At the thought of any one of the rooms of the mansion turned into a game room, complete, no doubt, with pinball machines, a pool table, computer games, and a Jukebox with stereophonic sound and flashing lights, a shudder of horror ran over her. These things weren't bad in themselves; they just simply did not belong in a house like this. Almost as bad was the prospect of a modern pool with chrome tubing and shiny bright tiles. If she had her way, nothing like that would be allowed within miles of the grounds.
Laura turned back to the fire. It had been built using pine kindling left in one corner of the fireplace by the previous owners, along with rotten limbs that had fallen from the live oaks outside. The flames had died down, leaving a bed of coals. Myra had not even troubled to put more wood on the crumbling metal grate. It was probably just as well, since there was no screen to prevent the coals from popping out onto the yellow heart-pine floor beyond the slate hearth, marring the surface, if not starting a conflagration that could bring the house down around their ears.
Laura reached up to run her hand over the cool smoothness of the top of the rose-red-marble mantel, wiping away the dust. Marble mantels were not so uncommon in this area, but most were either black or white. This one and the small sitting room where it stood were favorites of Laura's. The plaster medallion in the ceiling was outstanding in its depiction of roses and cherubs, rather than the sylized leaves or sunburst designs usually found. An added feature was the plaster pieces of roses and trailing ribbon in each corner to match the medallion. According to the diary, this room, done in shades of cream and palest rose, had been the province of the ladies of the house. Another point in its favor, in Laura's estimation at least, was that it opened out onto the side gallery through a pair of French windows. From there, access could be had by brick steps into the garden.
There was no sign as yet of the men's return. As the fire died away, it was no warmer in the room than it was outside. Laura pulled on her gloves and, stepping to the French windows, unlocked them and slipped outside. Crossing the gallery, she moved down the steps and took the brick path, its herringbone pattern nearly obscured by grass runners and the accumulated mud of years.
As the sun rose higher, the air had begun to lose some of its chill. The fitful wind had swung around to come from the south, muting its bite. This was the southern exposure of the house, a more open area free of the overhanging branches of trees, though by no means free of shrubbery. Nearer the house there were spreading azaleas higher than her head, their tight rust-green buds nestling among the winter-scorched leaves. Farther along, there were sweet olives, towering, leather-leaved trees whose tiny ivory blossoms released a delicious fragrance upon the air. Beyond was a woody tangle of winter honeysuckle just beginning to unfurl small, nondescript, fleshy-white flowers. One had to bend close to catch the elusive scent, though before long it would be wafting on the air. The flowering quince was budding, showing signs of rose-red, and in the border of bulbs that fronted the shrubs, daffodils, narcissus, and jonquils were sending up fresh green sheaths already swelling at the rips with bloom that would burst forth in less than a month.
A turn in the path brought her to the section of camellias. The frost this morning and cold temperatures during the night before had put brown edges on the tender softness of the great cup-size blossoms in white, pink, and red, though there were still buds to open.
A few steps farther along, the path diverged. Here there was a sundial in bronze on a marble pedestal; “I count only the cloudless hours” ran the inscription in raised lettering around the rim. This was the entrance to the rose garden. Around its edges, on gray and decaying trellises, were the great, thorny old-fashioned climbing roses and rugosa shrub roses, a wild growth of leafless vines hung with bright-orange rose hips. Centered among them, in beds bisected by brick paths, were the hybrid perpetuals, moss roses, damascenas, centifolias, tea roses, albas, spinosissimas, eglantines, bourbons, and gallicas. Some had been planted by the original owners, some had been put into the ground by the people who had owned Crapemyrtle in later years; all were in need of care, of pruning, spraying, mulching, and the replenishing of the depleted soil. For now, they were dormant, though here and there leaf buds were beginning to fatten. But in a few short weeks, as the days grew warmer, they would stir into life, and their perfume would blanket the entire grounds.
It was quiet in the garden except for the calls of birds. A jay swooped in a blue streak from the magnolia beyond the edge of the garden, landing on one end of a sagging trellis. There were robins on the lawn, brown thrashers among the tangled rose vines, mockingbirds in the double row of crape myrtles, leafless shrubs that gave the house its name, lining either side of the walk leading back toward the front of the house, and the vivid red flash of cardinals everywhere. The peace was so thick it was nearly tangible, a soft and comforting thing.
How long would it last? Soon there would be the roar of machinery, the whine of power saws and drills, and the thudding of hammers. People would be coming and going; the components of the house would be torn apart, cleaned, polished, scraped, rubbed, and sandblasted, and over all would hang the odor of fresh paint. When it was over, what then? Loud music, strident voices, bright lights, squeals, orders, arguments—all the raucous, daily confusion of life? Houses were for living in, of course, and yet, when she thought of what would become of Crapemyrtle in the years ahead with the man who had bought it and the woman he was to marry in occupancy, a tightness grew in her chest that nothing could ease.
Laura was startled from her reverie by the noise of a car engine. It was followed by the deeper rumble of a truck. The men had finished and were leaving. Reluctantly, she turned back toward the house.
There was no one in the sitting room. Laura moved through it and out into the hallway t
oward the entrance. The glass panes of the sidelights that flanked the front door were coated with dust. She wiped a patch clear in order to see through the distorted, hand-blown glass. The truck belonging to one of the subcontractors was just turning out of the drive. It must have been the last to go, for the drive was empty except for the silver car belonging to Justin Roman.
Hard on the realization, Laura frowned. The brown sedan Russ had been driving was also missing from the drive. He had gone without her.
At a sound behind her, she swung around. Justin was coming down the hall from the rear of the house. In his hand he carried her canvas tote.
“There you are,” he said. “We wondered where you had got off to. Russ looked for you to tell you he had to get back to the office, since our tour of inspection took longer than expected. He wasn't sure whether you wanted to go with him or to stay on to take care of the job you had mentioned. I offered to run you home, so he left your bag.”
“Thank you,” Laura said, reaching to take the tote from him. “I—I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble.”
“No trouble at all. I still have a few things to see to, and to lock up. The drive will give us a chance to talk, to clear up a few matters at the same time.”
“All right.” The deep timbre of his voice had been neutral, and yet Laura could not prevent the defensive feeling that rose inside her.
“I'll be with you in half an hour. Will that give you time enough?”
His dark gaze was watchful. The sheepskin-lined jacket he wore made him seem broader and more powerful than he already was. Laura nodded. It was only as he turned and strode away that indignation stirred. He had arranged matters to suit himself and she had stood there and let him. She had little choice, of course; she could hardly have refused to discuss anything concerning the house with him, and it would have been foolish to decline the offer of a lift. She was even glad that she had been granted the time to get to the job she had come prepared to do. Still, she could have protested his high-handed manner, could have made her own position clear. With such thoughts running through her mind, she stood staring after him long after his footsteps had faded.
April of Enchantment Page 3