Charlock's Secret

by Leah Moyes

  I thought of my family, being the only girl with two older brothers. Losing our mother would be devastating. I studied the Gilford girls, and their delicately poised forms. Did they know they were being molded and prepared for marriage? Elizabeth and Abagale, each married into affluent families from Berkshire and Surrey Counties respectfully, though not much was recorded after that. Merritt married a local girl by the name of Johnna and carried on the responsibilities of the family as he raised his two boys at Charlock Manor. After his passing, the ownership of Charlock passed down within the family and always through the eldest sons.

  As I fell deep in thought, Hennessey approached. “Are you well, Miss Shelton?”

  “Yes.” Though my sigh said otherwise.

  “Do you require anything?”

  “No . . . well, I was only wondering.” I glanced at him warily. “Your family has worked for the Gilfords for a long time, right?”

  “Yes.” He stopped in front of me.

  “Did your ancestor work for these Gilfords?” I pointed to the portrait.

  “Yes.” Hennessey nodded. “It was my fifth great-grandfather, Phillip, who started with Martha’s father as his groom. He managed the stables for thirty years until his son Joseph took over.”

  “What were they like? I mean, did your family pass on stories?” I leaned in, eager for gossip, but his blank stare answered for me.

  “Very little, Miss. My great-grandfather Christoph, who became the first valet in the family, started a journal in 1946, but I have nothing before then.” He paused. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m curious is all. Every time I pass this portrait, I feel something strange.”

  “Strange?” One of his eyebrows raised.

  I scanned the painting once more and stood to my feet. “It’s nothing, Hennessey, forget it.”

  “As you wish.”

  Back in the office, I located the following week’s schedule. I had nothing to complain about. My arrangement with Trenton Gilford was more than ideal. Where else would I have the freedom to interact with my boss exactly five minutes a week? To tolerate Mr. Chill on the phone briefly and expeditiously was worth the solitude. Outside of those weekly calls, I rarely thought of him unless someone brought him up.

  “Oh, Miss, Mr. Gilford does not like the charlock in the house.” Gretchen stood before me with an armful of clean linen. Upon my request, Patrick had cut the beautiful yellow flowers from the gardens, and I arranged them nicely in a Chinese vase. I turned towards Gretchen, and while I meant no disrespect to her in my response, it came out harsh.

  “Well Gretchen, Mr. Gilford is not here to disagree with me, is he?”

  “Well no, but—”

  “Uh-uh.” I cut her off, waving one finger back and forth. “As long as I’m here and he isn’t, the flowers stay.” I smiled widely. “And when is his next visit?”

  She grinned in return. “Not for another month, Miss.”

  I leaned over and inhaled the sweet scent for a long time. I really didn’t care what Mr. Gilford thought. With a permanent home in London, a vacation home in Tuscany, and a yacht on the Mediterranean, chances of seeing Trenton Gilford were slim. Though he scheduled a visit every three months, Pauline suggested his actual visits to be more infrequent than that.

  Oh, to have such luxuries. To know nothing but money. To never have to worry about whether you could make rent or buy groceries? Or wonder if your electricity and water would be shut off at the end of the day. Living in Manhattan was not cheap. My father worked long hours as an attorney, and my mom worked in the accounting department for Macy’s. They were always working, that’s what New Yorkers do—work, work, work—until something catastrophic changed the course of our family.

  “Miss, were you there?”

  “There?” I questioned. Gretchen brought fresh towels to my lavvy as I sat on the side of my bed, looking at the picture of my mother and father at Battery Park. The Statue of Liberty behind them. “What do you mean?”

  “Did you see the towers fall?”

  “Oh.” My thoughts immediately went to that day. September 11th, 2001. “Yes, yes, I was there.”

  “It must have been awful. The Daily Telegraph showed dreadful things.”

  “It was worse than you can imagine.” My voice slowed to a pace that suggested the conversation was over. There was substantial loss that day. Every person in New York lost someone they knew. For the Shelton family, it was my Uncle Harry, a cop and my cousin Jed, a firefighter. Not only did it turn our world upside down, the attack nearly seized every reassurance from me. This wasn’t the first time we faced something like this. 1993 marked an equally shattering turn of events.

  I was part of the kindergarten class that was taking a tour of the south World Trade tower when a truck with explosives parked in the garage underneath. After the noontime blast, we remained trapped between the 35th and 36th floors for over five hours. Seeing grown adults panic and cry was an image no 6-year-old should ever have to endure.

  The sights, sounds, and smells of that day were forever engrained in my memory. With traumatization that great, I refused to go back to school. Battling nightmares and unending emotional turmoil, my spirit spiraled down a frightening path. Aware of this, my parents did something very unorthodox and made some enormous decisions because of me. They both quit their jobs and took their life savings to purchase the corner deli near our midtown apartment.

  My father knew little about running a store, but he was smart and surrounded himself with smart people. We became a family-run business. Mom and my uncle John opened the store every morning, while dad started my daily homeschool lessons. Mid-afternoon, they switched places. Mom took over at home, and dad saw through the afternoon rush with my other uncle, Greg. My two older brothers, Mike and Kent still attended P.S. 212, and covered shift work. By 6 o’clock every night the entire family was involved in some aspect of the store until close.

  I learned from the age of 8, how important hard work was. It defined me. I saw the good times and the lean times, and regardless of the time, we continued to serve the good people of New York. Through all of it, I was lucky to have a one on one education, and by the time I was 16, I tested at college levels. My SAT test scored at 1483. This excelled me to new heights, opened doors that would have otherwise been closed and earned me the chance to choose from a wide variety of scholarships offered. Ultimately, I accepted the Presidential Scholarship to ASU—one in which I almost lost my freshman year, exploring that newfound freedom—but that’s another story.

  Thinking about the store made me miss my family, my friends, and my perfected pastrami on rye. I missed walking down Broadway, the smell of hot dogs and pretzels, or Cho’s Chinese takeout. I missed the museums, the display windows at Christmas, the view from the top of Rockefeller, shopping in the village with my mom, and the kiss from Jeff on Balcony Bridge in Central Park the first time I brought him home. I miss Jeff.

  I did exactly what Pauline suggested on those weekend nights when the gardens lit up with twinkling lights, and a steady stream of never-ending bliss paraded the grounds. I hid. I pretended to bury myself in an engaging book in the library. The roaring fire, mostly unnecessary with a calm 20 degrees Celsius outside, but desired just the same as my only company. Eventually, the books became more than a cover, and I looked forward to the escape they offered.

  Therefore, each time a wedding was celebrated at the estate, I put my best professional dress suit on, topped off by my best professional game face for Felicia. Then I spent precisely fifteen minutes on the veranda for a rundown of the details before I retreated to my sanctuary.

  Yet, as the night wore on, I managed in a most sadistic way to be drawn to the large backside window that overlooked the main gardens at the very moment the bride and groom embraced in their first dance as a married couple. The way the couples beheld each other, spun my heart into knots, and while I knew this was a painful exploit, I could never resist. The moment always dragged me in, but as I watched
the couple dance, a different vision emerged. . .

  *****

  It wasn’t that often that we hiked at dusk, but Jeff insisted that Flat Iron was the best place to see a sunset. Flat Iron got its name from the way the rock juts out at the top ledge of the Superstition Mountains.

  “That wasn’t too hard,” I joked halfway up the trail.

  “Well, if we can keep you away from the prickly pear cactus, that’s what I’d call a success.” Jeff chuckled only a step ahead.

  I sneered playfully. I remembered the day we met near these very mountains and our awkward introduction. Well, more awkward for me, he insisted.

  I followed him closely, but as I flashed my beam forward, I became more distracted by the definition of his shoulders, exposed from his tank top, than the path. A slight tint of red at the back of his neck revealed his outdoor obsession. If he wasn’t in class, he was hiking somewhere.

  “This is where the fun begins.” Jeff turned. His deep dimple in full view as he reached for my hand and guided me up several steep ascents. It didn’t matter if they were death-defying, I’d follow him anywhere.

  Once we reached the top, my body fell motionless. Breathe. I reminded myself. The view numbed all my senses, but sight. I’d seen a sunset before, even in Arizona, where they’re stunning, but nothing prepared me for this. The landscape appeared as if half the earth brimmed with fire.

  Jeff settled himself on the ground with me on his lap. My back pressed against his chest and his arms enveloped me. Silence ensued. The warmth of his touch propelled the stirring in my chest. When he rested his cheek next to mine, I found complete tranquility.

  The light disappeared, and a vast stream of color spread in all directions across the valley, and suddenly, I felt small in this overwhelming universe. Everything I thought was important no longer mattered. The parties, the games, the mindless fun no longer remained crucial to my existence. I immediately felt a great desire to become one who made a difference in this world, and at that very moment I realized no matter what I did, I wanted to do it with Jeff at my side . . .

  *****

  My palm pressed against the window. The bride and groom still intertwined with a tenderness I envied. I brushed my cheeks and realized my stare had been long enough for the salt from my tears to mark a path down my face. I tried to pull my eyes away. I tried to keep the image of a man, tall and toned, with wavy brown hair sporting a blue Volcom T and Khaki shorts to remain. I squeezed my eyes closed and begged, “please?”

  Nothing changed when I opened them. The newlyweds continued to flaunt their ecstasy in front of me.

  My fingers curled into fists and my jaw grew rigid. Seriously Kat! What is wrong with you? I stole a long inhale and quickly dodged out of sight. This is your job! I stumbled to the stereo in the far corner of the room and turned the knob. I couldn’t even place the genre of music that sounded from the speakers, but anything was better than a love song.

  I took my place back on the sofa and pulled my legs up against my chest. With a series of profound breaths, my muscles finally relaxed. You can do this, Kat. It’s only one night a week.

  As I weighed my options, the solitude Charlock provided outweighed my selfishness. If I can figure out a way to ignore the events happening around me for a few hours each week, the stay could be worth it. At least that’s what I wanted to believe.

  Chapter Eight

  June 2010

  “Good morning, Miss Shelton.”

  “Yes, Mr. Gilford?”

  “How was your week?”

  “Very good, and yours?”

  “Pleasant enough.”

  “What was last week’s total?”

  “$7325.”

  I almost yawned into the phone, but his pause was longer than normal.

  “Mr. Gilford?”

  “Yes?”

  “According to Ms. Campbell’s records, we always have a slow week following the bank holiday, but the next week picks up again.”

  “I see . . .” It was quiet again.

  “Mr. Gilford,” I pursued, “is there a problem?”

  “My accountants have some questions about the estate’s financial papers. I will need to come to Charlock early next week, by Tuesday.”

  “Oh?” My voice rattled. Not ideal, but it is his house, though I didn’t expect him for another three weeks.

  “I’ll have my assistant fax you a list of records to pull and copy; it may go back ten years.”

  “Oh, okay. I believe I can locate it.”

  “Do I need to send for Ms. Campbell?” He said derisively.

  “No, Mr. Gilford, I’m quite capable of researching the required items,” I said sharply. I wanted to add that it took me almost a week to clean off Pauline’s desk alone. How could he not have known that about her? I continued, “I’ll get right on it as soon as I receive the fax.”

  “And please have Lara make up the master suite for me.”

  “Okay—” I paused. I should shut up right now. “—the master suite is part of the tour; did you want another room?”

  “No, Miss Shelton, simply make it not part of the tour.”

  “Yes, sir.” You jack-. I bit my tongue.

  “Good day.”

  “Goodbye.”

  The gall of that jerk to insinuate I’m incapable of simple administrative duties! What does he think I’m capable of? I just spent the last two months trying to organize the office mess Pauline created. Did he really think if he brought her back, she’d fix this? We wouldn’t even be in this predicament had she learned to use a scanner and a thumb drive.

  Oh, I must be the only stupid person on earth that applied for this job. That’s why he treats me this way, like a servant! The ring of the fax machine interrupted my rant. The request came fast. That could be good news; it must be a short list. My mouth hit the floor as the machine spit out three full pages. This must’ve been drawn up before our conversation even took place. Typical. He probably starts his Mondays at 5 a.m., afraid he will lose a million or two if he starts any later.

  This will take days, even weeks! The files Pauline kept in the office only went back two years, and there was no logical order to any of them.

  Before she left, she showed me three separate doors in a small alcove that connected to the library. One, a seldom-used cellar, the middle door led to a washroom and the last door opened to a storage room. When Pauline cracked it for a peek, boxes shoved in all directions prevented the door from being fully opened. “Don’t fret ‘bout ‘tis one deary.” She chuckled and promptly closed it.

  After a thorough search of the office, no clues revealed the whereabouts of the additional years. That room had to be where I’d find the rest of the paperwork. Forced open, I propped the door with the first box I could reach. Then fumbled for a light switch. Once illuminated, I found the room to be much larger than expected. My heart sank. Piles of papers were scattered on the floor with boxes stacked carelessly upon wooden shelves.

  Reaching for one box, I brushed the dust off the lid and searched for identification. 2004. Okay, not so bad if they’re all marked. Glancing at the next one, I held my sleeve to my face as I brushed another thick layer of dust off. 1996 and 1997 were both crossed out, and 1998 remained. Curious, I opened it up. Again, no organization to the documents tossed inside, and many were found crinkled. I reached for one invoice and scanned for a date. 15 January 2002. What? 2002? I peered back to the lid, papers from 1998 should be located inside. I grabbed another sheet, 16 December 2005. “You have got to be kidding!” I cried loud enough to wake the dead if there were any.

  “Miss, Miss, are you okay?” Gretchen appeared at the door. Her hair blown back, presuming she rushed.

  I sneered and grumbled half to her and half to myself. “I’m fine.”

  She pulled her lips tight as I caught her studying the space. Her head bobbed. “I see.” She frowned. “Ms. Campbell didn’t like this room either.”

  My fingers scrunched the paper, and I tossed it back
in the box. “How am I possibly going to get this figured out in a week!”

  “A week, Miss?”

  “Yes, a week! Mr. Chill is arriving next week and wants all of this, and there’s no rhyme or reason to any of it.” I grabbed another box.

  “Mr. Chill?” Gretchen questioned as I glanced at the lid.

  “2006. Let’s see what we really have.” I snatched for a handful of papers. “2 February 1997, 10 April 2002 . . . of course!” I cried out loud again. Gretchen winced to my outburst. “Sorry, Gretchen,” I fumed. “How in the world did this place function? How did Mr. Chill, Mr. perfect finicky, tolerate this?”

  “Mr. Chill, Miss?”

  My forehead wrinkled while my mind calculated the time this project would take and what little time I had. Gretchen’s face still angled to the side, confused. I shook my head, “Sorry, I meant Mr. Gilford. Mr. Gilford is coming in next week. Oh, and please tell Lara the king is asking for his throne room.”

  Her reaction confirmed she missed my sarcasm. Her voice trembled slightly. “I don’t understand.”

  I grabbed her hands and squeezed softly. “Sorry, I’m frustrated. Mr. Gilford is coming in and has asked that we prepare the master suite for him. He’s arriving Tuesday.”