That had to mean something. Carrie looked at the woods just a little ways off to one side, the rolling meadow off to the other side, at the iron fence, the worn brick path, the head and foot stones and the old willow tree with its weeping branches standing in the middle of it all. The stone with the flower sat apart from all the others, in the far corner, farthest away from the gate, more plainly styled, more cheaply made. Just like the trunk in the attic and the clothes that were in it. It meant something. It had to. But what?
It was a puzzle and there were pieces missing, but she wasn’t really sure if she wanted to find all the rest of the pieces. The ones she had in her hands were troubling enough. Carrie touched the locket. It meant something, of course it did, but she didn’t think it would turn out to mean anything good. She closed her eyes and listened. There was nothing to hear but the chattering of squirrels, the twittering of birds, the sad, whispery voice of the wind in the trees.
Carrie got to her feet and dusted the grass off her shorts.
Weariness pulled at her arms and legs. But there was still so much left to do, trimming and sorting, scraping and painting, raking and polishing. Mooning around wasn’t going to get any of it done.
There was still her mother’s old room to go through, but she wasn’t going to do that today. She didn’t have the strength. She wasn’t going to go back into the attic either. It was too exhausting and she was already two winks beyond tired. And tired of being tired. The iron latch of the gate closed behind her with a click.
Carrie walked down the broken brick path heading back to the house, her feet feeling heavy in her shoes.
Carrie tried polishing the silver tea service. It didn’t really need it that badly, but it was something she could do sitting in the kitchen surrounded by modern appliances. It made her feel more anchored, somehow, to listen to the hum of the old refrigerator, to see the clock blinking zeros on the microwave she just bought. She held the sugar spoon up to the light to check for spots. Something red flashed in the bowl. She turned around. The kitchen door was closed, but the swinging door to the butler’s pantry was moving just a little. Carrie put the spoon back on the tray and laid her head on the kitchen table. She was a mile beyond tired. She was so far beyond tired that she was starting to dream sitting up in a chair.
The doorbell clunked noisily from the foyer. She lifted her head and then got up slowly to look out of the window in the breakfast nook. Gillian’s car was sitting by the fountain. Carrie breathed a sigh of relief. She just didn’t have the energy to be polite to strangers.
“Come on in, Gillian,” she yelled out the window. “I’m in the kitchen.” Carrie went to the sink and washed the silver polish off her hands. She was drying them on a dishtowel when the kitchen door opened.
Gillian smiled and then frowned. “You look terrible.”
Carrie draped the dishtowel over the side of the sink. “That’s not quite the greeting I was hoping for.”
Gillian walked over to Carrie and kissed her, soft and slow, cradling her cheek in the palm of her hand. She drew back and looked at her critically. “Well, that helped. You do look a little better now but still a bit rough around the edges.”
Gillian smiled suddenly. “Do you think that if I kissed you for long enough you would turn into a handsome princess?”
Carrie leaned her face deeper into Gillian’s hand. “Are you implying that I currently look like a frog?”
“More like a raccoon.” She stroked her face and frowned again. “Can you tell me what’s wrong? You look a little worse every time I see you.”
Carrie looked at the door to the butler’s pantry. She looked back at Gillian and shook her head a little. “I’m still not sleeping very well.”
“Why not? What’s bothering you?”
Carrie shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe it’s because this is such a big house.” And that wasn’t any sort of a lie. It was a big house. The kitchen alone was bigger than her old living room, and sometimes she forgot there even was an east and west wing.
“I used to think that a three bedroom apartment was big. But this,” Carrie waved her hand around the kitchen. “I’m just not used to all this space, and I’m really not used to the noise.”
“What noise? I’d think that a house in the country would have much less noise than an apartment in the city.”
“Then you’d be wrong. It’s not less noise. It’s just different. I can’t believe how loud the wind in the trees can be.”
“So loud that it keeps you awake at night?”
Carrie opened her mouth to say something flippant, but she closed it again with only a sigh. No matter what she said, she didn’t think Gillian was going to let it go this time. “It’s not the wind. It’s the noises the house makes that keeps me awake.”
“Like what? Popping and creaking and things?”
Carrie closed her eyes. If they were going to start dating, it would be better to start it on honest footing. Her father used to say that to begin something with a lie usually meant that it would end with one. She liked Gillian enough to tell her the truth. Maybe she even owed Gillian the truth, no matter the consequences. And anyway, she was already in for a penny.
She opened her eyes again and looked at Gillian. “The house does pop and creak, especially when the wind blows, but the part that bothers me is the strange music I keep hearing and the woman laughing. I hear this hunting horn blowing at all hours and then the hounds answering it, and I’m never quite sure if it’s real or if I’m dreaming. But the thing that bothers me the most is the mirror in the library. Sometimes I see things in it that shouldn’t be there.”
Gillian took half a step back, her face full of alarm. She looked around the kitchen and then back again at Carrie, her eyes wide.
Carrie slumped against the kitchen counter. “I shouldn’t have told you. Now you probably think I’m nuts.” Her shoulders sagged and she covered her eyes with her hands. “The thing of it is, Gills, is that I just may be going a little nuts. God, I’m so tired, but every time I go to sleep I have these dreams and I think they mean something but I can’t figure it out and then I don’t want to sleep anymore but I’m so tired that I’m afraid I’m starting to dream standing up.” Carrie’s hands slid down to cover her face.
She felt like she was going to cry, but she didn’t want Gillian to see that. It was ugly and she was already making such a mess out of everything.
Carrie felt Gillian’s arms slide around her shoulders. She let out half a sob and leaned into her, buried her face in the crook of her neck. Gillian’s hands were on her hair, stroking softly.
“I don’t think you’re nuts, Carrie. The universe is a really big place. There’s room in it for all kinds of strange things.”
She lifted Carrie’s face from her shoulder, fingers underneath her chin, her thumb stroking at her cheek. Gillian looked at her closely. “I want you to tell me about it, okay? I don’t want you to think that I won’t listen to anything you have to say, however strange it might seem. Can you do that?”
Carrie nodded and stood straighter. “If you really want me to.”
“I do.”
The warm circle of Gillian’s arms was very comforting to Carrie, but she stepped out of her embrace. That was better than having to feel Gillian run from her. She rubbed her nose and took a breath. “I keep having these dreams about people I’ve never met before, but it feels like I should know them if only I could remember who they were. And then there’s the music box. I close the lid, but then I come back into the room and it’s open. It plays sometimes, all by itself, this song that I don’t know, but then I find myself singing the words. As soon as I realize what I’m doing, I can’t remember them anymore.” Carrie looked at her hands. “Last night I dreamt about this woman with red hair who turned into a fox and then I heard the dogs coming, but they weren’t chasing her, they were after me and then I fell and they were almost on me. I woke up and everything was still as death except for the music playing and the woman laughing.
I can’t remember why she’s laughing, and that makes me so sad that I just want to cry.”
Gillian took her hands and held them. “Carrie, maybe you don’t need to be here in this house.”
Carrie squeezed her fingers, grateful for the touch, but she shook her head emphatically. “No, I should be here. I have to fix things, put them back to rights. I can’t explain it, but I know that I’m supposed to be here.”
“Not if it’s killing you, you aren’t.”
“It’s not. I mean, she doesn’t mean to hurt me.”
“She who? The laughing girl or the house?”
Carrie gripped her hands tighter. “I don’t know. I can’t put all the pieces together. There’s still something missing.” Gillian looked at her with a deep frown creasing her face. Carrie dropped her hands and looked away. “You don’t believe me.”
Gillian turned her face back to hers. “I do believe you. The music box thing is a little weird, but I do believe that you believe everything you’re telling me.”
Carrie glanced at the tea service sitting on the kitchen table.
Pieces of her and Gillian reflected back at her but nothing red.
“Do you think I’m going nuts?”
“I think you’re under a great deal of stress.” Gillian stepped closer, slipping her hands across Carrie’s shoulders, squeezing them gently. “It might help if you didn’t stay here by yourself.”
Carrie leaned in closer to her, resting her own hands on the soft swell of Gillian’s hips. “Should I rent a room out or something?”
Gillian kissed her softly. Once, then twice. “You could do that, or you could just ask me to stay.”
Carrie drew back and blinked at her. “But people will talk. You remember, jumping all around with red flags? Pink triangles?”
Gillian smiled and touched Carrie’s cheeks with the tips of her fingers. “That does concern me but, at this point, I’m a little more concerned about you.” Her fingers brushed lightly under the hollows of Carrie’s eyes. “You really do look like a raccoon.”
Carrie’s skin tingled where Gillian touched her face. Her fingers seemed to brush the tiredness off her skin. “I would love for you to stay, but we haven’t had our first date yet.”
Gillian’s eyes sparkled. “Let’s have it now.”
Carrie felt herself grin. “I don’t suppose there’s a pizza place in town that delivers.”
“No, I don’t suppose there is.”
“I guess I could make you a sandwich, turn the lights down low and light a few candles.”
“That would be very romantic,” Gillian said with a mischievous smile, “if only the sun weren’t still shining.”
Carrie glanced out the kitchen window at the bright afternoon.
“Right.” She rubbed her hands in slow circles over Gillian’s hips, feeling the gentle slopes and curves. “Well then, I would ply you with wine instead, but I haven’t got any.”
Gillian gave her a peculiar look. “What about the wine that’s in the cellar?”
Carrie’s hands stilled. “I didn’t know there was a cellar.”
“In a house like this? Of course there’s a cellar. The stairs are in the butler’s pantry.” She stepped away from Carrie and tugged at her hand. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
Carrie looked at the swinging door that led to the pantry. It had only moved just a little bit. It could have been a breeze. The house was old and drafty. Gillian pulled her toward the door and held it open for her. Carrie walked through it and it was, after all, just a door. Just like the door to the cellar was just a door even if it didn’t look like a door but a piece of paneling on the wall.
“It was meant to be hidden,” Gillian explained as she fumbled with the tiny latch. “Every great house had a place to hide the silver and the whiskey if the need arose. And it surely did. That silver tea service wouldn’t have survived the war if it hadn’t been hidden well.”
The door opened and they looked on a dark set of cold stone stairs. Gillian pulled at Carrie’s hand and led the way down. At the bottom, she pulled the chain on a bare lightbulb. It lit up a small space with hewn rock walls, dirt and cobble floors, spider webs and dust, boxes and crates.
The entire far wall was an old stone wine rack full of bottles, but Carrie stared at the bulb. “I can’t believe that still works.”
“Oh, it didn’t. I changed it when I came down here on cleaning day. I’d heard stories about the cellar and I wanted to see it.”
“Did you find anything down here?”
Gillian waved her hand at the back wall. “Wine.” She grinned. “Some very curious wines.”
Carrie smiled and shook her head as she walked over to the rack. She began to look at all the bottles, one by one, twirling them in their beds, trying to read the faded labels. “Clos de L’archevêch, Rouge de Cathan, La Burthe Briazae, Madeira Justinos Boal…”
Gillian laughed as she garbled names and mispronounced words.
It made Carrie’s heart feel lighter to hear her laugh even if she was laughing at her.
“And this last one.” Carrie knelt to wipe the fine white dust off the label. “La Malque. Hey, look at the date on this. It says 1862. I wonder if old wine tastes any different from new wine.”
Gillian leaned over her shoulder, her face flushed with laughter.
Carrie looked at her, and the distance between them, though only an inch or so, seemed too far. “Which one do you want?” Carrie asked. “I don’t know anything about wine like this.”
Gillian laid a hand on Carrie’s shoulder. “I don’t think it matters. It’s either all magnificent or it’s all vinegar. We won’t know until we open one.”
“How about this one?” Carrie tapped at the neck of a funny-shaped bottle in the middle of the rack. “Madeira’s a nice name.”
“That’s port, not wine. And the one next to it is cognac.”
“Isn’t port just like wine?”
“No. Not at all. It’s more potent and much sweeter. It’s an after dinner drink, not a with dinner drink.”
“You pick one then.”
“Let’s try the one in the skinny blue bottle. That’s bound to be interesting.” Gillian reached around Carrie for the bottle.
She screamed. The bottle hit the ground and rolled. Carrie stood and reached for her.
“What? What is it?” Carrie’s heart was pounding hard. She looked around the cellar half expecting to see a woman floating down the stairs or a fox among the bottles. But there wasn’t anything. She pulled Gillian close and held her. “Talk to me, Gills.”
Gillian was shivering. “It was a spider.”
“A spider?” Carrie’s arms relaxed. “Damn, Gillian.”
Gillian squeezed her tighter. “It was a big spider. With long fuzzy legs, and it crawled on my hand.” She shuddered. “I hate spiders. Not the little ones, they’re okay, but the big furry ones are just awful. You can see their googely eyes and their wiggly mouths and everything.”
Carrie spread her hands against the flat of Gillian’s back and pressed her closer. “Gills, please don’t scare me like that again, okay? If you’re going to scream, make sure it’s a ghost or something so I can scream too.”
Gillian leaned harder into her. “I can’t make any promises where spiders are concerned. But if I see a ghost, you can be assured that I will scream so you can scream too.”
Carrie laughed and it felt good. She realized it was the first time in more months than she could remember that she’d laughed out loud. It felt very good and so did Gillian, pressed tight against her. She mouthed a silent thank you to the spider. “Are we done picking the wine, or do you want to pick a different bottle?”
“That one will be fine, but I think you should pick it up off the floor.”
“What if the spider’s still on it?”
“Then you can just brush it off. You’re not afraid of spiders, are you?”
“No. I’m afraid of wasps, but I don’t think there are any down here.”
Carrie let go of Gillian, slowly and somewhat reluctantly.
She walked over to the corner and picked up the bottle with two fingers, holding it out in front of her. “I don’t see the spider. You must have scared it away when you screamed. Are you sure this is the one you want?”
“I’m not about to reach in for another one.”
“Good point,” Carrie said looking at the bottle. “I hope it goes well with turkey and Swiss.”
“Let’s open it and find out.” Gillian headed for the stairs almost at a run and Carrie was right behind her.
The wine was a ruby red, smoky and very strong. It didn’t go at all well with turkey and Swiss. Carrie wrapped the sandwiches and put them back in the refrigerator while Gillian carried the wine upstairs to the veranda off the master suite. They slid the two wicker chairs close together and sat with arms and fingers twined, sipping slowly from their long-stemmed glasses. The sun, halfway down among the trees, stained the sky pink and purple, shading the river orange to black. The air was warm and smelled like green leaves and growing things. Carrie took a deep sip of her wine, savored the bite of it across her tongue, the warm curl of it inside her stomach and the pleasant buzz growing behind her ears.
Gillian leaned in closer to her, pressing their shoulders tight together. “This is wonderful, Carrie. I think it’s the best date I’ve ever been on, excepting the spider, of course.”
Carrie smiled. She was content with it, too, including the spider. She sipped her wine and breathed in deeply of the night air and of Gillian’s peachy pale perfume. Sitting on the veranda with the buzz of the wine drowning out the evening noises, her feet propped up on the iron railing, her thumb making small circles on the back of Gillian’s hand, she was almost happy.
Almost. There was still something unfinished that nagged and scratched at the back of her mind, like a rock in her shoe or sand in her socks that even the wine couldn’t dull.
Carrie’s thumb stilled. “Gills, how much do you know about this house and about my family?”
“Quite a bit.” Gillian swirled her glass and watched the wine slosh against the sides. “I used your family as a case study for my thesis paper on postbellum southern Reconstruction. The house was an integral part of your family’s history.”
The Color of Dust Page 13