He thought a moment and shrugged. He looked like he would challenge anything and anyone to please Alison. “I guess when you’re already in the doghouse, breaking another rule won’t matter. Okay, Sam, but try not to get dirty and dusty, and don’t tell your mother you were up there unless she asks, okay?”
“Okay,” Sam said, bouncing a little on the seat and smiling at Alison. I wished I had fought harder for her.
When we pulled up to the front of the house, I took a deep breath. I remembered the last time I had entered Wyndemere this way. It was when I was a little more than five and Dr. Davenport had come home just after I had cut myself on a jagged branch. My mother didn’t know I was playing out front. I held my hand up, fascinated with the stream of blood rushing down my palm. I heard him step out of his car and saw him look my way.
“Get over here,” he ordered. I rushed to him. He seized my wrist and held my hand up. “How did you do this?”
I shrugged and looked back at the branch I had been using for a magic wand. He didn’t wait for my explanation. He took out a handkerchief, wrapped it around my hand, and then led me quickly up the steps to the front door. I was afraid my mother would be very angry. I wasn’t even thinking about Bea Davenport, but she seemed to pop out of a wall, her eyes wide.
“Why are you bringing her in this way?” she demanded.
“She cut herself,” he said, and hurried me to the powder room, where he carefully washed my hand, examined the wound, and then reached under the cabinet for a first-aid kit. Even though my cut stung, I was very quiet and more fascinated with how efficiently he worked sterilizing the area and then fixing the Band-Aid. When he was finished, before he did anything else, he washed my blood off the inside of the sink.
“My blood’s red,” I said.
He paused, a slight soft smile on his lips. “And so?”
“I’m not a blue blood.”
It was the first time he had ever laughed at anything I said. It wasn’t a loud laugh; it was simply a widening of his smile and a slight sound that he seemed to want to swallow. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he told me. “Go back and tell your mother what happened, and next time, you be more careful about what you pick up, understand?”
I nodded.
He thought a moment. “Let’s be sure you’ve had your tetanus shot, too,” he added, more to himself than to me.
When he opened the bathroom door, I shot out and ran through the house to our section, more excited about what had happened than I was about Christmas. My mother seemed even more intrigued by it all than I was. She was especially interested in how Bea Davenport had reacted, but I really hadn’t paid much attention to her. I was mesmerized by everything Dr. Davenport said and did.
My mother chastised me for playing in front of the house, more than she did about my getting cut on a broken branch. “You have to stay where you belong,” she told me.
I didn’t fully understand what she meant. To me, when I was little, I belonged everywhere something amused or fascinated me.
I mentioned what Dr. Davenport had said about tetanus, which I pronounced as “tet-us.”
She smiled and said, “He forgot he had set up your appointment with Dr. Bliskin himself. But he’s a very busy man,” she added, which was something she always said practically every time any mention of Dr. Davenport was made.
I relived all this in my mind, from the moment we all stepped out of the limousine to the moment we walked through the grand front entrance of Wyndemere. I couldn’t imagine the doors of heaven being any grander or more impressive.
One of the maids, crossing the hallway to the living room, glanced our way but kept going. I knew that Alison had been here on a few occasions, once or twice for dinner. I didn’t want to cross-examine her or Ryder about how well that went, but I knew how snobby Bea was, of course, and Alison’s family was not wealthy. Her parents would surely not be attending the costly charity affairs Bea helped organize and attended with Dr. Davenport. Alison’s father was a UPS deliveryman, and her mother could take only part-time work because Alison had a ten-year-old brother and a seven-year-old sister. They lived in a modest Queen Anne house in a far poorer neighborhood of Hillsborough, although you couldn’t tell how modest from the way Alison behaved in school.
I saw that regardless of how many times Alison had been here, she was obviously still overwhelmed with the size of Wyndemere and the elaborate decorations, chandeliers, paintings, and rugs. Mrs. Marlene would say, “She looks google-eyed.”
“It’s like walking into a museum every time I come here,” Alison said.
“Well, we do have a mummy,” Ryder quipped in a whisper. I was still holding my breath. “Let’s just go right up,” he said. I held Sam’s hand, and we all headed for the stairway.
We had just started up when we heard Bea Davenport shout, “Samantha! Where do you think you’re going?”
It was impossible to have known if she was home or not. She had her own late-model Mercedes sedan and used it whenever she was unable to have the limousine, but the garage was on the east end of the mansion, and the doors were shut. She had stepped out of the living room and stood there glaring up at us, with her hands on her hips, her posture as erect and stiff as a sentry’s at a military compound. I sensed she had been lying in wait, anticipating that we might permit Sam to go up with us and even that I might be brought home in the limousine.
Sam looked terrified. My heart was thumping, too. She tightened her grip on my hand.
“She’s going up to her room, I imagine,” Ryder said nonchalantly. His casual tone took the air out of Bea Davenport’s swollen face.
“You make sure that you do only that, Samantha. Change your clothes, and come right down here. I want to talk to you,” she said. “And no one else is to go into your room.”
Sam looked like she would cry. I smiled at her, but she lowered her head.
“And, Ryder Davenport, I don’t recall giving permission to have Parker drive anyone else in the limo but you and Samantha,” Bea said.
Ryder stared down at her.
No one spoke; no one breathed. Would she use this as a way to stop us?
“C’mon,” Ryder told us after another silent moment. We continued up the stairs, but I knew from the way she treated my mother that Bea Davenport’s temper tantrum would burst into more of a rage when she was ignored.
As soon as we were out of Bea’s eyesight and hearing, Ryder turned to Sam and said, “I’ll take you up to the attic when she’s not home. I promise.”
It was something, but going up with us was everything. She peeled off to her bedroom, her head down, dressed in disappointment.
“Why is she like that?” Alison asked. When I didn’t answer, she turned to Ryder. “Why is she so angry about your being with Fern? Did you do something that upset her?” she asked me.
“Yes, I was born,” I said dryly.
Apparently, he hadn’t warned her about any of it.
“No. What Fern means to say is my stepmother was born on the wrong side of the bed,” Ryder told her. “Forget her. This way,” he directed, and we walked down the long, somewhat dark corridor to the stairway that led up to the attic.
It was a short stairway with banisters that looked like they were the originals, never reinforced. They were a bit shaky. Unlike the marble stairway, these steps were wood without the benefit of even a thin carpet. Every one of them moaned beneath our feet. There was even less light guiding our way. I had no doubt that Bea Davenport would have little interest in upgrading anything about the attic or in approaching it. Everything in it predated her, and she didn’t want those memories to live in any form.
The dark oak door was wide, however, probably with the anticipation that the attic would be used to store furniture and other sizable things, like the old-fashioned luggage trunks and large cartons of forgettable items people couldn’t bring themselves to throw away. It was the headquarters for hoarders. The door’s hinges squeaked like a sick cat.
&nb
sp; Ryder entered first and found the switch that triggered a line of dangling naked light bulbs the length of the attic, at least two of which needed to be replaced. Alison and I paused behind him. It was vast, with no apparent organization of what had been brought up and stored in it. Cartons were scattered among articles of furniture, some covered in dust-laden vinyl. There were standing lamps that looked helplessly inefficient and stacks of bed frames and bedsprings. Since there wasn’t a single window, the air reeked of age itself. Small clouds of dust particles danced around the limited circles of illumination under the light bulbs.
“Ugh,” Alison said. “I can’t imagine finding anything suitable up here.”
“Let’s try. My mother’s things are off to the right here,” Ryder said. Actually, he whispered. It gave me the feeling that he felt something holy and special about his mother’s possessions. It was as if we had entered a cathedral.
Do people live on in the things they once possessed? I wondered. Clothes especially were like part of your body. Maybe that was why when someone died, the people who loved him or her were anxious to give their clothes away. They were too vibrant a reminder, teasing with the flood of images that they could engender. Perhaps their perfume or cologne was still strong. A whiff of that would release memories and visuals, even the sound of a voice, and some memorable words.
What about a strand of hair still clinging to the material with the desperation of someone who refused to be forgotten? Our English teacher, Mr. Madeo, in a lesson about poetry, showed us something called a haiku, a three-line, seventeen-syllable poem that captured an image, a feeling. Right now, one of the ones he had read came right to mind: The piercing chill I feel: my dead wife’s comb, in our bedroom, under my heel.
Ryder seemed hesitant. He still hadn’t stepped forward.
“If you don’t want to do this,” I said, “it’s all right. My mother wants to buy me a gown.”
“That’s probably a better idea, now that I see what this is like,” Alison said.
“What? No. Of course not. These clothes cry out to be used,” Ryder insisted. “Everything was quite expensive.” He looked at me. “It’s all right; it’s fine. It’s what my father wants, too. It bothers him that all this is never used.”
“Well, let’s look and get it over with,” Alison said.
Why did she insist on coming? I wondered. What did she think it was like up here, Bergdorf Goodman?
Ryder moved quickly now and paused at a three-door armoire with a full beveled dressing mirror and what I thought were ornately carved side doors.
“This is beautiful,” I said, running my hand over the surface. “Why was it moved up here?”
Ryder blew air through his lips. “Are you kidding? Anything that had the slightest to do with my mother was excommunicated when Bea became the mistress of Wyndemere.”
He opened the center door and stepped back.
“Ladies, welcome to Ryder Davenport’s department store.”
Alison moved to it first and began to sift through the dresses and gowns. I had never gone to a formal party, much less a prom, so I thought I should let her make the decision. She was grimacing and rejecting everything—and quickly, too.
“Out of style. Too gaudy. Too simple. Ugly,” she recited.
I plucked a dress out from under her and held it up. “I like this,” I said. “Couldn’t it work?” It was an A-line, sleeveless, sheer-neck chiffon. I knew it wasn’t really out of style.
She scooped it out of my hands and held it up. “It’s so long,” she said.
I had not told anyone that I had gone on the Internet and studied prom gowns. “It’s supposed to be,” I said. Ryder’s eyebrows lifted. “It’s a brush-train dress.”
“You’ll be swimming in it,” Alison said. “How tall was your mother?” she asked Ryder.
“Five-ten,” he said.
Alison looked at me. “She’s at least five inches shorter, and you know how tall Paul is.”
“I can pick some of that up with shoes.”
“Exactly. You’ll need shoes to match. You might as well—”
“Wait,” Ryder said. “My father told me my mother had a small foot. You might be the same size. We’ll check the armoire that contains her shoes. There’s probably a pair made for this dress.”
“That would really be lucky,” Alison muttered, but she sounded disappointed.
“Serendipity,” Ryder said, more to himself.
I held the dress up in front of me. “Don’t you think the bodice will fit perfectly?”
She nodded, grimacing.
“I might only have to shorten it. I bet I won’t have to take in the waist very much,” I said.
“You can go to Bea’s tailor,” Ryder joked.
“You really do want to give her a heart attack,” I said. “Should we check the shoes?” I was getting very excited now, and Alison was losing her resistance.
He led us to a matching chestnut rotating shoe-rack cabinet. It had three levels, each with three rows of shoes. He pulled open all three, and Alison plucked out the pair that matched the dress.
“Try them on,” she said reluctantly. “They look perfect.”
I gazed around and sat on a black trunk. The two of them hovered over me as I took off my Skechers and then slipped into the right shoe first. It had a two-inch heel. I looked up at Alison. It felt good. I tried on the other, and then I stood.
“Well?” Ryder asked.
“Serendipity,” I said.
He smiled. “My father’s going to love this.”
“Really?”
“You bet. I love it. All I have are pictures of my mother. I’m sure I have one where she’s wearing this dress. It’s in an album my father lets me look at, an album he keeps in his office.”
Neither Alison nor I spoke. Ryder looked away to hide the sadness he felt. It had simply never occurred to me that a child could feel a connection between himself and his dead mother whom he couldn’t really remember or know except through videos and pictures. When he watched a video and heard her voice, it would almost be like watching a famous movie star, maybe, maybe for me; but for Ryder, there was definitely something more, something he knew he had missed and wanted dearly.
He turned back to us, gathering himself together quickly. “What else, Alison?” he asked.
“You should have the dress dry-cleaned for sure and checked for stains.”
“Yeah, sure. What else does she need?”
She looked at me as if to say, A new body and, for sure, a new face. “I’m getting my hair done next Saturday. If you want to do something special for the prom, you have to schedule an appointment somewhere right away,” she told me.
“Okay. I’ll ask my mother.”
“I think she could use a nice pair of earrings,” Alison added. “I don’t think she needs a necklace.”
Ryder thought a moment. “I think my father put all my mother’s jewelry in a bank safety-deposit box. I can ask him.” He smiled. “Maybe Bea will offer you some.”
“With poison on them. No, thanks. My mother has some jewelry, too,” I said. “I’d worry about losing one of your mother’s earrings. I’m sure your mother’s jewelry is way more expensive.”
“Okay,” Ryder said. “Girls, I leave the rest up to you,” he declared.
I folded the dress to carry and changed back to my Skechers. We started out of the attic.
Ryder slipped back for a moment to whisper, “You’re going to look beautiful, Fern, as beautiful as my mother looked.”
“I doubt that,” I said quickly.
“No matter. Paul’s a lucky guy,” he said.
His lips grazed my ear.
The thrill that passed through me woke me in places I never expected.
But I had no idea why it also frightened me.
Bea Davenport seemed to have been waiting at the bottom of the stairway the whole time. Sam was nowhere in sight.
“Hello, Mrs. Davenport,” Alison said as we descended. “I
’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to say hello before.”
“Let me see that dress,” she demanded, ignoring her.
I unfolded it and held it up.
“You’ll look absolutely foolish in something like that,” she declared, and then she smiled with ice, as though such a possibility was very pleasing.
I saw Alison nod.
“I’m sure my mother never did,” Ryder countered.
“She’s not your mother,” Bea said.
“No,” Ryder replied. “No one is.”
Bea’s eyes flared, and then she spun around and went into the living room.
“Ouch,” Alison said. “If you weren’t persona non grata before, Fern, you certainly are now.”
“C’mon,” Ryder told her. “I’ll have Parker take you home and go along. You okay, Fern?”
I nodded, but I was still quite frightened. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen or heard Ryder defy his stepmother, but this time, it seemed like a deep slice severing anything that even slightly joined them together as a family. Would I somehow be blamed for that, blamed by Dr. Davenport?
“I’ll call you later,” Alison said, sounding like the reluctant draftee who realized she had to cooperate. “If your mother doesn’t have earrings that work, I might, and maybe I can get you into my hairdresser, too.”
“You two are treating Paul too well,” Ryder joked—or maybe not. I hoped not.
Alison grimaced. “I still think we’d all look better in your family limousine.”
“We’ll be fine. You’ll have another ride in it now. See you later, Fern,” he said, then took her hand, and they walked out to the limousine.
I glanced at the living-room entrance and then hurried through the house to our living quarters. My mother was in the kitchen working on a meat loaf for us. I burst in, undecided about what I should tell her first.
“Here’s the dress Ryder and Alison helped me pick out,” I said, holding it up.
“Alison?”
“Ryder’s girlfriend.”
“Oh, yes.” She took the dress and held it out in front of her. “It’s beautiful. I’ll have Mr. Stark take us to Mrs. Levine after you return from school tomorrow. She’ll do what has to be done. And those are the shoes? They fit you?”
House of Secrets Page 6