“There is more to it than that.” Jenna’s voice was softer. “Why don’t you look at me when I’m talking to you?”
He turned his head and saw the hurt in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
“This whole thing is impossible, and yet, it continues to happen. It’s beginning to frighten me, Ben. What if her intentions are not what you think? What if there is something evil motivating her?”
“Jenna, please, I admit it’s more than I expected. I don’t pretend to understand her motives. But to say she comes with malevolent intent, I just can’t believe that.”
“Or maybe you don’t want to believe it.” She took the wrapping paper that he had folded neatly, the green ribbon, and along with the card, which she returned to the green envelope, put them in one of the credenza drawers. “Let’s put these away for now. They’ll be there for as long as you want them.”
He nodded. “It really is beautiful wrapping paper, a lot better than that cheap Christmas paper that always tears when you cut or fold it,” he said, managing a slight smile.
Dismissing his comments about the wrapping paper, she asked, “Can you even imagine how lost, how absolutely alien she would feel in a world so different from hers? Even though these are the same walls, it’s what’s in the house, Ben. Kitchen appliances, a washer and dryer, a vacuum cleaner, photographs of people Anna never knew, the Internet, none of it would make sense to her. Can’t you see that?”
“I saw it last night in the library. She was confused, lost in this space that no longer belongs to her.”
Outside in the streets of Newburgh, in the streets of cities everywhere, church bells rang even louder. The Holy Spirit was walking on the sidewalks, walking down the streets shouting, “Hallelujah!” And the anti–Christians, those who had no faith, the misinformed, the heartless self–righteous nonbelievers were turning up the volume on their radios and televisions, pulling their blinds and curtains, hoping to stop the confounding bells from ringing across this crisp icy Christmas Day. But the bells kept ringing. And there was nowhere for these angry hypocrites to hide. They kept their ears covered, hoping the walls of their homes would continue to stand against the ringing of the Christmas bells. But like those stone walls of Jericho, these walls, too, were beginning to crack.
“I brought lunch. Why don’t you change your clothes and help me in the kitchen? It’s not much, but I was hoping you might join us for Christmas dinner later today.”
He nodded, “Thank you for the invitation, Jenna,” and with indifference he was sure she noticed, he turned away from her. His decision to hang Anna Atwood’s Christmas present in the bedroom closet was very much on his mind.
“See you in the kitchen,” she yelled as he climbed the stairs.
But someone else was waiting, and she was holding a large butcher knife. On the counter was a platter of roast beef, which Anna was slicing thin as Jenna came into the kitchen. For a moment, Jenna was startled, but regaining control of herself quickly, she stared at Anna contemptuously.
“You have to let him go, Anna.”
“No, I cannot.”
“Anna, please. Ben is not your husband. You want something that can’t happen—something that is not possible.”
“There is too much sorrow in my life. You cannot understand the coldness around me each day.”
“But the answers you seek, the consolations, they are not here.”
Anna lowered the knife, turned toward the doorway, and while church bells rattled the town of Newburgh, Indiana, Anna Atwood vanished into thin air, leaving Jenna Newland a little shaken.
When Ben came into the kitchen, he was wearing black slacks, a white shirt and striped tie and a gray sports coat. “I always liked to dress a little for Christmas.”
She came up to him and gave him a hug. “You look nice.”
“Didn’t expect to see you today. I thought you’d be with your family and friends the entire weekend.”
“I made some time for you. I even left a voicemail on your cell about dinner this evening.”
“Thanks, Jenna, I think I left my mobile in the car.”
“Please don’t get upset with me, Ben, but have you thought maybe this house is no longer what you expected . . . maybe it’s not right for you?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know what to think. There was no way to anticipate any of this strangeness. I won’t deny how strongly this house has hold of me.”
“I never told you what Rikki Whitman said later that day after the closing.”
“What?”
“She said the reputation that went with Atwood House was bigger than the house itself. I didn’t think much about it at the time—but she was right, Ben.”
“I’m sure all old houses have reputations of one kind or another.”
“Rikki really did believe, not only what was said about the house, but also what was written about it.”
“Maybe she knew something,” returned Ben.
“Maybe.”
The God–doubters stood on their sidewalks, some shoveling snow, others looking disdainfully in the direction of Newburgh Presbyterian Church, or Newburgh United Methodist on Old State Road, or toward any of the other churches whose bells took away the serenity of their unholy morning while continuing to ring and clang incessantly inside their pompous heads. Hate festered like sores that wouldn’t heal.
“I appreciate this more than you know, Jenna.”
She knew he wouldn’t join her and her family for the evening meal. But with some help from Ben, Jenna prepared green beans, mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry, and hot rolls. They would supplement the few slices of roast beef Anna had left behind. Though hurriedly prepared, Ben realized how thoughtful it was for Jenna to think of him and take time away from her family. Although he hadn’t expected it, he found Jenna’s company to be just what he needed.
“Excuse me a minute,” and with that, she left the kitchen, only to return seconds later with a package wrapped in red and green candy canes. “I hope you like it.”
He knew there were presents under the tree for Jenna, one he’d bought a few weeks before, the other more recently. They could wait a few minutes. The package she’d brought was heavier than he expected. After shaking it slightly, he put it back on the table and carefully began to unwrap it, trying not to tear the paper. He glanced at Jenna long enough to catch the anxious expression on her face.
“Don’t worry about the paper, Ben.”
“Just taking my time,” he smiled.
“It was one of those spontaneous ideas,” she acknowledged with obvious satisfaction. “Lacey helped me with it.”
On the table in front of him was a large book with Atwood House embossed in gold leaf on the front cover. At first Ben was puzzled, that is until he opened the book and saw photographs of Atwood House. “A scrapbook.”
“You really like it?”
“It’s very thoughtful, Jenna.”
“We took pictures as the house was cleaned, a before and after portfolio. It’s a makeover of Atwood House in pictures.”
“What a great idea.” He hugged her and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you very much.”
“Glad you like it.”
“I have something for you under the tree.”
In the library, beneath the Christmas tree, were a couple of packages with her name in bold black letters. He reached for the smaller one, and handed it to her, saying, “It’s certainly not as creative as the present you gave me, but maybe you’ll like it.”
“I’m sure I will.” After unwinding the red ribbon and setting it aside, she unwrapped the package and found two tickets for dinner and mystery theater on the Ohio River Queen, which was a renovated paddle wheeler traveling the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers. It was anchored in Evansville during the entire month of January. “What a terrific idea.”
“And here’s what goes with it.”
Excited to see what he meant, she hesitated, trying to think what was in the second present. Then shaking it, she shook her head. “I don’t hear anything.”
“It’s in there,” he smiled.
She peeked inside before removing the lid, only to find another smaller box, which she opened at once. “Oh, Ben, they’re gorgeous!” She took the pearl necklace out of the box and held it up to the light.
“Bob Bergman recommended them.”
“Ben, I never expected anything so nice.”
“I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done. I’m not talking only about your work here. There’s been no one closer to me than you, no one. I could never thank you enough.”
“What a spectacular gift, elegant, and yet simple enough to wear with just about anything.”
“A special gift for a very special person,” he replied tenderly.
“I absolutely love them.” She kissed him passionately on the lips. “And you, too, Ben Manning.”
Someone else was in the house, waiting for her chance to speak.
Chapter 37
It was a couple of days after Christmas when Ben went into town to get the galena crystal, which Bergman and not delivered as expected. “How was your Christmas, Bob?”
“Expensive. I’m glad it comes only once a year.” He came around from behind the counter and shook Ben’s hand firmly. “How’d Jenna like the pearls?”
“Great recommendation. They look spectacular on her.”
“I got the earrings to go with that strand of pearls.”
“Maybe for her birthday.”
He went back around the counter and took out a decorative black box, placed it in front of Ben, and lifted the lid. “Perfectly matched, symmetrical, no chalky spots or wrinkles, 95% unblemished, tremendous luster, and they’re a perfect match for the necklace. I’ll wrap them up if you want.”
“That’s some pitch.”
“I’ll tell you what I can do. I’ll sell them to you less 40%, and that is a terrific price. I’ll guarantee these come from some of the best pearls on the market, Japanese Akoya white 10-millimeter beauties. To tell you the truth, I forgot I had them, or I’d have pitched this set when you bought the necklace. They belong together.”
“Okay, Bob, you talked me into it.”
“Great buy, Ben. You want them wrapped?”
“Keep it simple, will you?”
“I got something else for you.”
“I can’t afford anything else.”
Turning his back to Manning and opening the door to a large wooden cabinet, he took out the galena crystal, unwrapped a white cotton cloth, and then set the crystal carefully on top of the glass counter next to the earrings. “All polished and ready to go.”
“Great.”
“I was going to bring it out after I closed the shop, but since you’re here . . . ”
“I’ll definitely wait until you’re there before I do anything.”
“It might be nothing more than a long shot.”
“Let’s give it a try and see what happens,” said Ben with a hint of enthusiasm.
“Okay.”
“It’s going to be cold out there tonight.”
“I’ll wear my boots,” Bob laughed. “Should be pretty with a full moon.”
After Bob finished wrapping the earrings, he inadvertently glanced out the window to see a young woman in a long black coat looking inside the store. She seemed intent on something, but what it was Bergman couldn’t determine.
“Thanks again, Bob,” said Ben, ready to leave.
“Do you know her?” Bergman asked.
“Know who?”
“The woman outside the store.” Bob nodded toward the window through which the woman was still staring. “I don’t know how long she’s been there. I thought it might be Jenna.”
“Probably a tourist in town for the holidays—maybe just window–shopping.”
“She’s not looking at any of the displays. She seems to be staring at you, Ben. You sure you don’t know her?”
“I haven’t seen her before. A bit curious though, isn’t it?”
Before the conversation continued, the unknown woman turned away and even when the two men went over to the window they could not see her anywhere. She was there one minute, gone the next. Even outside the store, there was no one on the sidewalk in either direction, except for Dale Bedford who owned the corner antique store, and he was shoveling snow.
“We’ll see you around seven o’clock if that’s all right.”
Bergman nodded. “See you at seven, Ben.”
Later that same day, he took the painting of Anna from the closet and put it on his easel, ready at last to paint Anna’s face as he remembered it. Although he still had reservations, his decision to complete the painting was decisive. Since Christmas Eve, her face had been embedded in nearly every thought. He’d watched her expressions, more than once looked deep into her eyes, and when they had sat next to each other on the couch, he saw the way her hair had been pulled back to make the features of her face even more pronounced.
His brush moved easily across the canvas, each stroke and swirl of paint suggesting confidence and determination. The lightness in his fingertips allowed the brush to glide without hesitation, until the face he thought he knew well began to emerge from behind the veil. Every brushstroke was made from memory. Texture, color, both came easier than he expected. But the eyes, he could not finish the eyes, and what he was looking at now were two small whorls of black paint. Yet, they seemed to stare at him, eyes without pupils, vacuous spaces that left him distressed and disappointed. For some unknown reason he could not paint away the blackness that had taken hold of him in a macabre, even sinister way.
Ebbing was the excitement he’d felt earlier. Setting the brush down, he was conscious of a slight trembling in his hands. Why had the steadiness that had guided those same hands earlier left him now? Again, he picked up the brush, but each time he lifted it to the canvas, his hand continued to shake.
The portrait was pulling him in, controlling his thoughts, silencing his voice. It was asking for honesty, integrity, demanding propriety, and the authenticity of each brushstroke, while decisively proclaiming existence—legitimacy. The brush was being guided by an unseen hand. Or was it too soon to paint her eyes? He wasn’t escaping from this precarious hold she had on him, so much as he was attempting to understand it. Again, who was Anna Atwood?
The veil! He’d lifted the veil, and she didn’t want it lifted—not until he knew with certainty that it was Anna Atwood’s face he was painting. That had to be it. She had told him that only when his fingers had lifted the veil would he see the truth, the impossible truth. Anna was beginning to control him like Jenna had said, and he was unable to resist or loosen her hold on him. How was such a thing possible?
The room was empty. Or, was it empty?
“Anna,” he called, looking at each corner of the library. “Anna,” this time his voice was louder. When the grandfather clock in the foyer began to strike four o’clock, the chimes reverberated throughout the lower floor of Atwood House. But except for the chimes, the house remained ghostly silent.
When Jenna arrived later, at a few minutes after six, Ben was sitting in front of the computer staring hard at a photograph of William and Anna Atwood. On the desk beside him was the newspaper photograph of Anna that Jenna had given him. As she came up behind him, he seemed to be comparing the two photographs.
“She is pretty,” Jenna acknowledged.
“There’s something in her eyes that I can’t figure out.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve been looking at her photograph for almost an hour, trying to discover what it is about her eyes that not only confuses me, but also frightens me
.”
Jenna leaned over his shoulder and looked closely at both photographs before saying, “Look at the backgrounds. They’re not the same, yet her expression is identical in both images.”
“You’re right. But there’s no reason for the backgrounds to be the same.”
“It’s like she was sitting in one of those studios that have changeable backdrops. You know, pick the one you like and slide it into place.”
“But these photographs had to be taken at different times in different places.”
“The clothes, the expression, the pose, even the tilt of her head . . . all identical,” declared Jenna.
“Well, one thing’s for sure, Jenna.”
“And what’s that?”
“The secrets in her eyes are not secrets she’s trying to conceal.”
“Then, those secrets define Anna Atwood.”
“To a large extent, yes,” Ben agreed. “The more I look at her expression, the more I’m convinced she knows something we should know. It’s as if she’s seeing our time clearly, but not her own.”
“Well, she has been in our time, Ben, more than once,” Jenna reminded.
“No, it’s bigger than that. I want you to see something.” He took from the center drawer of the desk a manila folder, which he opened so Jenna could see what was inside. “I think you’ll find these photographs interesting.”
He laid four monochrome photographs out on the desk. “These four men were much ahead of their times. Each to a large extent dealt with the future. Undoubtedly you recognize Nostradamus, Edgar Cayce, and Nikola Tesla, but maybe Srinivasa Ramanujan is a face not so quickly recognized.”
“Okay, you got my attention.”
“Look closely at their expressions.”
“Unsmiling, serious, confident, maybe a little outside themselves,” concluded Jenna.
He added the photograph of Anna to the mix. “She fits in nicely, don’t you think?”
“You’re saying Anna Atwood is a prophet . . . a savant?” she asked.
“I think she has seen the future, knows to some extent a future which you and I have not experienced.” He paused long enough to let Jenna look more closely at the photographs. “It’s in their eyes. Although each is looking at the lens of the camera, there’s something more, something much bigger.”
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