by Kristy Tate
“Why are you lying?”
“Because…how well do you know Phil Henderson?” He looked at me with his intense blue eyes.
I leaned back against the door frame as if pulling away from the thought of Phil Henderson. “I don’t know him at all.”
“Really?” He looked relieved, stood up and headed toward the kitchen.
I followed. “He showed up at the cottage seconds before you and disappeared with you in the morning.”
James turned to look at me and drummed his fingers on the table. “He didn’t disappear with me. He was gone before I woke. I followed him to the cottage.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew the cottage had been let to a single woman,” James said. “I own the cottage and this house.”
So that’s why the child in the family portrait looked familiar.
“I’m Jimmy Dunsmuir.”
Chapter Seven
“Then why did you introduce yourself as James Hopper?”
He motioned for me to sit down at the pine table. “Would you like something to drink?” He pulled open the refrigerator and I saw the aged appliance had been well stocked. “On the island, I’ve been called Jimmy since I was a kid and Dunsmuir was my grandparent’s name. I never knew my parents, so I always used their name. Although, my real name is James Hopper.”
“I didn’t know my mother. I was raised by my Gram.” A few beats of kinship passed between us. A niggling of warning passed through me, but I dismissed it, knowing Wyeth would protect me if Jimmy turned dangerous.
Wyeth, who’d been watching our conversation closely, lost interest. He began to nose in an open cupboard. He pried the loose door open with his paw and stuck his head in. He emerged, looking triumphant, with a wooden croquet ball. I knew life with Wyeth was about to change. Peace or the ball would be destroyed. Wyeth proudly laid the ball at my feet. I kicked it and sent it spinning around the kitchen. Wyeth scrambled after it, his paws skittering over the dusty stone floors.
Nodding toward James’ produce, I said, “I see you’ve been to Jenson’s.”
He shook his head and gave me a bland smile. “Costco. I’m saving my Jenson business for later.” He pulled out a bottle of raspberry lemonade, set it in front of me, and got a bottle of beer for himself. “I’d get you glass, but I’m afraid they’d be dusty, just like everything else.”
Wyeth leaned against me. A slime of saliva now covered the croquet ball and I refused to touch it. Wyeth nosed it against my sandal and I scooted my foot a fraction.
“I heard they were buying the house.”
James took pity on Wyeth and kicked the ball into the dining room. Wyeth bolted after it, losing his footing on the curve through the doorway.
James said, “Not just the house, but all the property…and the island.”
“The entire island?”
“No one has said as much, but it’s a poorly held secret they’ve approached most, if not all, the land owners with offers. They seem intent on creating their own little fiefdom.”
Wyeth and ball returned.
“Does that bother you?”
“You know what they say, most people hate change, unless it’s jiggling in their pockets.” James sat down beside me and rolled the ball beneath his boot. Wyeth tried to free it, but James seemed too distracted to notice.
“That sounds like something my Gram would say.”
He shrugged. “Well, it’s true isn’t it? Most people are unwilling to rock the boat unless there’s a penny to be made. The Jensons have plenty of pennies, so the islanders are selling out. I can’t afford to keep this place, and I wouldn’t want to if I could.” He frowned and took a swig of beer. “The Jensons can have it. In fact, there’s a broker coming out today to draw up the papers.”
“But what will happen to the islanders who don’t want to sell?”
James rolled his beer bottle between his hands. “Everyone will sell eventually, although I don’t know why the Jensens want to live like hermits.”
I looked out the window at the blossoming apple and cherry trees, the dormant vegetable garden, the path that led through the woods to the Sound. “James, speaking of odd living situations—”
“Why am I living in a tent?”
“If you don’t mind my asking.”
He looked at me for a moment and I met his steady gaze.
“Phil Henderson was recently released from prison. He’s a crook and always has been, even as a little kid. His father kept our grounds and Phil followed my grandfather around like a puppy—or I should say like a packrat. He came over nearly every day, and almost always went home with something in his pocket. He’d take my things and hide them in the tool shed or the boat house. We fought constantly, but my grandfather, for some reason, loved him. I knew if Phil knew the house was empty he’d try to take anything not bolted down. My grandfather actually has a decent art collection. Although I don’t know how much it’s worth; I’ll have to have it appraised.”
“I know something about art,” I said.
“Really?” He lifted his foot off the ball and Wyeth dove for it.
“Yeah, I have a Masters in Visual Arts from Hawthorn Institute.”
“Would you mind taking a look?”
I shrugged. “I’m not an appraiser, but I’d be happy to. Consider it payment for the lemonade and trespassing.”
James stood and Wyeth and I followed him into the living room. We stopped in front of an ornate etching of a flying dragon eating a horse. Wyeth dropped his ball. His wagging tail beat out a happy rhythm on the wide planked wood floor. “At least the dog likes it,” James said.
“He likes anything that involves chewing,” I said. I didn’t recognize the artist. “What an unusual choice for this room.”
“The florals, tapestries, needle point, and Queen Anne style are my grandmother’s doing; the horse-eating dragons are my grandfather’s contribution.” He turned away and I followed. “There are more carnivores this way.”
He pushed open the glass etched doors of the library. We stopped in front of a capsizing ship surrounded by drowning sailors. “Poor choice for a house on an island,” I said.
James nodded and looked at the picture for a long time. He turned away from the shipwreck. “To answer your question,” James began, “I’m sleeping in a tent because I want to keep any eye on my property. I have my camera—I really am a photographer, by the way—and I want to catch Phil Henderson in the act.” He moved out of the library and toward the stairs. On the landing there was a framed map of Peru, the sort of thing easily found and purchased in a tourist trap. I thought about asking about it, because it seemed so incongruent with the other pieces of the Dunsmuir’s collection, but James moved past it and I followed him.
“In the act?” I asked. “Do you think he’s going to burgle your house, just because when you were kids he took your stuff?”
James grinned and it was so lopsided I smiled back.
“Is that so bad?” he asked.
At first, that sounded paranoid, until I remembered that Phil just spent four years in jail for fraud.
He turned up the stairs. A large picture of hounds chasing a fox through a meadow hung above the landing. At first glance the painting seemed less gruesome than the previous works, but then I noticed in the corner of the picture a pair of dogs had caught and were tearing apart a fox. “Grandfather’s favorite,” James said.
Wyeth set down his ball and it rolled down the stairs. He clambered after it, his toenails clicking as he tumbled down.
We walked past a large painting of a tall, thin mustachioed young man. He stood rigidly, knees locked, head straight, eyes slightly off center, against a backdrop of mottled blue, accentuating the white and brass of his Marine uniform. “My grandfather Henry,” James said. “His parents had it commissioned before his tour.”
Looking at Henry’s serious face, I seriously began to doubt if I would have liked James’ grandfather.
James stopped in front
of a pair of double doors. He pushed them open. “My grandmother’s room.” He walked in and motioned me away from the bed. Shards of broken glass poked out of the carpet in odd angles and caught the reflection of the midday sun. “Careful of the glass,” he warned, leading me to a lovely still life of flowers and fruit, reminiscent of the Old Dutch masters. A small circle of embroidered art caught my eye. Framed in an oval burlwood, a piece of black fabric had been embroidered with clear, bright threads depicting a primitive, Latin American village. In the corner in small, white hand stitched writing was the words, Cusco, Peru, June 1965. The folk art looked incongruent in with the rest of Helen and Henry’s art collection. I reached up to touch the bright colors, amazed at the vibrancy of the natural dyes after so many decades.
“They went to Machu Picchu before I was born. She almost died there, too.” James took a deep breath. “She always said she liked to keep this here to remind her that life is fragile.”
He turned to look at the bed. His face looked pointed and pained. “But this is where she was actually killed.”
“Killed?”
James scratched his forehead. “I meant that this is where she died. But there’s no reason to talk about that.” His voice trailed away. He turned abruptly and left me standing alone in the room.
I found him in front of the French-doors leading to the widow’s walk. James motioned to a small island, Otter’s Play Yard. “Have you been there?”
I shook my head.
“You have to go. The otters are great, but you can’t take the dog.”
I rested my fingers on Wyeth’s head and he looked up at me. I tousled his ears and felt incredibly grateful I wasn’t alone with James.
“My tent’s over there now. I have a perfect view of the house.”
“You can walk to the island?”
James nodded and turned away. “Mostly,” he muttered.
I continued to watch the island, when a small boat caught my eye. My heart pounded. “James,” I said, “we have company.” I picked up Wyeth’s ball and threw it off the balcony. Wyeth whined and stuck his nose through the balcony balustrades. When he wheeled away to race down the stairs, I followed.
#
From the lawn, I caught sight of Artie waving a bandana greeting on the deck of a forty-two-foot yacht. In her bright, gaudy clothes she looked like a festive piñata beside the severe Dina Jenson. Someone in Dockers and a sports shirt stood on the deck. I thought it could be Dean, but then I saw Dean driving the boat.
A happy wave of relief surged through me. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed Artie and the school until I saw her. Artie bounced on the boat and I waved back. James walked up beside me.
“The broker and the Jensons,” he said. “It’s almost done, now.”
Wyeth found his ball beneath a rhododendron bush and trotted toward me.
“I’m sure you could find other buyers,” I told James.
He looked at me coldly and I realized it wasn’t that he didn’t want to sell to the Jensons, but that he didn’t want to sell, at all. He had been lying to me but also himself. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s none of my business.”
He nodded and he picked up Wyeth’s slimy ball and lobbed it into the woods. “It doesn’t matter.”
I disagreed, but I didn’t say so. It obviously mattered to the islanders.
“What kind of dog is that?” James asked as Wyeth disappeared beneath a thatch of ferns.
“You’re seeing his Labrador side,” I said.
Wyeth scrambled between a boulder and a large fern. His tail beat against the ferns, making them dance. “I thought I was seeing his backside,” James said.
Artie clambered off the boat as soon as it docked. She rushed at me with outstretched arms, gave me a swift hug, before turning to embrace James. He looked taut in her arms and she released him. “Sweetie, I have so many surprises for you!” she said to me.
But I wasn’t listening. Dean waved at me. He looked far too happy to see me, like Wyeth after a stay at Doggy Daycare. Dina strode purposefully toward us, an imposing figure in a man’s suit, swinging a brief case.
But I wasn’t watching the Jensons. I was watching a familiar figure climb off the boat. He stopped on the dock and considered the house, and then his eyes widened in surprise.
“You brought Savannah’s father?” I whispered to Artie.
“Uncle,” she hissed in my ear. Her smile widened at my surprise. “And he also happens to be a broker, which explains the big car. Brokers always drive big cars. I think it’s in their job description.”
We stood on the grass, surrounded by a lawn of buttercups and dandelions. A light breeze toyed with the waves, gulls cried over our heads, and somewhere in the woods, squirrels chattered at Wyeth, who still hadn’t returned.
Artie looked smug. “He’s just one of my surprises.”
We stood to the side, watching. Savannah’s uncle shook hands with James before his eyes slid toward mine.
“He’s just frosting on the cake,” Artie told me under her breath. “I think Dean suits you, now, anyhow. Think of Ryan as back-up.”
“I don’t need back-up,” I whispered back.
“Ms. Clements,” Mr. Everett stuck his hand out at me. I let him shake my hand and the tingle up my back returned. As if stung, I tried to let go.
“Mr. Everett,” I said, wrestling with the temptation to pull my hand out of his grip to stop the tingling.
“Please call me Ryan. Good to see you outside the classroom again.” His eyes never left my face. “How is, I believe, your grandmother?”
I flushed, conscious of Dean. I freed my hand and then shoved my fists into my pockets. “She’s fine, Ryan.”
Artie started, her gaze darted between our faces. “You know her grandmother?”
“Everyone knows her grandmother,” Ryan said.
I threw him a sharp look.
“I don’t know your grandmother,” Artie said, sounding hurt. “I thought your dad was your only family.”
Dina, who’d been deep in a conversation with James, headed toward the house. “Come on, then,” Dina said. “Let’s see the future offices of Dina’s Dairy!” We followed like obedient cattle.
Dean stepped forward and put a territorial hand under my elbow, as if to keep me safe or safely away from Ryan.
Artie hissed in my ear as we walked. “How does Ryan know your grandmother?”
“He just thinks he does.”
Artie studied me. “What does that mean?”
Dean helped me up the stairs, a gesture making me feel old and brittle. Ryan, involved with Dina, glanced back at us and frowned at Dean.
We paused outside the front door. James, Dina, and Dean disappeared inside. Ryan followed the others and then stopped to look back at us, as if to ask why had we stopped? Artie waved him away. “What do you think of James?” Artie whispered.
I shuddered, remembering swinging in his arms and being used as a dog shield and shrugged without making a comment.
Artie beamed and looked inside the house to make sure we couldn’t be overheard. “I’ve been in love with him since I was nine.”
“You’re kidding?” In my surprise, I’d resumed my normal speaking voice. Ryan threw me a questioning look, Dean smiled at me, and Dina, who’d been leading the way, scowled.
Artie shook her head and whispered, “Ever since he saved me from a sinking canoe. He was my first skinny dipping partner.”
“You’ve never mentioned him before,” I said slowly. I watched James through the window and tried to see what Artie loved. I imagined him as a young boy. He said something, and Ryan tossed back his head and laughed. Something stirred inside of me.
Artie shrugged. “We e-mail. He travels a lot. We catch the odd weekend. It’s perfect. I can still have fun and have James. He’s perfect.”
I must have looked skeptical, because Artie added, “Well, his grandmother did just die. I really like your hair, by the way.”
I put my hand
to my hair. I’d lost my rubber band during my tussle with James and my hair was loose and wild. I tried to tame it with my hands.
“I like it frowsy,” Artie said, pulling my hand away from my hair.
I wondered if I could ever feel the way Artie felt about James about anyone. My eyes sought out Dean. He ran his finger over the dusty dining room table. He reminded me of the well-trained doormen of the Savoy, the hotel where my Gram and I stayed when we went to New York. I imagined him in a red uniform with brass buttons and white gloves.
We entered the house, and I felt its warm, calm peace. What was there about the Dunsmuir house that charmed me? It had a sense of home, place, and serenity that I wanted to somehow hold, tuck into my pocket, and carry it with me.
My own home perched on stilts above Lake Sammamish, a house of windows and light. Even though the windows opened to the broad stretch of lake, and only boaters could see inside, the long sheets of glass often made me feel exposed. I always wore clothes, and because of the stone floors, I never went barefoot. During the winter the stone floor’s chill seeped through the soles of my socks. A past boyfriend gave me battery operated slippers with adjustable heat. I loved those slippers. Unfortunately, so did Wyeth. That particular chew morsel had cost a veterinarian bill equal to an art academy month’s salary. The boyfriend left me for a personal trainer who didn’t need batteries to power her hot body.
Artie turned to me and whispered, “I love him. We have plans to run away together.”
The others turned to look at us. Dean winked and Ryan blinked at me, and I wondered if they’d heard.
Stunned, I stood in the living room by the fallen urn. My gaze followed the trail of dirt Wyeth had made when he’d attempted to save me from James. I wondered if Artie needed to be saved from James. Her beaming face told me she wouldn’t appreciate my interference. I didn’t know what to say so I whispered, “I’ve fallen in love, too. I love this house. It’s absolutely unrequited and hopeless, but there it is. Love can be foolish.”
Artie agreed.
#
“This is where she died?” Dina’s question snapped. She stood ramrod straight in the frilly bedroom. Her high heeled pumps caused her to lean forward, slightly off balance. She matched the bedpost in height and looked large and masculine in a room of feminine furniture. I wondered if Helen Dunsmuir and Dina Jenson had known or liked each other. It seemed unlikely. Dina turned to look out the window.