A Stranger in Wynnedower (12 page)

Romantic only in her
mind.

She came to a
standstill at the door and considered going down the long slope to see the
river dappled by the moonlight.

This was a night for
serendipity. Or an opportunity for it. For foolishness, too, because this was
definitely not the kind of silliness in which an inventory specialist would
indulge.

The robe was white and
would shine like a neon sign. She left it on a chair.

Crickets or cicadas,
whichever insects were scratching their legs together, created a roar of
vibrating sound that decreased as she walked in their midst, but then grew
louder again as the night absorbed her. The closer she got to the river, the
more rustles she heard in the nearby woods despite the cacophony of the
crickets. They were little noises though, the kind that belonged to bunnies and
does.

Rachel sat on the banks
of the James River and watched the surface patterns change as it flowed by. It
was beautiful. Orion reigned above, and the water rushed below—through
countless centuries. She was only one more being passing through time. Its
time. Her own presence on earth counted in mere seconds by comparison.

It should’ve been
romantic. It felt lonely. She hugged her knees.

The grass was damp, and
the novelty was brief. She stood and brushed off the seat of her pajama pants.
Chill was setting in, and her bed was calling.

She’d almost crested
the hill when she saw a figure moving up near the house.

Not so lonely, after
all? Her heart quickened, then skipped a beat.

The figure moving
between her car and the porch light was slighter than Jack. He moved
differently. Precisely what that meant she didn’t know. It was a visceral
reaction that tightened her muscles and slowed her breathing.

She dropped to her
knees and sat back on her heels, hoping her profile was low enough to be
hidden.

He vanished into the
darker than dark area amid the bushes at the base of the house. She waited,
straining her eyes to see, but in that pitch-black area he could be dancing a
jig and she’d never know.

A vandal? A thief?

David Kilmer? Maybe.

But sneaking in the
dark? Kilmer was sneaky, but he didn’t strike her as a night stalker. That took
a special sort of sneakiness. Someone a little less blubbery.

A burglar?

She stared, trying to see
into the darkness, to distinguish a human figure from the deep of night.

“Rachel?”

She uttered a soft
scream and in her haste to rise she toppled over backward.

“Jack?” She scanned the
area. “I saw someone near the house. Was that you?” She reached up to accept
his outstretched hand. As she rose to her feet the chill hit her bottom. Her
pants were seriously damp now, and clammy. Annoyed, she felt like the butt of a
joke.

He released her hand,
but didn’t move away. “I saw someone, too.” He pointed at her. “I thought I was
finally going to catch a ghost.”

“Very funny.”

The light tone dropped
from his voice. “What were you doing out here?”

“The moonlight. The
river. I felt like a walk.”

“Not exactly locked in
your room, are you?” He scratched his neck. “I don’t entirely blame you,
though. When the moon is this bright, watching the river is almost…sort of like
being a part of….”

“The continuum.”

His smile was clear in
the moonlight. “Not quite where I was going. I think I had something more like
‘being part of nature’ in mind, but membership in the continuum works. Tell me,
Rachel, do you do one of those vocabulary-word-a-day things?”

“You’re making fun of
me.” Her own enjoyment felt spoiled. Stupid of her to think she could recognize
or not recognize Jack in the dark.

“You’re lucky you
didn’t get locked out for the night. I was checking the doors and saw your
robe.”

Checking the doors,
really? It hadn’t looked like that to her. “Lucky me.”

Her disgruntlement
apparently communicated itself to Jack. She was annoyed with herself and with
Jack as they walked back to the house in silence.

****

When she arrived in the
attic the next morning, Jack was already there, standing on a step stool as he
worked on the overhead light.

She set her notebook
and pen on a nearby table and approached him. He was rigging a large spotlight
type of lamp, like a photographer’s lamp stand. The juice to run it came by way
of a large orange cord that snaked down the stairs.

She asked, “Isn’t there
an outlet in the overhead fixture?”

“There is, but I
thought you might like to be able to plug in your computer.”

“Thoughtful. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“I mentioned this last
night, but I don’t think I was clear. Before you joined me, I saw someone
crossing the yard, going toward the house and the conservatory area. Was that
you?”

“Not likely.”

She heard doubt in his
voice.

“What’d he look like?”

“Just a shadow.”

He stepped down from
the stool. “If someone was out there, I think I would’ve seen them. I saw you,
didn’t I? Speaking of which—don’t take any more late night strolls, okay? At
least, not alone. Next time you’re overcome by the moonlight continuum, let me
know. I’ll go with you.”

His words surprised
her, unsteadied her. She hurried to cover the gap, “Will do.” She turned away
to hide her smile. “Now, about the furniture up here…we should take photos, but
these aren’t the right conditions. Too crowded and the lighting isn’t right.”

He didn’t answer. She
looked from the corner of her eye and saw he was moving the electric cord out
of the walkway.

She turned her eyes
back to the furniture and to the pencil she was flipping around her fingers
like a mini-baton. “Jack–”

Still, no answer. She
turned and saw he was gone.

Suit yourself, Jack
Wynne.

So his offer of a
moonlight stroll had been an admonition, not an invitation. Just business.

The furniture and other
items were stored in groupings that left pathways every ten feet or so. She
walked up and down, pulling aside white dust covers to reveal brocaded chairs
and fine wood surfaces with the most beautiful burls she’d ever seen. Not that
she’d seen much in the way of fine furniture—not personally, but she’d read
about it.

With the protective
sheets back in place, she mapped each group and numbered it by region. The far
reaches of the attic were deeply shadowed, and it wasn’t until she was near the
end of a row that she realized she was seeing only a portion of the attic. The
far end appeared to be a solid wall, painted black. One half of the attic was somewhere
beyond that blank wall. Was the other half of the attic accessed from the
east-end stairway? Resolving to explore that possibility later, she returned to
her task of cataloging the contents of this half.

Before the attic heated
up, she gathered her workman’s tools, her pencil and paper, then clicked off
the overhead bulb, snapped off the spotlight and descended the steps to settle
in the conservatory. She’d copy the inventory list with a neater hand and then
enter it into her computer. Jack didn’t have a computer, much less a printer,
but they’d figure it out.

The conservatory had
high ceilings rising to a point in the center almost like a carnival tent, with
segments shaped like slices of pie. Decorative fretwork trimmed the ceiling and
the windows. The room had a unique essence, a distinctive lightness, even in
the daylight when the deterioration was obvious.

Rachel flipped the page
over to the next blank sheet and lined it to suit herself. It was fun doing an
inventory the old-fashioned way. No company processes and methodologies. She
felt a bit like a maverick and laughed out loud, thinking it took very little
for her to feel wild and out of control. And that included her silliness over
Jack.

Her attraction to him
was embarrassingly like a teenage crush, but she could laugh at herself about
it. This was merely a moment in time with no real meaning. No harm was being
done to anyone and she’d keep it that way.

The back of her neck
prickled. She turned to face the house. No one. She resumed copying her list.
There was no sound except her own breathing and the faint scratch of pencil on
paper—until imagined fingers tickled the back of her neck and the sensation
traveled down her spine.

She jumped up and spun
toward the door to the house. Still no one. She placed her notebooks and
pencils on the seat of the chair and went inside to see what was up.

There was no one in the
library. The central hall was empty. She entered the foyer and peeked into the
small rooms on either side. She stopped at the wide doorway leading back to the
dining room. The locked dining room doors gnawed at her. She touched one of the
knobs, but before she could test it, she heard pans rattling and her nose
caught the aroma of cooking. Good cooking.

She tiptoed through the
flower room. The kitchen door was closed, which probably explained why she
hadn’t smelled the heavenly scents sooner. She eased the door open and peeked
around it. No ghosts here. A solid woman in a purple paisley dress and a full
apron was stirring a pot on the stove. Her black hair was short with tight
curls and liberally mixed with gray.

“You must be May
Sellers.”

The woman turned,
half-raising the spoon, but not losing a drip of sauce. “Hah! You surprised
me.” She wiped her hands on her apron and extended a hand. “You are Miss
Sevier.”

Her hand was plump and
the skin soft, but her grip was iron. When Mrs. Sellers released her hand
Rachel couldn’t help a quick finger flex.

“Call me Rachel,
please. When did you get here? I didn’t hear anyone arrive.”

Mrs. Sellers opened the
oven door as she bent. “Browning nicely. You liked my chicken noodle casserole,
I think?” The door closed with a slight slam. She took a colander from the
sink.

“It was wonderful.”

“I’ve known the Wynnes
all my life. They come, they go, but they’re always a part of my life. Family,
in fact. I watch the house when they’re gone and visit when they’re in
residence. Do some cooking. A bit of laundry. Lend a helping hand.”

Rachel swallowed a
cynical remark about the family being ‘in residence’. She cleared her throat,
then said, “Jack told me how dedicated you are.”

“Some things are worth
being dedicated to.” She dumped a pot of something dark green and weedy into
the colander. “But it’s not work to me. It’s a pleasure.”

“How long does Mr.
Wynne stay when he visits? Does he come often?”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

She glared at Rachel,
but her tone was mild. “On whatever he decides to do. You’re full of questions,
aren’t you?”

“I was wondering if you
might have been here while my brother was caretaker. Did you meet him?”

“The young man who was
most recently here? I suppose Mr. Wynne could’ve told you that himself.”

“His name is Jeremy.
Tall and blond, do you know anything about him?”

“I might’ve seen him.
All those young men blur together. I don’t bother to learn their names. Mr.
Wynne told me about him taking off without notice and you asking about him. His
big sister, that right?”

Her dismissive tone
rankled.

“Yes. His big sister.
He’s usually a very reliable young man. That’s why I’m concerned.”

“I’m sure, Miss Sevier,
but when it comes to a house such as Wynnedower, extra special care is
required. If you don’t mind me saying, you and your brother don’t favor each
other at all.”

“No, you’re right. I
take after our mother; he takes after our father. Except the eyes, of course.”

May gave her a long
look. “Yes, same eyes. Unusual eye color.”

She made it sound
irresponsible, as if their eye color had been a choice, and an ill-advised one.
The silence drew out and finally, Rachel fumbled for something to say. “If you
need help, let me know.”

“I’m best on my own and
happy to be cooking for the Wynnes, and I don’t imagine you’ll be around that
long.”

Rachel hesitated.
Something was off. It had nothing to do with Jeremy, but only with May Sellers.
She called Jack Mr. Wynne and yet she was speaking of a man many years her
junior whom she’d known since his childhood. It was that professional servant
class feeling again, but in real life and present day.

Wynnes, plural, hadn’t
she said?

Rachel, like a
fisherman, cast her line back into the water. “With the family gone so much,
your devotion is remarkable.”

“We have strong ties.”

“These days most people
are looking out only for themselves. You must have been very fond of the
children.”