A Stranger in Wynnedower (8 page)

“Explains what?”

“Why the layout is more
suggestive of the houses built by the robber barons. Like Astor and Fisk and
Mellon.” She laughed. “But with the veneer, literally, of history and lineage.
A very mixed pedigree.”

He nodded. She thought
she caught surprise in his eyes and felt encouraged.

Jack pointed to the
west. “The library and the conservatory are in that direction.”

“Conservatory? It’s the
round glass room, right? I saw it this morning from the terrace.”

“It is.”

“Lots of windows. More
amazing light.” She echoed his sentence about the light in the dining room.

He smiled. Was it the
first time? No, but it touched her as if it was the first time. He smiled, and
her heart jumped.

Why? Was she that
lonely? The man wasn’t handsome, not in the usual sense, and had no manners.
Her concern was all about Jeremy, right? She turned away to hide her face.
Heaven knew what was written there.

Jack Wynne said, “My
great-grandfather, Griffin Wynne, loved light. He was an artist and an
eccentric.”

He looked down at the
woman. His houseguest.

He couldn’t believe he’d
agreed to let her stay. Not only that, but he was showing her around Wynnedower
and sharing family history.

Rachel prompted, “An
artist?”

She sounded interested
in Griffin, but then again, she expressed interest in whatever topic came up.
She had a knack of focusing in like a laser and those eyes—topaz eyes—were
unsettling. But it was hard to tell what was sincere and what was manipulative.
She was a puzzle and he didn’t need a puzzle of any kind in his life. Yet he
couldn’t help having some curiosity. She was as unlikely a woman to walk
uninvited into Wynnedower as he could’ve imagined.

Deliberately, he let her
go ahead. She was short, but with a very nice figure. Her hair was black and
straight. It hung perfectly even, as did the seams and pleats in her suit,
which, he noticed, she kept checking and twitching back into place. He took the
perfectly put-together-yet-constantly-tweaking manner as a warning. But a
warning of what?

It’d be a lot smarter
to send her on her way. Instead, he pushed his doubt away and continued, “An
artist for his own enjoyment. He couldn’t make a career of it. Lucky for him,
he didn’t need to, but his eccentricities drained the family fortune.”

“There are lots of
blank spaces on the walls.” She pointed to a row of light-colored rectangles
framed by darker areas. “Paintings? Family portraits? Are they in storage,
too?”

“Not much. Any paintings,
sculptures or bric-a-brac worth anything was sold years ago or moved to New
York with my mother. None of the artwork was really valuable in a commercial
sense, anyway. The valuable paintings are long gone—before my time. Only a
local legend. I doubt they ever existed, but every so often the rumor
resurfaces, and we get an uptick in trespassers. That’s one reason I insist
that no one is allowed in this house without my approval.”

In the library, Jack
stared at a spot near the front windows. Mahogany paneling, deep and rich,
covered the walls.

“I remember my father
at his desk, right there, trying to make the finances work and fighting the
illogic of pouring money into this place when it cost a lot less to provide a
more comfortable home for us elsewhere.”

Wasn’t he doing the
same thing? The weight of being tied to the past, and to the present, had
gotten worse with each year that passed, and still showed no signs of letting
up.

“Down by the
conservatory you’ll find the stairs to the attic. This time of year the attic
is hot by noon, so I suggest leaving it ‘til early morning. Now, let’s go back
this way.”

He stopped mid-step.
She hadn’t heard him. She was admiring the paneling, trailing her fingers along
the grain.

She said, “This wood is
exquisite.”

That’s how she talked.
Exquisite wood. Carnelian red.

He’d first seen her
upstairs on the landing with her face pressed to a keyhole. She’d looked like a
teenager dressed in some kind of getup, and he’d yelled out of habit. But when
she jumped back, he realized his error. Not a kid. Definitely not. But short
and with the sleekest black hair…in that redder than red suit and waving those
heels at him like she was going to shoot a few rounds out of them. He’d felt
bad about yelling and then remembered that whatever else she was, she was still
a trespasser.

He felt a tug on his
sleeve.

“Are you listening?”
she asked.

“Who or what did you
think was attacking your car?”

“What? Oh, last night.”
She blushed and smiled. She shook her head. “My nerves got the better of me,
and maybe my imagination did, too.”

They’d made it back to
the central hall.

She added, speaking
softly, “You know, the bedroom door truly was jammed shut. I’d like to know how
it came to be open and how my jacket got moved to the bedpost.”

If she hadn’t imagined
that—and considering the torn sleeve, he was inclined to believe her—then he
had an idea of how it had happened. He kept his mouth shut. Intriguing or not,
he wouldn’t be talking about it, certainly not with this temporary guest.

“Can we take a look at
the dining room?”

Jack said firmly, “No,
I keep it locked.”

“To slow down looters
and trespassers?”

A scoffing noise had
slipped past her lips along with the words. It irritated him.

“Don’t laugh. I’ve
chased off quite a few myself. The worst are the ones we don’t discover until
after they’ve done damage. Come through here.”

They bypassed the
closed dining room doors and entered a small room. He gestured toward an
exterior door on the far side.

“This is called the
flower room because the door goes out to the garden—or where a garden used to
be.” He turned back toward the hallway. “There’s the kitchen and through there,
in the pantry, is a washer and dryer. You’re welcome to use them, though I
doubt you’ll be here that long. My quarters are that way. I live in the old
hunting room and butler’s quarters.”

“I’ll start with the
keys and make an informal list of tasks as I go through the rooms.”

She smiled and her eyes
laughed.

How stupid did that
sound? Eyes couldn’t laugh. He blinked against the strong light in the
corridor. Clearly, it was playing tricks with his vision.

“It is bright in here,
isn’t it?” She waved at the long wall of windows lining the hallway. “Your
great-grandfather really did love light. When did your family leave Wynnedower?”

“When I was ten. We
came back for visits, but after my father died, my mother refused to return.
Still won’t. She lives in New York.”

“And yet, you’re here
now.”

“I am. Time to move
forward with restoring the property or get rid of it.”

“Thanks, Jack. I hope
I’ll be able to give value in exchange for you allowing me to stay.”

That was the dilemma,
wasn’t it? Value? No one ever gave more value than they consumed in time and
obligations. He was well into his thirties, closing in on forty, and here he was,
still trying to find a way to shake free of those obligations.

But it was more than
obligation. There was also love. That’s how they got their hooks in so tight.

Rachel walked away,
moving with determination, heading toward the central hall and to who knew
where? She didn’t look back, as if she’d read his second doubts and knew
exactly when to exit the stage.

Well, this wouldn’t be
a new obligation. This was simply about doing a favor for a woman who’d been
ditched by her brother. It was a day to day arrangement. They’d agreed on it
and an inventory of the attic would be good to have.

She’d get tired of the
whole thing in a few days and decide to wait for her irresponsible baby brother
back home in Baltimore where air conditioning and modern conveniences were easy
to come by. In the meantime, he needed to explain this arrangement to some
people, especially to May.

He twisted the knobs on
the dining room doors. Locked. Good. As he walked away, it hit him that her
eyes weren’t topaz-colored at all, but more like golden amber.

Rachel was so
blissfully far from being trapped in warehouses and businesses with electronic
inventory equipment that it didn’t take long for her to prefer the smell of
‘old’ to that of concrete and steel. On the other hand, Wynnedower wasn’t air
conditioned and could get hot, especially upstairs.

If only Jeremy were
here…if only she knew he was okay, knew where he was and with whom.

She changed into shorts
and a loose cotton shirt to work her way through the house. It was inevitable
that she passed the closed dining room doors many times. The doorknobs were
like glowing, blinking beacons shouting, ‘try me,’ and she did. The doors were
locked.

There were many other
doors and most of them were locked, too. She had about thirty keys on the ring
and no doubt many were duplicates. She’d number the doors and write the number
on the tags, but she needed the tags and a marker, so trying the keys was a
half-hearted effort. She did identify the keys to the doors around her rooms
and she kept them with her, close to hand.

She spent time on the
list. She worked it room by room, beginning with the library, making notes
about restoration tasks. The furnishings were few and pitiful.

After a while, when she
grew hungry, she realized they hadn’t discussed meals and Jack was nowhere to
be seen.

In the kitchen, Rachel
went through the cupboards and found some food supplies. In the fridge, there
were a couple of covered casseroles, presumably May’s.

Rachel spooned pasta
casserole into a smaller pan and slid it in the oven to heat. While it was
warming and the smell of baking tuna was filling the air, she went through the
cupboards in the adjoining pantry. It was spacious. No food, but lots of
cookware and implements, all wrapped up in paper and plastic, were stored in
the upper cabinets. She was going to need a stool or step ladder to go through
them properly. The lower cabinets were largely empty.

A soft clatter, as if
distant and imagined, echoed in her head. The movement of pots of pans. A
remembered sound.
Gosford Park
—that was it. Or maybe
Downton Abbey
.
Rachel closed her eyes. She could see them in their white uniforms and caps,
professional servants with their own class systems and their own cares. It had
probably been almost that long since this house was filled with life and
laughter and purpose.

And now, she was here.

****

Jack was pouring coffee
when she entered the kitchen the next morning. He asked, “I got caught up in my
work last night. I’m glad you went ahead and ate supper.”

“No problem. What kind
of work do you do?”

His pause was barely
perceptible before he said, “May comes in to cook. She prepares the meals in
advance so I can reheat them. You’ll run into her. She’s my…she’s like a member
of the family.”

“May? Of course. Mike
accepted her casserole as payment. He also called you Wynne, your last name.”
Rachel opened the fridge and decided not to repeat her question about his work.
She’d try again another time. “I’m going to scramble an egg for breakfast. Can
I fix one for you?”

“No, just coffee for me
this morning. I’m guessing you don’t want any coffee. Unless you’d like some
with your sugar?”

She looked down at the
floor, surprised, but not really embarrassed. “It always smells so good. Seems
like it should taste good, too.”

“No law against using
it for air freshener, I guess. Or that dried stuff that smells? What’s that
called?”

“Potpourri?”

“Yes, that. Java
potpourri.” Jack paused near the door, his cup of coffee in hand. “Wynne? Some
of the guys I grew up with around here call me that. I won’t be back for a few
hours. Are you set? Do you need anything?”

She pulled a folded
square of paper from her pocket. “Here’s a very short list. Colored tags and a
marker and a couple of other things.”

“I’ll take care of it.
Remember, if anyone suspicious comes around, call the police. I taped the
sheriff’s number to the fridge.”

He was gone. Definitely
not a guy who wasted time on goodbyes.

She melted the butter
in the pan as she whisked the eggs, then popped bread into the toaster. She had
a full day planned. She intended to focus on the keys, identify all of the
rooms where items remained to be inventoried and make lists. She liked lists.
Neat lists, colorful lists with big checkmarks to show progress.

****

Day three with no
Jeremy. She kept her cell phone in her pocket and carried it with her
everywhere. It was irritating to know he might be anywhere, even close by. Or
he might have taken a trip, but the world was a very big place.