Dark Homecoming (11 page)

“David implied that you lived far away,” Liz said.

“Far away? If two miles down the road is far away, I guess so.” Roger laughed. “Our father divided the original family property in two when he and Mom decided to make Manhattan their base. David got the north part of the estate, I got the south.”

“I see. He never mentioned that.”

“Too busy closing some big corporate deal, I expect. David's always working.”

Liz lifted an eyebrow in agreement.

“That was why I was so glad he took that cruise,” Roger went on. “He really needed it after Dominique's death. I knew it would do him a world of good. And it did—he came home with you!”

Liz smiled. “I hope I can live up to your expectations of me.”

“You already have.” He returned her smile, kindly and sincerely. “You have no airs about you. That's a refreshing change in this house.”

“So Dominique put on airs?”

“That's an understatement. She considered herself the queen of Palm Beach society.”

“That will hardly be me.”

“Have you met Dad and Mom?”

Liz shook her head. “Not yet. David's planning on having them visit . . . or maybe we'll go up to New York when he gets back.”

“David's a carbon copy of Dad. All work and no play.”

Liz smirked. “Well, I've seen David play a bit . . .”

Roger laughed. “Well, I hope you have!”

“He was so much fun on the ship and on our honeymoon. We partied late into the night in Rio—he was so much fun, singing songs and dancing—”

“David? Singing and dancing?”

“Yes!” The memories of her honeymoon lifted Liz's spirits. “We went scuba-diving and rock climbing and he was always surprising me with bottles of champagne. . .”

Roger was grinning. “You're good for him, apparently.”

“I hope so.” Her high spirits deflated. “But as soon as we got here, he had to rush off to work. I hope . . . I hope he doesn't have to stay away much longer.”

“David is always trying to please Dad.” Roger put his hands behind his head and leaned back into the cushions of the couch. “Me, I gave up trying to do that a long time ago.”

“You didn't follow into the family business.”

He shuddered. “Stocks and bonds and money markets and hedge funds . . . oh man, can you imagine anything more boring?”

“So what is it that you do?”

“I'm an artist.”

“Wonderful! What kind?”

“I paint. People sometimes, but usually abstract.”

“How interesting, and how very different from David.”

“Right now I'm experimenting with color. I find the color inside my subjects and bring it out. Like, for instance, you've got a lot of blue.”

“Blue? And here I thought my coloring was a rather mousy brown.”

“Oh, no, you've got a beautiful, iridescent blue inside you, with traces of violet around the edges.” Roger laughed. “Maybe you'll let me paint your portrait. Replace the one that's in the stairway.”

“Well, I'll have to talk to David about that.”

“I have a gallery in town. I have a show coming up soon—not my work, but of a very exciting new artist from New York. I hope you'll come.”

“I'd enjoy that.”

Liz liked Roger. After being so upset a few moments ago, she was suddenly feeling happy and light. For the first time since she'd come to this place, she was actually enjoying a conversation with someone. For the first time, she'd met someone she thought she might be able to call a friend.

A light tapping on the open door of the study drew her attention.

It was Mrs. Hoffman, looking at Roger with those beady eyes.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Huntington,” she said, moving her gaze over to Liz, “but I just wanted to let you know that Clarence has driven Thad to the ER. Shall I have another of the servants attempt to remove the portrait?”

“No,” Liz replied. “Let's just leave it for now.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hoffman,” Roger said, standing.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Huntington.”

“We were just talking, my sister-in-law and I, about something to put up there in the stairwell instead. Don't you think that I ought to paint the new Mrs. Huntington and give her the place of honor she so deserves?”

“Only if you paint her as realistically as you painted the first Mrs. Huntington,” the housekeeper replied. “I would think your current, more abstract style wouldn't suit the house, or Mrs. Huntington, for that matter.”

Liz looked over at Roger. “You painted . . . the portrait that hangs there now?”

He smiled rather sheepishly. “Yes, I plead guilty.”

“Mrs. Huntington sat for him for several weeks,” Mrs. Hoffman told her, seeming to bask in the memory. “I think he captured her likeness brilliantly.”

“She . . . sat for you?” Liz asked.

“That's when Dominique still liked me,” Roger replied.

“Why didn't you mention that you had painted it earlier?” Liz asked.

He shrugged. “It was clear you wanted it down. And I agree with you. It
should
come down.” He shot his eyes over at Mrs. Hoffman. “I think it's horrible of David to leave that portrait hanging when his new bride walked into the house.”

“It's such a lovely piece,” Mrs. Hoffman said. “I believe it's your masterpiece. Why would anyone want to remove it?” She smiled. “Mr. Huntington, will you be staying for lunch?”

“No, thank you. I've got to get over to the gallery and get ready for my show.”

“Very well then,” said Mrs. Hoffman. “Good day, Mr. Huntington.” She turned to Liz. “If you need me, I'll be in the parlor.”

Liz nodded. The housekeeper turned and left them alone.

“It's a wonder she can speak at all,” Roger said under his breath. “She's had that face pulled and stretched and pumped so full of Botox it's a wonder it doesn't crack and fall off.”

Liz suppressed a smile. “You're a breath of fresh air, Roger. You really are.”

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you about painting the portrait. I didn't want you to feel guilty about wanting it down.”

“It is very good. Technically that is. I can see you're very talented.”

He smiled, then gulped down the last of his coffee. “I do need to get to the gallery,” Roger told her. “I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself.” Liz stood and followed him as he moved over to the doors. “Let's have dinner soon,” Roger said as they headed into the corridor. “If David can't—or won't—come, then let's you and I go out on our own.”

“All right,” Liz said. “It's a date.”

They walked into the foyer and toward the front door.

“Don't let this house get you too down,” Roger was telling her. “It can be mighty depressing. David rarely socializes. Force him to get out and do things.”

Liz nodded. “Roger,” she said. “Before you go . . .”

He lifted his eyebrows in anticipation of her request.

“Why did you and Dominique have a falling-out? You said you were friends once . . . when you painted her portrait . . . but then something happened.” She stopped talking, thinking better of herself. “You don't have to tell me. It's none of my business.”

“It's fine, Liz. Nothing really happened between us. I think I just . . . I just became aware of the pretension Dominique lived with. The airs she put on. I got tired of it all. And Dominique resented that I could see through her.”

“Sometimes . . .” Liz paused. “Sometimes I think I can still feel her here.”

“What do you mean?”

As soon as the statement was out of her mouth, she regretted it. But she couldn't take it back now. “I don't know. Her fragrance . . .”

“Gardenias.”

“Yes. I smell it . . . so often . . .”

“No wonder. She used to douse herself with the stuff so much it's probably rubbed off on the furniture and the drapes.” Roger laughed. “Dominique was anything but subtle.”

“I guess I'm just worried about not living up to her. You said she was the queen of Palm Beach society. If that's what people here are expecting of me, that's not what they're going to get. They're going to be very disappointed.”

“They'll like you just the way you are.” Roger gently cupped her cheek in his hand. “Obviously David liked you well enough. He married you.”

“He hardly ever speaks of her. Hardly ever says her name. Says he doesn't like talking about the past. On our honeymoon, I didn't think much of it. He was so focused on me, I never gave his first wife a thought.” Liz shivered. “But since coming here . . .” Her voice faded away.

“Go on. Since coming here what?”

“I worry that David sees that I'm nothing like Dominique and he's disappointed. He was very angry at me on the phone.”

“What about?”

“One of our former employees was murdered.”

Roger reacted. “A former employee? You mean—in addition to Audra?”

Liz nodded. “A young man. Not here on the grounds. He was found dead in his apartment in town. The police came by asking questions about him and I was upset about it. David was not very understanding when I spoke to him on the phone.”

Roger became angry. “My brother can be a total boor sometimes. Of course you were upset! Did the police think there was a connection with Audra's death?”

Liz shrugged. “I don't know. They were just asking questions.”

“No wonder you were upset,” he said, and without warning he pulled Liz into him, wrapping his arms around her again. “You poor kid.”

She thought for a moment she might cry in his arms. How good it felt to be held . . .

But she stiffened. It wasn't right. She gently withdrew herself from Roger's embrace.

“I'm sure David was just busy when we spoke on the phone,” Liz said. “Things aren't going well with the business.”

“No excuse for him to be hard to you.”

“He wants me to be strong.” She smiled ironically. “I imagine Dominique was strong.”

Roger glared at her. “Believe me, Liz, David does
not
want you to be like Dominique.”

She held his gaze for a moment. At last Roger reached over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“I will see you very soon,” he promised. “In the meantime, I want you to relax and stop worrying. In a day or two, I'll come by and pick you up and we'll go on a tour of the town. Would you like that?”

“Very much,” Liz said.

“And if David's not back, you'll come to my gallery show as my guest.”

“Deal,” she told him.

Liz watched Roger go with grateful eyes. At last—someone here who had been kind to her. Genuine and thoughtful.

Even more than her own husband had been.

V
ariola was spreading out dough with a rolling pin on the counter, her hands dusted with flour. She planned on serving a rum-flavored coconut cream pie for dessert this evening. The delicacy had been one of Mrs. Huntington's favorites. Variola wondered if the new lady of the house would like it as much. She seemed to have much simpler tastes . . .

She had hardly seen the new mistress. She rarely took her meals in the dining room. But Variola had heard all about the incident on the stairwell. The attempt to remove the portrait of Dominique.

So she does have some spirit inside her
, Variola thought about Liz.

Variola had nothing against the young woman. But she had no use for her either. It was clear she was not going to be another Dominique. So that rendered her irrelevant in Variola's eyes. She wouldn't want to have to hurt the poor girl. But she might have to take advantage of her, for everybody's good.

Because Variola could feel something happening. When she woke up in the mornings, she could feel a tugging at her mind, as if someone was trying to siphon off her power. She had a pretty good idea who could be doing such a thing.

A showdown was coming. Variola had known it would come for a long time now. She had made a special offering this morning to Papa Ghede at the little altar she kept in her room. She'd burned some rosemary and dried nasturtium and muttered a prayer over the smoke. She needed to stay strong.

I should never have come here
, she thought to herself as she rolled the dough.
But what choice did I have? The island was devastated. I had lost everyone. And Mrs. Huntington had made such promises . . .

She thought again of the first day she stepped foot on this estate. Dominique had greeted her, her face covered in bandages.

“I am tired of this,” Dominique had told her.

“Tired of what, madam?”

She'd indicated the bandages. “Surgeries and facials and fillers. I want to be young, Variola. Young and beautiful. You can make me that way.”

When she'd first come to this house, Variola had had no idea how much vanity and cruelty and selfishness and greed she would find there. But she'd had no choice but to come. Before the earthquake that had leveled her beloved Haiti, Variola had presided over a thriving community, all devoted to the fine arts of the island and following the tenets of Papa Ghede. Variola knew that silly Americans, so conditioned by television and movies, would have called her community a “coven.” But to Variola they had simply been family.

When the earthquake came, she'd lost that family—if not to the earthquake itself, than to the death, disease, and financial ruin that followed. Yet by then her fame had spread far and wide. Her reputation as a great sorceress had reached many parts of the globe, including one particular mansion in Palm Beach, Florida. Her spells and enchantments, her potions and her powders, had brought about some amazing transformations and they had become the stuff of legend. She'd restored a woman's hair after it was burned off in a fire. She'd corrected a boy's lazy eye. She'd melted the pounds off a dangerously obese man. So, yes, she could make someone look younger. A simple job, in fact.

And so Variola had accepted the offer from Dominique Huntington to come live with her and teach her the arcane arts. She would be well compensated for her efforts, of course.

Once again she heard her mother's voice in her head.
Papa Ghede grants us certain powers, Variola, but we mustn't waste time on frivolous purposes. That is not why we are here. The powers we have should never be used for reasons of selfishness or revenge. Papa Ghede does not tolerate evil. Remember that.

Variola sighed as she fitted the dough into the pie plate. In Haiti, they all knew that Papa Ghede was the spirit of the first man who'd ever died, who waited at the crossroads to escort souls into the afterlife. When a child fell sick, the whole village would pray to Papa Ghede. He was a good spirit, and fair, but he was also strict, and he had the ability to read minds. Papa Ghede knew everything that went on in the worlds of the living and the dead.

So he would have seen clearly that Variola's work for Mrs. Huntington had been the very definition of frivolous. Mama would have shaken her head and sniffed that Variola was wasting her talents. But at least Variola's work had not been evil.

Not in the beginning, anyway.

She didn't need to look up from her task to realize that eyes were staring at her.

“And what orders do you bring me this afternoon, Mrs. Hoffman?” Variola asked, arranging the dough in the pie plate with her fingers.

“No orders,” the housekeeper told her.

Still Variola didn't look up at her.

“I just wanted to let you know that Roger was here.”

That brought Variola's big black eyes up. “Really, now. He came to see her?”

Mrs. Hoffman nodded. “I asked him if he would stay for a meal, but he declined.”

“Does Mr. Huntington know that his brother paid a visit to his wife?”

“I doubt it very much.”

Variola returned to her work. “Will he come around again?”

“That I don't know. But I suppose it's possible.” She paused. “Perhaps likely. They seemed to get on quite well, the two of them.”

“Of course they did.”

Mrs. Hoffman sniffed. “He has a way with women.”

Variola laughed. “But not with you, eh, Mrs. Hoffman?”

The housekeeper didn't seem amused. “The other news is . . . the portrait remains.”

Variola's lips stretched into a smile. “Did you ever expect it not?”

“She may try again.”

“Oh, I'm sure she will try a great many things. She is the mistress here, whether you like it or not, my dear Mrs. Hoffman.”

“This house will only ever have one mistress,” the housekeeper said, her eyes moving behind her hard, plastic face as if she were wearing a mask.

Variola chuckled lightly as she returned to work. Mrs. Hoffman, having said all she intended to say, turned and left the room.

Variola placed the piecrust in the oven. Yes, she could feel the tug—as if someone were yanking at her mind and her soul, trying to rip them right out of her. She resisted.

I'm stronger than anyone in this house
, Variola thought.

Still, just the same, she would burn more rosemary and nasturtium for Papa Ghede this evening.