Evergreen Falls (37 page)

She gratefully shook herself free of the snow as she stepped up on the veranda, taking a moment to catch her breath before knocking hard.

She waited. Her breath made fog. The cold silence spun out.

She knocked again. Nothing.

A loud meow gave her a start. She looked around and saw a ginger cat padding around the veranda. She crouched. “Hello, Puss. You must be hungry.” Then she spotted several mouse skeletons under the couch and decided perhaps Puss was not hungry at all. Violet eased herself onto the couch and put her head in her hands. She hadn’t come all this way to leave empty handed. She’d hoped for it to be easy, but nothing about this expedition was easy. She lifted her head. All that mattered was Sam. She knew what she had to do next.

She stood and walked to the corner of the veranda, where a lamp stood. Its base was heavy brass. She loosened the glass bowl and took the base to the door. With all her might, she slammed the lamp base down onto the door handle. It made an enormous crack that seemed to echo off every snowflake piled around her. She waited, her heart thudding, for somebody to notice. To come out and call to her.

Nobody did.

She lifted the base and cracked the handle again. This time it came loose. One more blow and it was off, clanging to the floor and narrowly missing her foot.

She kicked the door gently, and it swung in. The house smelled musty and damp, as though it had been locked up for a year, not a
week. Deep inside was the faint smell of something rotting. It was silent inside but for the tick of a clock on the mantelpiece.

The night she’d been here with Sam, Malley had retreated to a back room for opium, so Violet went through into a lightless corridor with a threadbare runner, which led off to two small rooms and a bathroom.

She had no idea where to start looking. The bedroom was filthy, with clothes strewn about and a strong smell of cat urine. The curtains were closed, faded to a color between beige and gray. She opened them, and dust floated in the weak daylight. A wardrobe sat unevenly on its legs, the door hanging ajar. Violet opened it and looked inside. More clothes, balled in the bottom. Empty hangers. She searched through the clothes—they all looked like Chinese pajamas—but found nothing.

She searched the scarred dresser next, but again without success, so she moved to the next room.

This room looked promising. Collections of the kind of things Sam used for smoking opium were stored in drawers and cupboards. Trays and lamps and pipes and tweezers and matches. But no jars. She was aware time was ticking on, and she still had to manage the long walk back. Miss Zander would be furious. Violet was the last able-bodied employee, and she’d already been gone nearly two hours. Her hands became desperate, too hasty, rifling through drawers and throwing things out of the way in frustration.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

What a mistake it had been to come here. She stalked into the hallway in her too-big Wellingtons, nearly in tears contemplating the long walk back, the possibility that Sam would die because she couldn’t find the drugs he needed. Yes, he had to come off them one day, but slowly and gently with a doctor on hand, when his body wouldn’t shake to pieces and send him to an early grave.

The bathroom. It was the only back room she hadn’t checked.

A smell of mold. Hair in the sink. A cabinet by the bath. She opened it. Bottles, dozens of bottles. She reached for them, saw again and again that they were empty. Then she saw something she recognized: a green leather pouch. That night they had come to Malley’s, he had given Sam something from that pouch, and Sam had immediately been cured.

She pulled it out, unfolded it. Medical things inside. A small, half-full bottle.

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed as she refolded the pouch and tucked it inside her overalls. Her body protested the idea of heading out into the frigid world again, but now she had Sam’s cure, she had to hurry.

*  *  *

Flora was guarding his door still. Violet could have screamed with frustration. Her blood was icy from the long trudge back through snow. Her hair was damp from the drizzle, and her heart was still thudding from exertion. Flora glanced up as Violet came to the top of the stairs, but Violet backed away quickly before she was spotted. She returned to the kitchen to wait, trying to keep busy peeling and washing vegetables and baking more bread. All the meat had run out and they were down to their last dozen eggs. She had no idea what to offer the guests for dinner, so she made cucumber-and-watercress sandwiches, all the while waiting for night, when Flora would sleep and Violet could get to Sam.

She didn’t have to wait for night. At six o’clock, Tony came to the kitchen door and asked about dinner.

“This is all we have,” she said, indicating the plate of sandwiches.

“There are five of us for dinner,” he said. “That will do. Make us tea to go with it.”

They were down for dinner—that meant Flora had left Sam’s door. Violet boiled the kettle and served the tea and sandwiches in the dining room, then ran for the stairs.

She knocked quickly at Sam’s door.

“Go away,” he said weakly.

“It’s Violet,” she called.

He opened the door. “Violet? You’ve come! Why didn’t you come before?”

“Your sister wouldn’t let me see you.”

He collapsed back onto his bed. “I’m as weak as a baby. I’m in so much pain.”

“We don’t have much time,” she said quickly. “Flora will be back as soon as she’s eaten. But Sam, I’ve been to Malley’s.”

He sat up, his whole body tense. “Was he there?”

“No, but I found this. Do you remember?” She held up the green pouch.

He snatched it from her hands. “Violet. Violet. My love. My redeemer.” He kissed her, and his mouth tasted sour. “You went out in the snow for this?”

She nodded proudly, then started when she heard footsteps on the stairs. “I have to go. Do you know what to do?”

“I think I remember. Ah, I feel better already, just knowing there’s an end to it. Thank God. There’s an end to it. Quick. Go. I’ll come to see you in your room tonight.”

“I can’t wait to see you well again.” Then she could finally tell him about the baby.

“You saved me,” he said.

“I love you.”

“And I love you. I always will.”

Violet exited the room and hastened to the stairs so she wouldn’t be found near Sam’s room. But it wasn’t Flora coming up: it was Clive.

“Ah, there you are,” he said.

“You’re up and about.”

“I feel a lot better.”

“You still don’t look well. One more night in bed, eh? There are sandwiches in the kitchen. I’ll bring a tray of them and some tea down to your room.” She had a spring in her step as they returned down the stairs together. Sam would be better soon. Just for now, nothing could trouble her.

*  *  *

Flora’s stomach was still growling after the light dinner. She had skipped lunch and had rather hoped for something cooked and filling. But she wouldn’t complain, not to Tony and certainly not to Sweetie, who accompanied her back upstairs to the men’s floor. Through Violet, Miss Zander had sent assurances that this hardship wouldn’t last much longer. Besides, Sam hadn’t eaten for days and was in far greater distress than she was.

“So, you’re going to sit out here all night, are you?” Tony asked.

Flora listened at the door. It was quiet. “Perhaps I won’t need to. It sounds like he’s finally sleeping.”

“He’ll start groaning again soon enough, no doubt,” Sweetie said. “Probably right when I’m trying to get to sleep.” He stalked off towards his room and closed the door hard behind him.

Flora asked Tony to listen by the door while she went to bathe and then dress in her nightgown and robe. She returned twenty minutes later to find Tony sitting on the floor, his head against the door, his eyes closed.

“Has he stirred?” she asked.

“No. That’s a good sign, isn’t it, that he’s quiet?”

“I think so. Maybe it means the worst is over. It’s been three days. The other times he’s tried, he’s lasted only one or two. I love the thought that he’s sleeping. Now perhaps I’ll get some sleep, too. What a horrible few days we’ve had.”

Tony touched her hand. “I’m glad it’s over, too. Do you think he’ll stay off it now?”

“It’s to be hoped. He can be very pigheaded, but surely he won’t want to go through such awful withdrawing pains again.” She smiled at Tony. “You don’t mind, do you? That your future brother-in-law is an opium addict?”

He shrugged. “Every family has a black sheep.”

She yawned. “I think I’ll have an early night. Should I look in on him?”

“Better to let him rest, maybe.”

“I can be very quiet.”

Tony climbed to his feet. “Go on, then.”

She cracked open the door as quietly as she could. The room was dark, so she waited a few moments for her eyes to adjust. She could see Sam on the bed, the dark splash of his hair against the pillow, his body sprawled on top of the covers.

Something was wrong. Her heart knew it before her head did. Her pulse quickened, but she wasn’t sure why. Then she listened. Really listened.

He was far too quiet. Too still.

“Sam,” she said loudly, imagining that it would wake him, and she wouldn’t care because that would simply mean that he was breathing but she couldn’t hear it over her own thundering pulse. “Sam!” she shouted, kneeling at his side and shaking him. Tony came blustering in with the hurricane lamp, and she could see Sam properly then, spread on the bed in a pose of languor,
free from the torment of his withdrawal at last.

With skin as cold as a stone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

2014

I
was stepping out of the shower, getting ready for a morning shift, when the phone rang.

For once, I didn’t assume it was my mother and groan. For once, I ran, towel loosely held over my wet body, trailing damp footprints behind me. Because Tomas was back today.

“Hello?” I said breathlessly, feeling water drip down my neck.

“I’ve just landed in Sydney,” he said.

“We’re in the same country,” I replied. “That feels nice. I’m working until three.”

“I’ll come by the café at three, then.” A moment of silence, then, “I can’t wait to see you. I missed you.”

“Same,” I said, relieved. Given that most of our relationship had been played out in late-night, long-distance phone calls and text messages, I wasn’t sure how much of a claim I had on him, whether it was acceptable to confess to missing somebody after two dates.

The day crawled. I watched the clock, and it didn’t seem to move. Work was beset by grumpy customers, and a blocked steam nozzle on the coffee machine meant Penny and I had to spend a large portion of the day tripping over workmen and apologizing for slow coffees.

But then the lunch trade started to thin out, and right on three
the front door opened, letting in the cool air from outside. Tomas stood there.

My heart lifted into my throat. “Hi,” I said, from across the café.

Penny gave me a little push in the back. “Off you go.”

I untied my apron and stuffed it in my bag, let my hair out of the tight ponytail I wore it in for work, and crossed the floor to meet him.

We stood, six awkward inches apart, and he said, “It’s nice to see you.”

“Yes,” I said. What was the protocol? I had no idea.

He grasped my hand and said, “Come with me.”

I waved to Penny, who gave me two thumbs up, and followed Tomas outside.

“I’ve missed the view,” he said. “Can we go over to the deck?”

“Sure.”

We crossed the road, still hand in hand. The afternoon sun was behind us, making our shadows long. We waited for a busload of tourists to exit the car park and then we stepped onto the large wooden viewing platform that had been built out of the escarpment, affording a full, magnificent view of the mountains and valleys under shifting cloud shadows.

“Ah, that’s beautiful,” he said, finally releasing my hand.

“More beautiful than Copenhagen?” I still held out hope that he’d want to stay in Australia.

“There are places in Denmark even more beautiful,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye, and then he seized me in a hug, and I surrendered to it gratefully. The smell of him, his heat and his hard body, were intoxicating. I turned my face up for a kiss, and he pressed his mouth against mine. A breeze whipped up, sent dry leaves scuttling over the wooden boards. Goose bumps stood out on my arms.

Tomas let me go. “Let’s sit down and talk,” he said. “There’s a lot to talk about.”

I folded myself up on the bench next to him, knees under my chin. “About our mystery? That letter from Eugenia Zander has me utterly baffled. If only I could get back into the hotel—”

But he was already shaking his head. “Sorry. I’ve been in to work today, and my visiting privileges for the west wing have officially been revoked.”

“Ah. That’s my fault, isn’t it?”

“Technically, it’s mine. I gave you the key and told you to go in. I’m sorry I got you in trouble.”

“I’m sorry I got
you
in trouble.”

He shrugged. “That kind of thing doesn’t bother me. They pay me a lot of money and will continue to do so. The developer has simply said it’s an occupational safety hazard, and so that’s that. Until I start on the design, I’m not going back in.” He touched my cheek softly. “Besides, what else could you find that would help?”

“Letters. Records. Anything that tells me what happened to Violet Armstrong. I need to know if she and Sam lived happily ever after.”

“If she did, I doubt the hotel would have the records. In any case, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

I heard the serious note in his voice and shifted so I was looking directly at him. “Go on,” I said, and his eyes became solemn and unhappy. That was the moment I was certain he was going to break it off with me, that he would tell me it was all too hard or that he was going back to his ex-wife. I told myself to sit there and listen and not interrupt, and maybe just treat it like an anthropological experiment:
this is what it feels like to be dumped
. It was new to me. All of it.