“Wait!” she called. “Forrester!”
He was bending over the pile of rubble she'd left after ripping down the wall in the entry hall. From the debris he pulled the tire iron.
“What are you doing?”
“I'm going to get some answers of my own,” Cliff said, an undercurrent of determination flickering through his voice as he led the way down the passage to the abandoned bedroom.
“Have it your way,” Liza said, nervously following.
Margaret Ingalls had chosen the first-floor location of her bedroom herself, so the family legends said, because she liked the noonday sunlight to awaken her. Margaret slept late, bossed her family unmercifully and enjoyed a good party more than anything.
But, Liza had suspected since first hearing about her headstrong grandmother, there was more to Margaret In
galls than good times. She played too hard, it seemed. She had been hiding something, Liza believed. She enjoyed hiding things.
Which was one of the reasons she'd concealed the staircase to the attic.
“This room used to be kept locked,” Liza said, peering around Cliff's body at the darkened bedroom. “My grandfather ordered it shut up forever, but I picked the lock one summer and my sister and I sneaked in here to play. He never knew what we were doing.”
“Why did he order it locked?”
“I suppose because he was furious with Margaret for running off. He probably locked it so he could forget her. It's easier to forget something you don't look at every day.”
Under his breath, Cliff murmured, “That's not been my experience.”
“The attic door opened by a hidden mechanism,” Liza went on as she eased into the bedroom behind Cliff. “I hope I can remember how it worked.”
“If you don't,” he said, fingering the heavy tire iron, “I'll take care of it.”
Liza swallowed hard and followed cautiously in his footsteps. “God, it's dark in here. I don't suppose the old light bulbs work. We'll need a flashlight.”
“In the kitchen drawer.”
Though hesitant to leave him, Liza hurried to find the flashlight, and when she returned, Cliff was standing in the middle of Margaret's bedroom with the moonlight slanting through the French windows. He stood very still, and the milky light that poured over his body turned him into a rugged marble statue, the tire iron held loosely at his side like a ready weapon.
“Cliff?”
Shivering from the chill in the room, Liza flicked on the
flashlight. Immediately, the dancing beam caught the painting that hung over the fireplace.
Cliff had been staring at the painting in the darkness. As the light struck it, he let out his breath in a slow hiss.
Liza padded to his side, keeping the flashlight trained on the portrait. By instinct, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Haven't you been in here before?”
“Yes,” Cliff responded slowly, distractedly. “I used to come in and look at that painting. I'm not sure why, but now...God, she looks like you.”
The young woman depicted in the painting smiled at them from the mantel. It was an odd smile, Liza thought as she allowed the flashlight beam to trail the contours of the pale face and offcenter mouth. A secretive smile.
“That's Margaret, all right,” she said uneasily. “My grandmother.”
“She was beautiful.”
Liza tipped a glance up at Cliff and was surprised to find that he was mesmerized by the face in the picture. What did he see? A pretty face, a lace dress, graceful hands adorned by rings, slender wrists weighted down with gold and silver? Or did he read something in Margaret's expression? Did he like the subtle sensuality in her posture? The suggestion of Margaret's gaze? Or did he see the cold determination that gleamed behind those tantalizing blue eyes?
“Cliff?”
Still staring at the portrait, he asked, “She wasn't a nice woman, was she?”
“I don't know. I never knew her. But Granddad loved her, and I trust his opinion. She must have had some good qualities.”
“But she left him.”
“Yes,” Liza said, knowing he'd hit upon the one act for which Margaret would never be forgiven.
Cliff must have heard something change in Liza's
voiceâa change she couldn't control. He put his hand on the back of her neck and squeezed gently. “I can see why you don't like to be compared to her,” he said softly. “She didn't have your heart.”
The remark buoyed Liza. She felt like an autumn leaf suddenly launched from a tree branch. At last someone understood.
“Margaret was a shallow person.”
Cliff nodded. “I can see that in her face. It's the difference between the two of you.”
Liza's eyes stung, and her throat was suddenly very tight. “Thank you.”
Cliff didn't hear her words, though. Shaken by his perception as she was, Liza hadn't made them audible.
As if waking from a dream, Cliff released her and abruptly asked, “Where's the door?”
Liza pulled herself together, too. “This way.”
She led him to the north wall and fingered the panels of wood, knocking occasionally as she sought the hollow area she remembered from her childhood. At last she found the spot and pressed the panel. It popped smoothly, but opened no more than a few inches.
“Let me,” Cliff said, shouldering Liza aside and wedging his hand into the opening to force the door wide.
“Wait,” Liza urged, suddenly seized by anxiety.
As her hand touched his back, Cliff swung on Liza in the half-light. His face was tight, his gaze sharp. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing exactly. IâI just wonder if we shouldn't wait until morning.”
“What for?”
“Because it might be dangerous up there. The floor might be rotten, orâ”
“Will you be able to sleep in this house until you know what causes the sound we heard?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Then what do you propose?”
“I don't know. IâI guess I'm scared.”
Cliff smiled thinly. “You? Scared? I didn't think it was possible.”
“Forrester...”
He caught Liza's chin in his hand and tilted her face to the light. “You're not as tough as you pretend, are you?”
“I'm tough enough,” she retorted, the moment of ambivalence passing as quickly as it had come. “Let's go.”
Cliff held her hand as they ascended the narrow staircase. Under most circumstances, Liza would have walked alone. But tonight she appreciated the snug pressure of another hand around hers. She clung to Cliff's shadow as they crept up Margaret's stairs to the attic.
“Give me the light,” Cliff said. “Your hand's shaking too much.”
“It is not!” Liza argued hotly. But she passed the flashlight to him anyway when they reached the landing and stopped.
Cliff cast the light around the atticâthe eaves first, to check for bats, perhaps. Then, slowly, he allowed the beam to play over the shapes of junk piled high in the long, narrow space. Old furniture, several trunks, a rolled-up carpet, bales of yellowed newspaper, a broken bird cage. It could have been a dusty antique shop or a haven for children playing dress-up.
In one corner lay a heap of tattered dresses left in exactly the same place where Liza and her sister had dropped them nearly twenty years earlier.
“Oh,” breathed Liza, remembering the hours she'd spent trying on one lovely silk dress after another. “We never put anything away. What a shame! All these dresses have been ruined. They were so beautiful.”
Perhaps her perception was clouded by the memory of the happy days she had played in the attic, but Liza felt transported in time as she stood at the top of the staircase
with Cliff, gazing at the jumble of forgotten possessions. The place seemed very romantic suddenlyânot frightening at all. A lace shawl had been tossed over a crooked lampshade, abandoned by Liza's sister, Amanda, always the romantic at heart. A cracked mirror with a gilded frameâno doubt one of Margaret's extravagant purchases, hung from a stubby nail that had been haphazardly hammered into the wall. How many times had Liza gazed at her own reflection in that glass? A second mirror, eerily clouded with age, stood propped against a rocking chair with a broken arm. Another shard of reflective glass lay in a distant corner. If a ghost resided in the attic, it was a very vain ghost indeed. The idea amused Liza.
“Whew,” she said at last. “No evil spirits up here, I guess.”
“Not evil,” Cliff said under his breath.
“What?”
She realized Cliff was seeing the place for the first time, and he seemed dazed by the riot of Margaret's things. Quickly, Liza said, “This stuff was my grandmother's. Granddad had it all carried up here, and we played with it years later without his knowing. I'm sure he'd have killed us if he ever knew....” Her voice trailed off. “Cliff, what's wrong?”
“I don't know,” he said carefully. “It's queer, though, isn't it?”
“Oh, God, you're not feeling that presence again, are you?”
He put out his fingers and caressed the forgotten shawl. “I'm not sure anymore.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
Cliff shook his head. “I feel...oh, hell, I can't tell. Did you and your sister play here for very long?”
“One summer, I think. Then we forgot about it, I guess. Or found other things to do. It was a long bike ride out here to the lodge. I'm sure Amanda found more interesting
ways to pass her time besides baby-sitting me out here. You know, at the time, it never occurred to me that we were disturbing my grandmother's things. Now it feels a little like grave robbing, doesn't it?”
“It feels okay,” he said quietly. “I think she would have wanted us to be here.”
Liza watched him move tentatively into the attic, shining the flashlight here and there. “You're giving me the creeps, Forrester. You're not communicating with âthe other side,' are you?”
“It's not that,” he said seriously, not responding to her taunt. “But I can't help feeling she might have been calling me here.”
Perhaps Cliff had a side Liza hadn't expectedâa spiritual part of his personality.
“Margaret was calling you?”
He shrugged. “I know it sounds strange. In Cambodia, people believe that spirits exist in our world, especially spirits of people who have left unresolved problems behind.”
“Do you believe that?”
With a short laugh, he said, “I don't know what to believe. I just... If I'd known how to get into this attic, I'd have done it long ago, that's all.”
“To be with Margaret?” Liza asked, studying him.
Cliff didn't answer. He looked like a man in a dreamâmoving with care, his expression puzzled.
“You know,” she said finally, “I have a feeling you've been a little in love with her.”
Cliff bent and plucked a pale green dress from where it had been carelessly discarded years ago. His hands toyed with the delicate fabric.
She added, “You're showing all the classic signs, you know. Maybe you've been obsessed by a dead woman.”
“Is she dead?” he asked quickly.
The question caught Liza off guard. “We always as
sumed so. After she ran off, no one in the family ever heard from her again.”
“I wonder...”
“What do you wonder?”
“What became of her. Where did she go? What happened?”
“It's obvious, isn't it?” Liza asked lightly and laughed. “Margaret died and came back here to haunt Timberlake for eternity. She's probably been up in this attic for years, singing her sad songs just to get you to come up and play. Why, she's probably been infatuated with you from the start! You're just her type, Forrester. She had loversâ”
“Stop,” said Cliff, sounding unamused.
“Sorry.” When he turned and she saw his expression again, Liza immediately regretted baiting him. Cliff wasn't strong enough yet. He was still confused about his own life and didn't need to hear theories about Margaret's.
Trying a new tack, Liza said, “We ought to be looking for something that could have caused that weird sound. A loose windowpane, maybe, orâ”
“Here.” Cliff was already rummaging in a pile of broken furniture. “Look at this.”
“Be careful! That squeak in the floor doesn't sound safe.”
“The roof's been leaking. See?”
With care, he stepped over the weak spot toward an old phonograph player, the kind with a huge horn attached almost directly to the needle. A long-playing record still lay on the turntable, and sure enough, the needle was resting on the record.
“There's no dust,” Cliff said, hushed. “See that?”
His hand moved to crank the machine, and Liza said quickly, “Cliff, don't.”
He glanced up at her. “Why not?”
“IâI'm not sure I want to hear the music.” Liza began to shiver. Suddenly she didn't feel as confident as she usu
ally did. The talk of ghosts with unresolved troubles made her nervous.
“We came for answers,” he said darkly. “Go downstairs, if you like.”
“Butâ”
“I've been haunted, as you said, for years by this. Now's my chance to find out what's going on.”
“Okay,” Liza replied, chastised. “If you can take it, so can I.”
He proceeded then, giving the crank a slow turn and setting the turntable in motion. The music blared out at once, so loud that Liza jumped and cried out. Cliff stood up quickly and took her into his arms as the attic filled with the strains of a blues tune straight out of the past.
“Please don't leave me,” sang the throaty female voice, while a wailing saxophone echoed her tune. “Please comeâ”
Then the record caught and skipped back, so that the singer began again. “Please don't leave me. Please comeâPlease don't leave me. Please comeâ”
“Shut it off!” Liza urged as the voice repeated the same phrases over and over. “My God, Cliff. Make it stop.”