Chapter Forty-Six

“There are too many ghosts in this house. Perhaps it’s time to stop holding so hard onto what’s been and gone.”

Great-aunt Roselyn’s voice startled Kate from her thoughts. They were sitting at the kitchen table. On that table were two wine glasses, a bottle, and a wooden bowl full of freshly picked apples. Beyond the glass, dusk softened the forms of the trees until they were only shadows in the dark.

Kate noticed with surprise that her glass was empty. She reached for the bottle. The tinted glass was dusty, the flavors of the wine old and rich. A vintage Merlot. They had decided this was the right occasion to uncork it, after everything that happened. Kate poured, refilling both their glasses. The wine gave off a dark fruit-scented perfume. “What do you mean?”

“There are so many memories trapped in these walls.”

“You’re not thinking of selling, are you?”

“No, I don’t think I’d have the heart to sell. Not now. But each day, it seems to be getting harder. Sometimes the past seems more real than the present.”

“It would be a big change, living somewhere else. Starting fresh though, it might be good for you.”

“At my age, Kate, one is no longer able to start fresh.” She gave a wry smile.

Was this the moment to ask? “Great-aunt Roselyn, what happened to the boy you told me about? The one who brought you those gifts.”

“He died.”

The statement was blunt, startling. The words seemed to take on a physical presence in the room, like they’d filled the space with the very force of them. “How?”

“He took his own life.”

Suicide. A shiver ran through Kate. A branch tapped against the window, a soft scratch of sound. “And you found his body.” Now it suddenly all made sense. That fierce whisper after Mr. Wendell died. Not again.

“Yes, I was the one who found him. Out there.” Roselyn looked toward the window, and the orchard. “Hanging from a tree. I saw his feet first. They twisted slowly to the left. Stopped. Swung to the right.” Her voice was quiet, flat. “And stopped. Then I saw his eyes. The eyes I’d loathed were open and staring. The branch was moaning, straining beneath the weight. The sound that tree made, it was almost human.” Roselyn took one of the apples from the bowl. Held it cupped in her hand. “Have you seen the way the apples glow red in the sunrise? Every shade of crimson visible, every bruise, the very texture of the veins in their leaves. The grass was damp on my ankles and scattered with apples. I’ll never forget it.” She returned the fruit to the bowl.

“That’s why you said, ‘There will be no more death in this house.’”

“A foolish statement, really. But I never expected to witness another death, not here in this house. So, you see, I know how hard it is to find the dead, to be confronted with the loss of a life. It leaves a mark, alters you.”

“You were so young.”

“So was he. To make matters worse, it was my fault.”

“From what you’ve told me, it sounds as though he was already troubled.”

“Oh, there was certainly a pre-existing inclination. He had a sensitive temperament that often bordered on depression, and he had a tendency to romanticize death. The poems he read seemed to affect him deeply, influenced him. He seemed monstrous to me, that disturbing intensity. But he had a good heart. Better than mine. His only fault was to love too much, whereas mine was hate and contempt.”

“There’s a fine line between love and obsession.” The orchard, the gnarled trees and fruit-laden boughs were almost black beyond the window. “You can’t blame yourself for what he did.”

“Can’t I? I was eighteen and scornful. Sure of myself. Confident I was worth loving and always would be. Spoiled, even. And quite heartless.” Roselyn took a sip of her wine. Her face was pale but her voice, when she spoke again, was strong. She met Kate’s eyes and explained, “I detested him. He was awkward. Shunned by the others and mocked. He watched us all too closely. His heavy-lidded eyes repulsed me. When he told me he loved me, I was horrified, afraid the mere fact of it would somehow contaminate me, too. I turned him down, again and again. More cruelly each time. I laughed at him. Threw away his gifts. I hurt him. He became angry. Then desperate. Made threats and cried in a way that embarrassed me.”

“Did you tell anyone about it?”

“Of course not. I was too proud. His infatuation was mortifying, but also flattering. He adored me. And I enjoyed hurting him. It was so easy. It was intoxicating to have such power over another person. To be able to transform joy into despair with a single word or a glance.” She sighed. “It all seems so long ago now, so foolish. After I found his body, I knew what guilt was.”

“Did Frank know what happened?”

“No. Hardly anyone did. The boy’s parents didn’t want people to know that their son had committed suicide. They wanted to keep the scandal hidden. My parents were only too happy to keep quiet.”

“But Penelope knew.”

“She began planning ways we could leave, how we would make something of ourselves, have careers. Then Frank asked me to marry him. I knew he would. He loved a version of me that was safe, that I could maintain. And so I said yes. I stopped wishing for more. And, from then on, everything I did, every decision I made, was for him. Penelope was furious. She couldn’t understand why I did it.”

“She still can’t.”

“I know what the others see. A stereotype. But I knew my place. I chose it. I took care of him. I made this house a place of tranquility for him to return to. And I never complained or questioned his judgement. I made him happy and that was all I wanted.”

“Was it worth it?”

Great-aunt Roselyn smiled. “I like to think so. I also had high expectations of him. I wanted him to build me a fortress of words. Speaking of which.” Roselyn took an envelope from her pocket. It was yellowed with age.

The letter Frank wrote before he died.

“You’re so much stronger than I ever was, Kate. Perhaps it’s time to take inspiration from you.” She reached for the fruit knife in the bowl. Removed the cover and slid the blade beneath the flap of the envelope. She held the knife there, about to make the cut, and hesitated. Kate leaned forward. Roselyn looked up and they exchanged a glance, recognizing the thrill of that moment. Kate could feel her heart race and found herself wishing for magic. For a miracle from beyond the grave. For words that would give strength again. The diamond on Roselyn’s finger seemed to kindle, to flash with a cold flame.

The knife sliced through paper.

Then the letter was in Roselyn’s hand. Folded twice. The crease still sharp. Kate watched as she peeled the edges of the paper apart, carefully, slowly. The edges clung to each other. Then Kate caught a glimpse of faded blue ink. The letters sprawled across the page, large and rounded. Not many words. Half a page of lines, maybe less. Would it be enough?

Great-aunt Roselyn looked once more out at the orchard. Then she read.

When she had finished, she lowered the letter, and smiled. She smoothed one hand over the page, touching the letters.

“Is it what you’d hoped for?” Kate asked.

“Both less and more.” She paused, folding the letter along the creases. “Sometimes it’s the silent words, those that are left unsaid, that mean the most.”

****

It would take time before she stopped checking the doors were locked. It was when she was making sure the bolt was thrown on the front door that she saw the light on the porch. The cigarette smoke. Kate tensed. Someone was sitting on the porch, on the top step, watching darkness settle on the base of the clouds. The cloud of smoke hanging in the air, turned to silver in the light.

Kate pushed aside visions of gloved hands and concealed weapons and opened the door, braced. Then she saw the cascade of curls and relaxed. “Elaina.” She moved closer.

Elaina was sitting on the step, knees pulled up to her chest. Insects whirred around the bulb. The night sky seemed to be pressing down upon the roof, the tower. Elaina brought the cigarette to her lips with one paint-stained hand. Were her fingers trembling? She could paint Isra’s fur with minute strokes of the brush. Her hands never shook. But there was an unmistakable tremor in them now.

“He’ll come back.” Smoke scraped over Elaina’s voice.

“Ian?” Kate sank to the step beside her. Every part of her body ached, but she refused to let the pain get the best of her. “You decided not to go with him.” The air was damp, carrying a chill with it.

“He always comes back.”

And she’d draw his face, over and over, until he did. “Have you ever wondered what would happen if we left this house?”

“All the time.” Elaina’s grin was quick and sharp. “But the rent is so damned decent.”

They sat there in silence, despite the cold, watching the smoke unfurl, pale and ghostly. The walls rose up behind them. Moss-covered stones permeating the air with their scent, mingling with the perfume of old roses and grass. The trees rustled, like tranquil giants, with the creak of dry wood.