The front door whined open before I could ring the bell. A girl somewhere between her late teens and early twenties jumped back in surprise. Her childish hand clapped over the “oh” forming on her lips.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Roth Arlington,” I said.
The wind carried the rain sideways. Despite the porte cochere and my attempt to pull the car as close to the door as possible, my breezy white top looked as if I had entered a wet T-shirt contest. I tugged my canvas satchel forward to shield my body, an effort more symbolic than effective.
“The damn driveway alarm won’t shut up,” the girl snapped. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
Her slick dark hair was cut bluntly to her chin on one side, cropped short on the other, revealing studs and loops in her ear from lobe to top. She had pale creamy skin, shocked by large brown eyes under thick sprays of enviable lashes. Tattoos like dead vines snaked up one arm, jeans and a tucked black tee accentuated her slight frame, and her burgundy boots that buckled across the ankle were out of sync with the warm August weather.
“There’s a big branch down,” I said, thumbing backward into the deluge. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
“Effing fantastic.”
“Anyway, I’m Winter Snow, the obituary writer. She’s expecting me.”
Her eyes were saucers as she stepped aside to let me into the refrigerated foyer.
“Can’t you turn the alarm off from inside?” A rhythmic ding-dong repeated itself from elsewhere in the house.
She glanced uncertainly down the hall toward what I assumed was the location of the offending system.
“Would you mind taking off your shoes, ma’am?” she asked as she refocused on me.
I kicked off Onex sandals and wiggled bare feet on white marble, recoiling at being called ma’am at the tender age of twenty-nine.
“You’re a flood!” she erupted.
It was true. Water pooled around me.
“Then I’ll need a towel,” I replied evenly.
She jerked her head in annoyance and retreated down the hall.
I took in the two-story ceiling, ornate mahogany chairs, the shiny marble—shinier since my soggy entrance. Crystal sconces wept frozen teardrops. A chandelier straight out of Phantom of the Opera danced in the gray light. Next to the grand winding staircase, a gilded mirror reflected a hot wet mess: hair plastered in tangles against my skull, blond highlights like lightning bolts, raccoon eyes. The girl must have turned the alarm off from the inside as I suggested, because when she returned and tossed me a towel, I could no longer hear its annoying beep.
“Step back,” she said, trying to reassert herself. With a second towel, she stooped and began wiping the floor.
“And the lady of the house?” I asked.
“I’ll find her after I clean up your mess.”
Phone in hand, I clicked the number Mrs. Arlington had called from earlier. I could hear ringing from deep in the house, followed by a patchy connection, which sounded like the woman thought I was canceling our appointment. The call dropped, so I texted that I was in her foyer, locking horns with a punk waif gatekeeper—phrased more nicely, of course.
A minute later, I got my first look at Mrs. Roth Arlington. She strode in, tall and large boned, with big hands and feet and a snowy head that reminded me of Bea Arthur from the Golden Girls reruns I sometimes binge on. Remnants of her former beauty were evident in high cheekbones and steel-gray eyes. Her no-nonsense looks were enhanced by a cane, which she wielded more like a scepter.
“Good God, Brittany, Ms. Snow is shivering,” she chastened. “Warm up one of the guest room robes. And turn on the gas fireplace to dry those wet shoes.”
As Brittany scurried wordlessly away, Mrs. Arlington turned to me and said, “The girl has no common sense.”
“She seems capable in her way,” I said.
Mrs. Arlington did a slow double take before replying icily, “Shall I expect fluff in my obituary as well?”
After that bumpy start, I was relieved when a short time later I was wrapped in dryer-warmed white terry cloth while my clothes spun in circles in another part of the house. We sat in a large sunroom, dim and dreary now under the onslaught of the storm. Further dampening the mood was too much furniture from a bygone era—dark and gaudy, heavily scrolled. Beyond the many windows, patio chairs tumbled down a large expanse of lawn, propelled by the wind toward a swimming pool.
“Again, I’m sorry about Brittany,” Mrs. Arlington said from a tufted leather chair. I was perched on the edge of a high-backed mahogany chair, backed by a fluffy white pillow.
“Can’t you find someone who better suits your needs?” I asked.
“Obviously, but …” She waved a hand in a Why bother? motion. “The truth is I feel sorry for the girl. She really doesn’t have anyone except her boyfriend—who is nearly as useless. I give him handiwork, but his real value is keeping her company at the guesthouse.”
“Maybe he can clear the branch blocking your driveway,” I suggested.
I settled into the chair and froze as I felt something move against my lower back.
Mrs. Arlington chuckled. “I rescued her a few weeks ago from one of those puppy mills.”
I turned in relief to find a tiny Great Pyrenees with big serious brown eyes staring back.
“Diva, come,” Mrs. Arlington commanded.
Instead, the dog stretched languidly and stepped around to my lap, where she made herself comfortable. She looked up at me mournfully.
“I swear she talks with her eyes,” Mrs. Arlington said fondly. “I think she sees a kindred spirit in your robe.”
Diva was clean, soft, and warm. I let her stay.
“Excuse me a moment,” Mrs. Arlington said, picking up a portable landline phone from a pile of devices on the marble-topped table next to her. The iPad and iPhone were in sharp contrast to their dated surroundings.
As my host delivered tree removal instructions into the portable phone, I watched the pool beyond the green expanse slosh like an angry sea. Miniature debris-strewn waves broke onto the decking and toward a pool house, which was ensconced in giant arborvitaes at the edge of the woods. The pool house door had blown open and now flopped haphazardly with the gusts. Diva shook in my lap with each rumble of thunder.
“Yes, as soon as the storm passes,” Mrs. Arlington confirmed. “Thank you.” She hung up and turned to me. “Now tell me how you got into this deadly business.”
My clients often ask about my background. I suppose that sharing the intimate details of their own lives makes them feel entitled to know more about mine. I ran through my usual spiel: falling in love with the written word at a young age, studying journalism at UConn, returning home to work at the Press and realizing I had a knack for human interest stories—easily enabled by deep roots in a small town.
“I became the go-to person at the Press for obituaries,” I said. “From there, it felt inev—”
“But there was something else,” Mrs. Arlington cut in.
“Sorry?”
“Personal.”
Diva shuddered against me as thunder clapped again, followed by a flash of light outside, flickering bulbs inside.
“Mrs. Arlington—”
“Call me Lottie.”
“Lottie,” I said. “I’m not sure I follow.”
“More than eight decades on earth, Miss Snow, have taught me two certainties about people. One: there are no certainties. Two: we wear our sad stories with every word we speak.”
For a moment we locked eyes.
“My father died when we … when I was young,” I replied.
“And?”
“And I think it gives me empathy.”
She studied my face a moment as if trying to eke out more. No way was I letting this interview become about me, I thought, and bored my blue eyes into hers. Finally, she nodded, mostly to herself. Rising, she strode imperiously across the room to a rolltop desk and pulled a manila folder from the top left drawer. She returned and handed it to me.
“You’ll find next of kin, service arrangements, charities. Also, I followed the directions on your website to the letter, though I’m guessing you’ll have questions. There’s a thumb drive in there if you need it.”
As I began to open the envelope, her left hand flew upward in a halting motion. “Later. Right now, let’s talk.”
The questions I asked about her—her marriage to Roth Arlington, how she’d gotten to Ridgefield—were met with clipped nonanswers. Instead, she circled back to me.
“I’d especially like to know why your parents were so fixated on seasons.”
I shrugged. “Maybe you can ask my mother. She’ll be visiting soon, and I know she’d love to meet you.”
“Maybe,” she said.
She then stared off, losing the bright curiosity her eyes had met me with earlier.
“Mrs. Arlington—”
“Lottie,” she spoke abruptly, as if coming back to this world.
“If you don’t mind my asking, why do you need this done so quickly? I mean, if you’re feeling out of sorts or something …”
Up came the hand again.
“I am neither depressed nor suicidal, Miss Snow. But I am a realist. It is logical to think I might be next in line to die.”
“Are you being threatened?”
She turned to look out at the doomsday view.
“A shame we didn’t get a funnel,” she said. “Just get the obituary finished by Friday.”
Neither of us was surprised when a short time later the lights finally went out, leaving us with only gloomy landscape. I was surprised, however, that no generator kicked on in a house this grand. Mrs. Arlington switched on battery-powered lanterns positioned throughout the room, which did little to cheer the space.
“At least your clothes will be dry by now,” she noted.
It reminded me that Brittany had waved goodbye about half an hour earlier.
“Who will stay with you until the power comes back on?” I asked. It often took days after a storm before Eversource line crews could untangle the snarl of wires from fallen branches.
“Why would anyone stay with me?”
“I thought because of your concern about … well …”
The hand again, conversation closed.
By five thirty, I was back in my dry clothes and hopeful that I could navigate down to Mamanasco, where I imagined my uncle’s comfort foods cooking away, oldies blaring from the speakers, one of his special reds breathing on the sideboard. Mrs. Arlington’s cane tapped on the marble floor of the foyer as she walked me out.
“Why don’t you and Diva come stay with me while we wait for the power to come back?” I asked impulsively. “Knock wood, our generator has never failed.”
For a split second, her face betrayed a hint of brightness, then closed. “No thank you, Miss Snow. I’ll spend my last days at home.”