Washington, D.C., was beastly hot in June, and Richmond was worse. Lynette Maynard fanned herself. It was delicious to be home at Spring Hill, with nearly two months of relaxation ahead before Frank had to start campaigning again. She leaned her head back against the chintz pillows on the white wicker rocker on her screened-in porch. She fully intended to enjoy every minute of her vacation from the social whirl of being a state senator’s wife. Cara-Lyn was working as a camp counselor in the mountains, and Lynette and Frank could look forward to a blissful, quiet time together, far away from politics, the press. She closed her eyes and sighed. How restful it was here.
Her respite was short-lived. A few minutes later the roar of a motor coming up the drive startled her. She sat up just in time to see her brother’s pickup pull to a stop, scattering the gravel stones in front of the house. He jumped out of the cab of his truck, waved.
She put down her fan, got up, and walked to the edge of the porch. “Gareth! What on earth! … What brings you out here in the middle of the day? Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Sis. In fact, everything’s pretty near perfect.”
Lynette frowned. “Well, come on up and tell me all about it!”
An hour later she watched his truck disappear down the drive. She sat back in her chair and rocked steadily for a few minutes. Who would ever have dreamed it? Of all the attractive, eligible young ladies she had trotted out on various occasions, hoping one of them would catch her elusive bachelor brother’s eye, he had gone and fallen in love with someone behind her back. And someone totally unsuitable, at that. Well, maybe not unsuitable exactly, but someone so unexpected. A missionary—isn’t that what the realtor had told them? Or maybe Frank hadn’t got it straight. Whatever, something was lost in the translation. She had assumed that a middle-aged male missionary recovering from a serious illness was to rent the Maynard house for six months. Certainly not the beauty of intelligence and charm Gareth had described.
Well, there was nothing to do but go and see for herself. After all the years she had spent worrying about her brother, his reclusiveness, his solitary lifestyle, he had fallen completely head over heels in love with someone she didn’t know. Of course, that could be taken care of right away. She would send a note to Miss Brooke Leslie and ask if she might call. She was sure Gareth had exaggerated. People in love always did. She would find out for herself if Brooke Leslie was the paragon of beauty and virtue he had rhapsodized about.
Lynette drove over to Arbordale in her own small green coupe. Dressed in a beige pongee ensemble, a silk straw hat, bone pumps, and matching gloves and handbag, she was the epitome of a Southern lady making a courtesy call. Of course, it was much more than that.
The bonds between all the children of Jeff and Faith Montrose were unusually close. Lynette not only loved her brother dearly but felt protective and proprietary toward him. If he was to be in love and marry, it had to be to the right person. Because of their rootless, motherless childhood, Lynette felt Gareth needed someone who would make a real home for him. Someone who would support, encourage, and love him unconditionally. Who was this Brooke Leslie? she asked herself. What was she like to have so quickly and completely captured Gareth’s heretofore elusive heart?
Well, she’d soon find out, she reminded herself, as she braked her small car in front of the porticoed porch.
A young Japanese woman in a kimono patterned in indigo blue and gray opened the door to her, took the calling card Lynette handed her, then shyly ushered her into the living room.
Lynette stood in the center of the room and slowly pivoted. Her tenant had changed things a great deal, she noted. The last time Lynette was here, the house had been cluttered with overstuffed furniture, heavy draperies, framed dark landscapes. Now it looked serene and spare. Slatted bamboo curtains now hung at the windows, letting in light; striped cotton slipcovers concealed the ornate tapestries of sofa, armchairs. Artistic flower arrangements replaced the clutter of knickknacks favored in the Victorian era, when the house had first been decorated.
Lynette’s eyes were drawn to the mantelpiece, on which were displayed a collection of strange little figures. She walked over to examine them. Less than two inches high, they were superbly carved of ivory or some rare wood. There was a small turtle, several funny little men doing various kinds of work, a basket of fish, and a tiny rabbit gazing up with a whimsical expression. As Lynette leaned forward to take a closer look, a soft voice behind her spoke.
“You’re admiring my Netsuke collection.”
Lynette turned to see a tall, willowy brunette standing in the arched doorway.
“Yes. I’ve never seen anything like them. They’re delightful.”
“Thank you. And welcome. I’m Brooke Leslie, and you of course are Gareth’s sister. I would know that anywhere. There’s a strong family resemblance. I suppose everyone tells you that.”
“Yes, we do look alike, except for our younger sister, Bryanne, who is blond.”
“Do sit down.” Brooke gestured to one of the armchairs. “Will you have tea?”
“That would be nice. I must apologize for not calling upon you sooner. My husband was kept at the state capitol longer than usual—several pending bills—and we just arrived home last week. Actually, I’ve just been catching my breath, being lazy.”
As if on cue, Mitsuiko came in, bearing a tray with tea things. Lynette noticed the small decorated teapot, the handle-less cups, of Japanese porcelain. When Brooke introduced Mitsuiko as her companion, Lynette was a little taken aback. She had assumed she was the maid.
“Mitsuiko’s father is a professor at the university. Her family kindly allowed her to accompany me to the States,” Brooke explained.
While Brooke poured their tea, Lynette observed her hostess. Brooke Leslie was beautiful, as Gareth had said. However, Lynette saw things a man like Gareth would not notice. She saw fine lines around her eyes and around her mouth. Whether these were caused from her illness or possibly her age, Lynette was not sure. Were those a few threads of silver in the massed dark hair? These too could be brought on prematurely by a long illness. Lynette felt she must be at least a few years older than her brother. Gareth was thirty-two. Brooke Leslie must be at least thirty-five or thirty-six.
Her age and fragile health could be a problem. Lynette had always hoped her brother would marry, have children, carry on their branch of the Montrose family.
The visit was like a deep pond—it was smooth and pleasant on the surface, but underneath, in the consciousness of both women, swirled many conflicting thoughts. There were subjects that needed to be explained or discussed but which, both of them knew, would never be.
Before she rose to leave, Lynette asked, “Is there anything I can do for you? Any shopping you need done? I mean, it must be difficult for Mitsuiko to deal with things in a strange town, in another language.”
“That is very kind of you to suggest, thank you, but Mitsuiko actually does quite well. English is a second language taught in Japanese schools.”
“I just thought”—Lynette gathered her gloves and handbag—“there might be something …”
As they walked to the front door, Brooke said, “As a matter of fact, perhaps there is something—that is, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble. A book at the library? Mitsuiko has gone there, but I’m afraid her selection …” Brooke laughed. “Her taste runs to stories about orphans. In fact, her favorite book is Anne of Green Gables. She adores ‘Anne of the Red Hair,’ as she calls it. Red hair being a rarity in Japan, it is probably part of the appeal.”
“Of course. I’d be delighted,” Lynette answered. “I’m afraid I’m not up on the latest books; I don’t seem to have a great deal of time to read. What sort of book do you like? Novels?”
“I really enjoy travel books. Maybe because I haven’t had the opportunity to do so very much. One about Italy?”
At the door they said good-bye.
Brooke stood there watching as Lynette’s car went down the driveway and disappeared at the end, where the hedge hid the road. What impression had Gareth’s sister taken away with her? she wondered. How did it match what Gareth had probably told her?
Lynette made the turn onto the road back to Mayfield thoughtfully. Brooke Leslie was lovely but almost as though enclosed in glass. You could see through it enough to see a woman physically beautiful but untouched and untouchable. Her refinement was obvious. Her manners were faultless. What lay behind that gracious smile, those thoughtful eyes? Lynette hoped her brother was not on the brink of heartbreak.