Chapter 3

A breeze off Lullaby Sound brushed the thin white curtains aside, reached out across the room to caress Annie’s bare shoulder, and brought with it the soft scents of salt, orange blossom, and rose.

She tugged on the soft blue comforter until it touched her chin, and settled back into the fortress she had made of plump, down pillows. The mahogany four-post bed groaned when she moved.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to sort the faint smells that touched the room; cedar for sure, probably from the closets; a remnant of violet soap, or maybe sachet; and the crisp, fresh smell of the sea in early morning, of dawn creeping up on the horizon. Then there was the orange blossom and rose. She hadn’t noticed a garden anywhere, or any location that was groomed for such vegetation, but found the smell pleasant in any case.

But there was something else, something old, acrid almost. Smoke? Nose turned to the air she sniffed and tried to zero in on the odor, but it was gone as fast as it had appeared. She sniffed again then wondered if she had smelled smoke at all. Perhaps it was her imagination. Minds played tricks when they were tired, didn’t they?

It had been a rough day yesterday, enough to make anyone tired. An early start on the day, six hours in a hot car, then getting everybody settled into their rooms after a quick dinner and a bit of cursory unpacking was a bigger undertaking than she had bargained for. She yawned, stretched, and rolled to one side where she curled into a tight, comforting ball. It was no wonder she imagined strange smells after a day like this past one. Finally, though, everyone had been tucked into bed to fall fast asleep. Everyone that is, except her.

Maybe it was just the excitement of being in a new place that brought on this insomnia. On any given night at home in Atlanta, she’d be asleep before her head touched the pillow. Of course, there were the household duties, her teaching schedule at school, then later working one-on-one with Charlie, and the care of her family that beckoned her to sleep every night. And she did it without any help from David, thanks to his myriad excuses why he was a poor choice or simply didn’t have the time. Or interest. But she chose not to dwell on that right now.

Last night, in this beautiful island house, she felt like she’d been running for a week straight, and yet, she wasn’t the least bit sleepy when she collapsed into the four-post bed. She wasn’t sleepy now either. There was just so much to do, so much to think about that her mind refused to settle down.

She closed her eyes and willed her body to sleep.

Her mind played pictures of Live oaks with fuzzy silver moss hanging from the branches. Then it was the house itself, the columns, the big picture windows, and the branches of the oak caressing the widow’s walk that faced out over the sound. A head-to-toe investigation of the house proved to her the widow’s walk sat perched over what was now the dining room. Take away a wall or two, and the living room, kitchen, and dining room combined could easily have been designed for parties—grand parties.

What kind of parties would they have been? Elegant ones for sure, large fancy ones with live music reverberating off tabby walls and flowing out among the lush green walled garden filled with palms, rare clove, olive trees, and the soft scent of blooming orange blossom, rose and magnolia.

The walls in the dining room, like the rest of the house, were made out of tongue-and-groove wood. But the thought was here, as clear as if she were standing next to the off-white, shell-cement wall of tabby. She reached out to touch it, to see if it was as real as it seemed. It was. She breathed deep the garden filled with fragrant blossoms and knew it was true.

The musicians touched talented fingers to instruments and made their music. Her feet tapped to the rhythm. How she loved to dance, she always had, but it had been such a long time. She looked around to see who else attended the party.

The men were quite handsome in their waistcoats and high collar shirts. Men from all over the world had come to this special place for a moment such as this. They lingered and charmed and held out hopes for future invitations, and there always were. The women were treated like royalty by their husbands, and they were treated like rare and fragile jewels by their suitors. Their long Empire gowns, made out of imported pastel silks, fell in soft trains behind them as they danced.

A hand touched her lightly on the shoulder.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the scene shimmered and faded away.

Annie blinked and looked around the dark bedroom. The light of the full moon cast shadows across the antique furniture, and the intricate hand-carved woodwork spilled ominous shadows that hung and shimmered like unwelcome wraiths. A moment ago, she was at a party full of light, warmth, and infinite possibility. Now she lay quiet in the darkness of a rented house. Confusion filled her, no explanation of what just happened was immediately forthcoming, so she decided it was fatigue that led to the strange dream.

She sighed deeply and wiggled further into the feather pillows. This was an impressive house. She’d never seen one quite like it before and dared not think she’d ever be so lucky as to stay in one again. Tomorrow she’d walk every inch of the verandah, and when she was through, she’d walk it again. Later, after a little time with Charlie and his schoolwork, she’d pour herself a glass of wine and watch the sunset color the horizon behind the sound. That would be nice, real nice.

The people who owned this house were fools for renting it out. Not that she had any idea who owned it; Mr. Mann was quite clear the owner wished to remain anonymous, and wouldn’t budge on any additional information even when she pushed him. If she owned this house, she would never let anyone have it, not for a month, not even a week. It would be hers and hers alone. A sanctuary, a place where imagination took hold and let the mind drift where it would, that’s what this house would be if it were hers.

She tried closing her eyes again and decided that it was no use, might as well get up and be done with it. Maybe fix something warm and soothing; hot cocoa might be nice. Easing out of the warm bed to the cool wood floors, she tussled with the dark fuzzy blue robe. She grabbed one end, twisted it around, then heard the sound of a tear, and knew that the hole in the armpit was larger. The old robe was so battered it was hard to know which way was the right way to wear it even in a well-lit room. It didn’t really matter anyway since the old robe was comfortable and warm, and no one would see her in it outside family. Not that she could convince David of these attributes; she could rarely convince him of anything.

Every year for Christmas, her gift from David would be as much a surprise as the choice of shirt he wore to work—long sleeve, blinding-white, moderate starch, Oxfords. She peered through the dark at the lump of pillows in the bed. The lump could have just as easily been her husband for all the attention he paid her.

But that was then, and this was now in a whole new place that whispered adventure, and a personal mission: Project cocoa. She was doing something for herself, something she wanted to do without anyone staring at her or waiting for her to take care of their needs. This time was hers to do as she wished. In the quiet of the house. Her house.

At least for now.

She reached out until her hand touched rough, splintering wall, then followed it along to where she knew the door should be. Her ankle grazed the leg of a footstool, and it tottered. She knelt to stop its fall, then stood and felt for the wall again and gasped when her hand touched something icy-cold. Relief turned to a nervous giggle when she recognized the enemy as a narrow brass doorknob.

She cringed at the squeal of hinges needing oil then slipped quickly into the hallway.

With the door to the bedroom ajar, she listened for a moment. The narrow wooden stairs leading up to the small attic room groaned as if some unseen weight walked it. The door at the top remained firmly closed, and she reminded herself that Grandma would be safe there. The stairs would deter Grandma from unattended forays around the house, and the sparsely furnished room would protect her from injury if she should trip and fall. The rusted hinge, all that was left of an old lock, creaked when the heavy wooden door to the attic opened and closed. No one would be able to go in or out without being noticed, much like a hospital call buzzer.

It was quiet here. Not a creature was stirring, except for the house. She liked the quiet and the dark, and as soon as her eyes adjusted a little better, she would try the stairs that led to the foyer and the living room and finally to the kitchen beyond.

Turning on hall lights would be far more efficient, but it might stir Charlie, notorious for his light sleeping and sour moods when awakened suddenly. She had left him with a small nightlight, and the door to his room cracked so she could hear if he needed something. She tiptoed past Charlie’s door, then stopped to listen. His breathing was deep, even, gentle enough for dreaming whatever little boys of ten dreamt about.

Annie held herself in check with the urge to go in and give him another goodnight kiss. He pushed away her attempts at affection so readily, waking him was not worth the days of acting out it would undoubtedly bring. Charlie had withdrawn into his own darkness for lesser crimes before. Maybe the toy she had left him to find in the morning would soften him a little. So she opted for a quick peek then cracked open his door another inch.

The next door was closed. It led to a room full of old books and connected to Charlie’s room by way of a narrow passageway. The many wonderful books in the library were a bonus she hadn’t expected, and she hoped Charlie would find the surprise equally pleasant.

He didn’t. His refusal to even look at them, prompted no doubt by the pain of his reading problem, became another project they would have to work on. Still, it was nice to know the books were there in case he changed his mind.

Better the room was now a library than the nursery Mr. Mann said it used to be. Charlie was adamant; he was not a child anymore, and no one would win that argument with him. Annie had long since learned to pick her battles when it came to a child with special problems like Charlie.

She moved to the top landing and felt more than saw the sudden open and hollow expanse surrounding the foyer and the high ceiling of the living room. Her whispered “hello” barely echoed then fell away. Using her foot to gauge the distance of the landing’s edge and the stairs’ beginning, she took the first step. The next one was easier then the next, until she reached the middle landing and could release a held breath.

A human-like, misshapen figure loomed in front of her!

Annie gasped, stood frozen. Her throat tightened with words of bravado she didn’t feel. “Who are you?”

The shadowy outline stood still.

“I’ve got a gun,” she squeaked and fumbled for the pocket of her robe.

The figure fumbled with its pocket.

She blinked, squinted at the menace in front of her then lowered her arm.

It lowered its arm.

Raising her hand slowly in front of her face, she did the first thing that came to mind, she waved.

It waved.

With realization, she laughed out loud, then covered her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up the steps to see if anyone had heard. No one had. She looked back to where the figure had stood and shook her head at the sheer ludicrous turn of this event. Her reflection in the full-length mirror was as good as any hunchback imitation. She touched the wooden frame, the beveled glass within it, and met her reflected finger—just to be sure.

“It’s a good thing you weren’t a prowler,” she told the mirror in her most stern voice while digging deep in the robe pocket. “Or I’d have been forced to use this.” A wad of tissue wagged at the image in the mirror. “Sad, but true. You would have been wiped to death.”

She continued down the steps until she reached the front door and stopped to peer through the stained glass windows on either side. The wind danced shadows from the eerie glow of the moon across trees in the yard to the road beyond, and turned the bright green sunlit shrubbery into shades of gray. Branches swayed by a touch of the breeze created shadow puppets of human-like forms. She shuddered at the sight then turned the brass knob to make sure the door was locked. It was.

She chastised herself at the silliness since the island had only a handful of inhabitants who all knew each other, but couldn’t help an extra jiggle on the knob for good measure. A small current of air drifted in from under the door and tickled her toes then crept up along her body until it settled around her neck. She recoiled at the tickle then pulled her robe tight around her.

There was nothing to be afraid of. It was safer in the old island house than in the densely packed subdivision back in Atlanta. Whoever came up with the idea of safety in numbers never owned a house in Willow Bay, that’s for sure. She didn’t even know most of her neighbors, didn’t care much for the ones she had met, and had yet to find the bay or the willow the development was named after.

The chill passed. Rational, logical thinking could be effective when the mind tended to wander. Well, it sounded good anyway.

She loosened her tight grip on the robe, felt it settle about her, and headed for the kitchen. Maybe she’d have Mr. Mann figure out how to fix the draft under the door the next time he was around. No sense in everybody coming down with summer colds.

Annie squinted against the bright lights then went to the sink to dig through the clean supper dishes until she found a coffee mug.

A glance out the picture window showed her morning was not far away. The reflection of the moon over the sound had begun to fade with the impending approach of dawn. Color was making a slow return to the foliage, and birds started their morning songs.

Cocoa, or considering the time, should it be coffee? She opened the first cabinet and spied the dark brown container, cocoa it would be. The gas stove popped into flame with a touch of her match, and she waited for the pot of water to come to boil.

What would her Atlanta neighbors be doing today in Willow Bay? I don’t really care. Their lives were just as boring as hers, except now she was living in Manchester Place—even if it was only for a month or so. It was September, the end of one season, but it felt like the beginning of something other than a new season. A change of some sort had started, and whatever it was, she hoped it to be for the better.

Sinking back into one of the cane-backed oak chairs that surrounded the kitchen table, she propped her feet up on the edge of the old red brick hearth and listened to the house and the sounds of an island awakening.

Within the next week or so, those vacationers who remained on the island would pack up and leave; then her quiet would extend to the entire island. The vacationers would go back to their nine to five schedules, the kids back to school, and the husbands back to a life that didn’t include their wives.

But what those people had to do didn’t matter to her. What mattered was simply herself, Charlie and Grandma and their time together. They would be happy here at Manchester Place; she would make sure of it.

A new chill crept up her spine, tickled the hair on her neck, and brought back a memory of another drafty house, the house where she grew up. She closed her eyes tight, trying to force the angry faces and raised voices away, but they were there as clear as if they happened yesterday.

Her parents were fighting again. Her mother’s voice grew higher and higher until it became shrill and poisonous as the angry words her voice produced. Father stared at her as if she were a stranger, a dangerous intruder, and said nothing. His jaw tightened with her mother’s escalating pitch and staccato verbal assault, tight, tighter until the muscles below his ears pulsed with rage.

In their combined fury, they had forgotten Annie was there. Pulling herself into a tight ball, she sank deeper into the armchair. Her pink polka dot dress was pulled and tugged until it covered her knees. She began to curl the hem back and forth, back and forth until tiny wet fingerprints stained and frayed the material. Maybe they wouldn’t see her.

Mother’s words battered Father, a flicker of pain crossed his eyes, the pain suddenly turned icy cold, detached. The look was all too familiar and meant a decision had been made. Father’s decisions always turned into physical action.

He grabbed Annie by the arm and jerked her out of the chair, pulling her to him. Her arm seared with pain, but she didn’t dare cry out. A soft trickle of tears oozed down her face. He stroked her hair, comforted her. She felt only roughness and a deep sick in her belly. His pent-up rage turned into a bellow then a torrent as if he had been saving the words for years.

Mother froze with the onslaught and looked away. Annie didn’t want to see the hurt anymore, had never wanted to see it, but found she could not turn away from it now. It was her fault, wasn’t it? Maybe if she had picked up her toys that morning, Mother and Father had told her to do so, this wouldn’t be happening now.

Her fault, her fault, her fault. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed, but they weren’t listening. Tears splashed onto the pink dress, made tiny stains with every drop, she looked at the dress then her feet. She gasped. Her parents stopped suddenly at the sound. Father loosened his grip around her then began to tremble.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Mother said. “You can’t stop hurting us, can you?”

Annie toed the long brown strands of hair with her shiny black shoes as if she were an onlooker and not really there. The distance was comforting, safe, and then the dull ache started where her hair had been pulled out.

“You’re not going to hurt me anymore. Or Annie.” Her mother grabbed Annie’s arm and pulled.

“Since when did you decide to be a mother to my child?” Her father grabbed her other arm. “It’s too late now,” he said through clenched teeth. “Too late. She’s mine.”

“No, please,” Annie screamed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“You’ll never see her again,” Mother said. “Never.”

Annie shook her head, tried to erase the horrible moment of her childhood. “Come back, Daddy. Please. David…come back.”

David? Where had that come from?

Fire leaped up from over the edge of a wall and reached heavenward. The cool water of the sound was just out of reach, and her feet hurt, burned almost. She smelled smoke.

I’ll wait for you. The words were whispered, almost imperceptible, far away. It’s been taken care of. You’ll see.

Annie bolted awake in the cane-back oak chair. Smoke billowed out of the empty pot on the stove. She grabbed the handle barehanded, flung the pot into the sink then turned off the gas flame. The pot sizzled when it met the cool dampness of porcelain, popped then sputtered and quieted.

She held on to the countertop, tried to calm the pounding in her chest. What was happening to her? First, the bitter memories of her long-buried childhood David didn’t even know about and now whispered cryptic words in a voice she didn’t know. And if that wasn’t enough, she had practically burned the house down. At this rate, she would be completely useless by lunch.

Another glance at the clock told her that Charlie and Grandma would be up soon. Wiping a sweaty palm across her robe, she took a deep breath and decided breakfast and the usual morning rituals were the best courses of action.

There was too much to do around the house to be carried away by crazy thoughts. Routine had a way of keeping one’s perspective intact.

Annie opened the refrigerator door and deliberated the menu. This was a special morning, being the first, and deserved a special breakfast.

Eggs, bacon, and scratch biscuits for Grandma, pancakes and syrup for Charlie, or would he want waffles? She’d make him both this morning. He deserved it.

And cocoa to drink, he’d like that. She reached into a cabinet and produced another pot.

“I’m going to watch you like a hawk this time.”

She filled it with water, ignited the gas stove, and placed the pot over the blue-yellow flame.

The words rushed back to her then, stronger, loud.

It’s been taken care of, you’ll see.