A Timely Concerto (6 page)

“No. What’s up?”

“Nothing worth mentioning. I just wanted to call and see if you made it back to the haunted house okay. How’s the ghost?”

Any other time she might have laughed at Vinnie’s question, appreciated the irreverent tone without taking offense but the question gouged like a well-aimed punch into a sore wound. Howard was no longer “the ghost,” the anonymous specter that haunted her mother’s childhood but a living entity, a person. Lillian was involved in his story and the careless remark sparked her anger.

“
Howard
just relived his death,” Lillian said, snipping off each word like tailor’s scissors. “He has a name, Vinnie. You don’t need to make fun of things you don’t understand. I don’t expect you to understand but I do think you could show a little compassion.”

“Wait just a minute,” Vinnie’s voice heated from mild to hot salsa. “You’re pissed at me because I called Howard a ghost? What else is he? You act as if he is your boyfriend or something. I’ve been patient with your delusion but Lil; you are going over the top here. I’m actually starting to worry about you.”

“Don’t.” The word was a bullet, hard, fast, and aimed to hit hard. “Don’t. It’s late and I’m tired.”

“Lillian.” Lavinia seldom used her full name so using it now indicated how serious she must be. “You didn’t even believe in ghosts and now you get mad when I ask about your pet one. Think about how it would sound if it was me instead of you.”

Vinnie was right. She progressed from an ardent skeptic to a rabid believer; no wonder it was hard for her family to accept. However, her experience was real and so was Howard. Scrambling for words to defuse the feud, Lillian had an idea, a brilliant notion.

“Vinnie, come visit me and see for yourself.”

“What?”

“Come down, see the ancestral mansion, and meet Howard. See if I seem as crazy in my own environment. If you visit and still think I’ve lost my mind, then I’ll go see a shrink.”

Vinnie snorted. “Well, they say the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem. Does that mean you think you may be mental?”

“No. It means judge not lest ye be judged,” Lillian said, and then wondered just where the Scripture quote came from. “Come down over the weekend.”

“I’ll think about it,” Lavinia said her voice cautious. “I really will.”

“Okay. If you decide to come, call me.”

After the call, with peace – or at least a truce - restored, Lillian laid aside the novel and turned out the light. That she lay in the same room where Howard died did not bother her in the least. If this was the bed where he drew his last breath, it didn’t matter either. In a strange way, she felt closer to Howard and drifted to sleep wondering just what he did when he was not present.

She dreamed that night of strawberry fields that stretched in tiers along a hillside. Spring breezes rippled through her hair and brought the sweet fragrance of ripe berries to her nose. Above, the sky was a vivid blue with few clouds and no jet contrails to mar the perfect surface. The high pitched sound of a steam train’s whistle echoed through the hills and she saw a small, old-fashioned train puffing around the bottom of the hill, white smoke pluming from its’ funnel into that perfect sky.

Above the rows and rows of strawberries, she saw the elongated leaves of peach trees laid out in symmetrical rows and to the side, apple orchards, trees white with blossoms followed the curve of the hillside. Lillian did not need the farmer who stood at the edge of the peach orchard calling out her name to know where she was, Speakman Fruit Farms.

Howard, dressed in work jeans, with the broad brimmed hat, waved, and called her name. She walked toward him with the slow, measured steps of a dream, marveling at how alive, how real he seemed here in his element. Sunlight dappled his hair with highlights and she felt his arms as they reached out, enfolding her into an embrace. At Seven Oaks, they had touched but for fleeting moments but here, he could touch her and kiss her. Her mouth widened in a grin that matched his as he kissed her. His mouth awakened her nervous system and a thrill shot through her like rogue electricity. She could smell his perspiration, a hint of Ivory soap, crisp laundry starch and the broad, warm smell of the outdoors.

Lillian woke, aroused and unwilling to believe that it had been no more than a dream. Her mouth was dry but her lips felt bruised and full. Beneath the thin nightdress, her nipples had grown taut. She could not deny the attraction to Howard she had repressed under the guise of friendship. As crazy as it seemed, as odd as it felt, without knowing if he felt the same wild rush of desire, Lillian realized that she was halfway to loving Howard. Her emotions were like a small craft set adrift into a raging flood tide river, beyond control, and although she could have wept, Lillian laughed with joy.

When she slept again, no dreams came but she woke in the morning to a flood of sunlight through the old windows and to Howard’s smile as he sat in the rocking chair waiting.

“Good morning, my dear Lillian. I dreamed of you last night.”

Heat flushed her cheeks and her sleepiness shifted into high alert. Something about his smile hinted that his dream had been the same as hers, vivid images that remained strong. She flipped hair out of her eyes and said the first thing that popped into her mouth,

“Do you dream?”

He laughed a robust, cheerful sound. “Yes, I have been known to dream. I often dream about my life and wake only to find I am still here, trapped in this house.”

“But I dreamed of you!”

“We were at the farm.” His voice sounded happier than she had ever heard before. “The strawberries were ripe and it was spring.”

Her mouth was dry and although she was not afraid, their shared experience unnerved her. Lillian swallowed hard and cleared her throat. “Yes. The train came by and then….”

She could not finish the sentence. If his dream did not include the same embrace, she would feel foolish.

“I held you in my arms and kissed you.”

Lillian met his eyes.

“Yes. We had the same dream. How can that be possible?”

“To quote the Bard, there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” Howard said. “I have no notion how it is possible nor do I yet understand how I am here, more than a hundred years after my death but I do believe both things are possible. Whether or not it is possible to dream the same dream isn’t what is most important, however.”

“It’s not?” Her brain was not working at full capacity because she could not guess what his point might be. “Then what is?”

“That we share a mutual admiration, Lillian. You cannot begin to understand what it means for me to have a lovely lady such as yourself, a woman with an intelligent mind and caring heart, admire me in a romantic fashion. I had hoped to marry, to raise a family here in this house. Why else would I have designed a house so large if it wasn’t to be a home to bring a bride and to rear children?”

Awakened from a sound sleep and a very pleasant dream then be slapped with such open emotion inhibited her thought process. Chagrin at being outted in her interest – or admiration as Howard put it in his old-fashioned way – warred with delight that he felt the same. His lack of a physical existence, however, complicated things. Joy, apprehension, confusion all struggled to become the dominant emotion but unexpected jealousy stuck an ugly finger into the pie.

“Did you have a young lady in mind?” Lillian asked, though the question both embarrassed and upset her. “Were you courting?”

Howard stared at her, his face unreadable and then laughed. “My dear, it was more than a hundred years ago and has no bearing on what I feel for you but no, I did not have a particular bride in mind when I built the house nor was I courting one. My plans had been to build up the fruit farm, build a home, and establish myself before I began to think about marriage. Your jealousy flatters me, dear Lillian, but it also raises the question of whether or not your affections are otherwise engaged.”

Translated into plain English that meant he wanted to know whether she had a significant other or current boyfriend. With the careening feeling that she was speeding into dangerous territory, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and sat up.

“No, Howard, my affections are not engaged and I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Mutual admiration was apparently turn of the century lingo for hot attraction and she could see that Howard felt it as much as she did. His grin was broad as he stood up, removed his hat, and gave an exuberant whoop of delight.

“That’s grand,” Howard said. “May I have the pleasure of your company today? I would like to show you my house.”

“I’d like that.” She shook her loose and tangled hair out of her face. “Meet me downstairs in a half an hour or so.”

He bowed from the waist, “As you wish.”

Thirty minutes was time to take a fast bath, get dressed, make up the rumpled bed, and spray on perfume. Lillian did not mess with make-up beyond simple face powder and lipstick but she did pull her hair up into a neat chignon. She extracted a simple dress – a rose print with full skirt and puff sleeves – from one of the still unpacked suitcases and slid into it, reaching around to zip the zipper. With Okabashi sandals on her feet, she flew down the stairs but slowed when she reached the bottom landing. She strolled with what she hoped was ladylike decorum through the downstairs looking for Howard.

He didn’t appear until after she made the coffee. As she sipped her first cup and debated what to eat for breakfast, Howard strolled into the kitchen in yet another outfit. His light blue serge suit deepened the blue of his eyes and the shirt he wore – with white cuffs – was percale.

“You look nice,” Lillian said, marveling that a ghost could appear in different garments. Her research had indicated that most spirits wore the same clothing, sometimes for centuries. “How do you change clothes?”

“I’m not at all sure,” Howard said as he reached into the cupboard for a cup. “I wandered around in the suit I was buried in for some time before I noticed that if I thought about the clothing I wanted to wear, I found myself dressed that way. Since you arrived, I have made more changes than I have in years. This is my electric blue serge summer suit. Natty, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes,” Lillian admired how well it fit. “Is it tailored?”

“The original was,” Howard said, pouring himself a cup of coffee from the pot without any difficulty. His use of his limbs amazed her; she would not have thought a ghost could play the piano or perform tasks. “I wouldn’t doubt that it is not upstairs packed away into a trunk in the attic. Mother put away my things soon after I died. I thought she should have given them away, let someone get the good out but she did not. “

She envied his ability to change clothing with a thought. “Can you wear clothing you didn’t own?”

“I doubt it. I have not tried. What would I do? Sit down with the Sears Roebuck Catalogue and look for something that might suit me?”

Lillian laughed. Ghost or man, Howard enchanted her and she adored spending time with him. His perspective was different, understandably, than anyone, she had ever known, but she liked it.

“I guess not. I’m surprised you never got bored and tried to imagine yourself in clothing from now, like jeans and a T-shirt.”

Howard spluttered coffee in a fine spray as he laughed aloud. “If you mean one of those ghastly shirts with some obnoxious sentiment painted across it, I will pass for now.”

“But I would love to dress up in clothes from the early 1900’s, Howard,” Lillian said. “I have before, in plays and to have old time photographs made. I love the clothing. There is a store on the Square that has some.”

He put down his cup with care. “I would very much like to see you in proper clothing. You are a lovely woman, Lillian, but to see you wearing fashionable clothing from my own era would do my heart wonders. There may be some of Mother’s clothing in the attic too but I imagine it would be much too matronly. Maggie’s might fit, though.”

“Maggie? Is that your cousin, Margaret?” Lillian remembered the name from the letters she read.

“Yes. How would you know Margaret?” Howard asked.

Honesty seemed best. She had learned never to begin any new relationship with lies because the truth often arrived without warning. “I read some letters that she wrote you, upstairs.”

“Maggie married about two years before I died but she was soon widowed. Her husband had smallpox and died. She came from Illinois after my death to live with my parents as a companion. You would like Maggie. She was full of life, like you.”

“I wish I could meet her and your parents.” Lillian was serious. “I wish I could see your farm.”

Howard placed his cup, still clean, back in the cupboard. “That would be a wonder. I wish I could see my farm again. In fact, I thought I might ask a favor of you and have you find if it is still here or what has happened to it.”

“I could do that.” Lillian would like to see if it still existed and besides, the errand would give her a chance to visit Retro Rags. If she could find a vintage dress from the right era, she could surprise Howard. Dressing up would be fun and he would be delighted.

“Yes, you could. Today, however, I promised to show you my house. I know you have seen most of it, explored it but it would be an honor to give you the grand tour. Lillian?”

He offered her his arm and she took it, almost giggling at the strange feeling. Howard was not solid enough to feel yet she sensed his proximity. As if he promenaded her through a ballroom, he whisked her to the front entry hall.

“This is as good a place as any to begin,” Howard said. “Now you know that I built this house, starting in 1903 and finished in the spring of 1904, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What you don’t yet know is that when my parents and I first came to Neosho in 1895, we lived on the corner at the end of this block, at Spring and High Streets. I came ahead of my folks and roomed down the street with the Prettyman family until the house was finished. That one was a simple frame house, with a sitting room, dining room, and kitchen on the first floor, three bedrooms on the second. It was small and cozy enough for the three of us. It served its’ purpose but after the strawberry farming began to be successful, I began to make plans.”

“I worked very hard to establish the farm with my father and to start the Strawberry Growers Association here. At the risk of bragging, I can say that without my doing, there may not have been a berry industry here at all. I thought that when the farm was well established, when I had local connections, and my finances were in order I would find a wife. I was my parents’ only surviving child. They lost two infants before me and once I was born, they didn’t want to tempt fate by trying again.”

“You were an only child?” Lillian asked. “Wasn’t that unusual at the time? I thought most families had ten or twelve or more children.”
Howard nodded. “That was true, especially for farm families. I think that Mother and Father petted me more than most. When I was ten or eleven, there was a typhoid epidemic. Our neighbors fell sick and their youngest son, Albert Moore, was the only survivor so my parents took him in and raised him. He was younger than I was. He came here as well but most people never knew we were anything but close friends. At any rate, that isn’t to do with building the house.”

“It’s interesting, though.”

He smiled. “I planned a large home, one that would accommodate my parents, a bride when I married, and the family I wanted to raise. I wanted six children, sons to carry on with the farm and daughters to give me grandchildren to comfort me in my old age. Speakman was a name I wanted to make last in local history, Speakman Fruit Farm, the Speakman house, the Speakman family.

“I chose brick because it would last, a stone foundation, stone walls for the basement, and stone on the windows for support. I would pass by here on the way to the farm every day. There was a small house, little more than a cabin on the property and I would imagine what I could do with it if I could buy it. When the man who owned it lost his wife in childbirth in late 1902, just after Christmas, I knew this was my chance and I bought it in January.”

Talking about his dream home animated Howard. Lillian’s attention was riveted and she realized that as he talked, his arm linked with hers felt more solid. Afraid that to mention it would end it, she said nothing but held tighter, savoring the slight contact.

“I built the carriage house first. Even though it was winter, I had carpenters working on the framing for the walls and we used the carriage house as a workshop. I helped as much as I could, coming down here after supper and a day working the farm. By May of ’03, the stone foundation was in place. I watched the house come alive that year, piece by piece, brick by brick. In the fall, the exterior was complete and all that remained was the finish work. Through that winter, they worked and by April, all that was left to do was furnish the house.”

“Mother chose the wallpapers, a dark red fashionable at the time, Turkish red, I believe it was called.” He stroked the nearby wall with his fingertips and she marveled that the color had faded little in more than a hundred years. Howard unlinked arms and indicated that she should sit on the bench near the foot of the stairs.

“These floors are polished hard wood, planed at a mill out northeast of town.” Howard said, reaching down to touch a plank. He swept his arm around to indicate the staircase. “Each of the banister posts were hand carved on site. So was the woodwork throughout the house.”

That was impressive, then or now. Lillian realized that this house had been a very special project for Howard, his “baby”, and his pride. He did everything to make it built to last but he died before he spent a full year there, his dreams dying with him. He should have lived, she thought, if life was fair, he would have lived. It was a recurring thought as he led her through Seven Oaks, room by room, detailing each piece of workmanship and furnishings. Each stone, each board, each wall had special significance for him and he remained pleased with the results. Although he had not built it himself, Howard had worked hard to make this house a home.

Lillian complimented the house, over and over, so much that she was afraid he might think she was being polite but she was not. Seven Oaks awed her and she was impressed with the quality of everything. By the time they finished the grand tour, he had shown her through the house from the cellar to the attic. Winded and hungry, she invited him to join her for lunch but he shook his head.