Amber House (28 page)

Richard chose that moment to walk up behind me, so I hit
SEND
as fast as I could. “What’s this?” I said, spotting something beside the computer. A little horse stood on a shelf, carved in miniature and wrapped in hide, its leather tackle perfect down to tiny silver stirrups and bridle.

He seemed a bit embarrassed. “My mom gave me that. It was my first old thing. That’s what she called bits and pieces of the past — ‘old things.’” He spun my chair around and offered me a hand up. “Let’s get out of here.”

He grabbed the two garment bags, and we were off again.

It was darkening when we pulled up to Amber House. The last of the day’s party workers were pulling out. Richard surprised me by asking Tully to park.

“Can we talk for a minute?”

“Sure,” I said.

We got out, and Tully went to the trunk to fetch the bag with my dress in it. Richard slung it over his shoulder and took my hand. He led me to the path that ran around the outside of the conservatory, giving me a chance to marvel at the genius of the outdoor lighting guys.

The plants along the path were dappled with lights. The trees that arched overhead had strands trailing up their trunks and tracing every branch, light sketching them against the darkness. Over the patios in the rear, tiny bulbs hung from invisible wires at random depths, as if bits of stars had floated down to illuminate our personal patch of night.

“Damn,” Richard said. “This is going to be some party.”

I just nodded my head. That was my mother. If she was going to do something, she aimed for perfection.

He gave my hand — the hand he was still holding, pleasantly,
comfortably, remarkably — a little tug and pulled me on, to the door to the conservatory. We wound along the paths till we found the fountain. “Here we are,” he said. “Back where we started.”

He hung the garment bag on Persephone’s hand and sat down on the edge of the pool, patting the stones next to him. “Park it, Parsons.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, all mock obedience, and sat.

“I know this is early” — he pulled something from his pocket — “but I wanted to give it to you before you got your mountain of presents tomorrow.”

My attention was divided between two things: the phrase
mountain of presents
— was everyone going to bring me a birthday gift? — and the beautifully wrapped little box Richard was holding out to me.

“Jeez, Hathaway,” I said, “you didn’t have to give me anything. You’ve done so much for me already.”

“Open it,” he said.

I unwrapped it carefully, untying the gold satin ribbon, untaping and unfolding the heavy star-spangled dark blue paper. I lifted the lid of the little box. “Oh, my God,” I said.

“The chain was my mother’s,” he said, sounding a little shy, “but I picked the charms out for you. I asked your mom what might be good.”

I lifted the necklace from the box. The gold chain was made of alternating rectangular and circular links, sweetly old-fashioned. It threaded through a loop holding a pair of leaves, in white and yellow gold. “It’s perfect,” I said.

“I had it engraved on the back.”

I turned the leaves over and held them up to catch the light coming through the glass from outside.
The leaves of life are falling one by one.

“It’s from this poem called the ‘Rubaiyat,’ by Omar Khayyam.”

“It’s so beautiful,” I said. I put it around my neck. Richard smiled, square, with just a little crooked. He reached out and turned the golden leaf right-side up.

Then he leaned toward me, his mouth coming within inches of mine. I leaned the rest of the way. Our lips touched softly, so softly. His fingers brushed my cheek. He kissed me again, harder, more urgently, his hands holding my face, and I found myself kissing him hungrily, my fingers in his hair.

“Whoa,” he said, sitting back, looking a little surprised, a little unguarded.

Did I do something wrong? Why did he stop?

“Got to go,” he said, standing quickly. “Tully’s waiting.”

I nodded again, but I didn’t stand. He lifted a lock of my hair carefully, pausing a moment. Then he gave it a little tug. “See you tomorrow, Parsons. Happy birthday.”

“See you,” I said, and he was out the door.

I felt raggedy, uneven. I wished he hadn’t gone. I wished he’d stayed and kissed me again, kissed me longer. I touched my mouth. It almost hurt.

“Get a grip, Parsons,” I told myself out loud. I thought to myself, it was too bad I liked this guy so much. It was going to be painful to let him go. And then I thought, it must have been very painful for Jackson to see how much I liked Richard. But I pushed that one away.

I gathered up the garment bag and the little Marsden tote, and started for the metal stairs under the solemn gaze of the ravished queen of the underworld.

The branches hanging into the path brushed against me. I heard distant laughter; I saw fragmented glimpses of Fiona, walking the same paths, turning back to smile suggestively at her pursuer before dancing ahead out of reach.

The trees opened up; the stair was just ahead.

My hand touched the iron railing, below another hand that belonged to my young mother. My young father caught her arm, drew her close, and bent down —

I shut my eyes and climbed higher, to the platform. And there was Gramma at the rail, looking out over the garden, with my grandfather beside her, holding her tight, nuzzling her neck. I felt dizzy and slightly feverish. I turned away.

It was like the house had been watching me kiss Richard. Like it knew how those kisses had made me feel, and had given me its own memories of those same feelings. I felt invaded, spied on. But then I thought,
That’s ridiculous. It’s just a house, just wood and stone.

I concentrated on the here and now. Everything was looking a little different — ready, I thought, to be shown to the potential buyers among the party guests. Patches of moonlight illuminated the long hall of the west wing — all the doors to the rooms were open. I walked to the first door and looked in. The dustcovers had been removed. Flowers stood on a table. A wedding-ring quilt covered the bed. The arches of the canopy had been draped, ready for the public display that was at once my sixteenth birthday party and my mother’s advertising coup.

I glanced in other doors as I made my way down the hall. The tiled bathroom was stocked with fat towels, and a rug warmed the floor. Fiona’s bed was dressed with eyelet drapes and a comforter, and a vase of white lilies shone silvery on the table before the fireplace.

I wondered how long it had been since Amber House had last been uncovered and dressed to the nines.

And I wondered if the house liked it.

I hung the garment bag from the shelves in my room, unzipped it, and pulled the layers loose, fluffing them. A pale shower of shimmer drifted to the floor, which had been freshly vacuumed.
Oh, well
, I thought. I took off my new necklace and put it on my pillow.

My stomach was complaining. I hoped there was something left in the kitchen that I would be allowed to eat.

Rose was there when I entered, sitting at the table. Every surface in the kitchen gleamed, including the floor.

“The place sure looks nice,” I said. “You coming to the party?”

She shook her head. “A real-estate open house masquerading as a costume party is not exactly my cup of tea, child. But I hope you have a wonderful birthday.”

“Thanks, Rose.”

“Ended up helping out a little. I’m the only one who knows where everything is.” She shrugged. “Your mother couldn’t even find the coverlets for the beds. And lord help me, I want Ida’s house to look nice. Seems like this gonna be the old girl’s swan song. A real shame your mother’s selling her.”

“I think so too.”

“I left you a paper plate of something in the fridge. All you got to do is drop it in the trash when you’re through. Don’t be making any mess in here. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“Thank you, Rose.”

She took her sweater from the peg rack by the door and
looked back, her hand on the doorknob. “You ask your mother about Maggie yet?”

“I guess I’m still working up the nerve.”

“Well, you do that, child. You got a right to know what happened to your family.” Nodding, she smiled her encouragement to me and closed the door.

Rose’s words echoed in my head uncomfortably. I knew what happened to my family. Maggie’s death had ripped a hole in it, and that hole still hadn’t healed over.

I fished out the foil-wrapped paper plate she’d left me. It held four pieces of fried chicken and two small mountains of coleslaw and potato salad. I ate something less than half, rewrapped it up, and put it back in the fridge. I’d have the rest for breakfast.

Sammy and my mom were in my grandmother’s room. Sammy was on the bed, watching TV; Mom was in a chair set on top of a couple of sheets, wrapped in a coverall, having her hair highlighted. The hairdresser looked up and smiled a genuine smile as I entered.

“Good, you’re back,” Mom said. “I hope you had a nice day.”

“Yeah, it was pretty good,” I said. I still hadn’t forgiven her for selling the boat. I wasn’t about to dish up details for her benefit.

She moved on. “Angelique, this is Sarah. Sarah, Angelique. She’s going to touch up your color and give you a trim, cut off the split ends.”

“I didn’t realize I had any,” I said, a little vexed.

“Not a lot,” my mother said, oblivious as always.

“Well, thanks, Angelique. I had no idea stylists made house calls.”

“Your mom has been working so hard. I told her I didn’t mind coming out, save her some time. Besides, it gives me a chance to see the inside of this place.” She smiled and kept working.

“How’s the dress?” Mom asked.

“It’s good,” I said. “It fit really well.”

“Bring it in. Let me see it.”

“You can see it tomorrow,” I said, not giving an inch.

“I want to see it now.” My mother gave me a look.

I shrugged. “I want to surprise you.”

She stared at me a moment, like she was trying to decide whether or not to be angry or maybe push things further. Then her eyebrows lifted and her shoulders did too.

“We need to talk jewelry,” she said.

The phone on the nightstand rang. It was Kathryn. “Sarah, can you talk?” she said a little breathlessly.

“It’s for me,” I said. “I’ll take it in the library. I’m sorry, Angelique, but would you hang it up in here when I get there?”

“Sure thing, hon.” She smiled.

I ran into the library, said into the receiver, “Got it,” and heard the click of the other line. “Go ahead,” I said into the phone, plopping down in one of the leather armchairs.

“Are you, like, a witch or what?” she asked.

I swallowed. What had she heard? What did she know? “What?” I stammered.

“What have you done to Hathaway?”

Oh. Wait. Really?
“What’s wrong?”

She giggled. “I’ve never seen him like this. I was talking to him on the phone, and he was going on and on about you. How you’re so funny and you’re never pretending to be somebody else. How you do so many things just like a guy. How innocent you are and how you always say whatever pops into your head.”

These are good things?
“Yeah,” I said. “I embarrass myself a lot.”

She laughed. “You
are
funny,” she said, allowing me that much.

“Did he say anything else?” I tried not to sound too needy. It was tough.

“Well, he
did
ask me if I’d ever had a long-distance relationship.”

Oh, my God.
The phrase kept echoing.
Long-distance relationship.
Was such a thing even possible? I noticed I had fallen silent again. The little guys in my head that were in charge of speech function had to start doing a better job. “Um, Kath, the hairdresser is here and waiting to do my hair. Can we talk another time?”

“Oh, wow,” she said. “A house call. I’ll let you go.”

“See you tomorrow, okay?”

“Everybody’s gonna be there. See you, sweetie.” She made two little kissing noises.

“Bye, Kath.”

I hung up the phone. And smiled a little. Richard wasn’t just pretending. He really did like me. That would surprise the heck out of my mother.

I told myself for the twentieth time, it was going to hurt to leave him.

Angelique was blowing out Mom’s hair when I went back in. “Who was it, honey?” Mom shouted over the dryer.

“It was Kathryn. One of Richard’s friends. She says everyone’s going to be at the party.”

“I know. I can’t believe the number of people who said they were coming.”

You send out two hundred fifty invites
, I thought,
you can expect a pretty good crowd.

“Get your grandmother’s jewelry box off the dresser and bring it here, will you?” she said. I brought the box over and set it on the table near her. It was a little Chinese chest made of cherrywood, with jade insets. It held five drawers with silver
pulls. “Open them up and let’s see. You should have something for your neck and wrist.”

Angelique turned off the dryer. She held up a hand mirror so my mother could see herself front and back. The cut was sleek and subtly layered, and her naturally auburnish color had been warmed slightly. Her hair looked ready for whatever upswept do she was going to put it in the next day. “That’s great,” she said. “If you could set up in the bath across the hall, Sarah will be right with you.” Angelique gave the jewelry chest a regretful look, evidently curious about the contents, but closed up her cases and headed for the bathroom.

“Let’s go through it real quick,” Mom said.

“I’m good, Mom, except maybe for a pair of earrings. I already know what I’m going to wear.”

“What have you got?”

“You’ll have to wait and see.”

She huffed a little, but let it go. I was surprised, really. Maybe my mother wouldn’t be telling me exactly what to wear and what to say and what to think for the rest of my life. Maybe.

“Help
me
find something, then, and if there’s anything else that catches your eye, we’ll get it out, okay?”

The first drawer held rings and earrings. “Take out the ruby and the emerald rings, sweetie, and the earrings to match. I don’t know if I should go with green or red gems.” I also found a gold pair for me — several small strands of tight-woven gold chain hanging from a fleur-de-lis.

The next drawer held a set of diamonds, and one ornately etched gold bracelet, an inch and a half wide. The drawer below that was all silver and turquoise, and the fourth held a ruby necklace with several pendant drops, and three matching bangle-style bracelets.

An emerald necklace lay in the bottom drawer, a single large
drop of green set round with pearls. It was breathtaking. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I love the emeralds,” I said.

“Me too,” she said. I got it out and set it on her dresser for her.

“What’s in here?” The inside of the bottom drawer had two tiny tabs for lifting. Another compartment lay beneath. I pulled up the top layer.

The hidden space held a small envelope with one word written on the outside:
Annie
.

“What’s that?” I asked my mother.

She looked a little queer. “I don’t know.”

“Is it from Gramma?”

“Not her writing.” She held out her hand. I gave it to her.

She studied the cursive a minute, then drew out the envelope’s contents. It was plain folded card stock. When Mom flipped it open, a newspaper clipping fell out of it onto her lap. She glanced at the clipping, then started reading the card. A look of confusion and disbelief filled her face. She looked again at the clipping, studying it. Almost to herself, she said, “Left it there so I would find it.” Then she looked down and pressed her hand to her eyes. “Coward,” I thought I heard her say.

When she looked up, her lips were tight.

“What is it, Mom?”

“It’s nothing,” she said. She put the clipping in the card, stuffed the card back in the envelope, and tossed it in the trash can full of hair. “Put the rubies back, will you?” She turned to my brother, still watching the TV. “Come on, Sam. Up to bed.”

“I just want to —” he started.

“Now,”
my mother snarled.

Eyes wide, Sammy climbed off Gramma’s bed and scooted out the door, followed by my mother.

My eyes were pretty wide too. I went to the door to make
sure they had gone up the stairs. Then I fished the note out of the hair clippings and stuffed it in my pocket. I tied up the bag lining the basket and carried it away with me to the bathroom across the hall. I’d let Mom think Angelique took out the trash.

Angelique had another chair all set up for me. I dropped the bag and took a seat.

She ran her fingers through my hair. “You have such a pretty honey tone in your hair,” she gushed. “I’m guessing you’ve never even streaked this before?”

“Actually, no.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

“So you
don’t
like the color?” I laughed.

“One can always improve a good thing. At least,
I
can.”

She worked fast and efficiently, painting in highlights, trimming my split ends with a razor. All the while, the envelope in my pocket was poking into my hip.

She blew my hair dry. It was light with movement and shine. I shook my head, enjoying it. “Brilliant,” I said.

“Tell your mom you like it,” she said, smiling conspiratorially. “It’ll help with the tip.” She started cleaning up, shaking out the sheets and bagging them. I grabbed the broom and started piling up the hair. “You don’t have to do that, hon,” she said.

Except I wanted that trash bag. I was going to make sure both of them went into the outside cans to cover my theft. “I don’t mind. My way of saying thanks.”