Midnight Rose

The creature was horrific. Bulging eyes, a warthog’s nose, and fangs that curved downward like decayed talons, gleaming with the promise of injury to any fingertip foolish enough to test them.

The welcome wagon, Kate O’Brien thought dryly, eyeing the bronzed gargoyle in the flickering light cast by the gas lanterns. Its twin sat on the opposite side of the mansion’s entry, grinning with an identical leer that rendered the statuary lifelike and unholy.

Ridiculous.

She took another single step toward the mansion’s shadowed, vine-choked doorway and cast a glance over her shoulder at the departing taxi. The red glow of the taillights faded into the lowering mist of night.

The driver, a gregarious Mexican whose family had come to theBlue Ridgeas migrant farm workers, had ceased his cheerful chatter when they’d approached the iron gates and the house appeared through the trees. After he’d quickly unloaded her bags on the entry steps, she’d hardly stepped back from the cab before he was behind the wheel again and speeding away, tires screeching his haste.

Silence fell like a heavy cloak around her now, void of life and light. No frogs peeping, no springtime cicada serenade. The shiver that worked its way down her spine propelled her up the broad stairs.

Quickly she set down her two suitcases to ring the doorbell, feeling like the mindless twit in every horror movie who ventures into peril, while the audience shouts for her to turn back.

Of course, she wasn’t going to turn back. This wasn’t a horror movie. It was a new life, a job, a means for survival. Even if it turned out to be a miserable experience, she was in it for the duration. Three months, she’d promised herself, and for the first time in her life she was going to honor a commitment made solely in her own self-interest.

Certified teacher needed for homebound thirteen-year-old, the classified ad had read. Living accommodations provided in private residence, meals and weekly allowance, twenty-hour workweek, all materials provided .

Perfect for a woman with no family, no attachments, no sense of importance to tether her to the world.

Perfect…until now.

She hadn’t expected the private residence to sprawl like a languid, brick-and-stone giant across the rollingVirginiacountryside. In the settling twilight, the house seemed to blink at her with a dozen narrow, discerning eyes. The thick brush hugging its massive walls gave the impression that the mansion had sprung from some fathomless place in the earth. It looked…indigenous. Unruly. And not the least bit welcoming.

She pressed the brass doorbell again. Somewhere in the bowels of the great house,Westminsterchimes echoed an eerie melody.

What kind of people could afford such an estate? Who needed so many rooms, the countless furnishings to fill them? The woman who’d interviewed her for the job in Richmond, Martha Shelton, was a small, tidy, unassuming matron with an air of efficiency. She’d spoken of the owner as “Mr. Renaud”, and Kate hadn’t questioned the woman’s relationship to Jude, the invalid boy Kate would teach. Maybe Martha Shelton was an employee, a housekeeper or secretary to the mysterious Mr. Renaud.

At any rate, Kate now fervently hoped that Martha was somewhere inside this vast, impressive dwelling, waiting to greet her with the same no-nonsense friendliness as when they’d met in a Richmond coffee bar a month before.

Because if someone didn’t answer the door soon, she was going to hightail it back to the nearest town, perfect job be damned.

As if on cue, the heavy double doors swung open and Martha Shelton appeared like a crisp, sunny breeze, all smiles. “I’d hoped you’d get here before the fog rolled in,” she said in her peculiar clipped, cheerful manner as she reached for one of Kate’s suitcases. “It lays over the roads as thick as pea soup most nights. How was your trip?” “Fine, thanks.” Breathless, Kate followed the petite, gray-haired woman inside the foyer and came to a startled halt. “Oh, my,” she said, eyes wide as she took in the massive iron chandelier overhead, the mahogany stairway that split at a center landing and branched to the left and right.

Above the landing hung an immense oil painting of a foxhunt, tri-colored hounds plunging through the canvas with teeth bared and eyes bulging as they surrounded their terrified prey. Behind the hounds, a pack of redcoated horsemen wore the same expression of bloodlust as the dogs. Altogether a frightful depiction, but Kate couldn’t tear her gaze away.

“Awful, isn’t it?” Mrs. Shelton said with a laugh. “It came with the house when Mr. Renaud purchased it in March. He refuses to take it down. Says it’ll scare away the solicitors.” Kate lifted her brows. “If the gargoyles outside don’t do the job first. No self-respecting salesman would actually ring that doorbell, would they?”

“Heavens, no. A spooky façade does wonders for a soul’s privacy. But the occasional tourist or happy wanderer has been known to circle the drive and request a tour of Sister Oaks.” “Sister Oaks.” Kate took a deep breath and let the words undulate through her mind, all the while aware of the scent that pervaded the air, floral and sweet, as though invoked by the mention of the name. “How lovely and haunting…and appropriate.” “The place has a way of growing on you, Ms. O’Brien, even if it does seem a bit daunting at first.” She took Kate’s other suitcase and set both bags at the foot of the stairs. “The night maid will take care of these for you. There’s a warm meal waiting for you in the kitchen, and then you can turn in for a good night’s sleep. Mr. Renaud wants Jude to begin his lessons as quickly as possible. The boy was out of a classroom for nearly a month while they moved from Massachusetts, then he got the flu, and he just doesn’t fight off sickness the way a child ought to.” “What about his mother?” Kate asked, her footsteps muffled by a thick Persian carpet as she trailed the older woman through a vast, richly furnished sitting room. “I had assumed…isn’t there a Mrs. Renaud?” “There’s no missus.” Martha paused at a door and pulled on the heavy iron handle. “She died when Jude was a baby. Gideon Renaud has never remarried.” She started down a narrow staircase, motioning Kate to follow. “Down here’s the kitchen, although you’ll have one in your apartment if you want privacy. But this is where Jude will take his meals most every day.” A downstairs kitchen. How odd and charming. It bespoke the antiquity of the house.

“Tell me about Jude’s illness,” Kate said as they walked into the large, brick-floored room. She hesitated, trying to remember the complex medical term. “Porphyria Cutanea…what is it again?” “Around here we just call it PCT.” Martha paused by a monstrous fireplace, where embers still glowed and blinked like watchful, jeweled eyes. “Something to do with liver enzymes, and I don’t understand a bit of what the doctor tells Jude’s father. The most I can tell you is that Jude can’t abide ultraviolet rays. Once as a toddler he wandered onto the front lawn, and within moments his skin was bubbled and blistered. Lord, what a nightmare that was. I thought Mr. Renaud would never forgive himself for allowing Jude out of his sight.” Kate shivered, inexplicably chilled in the low-ceilinged room. “Is there no cure?”

“Not yet. Mr. Renaud doesn’t say much about it, but I know he never gives up hope. Some days the boy seems just like any healthy, rambunctious thirteen-year-old. Other times he looks so pale, so wan and fragile. I don’t ask Mr. Renaud about his son’s illness, and he doesn’t offer much information…although I suspect he’ll keep you abreast of Jude’s condition since you’ll spend so much time with the boy.” Kate gingerly seated herself at the table and watched the older woman lift the lid from a pot bubbling on the stove. Nerves had twisted her stomach into a pretzel, and the last thing she wanted was food. A nice, stiff shot of whiskey would have been perfect, but it probably wasn’t on the prim little woman’s list of options. Smiling politely, Kate accepted the bowl of steaming soup and tucked her linen napkin in her lap.

While Martha filled another bowl and sat down across from her, Kate made herself swallow a spoonful, and to her surprise, found the seafood bisque delicious and soothing. “So you oversee the household, Mrs. Shelton?” “In Mr. Renaud’s absence, yes. He travels a great deal with his work. We have a cook, Betty, a slew of housekeepers—mostly students from Putnam College about five miles from here—and four gardeners who tend the estate. My job is to make sure things run smoothly. I do the hiring and perform secretarial duties for Mr. Renaud as needed. For a while I tried to instruct Jude in his lessons, but…” She paused and stole a glance at Kate. “I know you have a background in teaching children with emotional difficulties, so I’ll just say this straight out, Ms. O’Brien. Jude’s not an easy child. He’s been through so much. No matter how anyone tries to help, his life will never be normal. He can’t even be exposed to fluorescent lighting. Often he sleeps during the day and plays at night, as I’ve told you. It’s impossible for him to keep friends.” “What a sad condition,” Kate said. “But I’ll certainly do my best to keep Jude stimulated and interested in his studies. I’d like to research how many other children suffer from the same illness, and maybe he can help me.” “That’s a wonderful idea, if you can get him to pull his head out of the sand and quit feeling sorry for himself. He was a happy baby, an energetic toddler. But realization has taken its toll. He needs cheering up.” A surge of excited determination rushed through Kate. “I’d like to meet him. Is he awake now?”

“Normally, yes, but today the phlebotomist came and took blood to lower his hemoglobin and iron levels, which has to be done every two weeks or so. He’s not feeling well, but by tomorrow night he’ll be himself again.” “And what about Mr. Renaud?”

“Left the house last night for an overnight business trip, and he never comes home before I turn in for the night.” Martha stood, collected their bowls and set them in the enamel sink. “He knows you’re arriving, however. No doubt he’ll expect you to join him for breakfast.” She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and offered Kate a smile. “Let me show you to your apartment so you can get settled.”

Alone at last in her spacious two-room suite, Kate kicked off her loafers and opened a set of doors across from the brass four-poster bed. Instantly her breath caught in amazement. She let out a low whistle and circled slowly, taking in the gold leaf bath fixtures, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, the ivy trickling from urns that flanked each side of the marble tub. Beneath her feet, the creamy rug was soft and thick, marked with long strokes from a recent vacuuming. A crystal chandelier overhead cast mini-rainbows on every ivory moiré-covered wall. It was simply the most sumptuous bathroom she’d ever seen…and it was hers.

Astonished laughter rose in her throat. What would Mike say, if and when he saw this place?

Her smile faded. Mike O’Brien. She’d been gone only a matter of hours, and already she missed him.

Their marriage had only lasted three years, a farce at best, but their friendship stretched far beyond such a trivial detail as divorce. Theirs had been an amicable parting; Michael remained the perfect companion in every way, except for his sexual preference. He was bisexual, and both of them had steadfastly denied it until Kate finally caught him with his law partner in a rather ignoble and naked situation.

After her heart recovered from the initial bruising, she discovered he made a far better friend than he did a husband, and Kate had no real regrets. He was, after all, her only remaining relation. Her parents were both dead, and being an only child had long ago steeled her toward the inevitability of being alone.

But she did have Mike. He would love this bathroom, this home, the luxury and beauty of her surroundings.

For a fleeting, wistful moment, she wished he were beside her with his quick laugh, blinding smile and errant sense of humor. She felt oddly bereft in this Goliath of a house in the middle of nowhere. The homesick sensation that tugged at her stomach deepened until her throat tightened with the threat of tears.

Smoothing her shoulder-length brown hair into a ponytail, she undressed, found a plush terrycloth robe hanging behind the door with the price tags still attached, knotted it at her waist, and gingerly turned on the faucets below the gilt mirror. Immediately steaming water gushed from the spigot. No five-minute wait for the hot water heater to kick in, unlike the ancient pipes in her Richmond apartment. She washed the day’s weariness from her face, breathing in steam and the fragrant scent of the hand-milled lavender soap she’d found in a vanity drawer.

Patting her face dry on a thick towel, she glanced at herself in the mirror above the sink and released a sigh. Faint lines etched the corners of her brown eyes, wrinkles she hadn’t noticed before. At thirty-two she felt strangely middle-aged, as though some mysterious, glorious stage of life had somehow bypassed her.

“Any minute now,” she murmured to her reflection, “exciting things are going to happen.” It was a personal joke she shared with her inner cynic, but at the moment, with new, disconcerting vibrations all around her, it wasn’t the least bit amusing.

She switched off the bathroom chandelier and wandered around the monochromatic bedroom. Finding a television hidden in the corner armoire, she flicked through thirteen channels, lost interest and played with the stereo below it, then moved on to study the books neatly shelved in a barrister by the door.

Dickens, Twain, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and what appeared to be an original printing of
Gone With the Wind
. Someone collected antique literature. On the shelf below that sat a wide grouping of
Architecture Now
. The lack of anything even remotely casual or humorous left her feeling disjointed, vulnerable.

Everything was beige and ivory, Louis XVI, satin and stripes. Damask curtains hid a wall of French doors that opened onto a wide balcony.

Tucking her robe more tightly around her, Kate stepped through the curtains and into the balmy May night.

She drew in her breath. Beyond the railing, undulating hills swept upward from the low-hovering mist to meet a crystal-spattered sky. This far from city lights, there was nothing to dim the radiance of the stars.

The moon’s luminescence gilded the landscape with a cool blanket of blue, and the fog Martha had warned her about hung oddly close to the ground, a hazy carpet swirling with the gentle thrust of air currents.

Kate could make out darkened tennis courts at the base of the hill, what looked like a pool house with its black windows, and the concrete swimming pool to the right, a few yards from the mansion, enclosed by a high iron fence. The moon’s face laughed on the water, rippled by the sensuous night breeze. It was a breathtaking, surreal landscape.

A movement caught her eye. She couldn’t immediately identify the dark silhouette that emerged from the shadow of the pool house; it seemed to float in place. An animal, maybe. Curious, she leaned her elbows against the rail and squinted with the effort to recognize it.

A man.

He crossed the yard, dark-haired, bare-chested and tall, with broad, gleaming shoulders. He strode with a peculiar grace through the swirling mist toward the enclosed pool, seemingly unaware that he was under observation.

The subtle whine of the gate reached Kate’s ears as he swung it open and stepped inside the pool area.

He set what appeared to be a towel or robe at the edge of the steps and straightened, his hands at the waistband of his shorts.

Somewhere between one breath and the next, he stripped. And then he stood in utter, unabashed nakedness, as much a part of the landscape as the sinuous horizon.

“Holy Moses,” Kate muttered, stepping back behind the concealment of a concrete urn. Heat suffused her face and her pulse leapt into a chaotic dance. Whoever he was, he felt perfectly comfortable stripping down to his birthday suit in moonlight as revealing as the early morning sun.

And what a beautiful figure he made, every nuance of his lean, muscled body bathed in lunar blue. He paused to consider the water, his dark head bowed, shoulders as granite-smooth and sculpted as a Michelangelo muse. The scene could never be recreated on canvas or film, she thought in disbelief. No human eye could comprehend such beauty outside of this moment.