Moonshadows (10 page)

“We don’t have to go,” she said.

“Of course, we do.” He dropped an arm around her shoulder. “And I can’t wait.”

Janet walked with him to the door, aware of the weight of his arm on her body. There was strength in the arm, but, remembering Adam, was it strength to heal or to hurt? They stood for a moment, their eyes measuring each other. Taking stock. Words seemed unnecessary as Stephen dropped a light kiss on top of her head and went out into the night.

O
n Sunday they set off for
Heather Down
. Janet forced herself to dismiss any misgivings that might be tugging at the dark side of her brain and relaxed in the bucket seat as the Mustang whipped around the switchbacks and climbed Laurel Mountain. The day was bleak and cold, but the heater hummed a comforting melody and the flow of warm air felt sensuous on her feet.

“We’ll have to stop at the Newkirks to pick up the key,” Janet said.

Stephen smiled. “Will do. Just point the way.”

“It’s going to be strange coming back up here with everybody gone. Being in Middlebrook and keeping busy at work, I didn’t always have a lot of time to think about them. But now it’s all changed.” Her voice choked. “Grandmother and the staff—the familiar sights and sounds, the smells—everything that went into making my home the port in the storm that it was.”

“And the Lancaster Legacy?”

“That’s changed, too.”

Stephen nodded. “Change—the only constant we can count on.”

Janet tried to shake off the gloom and turned her attention to the world on the other side of the windows. The landscape was stark and barren. She shivered.

“Cold?” He reached for the heater knob.

“Just the weather, I guess.”

“I don’t like winter,” he said. “Winter thoughts are illusive and can’t be trusted. It conjures up ideas that wouldn’t ordinarily cross the mind. Winter makes me sad.”

“Me, too.”

“The holidays are the hardest: parties, get-togethers, reunions.”

Janet nodded. “Makes it doubly hard when there’s no family. This will be my first year of not coming up for Christmas and bringing gifts to my grandmother and the staff. And having Cook’s famous stuffed goose and pumpkin pies.”

“I never had stuffed goose,” he said with a laugh. “Goose of any kind, now that I think of it.”

Janet swallowed back a sniffle. “Lord, I’m going to miss them.”

“At least you had a family.”

“You didn’t?”

“I’m your classic loner; not always a good thing to be—a loner. People should be like birds and stay with the flock. Take me, for instance. Sometimes I feel lost. Not the lost-in-the-woods kind of thing, but adrift, cut off from my moorings.”

“I’m sorry,” Janet said.

He glanced at her and laughed. “Listen to us, two Morbid Mopes.” He tapped the horn as if trumpeting an all-important announcement: “Gloomy day, gloomy day, hurry up and go away.”

Janet laughed. “You’re a poet. I’m impressed.”

“I’m no poet.”

“Says who?”

“Yeah, who? What the heck, I can be a poet if I want to.” He glanced at Janet, his eyes softening. “And if you want me to.”

“I do,” she said.

“Okay, then. For you, I’ll be a poet. Anything else you’d like? I’m open to suggestions.”

“Happy,” said Janet. “I want for you—for both of us—to be happy. Extremely, wonderfully happy.”

“You got it.” He slowed the car at the welcoming sign. “Briar’s Point, I presume.”

Janet looked at the quiet town. “Don’t you love it?”

“Don’t know yet. Sure looks peaceful.”

“Peaceful and comforting; like an old friend.”

“Sounds like you’re sorry you don’t live here any longer.”

“I guess I am, in a way.”

“Would you consider moving back?”

“Not only consider it, I’m looking forward to it. Someday I’d like to come back here to paint, to raise a family, to grow old with someone I love—and who loves me.” Her unexpected honesty caught her off guard and she felt slightly foolish. “You don’t think I want too much?”

He patted her hand. “Sounds entirely reasonable to me.”

Janet smiled to herself, pleased that he had not made light of her giving voice to her innermost thoughts, and mused at his casual ability to get her to be so open and frank.

She leaned over and touched his sleeve. “There,” she said, pointing to a white house on the left. “The driveway with the blue boat. That’s the Newkirks.”

He rolled the car off the edge of the pavement and took her hand as they dashed across the road and up a planked walkway. Janet’s knock was answered by a short, plump lady with a smudge of flour on her rouged cheeks. Her silver hair was brushed up into a small doughnut on top of her head. Janet had long imagined that Phoebe Newkirk was, in actuality, Tweety and Sylvester’s granny:
Sylvester, you bad old cat, get
away from Tweety’s birdcage
. And she’d imagine the little round person swinging a broom at the aggravating cat as he darted and dodged the stiff bristles.

“Janet, my dear. How good to see you.”

Janet shook her head to clear the cartoon images.

“Mrs. Newkirk, this is Stephen Prescott. We’re on our way out to the house and need to pick up the key.”

“Nice to meet you, Stephen.” Mrs. Newkirk pulled back the door. “You children come in out of the cold and have a nice cup of tea.”

“No time today,” Janet said, getting a delicious whiff of cinnamon and cloves. “Can we take a rain check?”

“Anytime, my dear. Anytime.” She turned. “I’ll get the key from Ian’s study. It’ll only take a second.”

“Thanks,” Janet said.

“You kids sure picked an unfriendly day for your trip up,” she called from the other room to the sounds of opening and closing drawers. “Now where do you suppose Ian put those keys?” she asked of herself. “I haven’t seen them since the day Lettie dropped them off.”

Janet and Stephen stood in the middle of the floor, surrounded by doily-enhanced furniture and lace curtains with sharp, straight creases.

“Ah, here they are.”

She held them in her hand like some small treasure as she returned to the room and proudly handed them over.

Janet nibbled her lower lip. “Mrs. N, do you know if there’s been any luck with—well, you know, the search?”

“I don’t think so.”

Janet stared at her feet and rubbed the toe of her shoe against the broad-board flooring.

“I figured not—or I’d have heard.”

Phoebe Newkirk took Janet’s hand. “How’ve you been, dear? This is the first time I’ve seen you since the funeral.” Her sweet face melted into a look of sadness. “You need to come home more often. Don’t forget about us, Janet, we think of you as family. Ian and I speak of you frequently.”

Janet kissed the rose-petal cheek. “You are my family, all of you here at the Point. Middlebrook’s only where I work and have a few acquaintances, but this is home.” Janet shook her head. “No, Mrs. N, I won’t forget any of you.”

Phoebe Newkirk gave a satisfied nod.

Janet started for the door. “I’ll bring the keys back after we’re through.”

“Take your time, my dear. Take all the time you need.”

The older woman stood on the porch and watched the couple cross the road. She waved as Janet and Stephen sped away.

Suddenly Janet broke into laughter.

Stephen looked puzzled. “What’s funny?”

“Mrs. N. She always reminds me of a cartoon character.”

He noogled his head. “By golly, that’s it:
I taut I taw
a
puddy tat.”

Their laughter filled the car, and Janet reveled in the few moments of innocent frivolity.

A short time later Stephen pulled the car in front of the carriage house and cut the engine. He rested his hands on the steering wheel and looked through the windshield. Janet sat patiently and waited for him to make the first move. Finally, he reached for the door handle.

They got out of the car and he followed her across the yard and around to the back of the house. Flinging wide her arms, she made a grand presentation of the fortress-like structure on the far side of the courtyard.

“Ta-da!” she announced. “One of my favorite places: the shot tower. Lancaster-constructed and Lancaster’s contribution to the Union effort.”

Stephen let out a low whistle. “Wow,” he said. “Wow.” He scurried off with Janet on his heels. “This is terrific.” He skidded to a halt and Janet slammed into his wide and sturdy back.

“Oops,” she said. “You need to give a signal when you’re going to stop.”

He turned and smiled. “Why? We bump into each other so well.”

Janet blushed.

Stephen stood, his hands fisted on his hips, and squinted up at the tower. “We can go inside—can’t we? I mean, it’s safe enough to take the risk.” He grabbed Janet’s arm and tugged. “You’ll let me see it all, won’t you?”

“If you don’t have a conniption first,” Janet said with a laugh. “We’ve got all day.”

Janet leaned against a wall, folded her arms and waited while he circled the tower, touching the stone and running his hand over the rough exterior. They went inside and climbed the stairs to the top. Stephen examined the fireplace, sticking his head up the chimney as far as it would go. He paced the ring of the room, testing the creaking boards beneath his feet. Then he lay down, stretched his long body across the section and let his head dangle over the edge of the cut-out in the middle of the floor.

“Get back!” Janet warned. “You’ll pitch off and break your neck.”

“Just might,” he agreed. “It’s a pretty long way down.” He clambered to his feet and swiped dust from the front of his jeans. “A
drop
you called it.”

“For molten lead—not people,” she said and laughed again.

He pelted her with questions, and Janet took the time to explain how the system operated, and even told him about the time she climbed through one of the windows onto the ledge that looked out toward the sea.

“Scanning the horizon for varmits were you?”

“Something like that.”

An hour later, after Stephen had his fill of investigating the old structure, they headed toward the house. At the edge of the yard Stephen stopped and turned back to the tower.

“Wow,” he said for the umpteenth time.

“Let me show you the rest,” Janet said.

Jingling the keys in her hand, they crossed the courtyard and turned the corner. When she opened the side door of the carriage house, the hinges protested mildly and she thought of Duffy and his religious dedication to daily maintenance.

Inside, the Rolls was pulled just far enough inside for its rear bumper to clear the garage door. Absentmindedly, Janet ran her hand over the hood, looked at her fingertips and thought again of Duffy. He would be sickened at the sight of the fine layer of dust that had settled over the room and covered the car.

“This was my grandmother’s car.” Her voice went mushy. “Although Duffy actually thought of it as his.” A frown creased her brow. “He’d have a fit if he saw it now.”

“What’s that one over there, under the tarp?”

“That old relic? I think at one time or another it passed to almost all the Lancaster men. It was my dad’s favorite.” Janet walked across the room to stand by the covered vehicle. “It hasn’t been out on the road for years and years. Duffy used to spend an hour or so a couple times a month keeping it up. He always said he hated to see any machine fall into disgrace. He never cared much for this car—I think it intimidated him. But, as he’d say, he did his duty.”

Stephen lifted the edge of the cover to reveal the gentle curve of a fender. He stopped short.

“Do you know what this is?” He pulled back the covering. “Janet, this is a 1932 Bugatti.”

“So?”

“So? This isn’t just any old car. It’s a collector’s item. This is—” He plowed fingers though the shock of heavy hair and scratched his head. “This is unbelievable. Ettore Bugatti was
the
master automobile builder. He actually believed his cars had breeding.” He grinned. “He even refused to sell one of his creations to the King of Albania because he said the man had bad table manners.” He opened the door. “May I?” he said, motioning inside.

Janet laughed. “Be my guest. You can toot the horn, turn all the knobs, and make putt-putt sounds if you want to.”

He looked up at her. “The key’s in the ignition.”

“Duffy always did that with both cars. He said if he ever needed the key, he’d know where to find it.”

Stephen touched the steering wheel with reverence and caressed the dashboard.

“Right here,” he said, “see the fittings of solid ivory? And here, the Jaegar stopwatch in the center of the steering wheel? Yeah, this is pure Bugatti all the way.”

“I had no idea it was anything so special,” Janet said.

She watched him step out, pull the tarp back over the car, and gently tuck in the edges around the spoked wheel. “You should have a car like this,” she told him.

He frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you seem to appreciate it so much.”

“I’ve always respected craftsmanship,” he said. “And tradition. Family tradition and pride in one’s work is everything. It connects you to somebody—to a past. I guess I never had that.”