Rosethorn (13 page)

“More beautiful than I had ever imagined,” Andrew remarked quietly. Sera stopped, self-consciousness returning, and turned around to see him looking at her.

She put her arms down quickly, then crossed them. She was not herself in this house.

“I would love to take pictures of this room. With the owner’s permission, of course.”

Andrew leaned against the frame, his head missing the top of the doorway by a few inches, still looking at her without a word.

“It’ll make a dazzling pictorial."

“Yeah." He turned around abruptly and started walking down. “It’ll be nice."

Sera felt rebuffed, not quite knowing why, and followed him after a moment.

She walked behind him as he walked her through the many rooms, saying little, pointing out a few things he had done, what he planned to do. He seemed dissatisfied.

All the rooms were empty, except for one, which she saw had a bed, a dresser, and some big boots by the closet, before Andrew closed the door.

Some of the walls were still a dirty white, other rooms had been stripped of their paper, remnants of stubborn glue and paper marring the surface here and there. The owner had left the big claw foot tub in the upstairs bathrooms, which Andrew had converted to allow for a shower head.

The bathroom was spotless, gleaming white. The cracked mirror above the white porcelain pedestal sink had been replaced, she noticed, with an oval one almost identical to it. A razor, toothbrush, and a neatly rolled up toothpaste tube sat on the lip of the sink.

“The captain built this house right,” Andrew said, a hand on the beadboard. “The finest materials, good foundation. He built it to last.”

As they made their way back downstairs, Sera wondered, and not for the first time, if it affected him at all to be working on this house. She had not been in its shadow a minute before falling headlong into the past, stronger and more real to her than her life in New York.

She had expected, perhaps secretly hoped to come upon a semi-ruin, even a razed lot. She had thoughts of spending a quiet hour wandering the grounds alone, like some tourist in a dead city identifying artifacts whose significance only she knew. She had expected to find that her memory had deceived her.

Instead, the house distorted her perception of time. Even as their adult selves now walked and talked, their younger selves were present too, dreaming in vain and making foolish promises. It pained her to have to walk these rooms and make small talk about tile and walnut finishes with him of all people. 

He led her at last to the great room with the tiled fireplace and the wood mantle of carved oak.

She hesitated, then walked over to one of the griffins sculpted in relief on both sides and rested her hand on its beak.

“Amazing,” she said finally. “Just as I remember." She ran her finger on its wooden wing, which spanned the depth of the fireplace.

“Not much has to be done here,” He placed a hand on the other griffin. “Just some paint on the walls and polish on the floors." She felt him look at her expectantly.

She pointed to the tile surrounding the grate, which had a bright pattern of blue, red, and yellow designs. “You know, this is Italian, I think. The captain must have imported it." The tiles looked similar to classical patterns on Italian majolica ware she had seen in Orvieto.

“I wouldn’t be surprised. I think the marble fireplace upstairs is imported, too. Carrera, I believe. It seems he spared no expense."

“I’m glad you’re a part of all this,” she said, looking at the empty grate and not at him. “It’s funny, how things turn out."

It was the closest she would venture into all that was unspoken between them, for this room, of all the rooms, was the most unbearable for her. She supposed that it would be a fitting place to draw whatever it was they once shared to a neat and tidy close.

“Is it?" Andrew was tilting his head to meet her downcast eyes. He took a deep breath. “A lot’s happened.”

“Congratulations on your engagement,” she plunged in, braving a smile to show how very far she had come.

“Alli’s husband used to work with your brother, Michael, before he transferred to Fairfax,” she
explained when he looked at her questioningly. "She e-mailed me."

Much had indeed happened in the many years since last they met. The last time she had been in this house, she had waited in vain, growing colder and colder with each hour alone until she felt she would never be warm again.

Hours into days, days into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years, she could now stand by this fireplace, look him in the eye, and wish him happiness in his future life with another.

“We broke up
,” he slowly. 

“When?” she asked stupidly. “I mean. I’m sorry to hear that,” cursing herself for being clumsy, yet again.

“Are you?” he accused, his eyes piercing through her like a blade.

She faltered momentarily, surprised by the way he looked at her, the sharp tone in his voice. The wound must be fresh then, she thought, and still stung. Polite responses withered under his gaze.

“Yes, Andrew, I am,” she said simply, returning his look without reproach.

He looked away and shook his head, a bitter smile on his face.

Something told Sera to walk away now. He’s a mystery to her and she will never know him again.

“You’re obviously very busy and I’ve taken up enough of your time." Sera started walking to the front hall, resisting the urge to run away like a child.

“Good bye, Andrew,” her hand was on the door. And in a low voice, with her back to him, she added, “It was nice catching up."

He did not follow her.

Once outside, Sera took off her heels, and not caring if he saw, ran as fast as she could to the gate. She did not stop to look back.

Chapter 10

A cowbell rang to announce Sera and Andrew as they entered the Venetia History museum, which was a two-story clapboard house near the freeway. She vaguely recalled coming to the museum for the mandatory field trip in third grade. At the time she had wondered how there could possibly be a museum dedicated to the town when nothing had ever happened there.

On the walls hung old, brown maps of the area when it used to be divided into ranchos, next to various black and white portraits. Ancient, rusting farm equipment on display took up most of the space.  The faintest hint of manure greeted them at the door then vanished.

An old man in overalls sat in the other end of the first floor, saying a quick “Howd'youdo” without looking up from the paper he was reading. A woman with an enormous, haphazard bun on top of her head sat in an armchair dozing next to him. Even the golden retriever sprawled on the carpeted floor barely glanced at the newcomers before laying his head back down to resume his interrupted afternoon nap.

Sera began looking at the portraits on the wall of flamboyantly mustachioed men in stovepipe hats and lamb chop sideburns from over a century ago, the town’s founders for whom many of the streets were named. Andrew followed her in imitation, expressing exaggerated interest in the displays.

“It smells weird in here,” he whispered while examining a gigantic black contraption with a wide funnel on top and a crank.

“That’s an apple press for makin’ cider,” the old man called out from behind his paper.

Andrew looked at Sera and mouthed, “What the?”

“Sweetser and Delong planted apple trees all over this town and shipped the fruit to San Francisco every day." He continued as if by rote. “They had the biggest fruit business in California at that time."

“Oh
,” Sera replied politely. She moved to the big pink wooden Victorian doll house in the middle of the museum, peeking through its perfectly rendered windows at the tiny furniture inside.

“Trumbull made that for his daughters one Christmas. It’s in miniature scale of the Trumbull place on Rica Vista."

Andrew pointed two fingers back and forth between his eyes and Sera. “I’m watching you,” he mouthed.

Andrew quickly dropped his hand when they heard the crinkle of newspaper. “You kids here to do a report?" Magnified eyes behind Mr. Magoo spectacles looked over the newspaper at them.

Sera sidled over to the counter, with Andrew falling behind her. “Kind of. We’re interested in the history of Venetia."

“As I said, the whole valley used to be all apple trees,” The old man launched. “Then Sweetser and Delong started selling parts of the rancho,” he pointed to a framed poster on the wall, advertising $10 an acre for the first 100 people. “That’s when the chicken farms got started up. We had more chicken farms than Petaluma back in those days. Eggs used to cost---”

“Uh-huh,” Sera interrupted. “Who would have guessed?”

Stifling a laugh none too discreetly, Andrew now addressed the old man. “We wanna know if anything exciting’s ever happened in Venetia." Sera pressed on Andrew’s foot with the heel of her boot. “Like did people do anything other than farm?”

He fixed his stare at Andrew without smiling. “Well, in the old days, they used to drag ill-mannered young bucks through the town tied to the back of a horse. Is that what you meant, miss?”

Andrew put his hands in his pockets and started whistling as he turned around to inspect the cider press further.

“No, not quite. Sir,” Sera added carefully. “I mean,” she said as she leaned on the counter, smiling, “Things you aren’t allowed to tell the third graders." She was rewarded with a gleam of interest.

“Delong’s son, the senator, squandered his father’s millions and died deep in debt.”

“Really?” Sera encouraged.

The old man put down his paper, now animated. “During Prohibition, bootleggers used to smuggle rum through Venetia. A ship would run up the River and small boats would ferry back and forth to Black Point at night. If there was a raid, the rum runners would just dump the stuff in the water."

“Scandalous,” Sera said, her hands clasped under her chin. Andrew whistled amused behind her.

“And right outside there,” pointing to the front door, “The town’s first postmaster was murdered, back when this used to be the postmaster’s house. His killer was never found.”

“Fascinating.”

The woman, who had been softly snoring in her chair, now snorted. Her eyes remained closed.

Sera straightened up and nodded towards the Trumbull doll house. “What about old houses? Do you know any stories about them?”

“The Trumbulls?" The old man seemed disappointed. “Trumbull and his kin were model citizens. Not a speck of scandal. Sometimes the family that lives there now gives tours.”

“No,” Sera said, her finger tracing figures on the glass counter that displayed knick knacks for sale. “I’m thinking of the house off of Wild Horse Lane, up a dirt road near the Haviland farm.”

The woman opened one pink frosted lid at Sera. “Rosethorn?”

“Rosethorn?” Sera repeated.  She had never heard that name before, but it struck her as right. 

“Um-hm." The woman was fully awake now. “Miranda Haviland owns it now.”

“But no one lives in it." The woman shot her a shrewd glance. “I mean,” Sera said hastily, “When we went by, we saw it looked abandoned, empty.”

The woman sprang from her chair with a haste that made her lopsided, gigantic bun wobble in agitation. She waddled over to a metal cabinet in the corner and opened the middle drawer, deftly looking through files. Clutching a thin Manila folder, she came back to the counter and opened it to a large, yellowed newspaper clipping from the Venetia Advance. It showed a picture of soldier and a young woman posing next to the old house, looking slightly less rundown than it did currently. The caption read, “Lieutenant and Fiancée Vow to Restore the Guilfoyle Mansion."

“Now that’s a story,” the woman said as she tapped a plump finger on the picture.

Sera picked up the clipping and unfolded it to read the short article below. Andrew leaned in to look over her shoulder.

“Lieutenant Beau Kavanaugh recently purchased Rosethorn, the old Guilfoyle Mansion, from the Guilfoyle Trust for his bride-to-be, Miss Miranda Haviland." Sera and Andrew quickly looked at each other before reading further.

“Lieutenant Kavanaugh, currently stationed at Hamilton Air Force Base, is due to be shipped out any day now. Miss
 Haviland, the granddaughter of the former caretaker of Rosethorn, tells the Advance that she has long admired the once-grand estate, which has sat in vacancy for over 50 years. Lieutenant Kavanaugh and Miss Haviland plan to wed when his tour of duty ends. While her intended fights the war, Miss Haviland will begin the restoration of Rosethorn, in addition to working at her father’s farm. The couple met during the spring dance hosted by the Druids and were engaged after four weeks.”

The article was dated July 15, 1942. Sera looked questioningly at the woman.

“His plane was shot down over the Pacific, about a year after that picture was taken.  She moved back to her father’s farm, shut down the place, and never stepped foot in it since. Or married anyone else.”

Sera gazed at the picture of the young and lovely Miss
 Haviland in a pale dress with puff sleeves, her hair in soft waves, and at the handsome man beside her uniform, their smiling faces unaware that they would never marry and live together in the house that loomed behind them.