The House on Sunset Lake (25 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

1994

It was past two o’clock by the time Jennifer reached Casa D’Or. She parked her car on the driveway, and as she slammed the door of the vehicle behind her, she wiped her clammy palms on her skirt to steady herself. Glancing up at the big house, she wondered whether to go inside. On the drive over from the Gilberts’ house, she had steeled herself for another confrontation with her mother. Her showdown with Connor had not been easy, but it had given her the confidence to see this through. But as she stood in the shadow of Casa D’Or, she felt quite small, and a little less brave.

She heard a rustle behind her and turned anxiously. Relief made her sigh when she saw it was just Marion, coming from the direction of the walled garden carrying some tools.

‘Hey,’ she grinned, shielding her eyes from the sun.

‘Just been pruning some of the roses,’ Marion smiled. ‘It’s so warm for the flowers out there.’

Jennifer looked up to the sky and shrugged.

‘Not sure we’re going to have any rain this afternoon.’

‘News says there’s a storm coming,’ said Marion, putting her trowel in the enormous front pocket of her apron.

‘Your mama’s gone out,’ she said after another moment.

‘Good,’ said Jennifer without even thinking.

Marion gave a soft smile that suggested she agreed with her.

‘Did you have fun at the party last night?’ she asked.

‘It was incredible,’ Jennifer said, unable to hide a small, giddy laugh.

‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’ said Marion, looking intently at her.

‘What does?’

‘Being in love.’

Jennifer felt her cheeks flush, but she couldn’t help but smile.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I saw you with Jim Johnson last night. I’m glad you two finally sorted it out after all this messing around.’

‘Messing around? Is that what you call it?’ she asked.

‘First night you ever saw each other, I knew what was going to happen. Didn’t think you’d leave it quite this late, though.’

‘You knew he liked me?’ Jennifer said, grinning more broadly.

‘And you him. It was obvious.’

Jennifer glanced over towards the lake, which she could see through a tiny clearing in the gardens.

‘I wouldn’t exactly say I’ve sorted it out yet,’ she said, grateful to share her thoughts. She wasn’t particularly close to Marion. Although she had known her all her life, the fifteen-year age gap between them had always seemed too big for them ever to be friends. But suddenly she found strength in the housekeeper’s presence and wished that they could have shared confidences earlier.

‘Be brave and you will,’ said Marion with wise authority.

Jennifer walked around the lake to get to the Sittenfields’ house. The heat was still fierce and the water shimmered. Telltale tongues of orange had begun to appear on some of the foliage, but otherwise there was no clue that it was almost fall and summer was drawing to a close.

She watched a sandpiper peck for worms in the silt along the shore and wondered if she would ever walk this route again. There was really no need unless you were going to the Sittenfields’, and although Jennifer was in a hurry to tell Jim that she had ended her relationship with Connor, she wanted to savour every step to draw out the summer just a little bit longer.

She felt a flurry of nerves as the Lake House grew closer. Marion had been right when she said it was a good feeling being in love. Jennifer felt an excitement that made her want to shout from the rooftops, and a reassuring sense that things had just fallen into place. But she could feel something else too. Fear. Anxiety. She’d made no proper plans with Jim that morning. They had both been too giddy to even think about any strategy beyond Jim changing his flight to a later date. Now there was a palpable sense of the unknown, but reminding herself how much she trusted Jim, she dismissed it.

She was by the boathouse now and could see a shadow moving inside. She smiled at the thought of Bryn Johnson working until the final moment he was due to leave for the airport, and didn’t blame him for wanting to soak up every last minute of the glorious view.

Picking up her pace, she almost tripped over a canoe that lay carelessly on the grassy slope leading to the water. Hoping that Jim hadn’t been gazing out of the window at that precise moment, she ran the rest of the way to the back door, knocking hard as she waited for someone to open it. There was no response.

‘They went into town,’ called a familiar baritone from behind her.

She spun around and saw Bryn Johnson watching her from the balcony of the boathouse.

Bryn’s voice might have been loud enough to cross the length of the Sittenfields’ back lawn, but Jennifer didn’t want to be rude and holler back. She put her hands in the pockets of her sundress and walked towards him.

‘Know when Jim will be home?’ she asked as she got closer.

She took a minute to observe him. His feet were bare and a white shirt fell loose over the waistband of his beige trousers. A suntan from the warm Savannah summer had brought out the blue of his eyes, and Jennifer found herself wondering if this was what Jim would look like in thirty years’ time.

Bryn shrugged. ‘Left a while ago with Elizabeth. They should be back any time. Better had be. We have to leave for the airport at six.’

Jennifer felt uneasy. It was obvious that Jim’s father still thought his son was flying to New York with them that evening, before their onward journey to London. But a voice in her head told her to trust Jim and dismiss his remark.

She looked back across the lake towards Casa D’Or, debating whether to hang around.

‘Come inside and have a drink while you wait,’ said Bryn, as if he were reading her thoughts. ‘You can tell me what you think of my opus.’

‘You don’t want my opinion,’ she laughed.

‘An arts graduate from Wellesley College? I’d say you’re better qualified than anyone to give me some feedback. So long as it’s not too critical, of course,’ he laughed.

She had always felt a little bit scared of Bryn Johnson. He was a formidable character, and now there was the added pressure that he was her boyfriend’s father, and she wanted to impress him. But Bryn seemed to be in an affable mood as he ushered her into the cabin.

‘Have you ever tried gin and tonic?’ he asked as Jennifer looked around.

She had never been in the boathouse before. It was small and sparsely furnished, with large glass windows that overlooked the water, although the blinds were down to keep it cool in the heat of the day. A desk displaying all the signs of creative chaos – strewn papers, coffee cups and a solitary typewriter – was pushed against one wall. A leather armchair sat in another corner next to a teetering pile of books and a drinks trolley, the whole scene in stark contrast to the groomed perfection of Casa D’Or.

Bryn picked up an almost empty bottle and examined it.

‘We should get a couple of measures out of this,’ he muttered as he poured them both a glass.

He handed one to Jennifer, who sniffed the unfamiliar liquor.

‘I guess you’re old enough to drink now,’ he said, leaning against the desk and looking at her.

‘Being twenty-one?’ she smiled, tilting her head to one side.

He nodded and knocked back his tipple.

‘How’s the documentary? Jim told me about it. Said you’d taken some of my sugestions on board.’

‘Your idea of interviewing parents was fantastic. It’s really added another layer to the narrative.’

‘I only threw a few things out there. It’s your talent that will make it as good as it can be. Remember, when you’re ready, get in touch and I’ll show it to some contacts in New York.’

She sipped her gin and motioned towards the desk.

‘So how’s your book coming on? Is it finished?’

‘Not yet,’ he snorted. ‘I put myself under a lot of pressure to get things just right. The curse of success,’ he said more ruefully.

‘I’m sure it’s brilliant,’ smiled Jennifer, feeling warm in the lazy stream of sunlight coming in through a skylight overhead. ‘What’s it about?’

‘Desire,’ he said simply.

‘I wish I could sum up my documentary in one word like that.’

‘You can. Hope.’

He put his drink on the desk and turned around to gather some of his papers.

‘Here,’ he muttered. ‘I need an objective opinion on this scene.’

Jennifer came towards the desk, her arm brushing against his shirtsleeve as she stood next to him. She could smell that strong juniper scent of gin again, and realised it was on his breath. As he touched the paper with his fingertip, one of the straps of her sundress fell off her shoulder.

She adjusted it quickly and began to read, not noticing that Bryn had gone to lock the door of the boathouse behind them.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The woods on the Casa D’Or estate had been largely untouched since the plantation days. It was not a particularly dense forest – the mix of pine, poplar and palmetto let in streaks of sun through the canopy of twigs and leaves – but still, Jennifer had always found it a haunting place. Slave cabins once stood in the clearings, and although her grandfather had pulled them down decades before, the thought still made her feel uncomfortable. She was sure the only reason her father kept the woods was to make the acreage of the estate sound more impressive, and she generally avoided coming here. But that afternoon, after the boathouse, it was the first place she had thought of. She had found a tree and curled up against the rough bark of its trunk, the skirt of her dress pulled tightly over her knees, arms hugged around her shins, and she had sat there for an hour, maybe two, tears rolling down her cheeks until they dried on her skin.

There were no more tears left now. No emotion either. She felt empty, hollow – a husk that just wanted to run on autopilot. But although she felt numb, she knew she could not stay here for ever. Slowly she got to her feet and brushed the soil and leaves from the fabric of her dress. Her watch told her it was a little after five, but it was dark overhead; the blue sky had turned a malevolent shade of pewter. Marion had said there was a storm coming and she’d been right, thought Jennifer as a drop of rain plopped on her head and the breeze picked up in the trees around her.

She began to run, her sneakers crunching the carpet of twigs and leaves underfoot. The temperature had dropped, and there was some comfort in feeling the wind slap across her face. It was strong now, cold and damp, but it was not powerful enough to erase the memories of the past few hours. She ran faster and faster, but still images of Bryn Johnson popped into her head like a nightmare.

The trees were thinning now, as lightning flashed overhead, followed by the deep grumble of thunder. She knew she had to get to shelter quickly. She saw Marion’s cottage just a few hundred metres away. It was on the outskirts of the more manicured grounds of Casa D’Or, behind the old smokehouse, in the shade of one of the largest oak trees on the estate.

Once she was out of the woods, the rain soaked her to the skin. Panting hard, she ran on to the porch of the cottage and collapsed into an Adirondack chair underneath the window as another fork of silver lightning flashed across the sky.

The door of the cottage opened and Marion stood there, pulling a sweater on over her head.

‘Get inside,’ ordered the older woman. ‘It’s filthy out there. The storm will drown you before you reach the big house.’

Jennifer got up and followed the housekeeper into the cottage.

It was a single-storey building, the doorway leading straight into a living area dominated by a sofa, dining table and sideboard. Jennifer came in here rarely, but she noticed that there was a bigger television since the last time she’d visited, and a few more framed photographs on the bookcase.

Marion disappeared for a few moments and reappeared with a towel.

‘Dry yourself off,’ she instructed.

Jennifer towelled her hair, then pressed the fabric into her face to compose herself.

‘Where’ve you been?’ asked Marion kindly.

‘Just walking,’ Jennifer said, scratching her arms, her nails digging into the skin harder than was necessary.

‘Knew there was going to be a storm,’ observed Marion, looking up to the heavens. ‘Coffee?’

Jennifer shook her head and looked at the older woman’s kind face. She wondered if she should tell her, and took a breath to steel herself, tears swelling behind her eyes, but as her mouth opened, she could not find the words to even begin to describe what had happened to her.

A wave of shame engulfed her. She felt dirty, stupid, afraid. The consequences of even hinting at what had gone on in the boathouse were too awful to contemplate. No one would believe her, and even if they did, there was unlikely to be any sort of happy ending. How would anything make it better? What was done was done.

A tear leaked down her cheek and she blinked it away.

‘Are you OK?’ said Marion. She moved closer and put her arms around Jennifer. For a split second, Jennifer flinched at the touch of another person, but as she relaxed into it, it became clearer what she had to do. She had to forget.

‘I will be,’ she muttered into the housekeeper’s shoulder.

‘You can still write to him,’ said Marion softly. ‘Just because he’s going home doesn’t mean you can’t see each other again. I hear London is beautiful in the fall,’ she chuckled.

‘I won’t be going to London,’ said Jennifer quietly.

‘Oh,’ said Marion more awkwardly.

Jennifer pulled away and used every ounce of her self-control to stay strong.

‘Do you have paper and a pen?’ she asked.

Marion nodded and went to get them. She put them on the small dining table in the corner of the room, then discreetly left Jennifer alone to write her note.

In the woods, Jennifer had been so confused that she hadn’t known what to do, how to proceed. But now she had some clarity. There was only one way out of this mess, and however much it broke her heart, she knew it was the only thing she could do.

She kept it simple.

Jim,

It’s been a wonderful summer but you should catch the plane to New York. Tonight. I love Connor. We are engaged, and last night should never have happened. Just go back to England, Jim. If you are truly my friend, you should do what is right for all of us and not contact me again.

Jennifer

She folded the paper in half, ashamed of her lies, sickened at the thought of Jim’s bewilderment when he read them.

‘Marion. Could you do me a favour?’ she asked simply.

‘Of course.’

Jennifer handed her the letter.

‘Can you drop this off at the Lake House? It’s for Jim.’

Marion looked at it.

‘I’ll fetch an envelope and go as soon as the rain dies down,’ she nodded.

Storms came and went quickly in this part of the world. Jennifer gave the towel back to Marion and said her goodbyes. The Wyatts’ housekeeper didn’t push, didn’t question Jennifer’s melancholy mood any further, and if she had noticed that the younger woman hadn’t looked her once in the eye, she didn’t say so. Jennifer was grateful for her unwillingness to pry.

She closed the door of Marion’s cottage behind her and started walking back to Casa D’Or, across the gravel drive and the lawns that led to the house. The clouds were beginning to clear, and the rain had softened to a gentle spit. Suddenly she could smell flowers on the breeze, as if the whole world had been infused with a springtime freshness that was in contrast to her own despair.

There was only one thing she wanted to do now, and that was to shower the filth of the day from her body. She felt shivery and weak. Her stomach was grumbling but she felt nauseous, as if a pool of vomit had collected at the base of her throat.

The Wyatts rarely locked the front door to Casa D’Or – there was no need to on the Isle of Hope – and Jennifer pushed it open. The house was silent, all traces of the party gone except for the fragment of a gold balloon in one corner of the hall. She began to walk up the sweeping staircase, holding the oak banister to steady herself. Every step seemed an effort. She felt exhausted, although her mind was a frantic whirl of thoughts. She imagined Marion walking to the Lake House right now, her shoes squelching in the wet grass, and wondered if she would see him on her way over – the monster in his boathouse lair.

‘Where have you been?’

She recognised her mother’s voice instantly. The Southern inflections that were so syrupy on most people in this town sounded in Sylvia’s tones clipped and brusque.

Jennifer was a few feet from the top of the stairs. Her mother stood on the mezzanine that overlooked the hallway, holding on to the balustrade so tightly her knuckles had turned white.

‘Just out,’ said Jennifer, not looking at her.

‘Where?’ pressed Sylvia.

‘Why does it matter?’ she said, clutching the banister harder.

‘What were you doing at the Lake House?’ asked her mother after a moment.

Jennifer’s heart was thudding hard now. Her throat felt tight, her palms started to bead with sweat. She knew it was her opportunity to say something, to shout out the truth. Sylvia Wyatt was her mother. She was on her side.

Or was she?

A voice of doubt echoed in her head.

‘I went to see Jim,’ she said finally, her heartbeat almost banging out of her ribcage.

‘Jim phoned here,’ challenged her mother. ‘He hasn’t seen you.’

She took a moment to think, but she could come up with no convincing excuse.

‘I’ve been walking,’ she said at last, her voice shimmering with emotional restraint. It wasn’t exactly a lie.

‘What were you doing at the Lake House then?’

Her mother’s voice sounded odd. Jennifer knew the signs. Knew what was coming next. That the volcano was ready to erupt.

‘You were with Bryn Johnson, weren’t you,’ she said. It was an accusation, not a question.

Jennifer turned and started to walk back down the stairs, counting her steps as she tried to control her breathing. She knew she had to get back outside and run. She had no idea where to.

‘Weren’t you?’ screamed her mother from the mezzanine.

‘I have to go,’ said Jennifer, quickening her pace, not daring to turn around.

‘Where are you going? Come back here this minute and tell me where you were!’ cried Sylvia, her voice echoing around the cavernous atrium space.

Jennifer was at the bottom of the stairs now, her eyes fixed on the front door. Suddenly she heard a thud behind her, and then another, a toppling domino chain of noise that made her stop in her tracks. She turned in time to see her mother bounce twice off the final few steps, landing on the hard walnut with a sickening crack.

Jennifer screamed and ran towards her. Throwing herself to her knees, she touched her mother’s cold face, recoiling in horror as she realised that Sylvia wasn’t moving.

‘Mom!’ she cried, looking around frantically, spotting a slipper on the stairs and then a trickle of blood oozing on to the brown floor.

Her hands were shaking. She ran to the phone on the cabinet in the hall and dialled 911, screaming at them to come to Casa D’Or as quickly as they could. Still trembling, she tried to contact her father, but his secretary told her that he had left for the day.

Tears were streaming down her face as she kneeled back down, desperately wondering what she could do. Only minutes before, she had thought her life could not get any worse, that she could sink to no further depths of misery, and yet touching her mother’s neck, feeling the pulse get weaker and weaker, she felt as if her own life was being drained out of her body.

Sylvia’s face was ghostly pale, and quite beautiful, like the moon.

‘Mom, please. Stay with me. I love you,’ whispered Jennifer. It was such a clear and definite thought, she wondered why she had not told her mother so every day of her life.

She heard the sound of tyres on the gravel but could not move. She took hold of her mother’s hand and did not let go until she heard footsteps behind her.

‘Oh God!’ cried her father as he ran across the hallway.

‘The ambulance is on its way,’ said Jennifer, getting to her feet to meet him.

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. I was coming down the stairs. She was behind me, standing at the top.’ She pointed to the mezzanine. ‘She was upset.’

David Wyatt took a sharp intake of breath, then squatted down on his haunches to stroke his wife’s forehead.

Jennifer felt as if the world had stopped turning, as if she were suspended in space. She closed her eyes, wishing she had super-powers, that she could make the earth spin back on its axis and rewind time, but when she opened them again, she saw her father hunched over her mother’s body, and it was the saddest thing she had ever seen.

Somewhere in the distance she could hear sirens.

She went to the door to wait for them, as if staring down the oak-lined drive would make the ambulance come quicker. At last she saw a flash of red light coming closer and closer. Perhaps it was not too late, she thought, the beat of her heart speeding up.

‘Hurry. Hurry,’ she whispered, closing her eyes.

She barely registered Marion’s arrival at the house, and then she was surrounded by people and noise. A stretcher was wheeled into the hall, and although the wail of the siren had stopped, the scarlet light of the ambulance seemed to cast the house in a fiery glow, as if she were in hell.

She felt Marion’s reassuring hand on her shoulder. When she turned, she noticed that the housekeeper’s eyes were glassy with tears.

‘What’s happening?’ she whispered.

‘It’s too early to say,’ replied Marion soberly.

Jennifer walked slowly, as if in a daze, to the porch, resting her hands on the ledge as she looked down at her grass-stained sneakers.

‘Jen.’

A voice disturbed her. She looked up and saw a figure standing outside the house. Through her clouded vision, it took her a moment to recognise Jim Johnson.

‘What’s happening? Tell me,’ he pleaded as he came up the stairs towards her.

‘My mother. There’s been an accident.’

‘Oh God,’ he said, glancing towards the inside of the house then coming to put his arms around her.

She shrugged him away.

‘Don’t,’ she said, stepping back.

She looked at him and it was as if she were looking at an old skin she had just shed. There was no point mourning it, no matter how beautiful it had once been, for it had gone.

‘I’ve got a new ticket,’ he said, trying to catch her eye.

‘Didn’t you get my letter?’ she said, her voice barely a croak.

The paramedics wheeled the stretcher on to the porch. Her mother was lying there, attached to tubes and wires, her father moving alongside her, his hand gripping hers, as the two men lifted the stretcher down the steps.