A Stranger in Wynnedower (26 page)

“I was thinking about
all of the work you’re putting into this. The decision about this place is
still open, you know.”

She echoed, “Of
course.” Inside, a patch of emotional quicksand stirred, but this wasn’t the
time to argue the fate of Wynnedower. “As a matter of fact, I’ve contacted a
general contractor who specializes in restoration. That might be more expensive,
but still the best way to go.”

His expression didn’t
change. She asked, “Are you okay, Jack?”

He took the measuring
tape from her hands, pulled and snapped the thin metal strip of inches and
feet. “Kilmer will stay away. I spoke to him, to the police, and my attorney is
obtaining a restraining order.”

“A restraining order.
The police?”

“He leaves me no
choice. He avoided me because he knew he was unwelcome, but he continues coming
onto Wynnedower property.”

“Jack, this sounds more
serious than I knew. He is a nuisance, a jerk. But the police and the courts?”

“There may be more to
him than you realize. You were sufficiently scared to hide from him in the
attic and then to try to warn Helene. He says that wasn’t him. That he was out
of town. But who else? Had to be him.”

“My instinct told me
something was wrong with him. I thought it was my lack of patience with his
creepiness.” Goosebumps popped up on her arms. She rubbed her skin briskly.
“Will the police and a restraining order keep him away?”

He handed the tape
measure back to her and walked off.

Once again, she was
left hanging.

Jack, the great
communicator.

Frustrated, she snapped
the measuring tape herself and yelped when it pinched her finger.

****

He didn’t ask for
additional sittings. Rachel continued the overall inventory, including building
the list of work needed. She hadn’t yet attempted the
let’s-get-this-business-up-and-running list, but it all churned exhaustively
through her mind.

In the days following
Helene’s episode, Rachel saw her more often, usually from the corner of her eye
or lingering nearby.

Rachel carried the
portfolio case down from the attic. She brushed off the thin layer of white
dust and untied the black ribbon. She sneezed, and then opened the case to get
another look at the poster. The colors were strong and the lettering was clear.
She’d do her part to preserve it by keeping her hands off of it. She closed the
portfolio, re-tied the ribbon and slid the portfolio between the dresser and
the wall, much as it had been upstairs, but now in her room.

Her brain was
percolating about the Armory Exhibit theme. Everywhere she went in the house
she saw possibilities. For instance, the clothing in the attic was perfect
within a decade or two of the time period, and she hadn’t even seen most of it.
They could display the clothing, perhaps on mannequins, a museum effect—a wax
museum? But not overdone, not brassy. And there were likely other textiles.
They could be framed or used as wall hangings. The possibilities went on and
on.

Inside her head, Rachel
saw an image of herself, gowned in silk and lace, with the green peacock shawl
draped in careless folds from her arms. She stood on the stairs like the woman
in the photo.

She itched to share her
ideas with Jack, but the dining room doors stayed firmly shut.

“Miss Sevier?”

May stood in the
doorway to the conservatory. “I have an appointment and Mr. Wynne is busy.
Would you mind taking Miss Helene’s tray to her?”

To say she was
surprised was to understate her reaction. Rachel set her papers aside
immediately. It was a relief to no longer pretend she didn’t know about Helene.
At Wynnedower, everyone seemed to know everything—everyone except her—and it
was good to finally be ‘in the know.’

“I’ll be happy to, Mrs.
Sellers. Is her meal ready now?”

She shuffled her papers
into a neat stack and placed them in the folder. Leaving the pen, pencil and
eraser neatly aligned on top of the folder, she followed May and her blue peony
dress. The large peonies undulated in a slow rolling motion as May walked.

They reached the
kitchen, and she pointed to a tray covered by a white cloth.

“She may want you to
sit and keep her company. Perhaps not. She’ll let you know.”

“Does she ever come
down to eat?”

Red suffused May’s
face. Her round cheeks darkened to an alarming purple. “No, Ma’am, she most
certainly does not.” She stepped quickly over to the counter and straightened
the already straight cloth. “Perhaps I should take this to her after all.”

“You can trust me, Mrs.
Sellers. I asked a question, that’s all. How else am I to know what’s
customary?”

“Well, I suppose.
She’ll already be waiting for her meal. This is her main meal. She only takes a
light snack in the evening. I’ll be back before then.” She plucked her sweater
from the back of a kitchen chair. “Miss Sevier, exactly how much longer will
you be at Wynnedower?”

“Time will tell.”
Rachel smiled sweetly and maneuvered around her. “Excuse me.”

Would she need magic
words to induce Helene to open her door? She didn’t have the key, and Helene
hadn’t responded to her knock before, but maybe it would be different this
time. After all, she had her food.

“Helene?” She leaned
closer to the door. “It’s Rachel. Mrs. Sellers had to go somewhere, so I have
your lunch.”

Little scuffling noises
came from the far side. The lock made a gentle thunk as the key turned,
followed by the opening of the door. Helene stepped back quickly, but she
stayed and didn’t retreat into the next room. Rachel kept her eyes averted. In
the animal kingdom that was the trick, right? No direct eye contact.
Non-threatening. She tried to keep her eyes on the tray and the table as she
set up Helene’s meal. Helene wore a filmy lavender garment—ultra feminine.

Done, Rachel turned
toward the door.

Helene whispered,
“Stay?”

Rachel smiled. It was
what she’d hoped for. She sat on the flowered couch. Helene floated the napkin
onto her lap. Finally, she looked directly at Rachel, and her lips curved in a
slight, shy smile. The light filtered through a nearby window laying bands of
light across her. Ethereal. 

The same quality Kilmer
had mentioned? It shook her to think of him.

There wasn’t a piece of
pasta in sight. A thick slice of meatloaf, a mash-up of potatoes with gravy,
and green beans filled the plate. Unexotic and hearty. Had she expected Helene
to dine on watercress and cucumber sandwiches?

“How are you, Helene?
The meatloaf smells good.”

A nod and a smile was
the only answer. Helene ate with enthusiasm.

“Have you seen your
brother’s paintings?”

Again, a nod as she
nibbled on the green beans. She held them like pretzels. Her expression had
become lively and there was a glint in her eye that suggested she might
actually express an opinion. Certainly, there was intelligence in her light
blue gaze.

“He’s very talented.”
Rachel cast about in her brain for something more interesting to say. “I wore
the dress you left on my bed.” After a few minutes of silence, she tried again.
“I’m sorry David Kilmer scared you the other night.”

Helene tilted her head
and looked puzzled.

“I mean, when he broke
into the house a few days ago?”

Helene’s eyes opened
wide and she breathed the words, “Did he?” She took the napkin from her lap,
carefully laid it over the used dishes on the tray, and pushed the table aside.
Rachel stood, not sure what to expect. Without a word or wave, Helene went into
the next room and shut the door.

Rachel closed the
hallway door behind her. She didn’t lock it because then the key would be on
the wrong side, and Helene would be locked in versus locking the world out.
Rachel carried the tray down to the kitchen, thinking about their strange
interlude as she rinsed the dishes and set them in the sink for later, for
Madame May.

****

She’d been trying to
sketch a rough layout of the house, wanting to work some of her ideas into the
reality of the house, but this place was such a maze of rooms that it was
difficult to make comprehensive drawings that made sense.

Wynnedower needed to
pay for itself. Jack’s words.

For the umpteenth time
she’d explained to a contractor that she was taking estimates for the home’s
owner—who was not her. For the umpteenth time, the contractor had looked at
her, wanting to know who controlled the purse strings—again, not her.

This long-legged man in
saggy jeans, t-shirt and a baseball cap yanked the paper from his clipboard.
“Are you his wife? No? You’re his assistant? Like a personal assistant?”

He did a slow, creepy
scan of her legs, moved upward, stopping somewhere south of her face. She
considered slamming her clipboard into his face, but opted for a higher road.

“More like a general
assistant.” She scanned the estimate and asked a few questions for
clarification. After all, by now she was getting a good feel for ballpark, for
too high or too low or for what was being omitted or glossed over.

“I could use an
assistant like you. Anytime you want to change jobs, give me a call.”

“Not likely, Mr.–” She
scanned the paperwork as if searching for his insignificant name. “I won’t call
you for any reason whatsoever; however, the owner will contact you if he’s
interested in your estimate.”

After Joe or Bob or Hal
or whatever this one’s name was, left, Rachel went to the dining room door and
pounded on the wood. Enough was enough.

“Jack?”

“Coming.”

“Jack, it’s time to go
through these. Or at least take a look at them with me so I’ll know I’m on the
right track.”

“But–”

“Jack, what’s the point
in painting right up until you leave? Are you really going to exhibit wet
paint?”

He opened the doors.
“No. The paintings for the show are already at the gallery.”

“Your hair is crazy
wild, and you’re dressed almost as badly as the day we first met. What’s your
plan for that? You’re leaving in two days, right?”

“Alright, alright.”

She grabbed his sleeve
and pulled him toward the kitchen. “You have to eat. You sit and go through
this stack of papers. I don’t expect decisions, but you need to understand what
I’ve done, or how will you manage when you return?”

“How will I….?”

“When I leave after you
get back.” She hoped the sudden twist in her stomach didn’t show on her face.
Would he perceive this as a dare or a challenge? She hadn’t intended it that
way.

“You won’t have to
leave immediately, right? We have to take time to…. You know, what do you call
it?”

“Transition?”

“Yes, you have to
transition all of this to me. I can’t remember all of it now.” He leaned toward
her, lowering his voice. “Right? You’ll stay for a while?”

She wanted to say yes,
but reality was reality. She had a huge imagination, but her dreams had never
survived reality. “Jack. I’ve already been here a while. I don’t want to lose
my job at Stillman Inventory.”

“Your first plan was
better. Get a new job. You have more to offer than counting.”

She shoved the
clipboard and papers back at him. For some reason, his words angered her.
Really ticked her off.

“Clean your brushes and
pick up the paint tubes. It’s time to pack up and move out of the dining room.”

The shift in subject
silenced him for the moment.

“If you need a studio,
the conservatory is a better location. If you’re going to stay here
indefinitely, then I recommend you build a proper studio instead of taking up
space in what should be the guest areas.”

She turned to leave the
kitchen, then spun back around on her heel. “Also, while you’re gone, I plan to
encourage Helene to come out and take an active interest in the project.
Encourage only. I won’t force anything. I want you to know so you won’t think
I’m going behind your back.”

“She won’t.”

“We’ll see. Now, that
you’ve sent Kilmer on his way, it’s safe. We’ll keep things locked up properly
and we won’t take any chances.”

He didn’t answer.

“No objections? Trust
my judgment on this. Helene needs more than what she’s getting in those rooms.
If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be roaming at night, and now, during the day, too.”

He waved his hands as
if wanting to make a point, but no words came out. Finally, his movements
stilled. “Be careful of her, and for her. I don’t think it’s fair to put this
responsibility on you, but if you’re signing up for it, then so be it.
Remember, this is the way she is. It isn’t a choice or trauma. She’s always
been like this to some degree, but anything that worries her adds to it.
Cumulative, I guess. If she’s pushed too far…well, if she’s pushed too far,
she’ll retreat back to her rooms.”