Casteel 04 Gates of Paradise (26 page)

"Oh?"
"I haven't seen my cousin Luke since I left the hospital, which is six days now. I sent
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him messages through Tony and Drake."
"Drake?"
"My mother's half brother."
"Oh yes, Luke Senior's son,"
"You seem to know a lot about my family for a worker . an assistant at that," I said suspiciously.
"I'm just a good listener when people talk around me,"
"What a remarkable memory for details you have."
I narrowed my eyes to show him I thought there was a lot more he wasn't telling me.
He smiled, a boyish smile.
"And what happened to Luke?"
"He hasn't called or come. I wheeled myself into Tony's office and called Luke's dorm at Harvard and left a message for him with his roommate before I came outside."
"I see. Well, I'm sure he'll soon pay you a visit, then."
"I don't know. Everyone's different . . . Drake is . . . in love with being a businessman, working for Tony, and Luke would never ignore me before. We've grown up together and we have always been very close. I've told him things other girls would never dare tell another boy, and he's told me things boys would never dare tell girls. Because we're special to each other," I emphasized. He nodded thoughtfully. "We're more than just cousins." I paused. For some reason I felt Lcould share the family secrets with this man. I sensed his sincerity and I felt so comfortable in his presence. It was as if I had known him all my life. Complete strangers in Winnerrow knew about Luke. Why not him? I thought. "Luke and I have the same father," I finally blurted.
"I see," he said, but he showed no surprise at the revelation.
"You don't see. No one could see how hard it is, how hard it has been," I cried. "Especially for Luke. He's had so many, many obstacles to overcome, mountains to climb. People can be very cruel sometimes, especially in small towns like Winnerrow. They won't let you forget the sins of your . . ."
"Sins of your fathers?" he offered.
"Yes."
"Luke must have grown into a very
extraordinary young man for you to care so much for him."
"Oh, he did. He's so bright. He was the class valedictorian! And he's thoughtful and polite. Everyone who's fair loves Luke and respects him, too! Mommy loved him. It was hard for her, but she cared just as much for him as she would have had he been her own son," I declared firmly.
"Tell me about your hair. When did you dye it? You did dye it?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"A few days ago, Tony brought a beautician to Farthy and talked me into doing it. He thought looking brighter would make me feel better about myself."
"Tony had you do this?" I saw the concern in his face.
"Yes. Why do you ask?"
"How has Tony . Mr. Tatterton, been these days? I haven't seen him for a while."
"Strange. He's forgetful and he confuses things." "Confuses? Like what?"
"He often mixes me up with my mother, my grandmother . even my great-grandmother Jillian."
"How do you mean?" He leaned forward in his chair, his graceful hands clasped together, his arms resting on his knees.
"He talks to me as though he's talking to one of them, mentioning things I wouldn't know or remember."
He gazed at me, that look of concern firmly planted in his face. "How long will you remain here at Farthy?"
"The intention was for me to remain until I was fully recuperated, but I told Drake today that I want to go home and recuperate there." All the pent-up feelings of being imprisoned, of having been tormented by a cruel nurse, and now living with Tony, who moved from one world to another, flooded over me, "I do!"
"Then you should go. If you're not happy here, if you're not comfortable, you'd better go," he said, but so intensely, his eyes so determined, that I suddenly felt very frightened,
"Who are you. . . really? You know too much about this family to be a mere employee."
He sat back again and gazed at me for a long moment, My heart was pounding now, for I knew I was right.
"If I tell you, will you keep the knowledge locked away, for it is very important to me that few, if any, people know. I am happy here living an anonymous life, protected by the maze. My solitude is very precious and important to me. I am happy living with my memories and my work, which, as you can see, can take up a great deal of my time." He paused and said, very sadly, "It's the life I've chosen for myself. I didn't think I would live this long, anyway."
"Why not? You're not very old."
"No, I'm not very old, but when I was younger, I was sickly and I had dreams I would die very young . . I wouldn't live past thirty. But I did. Death refused to claim me. I don't question why; I go on, doing what I do, living this quiet life, content with what I have. In a way I've made peace with myself, with all ray fears and sorrows. My past is like an old wound that's healed; I don't want to do anything to open it up again." He fixed his eyes on me, his soft, warm eyes, which urged me to trust him.
"So . . . can you keep a secret as important as this one?"
"Oh yes," I assured him.
"I think you can. I don't know why I should feel this way, but l trust you . . just as I would trust . . my own daughter, had I gotten married and had a daughter."
"My mother always taught me to respect what is precious to other people, even though the same things may not be precious to me."
"She would tell you that."
"There, you see. You knew her too well to be a mere employee."
He smiled.
"I should have remained in the shadows, Annie. I should have known you would see the truth." "What is the truth?" I waited, holding my breath. "I am not Troy Tatterton's assistant; I am Troy Tatterton."
Strange how Troy's revelation didn't shock me as much as it should have, for everyone had told me of his death and spoke of him as long gone. Yet it was as if I had somehow always known.
"When Rye Whiskey sees you, he probably thinks he's seeing one of his spirits," I said.
"Rye." He smiled. "I'm not sure what he thinks, but I suppose you're right."
"But now that you have told me the truth about who you are, will you tell me why you have let everyone believe you are dead and gone?" I asked.
"Has anyone ever told you the circumstances of my supposed passing?" He eyed me carefully after he asked.
"I've learned a little here and there; I learned the most from Rye Whiskey, but I don't know how much of what Rye tells me is true and how much is in his vivid imagination. I know you rode a horse--Jillian's horse--into the sea and were never seen or heard from again."
"Yes, that part is so."
"How did such a thing happen?"
There was a smile around his eyes again.
"When you ask like that--so passionately--you remind me so much of your mother when she was your age. I think you are just as attentive a listener. Will you listen?" he asked, sitting back again.
I nodded, somehow scared by his new, serious tone of voice.
"What I told you was true: I was a sickly, melancholy child and teenager. All my young life I was depressed by heavy, sad thoughts. My brother Tony, who was more like a father to me, tried his best to get me to change, to be more hopeful and optimistic, but it was as if a gray cloud had been planted over my head when I was born and it grew wider and wider and wider until one day, when I looked up, all I could see was an overcast sky, no matter how bright and blue a day it was.
"Can you understand that?"
I shook my head because I couldn't. I couldn't understand how anyone could go on living his life forever under overcast skies. Sunlight was so important; it was important to flowers and trees and grass and birds, and especially to young children who needed to bathe in its loving warmth. How else would anything grow? He anticipated my thought.
"I couldn't grow into a healthy young man, not with these doomsday thoughts hanging over my head all the time. The worse I became, the more concerned Tony became and the more time and energy he devoted to me. His wife Jillian was a self-centered woman who was in love with only her own image in the mirror and expected everyone around her to be so enamored. You can't imagine how jealous she was of anyone or anything that would pull Tony's attention from her, even for a moment.
"So, eventually I moved into this cottage to live and to work on the Tatterton Toys. it was a very lonely existence; most anyone would have gone mad, I know, but I wasn't as lonely as you might think, for I made my toys my world, my tiny people my people, and imagined stories about their lives."
He shifted his eyes about the room, gazing at some of the toys, and laughed.
"Maybe I was mad. Who knows? It was a good madness, though. Anyway," he said, leaning forward again, "I was plagued by thoughts of my own death. Winter was an especially difficult time because the nights were so long, giving too much time for too many dreams to be born. I would try to hold back sleep until just before dawn. Sometimes, I succeeded. If I saw I couldn't, I would walk about outside and let the fresh cold air wash my dreary thoughts away. I would walk the trails between the pines, and when my brain was cleared, only then did I come back in here and try to sleep again."
"Why did you stay here during the winter? You were rich enough to go anywhere you wanted, weren't you?"
"Yes. I tried to escape. I spent winters in Florida, in Naples, the Riviera, all over the world. I traveled and traveled, searching for an avenue of escape, but my winter thoughts were like excess baggage, always with me. I couldn't shake them off, no matter what I did or where I went, so I returned defeated, unable to do anything but accept my fate.
"Along about that time, your mother came along. She was a flower planted in the desert . . . a cheerful, bright and beautiful person. I knew she had been through hard times already during her young life, but she seemed to be able to cling to that optimism and innocence that characterizes young people, that makes older people so envious.
"You have that same wonderful light in your eyes, Annie. I can see it. Even though some terrible, horrible things have happened to you and the people you love, that brightness is still there, burning like a large candle in a dark tunnel. Someone very lucky will be guided by your light out of the darkness of his own sad thoughts and will live happily in the warmth of your glow. I know it."
I couldn't help blushing. Few men had ever spoken to me this way.
"Thank you," I said. "But you haven't told me what drove you to ride a horse into the sea."
He sat back and tucked his hands behind his head again. I could see that was his favorite position. For a long moment he thought, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. I was patient, for I could sense how difficult it had to be for someone to explain why he had wanted to end his life. Finally, he sat forward again.
"Seeing your mother, seeing the brightness and the life, filled me with some hope for myself in those days, and for a while I was different. I even thought,. . believed it was possible for me to find someone like her and marry and raise children . . . a daughter much like yourself, perhaps.
"But my melancholy returned when I could find no one like her. I was depressing to most women, you see, for most didn't have the patience to deal with my temperament. One day, during a party that Tony had arranged to cheer me up, I decided I would turn the tables on Death . . Death who had pursued me my entire life, Death who sat in the shadows smirking, waiting, haunting me with his dark, gray eyes, his patient posture . . waiting for his opportunity. I decided to take the opportunity away. Instead of spending my life attempting to flee from what I knew would be his inevitable grasp, I charged forward at him and so surprised him with my action, he did not know how to react. I rode Jillian's wild horse into the sea, fully expecting to end my wretched existence.
"But as I said, Death was surprised and couldn't take me. I was cast back on the shore, alive. I had failed even at this.
"However, I realized I had given myself an opportunity to escape in a different way. I let everyone believe I had died. It enabled me to become someone else, to move about like a shadow and not be troubled by people who wanted to cheer me up. I only depressed them anyway, because when they failed, they had to contend with me in my gray, dark state of mind.
"This way I bothered no one and no one bothered me. But one day my brother discovered my existence. He had been mourning my death so hard anyway that I could no longer keep my life from him. We made a pact . I would live here, anonymously, and he would maintain the fiction of my death. After a number of years had passed, when most anyone who had known me had left or died, we told people I was a new artisan, creating toys in Troy's style.
"And so, no one bothers me and I can continue as I am, as I told you: working, living in my memories and my peaceful solitude.
"Now you know the truth and I am dependent upon your promise to keep it locked in your heart."
"I won't tell anyone, but I wish you would come back to the world on the other side of the maze. I wish, somehow, I could bring you back."
"How sweet you are sitting there in your wheelchair wishing you could help someone else."
We gazed at one another. There were tears locked in the corners of his eyes, for he knew that if he released them, my own tears would come bursting forth.
"Now," he said suddenly, clapping his hands together. "You say you stood on your own yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Well, you should be standing a little more every day, and you should be taking steps."
"That's what I thought, but the doctor said--"
"Doctors may know some things about the human body, but they often don't know enough about the human heart." He got up and stood about two feet in front of me, just far enough away for him to hold out his arms. "I want you to stand again, and this time, I want you to try to take a step toward me."
"Oh, I don't know . I ."
"Nonsense, Annie Stonewall. You get to your feet. You're Heaven's daughter, and Heaven would not sit there pitying herself, nor would she remain at the mercy of other people long."
He said magic words. I swallowed hard and bit down gently on my lower lip. Then I took hold of the arms of the chair and willed my feet to move from the footpads to the floor. Slowly, scraping along, they did so. Troy nodded encouragement. I closed my eyes and willed all the
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pressure I could down my legs.
"Make your feet one with the floor of the cottage," he whispered. "The soles of your feet are glued to that floor. Glued . . ."
I felt myself pushing. There was pressure there. My legs tightened, the wobbly muscles stretched, and I pushed down on the arms of the chair. Slowly, even better and smoother than yesterday, my body rose into a standing position. I opened my eyes. Troy smiled.