Homecoming (5 page)

Federica shook her head and drank deeply from her glass.

“Well, what really attracted Wyatt about the movie were these scenes where a lot of blonde bimbos walked around half-dressed, skimming beer off a big vat and pouring it into horns for the heroes to drink. I guess it really struck a chord with him. Anyway, Wyatt got a book on brewing from the library, went to the butcher and had him prepare a bull horn, poured his first effort for our dad and asked him what he thought of it.”

“And?”

“And Dad said it was prime pigswill. Wyatt improved on that first batch and he’s never looked back since.”

“Does he market it?”

“Yeah, he sells to a few bars around here, but he keeps the quantities down. He says if he made larger quantities, it would be too much like working.”

Federica smiled, and bit down on a drumstick. It tasted of free-range chicken, rosemary and garlic.

They munched happily in silence, moving the tablecloth when the sun rose higher in the sky. Federica tackled the potato salad and sighed with pleasure. She rolled her shoulders experimentally and felt something odd. She waggled her head.

“Anything wrong?” Jack asked lazily.

“I don’t know,” she said, lifting a shoulder cautiously. “I feel…funny.”

“No tension,” Jack said, and helped himself to more potato salad. “Takes a while to get used to it.”

Stella had packed half an apple pie. By the time she had finished her share of it and had started on her third bottle of Prime Pigswill, Federica was feeling replete and had a pleasant buzz. She stuck her legs out in the sun and leaned back in the shade.

She had the feeling she was in the eye of the hurricane. Dark forces were gathering on the horizon and soon the storm would strike, lashing everything in its path. But right now, the day was sunny, the bees were humming and she felt an unaccustomed bone-deep contentment.

“Why don’t you let me clear these things up and you can go have your afternoon nap,” Jack said. “You’ve had a really tiring day.”

FAX FROM: Ellen Larsen, c/o Inter Airways, SFO Airport

FAX TO: Frederick Mansion, San Francisco Administrative Headquarters, Mansion Enterprises

Hello, Mr. Mansion, do you remember me? I’m Federica’s best friend. We met on Christmas Eve last year, when I was visiting Federica. I wouldn’t ordinarily bother you, but I can’t seem to contact her. We had a tentative date here in San Francisco tomorrow. I know that she’s in Northern California on business and I wonder if you could relay a message to her and tell her I’m here. She knows where to contact me. Thank you.

Best regards, Ellen Larsen

FAX TO: Ellen Larsen, c/o Inter Airways, SFO Airport

FAX FROM: Office of Frederick Mansion, Mansion Enterprises

Dear Miss Larsen,

Mr. Mansion regrets to inform you that he is unable to contact Miss Mansion, who is away on company business.

Best, R. P. for F. M.

INTERNAL MEMO: Mansion Enterprises

From: Frederick Mansion

To: Russell White

R. W.,

Unfortunately, I have to leave for Prague immediately. The Czech government is apparently changing its laws on foreign ownership, and the Foreign Trade Council has appointed me its representative. We must be there to protect our interests. In the interim, I am putting you in charge of the Carson’s Bluff project. Don’t forget your department is on the line. Keep in touch by email.

F. M.

FAX FROM: Frederick Mansion, San Francisco

FAX TO: Federica Mansion, c/o Mayor’s Office, Carson’s Bluff

Federica, your silence is most irresponsible, indeed. I trust you are in the midst of negotiations, but switching your cellular phone off, not answering emails and not checking to see whether that hamlet’s faxes are working is unconscionable. I am leaving for Prague this afternoon—you remember we were warned that the Czech government might reverse its policies. Your liaison will be Russell White while I’m away.

Uncle Frederick

MESSAGE NOT RECEIVED/NO SIGNAL

Note taped to door of Jack Sutter’s office.

Jack—I realize you’re having a lot of fun up at the Folly, and I’d love to let you while your time away in Neverland forever, but…if we don’t reconnect the fax soon I’m going to have to take a trip down to Shelby
myself. By car.

You know how much I hate putting myself out like that. Come on. We’re going to have to get in contact with the outside world at some point. See you at Lilly’s tonight.

Wyatt

FAX FROM: Ellen Larsen, c/o Inter Airways, SFO airport

FAX TO: Federica Mansion, c/o Mayor’s Office, Carson’s Bluff

Honey, I’m starting to get worried. This isn’t like you at all. Are you okay? I’m here in SF waiting for you to get in touch at the Inter Airways Roach Motel. Eat this fax.

Love, El

MESSAGE NOT RECEIVED/NO SIGNAL

Note taped to Jack Sutter’s fridge.

Jack, why don’t you bring down the hermit from the Folly this evening? I’m cooking. I promise her okay food and superb earthenware. How can she resist? See you around seven. Bring something for Cavendish.

Love, Lilly

Federica woke up around five, stretched, yawned and lay back in the big four-poster with her hands behind her head. She contemplated the ceiling and her situation.

She was here to do a job. No matter that the very idea of engaging the Carson’s Bluff City Council—in the person of the very handsome and laid-back sheriff, his likeable sister of the beautiful pottery and his brother of the delicious beer—in a
mano a mano
over Harry’s Folly made her nauseous. No matter that the idea of hauling out her laptop with its spreadsheet full of schedules and appraisals made her ill.

The very idea of bestirring herself to do the job she had come here for made her feel as if she were wading through molasses.

I don’t want to do this
, she told the ceiling.

The ceiling didn’t answer back.

After a while, she got up. She thought she would go back down to the veranda and watch the grass grow.

Walking down the staircase, she fully realized, for the first time, the extraordinary beauty of Harry’s Folly. Originally, it must have been a saloon, probably like thousands of other Western saloons in the nineteenth century, though Federica had never seen one close-up herself except in movies. Though the layout was probably perfectly standard, the workmanship was anything but.

Master carpenters had lovingly worked over every fine detail, from the graceful wooden balustrade to the oak bird and flower frieze carved along the top of the wainscoting. Some unsung genius had painted a fresco of a heavenly chorus on the vaulted ceiling, the fresco perfect down to the cherubs’ tiny, superbly proportioned toenails.

It was clear that Harry’s Folly had been in a state of decay and that someone had been restoring it. Wooden scaffolding covered the far wall of the downstairs area, a dark, sooty area visible beneath the netting.

Federica had once gone into the wrong bedroom upstairs, and had discovered that all the upstairs rooms were moldy, with cracked plaster walls and broken hardwood flooring, except her own bedroom—a miracle of light and grace.

When Harry’s Folly was completely restored, it was going to be spectacular, she thought uneasily. Worth every penny Uncle Frederick was bidding, and more. Probably the grounds alone were worth what he was offering.

Dark snatches of thoughts of duty buzzed around her head like gnats as she walked out onto the veranda.

She sat down in her now familiar position on the top step and watched the sun start to settle behind the tops of the oaks.

It was so easy to lose herself here, to imagine that life was sleeping in that gorgeous four-poster bed with its cotton and linen flowered bedspread which she imagined Jack’s cousin had woven, and eating Stella’s delicious food out of Lilly’s imaginative plates.

It was easy to imagine that she could stay here forever, watching the sun go up and down in the sky and thinking of nothing but how good she felt.

But she couldn’t, of course. A prickle of unease ran up her back. The storm hadn’t broken, but the clouds were gathering.

Federica smiled when she heard a familiar powerful engine change gears on the way up.

She watched Jack drive up and wondered what he would be bringing her for dinner, vaguely surprised when he stepped out of the van without his usual paper bag.

“Hi.” He smiled up at her.

“Hi.” She scooted over and made room for him on the top step. “I’m watching the sun set. Join me?”

“Don’t overdo all this frenetic activity,” Jack said, as he folded his long legs to sit next to her.

They sat in silence.

“I guess I’m not eating tonight,” she said, looking at his empty hands.

“You’re eating all right. My sister Lil has invited you for dinner. It’s a real privilege. She hates to cook. Her husband Norman usually does the cooking, but he’s busy on some project.”

“Someone from Carson’s Bluff working? I thought ‘take it easy’ was the town motto.”

“It is. Today is an exception. So—you want to run up and grab a sweater or something?”

“I don’t know.” Federica’s voice was light. “I’m not really up to much traveling these days.” She folded her hands carefully to disguise the trembling, but his eyes were sharp. He saw.

He was quiet for several minutes. “About how much of a range do you have?” he asked, finally.

Federica hadn’t been home in six weeks. She thought of her extended business trip and remembered Paris, Rome, Berlin, Prague, Frankfurt, Madrid, New York, Honolulu, Singapore and Hong Kong as one long, exhausting blur. Just the thought of it, of another foreign city and another plane—or even moving from exactly where she was—had a band tightening across her chest and her breath catching in her throat.

“I don’t have much of a range at all. Couple of miles maybe. If I push it,” she replied. She caught her hands under her knees, because the trembling was getting worse.

“Well, you’re in luck, because Lil and Norman live about a mile and a half away,” he said. “You could sort of close your eyes in the van and pretend you’re not going anywhere.”

Federica looked at him in silence.
He understands
, she thought in wonder. And then, confused
, understands what? What on Earth is happening to me?

She opened her mouth to refuse and surprised herself by saying, “I think I could swing that.”

FAX FROM: Ellen Larsen, c/o Inter Airways, SFO Airport

FAX TO: Federica Mansion, c/o Mayor’s Office, Carson’s Bluff

Federica,

Hon, you’ve really got me worried. I faxed your uncle, but he was no help. Had his secretary answer. I suppose you’re wrapped up in company business, but I’d really like to know what you’re doing. I’ve got tomorrow and the next day off and had to push my supervisor to get it. For a dime, I’d quit. Springsteen’s probably off, but maybe we could still have a day together. You okay?

Love, El

MESSAGE NOT RECEIVED/NO SIGNAL

FAX FROM: Russell White, c/o SF Administrative Headquarters, Mansion Enterprises

FAX TO: Federica Mansion, c/o Mayor’s Office, Carson’s Bluff

Federica,

Hello, long time no see. Your uncle has put me in charge of the Carson’s Bluff project until his return from Prague. Imagine you’re working very hard on this project, though you really should get in touch soon with the SF office. We’re a little behind in planning and we need more input. We’ll be working together on this until your uncle’s return. I trust our shared personal history will not intrude on business.

Russell

MESSAGE NOT RECEIVED/NO SIGNAL

Lilly and Norman lived in a charming cottage at the foot of the road leading to Harry’s Folly. Brambler roses in full bloom climbed the freshly painted wood walls. The doors and windows were painted a bright green and the picket fence surrounding the garden was blue.

As Jack pulled the van up, Federica could see a goat tethered on the lawn munching on the grass. A kennel abutted the cottage and wild barking erupted as soon as the van pulled up.

“Pipe down you guys!” Jack shouted, as he walked around the van and opened the passenger door, helping her out of the vehicle. He opened the gate latch, then walked over to the kennel door. He had barely unlocked it when two German shepherds nosed the door open and jumped him, wriggling with delight and vying to lick his face.