House of Skin (26 page)

“Because it’s terrible,” Paul said, approaching. “It’s a first try, and to be totally honest, it’s embarrassing.”
 

“But you sent it out,” she said.

“Yes, I sent it out and got a very negative response.”

“From how many places?”
 

“One.”

“How many places did you send it to?”

“Two.”

“That’s all?”
 

“It’s best if we put this away,” he said and reached for the stack of papers. But she turned away, her mischievous grin telling him he was in trouble, that he’d either have to get serious about it, ruin the wonderful mood they had going, or let her read it and hope for the best.

Both possibilities posed a risk.

But she decided it for him by wheeling and dashing out the door. He stepped out of the library in time to see the office door close. He took a step in that direction, heard the click of the lock and stopped.

Morosely, he moved back into the library and sat down. She’d either think him talented or depraved, possibly both. It was out of his hands now, though that didn’t make the waiting any easier.

He thought of telling her the truth about the novel, then discounted the idea. But if he did nothing, what had begun between them might end tonight.

He felt her slipping away.

Sucking in a breath and covering his face, he was shocked to find he was close to tears.
Son of a bitch
, he thought.
I’m a loser
and
a crybaby
.

Paul dropped his hands and stared morosely at the wall. What was the use of waiting? Go to her now and come clean.
Look, Julia, here’s the story. I know you won’t believe me but it’s important to me to tell you the truth about that awful book. I didn’t really write it, though my hands did record it. It was something or someone that got to me in the graveyard and made me do it. I’ll take you there and show you the marker where it happened. Tell you the truth, I don’t remember much about it at all, except the feeling that I had to get the movie playing in my mind down on paper. It was possession of a kind, not Linda Blair pea soup possession, but possession nonetheless.

He was thinking this when he noticed something about the wall he’d not noticed before. Below the empty discolored rectangle where there’d obviously been a piece of artwork before, to the right of the fireplace, there was a tiny gap, about three feet tall and no more than a centimeter wide. Standing, he walked over to it and tried to wedge his fingers in the gap. It was too small. He looked around for something to slide into the aperture and then stood staring at it. He reached out, pushed the wall, and watched in amazement as it gave slightly and swung out a couple of inches. A tinge of old cedar tickled his nostrils.

He gaped at the trick door and the darkness beyond, not believing he’d found a secret passageway, telling himself those things only happened in Sherlock Holmes stories.

But the door did open wider when he tugged at it, giving easily, making an opening about a foot wide. Afraid suddenly the rats would appear, he took a step back. Lightning flashed outside, startling him. Seconds passed, and the answering thunder rumbled through the woods. He guessed the lightning was a few miles away.

Paul turned to the opening.

He knew he should get a flashlight, knew there was a small one in the kitchen and one of those big square ones in the garage. He squinted into the shadows, already seeing a tall thin shape leaning against one inner wall. Outside, raindrops began to pelt the window, thunking like thick fingers.

He held his breath, scooted forward on his knees, and reached out. The thing was well inside the dark space. By the spare light Paul could see a gilded edge, like a picture frame. He slid it toward him, expending some effort because of its weight. As the thing came out of the compartment, he realized it was, after all, a painting. Its back was to him, so he slid it the rest of the way out and propped it against the fireplace.

The woman in the portrait was ravishing. Her blue eyes blazed with an unnerving intensity. He felt himself growing lightheaded staring back at them. He forced himself to look away.

His eyes moved back to the portrait.

The woman’s blond hair, done up in a complex network of braids and ringlets, had little hints of strawberry in it. The set of the mouth was hard to read but the eyes were laughing and that made him think she was smiling too. The nose was small. Her earrings were tiny pendants with pearls on the ends. Her chin was slightly lowered, as if she were daring him to approach. The alabaster throat, too, was inviting. Paul was a little embarrassed to find himself aroused at the sight of the cleavage pushing up out of her light blue dress. The low neckline—Paul hunted for the word—the décolletage, displayed her perfectly shaped breasts to dizzying effect. He stared at the gloved hands, the thin waist made thinner by a corset, the bare forearms resting on her lap.

Was this woman, then, the woman in the graveyard, the woman who was so loathed that her tombstone was a scarred ruin?
 

Was this Annabel?

Thunder rumbled through the woods, vibrated the foundations of Watermere as Paul stared at the portrait, the heat of arousal returning, shame attending it because this woman was dead, might have been his relative. And that didn’t even take into account that the woman he was falling in love with was in the next room.

The rain came hard then, battering the house until the sound became a continuous roar. He fancied he could smell the rain through the window. It comforted him. He was staring at the window when lightning strobed, three quick flashes followed by a fourth, this one sustained, and in the pane’s reflection he saw he was not alone in the library. He cried out, whirling, and saw the dead woman glaring in the silver light. He stumbled backward, and as thunder shook the house he saw it was Julia, only Julia, holding the manuscript and watching him strangely.

He blew out ragged breath and braced himself on a chair. He giggled and wiped a hand over his forehead, which was clammy, iced with sweat.

“You scared me,” he said.

As Julia approached, Paul moved the painting behind a chair so she wouldn’t see it.

His gaze went from the manuscript in her hands to her watchful green eyes, back to the manuscript again.

“Well?” he asked.

She threw the pile of pages in his face.

The storm grew severe.
 

More than once the lights dimmed, threatened to go out. Paul wished they would. That way he wouldn’t be able to see the way Julia was staring at him, as if she were seeing him for the first time and not liking what she saw.

They sat across from one another in the library. Her eyes were hard as she watched him. He wanted to go to a different room to speak, get away from the painting, but Julia insisted on having it out here, now.

At first he’d been grateful she’d sat with her back to the painting. He could keep an eye on it that way, keep both women in sight so he could keep the two separate.

What scared him most was how Julia still looked to him like his deceased aunt. Physically they were different; Julia with the fuller figure, the green eyes instead of blue, the dark hair and skin that made her look exotic, like a maiden from some remote Pacific island. She looked nothing like the woman in the painting, not really. It was the way they both watched him, relishing secret knowledge about him, knowing how weak and insecure he felt around their beauty, that bound them in his mind.

“Paul?”

He jumped, realized he’d been staring beyond Julia, into the face of the dead woman, her pale throat, her round breasts.

“Sorry. I’ve been a little off today.”

She waited.

He cleared his throat, sat forward. “I guess you didn’t like
The Monkey Killer
.”

“It’s not right,” she said.

“Could you expand on that?” he said and regretted his smartass tone.

“Is this why you came here?”

The look on her face, which he now recognized as suspicion, stunned him into silence.

“There are things in there,” she said, pointing to the spray of papers on the floor, “that you can’t possibly know.”

When he only stared dumbly back at her, she went on, “Things about your uncle—
uncles
—that might not even be true.”

Paul felt his heartbeat in his throat.

“So what happened? You went through your grandfather’s stuff in Memphis, came here to dig up more dirt, get the rest of the story, and made up the rest? Then you sent out your lies to get rich?”
 

“Julia—”
 

“Did you expect to impress me with this trash?”

“Wait a second.”

“Because that’s what it is, Paul. Garbage.”

“It’s only a story,” he said thinly. He saw their relationship near the edge of some black abyss, ready to tumble over.

Her voice grew louder. “It’s slander.”

Paul sat forward, mind frozen like the gears of some unoiled machine. “Julia, please don’t overreact. For one thing, I don’t even know those people,” he said and glanced at the pages for help, as though they’d verify his story. “I mean, let’s say for a moment it’s true. Even if it is, everyone in that book is dead now.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” she said, her voice flat. She stood, walked toward the door.

“Wait,” he called. He moved toward her. “Why do you care so much about the people in the story?” He allowed himself to say it. “They’re my relatives, not yours.”

She turned then, and as she did he was afraid she’d see the portrait leaning against the chair. She shook her head, eyes down, chin trembling. When Paul reached out to touch her shoulder her hand shot out, slapped him hard across the cheekbone. Pain exploded and he staggered, just managing to keep his balance.

“Go to hell, Paul.”

Holding his cheek with one hand, he was reaching out for her again when he saw her eyes flare, her face contort.

Withdrawing his hand, he asked, “Can’t we talk about this?”

Julia’s jaw flexed. “No, we cannot talk about this, Paul. You sent this out to publishers, right?”

“One of whom already rejected it,” he said.

“He was right to,” she said, going.

“Please don’t leave.”

She faced him from the doorway, the skin around her mouth drawn tight.

“I never want to see you again.”

“What’s wrong with you? I’d understand if you hated my book, but you act as though I killed someone.”

She was watching him with an expression he couldn’t read.

He went on, “Hitting me in the face? You’d think Myles was your father or something.”

Her eyes widened.

“Oh my God,” he said.

He took a step toward her, but she was already turning away.

“I’m so sorry, Julia.”
 

He started after her, but by the time he’d gotten to the back staircase the front door was slamming shut.

She was gone.

Halfway home, the rain ceased. When she emerged from the woods and trudged through the yard to the farmhouse, her clothes damp and clingy on her skin, the stars shone so brightly that she could not only make out the lightning bugs as they flashed but could see their wings keeping them afloat, their pill-shaped bodies hovering above the grass. They were mating, she thought, celebrating the end of the thunderstorm. In another frame of mind she might have appreciated the lightshow, but all she could think of as she watched them signal to one another was how sorely she’d misjudged Paul.

He was airing people’s dirty laundry for a profit, which was one thing. It was another thing entirely that he was doing it to his own uncle, whether he knew the man or not.

The one saving grace was the likelihood the trashy novel would never be published. It flowed easily enough; she’d give him that much. But the subject matter was lurid, and the offhanded way he dealt with it was nothing short of ghoulish.

Maybe that was the real Paul, she thought as she got rid of her soaked shoes and walked through the dark house. A human buzzard feasting on the carrion of his family’s skeletons.

The moon was so bright there was no need to mess with the living room lamp. Knowing nothing would take away the sick betrayal she felt, she sat at the Steinway and played a somber Bach sonata she knew by heart. The song choice was a bad one, she realized, and she once again dissolved into tears. She hated herself for wallowing in self-pity, but reasoning with it was no use. She’d really thought she and Paul had something meaningful.

A voice said, “Are those tears of remorse?”

She whirled, falling against the piano, her elbows crashing discordant notes.

“Who’s there?” she asked.

“Just relax,” the man in the rocking chair said. A wide-brimmed hat made his head huge in the shadows.

She rose from the bench. In the lurid moonlight bleeding in through the window she watched an arm reach slowly out and twist on the lamp.