The House on Sunset Lake (7 page)

Chapter Nine

It was dark by the time she got outside, but she always enjoyed walking the streets of Savannah at this time. It was true that there was a certain eeriness to the city when the light fell from the sky, the noise of the traffic retreated as you left the main streets and the Spanish moss in the trees rustled in the warm evening breeze, but she always felt safe and at home.

She tucked her cardigan and bag under her arm as she walked away from Broughton, weaving her way through the quiet streets of the historic district, not really knowing where she was going, just wanting a little space for her thoughts after her conversation with Connor.

Jennifer did not consider herself to be a stubborn person, but she did not want to back down from where she stood on returning to New York. She felt certain that the city was not right for her, that it was too fast, too crazy, too concerned with the things she really wasn’t bothered about: money, power and status.

Jeanne’s offer of sharing an apartment was an exciting one. She hadn’t been to her friend’s place before, and could imagine it was nothing close to the levels of comfort she was used to; even as a student she had been allocated one of the best rooms at Wellesley, and it certainly wouldn’t compare to living at Casa D’Or. But her family home meant living with her mother, and after being back in the city less than a week, she was quickly remembering how difficult Sylvia could be. Her disapproval was more corrosive than Connor’s offhanded remarks, and the pointed silences and withering looks were beginning to grind Jennifer down. She found herself tiptoeing around the house, marshalling her own silence as if she were in a library or place of worship. She didn’t want to be seen and not heard. She wanted to be not seen and not heard.

At least Savannah was still as beautiful as ever, she thought, as a horse and carriage tour trundled past, hooves clattering on the road, tourists waving as it disappeared around a corner. Most people she knew at college had been desperate to leave their home towns and reinvent themselves in New York, Boston or LA. But they hadn’t been from Savannah, which tonight looked particularly glorious.

Soft light glowed from the windows of the grand houses that lined the grassy squares; rocking chairs on porches swayed gently in the perfumed breeze. Jennifer imagined herself living in a town house in the historic district; somewhere cosier than Casa D’Or but with all its unique Southern flavour. She imagined a house with a raspberry-red door and a balcony she could step out on to and drink her French vanilla coffee and smell the magnolia bushes in the garden.

She was almost at Forsyth Park now, one of her favourite places of all. She always thought of it as the heart of the city – the perfect spot to read or relax and watch the world go by – and its grand fountain, with its arches of glittering spray, still dazzled her even though she had seen it a thousand times.

She paused as the red and blue flashing lights of a police car drove past. Her heartbeat quickened as for one crazy and paranoid moment she wondered if Connor had sent someone to look for her. The vehicle stopped a few feet in front of her, pulling over an old red pickup truck that was driving the wrong way up a one-way street. She couldn’t resist having a look at what was going on.

The driver of the truck got out and stood under one of Savannah’s old street lamps. Jennifer knew that she recognised him, but for a second she couldn’t place from where. Then it struck her. It was Jim Johnson from the Lake House. The policeman had also got out of his car and was approaching him. Jennifer quickened her pace, reaching Jim just behind the officer.

The policeman spoke first. ‘This is a one-way street . . .’

‘I’m sorry,’ began Jim, thrusting his hands into his pockets sheepishly. ‘I didn’t know . . .’

Jennifer caught his eye, then turned her attention to the officer.

‘It’s totally my fault,’ she said, leaping to Jim’s defence. ‘My friend is over from England and offered to pick me up. I gave him directions to follow because he’s only just got into town. I told him to come this way.’

‘You told him to come this way?’ repeated the police officer, looking down at her sceptically.

‘Yes. Jennifer Wyatt, by the way,’ she said, knowing that her family’s name carried some weight around town. She thrust her hand forward. The officer didn’t shake it.

‘Your friend was still driving down the street the wrong way. It’s his responsibility as the driver to check where he is going,’ he said firmly.

‘I realise that, Officer,’ said Jim, giving Jennifer a quick look.

‘I’m so sorry, Jim,’ said Jennifer, feeling herself getting sucked into the role she had decided to play. ‘I should have just got a taxi or walked home rather than asking you to ferry me around the whole time. You’re on holiday after all.’

‘Driver’s licence,’ said the police officer resignedly.

Jim pulled his wallet out of his pocket, rifled through some dollar bills and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, which he handed over. Somehow Jennifer was surprised he carried it on him, and even more surprised when he went to the glove compartment of the truck and produced the insurance document as well.

The policeman gave the papers a glance and then paused for a moment, as if he was deciding what to do, before tapping Jim on the arm with them.

‘Next time you fancy playing the white knight and picking your girl up from the city, make sure you check which way you’re going, no matter what she tells you, OK?’

‘I will,’ said Jim, giving the officer a charming contrite smile.

The policeman got back in his car and gave them both a look before shaking his head and driving away.

They stood on the pavement in silence for a few moments.

‘He has a difficult wife,’ said Jennifer finally, watching the tail lights of the police car fade from view.

‘How do you know?’ said Jim, leaning on the open door of the truck.

‘
There was sympathy in his eyes when I said I’d insisted you pick me up.’

‘So you’re the white knight in this situation,’ said Jim, raising one of his brows.

‘I think I helped back there,’ she said with a slow grin.

‘Thank you,’ he said after a moment. ‘For saving me from the county jail,’ he added, not entirely seriously.

They stayed rooted to their respective spots.

‘So what are you doing downtown?’

‘Checking it out,’ shrugged Jim.

‘I thought you weren’t interested in the delights of Savannah?’

‘I figured, seeing as I’m here . . .’

‘You want a native to show you the sights?’ she asked him impulsively.

‘Are you offering?’

‘So long as you let me drive,’ she said as an inviting and sweet-smelling breeze whistled down the street.

‘Why don’t we walk?’ he suggested.

‘OK,’ she replied without even thinking.

She led him east, mindful that they should not venture too far north towards Broughton Street; she had no desire to see Connor again this evening, especially not when she was with Jim Johnson. They threaded through the back streets of the historic district, now draped in twilight, just the glow from the street lamps lighting up the city. She pointed out some of the city’s most notable buildings, the slim white stuccoed town house that had been the childhood home of one of her favourite writers, Flannery O’Connor; the grand Andrew Low house on Abercorn Street; and Poetter Hall, the beautiful redbrick Romanesque revival jewel that was now home to the Savannah College of Art and Design. She told him about the history of the city and its links to England, how it had been colonised by the British general James Oglethorpe, who brought over some of London’s poor in the hope of giving them a fresh start; and she explained that the tangle of grey feathery fibre draped from every tree branch was Spanish moss, a tropical flowering plant that was surrounded by myth and legend.

In return, Jim explained what had brought the family to Savannah. His father was apparently a big literary name in England, but had been unable to replicate his success after an early hit, published when Jim was young. He had been sent here by his agent to write his comeback book, and Jim had been persuaded to accompany his parents. The deal was that he would spend two months in Savannah, keeping his mother company whilst his father wrote, and in return they were going to buy him an Interrail ticket to travel around Europe before college started again in October. Jim was obviously looking forward to this trip, but reading between the lines, Jennifer could also tell that he was keen for his father to get his career back on track.

He described how he had been pulled out of private school aged thirteen, when the money for school fees ran out. How he’d gone to university in London so that he could live at home and make his student grant go further, funnelling his spare time and money into his music. It was when he talked about this that his face really came alive.

He told her how he got his first guitar for his twelfth birthday and had over the years taught himself the clarinet, the piano, even an instrument called the sitar, and how he had paid for his last vacation to the South of France by busking all the way down from London to Nice. His heroes were Nick Drake and John Martyn, names that didn’t mean a great deal to Jennifer but whose music she made a note to listen to. He’d already written more than thirty songs; he wanted to send them off to a record company but wasn’t quite sure he had nailed the killer track that would land him a record deal. He wanted to write a novel too, and had already done some short stories, but unfavourable comparisons with his father’s genius put him off devoting more time to it.

Everything about Jim Johnson was different – his accent, his intellectual, exotically bohemian background, his references to his London life: a pub that used to be frequented by highwaymen, school trips to the Houses of Parliament that sounded as if they were straight out of a history book – and perhaps that was why he was so easy to open up to.

‘So what have you been doing in town tonight?’ he asked as the conversation lulled.

‘At a friend’s party,’ she replied, thoughts of Connor making her grimace.

‘Wasn’t it any good?’

‘No, it was fun. I had a bit of a row with my boyfriend, that’s all.’

‘Connor.’

‘He doesn’t like my friends.’

‘Why not?’

‘He thinks that if you don’t want to work on Wall Street you don’t have any ambition,’ she said, feeling slightly traitorous.

‘You’re not a Yuppie,’ he said simply.

‘Is that meant to be a compliment?’ she laughed.

‘Absolutely.’

One word, but it made her feel good. It was another moment before he spoke again.

‘So what is the story with Connor?’

‘The story?’

‘How long have you been together?’

‘Since I was sixteen. We met in school.’

‘And it lasted all the way through uni?’ he asked incredulously.

‘I was at an all-women college.’

‘Connor’s suggestion?’ teased Jim. Jennifer didn’t like to admit that it was.

‘What about you?’ she asked as casually as she could.

‘There’s Emma. She’s cool.’

Jennifer tried to imagine what Emma looked like. She’d be pretty; flowery little dress and big shoes, glasses maybe. She didn’t want to know any more and let the matter drop.

‘I don’t suppose I could hitch a ride home,’ she said, putting her cardigan over her shoulders.

‘You’ve saved me from alligators and the long arm of the law. I think I owe you a lift to Casa D’Or at the very least.’

They looped back round to the pickup truck, an ancient relic that had come with the Lake House, and Jim opened the door for her to hop in. But as the engine gunned to a start, she realised that she did not want the night to end.

‘You know, a tour of the city wouldn’t be complete without seeing one more thing,’ she said, feeling a little provocative.

‘Where should we go?’

‘I’m not saying. Not yet,’ she smiled.

They drove for about ten minutes out of the historic district of the city. The old truck didn’t have air conditioning, and Jim rolled down the windows. They sat in a contented silence.

‘Where are we?’ asked Jim after Jennifer directed him to stop.

‘The Bonaventura cemetery,’ she revealed.

‘Cheerful,’ he said with a nervous laugh. ‘Is this the bit where you reveal you’re a serial killer?’

‘Don’t worry. You’re safe. Very few serials are female.’

They got out and walked up to a pair of big iron gates. Beyond, they could see the shapes and shadows in the cemetery lit by the glow of the moon.

‘I love this place,’ said Jennifer, peering through the grille in the darkness. ‘Have you read the book
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evi
l
?’ Jim shook his head.
‘
The cover is a picture of a statue in the grounds.’

‘What’s the book about?’

‘A murder. I’ll lend you a copy.’

Jim gave a low, slow laugh.

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ he said as his bare arm brushed against hers. ‘You’re just not what I expected.’

They stood there, arms laced through the iron gate, although Jennifer made sure that they didn’t touch again.

‘You know, I think we could climb over this thing if you want to give me the full tour.’

Jennifer turned to him and smiled. ‘You’re really up for breaking into a cemetery in the most haunted city in America?’

‘Is it?’

She nodded. ‘They say everyone in Savannah has a great ghost story.’

‘What about you? Tell me about your spectral encounters.’

She smiled. ‘I’m still waiting for something to happen. I guess that’s the story of my life.’

He looked at her as if he was really interested in her. His eyes were the most extraordinary colour, a greyish-green not dissimilar from the colour of Spanish moss, she mused, deciding that her first impression, that Bryn Johnson was the most good-looking member of the Johnson family, was wrong.

‘So what is it you want to do?’

‘I don’t know. That’s why I’ve come home. To think about it.’

‘Tell me your dreams,’ he said, nudging her playfully.