The Widow's Walk (5 page)

The woman was crying uncontrollably. She was all alone and sitting in a dilapidated chair. It was the dead of night, and the room that imprisoned her was dark, and without character of any kind. As the moonlight streaming through the lone window highlighted her form, she soon buried her face in her hands while she wept. She seemed so alone, so helpless, and so much in need of companionship that his heart silently cried out for her.

To Garrett's surprise, she soon removed her hands from her face, then turned and stared straight into his eyes. Her expression, both searching and pleading, was the most desperate he had ever seen. She then raised both arms and stretched them out in his direction, as if she were begging him to come to her.

“Please . . .” he heard her say to him. “Please help me . . .”

And then, as quickly as Garrett's dream had appeared, it ended, the sad beauty that was its subject dissolving into nothingness with it.

With his body covered in a cold sweat, Garrett suddenly awakened.

Chapter 3

It was almost six o'clock the following evening, and Dr. Garrett Richmond, Professor of Architecture, was finishing another lecture of his class, American Antebellum Architecture 101.

As a professor, Garrett was a tough taskmaster. Even so, he never lacked for students. He was young, outspoken, and known for pulling no punches regarding his purist opinions about architecture.

“Consider this final thought,” he said as he wrapped things up. “Painting, sculpture, architecture, and literature all seem to spring from one's personal fountainhead, compelling its owner to produce work in a certain medium. Admittedly I am no different in that regard, for it is only an appreciation of the architectural which I am trying to instill within your minds.”

As the class filed out, he stuffed his papers into a leather satchel and made the short walk down the hall to his office. Upon closing his office door he relaxed in his desk chair, enjoying the blessed quiet. When this course ended, he would teach one more night class next spring.

He was pleased with a decision he had made earlier in the day. Other than the capital still locked up in his condo, he had some eighteen thousand dollars in cash. He was feeling more confident about things now, enough so that he was planning to give his contractor a check for ten thousand dollars so that the restoration could get under way. By the time that money was used up, Garrett hoped he would have the additional funds from the sale of his condo. But that remained only a possibility, rather than a certainty.

During the process of buying the house he had momentarily toyed with the idea of bending some of his principles, and ordering the restoration to be something more akin to the modern. But in the end he decided that he could not do that. This was to be his personal masterwork, not a project of compromise. He was taking a huge risk, and he could only hope that he would succeed in creating something very special.

By the time he was eighteen, it was a foregone conclusion that he would become an architect. With his SAT scores nearly off the charts, he was readily accepted into college. It was while attaining his master's degree in architecture that his uncanny ability to recognize architectural works and the people who had designed them really came to the forefront. Once he had studied the work of an architect, it was easy for him to identify buildings that had been created by the same hand. He minored in art history, and in this discipline too he possessed an unerring eye for artistic authorship that was truly remarkable.

And then, for what must have been the one hundredth time that day, Garrett thought about last night's dream. He had tried to get it out of his mind but found it impossible. The dream had been so vivid, so lifelike in its colors, intensity, and detail that in many ways it had not seemed like a dream at all. It was as if he had truly been there with that mysterious woman who had begged for his help. Although her beauty had been mesmerizing, her sadness was the most desperate he had ever witnessed. And the unexpected attraction he felt for her at that moment had carried over into his waking hours, her lovely image reappearing in his mind's eye seemingly at will, yet only to vanish again.

Who was she?
he wondered. Could she have been someone from his past who lay deeply buried in his memories, only to now reemerge and create that amazing dream? No, he realized. Had he ever met a woman as lovely as she, he would have certainly remembered. Whether this woman really existed or whether she was simply a figment of his imagination, she was unknown to him. He also hoped that he might see her again sometime, be it in a dream or real life. And that if he did, he would not find her to be in such terrible distress.

O
NE HOUR LATER
, Garrett was happily astride his Harley Low Rider as he headed south from Boston along a lovely coastal road. He had ridden a motorcycle in one form or another ever since his college days, and he still loved it. His parents had stern objections, but expecting him to give it up was an exercise in futility. He was on his way to Seaside to give his contractor the ten-thousand-dollar check.

As he approached Seaside he saw that Jay Morgan's pickup was already parked out front and that some lights had been turned on inside the house, presumably a few lanterns that Jay had brought along with him. After shutting down the Harley and leaning it onto its kickstand, Garrett untied a sturdy leather tube from the bike's rear fender and began walking toward the house. As he went along, he picked up several small stones and put them into one pocket. Jay was sitting in one of Garrett's folding chairs on the front porch, waiting for him, shaking his head in mock disdain.

“It's about time you got here,” he said. “There are few clients in the world that I would consider meeting at this time of night. And although you're one of them, Dr. Richmond, it wouldn't do to take me for granted.”

Garrett laughed a little as he plopped down in the other chair.

“Yeah,” he answered. “But we both know that given the size of this job, you'll be willing to put up with just about anything from me.”

“Fair enough,” Jay replied. “But even the money won't make up for you being such a royal pain.”

Garrett turned and cast his gaze out over the restless Atlantic. Although he had been here for less than two minutes, he already felt at home again.

Jay Morgan was more than just the contractor whom Garrett tried to use the most; he was also one of his best friends. Not only did he trust Jay implicitly, but by now they also had worked together enough to respect each other's artistic differences. Clearly Jay's parents had a sense of humor. His full name was Jay Peter Morgan, sometimes also known as J. P. Morgan. About Garrett's age, he was a great ox of a man. He had been losing his hair for some time now and was mostly bald. Perhaps as some form of hirsute compensation, three years ago he had grown a full, reddish-brown beard.

Best of all, Jay had a wonderful sense of humor. Although Garrett guessed that Jay had always been impressed with his credentials he had never shown it, preferring instead to continually harass him about being a nerdy professor. But Jay knew full well how competent Garrett was—not only as an architect but also as someone with a good working knowledge of everything needed to take on a job of this size.

Jay pointed at the leather tube Garrett had brought along. “Are those the floor plans?” he asked.

Garrett nodded. “Yeah, but they're rough. I paced off each of the rooms and then slap-dashed these together, back at the office. They'll do for a while.”

“Good,” Jay answered. “Then let's get to it. I'd like to get home before I'm an old man.”

When Jay stood up and put on his hard hat, Garrett laughed again.

“It's not that bad!” he said.

Jay smirked at him. “You
have
been in there, right?” he asked rhetorically.

Without further ado, the two men went inside. The stark, artificial light served to hauntingly accentuate the damage that had been done to Seaside. Jay looked around and shook his head. Like Garrett, he had long believed that a home—no matter how grand or how humble—deserved to be treated with respect.

“God,” he said while still looking around. “How can people do this to a house? It's almost a sacrilege.”

“Stupid as it might be,” Garrett answered, “they're angry as hell, and this is their only way to get back at the banks. I certainly don't agree with it, but in an odd way I can almost understand.”

Jay had also brought along a folding table, which he had erected in the center of what would presumably become Seaside's renovated parlor. Garrett removed the stones from his pocket then slid the plans free of the leather tube. After unrolling the plans on the table, he used the stones to keep the corners from curling up.

“High-tech,” Jay said.

“Works every time,” Garrett answered.

Jay looked around again. “This will be the parlor, right?” he asked Garrett.

Garrett nodded. “I'm pretty sure I already know the answer to this, but what's the first step?”

“Well,” Jay answered, “luckily the basement and foundation are still in good shape. Before we tackle anything else I'm going to get my electrician and plumber in here. I don't think we'll find anything monumental, but don't drink the well water until I've had it tested. After that, my crew will begin working on the outside of the house. The first exterior thing to tackle should be . . .”

While Garrett listened, Jay did an excellent job of outlining the entire project. Despite Garrett's legendary fussiness, only twice did he comment. When Jay finished, Garrett fished his wallet out of his back pocket and handed over the ten-thousand-dollar check.

“Normally in a situation like this, I'd say: ‘
Don't spend it all in one place!
'” he said. “But in this case, you have no other choice.”

“Yeah,” Jay said. “And now, professor, I'm going to blow this pop stand. I should be able to get my electrician and plumber in here during the next couple of days. And am I correct in assuming that you will be out here ad nauseam, constantly adding in your overly educated two cents?”

Garrett nodded. “You bet. After all, somebody's got to keep an eye on you and your band of misfits.”

Jay laughed. “How true,” he answered. This time when he glanced around the shabby room, the look on his face sobered.

“A lot of people think you're nuts for buying this place,” Jay said. “But I want you to know that I'm not among them. Given your expertise, I have absolutely no doubt that once Seaside is finished, she will be spectacular. You're going to silence all the naysayers, Garrett, you really are.”

“I hope so,” Garrett answered. “And even if this turns out to be a huge mistake, I'll always be glad that it was you who did the job.”

“Thanks for that,” Jay said. “And now, I'm going home.”

Garrett nodded. “Say ‘hi' to the wife and kids for me, will you?”

After shaking Garrett's hand, Jay walked out, got into his pickup, and headed for home.

As the sound of Jay's truck engine faded in the distance, silence again overtook the house. As usual Garrett was again struck by the unique sort of stillness inherent in this place. At first he had found it to be rather eerie. But now that he was becoming accustomed to it, he could also faintly hear the reassuring sounds of the sea as it continually assaulted the shoreline.

He picked up one of the lanterns and walked about the first floor for a time, ticking off a mental checklist of tasks that would be done once Jay and his crew turned their attention to the inside of the house. He then went to the central foyer and walked up the battered staircase to the second floor, where he did the same thing. He stood in the master bedroom for a time while trying to imagine the many people who had lived and perhaps died in this house—who they had been, what they had done with their lives, and whether the fates had been cruel or kind. The original parcel of land had been some ten acres, and the plot had retained its size throughout Seaside's many changes of hands. It was then that he got the idea to go up to the roof and inspect the old widow's walk.

Up there the sea air smelled fresh and clean, and before him lay a marvelous view of the harbor. As Garrett neared the widow's walk, he smiled a little bit. The wives of sea captains did use these structures to search for their husbands' ships. But he also knew that widow's walks were in fact a standard decorative feature of Italianate architecture, which was a very popular style during the height of the whaling boom in North America. Also known as Italian cupolas, in most cases they were merely ornate embellishments, and very prone to leaks.

Sometimes these cupolas were built around the chimney, creating access to it. This allowed the residents of the home to pour sand down burning chimneys during a chimney fire, in the hope of preventing the house from burning down. Although Garrett was a stickler for history, he was also something of a romantic and much preferred the stories about whaling captains' wives visiting these structures so as to wistfully search for their returning husbands.

When Garrett neared the dilapidated widow's walk he stopped to examine it. At one time it had surely been lovely. Sitting near the front roofline, it was a two-story affair and had a roof of its own. Supported by columns, the cupola's second-story roof also boasted a full railing. A ladder led from the first floor of the cupola to the second. The reason for it being two stories tall was simple enough, Garrett realized; the taller the widow's walk, the more expansive the view. He was tempted to climb up and look out over the harbor, but given the overall poor condition he wisely decided against it.

What was it like, he wondered, to be a whaler's wife living in this big house? Would she come up here to scan the ships as they entered the harbor? If so, he couldn't imagine her doing it without the aid of a spyglass. It must have been difficult to live by oneself for so long, wondering whether your husband would ever return to you.