A Stranger in Wynnedower (33 page)

The panel moved
slightly. Bits of something filtered down. She brushed it from her cheek.

Up one more step. Now
she could get a better grip. She held onto a joist and pushed up hard with her
other hand. Balancing the panel on her fingertips, Rachel was able to shift it
to the side and set it atop the joists.

The first floor should
lie directly on the upper side of these joists, or would have except that this
was in the area of the stairs.

It hit her like a bolt.
Nearly knocked her off the ladder. The blueprint. The stairway door that was no
longer there. A Welsh dresser where the door on the kitchen side should have
been.

A hidey-hole beneath
the first floor stair risers. For Brendan’s treasure?

Correction. Jack and
Helene’s treasure.

Wynnedower’s treasure.

Was she being silly?
Maybe, but it was a secret place, and someone had been here recently, someone
interested enough to bring the ladder over to this spot and disturb the dust.

She set the flashlight
on the floor above and put both hands on either side of the opening to steady
herself as she walked up the topmost steps of the ladder.

With her head inside
the opening, she paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom. This was an
oddly-shaped space. She could see the form of the central stairs, but like a
photographic negative—opposite to how she’d normally see it. She identified the
underneath side of the steps coming off the large stairs. Maybe those missing
steps from the blueprint? But a much smaller area.

With a little heave-ho
and a push-off from the ladder, she was able to lift her body up through the
opening until her butt found a seat on the floor of the mystery space.

She sat staring into
the space as her vision sifted through the shadows, until she could sort out
the shapes. It was very dry and cool. Almost a natural climate-controlled
storage space between the cool, dry basement and the warmer house. As she
stared, she saw a fine layer of dust on the floor boards, and then saw the area
where the dust had been scuffled.

The location fit with
the noises she’d heard most recently. So maybe someone had been here. Why?

Rachel pulled her legs
up and got to her feet. She couldn’t stand fully upright except for one small
area. The other areas sloped down and were prime headache-makers for the
unwary. She stopped short of the disturbed area and saw only a dark shadow at
first, then realized it was a black cloth.

Leaning forward, she
touched the cloth and found that it covered a box. She lifted the cloth. No,
not a box. A trunk.

Brendan and his
treasure? Had he been here? What about David Kilmer? He always seemed to be
around. May? Hard to envision her climbing the ladder and shimmying up through
the opening.

Rachel was here alone
in the house except for Helene, and she wouldn’t be coming down here. The dust
on the floor had been disturbed, both below and up here, so if anything of
interest had been here, it was likely gone now.

It was an old trunk,
the kind ladies traveled with aboard steamships and trains a century earlier.
Much like the one on Helene’s side of the attic, but this one had a high,
curved lid. Rachel knelt in front of it. She popped the locks and raised the
lid.

Long, dark narrow
somethings were stored in the chest lengthwise. She ran her fingers along the
patterned edges. Frames. Stacked upright, one against the other.

Frames. Her breath
stuck in her throat. Not Jack’s. Old Griffin’s artwork? Maybe old family
portraits? What a marvelous addition that would be to the renovation.

The renovation. She
wouldn’t be here for it.

She shook off her
disappointment. Her distress didn’t matter. Her feelings for Wynnedower were
separate from how she felt about Jack. Maybe this would be the key that
convinced Jack to save Wynnedower.

She pulled at one of
the frames. It lifted easily from among its fellows.

Color. She touched it.
Thick. Oil. About two by three foot. She leaned it against the stair riser, sat
back and switched on the flashlight.

It reminded her of Van
Gogh’s sunflowers. From what she could tell in this dim light, the coloring was
similar, as was the composition. Griffin may have practiced his craft by
copying a master. That was a pretty common teaching technique. Probably,
someone had tucked away his paintings long, long ago and never thought of them
again.

Even as a copy, there
was skill here, obvious to her eye despite the poor light. She picked it up
again and examined the signature. Had he copied Van Gogh’s signature, too? She
remembered the
Cottage Sunflower
receipt.

A slight shake in her
hand echoed in her chest. Her mind went unaccountably blank as if her brain
knew something it dared not accept.

She put the sunflower
painting aside, grasped another frame and removed it from the trunk with great
care.

A young girl with
blonde hair in a blue overcoat was sitting next to a fountain. She had a big
red ribbon in her hair. She knew she’d seen this girl before but she’d been
standing—in a masterpiece at the hands of Renoir. Here the girl was sitting,
not standing.

Suddenly overwhelmed,
she wanted to run, to be at her small apartment over Daisy’s diner where there
were no decisions to be made, where she needed only to earn money to keep
Jeremy in college and a roof over her head. Where her heart wouldn’t race and
her limbs wouldn’t go weak with indecision and falter with the fear of making
the wrong decision.

Why was it her problem,
anyway?

It didn’t matter why.
She couldn’t leave these unprotected. The disturbed dust told her that much.
Why had someone come so close, yet left them here?

Because they were
copies, and poor ones at that. She would see the truth clearly in better light.
It was that simple.

One by one, she carried
each painting carefully from the hiding place and down the ladder. Six trips in
all. Studiously, she avoided examining them, keeping her focus intent upon
transporting them as gently as possible.

She carried two at a
time up the basement stairs being sure to touch only the frames. For a
temporary refuge, she placed them in the lower pantry cabinets, one here, two
there, until they were all upstairs. Then she made one last trip down to the
basement to close the panel and return the ladder to its resting spot.

Now what? She had to
keep them safe until Jack returned. They’d be his problem or his joy. Either
way, it wasn’t her business no matter how much she desired otherwise.

Until tomorrow.

****

That night, she tried
over and over to envision how she could keep distance between them while she
shared this exciting, but not yet confirmed as real, news. This was the kind of
secret you told someone after laughing and throwing your arms around him and
then whispering in his ear, “I have something to show you that you’ll never
believe.”

It was that kind of
news. It didn’t mesh well with ‘you never told me about your wife.’

Her fingers had touched
works of art that might be—could be—masterpieces.

But her heart, if not
broken, was sorely bruised.

You never told me
about your wife.

It had an icy shower
quality to it. An ice-pick shower quality.

Rachel spent a
restless, sleepless night, her last night at Wynnedower, and never figured out
how to deliver good news and bad all at one time. She tried in vain to sleep,
awash in regret over that kiss—both that it occurred and that it hadn’t
happened again. Now that she knew the truth, there could be no more. Beyond
that very personal concern was the question of who else knew about the
paintings?

Someone did and had
kept the information secret.

Jack arrived home,
excited and incredibly pleased with himself that he’d scored an earlier flight
back. He had to rent a car, of course, since Brendan wasn’t due to pick him up
for several hours. He’d never been this eager to return home. Or, rather, to
return to Wynnedower.

Amanda had been
annoyed, arguing that he was missing some important networking opportunities in
New York, but he’d blown it off. He couldn’t wait.

She’d said, “I can see
there’s no holding you here. It’s about that woman, isn’t it? I hope you know
what you’re doing.”

He answered, “For the
first time in a long time, I can see it all coming together. I can see the
future. I’m going to tell her about us. It’s past time.”

Amanda said, “Good
luck, Jack.” She placed her hands on his arms and reached up to kiss him. “I
hope she’s in an understanding mood.”

“Rachel?” He paused.
“Or are you talking about May?”

“Maybe both.”

He’d grabbed a cab and
rushed to the airport to catch that flight. About an hour and a half in the air
to Richmond, then the drive out to Wynnedower—it seemed forever. As he entered
the house he yelled her name. “Rachel!”

He was ready to call
her name again, but then there she was, already descending the stairs. He felt
a shot of pride that she must’ve been waiting and watching for him to arrive.
He ran up the first few steps, then saw her expression and his excitement
faltered.

She straightened the
collar of her blue jacket and smoothed the sleeves. She tucked her hair behind
her ears. He noticed her hair had gotten longer while she’d been here. Her eyes
seemed dull. No more than a sad light brown.

Jack searched his brain
for some sort of safe territory—for something to say while he figured out what
was going on with her. “Did I surprise you?”

“You’re early.”

His gaze moved beyond
her. “Is something wrong? Is Helene okay?”

“She’s fine.”

“Then what? Tell me
now, Rachel. I want to talk about great things. I want to tell you about the
showing. I want to celebrate with you. If something serious has happened, I
need to know now.” He moved up to the landing.

She held out her hand.
“Please stop.”

He stared at her.

“I have things ready to
turn over to you, and I need to talk to you about…something else.”

“What?”

She paused and looked
around, her expression suddenly confused. “Not here. No.” She paused before
blurting out, “You never called back.”

“What? When?”

“The night of your
showing.”

He saw indecision in
her face, at odds with her words. As if they were saying these words, but
talking about something else altogether different. Or, at least, she was, and
he was struggling to figure it out.

Walking a wide arc
around him, Rachel descended the last steps into the central hall. She pointed
toward the table. “I’ve put the information I collected there. The appraisals
and such, plus some ideas.”

“You’re leaving.” His
mind went blank for a moment.

“No reason to stay.
Jeremy’s situation is resolved. Your art show is over. It’s time for me to
return to real life.”

“You came here for more
than your brother. What about finding a different kind of job?”

“That was a silly
dream, and I cannot impose upon your hospitality any longer.” She turned back
toward him. “There’s the matter of employment, too—my part-time employment with
you. I hope you don’t mind that I’m not giving notice.”

“I do mind.”

“Jack, let’s be adult
about this, okay?”

He advanced toward her.
“Are you behaving in an adult manner? Or are you trying to avoid the
conversation we were going to have when I returned from New York?”

His question sucked the
air from the room. Her face flushed.

She touched her cheek
and he grabbed her hand. He pulled her fingers close to his face, touched her
palm to his lips. Her hand was shaking. She waited one long, betraying moment
before taking it back.

She clasped her hands
tightly together, stared at Jack and said, “You don’t have the right to behave
this way.”

He frowned and shook
his head. “What?”

“You heard me.” She
waited. For what, she didn’t know. She received nothing from him but a blank
stare. Unable to bear that stare any longer, she turned and ran back up the
stairs, wishing that being righteous felt like sufficient reward, regretting
that being right kept her from his arms. At her door, she hugged herself for
comfort, or perhaps to keep herself from running back downstairs. To him.

She leaned her forehead
against the wooden door. Smooth and cool, it offered small relief.

Why was she standing
here? Because she was weak-willed and hoping to hear the sound of his footsteps
following her?

No doubt he was already
in his studio with his paintings.