The Book of James (6 page)

Later, her father murmured in her ear, “I didn’t need to make

a laughingstock of you—you did it yourself. Dropping to your

knees like a slave or a whore. Maybe Bradford will find use for

you after al .”

The words seared in her memory. For years afterward, she

could tell by the look in Bradford’s eyes that if he could have taken back one day in his life, it would have been the day he married her.

Without question.

He’d learned the hard way that when you marry a person, you

marry their family. And money or not, the impact was the same.

The quaintness of Dylan’s house took me by surprise. It was a small yellow colonial with dark-green shutters, just a few blocks from

Germantown Avenue. A white picket fence wrapped neatly around

the tiny front yard, encircling the house in suburban perfection.

Dylan didn’t seem like the white-picket-fence type. He didn’t seem like the historic-colonial type either. I would have put him in one of those penthouse apartments I’d seen near the art museum, in

the middle of the city.

I sat on the toilet-seat lid while he picked gravel out of my

hand with a pair of tweezers. He was perched on the edge of the

tub, concentrating diligently on his task.

“I don’t believe you could be so dumb. How did you manage

to fall?”

“Bad choice of footwear for a sprint in the woods.” I winced

in pain.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“That house was incredible. Like something in a movie. Have

you ever been inside?”

“No, Nick never invited anyone home with him.”

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ELLEN J. GREEN

“He was talking about that house right before he died.”

Dylan stopped poking at my hand and studied my face. “What

did he say about it?”

“He was on morphine, so I thought he was just delirious. He

described it for me and kept telling me I had to come here . . .” I stopped. I didn’t want to say anything more.

“Did he say why?”

I shook my head. “No. He did say something terrible had hap-

pened there. Did it?”

“Nick disappeared when he was sixteen or so.” Dylan hesi-

tated. “People whispered about it, like there was some big secret behind it al .”

He motioned to my leg. “You’re getting blood on your pants.”

I didn’t realize I’d been running my hand all along the knee of my slacks while he was talking. The khaki fabric was soiled with dirt and red smears from my wound. He took my hand in his again. “If

I were you, I’d go back to Maine. You got millions out of the deal.

Take it.” He continued poking at my palm with the tweezers.

“What did they say happened?”

“The most common rumor was that Nick ran off with the

groundskeeper’s fifteen-year-old daughter. But I wouldn’t be sur-

prised if he just wanted to get away from that house.”

“Do you know anyone named James, by any chance?”

He glanced up but didn’t seem alarmed. “Probably five off the

top of my head. Why?”

I took a breath. “Someone from school, maybe? Or someone

Nick knew?”

He stood and opened the medicine cabinet. “None that come

to mind. Why?” When I said nothing for a few moments, he looked

down at me. “What?”

“One of the last things he talked about before he died was

someone named James.”

THE BOOK
of
JAMES

43

He pulled my hand over the sink and poured antiseptic onto

my palm. It stung, and I winced. “What about James?” he said.

I shrugged. “He insisted I had to come here and find him.” I

wanted to tell Dylan all of it, but I had no idea if I could trust him.

I’d already said too much.

“So what are you going to do now?” he asked.

“Send Cora a note to let her know about the accident. Ask her

to meet me. If she ignores me, then . . . I don’t know. But if she agrees, I’m going to take her up on it.”

He wrapped my hand clumsily in gauze and taped it in place.

“That’s the best I can do for now,” he said. For a moment we were both silent. “Just be very careful, Mackenzie.”

“Be careful why? Is there something else I need to know?” I

stood to face him.

His eyebrows knitted together. “No. Tread lightly and go with

your gut. You’re trained to read people, right?”

I wasn’t sure I had done such a good job with Nick’s family

so far. “I will be careful and I will tread lightly, but I’m not going home right now. Not until I meet Nick’s mother and figure out if

anything Nick said to me was true.”

“God help you both.” His words were soft. “Come on. I’ll take

you home.”

—

I wrote the note on creamy hotel stationery and read it over until I knew it by heart. I told Nick’s mother in the gentlest terms possible that Nick had died in a car accident. I told her I would like to meet her and that she could reach me at the hotel or on my

cel . The note had no warmth to it, but I didn’t feel that it needed any. Nick hadn’t been fond of his mother. Maybe she wasn’t fond

of him either. I tucked the note into the matching envelope and

held it over the mail slot in the hal way. The textured paper slipped 44

ELLEN J. GREEN

from my fingers, and part of my sanity spiraled down the chute

along with it. I headed back to my room, my stomach twisting with anticipation.

Philadelphia boasted lots of things to do—museums, theater, bal-

let, the orchestra, and, of course, basebal . I was too restless to enjoy any of it. A week had passed since I’d sent the letter, and Cora Whitfield’s silence was producing an angst that was ripping

my stomach apart. I was eating little and had gone through nearly two bottles of Tums.

My cell phone sat on the end table. I stared at it, willing it to ring. “Damn it, Cora,” I whispered. “Just talk to me, please.”

All my business here was done. I’d finished the lawyer’s ques-

tionnaire and emailed some ideas for my wil . Dylan had written

back that the papers were ready for my signature. I desperately

wanted to go home, to sleep in my own bed, to appreciate the cooler weather and colors of fall in New England. The heat had subsided a bit in Philadelphia but had now turned to a misty, warm, mosquito-luring drizzle. For days now I’d donned a raincoat and explored

the nearby attractions in the afternoon: the parkway museums,

shopping, historical sites. By evening I was back in, feet up, watching TV or talking on the phone. Room service had become an

expensive routine.

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ELLEN J. GREEN

I was real y beginning to feel out of place, without purpose. In

the weeks after I had buried Nick, I had isolated myself against the world. I’d just wanted to be alone to lick my wounds in a familiar environment. Now, oddly enough, I craved company and the routine of my former life.

Samantha had not returned any of my numerous cal s. She had

told me she was going away on vacation, but I’d been so deep into my own pain at the time, I hadn’t registered where or for how long.

And I real y needed her now.

I tossed some clothes toward my suitcase in frustration when

the phone began to ring. Not the phone I had expected. It was the hotel phone on the end table. The desk clerk informed me that I

had received a piece of mail.

My heart raced, accelerating as the elevator stopped at each

floor on the way to the lobby. Final y back in my room, I put the envelope on the bedspread and just stared at it. I was afraid to

open it. My hands were trembling and damp.

The envelope was gray and thick; it felt expensive. The

address was written in a fine ink. It looked almost like callig-

raphy, each letter curved and neat, exactly the same size as the

next. I finally ripped the envelope open; one thick cream-col-

ored sheet slipped out onto the bed. I read the message several

times and then threw it to the side. Nick’s mother had written

me two lines. Two. Her son was dead and she had penned two

lines in response.

Please join me for tea on the 18th at 4pm at my home on

745 Chestnut Hill Avenue, Chestnut Hill. I look forward to

our meeting.

The eighteenth was tomorrow. I’d assumed I would be able to

talk to her on the phone first, so I could feel her out before meeting THE BOOK
of
JAMES

47

her. But she’d given no telephone number I could call to suggest a restaurant or a neutral spot.

I had no choice but to go back to that house again. Alone this

time.

The house seemed even bigger in the daylight. The windows of

my Jeep were rolled up tight. The shoddy air-conditioning rattled away, taking the worst of the heat from the air, but my skin still glistened with sweat. The temperatures didn’t ever seem to drop

below ninety in this stinking city. Every few seconds I glanced at my watch, marking the minutes as they passed.

I took a few deep breaths and remembered Nick’s words when

he was dying.
It’s a stone house. Set back from the road. There are a
lot of trees. Paths in the woods that take you all over the property if
you know where you’re going. I can’t go back again. You have to do
it for me.

“Okay, Nick. I’m here,” I whispered. “So guide me through

this, please?” My watch said it was ten after four; I’d stalled as long as I could. I pressed the gas and headed for the front gate.

Even in the glaring sunlight, the house was intimidating, con-

sumed by the foliage of the trees. What little stone peeked out of hiding was covered in ivy. I leaned over to roll down the window, but I had to wrestle with it. It had gotten off track and never rolled THE BOOK
of
JAMES

49

up or down properly. I pressed the button on the gate and held my breath. A crackled voice from the speaker asked my name.

“Mackenzie.” I hesitated. What was my last name? “Carlisle,” I

said, feeling as if I’d asked for a number-four value meal.

There was no response. The large iron wall slid open. The grind-

ing of metal sliding closed behind me reminded me of prison. Two

summers ago I’d supplemented my income by conducting parole

evaluations of inmates in the state prison system. Every time those doors banged shut behind me, I got this same feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was trapped.

The stone road led through at least a half mile of trees and

dense shrubbery. In the darkness it had been impossible to see the beautiful display of greenery that covered the grounds. The house was edged with flowering bushes that, even in this late season,

made the otherwise-cold stone structure appear livable. A statue

of a little boy graced the middle of an elaborate fountain in the center of a circular drive. Water trickled from a jug held sideways in his hands. The harmony of that moment was shattered when I

saw the solitary figure standing on the front steps.

Cora. She had been watching me, but showed no sign of greet-

ing. We remained perhaps a hundred yards apart, staring at one

another for a minute. A solid woman, her presence was formidable

even from that distance. I got out of the Jeep and walked toward

her. Her simple pale-blue dress was cut full and fell in folds about her heavy knees. The legs beneath were muscled and well formed;

her arms were folded in front of her as if she were protecting a fortress. Her face was square and crisscrossed with lines, the features harsh and sharp. I looked into the smal , deep-set eyes and smiled.

Those eyes belonged to Nick. It wasn’t the shape; Nick’s eyes were large and round. Hers were hidden beneath folds of wrinkled skin

and appeared inscrutable. It was the color that made my heart

jump. The same dark green. A green that could be clear and pleas-

ant one moment and clouded over with anger the next, but was

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ELLEN J. GREEN

always intense. And there was more. Something behind the eyes

was familiar. It startled me for a second and I felt a quick, sharp intake of air in my lungs.

“Miss Carlisle?” Her voice was deep and raspy.

“Mackenzie,” I answered.

Cora turned and opened the double doors that led into the

house. “Please, come in.”

The doors were thick and heavy; going through them reminded

me of passing through a bank vault. They blocked any light or air that might have entered, and the windows, because of their tal ,

narrow structure, afforded little view of the outside world. The

thick velvet curtains that covered them sealed the rooms in dark-

ness. I stood in the marble foyer, almost afraid to breathe. A large, curved stairway on the right led to the second floor. I spotted a sketch on the wall and moved in to get a better look.

“This way. I’ve set out some tea for us,” Cora said.

“From Degas’s
The Morning Bath
?” I couldn’t hide my expression of awe.

“Yes, it is. My husband was an avid art collector. Do you know

anything about art?” She didn’t wait for me to answer but contin-

ued down a hal way.

“A little,” I muttered. I felt so out of place. I glanced down at my navy silk dress and heels. They were a hasty purchase in preparation for this visit, though now I felt like a peasant dragged from the hil s to meet the queen.

Cora opened a door and ushered me into a large sitting room.

An antique Queen Anne table held a sterling tea setting. The wal s were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and I had to resist the urge to go over and inspect the titles, to see what books appealed to her. Instead, I sat on the sofa and tried to cross my ankles delicately. The seat was stiff; I felt as if I were sitting on a board covered in Styrofoam. I shifted my weight slightly to get comfortable. She sat across from me but said nothing.