The Other Child (9 page)

I’ll stop them, Leslie. People said awful things about my mother, too, and it isn’t nice.

His voice was strong, and Leslie began to tremble. Suddenly she understood everything. She was holding the key, and her friend had come to help her. Their house really was haunted and Christopher was the ghost!

She panicked. She wanted to drop the key and run for home, but she was too frightened even to move. She was frozen where she stood, holding the key, listening to a ghost.

You don’t have to be afraid of me.
His voice was very clear now
. I’m your best friend. I’ll take care of those old gossips for you. Just watch those cans.

Leslie squinted as the fluorescent lights in the store flickered brighter and brighter. Her eyes hurt, but she couldn’t shut them. They were dilating, the blue receding until only the pupils remained. There was a throbbing in her head and she felt sick and hot. Her knees shook so hard she thought she’d surely fall down.

As she watched, the pyramid of cans started to move slightly, jiggling and trembling at the bottom. Instinctively, she reached out to try to steady them, but it did no good. The shaking motion spread until the top cans swayed precariously. Then they started to tumble down.

“Marilyn! Watch out!” Mrs. Allen’s shrill warning came too late. Both women tried to move out of the way, but the cans were hurtling down, raining on their heads and arms, bruising them as they stared up in horror. The cans weren’t just falling; they were diving and plummeting, twirling and crashing to the floor as if some invisible hand was throwing them in gleeful spite.

“Ladies? My God! Are you all right?”

Everyone from the front of the store was there now, helping Mrs. Comstock and Mrs. Allen to their feet. There was an obstacle course of cans, Libby’s corn and peas and mixed vegetables scattered the length of the aisle.

Leslie moved slowly, pushing her cart carefully to the front of the store. She felt a little dizzy and she leaned against the shopping cart, waiting patiently for the checker to come back to the register. All she wanted to do was go home. There was a commotion in the back of the store and Leslie turned, puzzled. She remotely remembered some cans falling; she remembered the crash. She supposed she could offer to help pick up the cans, but she was just too tired. The minute she got home she’d go up to the tower room and take a nice, long nap.

The traffic was unusually heavy for a Wednesday afternoon and it was broiling hot, even with the windows open all the way. This last week in July was humid and the inside of the truck felt like a steam room. Mike gripped the steering wheel tightly and swore. He could feel the tension in his arms and shoulders, and his neck was stiff and aching. The drive in hadn’t been so bad, but the return trip was taking every bit of patience he had left. He barely controlled the urge to smash into the bumper of the rattling white station wagon poking along ahead of him on the two-lane road into town. Twenty miles of following a bad driver had put him in a vile mood.

The house looked deserted. Mike parked at the end of the driveway and called out, but no one answered. He supposed that Karen was busy with her decorating, and Leslie was holed up in her tower room. It gave him an empty feeling to come home and find no one to meet him. Back in the city they used to greet him with happy smiles and hugs and they’d all tell each other about how they’d spent their day. But that hadn’t happened since they’d moved out here. Mike was beginning to think the move had been a mistake. Each of them had different interests now, and in this big house it was easy to go their separate ways.

He let himself into the kitchen and gave a holler, but still there was no answer. The antique kitchen chair creaked as he sat down heavily. He lit a cigarette and stared out the window at the tall, straggling bushes in the yard. The rose garden was a mess and the hedge had grown wild. Things had to be pruned and clipped soon or the townspeople would start to talk. Originally he’d planned to hire a gardener, but they couldn’t afford it now, not with the money he’d dropped this week on the sportsbook. He had to make up for it next week for sure.

The kitchen was silent and even the bright sun streaming in the west windows did nothing to lift Mike’s spirits. They hadn’t been happy with him at the magazine. Of course they’d accepted the condo prints; it was too close to deadline to do anything else. But he’d have to come up with something great for his next feature or he’d be in hot water. Even Rose Avery was upset with him and she had been his staunch supporter in the past. Without her help he never could have gotten the job as feature photographer.

“Damn!” Mike growled as the cigarette burned down to scorch his fingers. Everything was going wrong lately and it was just too much to handle. He felt himself losing control. Small things were beginning to add up, and he wasn’t able to stop what was happening to all of them. Leslie didn’t have a single friend here in Cold Spring, Karen was so concerned with the restoration that she didn’t have time for anything else, and he was in trouble at the magazine. And on top of all that, he was losing on the sportsbook. If only he could come up with a great feature he’d be back in their good graces at the magazine, and then he’d have a little more money to bet and play the odds. If there were winnings, he could afford to hire someone to help Karen with the house. She’d feel better and take charge of Leslie. With Karen her normal, energetic self, Leslie would straighten right out and make some friends here in town. As usual, everything boiled down to money. And, one way or another, he had to get some.

Mike stared absently out the window. The sun was high and the white crushed-stone driveway gleamed like bits of glass. This was a beautiful estate. With the grounds done properly and the exterior painted and fixed, it could be a real showplace. Everyone he knew would be envious of a home like this. It could be truly elegant, but it took money and a lot of hard work. What he wanted to do most was show all those idiots out there how beautiful an old house could be if you fixed it up right.

“That’s it!” The idea began to take form. He was sitting on a gold mine here and he’d been too dumb to see it. Sure, he’d counted on using a shot or two of their house in his feature on Victorian estates, but he’d been thinking too small. The Appleton Mansion would be the perfect subject for a whole series, a do-it-yourself, fixer-upper special! He’d show a step-by-step restoration, starting from scratch with the pictures he’d shot when they first saw the house: the waist-high lawn with the
FOR SALE
sign out front, the stately brick structure with paint peeling on the trim, the empty rooms with undraped windows. It would kindle the reader’s imagination. Then he’d show them exactly how to restore it.

The first step would be the grounds. They’d hire a gardener and re-landscape the place. For the next installment they’d concentrate on the trim and the new paint job. Another installment could focus on the greenhouse as it was restored and filled with plants. Then the inside, room by room. Gradually everything would be done and each major improvement would be a separate installment. Not only would he have a dynamite series, but all their expenses would be fully tax deductible. The whole renovation would be a complete tax write-off!

“How idiotic! Why didn’t I think of it before?” He was amazed. Pushing back his chair, he stood up, beaming. He was going up to the darkroom right now to develop those negatives he’d taken the day Rob showed them the house. And if he didn’t have enough, he’d shoot more. Then they’d all pitch in and fix this big monster up. The magazine would love it. Rose Avery would love it. Everything was coming together again and it felt great!

“Hey . . .” Mike stopped halfway up the stairs and grinned again. There was another bonus with this idea. He’d mention Cold Spring in the text and get in a free plug for the town. The people here would like that and their kids might be nicer to Leslie.

Mike paced the floor as he waited for the completion of the developing process. He sipped his cold coffee and whistled. He’d call Rose tomorrow and see if they could start the series running in the next issue. That meant they’d have to hustle on the house, but it would be worth it. He was positive Rose would authorize an advance on a project this big. And just as soon as he got a little money ahead, he’d hire a housekeeper so Karen could concentrate on the decorating. It would be a family project, something they could work on together. They hadn’t done anything together since they moved here.

At last the timer rang and Mike breathed a sigh of relief as he lifted the film out of the tank. The negatives seemed clear enough. Now he was glad he’d spent all that time looking for the light leak. He certainly wouldn’t want to botch up these prints. They had to be perfect. He wanted to show every paint chip and loose shingle so the reader would realize what a huge project it was. Then, every month, they’d see the results of good planning and hard work. This series could run on for a year or more if he wanted to milk it dry. And he could demand more money from the magazine and get it. All his problems would be solved.

Today Karen was determined to catalog the furniture in the ballroom. Mike was at the magazine and Leslie was busy with her telescope. That meant she had the entire morning free.

Notebook in hand, Karen climbed the stairs. She held the railing tightly. Yesterday she’d fallen and scraped her knee and today she was taking no chances. Her balance was off, but the doctor said that was normal. He blamed it on her sudden weight gain and told her not to be alarmed. This sort of awkwardness was to be expected in the second trimester of pregnancy.

She stopped for breath on the third-floor landing, unable to understand why this pregnancy was so much harder than the first had been. She was terribly out of condition and each day she felt more bloated and uncoordinated. It was such a contrast to her normal state that Karen sometimes felt her awkward body belonged to someone else. The real Karen Houston was slim and energetic, not at all like the tired, clumsy image she saw in the mirror.

With effort Karen forced her mind to more pleasant channels. It did no good to dwell on her condition. She still had four months to go. Thank goodness she had the redecorating to take her mind off things.

It took only a few minutes to list the large items in her notebook. She’d gotten this far before. Mike would have a fit if he knew what she was doing, but someone had to move this furniture around and crawl behind to see what was hidden in the back. He certainly didn’t have time to help her.

Karen moved a chair and squeezed through the space. Then she let out a squeal as she discovered a lovely highboy china cabinet, with rounded glass doors. She could hardly wait to bring it down to the dining room. A huge wooden table was stored against the wall, and Karen managed to find all twelve chairs after a careful search. They needed a bit of work, but they were definitely restorable. The price of this house was worth it for the antiques alone.

Two hours passed quickly and Karen’s excitement grew. There were several oaken washstands, an old icebox cabinet, a huge knickknack shelf, and a French love seat. There were also assorted lamps, stools, and objects of art too numerous to list. This ballroom was practically a museum.

She pulled the dust cover from a wooden steamer trunk and sneezed twice in the process. Obviously, none of the previous tenants had cared to poke around up here in the dust and the cobwebs. All this furniture was hers. If she had a guideline, she’d restore the house exactly as it was at the turn of the century.

The trunk stubbornly resisted her efforts to open it. Karen broke a fingernail on the brass fasteners and winced. She pushed up, applying pressure strategically, and finally the lid gave a sharp crack. The varnish had stuck in the airless heat of so many summers. She gave another push and it lifted, revealing fold after fold of lace and ivory satin.

“Oh! How lovely!” She lifted the ornate dress from its bed of yellowed tissue paper. This wedding gown could be Amelia Appleton’s! It certainly looked like the style of that period. She would put it away, maybe for Leslie’s wedding. It was a gown fit for royalty; and Karen sighed, indulging in romantic daydreams as she placed it over a chair next to the trunk.

More clothes turned up under a wooden divider. They would be wonderful dress-up clothes for Leslie. There were ball gowns and silk dresses, hats and gloves, and even high-button shoes. A whole wardrobe from a bygone age was packed in this trunk.

She found a carved wooden box under some dried flowers and examined it closely. The initials
D.A.
were intertwined with roses on the cover. She tried to open it, but it was locked securely. Her curiosity was aroused, but she was obliged to put it aside to open later.

“Marvelous!” Karen’s eyes sparkled as she lifted out a huge oil portrait. The inscription read:
DORTHEA APPLETON, DAUGHTER OF WILLIAM AND AMELIA—1885.

An attractive young woman in her late teens stared out of the frame, her dark hair arranged in a fashionable bun. This painting was a real find. She could hang it over the fireplace in the living room. It would be a great topic of conversation when they invited their first guests.

Karen’s heart beat fast as she caught sight of the treasure in the bottom of the trunk. A glass display case fit tightly into the space. Inside the glass was a complete miniature of the house and grounds, a tiny dollhouse done in breathtaking detail. She gazed with disbelief. What an amazing stroke of luck.

Carefully Karen removed the heavy glass case. She opened the top and gasped in admiration for the workmanship. It was superbly built and the roof was hinged to reveal the whole top floor. Now she could see just how the ballroom had been decorated, including the placement of the furniture.

Karen found two other hinging sides, each lifting to reveal a floor and its furnishings. It was as if Amelia Appleton had crafted this delightful miniature just for her. The tiny furniture was detailed and perfect. Every light, picture, and object of art was in its place. It was an exact replica of the house in Amelia’s day, down to the rugs on the floors and the paper on the walls.

“Of course,” Karen breathed, peering in at the living room. The room was lit by candelabras with the piano at an angle near the inside wall. It was exactly where she planned to place it. Now she didn’t need to worry about where to position the other furniture. It was all right here, in breathtaking miniature.

As she gazed at the miniature, enraptured, Karen was filled with an urgent desire to restore the house accurately. She’d make it the same grand mansion Amelia had created in the eighteen hundreds. Most of the furniture was still here, and she’d have the missing pieces duplicated now that she had the miniature for comparison. She was positive that Mike would agree to a total restoration once he saw this marvelous model. Of course they’d have to scrimp and save, but it would be heaven to live in a genuinely restored Victorian mansion. It was like having a childhood dream come true.

She sat on the dusty floor and stared at the miniature for long moments, imagining what life had been like in Amelia Appleton’s day. There would be wonderful parties, the ballroom filled with crowds of stylishly dressed men and women. Young Dorthea would wear silks and satins hand stitched by talented dressmakers. It would be almost like living in a fairy tale, in the sort of lifestyle Karen had always secretly fancied. She wished she could go back in time for just a moment so she could experience growing up in a lovely setting like this.