The Visconti House (15 page)

She took the photographs out of the box, and everybody leaned forward to see. Laura smiled at Leon, happy that he seemed a little more comfortable today. At least he was not backing away toward the door. He was sitting at the table with his cake in front of him, watching everyone’s reactions.

“What an interesting face,” reflected Laura’s mother, picking up one of the photographs to examine
it more closely. “I wonder what happened to her in the end.”

“Mr. Visconti must have loved her very much to build this house.” Isabella shook her head sadly. “I hope she didn’t just break his heart.”

“Of course she didn’t.” Laura was indignant. “Something happened. And we’re going to find out what.” She took back the photographs.

“Isn’t it amazing that the box has been hidden in the house all this time and no one knew?” said Laura’s mother. “It’s a good thing you forced us to look behind those boards, Laura. What did you think of the cellar, Leon?”

Leon had just taken a mouthful of cake. He swallowed quickly, almost choking. “It’s dark.”

“If it weren’t for Leon, we wouldn’t have found the cellar at all,” said Laura’s father. “I think he deserves a share of the wine.”

Leon shook his head and was about to say something when Laura jumped in.

“Yes, he does. It was because of him that we started looking for the cellar in the first place. And I would never have continued if he hadn’t insisted on going on.” She grinned at him.

“The wine may not be worth anything, of course,”
warned Laura’s father. “Don’t set your hopes too high.”

“It will be worth a lot,” said Hugo firmly. “It is good wine.”

“Of course it is. It’s a lost treasure.” Isabella was about to burst into song when Harry interjected.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “You must stay for dinner, Leon, and we will celebrate the cellar. I’m cooking a special recipe. It will be wonderful.”

Laura turned to Leon. “Yes,” she said, “you must stay, Leon. Harry will be mortally offended if you don’t.”

“And we didn’t have a proper celebration last night because you weren’t here,” added Isabella.

“I’m sorry, I—I—I can’t,” stammered Leon, flushing. “My dad is staying at Grandma’s.”

“Ask him, too,” said Laura’s mother. “And your grandma, if she’d like to come.”

Laura waited for Leon to refuse. She saw him hesitate and then, to her amazement, he said, “Grandma wouldn’t come. She never goes anywhere.”

“Well, ask her anyway. Why don’t the two of you go down now?”

Laura could not believe her ears when Leon agreed.

They took the box into Laura’s bedroom and left it on the chair under the watchful eye of Samson, who
was curled up on the bed. “Guard it well,” said Laura, and Samson blinked in reply. Then they headed off down the road. Leon had gone silent again, and Laura wondered whether she should warn him that the meal might be a bit strange. In the end, however, she decided not to. After all, he had met Harry and Isabella; he could probably imagine what the evening would be like.

Leon’s father was sitting on the veranda, reading, when they reached Mrs. Murphy’s house. He looked up at the sound of the gate opening and took off his glasses, swinging them between his fingers as he watched them approach. Now that Laura had time to study him, she could see the similarities very clearly. The same high cheekbones, the same dark eyes, the same measuring expression. But she could see the differences, too. This man had none of Leon’s defiance. Behind his measured gaze he looked utterly defeated.

“You must be Laura,” he said, his voice low and curiously husky. “I am glad that we are going to meet properly this time.”

Laura felt suddenly tongue-tied and simply nodded.

“Laura’s mom has asked us to dinner,” said Leon, sitting down on the veranda steps. “They have some
friends visiting and one of them is cooking a special meal.”

“Won’t we be in the way?” asked Leon’s father.

Laura found her tongue again. “Oh, no,” she said. “Harry loves to cook for lots of people. He would really like you to come. He says he needs an audience; cooking is his art.”

Leon’s father looked questioningly at his son, then smiled at Laura. “I should be honored. What time do you want us to arrive?”

“Harry’s meals are always late,” Laura replied, trying to calculate how long it would take Harry to prepare his feast. “We probably won’t start until eight thirty, but you can come any time you like.”

“What about eight o’clock, then?”

“That would be good. I’ll let everyone know.”

“They asked Grandma, too,” said Leon, “but I said she wouldn’t want to come.”

“No,” agreed his father. “She probably won’t. But you should ask her anyway. She’d like that.”

Leon disappeared inside, and Laura stood on the path, waiting. She looked down at her shoes, struggling to think of something appropriate to say. But nothing seemed quite right. She shifted from one foot to the other.

“Leon tells me that you’re a writer,” said Mr. Murphy, smiling at her again.

Laura could feel her cheeks turn a bright red. “I just write stories. Sometimes . . .” Her voice trailed away.

“He says you’re very good.”

Laura looked back down at her shoes. How could she reply to that? But, somewhere deep inside her, she felt warm because Leon thought she wrote well. What else had he told his father?

“Leon is very good at math,” continued Mr. Murphy after a pause. “Did you know that?”

Laura nodded. “Yes.”

“He’s been offered a scholarship. A wonderful scholarship, but he doesn’t want to take it.”

Laura looked up, her eyes wide. She realized then that she did not want Leon to go away.

Leon’s father was looking at her gently, sadly. “Maybe you could talk to him.”

At that moment Leon came back onto the veranda. He eyed them suspiciously but did not ask about the conversation. “Grandma would rather stay here but she says thank you very much.” He swung himself up onto the veranda balustrade and wrapped his arm around the post. “She says she would come out
but she’s making marmalade and doesn’t want it to burn.”

“Did you tell her about the photos?” asked Laura.

“No. She was too busy.”

Leon’s father raised an eyebrow. “What photos?”

“We found some photos in the cellar,” said Leon. “Photos of the woman Mr. Visconti built Laura’s house for.”

“Ah, more clues for your mystery. Like your postcard.” He smiled and turned to Laura. “Leon has been telling me all about your house. I’m looking forward to seeing it. It’s very beautiful, I remember.”

It dawned on Laura that Leon’s father must have grown up in this town — grown up in this house, in fact. Of course he would know of Mr. Visconti’s house.

“Have you ever been inside it?” she asked curiously.

Leon’s father shook his head. “We never moved in those kinds of circles. I used to ride my bike past it, though. A family lived in it then, but the children were away at boarding school and I seldom saw them. They went to the Grammar School,” he added with a sidelong glance at Leon.

“Did people talk about the house much?” asked Leon.

“No, it was just the big house on the hill that the rich people lived in.”

“We’re not rich,” said Laura quickly.

Leon’s father smiled at her. “That was just our perception. Maybe the Harrisons weren’t all that rich either. I don’t think that they were at the end, anyway. The property became very run down.”

“It still is,” said Laura.

“It’s very beautiful, though,” added Leon.

His father smiled at him. “I’m sure it is. Leon tells me your mom is a sculptor, Laura. She must enjoy having all that space.”

“Yes.” Laura was surprised that Mr. Murphy understood so much about making things. Most people didn’t realize how much room was needed or how much mess was made. She wanted to ask him what he did, but something held her back; if he had a job, surely Leon would be living with him.

“And now you’ve found some more space,” he said. “Was there anything else in the cellar?”

“Just some old wine.” Leon’s voice was suddenly tense. He slid off the rail. “You’d better tell your mom and Harry that we’re coming, Laura. We’ll see you later.”

Laura wondered why he did not want to talk about
the wine but could see the “off limits” sign in his eyes again, so she said, “All right. See you, Leon. Good-bye, Mr. Murphy.”

“Call me Colin,” said Leon’s father. “We’ll see you at eight o’clock.”

Laura nodded and set off back up the hill. So Leon had been offered a scholarship. She frowned at the sidewalk. Why would he not want to take it? And why would his father suppose that she could make him change his mind? What could she say to convince him? And did she want to try? Laura shook her head and continued walking. She did not want to think about it anymore.

When she arrived home, Isabella was decorating the table for the dinner. She had arranged an enormous pile of oranges and red onions in the middle and was strewing ivy around them. The candles had been brought out again and distributed around the room. As she worked, Isabella sang, her voice drifting out into the dusk. “What do you think?” she called as Laura entered the room. “Will your boyfriend like it?”

“He’s
not
my boyfriend,” Laura said hotly, blushing furiously. “He’s just . . . someone at my school.”

“O mia amore,”
sang Isabella, draping ivy around
Laura’s head like a wreath and laughing at her. From the way she sang it, Laura was glad the words were not in English.

“What is Harry cooking?” she asked, to change the subject.

“Roast beef and mushroom pie.” Isabella adjusted one of the onions, almost bringing the pile crashing down. “And a pear tart. And little cheese things to nibble. When is your friend — who is a boy and is not your boyfriend — coming?”

“Eight o’clock. I’m going to see how Harry is doing,” Laura called as she escaped to the kitchen. Harry, she thought, would be less interested in Leon.

But he, too, was full of questions. “What does your friend like to eat?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s not a vegetarian, is he?” Harry looked up anxiously from the slab of meat he was cutting, knife poised in the air.

“I don’t think so. No, he isn’t. He would have said if he was.” At least, she hoped so.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief and went back to chopping the beef. “His grandmother grows vegetables, you said?”

Laura, who had been leaning against the table,
straightened up. Why did everyone want to talk about Leon all of a sudden? “Yes,” she said, grabbing a carrot stick and heading for her room.

There she sat, cross-legged on her bed, thinking about everything that had happened — about Mr. Visconti and Veronica, about Leon and his father. So many unanswered questions, so many tantalizing mysteries, all intertwined in her mind. She reached for the box and opened it. There was the face of Veronica, gazing up at her. Laura ran her fingers over the photograph, as though trying to touch the woman who looked so steadily back at her.

“Why did you not come to this house?” she whispered. “What happened?”

It was dark by the time Leon and his father arrived. Isabella had lit the candles, and their light shone softly through the long windows, glinting on the dark foliage of the rosebushes and illuminating the large white magnolia flowers that had opened after the last brief shower of rain. Leon’s father paused in the garden to breathe in the perfumed air. He looked, Laura thought as she watched from the ballroom window, like a poet in his best clothes. Leon, too, had changed and slicked down his hair. He was rather awkwardly holding a bunch of flowers — marigolds from Mrs. Murphy’s garden.

Laura felt shy, as though she did not know this transformed Leon. She waited until her mother had answered their knock before she came into the kitchen. When she did, her mother was holding the marigolds and Leon, looking embarrassed, was staring at the floor.

“Some wine, Colin?” Harry asked Leon’s father. “Red or white?”

“I’ll just have something soft,” he replied, glancing toward Leon. “I don’t drink anymore.”

Laura caught Leon’s quick intake of breath and saw the muscles around his mouth tighten. What was it about the wine? No one else noticed, though, and the grown-ups continued moving around the kitchen, getting drinks, offering seats, and doing the things that grown-ups do. Laura and Leon stood on the edges, watching.

Laura heard her father ask Colin what he did and saw Leon’s father hesitate. “I’ve been out of work for a while,” he replied. “I used to do drafting.”

“We’re always out of work,” said Isabella cheerfully. “Or out of the work we want to do. Let’s drink to the solidarity of the workless.”

Over the clinking of glasses, Laura’s mother asked, “You’ve heard about the kids’ discovery?”

“A little.” Leon’s father smiled his gentle smile.

“It looks as though they may have found a treasure. Hugo says the wine in the cellar could be worth thousands of dollars.”

Leon’s eyes grew wide.

“But they’re just dirty old bottles!” exclaimed
Laura. “How could dirty old bottles be so valuable?”

“They may be dirty and they are certainly old,” said Hugo, “but what is in them will turn out to be very exciting. I am ready to wager a bet on that.”