Moonrise. Cassandra King

have been more wrong. At my first sight of Helen Honeycutt, I knew she was as different from the last lady of the house as any two women could be.

      For one thing, she looked almost like a teenager standing there, the wind from the lake blowing hard enough to flatten her clothes against her, toss her hair every which way. Not many women could wear their hair that way, cut short and choppy with streaks of blond shot through it, but it suited her. She had a dark tan and a really good figure, like she exercised a lot. I expected her to be pretty and she was, but in a whole different way from Rosalyn. Rosalyn held herself like a queen, and turned heads wherever she went. I figured Helen turned a few heads, too, but for different reasons.

      When people don’t know they’re being watched, they act more like themselves. That afternoon, Helen stopped just before she got to the stone steps leading up to the front door, and I got a better look at her. In spite of her sassy swing, she looked so anxious that I pitied her. Her sunglasses were pushed to the top of her head, and she was staring at the house with real curiosity. By the way her face lit up, I figured she was thinking, Good Lord, what a mansion. If she’d had any idea what she was getting herself into, though, she should’ve been thinking, Oh, shit. Get me out of here!

      THE GANG’S ALL HERE

      My eyelids are so heavy that I dare not lean against the headrest. If I do, I’m liable to be asleep before we’re halfway up the driveway. I steal a glance at Emmet. Brow furrowed, his attention is focused on keeping the Jeep within the ruts of the narrow drive. Without taking his eyes off the road, he says, “You enjoyed the trip today, didn’t you, baby?”

      “I had a great time,” I reply, but he doesn’t hear me so I have to repeat myself. Speak up, he’s always reminding me. Look directly at the camera with your chin lifted, and don’t mumble. If your audience can’t hear you, you’ve lost them.

      “I’d never heard of the Biltmore Estate before,” I tell him, and glance over to see that indulgent half smile of his.

      “No, sweetheart,” he says patiently. “The ‘before’ is unnecessary. Try it, and you’ll see what I mean.”

      Dutifully I intone: “I’d never heard of the Biltmore Estate.” It sounds better with the “before,” I start to say, but don’t. I can’t expect him to help me if I’m going to argue about every little thing.

      As though reading my mind, he says, “I’m not doing this again when the others are around, Helen. That’s why I stopped earlier. They already think I’m an asshole without giving them more ammunition.”

      I smile and place a hand on his arm. “Oh, Emmet. Your friends might think you’re an asshole, but they still adore you.”

      Emmet snorts, then turns his attention back to his driving. Both of us are right, I think, on all counts: His friends adore him, even if he is difficult at times. And he shouldn’t have corrected me in front of them, even though I’d asked him to. Begged him to, actually. Ever since the station manager called to say they wanted to expand my spot to a half-hour show, I’ve been in a panic. I’d just gotten comfortable with my seven minutes on the noon show, gotten to where I handled it pretty well, even when they threw this at me. Who would’ve ever expected “Fit to Eat,” my gimmicky little spot where I transformed fat-laden dishes into healthier ones, to be such a hit? The viewers couldn’t get enough of it, and suddenly I was in demand. Or, as Emmet put it, a hot item. At first I’d balked, terrified at the prospect of facing the camera for a whole show. Only after Emmet agreed to coach me did I think I could do it. I insisted that he be merciless in pointing out my shortcomings; otherwise, how would I learn? He didn’t want to see me humiliated, did he? After kissing my cheek, the smooth-talking devil said that I’d given him an impossible task because I was perfect, but I couldn’t afford to listen to his sweet talk. How about my tentativeness, I demanded, the too-soft voice, the way I bumble around searching for words? He’d reluctantly signed on, but was right that his coaching shouldn’t be done around anyone else. It makes him look bad, and me even worse.

      We clear the rhododendron tunnel, and suddenly there it is, Moonrise. The storybook castle that has turned into my own personal House of Horrors. Emmet heads toward the carriage house in back, which serves as the garage. At the front of the house, however, he suddenly brakes and looks my way. I tilt my head curiously.

      “You know what?” he says breezily. “I’ve changed my mind. Think I’ll go back and have a drink with Noel after all. That okay with you?”

      “Of course,” I say as I reach for the handle, hoping I don’t sound too eager. All day I’ve had to fake it as we traipsed around the millions of gardens at Biltmore, then through the hundreds of rooms in the mansion. I dutifully oohed and aahed over everything, but was so exhausted I barely remember it. The only thing that saved us from a tour of the winery had been Linc, who begged off by saying he was too tired. I’d been horrified when Noel, who’d pushed Linc for the entire tour in a wheelchair, stepped back indignantly to say, “You’re tired? What about me, you ungrateful gimp?” Only when everybody else laughed did I realize that Noel was teasing. Linc caught my expression and shot back, “Look at poor Helen’s face, Noel. Gimp that I am, at least I’m not an insensitive brute like you.” I’d blushed like a nitwit, and Emmet had rolled his eyes my way. Unamused, he admonished me for taking everything that damn-fool bunch said seriously. “Don’t pay them any mind, sweetheart,” he’d said. “No one else does.”

      Throwing Emmet a kiss, I’m out of the car before he can change his mind. After our return from Asheville to Laurel Cottage where we fetched the Jeep, Noel and Tansy had invited us in for a drink. Or rather, Noel had; Tansy told him rather curtly that she had an “engagement” tonight and would have to excuse herself. I begged off, too, though I’d secretly hoped that Emmet would stay and keep Noel company. If I could just have a little time to rest up before dinner, I might make it through the rest of the evening without collapsing.

      I wave my unsuspecting husband off with a mixture of guilt and relief, then force myself to wait until the Jeep disappears before turning toward the house. My exhaustion isn’t just from my restless nights; the emotional drain is taking its toll as well. Walking up the stone steps to the house takes all the strength I possess. What I really want to do is get in my car and head straight back to Florida.

      As soon as I reach the front door—propped open to catch the lake breezes—I realize that Willa is still here cleaning, and my heart sinks. I didn’t see her truck, which must’ve been parked on the side of the house. I glance at my watch to assure myself that she’ll be leaving soon. Stepping inside the entrance hall, I call out, and Willa answers from the back of the house.

      Willa’d been the one who waited for me the first day I came here, a day that’s imprinted on my brain—and not in a good way, either. So much has changed since then, and in such a short time! I’d come to Highlands with such hope, so thrilled to be at a place I’d dreamed of since finding the photo album. As soon as I laid eyes on Moonrise, it was obvious that the pictures hadn’t even come close to capturing its astonishing beauty. The towering house and stately old trees, the parklike setting with its vast lake view—all of it was far grander than I’d imagined. The black-and-white photos failed to show how the slanted rays of the sun burnished the ivy-clad stone of the house, or how they reflected off the mullioned windows like thousands of crushed diamonds. Or the way the sun sent luminous streaks of light spilling across the grounds. Despite the silvery image of its name, Moonrise first greeted me silhouetted in gold.

      Willa McFee had been another image from the photo album that turned out to be far different from what I expected. When she and I’d talked in preparation for my and Emmet’s arrival, her voice had been as hesitant and faltering as mine, with a brogue so thick I had trouble understanding her. I’d formed a picture in my mind of a roughhewn farm girl, shy and awkward, maybe a bit simpleminded. That was shattered the minute she flung open the door and peered at me in undisguised curiosity. Bright-eyed and apple-cheeked, Willa McFee had the sort of lush, buxom looks rarely seen these days.