Moonrise. Cassandra King

don’t think the feeling was mutual, however. Willa’s greeting to me had been friendly enough, but guarded. Wary, even. Emmet had tried to prepare me for the mountain folks, whom he described as a breed unto themselves. Most of them are descendants of the original settlers who came from the highlands of Scotland, he’d told me, and are a clannish, suspicious lot. They take their time warming up to strangers. I offered my hand, which Willa had taken in her large, sunburned one with a grip so strong I tried not to wince.

      Today I pause in the entrance hall as my eyes adjust to the dim light, then see Willa coming toward me. Her backpack is slung over her arm, so she’s on her way out. “Y’all are back early,” she calls out in a hearty voice. “Everybody have a big time?”

      I assure her that everyone had a “big” time indeed, then wait by the marble-topped table where I’ve been leaving my purse, easy to grab on my way out. Since our arrival here, Emmet and I’ve been out every single day, and most evenings. No wonder I’m exhausted. I sneak a glance at myself in the massive, gold-framed mirror that dominates the entryway. My God, I look like shit! I watch Willa’s reflection as she approaches, and her expression tells me that she agrees. She catches herself when her eyes meet mine, however, and she smiles.

      “The stove wasn’t on, Helen,” she says as she hefts the backpack up on her shoulder. “But I still can’t figure out how you’re gonna cook fancy recipes in that thing, especially with the gas acting up.”

      I eye my reflection as I run my fingers through my hair, pretending the reason I paused by the mirror was to primp. I’d rather Willa think I’m vain than crazy, checking myself out to see if the services of an undertaker are called for. “Believe it or not, hon,” I say in a light voice, “that’s a very fine and valuable old Viking stove, better than anything I’ve ever used.” Although her reflection is still smiling at mine, her blue eyes are troubled. I step closer to the mirror to smooth down an errant eyebrow. “Besides, none of my recipes are fancy.”

      Her face falls, either in surprise or disappointment. I don’t yet know her well enough to tell. “Oh,” she says. “I thought . . .” When I turn to her questioningly, she looks embarrassed, and I wonder what she’s heard. It’s only natural that everyone’s curious about me, the new mistress of Moonrise, and I wonder what they’re saying. I’d love to ask Willa, but I’d never put her in such a position. Not that she’d tell me, anyway. Another thing Emmet’s cautioned me about, the fierce loyalty of the mountain people. If they like you, they’d die for you. If not, don’t turn your back on them. I’ve gone out of my way to try to make Willa like me.

      Today I’m too exhausted to stand and make small talk, so I mention a much-needed bathroom run. Willa’s good-bye strikes me as a bit too hearty, then she pauses by the door to glance my way. “Helen? You okay?” she asks hesitantly.

      It’s my turn for the too-hearty smile, the dismissive wave of my hand. “I’m great,” I tell her, practically pushing her out the door. “See you next week, okay?”

      I stick my head out and wave as Willa crosses the driveway toward her truck, which I now see under the low branches of the hickory. I don’t want her carrying tales to the others, telling them how tired I appeared, or how I look like I hadn’t slept since I’ve been here. I can only imagine their response to that observation, considering the bawdy humor of that bunch. Emmet and I heard our share of newlywed jokes at the station. I wish to God that was the reason for my exhaustion, and I’m sure Emmet does, too. Despite his obvious bewilderment, he’s been remarkably patient with my lamebrain excuses for avoiding him in bed. I can hardly tell him the truth: Not tonight, dear. I can’t with the ghosts watching.

      I close the front door behind me, only to stand lifelessly in the entryway for several weary moments. I wasn’t lying to Willa; I’m heading upstairs to the bathroom, then to change clothes. After which, I’m going to the coziest place I’ve found in this tomb of a house. Which happens, not coincidently, to be outside it, not in. Taking a deep breath, I ponder yet again what I’ve wondered so often lately: How could a place this beautiful be so unwelcoming? It wasn’t that way at first. I fell in love with Moonrise the moment I laid eyes on it. Entering the house, I marveled at everything I saw: the vaulted ceiling of the entryway; the diamond-paned windows with their stained-glass insets; the massive staircase looming through the shadows at the back of the hall. Stepping over the threshold of Moonrise was like taking a journey back in time, to another era, and I went eagerly.

      Willa, my tour guide that first day, had been as keen to show me the house as I’d been to see it. My surprise at her knowledge of Victorian history and decor must’ve been obvious because she confessed that Rosalyn made her learn all that historical “stuff.” As impressive as it is, Willa’d confided, Victorian decor was not to her taste. Matter of fact, she’d added, she found it downright god-awful. I agreed that it was overwrought and way too formal for me, too, yet perfect for this setting. The front parlor was crammed with furnishings: a velvet sofa and wing-backed chairs facing the black marble fireplace; curlicued tables topped by old-fashioned lamps; brocade curtains and lace panels framing windows. I could picture corseted women in bustled dresses seated in little groups as they sipped tea from china cups, white-gloved pinkies aloft.

      In addition to the parlor and a turret room with unique curved windows, the downstairs contained a formal dining room, extensive library, two sitting rooms (one of which would become my office), and the old-fashioned kitchen with an adjoining glassed-in porch. My gushing enthusiasm had not only pleased Willa but also egged her on; her formal tour gave way to a chatty history of the place and its occupants. I noted that she caught herself before revealing too much about Rosalyn. As eager as I was to know more about her, I made myself tread carefully. Any comments Willa made about my predecessor came casually, in some detail or the other about the house.

      Even so, that first afternoon I was able to learn things about Rosalyn Justice that I wouldn’t have known otherwise. It’s funny how much a house can reveal about a person, more than just his or her taste and tidiness. I walked through the cavernous halls of Moonrise and began to understand why it was more museum than home. Rosalyn would’ve been raised in a place like this, I thought, a showpiece to good taste and breeding. I figured her childhood home had been an extension of the Harmon family image rather than a place to kick off one’s shoes and unwind. Although Emmet’d never admitted it, I felt sure that his and Rosalyn’s house in Atlanta had been the same, the one he sold before the move to Florida. The things most of us associate with a homey atmosphere would’ve been lacking in any of Rosalyn’s households: piles of mail and magazines; newspapers on the breakfast table or strewn around easy chairs; kids’ drawings taped to the fridge next to the shopping list. There’d be few cozy nooks; Rosalyn and her breed chose furnishings for historical significance and aesthetics rather than comfort. Her houses would always be showy and formal, even the summer places where they went to get away from such trappings.

      That day I walked the hallways in the forever-stilled footsteps of a woman I’d never know, and looked for her everywhere. I paused to study the furnishings of each room for clues. What did it say about my predecessor that she had favored dark jewel tones over pastels, even in her boudoir? Or that her signature scent was a bold, heady floral (lily, maybe) that still lingered in the air like a sad melody? It was obvious that her kitchen was rarely used, yet the cookware and serving pieces were the finest I’d ever seen. The butler’s pantry was stocked with the most expensive liquor available. Because Emmet’s preference was Russian vodka, I knew the other bottles had been selected for their frequent visitors. To me, that meant Rosalyn was the perfect hostess, floating from guest to guest with the ease of a queen among her subjects. Did she enchant each of them with her beauty and elegance? And did her husband’s eyes follow her with unmistakable pride and adoration?

      Today, as on the first day of my arrival, I have to force myself to stop thinking such thoughts. If I’m not careful, I’ll become obsessed with a dead woman—as I’m dangerously close to doing already. Sometimes, I go to the turret room and stare at a portrait of her, the one I initially failed to see. Only later did I realize that Willa’d stood in front of the portrait so I wouldn’t notice it. The turret room’s an extension of the library, which it leads to, and only has a small