Moonrise. Cassandra King

high and with bookshelves underneath, where Willa led me that first day, and where I stood gaping at the panoramic view of the lake. Willa moved me quickly from there into the library; the following day I saw why. Hanging on the wall behind where she had stood was an oil painting of a young woman in a silvery-white ball gown, a sheer tulle wrap draped around her bare shoulders. It wasn’t terribly large, as portraits go, being much too tasteful to be life-sized. Moving closer, I saw that the woman was Rosalyn.

      I couldn’t blame Willa for wanting to shield me from the portrait as long as possible, or to avoid my questions about the subject. I only wish I’d left well enough alone, that I’d not seen it until I was more firmly entrenched into my new life and its strange setting. In the photos I’d seen of Rosalyn, she’d been a lovely, poised woman in her early fifties; seeing her like this, young and still untouched by life, I realized with an unwelcome twinge of jealousy how utterly beautiful she was. I stood before the portrait and studied her flawless ivory shoulders; her swanlike neck, unadorned by jewels; the tilt of her aristocratic chin; the silver-blond hair in that most elegant of styles, the chignon. The painter had captured a playful glint in her smoky blue eyes, a hint of a seductive smile on her lips. This was the woman whom Emmet had fallen in love with, the one I suspected he’d always love. Studying the painting, I could understand why. I’d heard from everyone that Rosalyn was near about perfect; that such a paragon should also be so beautiful told me all I needed to know about the fairness of life.

      Every time I returned to the painting, I chastised myself for caring, for being intimidated by Rosalyn’s beauty. Why do women do that? I wondered. Until I saw the portrait, I’d taken pride in my fit, trim body, the result of a stringent diet and exercise; in my smooth, bronzed skin; in my tousled and highlighted coif that cost me a month’s salary with every trip to the salon, but gave me the confidence to appear before a camera. Looking at Rosalyn, I saw myself as I really was: coarse and blowsy, an overripe, sun-baked Cracker trying to pass herself off as someone of taste and refinement. What had I been thinking, prissing around town in a tank top with such a low-cut neckline? Sun-browned cleavage was not only tacky but so Florida. I studied my so-called shapely legs and firm upper arms, another source of pride, and realized I’d mistaken muscle-bound for fit. And whatever had possessed me to have a Celtic cross—tiny though it was—tattooed just above my right ankle? Rosalyn would’ve never done such a thing, nor painted her toenails a lurid shade of pink. I tormented myself by returning to the portrait of my predecessor over and over until I understood the difference between me and her. Rosalyn was a slender, single-stemmed white rose, while I was one of those passion flowers commonly found in ditches—purple, overblown, and going to seed, fast.

      After changing into jeans and zipping on a hoodie, both blanket-soft from so much wear since my arrival, I hurry downstairs to catch the sunset from my newly discovered perch outside. I stop by the kitchen to grab a bottle of chilled wine and a paper cup, then exit the house through the side porch. The Victorians had been big on porches, according to Willa, which they called verandas and furnished like outdoor parlors. The porches of Moonrise are as formal and uninviting as the rest of it, so I pass quickly through the one on the far side of the house, overlooking the lake. It’s quite grand with a stenciled ceiling, a fireplace against the stone wall of the house, and antique wicker decor, and I’ll be entertaining out here again soon. But for now, I scamper down the steps and across an unused, neglected patio, then trod down a flagstone pathway that leads away from the house, toward the side of the mountain.

      Whenever I’m outside, I’m careful to avert my eyes from the overgrown gardens in back. The sight depresses me more in the daytime than it does at night when I’m sleepless, and its sad, wild beauty calls out to me. In sunlight, the garden is unsightly but unremarkable, just another gone-to-seed backyard crying out for a Weed Eater. Being nocturnal, nothing much blooms there in the daytime, anyway. At night, however, the moon coaxes everything to life, with buds bursting forth from the dark earth like the souls of the dead on Judgment Day. It creeps me out, for some reason. The pathway veers away from the house and I raise my eyes in relief. Thankfully, the ruined gardens are now beyond my line of vision.

      The flagstone path disappears into a sun-shot, shadowy tunnel of rhododendrons, much like the one at the entrance to the house. When I emerge, the pathway comes to an end on a secluded terrace nestled behind a copse of laurel. The terrace appears to be perched on the edge of the gently sloping mountain, in a cleared-off space that offers a bird’s-eye view of the lake. I make my way to a small sitting area at the far end, taking care not to slip on the mossy stones of the terrace. I was exploring the grounds a few days ago when I came across this spot, and could tell that no one had been here in a very long time. There’s only an old bent willow settee and chair here, and I plop on the settee gratefully. When I first stumbled on the terrace, I figured the seating was purely decorative, unable to imagine actually sitting on branches twisted into chair shapes without any cushions. Resting from my walk, I’d perched on the chair and found it surprisingly cozy, age having worn the willow as smooth as stone. I then dragged the old furniture to the edge of the terrace for a better view of the lake, making my own little tree house, and I had my refuge.

      After pouring myself a cup of Chablis, I settle back into the settee, squirming until I’m comfortably situated. Funny, a house as grand and richly furnished as Moonrise at my disposal, and I can only relax when it’s out of my sight. I sip the wine and look down at the lake, where the last of the day’s sunbeams prance on its rippling surface like bright little seahorses. Looking Glass Lake is a long, spectacular body of water surrounded by woods; my lofty perch provides me a good view of the houses fronting its banks. A lot of them are hidden away in the woods; only the sight of a chimney or roofline above the treetops gives away their presence. Thankfully, the three houses that interest me the most are the ones most clearly in my sight.

      Laurel Cottage is the closest, on the same side of the lake as Moonrise and right below us. Even from this distance, it’s so charming it appears make-believe, the dwelling of the seven dwarfs, and I halfway expect to see Snow White waltzing down the garden paths, singing to the birds. Despite the drought, the gardens surrounding the cottage are riotous with blossoms and butterflies. It’s a fanciful place, with koi ponds, a stone wishing well, and topiary cut in the shape of the Mad Hatter’s tea party. I spot Emmet’s Jeep parked in front. He and Noel are most likely having their martinis on the back porch, which has French country decor and is every bit as exquisite as the rest of the house. Laurel Cottage is the only one of the three that I’ve been inside.

      Linc and Myna’s cabin is a bit farther down, perched on a little cove that juts out into the lake. The porch appears to hang precariously over the water, and Emmet told me they used to dive directly into the lake from the porch railing. The house is an authentic log cabin that I’m dying to see, but Myna can’t have guests over until Linc’s comfortable with the new handicapped features. Which made sense to me, though I overheard Tansy and Kit saying that Myna couldn’t be happier at having an excuse not to reciprocate dinner invitations. Emmet was amused when I repeated their conversation, and told me that Myna wasn’t highly regarded by the others. She seems friendly enough, I responded, but of course I hardly knew her. For that, Emmet responded drily, I should consider myself fortunate.

      Kit also has an excuse not to entertain because her house, located on the other side of Linc’s, is in the final stages of a big remodeling project. She’s talked of nothing else since I’ve met her, which is good since I’d wondered how she’d take to me. I’m still wondering. I’ve not only sensed her reticence at accepting me into the fold; she’s made several remarks that could be interpreted as such. Plus she’s always studying me curiously, sometimes not even turning away when I catch her. One of those times I felt sure she was regarding me with something like pity. Because she seems so sweet on the surface, there’s nothing I can pinpoint as proof of her hostility. When we first arrived and everyone came over to meet me, I asked Emmet afterward if his friends had approved of me. His look was so scathing that I’ve dared not bring it up again. I should’ve known better than to ask him, of course. Emmet Justice is not a person to give a rat’s ass whether he has the approval of anyone else.

      I pour myself a bit more wine, thinking back on the day I finally met Emmet’s group of friends face-to-face. Maybe enough time’s passed that I can get some perspective on that occasion. Since that rather