Moonrise. Cassandra King

me, I thought as I flung the door open. Sure enough, the vase had been moved to the side, and I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure disappearing down the main staircase. I keep myself in good shape and can move pretty fast, but I wasn’t fast enough. Halfway down the staircase, I knew it was futile. No one was there, despite what I thought I saw. No one but me was in the dark, empty house, nor was anyone running down the driveway, laughing gleefully at having tricked me.

      I knew then, as I know now, that no earthly presence slammed the attic door on me that day. Moonrise is haunted. And it’s not a stretch to imagine Rosalyn as a ghost, returning to walk the halls of the place she loved so much. Before I convinced myself otherwise, I blamed Noel for scaring me that day, but it certainly could have been Rosalyn. She might’ve been having a little fun with me, or trying to let me know she was still around. I can’t help but wonder if the Bride has seen her, or if she senses her presence. If the idea weren’t so sad, it’d be rather deliciously gothic.

      Something hits me and I sit straight up in bed, wide awake now. I wonder if Emmet has told his new wife that the gardens where Rosalyn spent so many happy hours are also her final resting place. Not only does Rosalyn’s spirit still dwell there, her ashes are part of the grounds she once trod. Does the Bride have any idea that she shares Moonrise with her predecessor, and quite literally, too?

      Then an even more troubling thought arises, one I suppress each time it comes up. The rest of us do the same—or so I assume, since no one will talk about it. Will we ever know what really happened on the night Rosalyn died? It was early March, but still winter here in the mountains. Without letting any of us—even Kit—know what she was doing, Rosalyn left Atlanta late one afternoon to come to Moonrise. That in itself was strange enough, but what she did once she got here remains the true mystery. For some unknown reason, Rosalyn left Moonrise that same night, even though it was snowing and the roads iced over, to drive back to Atlanta. Why? Driving so late on dangerous, curvy roads was completely out of character for her. Until that fateful night, she had never done such a foolish thing. It torments me, and always will: Why did Rosalyn come to Moonrise so impulsively, and what on earth scared her away once she got there?

      SUMMER FOLKS

      It’d make more sense for me to start at Moonrise and work my way around to Laurel Cottage, but I don’t. Never have. Old habits die hard, and I’d druther end up at Moonrise. Completes the circle, I reckon. Another of my foolish notions, Momma would say. She only had Moonrise, though, not the slew of houses I have. Sometimes I wonder what she’d think about me having my own property management company, with so much responsibility. Momma wasn’t what you’d call ambitious. She was content with Moonrise, content to have me end up a housekeeper like her. It was her lot in life, something a good Christian woman like her would never question.

      I know that Momma’d understand why I clean the houses at Looking Glass Lake myself, even though I’ve turned the other places over to my crew. Boss lady does the lake houses, I hear the girls telling one another. Most of them don’t speak much English, but they’re good girls, and good workers. Truth is, I do only three of the lake houses—Laurel Cottage, Moonrise, and the Varners’ cabin—and all have plaques out front saying they’re on the National Historic Register, which makes me proud.

      The fourth of my lake houses, Kit Rutherford’s, I’ve started sending Carlita to clean. Thank the Lord that Carlita pleased Kit ’cause I never could. Duff still works for her, though, which gets my goat. She’s snippy with my helpers yet lets him get by with anything: sloppy work, showing up half crocked, borrowing money, whatever. I tease him, saying it’s those tight jeans and wide shoulders of his. I let Duff think he’s hot stuff, but in truth, I don’t worry about Kit flirting with my fellow. That woman likes her men rich, with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. After Kit’s latest husband, Al Rutherford, kicked the bucket, she contested his will, and took his kids to court. Even though Al had left her well-off, she wanted more. No one expected the judge to take the Rutherford house away from those poor kids and give it to Kit, but that’s exactly what happened. Next thing you know, she sent bulldozers in to tear up the yard with its beautiful old gardens so she could fix her some new ones. Folks in town are still wagging their tongues about that!

      If I’m gonna finish today before everybody gets back from their outing, I better shake a leg. I don’t like cleaning houses while the owners are home, getting in my way, talking to me, and normally it’s not a problem. This summer, though, everything is different. Maybe it’s because my folks have been here about a week and haven’t settled into all the changes that’s taken place since last year. And there’s been plenty of changes besides that ugly house and torn-up yard of Kit’s. Noel and Tansy arrived fussing and snipping at each other, worse than ever. But most of all, Emmet showed up with a new wife, then Linc in a walker. (Wish he’d been the one with a new wife.) Linc’s doing much better than I expected, though, good enough that his friends were able to take him out sightseeing today.

      Even though I hope to finish all three places before sundown, I can’t hurry through Laurel Cottage. Too many antiques and whatnots, which I take my time dusting and cleaning. Every room in the house—even the bathrooms—has pictures hanging on the walls, and Oriental rugs on the floors so old they’re about to fall apart. I’ve never counted, but I bet those hutches in their dining room hold three hundred pieces of china each. One time I asked Tansy if they had that many dishes in their Atlanta apartments, and she said, “Honey, you wouldn’t believe it.” She’s right; I probably wouldn’t.

      It don’t take me as long to finish Laurel Cottage today because Noel keeps everything nice and clean when he’s here. Funny, him being more persnickety about neatness than Tansy is. Laurel Cottage originally belonged to Noel’s family, though Mr. Clements left it to him and Tansy both. Momma didn’t hold with gossip much, but she did tell me all about that situation. She said Mr. Clements didn’t have to do such a thing, since he only courted Tansy’s mama instead of marrying her, but that was the kind of man he was. Good-hearted and decent, despite him being rich as a lord. Mr. Clements treated Tansy like the daughter he never had. You’d think Noel would resent sharing his house with somebody who’s not blood kin, but no. Momma always said that Noel was every bit as fine a man as his daddy. “Fine” has a different meaning these days, and Noel Clements is sure that, too.

      Noel and Tansy have the most peculiar relationship of anybody I know, and that’s saying a lot among the summer people. They live together, but not really. They date other people, or each other, and it don’t seem to matter to them which. Both have been married to other folks, and neither came to Highlands much during those days. Well, Noel couldn’t, I reckon, since he married a Frenchwoman and spent a lot of time overseas. Tansy’s tied the knot twice, both times to men old enough to be her daddy. Seems like one—or both—of her husbands died recently. One of them was funny, I recall—“funny” like in homo, and Noel teases her about it. Not about the guy being homo—Noel’s not like that—but about Tansy marrying him and not knowing. Peculiar as they are, though, Tansy and Noel are sure entertaining to be around.

      Laurel Cottage is the prettiest of all the houses I manage, even Moonrise. Moonrise is more famous, but it’s creepy to me. Plus Moonrise is cold all the time, even in the summer. Laurel Cottage is more what a house in the mountains oughta be, but in a good way, not like those gussied-up ones with pictures of bears on everything, even furniture. Summer folks actually think bears are cute. You won’t see any bear stuff at Laurel Cottage, cute or otherwise. It’s been written up in a lot of decorating magazines, which Tansy frames and hangs on the walls.

      Standing at the kitchen sink of Laurel Cottage, I arrange a bunch of white dahlias in a heavy antique vase. It’s a personal touch of mine, fixing flowers from the owners’ gardens after I clean their houses. I’m halfway up the stairs with the vase in my hands when my cell phone rings. Probably just Duff, aggravating thing. He knows I’m at work, and he’s supposed to be.

      I’ve just put the vase on Tansy’s dresser when my phone goes off again. I pull it out of my pocket, and sure enough, it’s Duff.