Satisfied that I hadn’t missed anything critical, I had almost turned to leave when I noticed a large covered object on the floor at the opposite end of the closet. Given the taxidermy creatures and the dolls, I might have been afraid to approach it, but the heavy drape was tailored and the thing beneath seemed to have geometric proportions rather than organic.
I touched it, and a feeling of warmth swept over me as though the drape hid some sort of heater. Before I could pull off the cover, I heard a shout from outside the room. Leaving the light on and the closet door behind me open, I ran from the morning room and into the bedroom and out. Below me, Nonie was hurrying up the stairs, calling Michael’s name. Across the gallery, Michael had worked his arm and shoulder into the narrow space between two of the gallery uprights and had nearly worked his head through. Covering my mouth to keep from screaming at him and scaring him, I ran past the staircase and past Nonie, who was running up the stairs, puffing heavily.
Michael seemed not to notice either of us, and gave a start when I grabbed him. Perhaps I hurt him when I jerked him from between the uprights, because he began to scream and pound at me, pushing me away as I tried to hold on to him. His body was damp with sweat and exertion. He’d been trying very hard to get through the uprights, having no understanding that success would have meant certain death for him. I looked down into the hall where Marlene and Terrance stared up at us. When Nonie reached me, she stood, breathless, holding on to the railing for support. I didn’t want to look at her face, knowing I would see blame there. Justified blame.
After Michael was calm, I took him downstairs and gave him a late breakfast. Within fifteen minutes, he was happily smearing oatmeal on his high-chair tray, laughing. I kept him close to me the rest of the morning.
Chapter 8
Confidences
Rachel and I sat in big wicker chairs on the screened porch of the 18th-century farmhouse she shared with Jack. It was one of the oldest houses in the county, built not long after Old Gate was officially established as a town. Ignoring pleas from her mother, as well as the Old Gate Historical Society, Rachel had insisted on building onto its original 1,200 square feet, adding a spacious sunny kitchen and sitting room, two more bedrooms, and a long porch along the back. But it had been well done. Jack had gone along with the build as he did with everything that Rachel wanted. He was too busy in his medical practice to object too much.
Beyond the porch, a simple garden with a winding path sloped downward to meet the rest of the property. It was too shaded for roses, but there were now-spent rhododendrons and hydrangeas, holly bushes—almost trees, really—and some lemon balm. Beds of harebells, wild bleeding hearts, and hostas of all sizes hugged the path. Rachel’s mother, Holly, had crowded beds of giant hostas in her yard and was always dividing and giving them away. Beyond the garden, the path led to a sizable pond half-surrounded by cattails and weedy yellow brush gone to seed. The pond was stocked with bass, though Jack had little time to fish, and had a small flock of white geese that lived there year-round. The path then wandered out to the barn, which had been roughly renovated to accommodate the theater group and the occasional large party.
With her basket of smocking notions beside her chair, and a square of bright green fabric on her lap, Rachel looked relaxed and content in her sleeveless purple maternity blouse over a smart black cotton sateen skirt. As always, she was in full makeup, but her hair was pulled into a ponytail as though she were still a teenager. She looked oddly innocent, for Rachel.
In college she’d been a troublemaker, sneaking out for dates, smoking in our dorm room. She hadn’t cared. As long as she was having fun, anything was okay with her. After she and Jack married, she calmed considerably. She still loved to throw parties, though she complained that—outside of the theater group—Old Gate was full of boring people who did boring things. I hoped the baby she was carrying would satisfy her need for activity.
I’d come, as Press had suggested, to see how she was doing. As selfish as Rachel was (I loved her but had no illusions about her ideas of her own importance), even she could not have expected me to visit any sooner after Eva’s death. I sympathized with her, though. She was probably lonesome, just waiting for the baby to come.
It had been hard to leave Michael after the incident with the railing. But God knew he was safer alone with Nonie than he was with me. Early in the afternoon, as he was about to go down for his nap, I’d wanted to lie down on Eva’s trundle bed until he fell asleep, but Nonie had taken my arm and led me quietly out of the nursery.
“You don’t want to suffocate him, Lottie. Go and visit Rachel the way you planned. Stay as long as you like. I’ll watch him.”