She nods slowly, for once, leveling her gaze. She clears her throat. When she speaks, for the first time, her voice is clear and steady. “Frank and I lived in that cabin behind the Whittakers’ property.” The surprise must register on my face because she halts, and coughs, a resonant, wet sound from deep within her chest. “Henry grew up at Fishing Lake. They bought it from the Vizzinis. Frank and I worked for the Whittakers for years.”
I knew much of this, that Penny worked for Henry’s family. That the Fishing Lake house was Henry’s parents’. I close my eyes, smooth my eyebrows with my index finger. I wave my hand around for her to continue.
“In the back, at the edge of the property, used to sit a guest house. Much like the one you saw. It was almost an apartment, really. I tended the Whittakers’ house, affairs, bills, and social calendar, and Frank was an accountant at Mr. Whittaker’s law firm. Mrs. Whittaker was in advertising. They were nice people. They just had one very troubled teenaged son.” She rummages in her purse, pulls out a tissue, and dabs her eyes.
I remember then: a fire. And I know what’s coming before she says it.
She shakes her head. “I saw the smoke from the upstairs bedroom. I came running down the lane, Frank was in the house. He’d been sick with shingles. By the time I got to our walk, Henry was there, just sitting on a rock, watching it burn. I screamed at him. Told him Frank was in there, that he was trapped, but it was like he didn’t even hear me. Or didn’t care. He just watched it burn, mesmerized.” Plump tears fall down her cheeks, one after the other, and she blots them as they drip off her chin while she speaks. “By the time Frank knew there was a fire, he’d tried to come down the stairs. They collapsed underneath him. His spinal cord was severed.” She pauses, pours herself a drink of water from my pitcher into a fresh Styrofoam cup. “The Whittakers were traumatized. They took Henry to every psychologist in the tristate area. They were good people. They kept me on until they died. Could never apologize enough, never pay for enough. Rebuilt a house for us, bigger, on another patch of property, farther down the trail, the one you found. Said we could live the rest of our days there, rent free. Henry wasn’t allowed back there as a teenager.”
“How did they die?” I set my cup down on the nightstand, shocked to realize that I don’t know. God, there was so much I didn’t know. I can almost see Henry, the flame alight in his eyes. I imagine his barely there smile. I recognize it.
“A car accident. Some kind of brake malfunction. I’ve always wondered . . .” Out in the hall, an alarm sounds, and a clatter of orderlies and nurses rush by with a gurney. We both turn our heads to watch. When it returns to silence, she continues, “Then there was Tara and as an adult, he always claimed that fire was an accident, and he was in shock. But I . . . I saw his face that day. He was gleeful. All that light, reflected in his eyes, it was like Christmas to him.” Her voice hardens, takes a sharp edge. “Well, anyway, he was charming as an adult. He brought me back. Apologized again and again. Paid me more than I had any right to take for what work he gave me.” She studied the tile floor. “I needed the money. Frank’s disability benefits were dwindling. All we had was social security. And then Henry got married, and Tara was so wonderful, so quiet, polite, respectful. A delight. And then she died and he comes home three years later with you. Zoe, believe me,” she says, and leans forward, pulling my hand into hers, her palms cold and her nails digging into my wrists. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I tried to ask him about it. He told me to mind my own business. I told him that it just wasn’t right, that you didn’t know. He said he was going to tell you, but he was in love with you and thought you’d leave him. That he deceived you. He swore he just stumbled on you one day, that you had done the flowers for a company event.”
I nodded. “That’s true. But, he set it up that way. He found me, knew it was all . . .” my voice cracks, “a lie.”
“He said he was captivated by you, by your spirit. He can be very convincing. Could be, I mean.” Her mouth twists, and I see this for what it is. A confessional. Penny feels guilt for accepting me at face value. For not questioning it. I remembered overheard conversations, Penny’s voice. It just doesn’t look proper, Henry. Oh God.