2. ~ No Real Explanations ~

CHAPTER 2

The rain abated, faint rays of sunlight penetrating the lingering clouds, as I drove the Buick home. Along the way, I passed boarded-up shops and a few active stores before arriving at the movie theater near the edge of town. The small affair had recently begun screening a new film entitled Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Even when it seemed profligate to spend a few coins on a ticket, or downright foolish, as Granny would say when we observed the people waiting to get in on a Friday night, it gave me hope that the economy might turn around, with no more lines of folks looking for work or charitable provisions.

I rounded a corner and saw a few young men moving down the pavement. A good-looking blond-haired man smiled and waved at me. I waved back, wondering if he was searching town for work. Work. My mind jumped to the strong, commanding presence of Mr. Sterling, his eyes at once frightening and beautiful, inviting and guarded. "Have we met?" he had asked. Then his gaze found mine as if expecting me to say something—something lost in a distant memory. While the entire encounter went round and round in my head as I searched for something I might have missed, the rest of the drive was a blur.

The Buick made a sound of protest as it crossed into the monastery grounds. Somewhat imposing from the outside but marvelous from within, my home—a two-story, ancient gothic structure with corner towers and stained-glass windows—soared over me. The car growled as I brought it to the rear courtyard and jumped out. With short, quick steps, I crossed the cobblestone path to see a storm brewing just inside the kitchen window, where Granny sat at the table.

"I was afraid you had forgotten your way home," came the first arrow as I walked through the door. Granny pulled off her glasses and placed them on the table. Dressed in her black habit, she looked more like a county judge than a nun. Her eyes pierced mine, notching a second arrow. "You could have told me where you were going. I was worried sick about you."

"I'm sorry. I should have." I crossed my fingers at the white lie. I had deliberately sneaked out, fearing that had she known, she would have sent a flaming cherub to detain me, not to mention every saint she'd ever prayed to. I knew she meant well, but so did I. I grabbed the newspaper from the countertop and sat down to show her the ad. "I applied for the job. Granny, listen—" Taking her hands in mine, I told her about my visit to Oak's Place, omitting any details that might alarm her. Unconvinced, she bombarded me with questions, forcing me to carefully consider each answer twice in order to maintain my story.

"I don't know, Florence." She drummed her fingers on the table. "I hate to judge Mr. Sterling, but we can't ignore the unpleasant rumors."

"That's true, but you taught me not to judge. Besides, Mr. Sterling and his staff seemed quite normal." I was alarmed at how easily I lied, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Hmm . . ." Granny moved to the stove, where she set the kettle down.

"His health is frail. I suppose that's why he wants his affairs in order. And I suspect that's also why he doesn't show up in town," I added to ease her concerns.

"If that's the case, why leave his homeland? Wouldn't it be better to remain close to his interests while healing?"

"Be that as it may, we need the income, and I don't foresee another job opening anytime soon."

"So you got the job?"

"I did."

Granny pulled two cups and a new box of chamomile tea from the cupboard. "And you say this Mrs. White is a refined lady?"

"Yes, and judging from the rosary around her neck, she's quite religious." I omitted that Mrs. White's gaze left me unsettled.

"I wouldn't take that at face value. Some adeptly hide their twisted ways behind masks of religion. I'm not judging, just being careful." Granny returned to the table, teacups in hand. "Who else is there?"

"Mr. Vines, the chauffeur." I took a few sips of the tea, its sweet, flowery taste helping me unwind. "Mrs. White also mentioned a gardener and a cook. I'll meet them tomorrow."

"I guess there is no harm in giving it a try, but Florence"—Granny seized my free hand—"under no circumstance will you stay there if you feel unsafe. Money will come some way or another. It always does. Promise me you won't hesitate to quit if need be."

"I promise." I hoped time would justify my words, for I honestly had no idea who Mr. Sterling or his employees were or why they resided in Geneva.

"I guess we'll both be busy, then." Granny grinned impishly.

"What did you get into this time?"

"Well . . ." Granny gulped down the rest of her tea. "Sister Callahan is bringing a few sisters from Cambridge to tour the United States. They'll stay with us for a time. Isn't that good news?"

"What can possibly be good about that?" Sister Callahan's stout figure and dominant personality forced their way into my mind.

"Oh, child, no need to be so excited about it. Things are different now."

"That's right. There are no girls to torture except for me." The last time she visited, she'd displayed the most exquisite talent for minding everybody else's business. She'd ensured the girls were flawlessly presentable, attended their classes on the hour, and went to bed ten minutes before the appointed time. In other words, we had to behave like canonized saints.

"Besides," Granny interrupted my unpleasant memories, "it's not our choice."

"When are they arriving?"

"I'm not sure. They are still working out the details."

"How long are they staying?"

"A few weeks, I suppose."

"Does Friar Thompson know?" Sister Callahan had taken an unusual liking to the local priest, who was terrified by her relentless eagerness to befriend him.

"I haven't found the courage to tell him." With a smile, Granny collected the cups and brought them to the sink. "But you must remember that, often, people like Sister Callahan, though a bit rough around the edges, can teach us a great deal."

"Like perfecting the virtue of long-suffering," I said under my breath.

The night thickens, and I can't find my way out of the woods. Terror grips me, and I run like a hunted creature. Someone or something chases me.

"Florence, my lady, I'm here. I'm here," comes a voice, tantalizingly familiar, and then blue eyes gaze into my soul. I know those eyes, but the face is young and vivacious, not the face of the man I met yesterday. His arms encircle me, replacing the anguish with a sense that I am finally home.

"Florence, whatever you do, don't trust?—"

The remnants of last night's odd dream accompanied me to Oak's Place, the drive there swift, like the young Mr. Sterling who had comforted, then warned me. Of what, exactly, did he warn me?

I went to remove my coat when Mrs. White entered my office. "Good morning, Miss Contini."

"Good morning."

She checked her wristwatch. "Thank you for being on time. I appreciate punctuality."

I smiled, pleased that she seemed in a better mood today.

"Keep your coat on and come with me. I'll introduce you to the staff."

We took the main hallway to the kitchen. Opposite a wall of cupboards and an oversized stove stood a giant fireplace, certainly one of many and a winter necessity in a house this large. For now, the weather was pleasant and the French doors that led to the back gardens stood open, a gentle breeze blowing through the space.

"Where has she gone now?" Mrs. White said with exasperation. "One of these days, I'm going to have enough."

As if summoned by the housekeeper's threat, a woman in her thirties with flaming red hair and hazel eyes surfaced from outside. Upon seeing us, her fair skin grew more pale.

"About time you showed up," Mrs. White fired. I had the impression that were I not present, a severe reprimand would follow.

"I'm sorry. I got a bit distracted and lost track of time," the woman responded. "I'm Zaira." She held out her hand.

I shook it. "Florence Contini."

Mrs. White filled a glass with tap water, glancing at Zaira with disappointment.

"Oh yes, yes. We spoke on the phone yesterday."

"That's right." I smiled, recalling her subtle British accent and politeness when I'd called about the ad.

"I'm glad you got the job. Mr. Sterling overheard our conversation and asked me what your name was three times—to make sure he got it right, I suppose." Zaira giggled. "I figured he would hire you. Besides you were the only one to come."

Mrs. White choked on her drink, gasping for air.

"Are you all right?" Zaira patted her back.

"Yes. Yes," she wheezed, tapping her chest repeatedly. "Give me a second."

Zaira turned back to me. "So you live in town?"

"I do."

"I've been dying to explore the area but haven't had time. Maybe you could show me around sometime." It sounded like a plea for help.

I couldn't imagine being tethered to the house with the brooding Mrs. White and the intriguing Mr. Vines always about. Just this morning, he was sitting in the courtyard. With arms folded, his dark gaze fixed on me as I descended from the car and climbed the front steps. When I greeted him, he responded with an almost imperceptible nod. And I had the strange feeling he had been awaiting my arrival. "Most definitely."

"Well then." Mrs. White intervened, all recovered from the drink incident. "Let's find Mr. Snider. Come along." With quick, short steps, she hurried outside.

"Nice meeting you, Zaira," I said over my shoulder as I hustled to keep up with the housekeeper.

"Zaira's passion for communication, I'm afraid, knows no bounds. But you must remember you aren't here to fraternize with the staff. You must do your job and not distract others from doing theirs."

I didn't respond since I could picture Zaira and me becoming friends. Besides, if we fulfilled our responsibilities, I saw no harm in socializing.

The housekeeper continued toward a battered stable and a black-roofed cottage. She pointed to the latter. "The staff sleeps in here, except for me. I have a room in the house."

I wondered if that was due to Mr. Sterling needing assistance.

"Where has the man gone?" Her sharp eyes scanned the trees. "Oh, I know. Come on, keep up."

We traveled along a path south into the woods, where the vegetation became dense, blocking out most of the light. My hearing intensified, picking up the faintest of sounds: our steps against the carpet of fallen leaves and twigs, birds hopping from branch to branch, the scurrying of creatures in the underbrush.

"Ah, there he is," Mrs. White said.

Across the barricade of greenery, I spied a figure moving with great urgency. Mrs. White lengthened her strides in front of me, shifting just enough to obstruct my view. As we finally approached Mr. Snider, he sat peacefully on a stump, an axe and a pile of firewood nearby. He wore blue overalls and a beige shirt with rolled-up sleeves. And despite his weather-beaten face and the unkempt brown hair beneath his straw hat, his countenance was pleasant.

"You've been at it again," Mrs. White said, scanning the brush, "haven't you?"

"As you can see." He nodded at the freshly chopped wood.

Mrs. White frowned.

I had no idea what she alluded to, but I felt sure it wasn't about the firewood.

"This is Florence Contini. Just making you aware that she'll be working at the house." Though she spoke softly, the creases of discontent in her forehead deepened.

"Mr. Snider, it's a pleasure to meet you." I shook his gloved hand.

"The pleasure is mine. Having someone agreeable around—in addition to Zaira, of course—will be a nice change."

Mrs. White's lips tightened.

"That's a lot of wood," I noted to soften the sting of his remark.

He grunted. "It's barely enough for a week or two."

"Right, then. We'll leave you to your chopping. At least that's something you can do all right," Mrs. White growled, effectively ending the conversation and quickly retreating through the trees.

With a chuckle, Mr. Snider seized the axe and, with incredible force, split a log in two.

"Until later," I said.

"Miss." He swung the axe again.

I rushed after Mrs. White, and soon, we came to a part of the path where it narrowed considerably, the surrounding shrubs and low branches threatening to smother it. Off to the right, a sudden movement caught my eye. Before I could make it out, the dark silhouette vanished amid the foliage, unsettling my heart.

"Mrs. White," I leveled my steps with hers, "who else works in the house?"

"You've met everyone. Mr. Vines, Snider, Zaira, and I."

"Is that all?"

"Do you think I'm lying?" She looked at me sideways, clearly still annoyed by the encounter with Mr. Snider.

"Of course not. It's just that I thought I saw someone in the trees back there."

"Probably an adolescent. They cut through the woods now and then on their way to town." She spoke matter-of-factly, but the way she scrutinized the spot to which I pointed told me she had someone or something specific in mind.

I forced my lips into a tight smile. I sensed something unusual about the figure, something unnerving. I glanced over my shoulder again. Everything was still.

As I passed Mr. Sterling's office, I wondered if he sat behind the closed door and, more to the point, whether I would see him today. I reached my office and turned to the armoire that housed the business books and documents. I would have to organize them—no easy feat, considering I had to study and categorize them individually before filing them.

Thankfully, time passed quickly, and the sorting became almost mechanical. Flipping open a folder, I saw it contained the deed to a parcel of farmland. I placed it on the stack labeled "Farms," then reached for the next folder and placed it in the pile labeled "Assets." I'd almost finished my work when I dislodged a tiny book that fell from the armoire onto the floor. Curious, I retrieved it and turned to the first page as the scent of old ink and paper filled my nostrils. My eyes danced across the spidery inscription: "Family Tombs, Dates, Names." I shivered. I disliked cemeteries, funerals, and death. Nevertheless, I looked more closely at the handwriting. Did it belong to Mr. Sterling? I felt compelled to turn the page and read more.

I started when Mrs. White suddenly exclaimed, "Ah, I have been looking for that. Where did you find it?"

"In here." I signaled to the armoire.

"I see. It was misplaced."

"Would you like me to file it?" I offered, aware that creating a category for the deceased hadn't crossed my mind.

"No. I'll take care of it." She took it from me, a dark emotion crossing her face as she fingered the pages. Then she snapped it shut and, in one swift motion, buried it in her dress pocket.

"Where are the others?" I asked.

"Mr. Vines and Mrs. White usually eat in their quarters or the garden," Zaira informed. "Same with Mr. Sterling. I brought his food to his office earlier."

"As for the first two," Mr. Snider rumbled, "thank heaven that's the case. I rather enjoy eating in peace."

"Oh, Mr. Snider," Zaira said. "Do you ever tire of quarreling?"

He swallowed another mouthful of crab pie. "Nope."

I knew what Mrs. White had said—that Mr. Sterling needed rest and isolation. Still, I hadn't envisioned him being a shadow in his own house, moving about as if he didn't exist. His nickname started to make sense. While those unsettling thoughts swirled inside my head, I failed to notice Mr. Vines until he stood beside me.

"I hope you are finding Oak's Place to your liking," he said.

"I am, thank you."

"If nothing else, you'll love the British food. It's the best in the world, as you know."

As I know? Apart from today's lunch, I did not know much about British food. I smiled but didn't respond.

Mr. Vines placed the dirty dishes he brought with him in the sink, and, to everyone's surprise, pulled up a chair as if ready to carry on a thorough discussion.

"Well, Miss Contini, I'm glad you are here. Time goes by fast, doesn't it? Or at least that's what we'd like to think when in reality it's just an illusion. In the end, the past always comes back to haunt us."

My eyes turned to him, feeling like he said something pertinent in his riddles.

"I see we are having a meeting," Mrs. White exclaimed, entering from the hall.

"I ought to get back to work." Like a cat on a hot tin roof, Mr. Snider sprang up, cleared his place at the table, and walked out.

"Deborah, come sit by me. We were just talking about you," Mr. Vines lied.

"Good thing I came, then. What are you divulging now?"

"There is nothing to worry about." He reached for her hand. "Loosen up a little, would you?"

Mrs. White brushed him away. "I'm fifty years old. I have no time for games, Vines."

"Ah, there it is again, the subject of time." He smiled in a strange way. "It flies for some, while it seems to stop for others."

Mrs. White threw a nasty glance at him before her gaze settled on me. "Miss Contini, have you ever been to Europe?"

"I have not."

"Shame. It's such a beautiful place," she said.

"Indeed it is," Zaira agreed. "You'll have to visit England someday."

I nodded, but I doubted it would ever happen. "It must be difficult for you to be away from home and family," I noted.

"I miss them terribly." Zaira shifted on her seat. "But I'm enjoying my freedom. My parents, I'm afraid, refuse to let go of their Victorian ways, and I felt caged at home. Needless to say, when Mrs. White recruited me to come to America, I jumped at the opportunity."

An ocean apart, I thought, was quite a bit of freedom.

"Ah, freedom to do as we please—a natural desire," Mr. Vines agreed.

"One that must be kept within proper boundaries." Mrs. White's gaze darted from Mr. Vines to Zaira.

"And you, Mr. Vines? Do you miss your folks?" I ventured.

"I would if they were alive, but Deborah and I don't have living relatives. I'm single, and her husband passed away years ago. Other than unwanted memories, nothing exists for us in England."

"You can say that again." Mrs. White sighed. "We moved here hoping to leave them behind, but some recollections simply refuse to leave us alone. You might be too young to understand, Miss Contini, but when you love someone from the depths of your heart, you can neither move on nor forget. You are stuck in time."

"I'm sorry. I can't imagine losing someone you love."

"Hmm . . ." Mr. Vines shifted in his chair, and I noticed an anxiousness in his eyes, as if one of those unwanted memories plagued him.

"I must say, death can be your worst enemy while, at times, your best friend," Mrs. White said.

"A friend? How is that possible?" Zaira's tone was one of disbelief.

"Sometimes, the suffering is too much—such as when facing a terminal illness. Then, death comes as a relief. So, those left behind, though grieving, understand its merciful arrival." In disturbing contrast to the vulnerability of her words, Mrs. White's voice sounded calculating and detached. But it wasn't my place to judge. Her detachment might be how she coped with loss. And despite that loss, here she was, far from her land and people, soldiering on.

"Grief manifests in many forms," Mr. Vines assured. "The worst kind comes when the one you love doesn't love you back." He glanced at Mrs. White. "Isn't that right, Deborah?"

"We all have shadows to chase us and to chase after," Mrs. White answered.

My gaze traveled through the French door's glass into the outside world. Mr. Snider crossed the grounds, pushing a wheelbarrow.

"Ah, the old fellow." Mr. Vines followed the direction of my eyes. "Never stops moving, does he? You know, he is a military veteran from the Great War. Mr. Sterling met him in one of those postwar houses and kept in touch with him."

"Mr. Sterling used to travel the region visiting with soldiers, helping with their recovery." Mrs. White sounded positively proud of her employer.

"When the time to move to America came, Mr. Sterling reached out, and Snider accepted the job," Zaira further explained. "At that point, Mr. Snider had been separated from his wife for years. She took their two sons and left him. He never saw them again."

"That's terribly sad." My heart went out to him. Even when I didn't know my family, I still yearned for them. I couldn't imagine how he felt when he had a past filled with his family's memories. "Why did she leave?"

Zaira opened her mouth to answer but shut it again.

"If we were busybodies, Miss Contini, who view boundaries as mere suggestions and privacy as a concept not meant for others, we might sit here long past the lunch hour to discuss the lives of those not present," Mrs. White scolded, glancing at her wristwatch. "I think you know all you need to know about Snider."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry." The question had been innocent enough, a natural course of the conversation. Her rebuke, though, was a reminder that I was here to do my job and not to meddle in their personal affairs. Even though I got the message, I still thought her strictness was a bit too much.

"I think coming here was a good change for Mr. Snider," Zaira added, smoothing the tense moment.

"That remains to be seen," Mrs. White muttered as she left the table.

Needing a breath of fresh air, I took the path bordering the house, the discussion still circling in my head. The shade of the trees on one side of the path and the massive walls on the other accentuated the chill I felt as I thought of Mr. Vines and Mrs. White and the oddness about them—an oddness I couldn't place. Perhaps it was just unfamiliarity. With time, I might gain their trust and friendship.

A crackling sound followed by a quick motion in my peripheral vision stopped me. I glanced into the woods. There. The noise of leaves as if carried by the wind came again, but there was no wind. Someone is watching me. The hair at the back of my neck stood as my gaze darted from tree to tree, shrub to shrub, and the forest floor in between. While I saw nothing to justify the disturbance, I couldn't shake the eerie feeling that I wasn't alone.

I lengthened my steps, hurrying to the opposite, less gloomy side of the house. Rounding the corner, I collided with Mr. Sterling, the impact sending me into the thorn-covered rose vines that climbed the wall. Reflexively, my arm went out to protect me.

"Flor—" He stopped midsentence. "Miss Contini, are you all right?" He took hold of my arms, stabilizing me.

"Mr. Sterling, I'm sorry."

"Are you all right?"

I surveyed the damage. "It's nothing. Just a few scratches."

"Let me see." He rolled up the sleeve of my dress.

As he examined my arm, I couldn't help but notice how stunning he looked in the light of day.

"Have Zaira clean it just in case." He ran his fingers over the undamaged skin of my arm, and my cheeks grew warm.

"Thank you. I will." I pulled away.

"Maybe I should have Mr. Snider cut down the vines," he said as if gauging my reaction.

"I wouldn't be so drastic," I said promptly. "I'm sure the roses are beautiful when in bloom."

"Beautiful indeed. But tell me, where were you going in such haste? You would think something chased you."

"I suppose the chilly day might have chased me to the sun." No way would I confess that my discombobulation came from whatever lurked in the woods. "Unless, of course, there is something I am unaware of."

His face contorted with an emotion I couldn't decipher. Grief, fear, or maybe anger? "No, Miss Contini. There is nothing to worry about." His gaze dropped to the path, and he resumed his walk, leaving me baffled.