4. ~ Fear and Excitement ~

CHAPTER 4

Like a malfunctioning phonograph record, I kept telling myself to do my job, collect my salary, and forget about Oak's Place anomalies and Mr. Sterling's personal life. It was easier said than done—even more so when I sat here in my office, the silence stretching too long, too deep. What secrets lingered in the stillness of the house? The conversation I'd overheard between Mr. Sterling and Mrs. White replayed relentlessly in my mind. Who did she want him to get away from, and why? Try as I might, I couldn't shake the feeling they referred to me. But we had nothing besides a job between us. And after I'd insinuated that he lied about being in my office, I'd surely ruined the possibility of friendship.

Then I couldn't dismiss the idea that there might be some truth to the gossip about him. And if so, did he worry I might stumble upon his secrets and make them public? Possibly. But he should have thought about that before hiring me. And as if that wasn't enough to keep me awake at night, the image of the trespasser in the woods refused to leave my thoughts.

Reaching a tipping point, and perhaps as an act of rebellion against Mrs. White, I unburied the books at the bottom of the piles in the armoire—the books she told me were of no significance. Though it was a tedious job, I carefully went through them only to learn she was right. I found nothing to satisfy my curiosity.

Mrs. White's rule to not wander about the house echoed in my head. If they had nothing to hide, why all the restrictions? Glancing at my watch, I made a decision. If there was anything that explained what Mr. Sterling and the housekeeper were talking about the other night, I would find it in his bedroom or office.

I crept down the corridor with furtive glances, my breath catching at each unexpected noise. What I was about to do, if not criminal, qualified as dishonest. Finding his office door closed, I pressed my ear to the wood, trying to hear over the pounding of my heart. Seconds passed before I heard someone clear their throat. He was inside. I moved on, sliding through the halls like a prolific thief, until I entered the one leading to his bedroom. Almost there. Almost there.

When Mrs. White's voice hit my ears, I froze and my stomach knotted. I forgot her quarters were two doors before his.

"O merciful God, take pity on those souls who have no particular friends and intercessors to recommend them to Thee."

I exhaled in relief. Her words came from inside her bedroom, the door ajar.

"Who, either through the negligence of those who are alive or through the length of time, are forgotten by their friends and by all," she continued.

I knew of the prayer for the forgotten dead. Did she pray for her deceased husband or someone else?

"Spare them, O Lord. Spare them, O Lord. Spare them, O Lord," she chanted, and the knot in my stomach tightened. A brief silence preceded a few sniffles, then footsteps.

Before I knew it, I'd retreated, almost running back to my office. What possessed me to be so intrusive? If Mrs. White had caught so much as a glimpse of me scurrying away like a rat on fire, it wouldn't be long until she came after me. And I had no excuse, at least not a truthful one. What was it with this house that turned its inhabitants, including me, into untrustworthy people?

I sank into the chair behind the safety of the desk, feeling my heartbeat in my ears—a steady beat of guilt. I picked up a pen and forced myself to continue my work, though my hand was too shaky to write. And just then, a disturbance from the hallway convinced me Mrs. White had come to reprimand me. Playing innocent, I kept my gaze down.

"Good morning." Mr. Sterling's voice caught me completely off guard.

"Mr. Sterling . . . I . . ." I was speechless. He was the last person I would have expected to see.

"Miss Contini, are you happy here?" He moved into the room. "Let me rephrase that. Are you comfortable working here?"

At that moment, I felt certain I would never understand him. Was he a potential friend or an enemy? Whatever the answer, at least he seemed unaware of my trespassing in prohibited areas. Still, I responded cautiously. "Yes, as comfortable as one can be at work."

"I know, it's just work, isn't it? However, this house can be depressing for a young lady. It's far from town, intimidatingly spacious, and sometimes as cold as an iceberg."

"It does get chilly, especially in the mornings."

"You could work in the dining room and take advantage of the fireplace." A hint of kindness shone in his eyes.

"Thank you. I'll consider it." I felt awkward, not knowing what to make of his presence or apparent concern for my well-being.

"I hope the thirty-minute drive from town twice a day isn't too tiresome." He sat at the edge of the desk.

"Not at all. Besides, Mrs. White gave me two weeks off for Christmas, so I'll have a long break." I pushed the chair away from the desk, away from him.

"Christmas. It always comes with all the noise and busyness."

"You speak as if you don't like Christmas."

"It's bittersweet for me. I embrace the anticipation and hope of the season, but it leaves me feeling empty when it's gone. Enough of that. I came here to ask something of you."

"Certainly."

"Could you make a list of suggestions to improve this old place?"

It took me a moment to process his words. A renovation meant opening the door to a host of workers—not exactly something a hermit or fugitive welcomed.

"You don't think it's a good idea?" He glanced at me questioningly, and I realized I hadn't responded. Still, he continued. "When I bought this house, I didn't care about its condition. The last thing I needed was people invading my privacy, disrupting the peace," he explained as if reading my mind. "But I'm ready for a few updates."

"I'm glad to hear that." I tried to hold my tongue but failed. "I must ask, why the change of heart?"

"Change of heart . . . hmm." His gaze shifted away from mine. "Let's just say this is a good time for change."

"I'm happy to put together some ideas. Do you have anything specific in mind?" I leaned forward to reach for my notebook, and the silver bracelet around my wrist slipped out from under my sleeve.

Mr. Sterling's eyes snapped to it. "Where did you get that?"

"The wristlet?"

"Yes. Where did you get it?" His tone demanded an answer.

"It was left with me when I was abandoned at the monastery."

"May I see it?"

I handed it to him.

"Florence Contini," he read the engraving.

The way he observed the piece of jewelry and turned it in his fingers with such tenderness gave me the strange impression this wasn't the first time he had seen it. The thought sent chills through my body.

"Excuse me if I'm interrupting something important." Mrs. White's voice boomed from the threshold.

Mr. Sterling shot to his feet.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

I then noticed how pale he had gone.

"Nothing at all." He curled his hand, concealing the bracelet.

"I'd like to discuss a pressing matter with you," she told him, her lips twitching. Had she seen me stalking about? Would she tell him?

Mr. Sterling moved away from me. Would he take the wristlet? "In response to your earlier query, I trust your judgment, Miss Contini. No specific instructions. Let me know what you come up with."

"I shall."

When Mrs. White withdrew into the corridor, he returned to my desk and handed me the bracelet, avoiding my eyes. I watched him leave, wondering about his interest in the seemingly insignificant jewelry.

Moving the cup back and forth beneath the faucet until no soap remained, I grabbed a kitchen towel to dry it, and returned it to the cupboard.

"You better tell me the truth right now," I heard Mrs. White command.

I moved from the sink to the French doors, but instead of stepping outside, I hovered near the glass, listening.

"I don't know what you are talking about," Mr. Snider retorted.

"Fiddlesticks! You know exactly what is going on, and you better tell me. It might favor you when your day of reckoning comes."

"Are you blackmailing me?" he growled.

"Call it whatever you want, but don't forget I am in charge."

"I didn't survive the Great War and moved across the ocean to be intimidated by you. Do whatever you want. See if I care." Mr. Snider's boots thumped furiously against the ground. I pictured him walking away, arms flung angrily into the air.

I slipped out of the kitchen and down the corridor, ashamed to have eavesdropped yet again. My thoughts turned to the other day and to my foolishness in sneaking to Mr. Sterling's room. My guilt over my actions only intensified when he'd spoken cordially about the renovations. My impertinence had to stop before I found myself in a regrettable situation—or worse, lose my income. Still, what had Mrs. White pressed Mr. Snider about? What did she have on him?

I entered my office and looked out the window to see snowflakes falling. Even though snowy weather tended to bring things to a halt, I loved watching it. The cessation of winter amazed me, for it was an illusion. Life hid among the dreary months, invisible to the natural eye yet ready to flourish in the spring.

An unexpected yearning to see Mr. Sterling seized me. I hoped to share an idea for the renovation before I left on holiday break. However, my plans were shattered when Mrs. White informed me that he had suffered a relapse and was confined to his bed.

Sighing heavily, I immersed myself in work. Minutes, then hours slipped by. When I looked at the time again, it was almost five o'clock, and I felt the strain of a long day. I flipped through the last file on my desk, thick with complex documents. I stared at a line with ornamental handwriting. A piece of art, but for goodness' sake, how many years of practice did this person endure to master it? Just to read it took dedication. My head spun, my vision blurred, the letters jumping around on the page. I was drifting into sleep.

Fighting the urge to give in, I left the chair to move around. My eyes needed a brief rest—they felt heavy as if they were sealed together. Just then, the spirit of disobedience came upon me full force, and my weariness vanished. I would not see Mr. Sterling for two weeks and worried about his health. I resisted the idea for a while, reminding myself I had already decided to mind the rules. Yet, as if the devil had entered my body, I failed again. I left the chair, appeasing my guilty conscience with the notion that Mrs. White was bound to be in the kitchen, discussing the dinner menu with Zaira.

The click-clack of my heels on the stone floor echoed through the corridor, exacerbating my anxiety. I could almost see Mrs. White bursting from the shadows like a hawk snatching a field mouse. Any second now, I told myself, but just then, I found myself next to Mr. Sterling's bedroom.

The sound of groaning came from within. Turning the doorknob, I stepped into the darkness of the room, focusing on a sliver of light filtering through the curtains until my vision adjusted. I could now make out the bed and his outline. He let out a few quiet whimpers, and I froze, shocked by my lack of decorum. I had to retreat. I took a step back.

"Florence?" The weight of illness tinged his voice. "Is that you?"

"I heard you from the corridor. I just wanted to help."

"Come closer."

With my heart pounding in my ears, I neared him. His face shocked me. It was dreadfully white. "Mr. Sterling . . ." He stretched out his hand, and I took it. He was cold, so cold.

"Why did you take so long?" he asked.

"I . . ." What should I say? "Mr. Sterling, what can I do for you?"

"You took so long." He was delirious. "I waited for so long . . . so long."

"I'm sorry. I'm here now."

"You care."

"Of course I do. Should I call the doctor?"

"Why the doctor? I have never felt better. You are here."

My heart went out to this lonely, helpless man. I had to help him. Perhaps I'd come to Oak's Place for this very reason—to help him survive what not only haunted him but threatened to kill him. I insisted, "I will go find help."

"No. Stay with me." Before I knew it, he had pulled me down beside him, wrapping his arms around me tightly. Resting my head on his chest, tears welled up in my eyes. It was the first time I had ever felt complete, at total peace with myself and the world around me. In that moment, I knew I belonged in his arms.

"Promise me you won't leave," he whispered.

"I promise." I looked up. His mouth was close, so close. My lips brushed his . . .

"Florence! Florence, wake up!" A voice came first, then a hand shaking my shoulder.

I blinked, pushing away the drowsiness of sleep, and found myself back in my office, resting my head on the desk. The dream ended, and Zaira stood there, hovering over me. "Zaira?" I straightened on the chair.

"Are you all right? I couldn't wake you."

"I . . . was exhausted." I yearned to return to the dream, to his embrace. Nonetheless, I felt relieved it had been a dream and I had averted a possible disaster with Mrs. White and maybe even Mr. Sterling.

"Go home and get some rest. It's almost six o'clock."

"That late?" I hurried to clear my desk, then gathered my coat and handbag.

"I envy you. You must be excited about your vacation, but I'll miss having you around." Zaira accompanied me to the courtyard. "This house is as dull as ditchwater."

"It'll go fast." I really hoped it would. "Have a merry Christmas. And call me if you get bored."

"Don't mind if I do. And a happy Christmas to you! That's how we say it in England."

"Wish Mr. Sterling a happy Christmas for me."

"I shall, whenever I can," she assured.

"I wish I could've seen him today."

"Trust me, it's better you don't. When he is sick, his appearance is frightening. His eyes stare at you lifelessly. It's a terrible sight to behold."

"I can imagine." In my dream, I had seen Mr. Sterling exactly as she described him. I drove away with a heavy heart.

The culmination of another excruciating financial year had arrived. The hope and eagerness to restore our country to a healthy economy would carry us into the upcoming year, but the statistics remained bleak.

For now, Christmas came as a reminder to slow down and appreciate the good things. Though deeply grateful for Granny, who was everything to me, more and more often, I found myself aching to know of my origin. Who were my parents? Did I have siblings? Would I ever know? Because the unanswered questions pained me, I quickly boxed them back up and stored them away.

On Christmas morning, Granny handed me a package tied with red ribbon. I was thrilled to find a navy dress inside. I clutched it to my shoulders, measuring it against my body. It was perfectly designed in the latest fashion—a V-neck, three-quarter sleeves, and tight at the waist, where it bowed slightly outward. I couldn't wait to wear it.

"It's gorgeous!" I now knew what she had been working on when I heard the sewing machine whirring late at night. "Thank you, Granny, thank you."

"You're welcome, child." Her embrace held the same tender, loving affection as always.

"I hope you like my gift as much as I like yours." I handed her an envelope containing the tickets to Snow White—a luxury owed to my employment at Oak's Place. "And please, just this time, don't worry about the unnecessary expense."

Granny adjusted her spectacles and unsealed the envelope. "Goodness gracious. This is exub—" She edited her sentence. "Exciting."

"It'll be fun. We both need a breather from real life." I smiled.

"You are right, dear. Let's celebrate with some coffee." Granny turned to the stove. After months of tea, we could afford coffee again.

"I'll get the cups." I turned to the cupboard and spotted a crow with lustrous black plumage through the window. He launched from the pine tree and flew in front of the glass, his mournful caw ringing across the grounds like the cry of a lost soul. Perhaps it was the bad omen attached to these birds, but my skin prickled with goosebumps, and the sensation sent my mind back to my childhood. On occasion, my friend MaryLu and I would see the ghost of a monk in his black tunic and cowl scurrying down the monastery corridors, passing through walls, and moving about the courtyard. My thoughts jumped to the trespasser at Oak's Place. His presence unnerved me. Just then, a new idea sprang up. What if he wasn't mortal? What if he was a ghost?

My uneasiness rose naturally, and I let it out. "Granny, why do some ghosts linger in this world?"

"That's a random question." She placed the kettle on the burner. "Have you seen one recently?"

"No, I just thought about the monk who used to wander the monastery," I replied with only half of the truth. She didn't need more worries. "Do you remember him?"

"Oh yes. I do. Thank heaven he hasn't shown up in years."

"You haven't answered my question."

"The common belief is that they have unfinished business."

"Hmm." I looked out the window again. The crow had flown away. "How do you think they go about it?"

Granny glanced at me over her spectacles. "It's better to leave those things alone."

"I know, I know." I pushed the idea to the back of my head. It was a silly idea, after all. I handed her the cups and picked up the almanac from the counter. I opened it on the table, my fingers tracing the days of vacation I had left. Eight.

"You seem excited about going back to work." Granny poured the coffee for us and settled beside me.

I grinned. "I'm ready to do something other than clean." With no penchant for idleness, Granny kept me busy scrubbing every inch of the monastery in preparation for the European sisters' arrival.

"Is that the only reason?"

"Well, yes."

"Child, I know you better than you want to believe. I have noticed the way you speak of Mr. Sterling."

I opened my mouth to argue, but then closed it without saying a word. True. I spoke of him compulsively. Worse yet, the dream I had had on the last day before the break replayed in my head mercilessly—his anguish, his pleading for me to stay, the contentment I felt in his embrace.

She went on. "I'm aware that you are an adult, but you haven't lived as long as I have. And I recognize the face of love when I see it."

"Who said anything about love?" I hadn't thought about love and Mr. Sterling at the same time.

"I just want you to keep in mind that there are two kinds of love. One is real, and if reciprocated, worth fighting for. The other is a passing emotion—one that must be kept within proper boundaries, so it doesn't turn into an obsession that destroys your life. You must distinguish between the two. Start by analyzing the facts. Let's go over a few things." She pushed her coffee aside, serious about this. "What do you know about him? Not much. How did he obtain his vast fortune? You don't know. Could he be hiding from something or someone? Is that why he is here? You don't know. Will you ever find out? You can't answer that either." Her clarity sobered me.

"There is nothing to worry about, Granny." I gathered the package from the table, struggling to untangle my feelings for Mr. Sterling while dissecting her assessment. "Thank you for the dress."

"One more thing." She removed her glasses, her eyes intent on me. "He is older than you."

She was right, but the soul was ageless, and I didn't care as much about the years in life as I did the life in the years. A multitude of other things were more alarming than age—if it ever came to love.