July 27, 2002

The small launch containing Benjamin Ralston approached the shore of Ralston Island. Benjamin looked up at the red rooflines of the house peeking above the trees. They had grown so tall. While he was a child, they barely came up to the second floor. Of course, they had been growing all these many years that he had come to visit the island, but he'd never taken stock of them. That's always the problem; you never see what's in front of you, growing slowly but steadily.

While no one was technically permitted on the island, he had told the caretaker to turn a blind eye to locals who tied their boats there to fish or swim. In return, people kept the dock in good condition and let the caretaker know if there was an issue. If kids got onto the island or into the house—and they did, regularly—they were simply asked to leave. No one was ever punished for coming to the island. It wasn't like Benjamin had wanted Ralston Island or Morning House. He'd inherited it because there was no one else left. It had seemed wrong to let the place fall apart. He paid for all the care. It was expensive, but Benjamin was a rich man.

Eric, Benjamin's live-in assistant, rode next to him. He helped Benjamin with his day-to-day affairs, which more and more meant helping Benjamin physically move around. He climbed off the boat first and assisted Benjamin as he stepped from one surface to the other.

"Wait for me here, won't you?" Benjamin said to his friend. "Have a swim. It's a lovely swim here. One of my favorite places to dive."

"Let me come with you while you look around, Ben. The ground's uneven...."

Benjamin waved this off politely. "Eric, I'll be fine. I have something I have to do. Hand me that bag, would you?"

"What's in here?" Eric asked as he passed the bag over. "What are you doing?"

"Burying treasure," Benjamin replied with a half smile. "I'll tell you what—if I don't reappear by nightfall, you can come looking."

Getting up the steep path was a bit tricky. Though general maintenance was done, some parts of the grounds and path were overgrown or covered with fallen leaves or sticks. Tripping hazards, his physical therapist called them. He had to laugh, thinking back on the countless physical drills he had done on this precise bit of ground. The endless times he'd had to run the circumference of this island, then swim it. To think a stick might stop him was absurd. He still had some Ralston spirit in this sense. He kept going, up the path, up the steps, until he was at the base of the house, at the large frontage. Even though the grand flower urns were empty and no internal light illuminated the sunburst above the door, the house still held him in its thrall. It was a remarkable place.

Benjamin climbed the twelve steps leading up to the veranda, leaning hard into the stone rail. He was winded by the time he reached the door but was satisfied with his progress. He might need Eric to bring the chair to help him back down to the boat, but he had made this journey on his own. Benjamin was growing weaker all the time. He didn't want Eric to know how bad it was getting. He would only worry, but there was no reason for that. This was a natural progression and nothing to fear.

He had to find the energy to complete this task, though. It was important. It was private.

The place he needed to go was best accessed by going through the house. He opened the front door with his key and stood in the middle of the empty hall, which smelled of both neglect and floor polish, and looked up at the great glass dome above him. That had cost him a fortune to preserve, but he was glad that he had done it. It was a piece of art. Others would enjoy it. He continued through the living room—that long, sunny room along the side of the house that they used to read and play. He loved to sit here as a child with his sketchbook, drawing his siblings, the view.

Two large doors opened out of this room onto what had been a magnificent flagstone patio with a beautiful view of the water. They'd had a lovely table and chairs here, a red parasol over the table. There had been large stone urns of lavender and mint, pots of jasmine. Faye had been fond of geraniums and hydrangeas, and they had encircled the space. And that massive lilac that perfumed the breeze.

That was the better way to remember this place. The garden. The peace. Not the blood. Not the bone. Not the twisted limbs. Not the body that had been right here, a foot from where he was standing.

Not a body. Clara.

After leaving the island, his father had had only one change made—the patio was smashed to pieces. Benjamin was glad it was gone. He would have destroyed it himself had the job not been done already. The view was gone, obscured by trees and brush that had sprung along the edges of the ruins. A bit of honeysuckle still clung to the side of the house, the scent tickling his memory.

He closed his eyes. Sitting here, with the breeze hitting his face just so, the sweet scent of the honeysuckle... he was back in 1932. William pounding away on the piano. Clara moving across the floor, graceful and powerful. Edward off to the side, snickering about something. Unity with her books. Victory trying to fix everyone and everything. Benjamin remembered the smell of his paints blending with the summer air. All those hours spent trying to understand painting by copying the strokes of others until he had the courage to make his own picture.

Their voices called to him through the trees.

Had he known? Not the details, no. But it had been coming, all that summer, in a steady drumbeat. That night—as he and William ran toward the house and saw Clara fall. The sound of the impact, so dull and strange...

Benjamin opened his eyes and returned to the present, away from that memory.

After Clara fell, they did not discuss it. Father's heart gave out. Faye's trauma never healed. Edward drank and crashed his car. Unity was lost in an accident along with Aunt Dagmar. The bomb did the rest, taking William and Victory. The Ralstons were wiped away, leaving Benjamin to hold the truth alone.

He bent down with care, lowering himself to a kneel, and felt the various bits of crushed rock until he found one small and light enough to lift aside. Reaching inside the bag, he produced a slender alabaster box. It was designed to hold cigarettes—a lovely little piece, perfect for the job. Besides, he had stopped smoking years ago.

Using the trowel, he dug a shallow hole and placed the box inside. After covering it with a light layer of dirt, Benjamin moved the stone back into place. It was hard for him to stand after kneeling so long, but he forced himself up.

"I've missed you all so much," he said out loud. "But I will see you soon. We will discuss it."

With that, Benjamin Ralston left Morning House for the last time.