“Heavens, how would I know that?”
“Family records, something she said, anything.”
“Of course not, first I’ve heard of it.”
“Okay, what about her marriage?”
“Married? Agatha Harris? What a ridiculous idea. I told you living alone would make you go queer, just like it did Agatha. Why don’t you—”
I interrupted her with a description of the picture and the wedding clothes.
“But, dear, that can’t be. She never married him.”
“Never married who, mother?”
“That dreadful man.”
“What dreadful man?”
“Why, the one who wouldn’t marry her.”
“Stop! Start from the beginning.”
It turned out that Aunt Aggie hadn’t led such a spinsterish life, at least in her youth. The daughter of a wealthy man, she had been pursued by a variety of suitors, including a few fortune hunters. It hadn’t taken long for one of these men to capture the heart of Agatha Harris.
Unfortunately, as far as Great-grandpa Joe was concerned, this potential suitor had three marks against him: he was more handsome than John Barrymore, he could charm the bloomers off a nun—Great-grandpa Joe’s words, not my mother’s, so she said—and although he seemed to have money, refused to divulge its source. Great-grandpa Joe forbade him to court his daughter. The upshot was a planned elopement, which was only prevented by a last-minute betrayal by Agatha’s maid, who’d decided her employment was more certain with Harris senior than with this would-be husband.
Mother then told me what I’d already discovered. Great-grandpa Joe had taken Agatha on a grand tour of Europe, in part to take her mind off her troubles and, more specifically, to introduce her to eligible suitors. But it seemed he wasn’t very successful, and this was the point where Mother’s story became a bit hazy.
“I don’t know for certain, dear,” Mother said, “but there was something about a wedding. I think it was meant to take place shortly after Agatha returned home. But the man never turned up at the church. At least, that’s what your grandfather told me. ‘Left her in the lurch,’ were his words. Your Great-grandpa Joe refused to talk about it. And of course, I didn’t dare ask Agatha.”
“What a terrible thing to happen to Aunt Aggie. I don’t blame her for keeping it a secret,” I said. “But Mother, this picture suggests the marriage did take place. Maybe he left her in the lurch after the wedding. Any idea who the man was?”
“I’m not certain, but I think it was the man she’d tried to elope with.”
“Do you know anything more about him? His name? Where he came from?”
“How could I? You know how the Harrises were. Hide anything unpleasant. You’re no different. Just like your father, never telling me anything.”
“Forget the commentary. Just tell me what more you know, if anything.”
“It was only by accident that I found out about the earlier scandal. I came across an old letter from Great-grandpa Joe to your grandfather. Poor Agatha, I suppose I shouldn’t have been so hard on her, but she was such a difficult person to like. And I know it comes from living alone all those years. Margaret, I don’t—”
“Now that you mention old letters, what about those boxes of Harris family papers father kept in his study? Why don’t you search through those? Maybe you’ll discover more dirt about Aunt Aggie. You’d love that. And while you’re at it, look for anything that might connect her to Whispers Island.”
“Come to think of it, it was a short name,” Mother continued as if she hadn’t heard me. “English name. Started with a ‘w’ I believe. Yes, a ‘w’. Winter, Waters, something like that.”
“Sounds like a good starting point. Let me know the minute you find anything.”
“She went crazy, you know. Tried to drown herself in the lake, but was saved by one of those Indians. She spent several years in an asylum, so your grandfather said. She had another spell, shortly after you were born. This time that Indian woman looked after her.”
“You mean, Whispering Pine?”
“Whistling Tree, whatever, one of those silly Indian names.”
“Enough, Mother.”
“I’ll never understand how Agatha put up with that miserable woman. Why, she never said boo.”
“You know full well Aunt Aggie couldn’t have survived without Whispering Pine.”
“You’re just like Agatha. Care more about those wretched Indians than your own flesh and blood. Why Agatha treated—”
“I said, enough.”
“You’re just lucky you got Agatha’s money, not—”
“Stop it. I suggest we end this call now.”
It was all I could do not to slam the phone down. But I guess she was used to it. It was a frequent ending to our conversations.
My heart went out to poor Aunt Aggie. Little wonder she was so sad. I should’ve guessed a man had been the cause.
As I placed the photo back on the mantel, Sergei suddenly barked. I dropped it, and it smashed on the stone hearth, sending shards of glass in every direction. I tensed, waiting for Sergei to bark again. He didn’t, so I retrieved the damaged photo from the ground. As I lifted it from the frame, something other than glass floated to the ground.
Sergei barked again, this time with real warning. Visions of stalking yellow pushed everything else from my mind. Sergei leapt to the window. For a moment, I hesitated, not sure if I wanted to know what was out there. Then, deciding I wouldn’t relax until I knew, I moved to the wall and poked my head around the window sash, careful to keep my body away from the window. The last thing I wanted to do was present a full frontal to this guy.
I didn’t see anything, not even a hint of yellow. Sergei continued yelping at the door, so someone was out there. And then I saw a small dark shadow lumber slowly towards a tree on the edge of the light.
“Damn you, Sergei! You didn’t have to scare me like that!” I threw a cushion at him. He continued barking, desperate to chase after the raccoon. I was afraid to let him out. Wait a minute, this was crazy. There was no one out there, except that stupid raccoon.
I opened the door just enough to let Sergei get through and slammed it shut. He streaked across the driveway as the raccoon scurried up the trunk twitching his tail.
This was absurd, letting my fears get the better of me. If I kept this up, I’d be packing my bags by the end of the week. I refused to let that happen. I would shove all thought of yellow from my mind and close my ears to strange sounds. I breathed deeply, counted slowly to twenty and let the air out. I felt better. I was going to conquer this fear of darkness for once and all.
I
