tin roof, blackened chimneys on the sides, and laurel rail porches. And each has chinked log walls and fireplaces made of rocks from the Cullasaja River. Only difference is, mine is the one without the brass plaque.
Linc hadn’t been to Highlands since his stroke, but the cabin has handicapped rails and stuff now. Myna sent me a list of how she wanted things done, but not many of her orders were carried out. One weekend Noel met me there and changed everything on her list. Just between us, he told me with a wink, and brought in his own workmen. He was damned determined Linc’d be comfortable here, he told me. Noel won’t say nothing bad about Myna—not to me, anyway—but it’s obvious how him and the others feel about her. It tickles me the way they all pretend to like one another, regardless. Summer folks are bad about that, I’ve noticed.
I brought some of Tansy’s dahlias to Linc’s house, so I go outside to get fillers, maybe a little buddleia and oxeye daisies. Summer people love their flower gardens, and all over Highlands are the prettiest, showiest ones you’ve ever seen, with statues and waterfalls and goldfish ponds. Odd thing is, men and women alike work in their flower beds. Duff can’t believe that the men belong to garden clubs just like ladies do, but he thinks all summer people are weird. And most of the locals feel the same way.
I gather a handful of buddleia from Linc’s butterfly garden, but gotta get the sprinklers going next—Linc’s not happy with his garden, and neither is Tansy with hers; least they know I’ve done the best I can. Western North Carolina is in such a bad drought that the lakes are all down, and some of the waterfalls nothing but trickles. The governor’s been asking everybody to pray for rain. The Lord’s liable to tell us we can’t keep on using up everything He gave us, then holding out our hands for more.
Linc’s yards are different from everybody else’s. He’s one of those professors who studies butterflies and teaches his students about them, so his garden’s like a science lab. Used to, if you needed to find Linc, look in the yard. Day and night, he’d be squatting out there taking notes and pictures of caterpillars and cocoons. Wonder how much he’ll be able to get around it now, with him in that walker. Part of my job will be taking him for walks to build up his legs, then he can start using a cane instead. Most of our strolls will be through the butterfly garden. I ’spect it’s going to be tough, seeing him wanting to squat down and study things, and not being able to. Maybe taking notes is something else I can do for him.
Driving down the dirt road that circles Looking Glass Lake, I catch myself humming a little song. I can’t help myself, being excited about the arrival of summer. Winters here are so gray and dreary. Seems like spring will never get here, then it’s gone as quickly as a cheating boyfriend. Only excitement we have in these parts is when the summer folks roll in. Everything, and everybody, picks up then. Highlands is a small town, just a few blocks of downtown storefronts, but you’d never know it come summer. The newspaper wrote that the town swells with tourists, and that’s what it feels like. Swollen, like a big ripe persimmon about to burst open. Excitement fills the air the first week of June, and it don’t leave till the cold winds of winter blow back in.
The road leading up to Moonrise isn’t much wider than a pathway, and I pray I won’t meet another vehicle. If so, nothing to do but back out. The road winds through a laurel and rhododendron forest where pink-and-white blooms hang so thick and heavy overhead that you can’t see the sky. Not seeing is good at certain spots, where the road hugs the side of the mountain. Looking down is not for the faint of heart. The drop-off’s not near as bad as some, but it’s still plenty scary. Sure hope Emmet’s warned Helen about driving on mountain roads, especially after what happened to Rosalyn. Helen told me she’d never spent any time in the mountains, nor been around anything higher than a sand dune.
Suddenly the rhododendrons clear out, and there’s Moonrise. Big old ugly thing that it is, it never fails to take my breath away. The way it looms out of the clearing is a surprise, with its rooflines of different heights, and the round turret like a fairy castle. The walls are made of local river rocks, but they’re about covered with ivy. Takes all me and my crew can do to keep it cut back so it don’t cover the windows—why it’s so dark inside. Everything here looks good, though, long as you stay in front. The back’s another story. I kept telling Emmet how bad Rosalyn’s gardens had got, but he won’t let my crew, or nobody else, work back there. He don’t want them moon gardens here, not ever again. Let them go to rack and ruin, he said, and they up and obliged him.
I brought more of Tansy’s dahlias here, too, not wanting to wade through the overgrown gardens looking for blooms. I leave the front door open to catch the breeze blowing up from the lake, which is sharp and pine scented. No matter how often I air it out, the inside of the house is always musty and damp. And cold as a well digger’s ass.
Even though it’s broad daylight, I go around turning on lamps. My work boots sound like a mule clopping on the slate floor of the entrance hall, but I don’t mind. It’s way too quiet here. Always is. Turning on the lamps don’t help much because they either have painted globes or dark, fringed shades. Not a plain, ordinary lamp on the premises, but then, it’s not an ordinary house. After Momma got too sick to work here anymore, I took over. That’s when Rosalyn showed me how to take care of everything, way more information than I gave a fig about. When the house was on garden tours and things like that, Rosalyn was the guide. She insisted I tag along until I learned the history of the house.
When I asked Rosalyn how come the furnishings were so fancy, she told me they were Victorian, as though that explained it. All I know is, the Victorians couldn’t leave anything alone. Every dang thing in the house is gussied up with fringe, ribbons, scrolls, scallops, embroidery, flowers, feathers, or beads. Worse of all is the furniture. The tables, chests, and sideboards are as big and heavy as coffins, with deep carving you can’t half dust. The fabric they used isn’t easy to clean like the kind we have nowadays, either. Oh, no—nothing would do them but velvet and satin and linen and lace. If I was Helen, I’d yank down all these brocade curtains and let in some light! Then I’d get someone to haul off every last piece of the furniture, even if it did belong to Rosalyn’s family.
I head down the hallway to the kitchen, carrying my basket. The stove’s cold as a stone, with no smell of gas, but Helen was right to double-check. As old as that thing is, it could spring a leak, I reckon.
I notice that Helen’s using the glassed-in porch as their sitting room now. The TV, something most summer folks don’t even have, is in the back parlor. Rosalyn had to put one in for Emmet, who never misses the news. Unlike most kids, Annie wasn’t bad about watching TV, but she wasn’t here much. Always off at some horse-riding camp. Now she’s grown into a young woman I barely know. She’s nice enough, but kind of a hippie chick. I wonder if she’ll visit here, get to know Helen. Even before her mama died, Annie and her daddy didn’t get along so hot. He was always fussing about her dropping out of college, and not doing anything with her life. Last I heard, she’s living in Boone and working on a horse farm.
I put my basket of homegrown tomatoes on the counter, and some fresh eggs in the fridge. I felt bad for Helen when she first saw the kitchen, and her a cook on a TV show. She tried to play like everything here was “quaint” and “charming,” but didn’t fool me none. I knew good and well that Emmet hadn’t told her how old-timey it was, or how Rosalyn wouldn’t change anything. Helen told me how she’d be trying out recipes for her new cooking show this fall, and how she’s writing a cookbook to go along with it. She sure won’t get much cooking done unless she fixes up this god-awful kitchen. Rosalyn didn’t cook because they either went out to eat, or had stuff catered from town. It’s obvious that Helen’s gonna be a lot different, but especially in the kitchen.
Upstairs, I lay the wood in the marble fireplace of the master suite, then turn back the covers on the bed. The mahogany half canopy is draped in heavy old lace, and looks like it was made for the bride of Dracula. So does every other dark, ugly thing in here, including the wallpaper. Poor Helen was
