We clear the rhododendron tunnel, and suddenly there it is, Moonrise. The storybook castle that has turned into my own personal House of Horrors. Emmet heads toward the carriage house in back, which serves as the garage. At the front of the house, however, he suddenly brakes and looks my way. I tilt my head curiously.
“You know what?” he says breezily. “I’ve changed my mind. Think I’ll go back and have a drink with Noel after all. That okay with you?”
“Of course,” I say as I reach for the handle, hoping I don’t sound too eager. All day I’ve had to fake it as we traipsed around the millions of gardens at Biltmore, then through the hundreds of rooms in the mansion. I dutifully oohed and aahed over everything, but was so exhausted I barely remember it. The only thing that saved us from a tour of the winery had been Linc, who begged off by saying he was too tired. I’d been horrified when Noel, who’d pushed Linc for the entire tour in a wheelchair, stepped back indignantly to say, “You’re tired? What about me, you ungrateful gimp?” Only when everybody else laughed did I realize that Noel was teasing. Linc caught my expression and shot back, “Look at poor Helen’s face, Noel. Gimp that I am, at least I’m not an insensitive brute like you.” I’d blushed like a nitwit, and Emmet had rolled his eyes my way. Unamused, he admonished me for taking everything that damn-fool bunch said seriously. “Don’t pay them any mind, sweetheart,” he’d said. “No one else does.”
Throwing Emmet a kiss, I’m out of the car before he can change his mind. After our return from Asheville to Laurel Cottage where we fetched the Jeep, Noel and Tansy had invited us in for a drink. Or rather, Noel had; Tansy told him rather curtly that she had an “engagement” tonight and would have to excuse herself. I begged off, too, though I’d secretly hoped that Emmet would stay and keep Noel company. If I could just have a little time to rest up before dinner, I might make it through the rest of the evening without collapsing.
I wave my unsuspecting husband off with a mixture of guilt and relief, then force myself to wait until the Jeep disappears before turning toward the house. My exhaustion isn’t just from my restless nights; the emotional drain is taking its toll as well. Walking up the stone steps to the house takes all the strength I possess. What I really want to do is get in my car and head straight back to Florida.
As soon as I reach the front door—propped open to catch the lake breezes—I realize that Willa is still here cleaning, and my heart sinks. I didn’t see her truck, which must’ve been parked on the side of the house. I glance at my watch to assure myself that she’ll be leaving soon. Stepping inside the entrance hall, I call out, and Willa answers from the back of the house.
Willa’d been the one who waited for me the first day I came here, a day that’s imprinted on my brain—and not in a good way, either. So much has changed since then, and in such a short time! I’d come to Highlands with such hope, so thrilled to be at a place I’d dreamed of since finding the photo album. As soon as I laid eyes on Moonrise, it was obvious that the pictures hadn’t even come close to capturing its astonishing beauty. The towering house and stately old trees, the parklike setting with its vast lake view—all of it was far grander than I’d imagined. The black-and-white photos failed to show how the slanted rays of the sun burnished the ivy-clad stone of the house, or how they reflected off the mullioned windows like thousands of crushed diamonds. Or the way the sun sent luminous streaks of light spilling across the grounds. Despite the silvery image of its name, Moonrise first greeted me silhouetted in gold.
Willa McFee had been another image from the photo album that turned out to be far different from what I expected. When she and I’d talked in preparation for my and Emmet’s arrival, her voice had been as hesitant and faltering as mine, with a brogue so thick I had trouble understanding her. I’d formed a picture in my mind of a roughhewn farm girl, shy and awkward, maybe a bit simpleminded. That was shattered the minute she flung open the door and peered at me in undisguised curiosity. Bright-eyed and apple-cheeked, Willa McFee had the sort of lush, buxom looks rarely seen these days. Although she was clad in jeans, a flannel shirt, and work boots, I could imagine her in a Botticelli painting, with that vivid red hair and creamy complexion. I liked her on sight.
I don’t think the feeling was mutual, however. Willa’s greeting to me had been friendly enough, but guarded. Wary, even. Emmet had tried to prepare me for the mountain folks, whom he described as a breed unto themselves. Most of them are descendants of the original settlers who came from the highlands of Scotland, he’d told me, and are a clannish, suspicious lot. They take their time warming up to strangers. I offered my hand, which Willa had taken in her large, sunburned one with a grip so strong I tried not to wince.
Today I pause in the entrance hall as my eyes adjust to the dim light, then see Willa coming toward me. Her backpack is slung over her arm, so she’s on her way out. “Y’all are back early,” she calls out in a hearty voice. “Everybody have a big time?”
I assure her that everyone had a “big” time indeed, then wait by the marble-topped table where I’ve been leaving my purse, easy to grab on my way out. Since our arrival here, Emmet and I’ve been out every single day, and most evenings. No wonder I’m exhausted. I sneak a glance at myself in the massive, gold-framed mirror that dominates the entryway. My God, I look like shit! I watch Willa’s reflection as she approaches, and her expression tells me that she agrees. She catches herself when her eyes meet mine, however, and she smiles.
“The stove wasn’t on, Helen,” she says as she hefts the backpack up on her shoulder. “But I still can’t figure out how you’re gonna cook fancy recipes in that thing, especially with the gas acting up.”
I eye my reflection as I run my fingers through my hair, pretending the reason I paused by the mirror was to primp. I’d rather Willa think I’m vain than crazy, checking myself out to see if the services of an undertaker are called for. “Believe it or not, hon,” I say in a light voice, “that’s a very fine and valuable old Viking stove, better than anything I’ve ever used.” Although her reflection is still smiling at mine, her blue eyes are troubled. I step closer to the mirror to smooth down an errant eyebrow. “Besides, none of my recipes are fancy.”
Her face falls, either in surprise or disappointment. I don’t yet know her well enough to tell. “Oh,” she says. “I thought . . .” When I turn to her questioningly, she looks embarrassed, and I wonder what she’s heard. It’s only natural that everyone’s curious about me, the new mistress of Moonrise, and I wonder what they’re saying. I’d love to ask Willa, but I’d never put her in such a position. Not that she’d tell me, anyway. Another thing Emmet’s cautioned me about, the fierce loyalty of the mountain people. If they like you, they’d die for you. If not, don’t turn your back on them. I’ve gone out of my way to try to make Willa like me.
Today I’m too exhausted to stand and make small talk, so I mention a much-needed bathroom run. Willa’s good-bye strikes me as a bit too hearty, then she pauses by the door to glance my way. “Helen? You okay?” she asks hesitantly.
It’s my turn for the too-hearty smile, the dismissive wave of my hand. “I’m great,” I tell her, practically pushing her out the door. “See you next week, okay?”
I stick my head out and wave as Willa crosses the driveway toward her truck, which I now see under the low branches of the hickory. I don’t want her carrying tales to the others, telling them how tired I appeared, or how I look like I hadn’t slept since I’ve been here. I can only imagine their response to that observation, considering the bawdy humor of that bunch. Emmet and I heard our share of newlywed jokes at the station. I wish to God that was the reason for my exhaustion, and I’m sure Emmet does, too. Despite his obvious bewilderment, he’s been remarkably patient with my lamebrain excuses for avoiding him in bed. I can hardly tell him the truth: Not tonight, dear. I can’t with the ghosts watching.
