lifelessly in the entryway for several weary moments. I wasn’t lying to Willa; I’m heading upstairs to the bathroom, then to change clothes. After which, I’m going to the coziest place I’ve found in this tomb of a house. Which happens, not coincidently, to be outside it, not in. Taking a deep breath, I ponder yet again what I’ve wondered so often lately: How could a place this beautiful be so unwelcoming? It wasn’t that way at first. I fell in love with Moonrise the moment I laid eyes on it. Entering the house, I marveled at everything I saw: the vaulted ceiling of the entryway; the diamond-paned windows with their stained-glass insets; the massive staircase looming through the shadows at the back of the hall. Stepping over the threshold of Moonrise was like taking a journey back in time, to another era, and I went eagerly.
Willa, my tour guide that first day, had been as keen to show me the house as I’d been to see it. My surprise at her knowledge of Victorian history and decor must’ve been obvious because she confessed that Rosalyn made her learn all that historical “stuff.” As impressive as it is, Willa’d confided, Victorian decor was not to her taste. Matter of fact, she’d added, she found it downright god-awful. I agreed that it was overwrought and way too formal for me, too, yet perfect for this setting. The front parlor was crammed with furnishings: a velvet sofa and wing-backed chairs facing the black marble fireplace; curlicued tables topped by old-fashioned lamps; brocade curtains and lace panels framing windows. I could picture corseted women in bustled dresses seated in little groups as they sipped tea from china cups, white-gloved pinkies aloft.
In addition to the parlor and a turret room with unique curved windows, the downstairs contained a formal dining room, extensive library, two sitting rooms (one of which would become my office), and the old-fashioned kitchen with an adjoining glassed-in porch. My gushing enthusiasm had not only pleased Willa but also egged her on; her formal tour gave way to a chatty history of the place and its occupants. I noted that she caught herself before revealing too much about Rosalyn. As eager as I was to know more about her, I made myself tread carefully. Any comments Willa made about my predecessor came casually, in some detail or the other about the house.
Even so, that first afternoon I was able to learn things about Rosalyn Justice that I wouldn’t have known otherwise. It’s funny how much a house can reveal about a person, more than just his or her taste and tidiness. I walked through the cavernous halls of Moonrise and began to understand why it was more museum than home. Rosalyn would’ve been raised in a place like this, I thought, a showpiece to good taste and breeding. I figured her childhood home had been an extension of the Harmon family image rather than a place to kick off one’s shoes and unwind. Although Emmet’d never admitted it, I felt sure that his and Rosalyn’s house in Atlanta had been the same, the one he sold before the move to Florida. The things most of us associate with a homey atmosphere would’ve been lacking in any of Rosalyn’s households: piles of mail and magazines; newspapers on the breakfast table or strewn around easy chairs; kids’ drawings taped to the fridge next to the shopping list. There’d be few cozy nooks; Rosalyn and her breed chose furnishings for historical significance and aesthetics rather than comfort. Her houses would always be showy and formal, even the summer places where they went to get away from such trappings.
That day I walked the hallways in the forever-stilled footsteps of a woman I’d never know, and looked for her everywhere. I paused to study the furnishings of each room for clues. What did it say about my predecessor that she had favored dark jewel tones over pastels, even in her boudoir? Or that her signature scent was a bold, heady floral (lily, maybe) that still lingered in the air like a sad melody? It was obvious that her kitchen was rarely used, yet the cookware and serving pieces were the finest I’d ever seen. The butler’s pantry was stocked with the most expensive liquor available. Because Emmet’s preference was Russian vodka, I knew the other bottles had been selected for their frequent visitors. To me, that meant Rosalyn was the perfect hostess, floating from guest to guest with the ease of a queen among her subjects. Did she enchant each of them with her beauty and elegance? And did her husband’s eyes follow her with unmistakable pride and adoration?
Today, as on the first day of my arrival, I have to force myself to stop thinking such thoughts. If I’m not careful, I’ll become obsessed with a dead woman—as I’m dangerously close to doing already. Sometimes, I go to the turret room and stare at a portrait of her, the one I initially failed to see. Only later did I realize that Willa’d stood in front of the portrait so I wouldn’t notice it. The turret room’s an extension of the library, which it leads to, and only has a small seating area against the back wall. The room’s main attraction is the circular wall of windows, two stories high and with bookshelves underneath, where Willa led me that first day, and where I stood gaping at the panoramic view of the lake. Willa moved me quickly from there into the library; the following day I saw why. Hanging on the wall behind where she had stood was an oil painting of a young woman in a silvery-white ball gown, a sheer tulle wrap draped around her bare shoulders. It wasn’t terribly large, as portraits go, being much too tasteful to be life-sized. Moving closer, I saw that the woman was Rosalyn.
I couldn’t blame Willa for wanting to shield me from the portrait as long as possible, or to avoid my questions about the subject. I only wish I’d left well enough alone, that I’d not seen it until I was more firmly entrenched into my new life and its strange setting. In the photos I’d seen of Rosalyn, she’d been a lovely, poised woman in her early fifties; seeing her like this, young and still untouched by life, I realized with an unwelcome twinge of jealousy how utterly beautiful she was. I stood before the portrait and studied her flawless ivory shoulders; her swanlike neck, unadorned by jewels; the tilt of her aristocratic chin; the silver-blond hair in that most elegant of styles, the chignon. The painter had captured a playful glint in her smoky blue eyes, a hint of a seductive smile on her lips. This was the woman whom Emmet had fallen in love with, the one I suspected he’d always love. Studying the painting, I could understand why. I’d heard from everyone that Rosalyn was near about perfect; that such a paragon should also be so beautiful told me all I needed to know about the fairness of life.
Every time I returned to the painting, I chastised myself for caring, for being intimidated by Rosalyn’s beauty. Why do women do that? I wondered. Until I saw the portrait, I’d taken pride in my fit, trim body, the result of a stringent diet and exercise; in my smooth, bronzed skin; in my tousled and highlighted coif that cost me a month’s salary with every trip to the salon, but gave me the confidence to appear before a camera. Looking at Rosalyn, I saw myself as I really was: coarse and blowsy, an overripe, sun-baked Cracker trying to pass herself off as someone of taste and refinement. What had I been thinking, prissing around town in a tank top with such a low-cut neckline? Sun-browned cleavage was not only tacky but so Florida. I studied my so-called shapely legs and firm upper arms, another source of pride, and realized I’d mistaken muscle-bound for fit. And whatever had possessed me to have a Celtic cross—tiny though it was—tattooed just above my right ankle? Rosalyn would’ve never done such a thing, nor painted her toenails a lurid shade of pink. I tormented myself by returning to the portrait of my predecessor over and over until I understood the difference between me and her. Rosalyn was a slender, single-stemmed white rose, while I was one of those passion flowers commonly found in ditches—purple, overblown, and going to seed, fast.
After changing into jeans and zipping on a hoodie, both blanket-soft from so much wear since my arrival, I hurry downstairs to catch the sunset from my newly discovered perch outside. I stop by the kitchen to grab a bottle of chilled wine and a paper cup, then exit the house through the side porch. The Victorians had been big on porches, according to Willa, which they called verandas and furnished like outdoor parlors. The porches of Moonrise are as formal and uninviting as the rest of it, so I pass quickly through the one on the far side of the house, overlooking the lake. It’s quite grand with a stenciled ceiling, a fireplace against the stone wall of the house, and antique wicker decor, and I’ll be entertaining out here again soon. But for now, I scamper down the steps and across an unused, neglected patio, then trod down a flagstone pathway that leads away from the house, toward the side of the mountain.
Whenever I’m outside, I’m careful to avert my eyes from the overgrown
