hell out of there. Leaving, Kit told me she’d never set foot in that attic again, and I had no intention of doing so, either.
As I was putting away some of my mementos, however, I realized I’d left the one that meant the most to me, a sunhat I’d decorated with flowers from her garden. Those suckers had taken me forever to dry, but Rosalyn had loved the hat. I’d spotted it with the summer things in the attic’s cedar closet, but forgotten to get it. I asked Willa to fetch it next time she was there, but she kept forgetting it as well. (Which made me wonder if the attic spooked her, too, though she’d never admit it.) If I wanted the hat, I’d have to get it myself.
Which is what I went to Moonrise to do, one sunny afternoon in late spring. I was also missing Rosalyn and longing for a connection to her. The Atlanta house, grand and elegant as it was, never had that. “Let’s walk up to Moonrise,” I said to Noel, but he waved me off. It’d be too depressing, he said, which was the last thing I needed. I didn’t relish going alone, but wouldn’t have asked Kit to accompany me even if she’d been around at the time. Like Noel, Kit would’ve refused.
After retrieving the key from the most obvious place imaginable, one of the stone planters flanking the front door, I let myself in and ran up the stairs before I chickened out. At the top of the landing was the door to the attic, so I didn’t even have to go down the dark hallway. Without glancing that way, I flicked on the light switch and marched fearlessly up the steep attic steps. Because of the eaves and slanted ceilings, the attic was dark and dreary even with an overhead light, but I reminded myself how Rosalyn pooh-poohed the notion of Moonrise being haunted. All old houses have strange noises. Even so, I dared not look around as I made straight for the cedar closet, grabbed the hat from its hook, and started back to the stairwell leading to the landing.
And that’s when it happened. Wham! The door at the foot of the stairs slammed shut, and I let out a scream bloodcurdling enough to scare away the most frightful of spirits. I’d probably still be standing there if I hadn’t convinced myself that I’d purposefully left the front door open, and strong breezes tended to whip up the mountain from the lake. Fortunately I didn’t stop to wonder why a breeze would climb the stairs, blow the attic door shut, and leave the front door open; I just got down those stairs as fast as my wobbly legs could carry me. Safely on the landing, I leaned against the door clutching Rosalyn’s sunhat like a talisman, then remembered I’d left the attic lights on.
Only one thing to do. Sitting atop an ornate table on the landing was an old Victorian vase, ugly as sin and twice as heavy, which I used as a doorstop. A hurricane couldn’t move that thing, I told myself as I scampered back up the stairs. Just as I reached the top and turned off the lights, wham! The door slammed shut again, except this time the slam was preceded by another sound—the scrape of a vase against a wooden floor.
I almost busted my butt getting down the dark stairs, but not in fear like the time before. I was mad as hell. It had to be Noel, playing a trick on me, I thought as I flung the door open. Sure enough, the vase had been moved to the side, and I caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure disappearing down the main staircase. I keep myself in good shape and can move pretty fast, but I wasn’t fast enough. Halfway down the staircase, I knew it was futile. No one was there, despite what I thought I saw. No one but me was in the dark, empty house, nor was anyone running down the driveway, laughing gleefully at having tricked me.
I knew then, as I know now, that no earthly presence slammed the attic door on me that day. Moonrise is haunted. And it’s not a stretch to imagine Rosalyn as a ghost, returning to walk the halls of the place she loved so much. Before I convinced myself otherwise, I blamed Noel for scaring me that day, but it certainly could have been Rosalyn. She might’ve been having a little fun with me, or trying to let me know she was still around. I can’t help but wonder if the Bride has seen her, or if she senses her presence. If the idea weren’t so sad, it’d be rather deliciously gothic.
Something hits me and I sit straight up in bed, wide awake now. I wonder if Emmet has told his new wife that the gardens where Rosalyn spent so many happy hours are also her final resting place. Not only does Rosalyn’s spirit still dwell there, her ashes are part of the grounds she once trod. Does the Bride have any idea that she shares Moonrise with her predecessor, and quite literally, too?
Then an even more troubling thought arises, one I suppress each time it comes up. The rest of us do the same—or so I assume, since no one will talk about it. Will we ever know what really happened on the night Rosalyn died? It was early March, but still winter here in the mountains. Without letting any of us—even Kit—know what she was doing, Rosalyn left Atlanta late one afternoon to come to Moonrise. That in itself was strange enough, but what she did once she got here remains the true mystery. For some unknown reason, Rosalyn left Moonrise that same night, even though it was snowing and the roads iced over, to drive back to Atlanta. Why? Driving so late on dangerous, curvy roads was completely out of character for her. Until that fateful night, she had never done such a foolish thing. It torments me, and always will: Why did Rosalyn come to Moonrise so impulsively, and what on earth scared her away once she got there?
SUMMER FOLKS
It’d make more sense for me to start at Moonrise and work my way around to Laurel Cottage, but I don’t. Never have. Old habits die hard, and I’d druther end up at Moonrise. Completes the circle, I reckon. Another of my foolish notions, Momma would say. She only had Moonrise, though, not the slew of houses I have. Sometimes I wonder what she’d think about me having my own property management company, with so much responsibility. Momma wasn’t what you’d call ambitious. She was content with Moonrise, content to have me end up a housekeeper like her. It was her lot in life, something a good Christian woman like her would never question.
I know that Momma’d understand why I clean the houses at Looking Glass Lake myself, even though I’ve turned the other places over to my crew. Boss lady does the lake houses, I hear the girls telling one another. Most of them don’t speak much English, but they’re good girls, and good workers. Truth is, I do only three of the lake houses—Laurel Cottage, Moonrise, and the Varners’ cabin—and all have plaques out front saying they’re on the National Historic Register, which makes me proud.
The fourth of my lake houses, Kit Rutherford’s, I’ve started sending Carlita to clean. Thank the Lord that Carlita pleased Kit ’cause I never could. Duff still works for her, though, which gets my goat. She’s snippy with my helpers yet lets him get by with anything: sloppy work, showing up half crocked, borrowing money, whatever. I tease him, saying it’s those tight jeans and wide shoulders of his. I let Duff think he’s hot stuff, but in truth, I don’t worry about Kit flirting with my fellow. That woman likes her men rich, with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. After Kit’s latest husband, Al Rutherford, kicked the bucket, she contested his will, and took his kids to court. Even though Al had left her well-off, she wanted more. No one expected the judge to take the Rutherford house away from those poor kids and give it to Kit, but that’s exactly what happened. Next thing you know, she sent bulldozers in to tear up the yard with its beautiful old gardens so she could fix her some new ones. Folks in town are still wagging their tongues about that!
If I’m gonna finish today before everybody gets back from their outing, I better shake a leg. I don’t like cleaning houses while the owners are home, getting in my way, talking to me, and normally it’s not a problem. This summer, though, everything is different. Maybe it’s because my folks have been here about a week and haven’t settled into all the changes that’s taken place since last year. And there’s been plenty of changes besides that ugly house and torn-up yard of Kit’s. Noel and Tansy arrived fussing and snipping at each other, worse than ever. But most of all, Emmet showed up with a new wife, then Linc in a walker. (Wish he’d been the one with a new wife.) Linc’s
