Haunting at Remington House. Laura V. Keegan

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СКАЧАТЬ flushed red, Tom was afraid the boy was going to cry. Sara came to his rescue. “Jimmy, we'll go down to the beach tomorrow and have a picnic. I'll tell you all about my trip then.” She winked at Jimmy. “Sound like a good plan?”

      He nodded.

      “You too, Billy. We’ll even do some fishing.” Both boys agreed, and the awkward moment passed.

      For the duration of the dinner, Vivian monopolized the conversation, talking about her remodeling plans for their New York brownstone, a property recently purchased by her husband. Vivian and her boys would stay here at the beach house until the remodeling was complete, probably for the rest of the winter. Sara, who was a teacher, had recently quit her job at a small private school and would be staying here to tutor the two boys. Tom’s mood quickly elevated.

      While Vivian's high-pitched voice droned on and on about fabrics and wallpaper, name dropping as often as possible about her interior designers, Tom listened quietly, nodding from time to time, saying “sounds great, very nice, impressive, etc.” He caught Sara's eye and grinned. She returned his look with a knowing smile, silently toasting him with her glass. Vivian never noticed, continuing her diatribe, thrilled at having her rightful place as the center of attention.

      ***

      Mannie prepared a delectable meal—Cornish game hens stuffed with wild rice and mushrooms; baby asparagus spears in a light wine sauce with slivered almonds; buttered, new potatoes and a fresh spinach salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing. After dinner, they returned to the drawing room where Amos served fresh peach pie and french vanilla ice cream. Giant mugs of strong, dark-roasted coffee steamed on the side table with an array of flavored creams and honeys. They savored the desert, eating the warm, cinnamon spiced fruit pie slowly, sipping coffee and making small talk.

      After dessert, Amos poured each of the adults a glass of cognac, part of a private reserve that Vivian’s husband imported from France. “We're so spoiled,” Vivian purred as she sat down next to Tom on the sofa.

      “Vivian, what all does your husband import?” Tom asked, curious and unable to let the mention of William Harrison’s business pass by.

      “Almost anything you can think of: antiques, artwork, automobiles, textiles, gemstones. He imports artwork for museums and private collectors, too. His great-grandfather started the business, over the years building a large and varied clientele for his merchandise.” She glanced at Tom to make sure he was paying attention to her. “William became vice president of the corporation as soon as he graduated from Harvard. When his father died two years ago, he became president.” Vivian sighed. “Tom, you must find this boring. All this talk about business is so dull. Let’s talk about something else.” She took a sip of her cognac. “You haven’t told me about Remington House, yet. I hope you’ll invite me over soon, I can't wait to see it! Tell me all about it.”

      Duty-bound and knowing no way to get out of it, Tom described the house and décor as well as a man could. Sara raised her eyebrows and tried to suppress her giggle with a yawn. Vivian seemed not to notice and told Tom she was ready and willing to take over his redecorating. “Don’t hesitate to call me before you make any changes, Tom. I totally know all the ropes. Promise?” He nodded, then glanced at Sara, who was lost in conversation with Jimmy and Billy. Disappointed, he looked back at Vivian.

      Leaning forward, Vivian reached her hand toward Tom, gripped his forearm. Very subtlety, her demeanor changed. Staring at Tom with a look of grave despair, her eyes filled with tears that overflowed and ran down her cheeks in glistening rivulets. Her painted fingernails dug into his skin. Then she smiled, abruptly stood and walked over to the piano. She began to play—a melody whose chords sent chills down Tom’s spine. Slowly, hauntingly, her pale fingers gliding, stroking the ivory and ebony keys as she played Beethoven’s Für Elise. Tom had often played the song for Elise—when their relationship was new and they were immersed in their love for each other. The gentle refrains expressed his innermost passions for her. Over time, Elise grew to hate it because he loved it, loved her.

      As Vivian continued to play, Tom walked over and sat beside her on the piano bench. She turned to him, her eyes filled with a look so cold and vengeful, it made Tom’s blood run cold.

      “Vivian! Stop!” Tom’s voice was barely above a whisper. She continued playing. Beads of perspiration trickled down Tom’s back. He whispered again, “Stop!” He heard no other sounds in the room, only the ethereal sounds from the piano as Vivian continued to play Für Elise, the haunting chords reverberating deep in his soul.

      Vivian turned to him. In a voice so quiet he had to strain to hear the words, she said, “You bastard!”

      Tom stared at her in disbelief.

      Vivian’s head jerked up. She stared at him, her face registering complete surprise. “Tom, what is it? Is my playing so terrible?” She seemed completely unaware of what had just transpired. “What was I playing? How odd, I can’t remember. . . .” Vivian rubbed her temples, gently shook her head. “Come here, Sara. Come play for us.”

      “What did you say to me, Vivian?” Tom asked, his hand on her wrist, his eyes searching her face.

      “Tom, I don’t know what you mean. I didn’t say anything. I was only asking Sara to come and play for us. Why are you looking at me like that?” She seemed to have no idea what Tom was talking about.

      “Never mind,” Tom said, scrutinizing her face. “I thought you said something. I thought, well . . . that song you were playing . . . ”

      “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, pulling her hand free from his grip. “I don’t remember. Sara, come over here and see if you can brighten Tom’s mood. You play, and Tom and I will accompany you. Billy and Jimmy, yes, both of you, come over here.” She opened a well-worn songbook to the music for Blackbird. As Sara began to play, Vivian started to sing. Soon the boys joined in.

      Tom was too shocked to do anything more than watch and listen. As Vivian, Sara and the boys harmonized, he tried to make sense of what had just happened with Vivian, decided it was best to forget it. What was clear to him was that Vivian was not who she seemed on the surface. It’s possible she had some serious mental issues. He’d have to be on guard.

      Vivian, Sara and the boys sang and played half a dozen songs. Prompted by Jimmy’s poking him in the ribs, Tom finally joined in, his deep bass voice blending well with theirs. He continued to study Vivian. Her face was flushed with excitement as she sang and played a few verses to accompany Sara. Vivian seemed perfectly fine, genuinely oblivious to what she’d said to Tom earlier. Maybe I imaged the whole thing. That’s the only explanation—too many cognacs. But . . . why did she play Für Elise—of all songs? Or did I imagine that, too? Tom took a long breath and tried to focus on Sara and Jimmy, their smiling faces a salve for his raw nerves. He began to relax. After several more rounds of the chorus, Vivian sent the boys to bed.

      It had started raining again. Huge drops danced off the windows, sparkling in the moonlight. “It’s almost eleven. I had no idea it was so late. I should go,” Tom said. “Vivian, thank you for being such a gracious hostess. It was a memorable evening.” To say the least. Vivian smiled warmly at him, leaving him convinced that maybe he had imagined the whole incident.

      Sara walked out onto the porch with him, shivering in the cold night air. “Wait a minute,” she said. She ran inside, returned wearing a heavy sweater. “That’s better. It’s cold tonight. Hope the rain doesn’t turn to snow.”

      Tom nodded in agreement. “I’m glad we met tonight,” he said softly.

      “Me, СКАЧАТЬ