Silent Is the House. Barbara Hancock J.

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СКАЧАТЬ abandoned and neglected. Not on the inside. When I followed the woman, I entered a lush world of green exotic plants and humidity. I didn’t see her. The jungle had enveloped her or the shadow door had opened into a different time and place. I tried not to think of when or where because I could remember her—my?—mangled neck too well.

      The hothouse was lit by the eerie firefly glow of miniature lanterns hanging from wrought iron hooks spaced sporadically on the walls and ceilings between the grubby glass panes. Though I knew it must be electric, the light danced like gas flames within the beveled globes. The effect would have been fairyland-like if I hadn’t just followed a dead woman into a strange place. Instead, knowing she might be here looking out at me from the leaping shadows of palms and hibiscus, the unreliable and deceptive light of the lanterns was only another reason for my pulse to race and my chest to tighten.

      Even worse that it would be my own dead, pale face looking back at me when I saw her again.

      Would her step sound on the tiles?

      They were laid in smooth stone squares beneath my feet, mostly the darkened beige of natural limestone, but at one point, my own slow step halted beside a large rusty patch six tiles wide. It was faint in the lantern light. Barely discernible. But I stopped at its edge. A sudden flood of adrenaline caused me to whirl around in a complete circle. I strained to see or hear the threat I felt.

      Nothing.

      I backed away from the discoloration. Then, I turned and walked away until I came to a section of the hothouse filled with giant pots of juniper shrubs. Their spice teased my senses, filling the air around me with a suddenly familiar scent.

      I wouldn’t think of Owen Ward now.

      I peered into the flickering darkness, both afraid to see my dead “twin” and afraid I wouldn’t see her until it was too late and she was right beside me. I wanted to know more. I wanted to understand. At the same time, the catch in my breath and my pounding heart said to run back to Maine as quickly as I could. It seemed my body wasn’t as brave as my intentions.

      A whistle coming from the bushes startled me. I took a step back toward the door and faced the greenery to my left. A wavering, off-key tune rose up from the junipers followed by the exit of a man from between their carefully pruned depths. He carried a trowel and a red plastic bucket. He wore the kind of brown coveralls workmen wear, as well as sturdy boots. Strangely, he didn’t pause at my presence. He continued to whistle and walk even as his gaze tracked over me.

      “I’m sorry to intrude. I was out walking,” I said. I followed behind him, wanting to ask him about the woman I’d seen, but afraid to at the same time. There was also a part of me that was eager for the company that might keep her away. The older man with gray at his temples stopped whistling, but he continued to walk until we’d rounded a corner made by the potted shrubs.

      And that’s when I saw the carnations.

      There were several long trenches full of them and they were both familiar and not familiar, because I’d never seen them growing before. Mine had always arrived clipped and pinned to cardstock for shipping.

      “Pink to symbolize a mother’s love,” the man muttered, and then he began to snip one stem after another and place them in his bucket.

      They were all pink. Dozens upon dozens of pink carnations.

      “Really?” I had never known that the color of my birthday flowers signified anything other than simple beauty. I wondered if Victoria had been reaching out to my mother all these years and we hadn’t known it.

      I stepped closer to the man and suddenly I was able to make out the name that was stitched over his left breast pocket.

      Robert Ward.

      “I’ve met Owen,” I said. The gardener must be a relation. I could see it now in his height and the width of his shoulders. I could imagine a hint of gray at Owen’s temples. Perhaps they were brothers?

      The name seemed to catch his attention. He paused in his work and looked around, but only for a second. Then, he continued his clipping.

      “Must take these up to the house. Very nice this time. Very nice indeed,” the man said, almost as if he was mumbling to himself. How did Owen Ward become the heir and Robert Ward end up growing flowers for me?

      “They’re lovely. I’ve always liked them,” I said. I reached out and touched one of the carnations in his bucket. Their scent here was petal-sweet, not dry and dusty. It mingled pleasantly with the juniper’s evergreen.

      He really was focused, because he began whistling again and walked away from me, only repeating his thoughts about the flowers being nice in between whistled notes. I was left alone in the flickering lantern light wondering about so many things.

      But not for long.

      Just as I began to fear that the look-alike dead woman would show up again, a step caused me to turn. I was afraid I’d see pale staring eyes or, worse, feel a cold hand on my shoulder, but instead I faced Owen Ward.

      He had come around the corner of shrubbery and stopped suddenly when he saw me. His eyes widened, then narrowed and sharpened as if it had taken him seconds to recognize that it was me.

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