The Widow's Walk Page 3

  “I’m staying here tonight, by the way,” Garrett said, finally breaking the quiet.

  “Huh?” Trent asked.

  Before answering, Garrett also put his feet up on the porch rail. “Yep . . . first night, and all that . . .”

  “So how am I supposed to get home?”

  “You’ll take my Jeep, and then come back for me in the morning.”

  “But there’s no furniture, you said,” Trent protested. “Where will you sleep?”

  Garrett leaned back a bit more in his chair. “On the floor,” he answered. “I brought along a sleeping bag.”

  “Okay,” Trent said. “But dear God, how you must love this place! It’s got to be dirty as all hell in there.”

  “Oh, it’s worse than dirty,” Garrett answered. “When the bank foreclosed, the owners took it out on the house. They smashed in some of the walls, ripped up the carpets, tore out the appliances—that sort of thing.”

  Trent nodded knowingly. Much of that had gone on in New England during the downturn. When the banks were forced to foreclose, many angry owners partially destroyed their properties as a form of unwarranted revenge.

  “And knowing all that, you still wanted the place,” Trent mused.

  “Sure,” Garrett answered. “They did some of the work for me, because the appliances were all junk, and they had to go, anyway.”

  “What about the electric and water?”

  “It’s got both, and the oil furnace works, but it’s bone dry. If I get cold tonight, there’s a pile of leftover firewood out back. And there’s some more in the barn.”

  “There’s a barn?” Trent asked.

  Garrett nodded. “Yeah, but it’s in pretty bad shape. There was also a guest cottage at one time, but somewhere along the line it was demolished.”

  “I had no idea that college professors were so adventurous,” Trent chided him.

  Garrett laughed. “Want to go inside and see just how much?” he asked.

  Trent shook his head. “No offense, but I’ll pass for right now. I already think that you’ve made a big enough blunder. If I step inside and see it, I may be forced to have you committed. Oh, and by the way,” he added almost lazily, “this place is haunted, you know.”

  Garrett turned and looked at Trent with a sense of amusement.

  “And just how do you know that?” he asked.

  “A guy I know is friends with the previous owners,” Trent answered. “To hear him tell it, they were always complaining about things that supposedly went bump in the night.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  Trent shrugged his shoulders.

  “Sometimes things were found in different places, the owners would hear strange noises, plus various other kinds of disturbances. You know,” Trent added with a smile, “the usual sort of spooky stuff. No offense, but before you finish the renovation, you might want to think about calling Ghostbusters and having this place slimed.”

  Garrett laughed a little and stood up.

  “No offense taken,” he answered. “But now it’s time for the champagne.”

  Garrett picked up one of the glistening bottles. After taking its neck in a firm grip, he strode over to the nearest porch column.

  “Ready?” he asked Trent.

  “I am if you are. But don’t blame me if the whole damned place comes tumbling down, just like when Samson destroyed the temple.”

  Garrett raised the champagne bottle high over his right shoulder.

  “I hereby christen thee ‘Seaside,’ ” he said loudly.

  He then smashed it against the column, champagne and bits of glass flying everywhere. Happy with his success, Garrett unceremoniously dropped the broken bottleneck and went back to his lawn chair.

  “Thee . . . ?” Trent asked. “I hereby christen thee . . . ? I know that you love the early eighteen hundreds, but are you sure you haven’t gone around the bend?”

  Garrett leaned back in his chair and smiled.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  He popped the cork on the second champagne bottle and filled the two Styrofoam cups. He handed one to Trent, and the two friends raised them high.

  “Here’s to lunacy in all its forms,” Garrett said, knowing that Trent would agree.

  Trent smiled back at him.

  “Hear, hear!” he answered.

  While sipping their champagne, the two friends settled back into their chairs. Garrett then reached down and opened the small box that Trent had brought to the porch, from which he produced two cigars, a cigar cutter, and a lighter. Among the many opinions and tastes that they shared, a good cigar rated near the top of the list. Garrett cut them both, handed one to Trent, then lit Trent’s cigar followed by his own.

  Knowing that this was a time to be savored, the men remained quiet. Between sips of champagne and puffs of cigar smoke, they watched the Atlantic Ocean send her countless waves only to destroy themselves against the rocky shoreline. It was one of those New England evenings when the sky becomes a lovely sort of purple, just before night descends in full. Now more than ever, Garrett knew that he was home.

  After a time, Trent looked at his watch.

  “I should be going,” he said. “Are you still sure that you want me to take your Jeep?”

  “It’s either that or you can stay with me, here among the ruins.”

  “Not on your life! But you do have your cell phone in case you need anything?”

  Garrett nodded.

  “In that case, I’ll be going.”

  “Let me walk you down to the car,” Garrett said. “There’s something I want you to take back.”

  Garrett walked over to the FOR SALE BY FORECLOSURE sign embedded in the grass, pulled it from the ground, and dumped it in the back of the Jeep.

  “Take that with you,” he told Trent. “I’ll drop it off at the Realtor’s office tomorrow.”

  “Okay, boss,” Trent answered as he climbed into the Jeep and started the motor. “What time tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Six A.M. sharp,” he said as he reached into the back of the Jeep, this time retrieving his sleeping bag, a small cooler, and an electric lantern. “And don’t be late. I need time at my condo to get ready for work, and we’ve got the Morris presentation at ten o’clock.”

  Trent smiled and gunned the engine a bit.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he answered. “See you tomorrow at six.”

  While the black Jeep bounced jauntily down the long driveway, Garrett smiled slightly as he watched it eventually disappear from view.

  After again looking at the ocean for a time, Garrett began the walk back to the porch. There was some champagne left, and he had no intention of wasting it.

  Chapter 2

  Garrett settled back into one of the folding chairs and again gazed out over the moonlit Atlantic. Night had fallen in earnest, so he switched on the electric lantern and placed it on the porch rail. As he watched the sea Garrett knew that this view would be forever changing, yet always the same. So too would be the wonderful and ever present sound of the waves, crashing against the shoreline. He couldn’t wait to settle into the master bedroom on this side of the house, so he could fall asleep each night and awake each morning to the sounds of the sea. Even as a young boy he had loved watching the ocean, its endless horizons and countless waves always mesmerizing him. He had long wanted an oceanside home, and now he had it.

  Restoring Seaside would be an ambitious project, and had he not been “of the trades,” the task might have appeared far too daunting. But given his expertise, he was eager to get started. He had selected Jay Morgan, Inc., a local contractor he trusted, for the restoration job. He had used Jay many times when building homes for clients. Garrett knew that with enough time and money he could properly restore this old house and all its furnishings to as near the original as possible.

  Although he had designed many homes, this personal project would be uniquely liberating. Leaving no stone unturned, he would make Seaside his masterwo
rk, and the hallmark of his career. Best of all, this time each decision would be his. There would be neither the catering to the dubious tastes of clients, nor any of the last-minute changes that drive architects to the brink of madness. He alone would dictate the work, and pour every bit of his knowledge into it to ensure its authenticity. Even more important, he was confident that when he was done he would own a thing of rare beauty.

  His biggest challenge was finding the money to pay the contractor and buy the antique furnishings. He had already used much of his savings as a down payment on Seaside. But by selling his condo in New Bedford he should have enough to do the job. Even so, the timing would be tricky. Because New Bedford was a seaside town, her real estate market was seasonal. It was already October, and he had priced it a bit below market value to help get a quick sale.

  Once the condo sold, Seaside would become his only home and need buttoning up before the coming winter. He wasn’t too concerned, however. The same Realtor who had helped him purchase Seaside was also the listing agent on his condo, and she had already shown it twice in the last three weeks. With a little luck it was a workable plan, but he was itching to get started on Seaside, and being forced to await his working capital grated on his nerves.

  Realizing that he had become hungry, Garrett lifted the cooler to his lap and opened it. A stick of pepperoni, a good-size chunk of aged cheddar, and two sourdough rolls lay wrapped inside. He sliced off a few pieces of each and began eating, occasionally washing them down with what remained of the lukewarm champagne. While enjoying his makeshift dinner and watching the moonlight dance over the incoming waves, he took a moment to think about how he had gotten to this place by the sea.

  Garrett was the son of a retired thoracic surgeon and a registered nurse, who met and fell in love while serving together in a MASH unit in Vietnam. After their discharge, Dale and Virginia Richmond settled in New Bedford. Garrett arrived one year later, and his sister, Christine, two years after that.

  Every summer during the long march toward his master’s degree, he’d worked in the trades of carpentry, electrical, masonry, plumbing, or landscaping. Although he never became a true master of any, he nonetheless acquired the practical knowledge that contractors appreciate in an architect. He and Trent had been in business for ten years now, and during that time each had adjusted to the other’s peccadilloes. They had also learned how to produce a united front to prospective clients, though they often disagreed. Even so, Richmond & Birch was reputed for delivering some of the most beautiful and best-designed homes in all of Massachusetts.

  Given his great devotion to his work, Garrett hadn’t much of a social life. Instead, building the business with Trent had always taken precedence. Several interesting women had drifted in and out of his sphere, but so far none of them had been “the one.” His last long-term relationship was five years ago, and it ended badly when the girl finally gave up on competing with his career.

  Even so, Garrett remained a romantic. He still hoped that when the time was right, “she” would appear, but as he become older, he was beginning to wonder if she was really out there. His standards were high, and he knew that this was one of the things keeping him alone. Even so, he refused to settle, choosing instead to believe that someday that one special woman would enter his life, and when she did, he would know her.

  Perhaps the fact that I’m sitting alone on the front porch of this old house is proof enough of where my priorities lie, he thought. I don’t know . . . The only thing I know for sure right now is that I must complete this project, although I do not fully understand why I feel so compelled to do it. I know that this restoration will require all of my talent, all of my money, and much of my time. Even so, for the time being at least, my path is set.

  Deciding to shelve his thoughts, Garrett stood and stretched. He then gathered up his possessions and let himself in the house.

  This was the first time he had been inside at night, and he soon realized that the house seemed different. The shadows created by the moonlight coming through the broken windows added a surreal touch that he had not expected, and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore was muted, helping to preserve the relative quiet. Remembering Trent’s quip about the place being haunted, he smiled.

  As he explored the first floor, carrying his lantern, even in the relative darkness his excellent eye for antebellum architecture allowed him to identify each room’s original use. As best he could tell when he had examined Seaside in the daylight, it seemed that no rooms had been added and that none of the original walls had been torn down. Those were good signs, and they bode well for the impending restoration.

  Garrett carefully walked down a dark hallway past a room on the left-hand side that would have been the parlor. Across the hall was a lady’s sewing room and farther along a rather majestic curved staircase. Walking onward he came upon two more rooms, the larger dining room, and the smaller on the left, the library.

  Moving farther on to the back of the house, he entered what would have been the serving room. On the left was a doorway that opened onto a stairway leading to the basement, followed by the butler’s pantry, and beyond that the kitchen.

  Everywhere he looked, Garrett saw signs of the vandalism he had described to Trent earlier this evening, and it angered him. The previous owners had spray painted vulgarities on the walls, torn up the carpets, and ripped out the appliances. The walls and staircase had been damaged by sledgehammers. When he had examined the second floor, there too he had seen much of the same kind of destruction. While letting go a distraught sigh, Garrett shook his head at the sheer stupidity of it all.

  There were few things in this world that Garrett could not abide, but damaging a work of art angered him to his very core. Clearly the previous owners had no conception of what it took to build a house, even a modest one. And all homes, Garrett had always believed, had souls all their own and should be respected.

  Retracing his steps to where he had left his things, Garrett picked them up and brought them to the dining room. To his mild surprise he felt a shiver go through him, so he decided to light a fire. There were two fireplaces on the first floor; one was in the parlor, and the other in the dining room, which he’d inspected earlier.

  Taking up his lantern, he went out to get firewood and kindling. Using some old newspaper that he had also brought along, he lit a fire in the dining room fireplace that soon supplied a warm, welcome glow.

  Unrolling the sleeping bag before the fireplace, he settled down onto it. It was good to be here, he thought, now that the house was officially his. There was so much to be done! But each finished step in the restoration would be a labor of love, and only reinforce that he was at last where he truly belonged.

  Very tired now, he watched the dancing flames for a time with the same sort of fascination that possessed him whenever he stared at the ocean. He could barely hear the waves striking the rocks over the crackling fire.

  But just as he was about to cross over into sleep he heard something that was loud enough to wake him. He listened intently for a few moments, but heard nothing more. It had sounded for the world like a woman sobbing, but because he was alone here tonight, that was impossible.

  Garrett lay back down. Before entering the long, dark tunnel of sleep, his tired mind reassured him that it had simply been Seaside’s way of welcoming home her new owner, and his heart accepted that premise.

  HIS SUBSEQUENT DREAM was unlike any he’d had before—so clear and sharp that after awakening he could recall every color, every detail of what he had just experienced. He dreamed of a woman, very different from any he had known before. So different that he immediately felt drawn to her like no other.

  He wasn’t there with her. Rather, he was watching her from afar. Even so, he could easily tell that she was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her long, blond hair was artfully arranged atop her head; her eyes were deep blue. She was wearing clothing that belonged to a different time. Her dress wa
s pink, with large leg-of-mutton sleeves and a broad conical skirt that harshly imprisoned her narrow waist. On her feet she wore low, square-toed slippers, and around her neck there lay a locket, tan in color, which appeared to be made from some type of bone, perhaps.

  The woman was crying uncontrollably. She was all alone and sitting in a dilapidated chair. It was the dead of night, and the room that imprisoned her was dark, and without character of any kind. As the moonlight streaming through the lone window highlighted her form, she soon buried her face in her hands while she wept. She seemed so alone, so helpless, and so much in need of companionship that his heart silently cried out for her.

  To Garrett’s surprise, she soon removed her hands from her face, then turned and stared straight into his eyes. Her expression, both searching and pleading, was the most desperate he had ever seen. She then raised both arms and stretched them out in his direction, as if she were begging him to come to her.

  “Please . . .” he heard her say to him. “Please help me . . .”

  And then, as quickly as Garrett’s dream had appeared, it ended, the sad beauty that was its subject dissolving into nothingness with it.

  With his body covered in a cold sweat, Garrett suddenly awakened.

  Chapter 3

  It was almost six o’clock the following evening, and Dr. Garrett Richmond, Professor of Architecture, was finishing another lecture of his class, American Antebellum Architecture 101.

  As a professor, Garrett was a tough taskmaster. Even so, he never lacked for students. He was young, outspoken, and known for pulling no punches regarding his purist opinions about architecture.

  “Consider this final thought,” he said as he wrapped things up. “Painting, sculpture, architecture, and literature all seem to spring from one’s personal fountainhead, compelling its owner to produce work in a certain medium. Admittedly I am no different in that regard, for it is only an appreciation of the architectural which I am trying to instill within your minds.”