When fate’s got it in for you there’s no limit
to what you may have to put up with.
—GEORGETTE HEYER
IT WOULD BE dramatic to say that as soon as I saw Aunt Winnie’s letter I had a premonition of danger—a shiver of apprehension, perhaps, or even a sudden feeling of dread. In reality, the only thing I felt was mild amusement, not so much at the message but at the mode of its delivery. I’m not so romantic as to expect correspondence from elderly spinsters to be limited to lavender-scented paper, but by this same token, I certainly didn’t expect a hastily scrawled note on a yellow Post-it, cheerfully inviting me to a murder.
Of course, it wasn’t an actual murder, only one of those How-to-Host-a-Murder parties. Aunt Winnie’s eccentricities, while trying at times, rarely lent themselves to actual felonies. From the scrawl on the Post-it, which resembled something an acrobatic spider might create if left alone with an ink pot, I deduced that the “murder” was to take place on New Year’s Eve at Aunt Winnie’s new Cape Cod bed-and-breakfast.
I set the Post-it on the hall table with the rest of the mail, while I shrugged out of my damp overcoat. The weather outside was beastly, much like my mood. It was December 29, so you’d think that any precipitation would mean light, fluffy snow. But this was northern Virginia, which meant it was cold, hard rain. Rubbing my arms for warmth, I kicked off my wet boots and headed for the kitchen. Yanking open the cupboard, I reached for the bag of Oreos, belatedly remembered that I was on a diet, and flung the package back untouched.
Some 56.3 hours before—but who was counting?—I had gotten a jump start on my New Year’s resolution to lead a healthier lifestyle by giving up fatty foods and a two-timing lobbyist. Unfortunately, the only thing my health kick had earned me was a grumbling stomach, the prospect of a lonely weekend yawning out in front of me, and a crabby mood. As a result, I’d spent the better part of the week slumped in front of the television, watching various adaptations of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol and heckling the poor Cratchit family, whose single-minded cheerfulness struck me as more than a little inane.
From upstairs, Bridget, my best friend and roommate, yelled down, “Elizabeth? Thank God you’re home. I need you.”
I trudged up the stairs to her room, pausing in the doorway. On her bed lay a suitcase haphazardly crammed with a mishmash of clothes; Bridget’s taste was eclectic or god-awful, depending on how you characterized bright green cowboy boots and purple sequined tops. Bridget stood with her back to me, sucking in her already flat stomach and frowning at her reflection in the floor-length mirror. She was wearing a turquoise leather miniskirt, a silky orange blouse, and purple suede boots. Bridget is only five three, even in the spiked heels she considers mandatory. She believes that bold outfits offset her diminutive stature.
She can say that’s why she dresses the way she does all she wants, but I’ve known Bridget since we were little. I saw how she dressed her Barbie dolls. I mention this because Barbie’s vital statistics are such that, were she a real woman, she’d be something like seven feet tall. Therefore, not in any sense diminutive. Yet her dolls were always clad like some bizarre cross between Joan Collins and Liberace.
Still eyeing herself critically, Bridget asked, “Tell me the truth. Does this outfit make me look fat?”
I rolled my eyes. “Fat? No. Color-blind, maybe. But not fat.”
At my response she swung around, almost losing her balance in the process. Four-inch heels can do that to a girl. Peering at me from underneath her spiky red bangs, she stared at me aghast. “Color-blind? Are you serious? These colors are hot this season.”
“That may be so, but I find it hard to believe that you’re supposed to wear them at the same time.”
“That’s because you have no fashion sense.” She glanced disparagingly at my tan corduroy skirt and blue cable-knit sweater. “You really should let me give you a makeover.”
“I thank you for the favor, but no. The last time you gave me a makeover, some guy kept trying to shove dollar bills down my skirt.”
“That’s not true!” Bridget said, laughing.
“Okay, maybe so,” I admitted with a grin, “but you’re still not giving me a makeover.”
“Why not? Come to New York with me and Colin. We can update your look and start the New Year off right.”
Colin is Bridget’s boyfriend. For New Year’s, the two of them are going to New York for the weekend. Bridget has been trying to convince me to go with them, especially now that I am, as she delicately put it, “without plans.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun!” she continued excitedly. “You know nobody does New Year’s better than Times Square! We could go shopping! We could try new restaurants! And more important, we can celebrate your freedom from a man who is, let’s face it, the soul-sucking spawn of Satan. And don’t even get me started about his obsession with argyle.”
I pushed aside the suitcase and flopped across her bed. The soul-sucking, argyle-wearing spawn of Satan is my ex-boyfriend Mark. To say that Bridget had never liked him was a gross understatement—over the past few months she’d developed a small facial tic at the sound of his name.
“Bridget, you know I love you and Colin, and you’re sweet to invite me, but for the thousandth time, no. I’d be a third wheel—and on New Year’s Eve of all nights!”
“You wouldn’t be a third wheel,” she countered. “You’d be with friends.”
“Friends who are a couple. Which would make me the third wheel. No offense, but I’d rather stick glass in my eyes.”
“Offense? Don’t be silly. Who could take offense at that? You simply prefer self-mutilation to a weekend with friends.”
“Only figuratively. The truth is, it’s been a long week and all I want to do is relax and catch up on some reading.” While that was true, I was also refusing for more altruistic reasons. I knew something she didn’t: Colin was planning to propose at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s.
“Reading?”
“Yes, reading,” I replied with a lofty wave of my hand. “I have decided to devote myself to the improvement of my mind by extensive reading.”
Bridget narrowed her eyes. “That’s from Pride and Prejudice, isn’t it? Damn it, Elizabeth, whenever you start quoting from P&P I know you’re in a mood. I swear, that book is your security blanket when you’re upset.”
Luckily the chime of the doorbell saved me from a response. “Oh, God!” cried Bridget. “It’s Colin. Can you let him in? Tell him I’ll just be a minute.”
I rolled off the bed and went downstairs to let Colin in. Colin is six two, with curly brown hair and large brown eyes. To me, he’s always resembled an enormous teddy bear come to life. That pretty much sums up his personality, too. He’s like the big brother every girl wishes she had. He was still stamping his wet feet on the doormat when Bridget poked her head out of her room and hollered down, “Colin, I’ll be ready in two seconds. Try to convince Elizabeth to come with us. She needs cheering up.”
Colin glanced quizzically at me. “Is that true?”
“No. She will most certainly not be ready in two seconds.”
“I meant about your needing cheering up.”
“I’m fine. She’s referring to Mark.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Colin, rearranging his face into a somber expression. “I was sorry to hear you two broke up.”
“Liar.”
He grinned and dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Okay, you’re right. The news made my day. The guy was a jackass.” Pulling me into a quick hug, he added, “You deserve nothing but the best, Elizabeth. Don’t forget that.”
See why I love Colin?
Eventually Bridget emerged from her room, dragging a bulging suitcase. Ignoring her pleas that I join them, I resolutely settled down on our couch with a copy of Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury, finally convincing her that all I wanted to do was stay home and read. With Colin looking grateful and Bridget looking concerned, they left me to tackle the novel.
However, with their exit, the apartment seemed unnaturally quiet, and I had trouble concentrating on the text. Our landlord didn’t allow animals, so I didn’t even have the warmth of a furry friend to comfort me. Our only pets, if you could even call them that, were two goldfish purchased during a rare fit of domesticity. Unfortunately, our local pet store didn’t stock a particularly hardy variety, resulting in bimonthly replacement visits. As a result, I’d named each new pair Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. It didn’t change their fate, but it added a little drama when I had to announce it.
Forty-five minutes later, after having read the first twelve pages of Benjy’s narrative a total of eight times, I flung the book down, now feeling hungry, lonely, and stupid. Deciding that I could alleviate at least one of those problems, I grabbed the bag of Oreos just as the phone rang. Seeing the caller ID, my mood went from bad to worse.
It was my sister Kit. I knew what was coming. One of her goals in life is to see me married—and while I’m in no way opposed to the idea, it’s not my driving force in life. As I expected, no sooner did she hear my voice than she launched into rapid-fire speech. She had heard the news of my breakup from our mother and was clearly dumbfounded. How could I let a “catch” like Mark “slip away”? Didn’t I understand that with each passing year my chances of getting married diminished? (I’m all of twenty-six.) Didn’t I know that I had to “reel them in” while I was still young? (The way Kit tossed around the fishing jargon you’d think she was a seasoned angler. But the closest she ever got to fish was in her grocer’s freezer section.)
I didn’t want to tell her the real reason for the breakup—that Mark had been seeing at least two other women behind my back. So I did what any reasonable person in my position would do. I lied.
Unfortunately, it’s not a skill that I’m adept at and the reason I gave her—that he smoked—sounded silly even to me. I know Kit found it funny, because she laughed for a good thirty seconds. Loudly. Then she launched into a lecture, the point of which was that unless I stopped being so picky, I was going to end up alone.
She said this last bit in the whispery kind of voice some people reserve for revealing a stint in prison or a terminal illness. As she continued to scoff at my “pickiness,” something inside me snapped. Candidly I volunteered, “He cheated on me, Kit, okay?”
Silence answered.
“Kit, are you there?”
Finally, all in one breath I got, “Oh, you poor, poor thing. What a terrible thing to have to go through. No wonder you didn’t want to tell me! How awful! Not that I have any personal experience, of course. Well, don’t worry about it, I won’t mention it again. Except to say that I always thought there was something untrustworthy about him. His eyes are too close together for one. And he really could be a pompous jackass at times. But there’s no point in going into all of that now. Are you alone? You shouldn’t be alone. Where’s Bridget? Oh, that’s right, Colin’s proposing this weekend, isn’t he? Well, don’t let that get you down. I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re thinking that you’re going to end up some lonely old woman who lives with cats, but that’s not true!”
“Actually, Kit, I wasn’t thinking that …”
“Good, that’s the spirit! Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll come down. No, that won’t work. Tom and I are having a huge party this weekend for some clients. It’s been unbelievably stressful. You’ll just have to come here.”
My brother-in-law sells hot tubs. It wasn’t hard to imagine where the night would end with a party composed of fellow enthusiasts in a house with the deluxe model.
She continued on. “You come here and we’ll forget all about Mark. We won’t even mention him. Do you know who he was seeing? Is she pretty? You poor, poor thing.”
The thing about my sister is that she does mean well. However, her idea of well and my idea of well are on opposite ends of the spectrum. I knew she wouldn’t stop about the party until I either agreed to come or produced a reasonable excuse. Panic set in as my brain frantically struggled to generate the latter. Happily, my eyes landed on Aunt Winnie’s Post-it. With a heroic effort to keep any trace of relief out of my voice, I told her that, sadly, I couldn’t possibly go to her party as I was already going to Aunt Winnie’s.
There was a brief pause as Kit absorbed this information. “Aunt Winnie’s having a party?” she asked, a note of hurt in her voice.
“Um, well, it’s more of a work weekend, really,” I fibbed. “I think she just needs my help getting the inn ready.”
“Oh, I see—that makes sense. Well, as long as she doesn’t let you cook, everything should be fine,” she said, breaking out into the overly hearty laugh she employed whenever she insulted me. It was meant to imply “we’re all just one big, happy, teasing family and if you don’t get that, then you’re way too sensitive.” All it did was set my teeth on edge.
Thanking her for the invitation and promising that I would call if I needed to talk, I hung up on another, “Oh, you poor, poor thing.”
I looked at the Oreos. After my third one, I realized I needed something stronger. I needed a large glass of chardonnay and a larger dose of Cary Grant. Pulling my woolly cardigan around me, I went to ransack Bridget’s DVD collection. Passing the hall table, I reread Aunt Winnie’s invitation. I realized that I really did want to go, and not just so that I wouldn’t end up in a hot tub with my brother-in-law’s single clients. No, I thought with a smile, a visit with Aunt Winnie was just what I needed. Right after North by Northwest.
My goal to get an early start was thwarted. I am not an early riser and Kit called me six more times to try to convince me to come to her party instead. Just as I was leaving, call number seven came in. I let the answering machine deal with it. Pushing my black suitcase out the door, I heard her say that if I was worried about not having a nice dress, she had an old one I could borrow. I slammed the door with more force than was strictly necessary and headed for my car.
By late afternoon, I was on the Cape. Directions in hand, I drove along the narrow, winding roads past scruffy pine trees and low walls of smooth gray stone, occasionally catching sight of the icy blue waters of Nantucket Sound. Above me, gnarled tree branches intermingled with power lines, both having been there so long it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended. My spirits rose at the sights, and some of my melancholy over Mark’s betrayal faded. After all, what are men to trees and rocks? Finally, I pulled into a curved tree-lined drive. At the end was a rambling two-story house. Hanging over the door was a freshly painted white sign. In large green letters it proclaimed: THE INN AT LONGBOURN. I smiled. Aunt Winnie was a dedicated, some might say an obsessed, fan of Pride and Prejudice.
As picturesque as it was, I had to admit that I had thought Aunt Winnie was crazy when she bought it several months earlier. She had seen the property while on a tour of Cape Cod and had impulsively decided to buy it, renovate it, and turn it into a B and B—regardless of the fact that she had absolutely no experience in anything of the sort. But Aunt Winnie seldom let logic interfere with her plans.
My aunt came bustling out the door just as I switched off the car’s engine. If your idea of a woman of seventy-odd years is of the genteel, blue-haired variety, then Aunt Winnie might be something of a shock. Her short, round figure was covered by a long coat that appeared to have been purloined from some off-off-Broadway production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. But bright as her coat was, it was nothing compared to her short, curly hair, currently colored an outrageous shade of red.
Aunt Winnie had never married, but that’s not to say that she hadn’t had offers. She used to joke that she thought marriage was a great institution, but that she didn’t want to be in an institution. I think her reluctance had more to do with her childhood than anything else. Her mother had died when she was young, and her father was a demanding hypochondriac who was convinced that his death was right around the corner. He withdrew to his room, where he fussed and moaned in glorious seclusion.
With his retreat, Aunt Winnie had been forced to run the family’s hardware store. Her two older brothers had left home years earlier and by then had their own careers to run. When her father finally did die six years later from pneumonia, no one was more surprised than he. But with his death, Aunt Winnie was free to live her own life. Taking her not insignificant inheritance to an investor, she ended up impressing that man with her business savvy and received a job offer instead. Over the next several years, Aunt Winnie worked and learned and continued to grow her inheritance until she was an extremely wealthy woman. The men who wanted to marry her always promised to “take her away from all of this,” a promise she found unappealing. She liked her work and she was good at it. So she turned them all down, had affairs instead, traveled, and made even more money.
“Elizabeth! Oh, it’s so good to see you,” she said now, giving me a tight hug. I happily returned it, breathing in the familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 that clung to her. “Let me get a look at you!” She held me at arm’s length and took a quick inventory. “You’re too thin, of course, but I guess that’s the style nowadays. I’m glad that in my day women were expected to have some curves.” Here she stopped to pat her own ample supply. “But you still look lovely—I’ve always said you’ve got the map of Ireland stamped on your face.” I laughed. The first time Aunt Winnie said that to me I was six years old and I instantly ran to the mirror to see if my freckles actually did form some sort of geographical pattern. As she helped me bring in my bag, she said, “So, I hear that you and your latest beau have broken up. Do I offer condolences or congratulations?”
“Definitely the latter,” I said. “To tell you the truth, I’m beginning to think that Mr. Darcy is just a fictional character.”
Aunt Winnie laughed. “He’s out there; you just haven’t met him. Yet.”
Something in her tone made me peer suspiciously at her. “What do you mean, yet? Aunt Winnie, please, please tell me you haven’t planned any surprises for this weekend. I’m really not in the mood for a blind date.”
“Blind date! Please! What sort of meddler do you think I am? A blind date, indeed!”
A contrite apology hovered on my lips until I realized that she was stressing the “blind” part a bit much. “Aunt Winnie,” I said, coming to an abrupt halt in the gravel driveway, “tell me now or I swear I will turn around this instant and go home.”
An expression of defiance tinged with guilt crossed her face. Finally, she tossed her chin, the movement sending her tight red curls quivering. “Well, now that you mention it,” she said casually, “there is someone here you know. Peter McGowan.”
At the sound of his name my stomach lurched. I think most people are emotionally frozen about someone or something—it may be that they are still intimidated by their third-grade teacher or continue to harbor a secret terror of clowns—but whatever it is, neither time nor maturity can break its power. For me that thing was Peter Emmett McGowan, intimidating elder and evil clown all rolled into one.
I met Peter the summer I turned ten. It was also the summer I obtained glasses, braces, and an extra fifteen pounds brought on by overeating to comfort myself about the aforementioned glasses and braces. Peter was fourteen going on seven and heir to a hugely successful hotel business. He had the easy confidence that money and good looks usually bring. He was also sneaky, cruel, and sadistic. I can’t count the number of hours I spent locked in some dark basement by his hands or the number of slimy bugs that “mysteriously” found their way down the back of my shirt. And, although the braces were gone, laser surgery had removed my need for glasses, and the weight problem was (more or less) under control, I still found myself pulling my coat tightly around my neck in a gesture that had nothing to do with the blustery weather.
“Aunt Winnie,” I began.
“Now, don’t squawk. Save your breath to cool your porridge. I asked him here to help me start up the inn. I needed somebody with experience in running this kind of business and Peter was kind enough to offer his services.”
Thinking that his experience would be far more suitable for a house of horrors, I made no reply and focused on keeping my face neutral. Apparently my mother was right when she told me that I didn’t have a poker face because Aunt Winnie continued as if I had spoken aloud.
“Peter’s a grown man now, Elizabeth. Besides, his parents are two of my dearest friends. You shouldn’t judge him for a few boyish pranks that happened more than fifteen years ago.”
“Don’t try to paint him as some Gilbert Blythe innocent. He locked me in a basement for two hours!”
“And you put a dead fish in his bed.”
I squelched my old familiar cry of “He started it!” and forced myself to act mature. When I saw Peter I would be polite and self-assured. I would have inner poise.
Right after I threw up.
To distract my mind from my roiling stomach, I took a restorative breath of the cold, salty air and turned my attention to the house. It really was quite perfect. Gray cedar shingles blanketed the large façade, including the veranda and bay windows, giving the impression of friendly bulges rather than separate features. Wide stone steps led to a deep porch that ran across the front. A few Adirondack chairs, painted cherry red, sat in cozy groupings. It made a charming and pretty picture. It was also totally useless in calming my nerves.
We walked onto the porch and inside to a simple reception area. In one corner, a Christmas tree covered in thousands of tiny white lights loomed. In the other corner, two very disapproving blue eyes stared out at me from the comfort of a green brocade chair.
Startled, I blurted out a blasphemy that had little to do with my reverence for the season. Aunt Winnie also noticed the room’s other inhabitant. “Elizabeth,” she said formally, “I’d like to introduce you to Lady Catherine.”
It was a cat, a regal-looking Persian with preposterously fluffy white fur. Under her breath, Aunt Winnie added, “I briefly considered calling her Mrs. Danvers, but she’s clearly above domestic service.”
The cat’s pale blue eyes surveyed me with what could only be described as an expression of distaste, and I whispered back, “But she may not be above the crazed behavior.”
I thought I detected a faint hiss. Good God, was the cat actually scowling? Great. Apparently, I inspired a visceral loathing in cats. This did not bode well should Kit’s dire prediction for my future prove true. I had a sudden vision of myself as a sad, lonely woman trapped in a tiny apartment, surrounded by hissing cats. A noise from the back office interrupted this bleak picture and I steeled myself for the inevitable meeting with Peter. Instead, a petite woman in her mid- to late fifties emerged. She was trim and conservatively dressed in an A-line tweed skirt and black turtleneck. The only jarring note in her otherwise demure appearance was her hair. It was thick and curly and bright red—naturally red, not like Aunt Winnie’s hue. She had pulled it back into a tight bun, but it still gave the impression that it was fighting to break free. Her gray eyes widened in surprise at seeing us. “Oh, Ms. Reynolds,” she said quickly. “I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t get a signal on my cell, so I used your phone. Just a local call, though.” She peered anxiously at us from behind thin wire-framed glasses.
Aunt Winnie waved away her apologies and made the introductions. “Elizabeth, this is Joan Anderson. She and her husband, Henry, are also guests at the inn for New Year’s. Joan, this is my grandniece, Elizabeth.”
Joan chatted pleasantly with us for a few moments, telling us how much she and her husband liked the inn and how they were looking forward to tomorrow night’s show. Almost on cue, a tall, heavyset man with receding brown hair walked down the stairs. There was a formal air to his demeanor that was at odds with Joan’s easiness. Seeing us, he made his way over. Joan quickly introduced me.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Henry said. He enveloped my hand with both of his, in a firm, albeit clammy, grip. “Joan and I are quite impressed with your aunt’s inn, especially the decor.” Turning to Aunt Winnie, he said, “You have some very nice pieces here, Ms. Reynolds. Really, it’s quite above your average B and B.” With a glance in my direction, he added, “I don’t know if Joan told you, but we own an antiques business in New York called Old Things—perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“I don’t think I have …”
“Well, surely you’ve heard of Mrs. Kristell Dubois,” he said, his voice deepening almost reverently. “The widow of Marshall Dubois? She is New York’s most generous patron of the arts. I was able to find her a rare first edition of Fordyce’s Sermons and she was most grateful. As a result we were lucky enough to secure her as a client—she is very particular. Although she has become much more than just a client. She’s almost a benefactress. Her generosity is endless. We have been invited—twice—to her estate on Martha’s Vineyard, and her improvements to our humble store have been most invaluable.”
Henry paused, turning to Joan so that she could add her own praise. She haltingly added, “She has been a very conscientious client.” Henry waited impressively for my response, and I was forced once again to admit my ignorance. The glowing light in his eyes was quickly replaced by faint disapproval.
“I doubt if Mrs. Dubois’s reputation extends beyond New York, Henry,” Joan said timidly.
“Yes, well, perhaps,” Henry admitted reluctantly. Then brightening, he added, “Mrs. Dubois introduced Joan and me to bridge recently and I must say we’re hooked. We’re hoping to get a foursome together this weekend—do you play? If not, I’d be happy to teach you and further acquaint you with Mrs. Dubois’s excellent work.”
“Oh, thank you,” I said, “but I’m afraid I’m not very good at cards. I was actually hoping to catch up on some reading this weekend. But I appreciate the offer.”
Henry received my excuse with obvious incredulity, finally murmuring, “I see. Well, in any case, we shouldn’t keep you. I’m sure you have much to prepare for.” Turning to his wife, he added, “Joan, have you seen my watch? I can’t find it anywhere.”
“Really, Henry. You’ve got to get that clasp fixed. That’s the third time this week you’ve lost it. It’s probably in the room somewhere. Come on, I’ll help you find it.”
“You prefer reading to cards?” Aunt Winnie whispered with mock disdain once they moved out of earshot. “That is rather singular.”
I smirked. “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure. I just suspect that tales of Mrs. Kristell Dubois are one of those delights of which a little goes a long way. Which brings me to my next point—who is she, anyway?”
“Weren’t you listening, silly? She’s one of New York’s most generous patrons. And I may have this all wrong, but I think Mrs. Dubois frequents his shop.”
I giggled. “Well, she could not have bestowed this honor on a more grateful recipient.”
Aunt Winnie grimaced. “You have no idea how grateful. But by tomorrow I suspect you will. In fact, by tomorrow I suspect we’ll all wish that it’s Mrs. Kristell Dubois who gets knocked off during the show.”
“Speaking of the show, what exactly is the plan?”
“Grab your bag and I’ll tell you as I show you your room.” She preceded me up a steep, curving staircase. “Cocktails start at eight and dinner is at nine. The actors will pose as guests and mingle with everyone else. Sometime during the evening, the ‘murder’ takes place. Our guests then try to solve it with the help of the actors. Once we have a solution, we’ll have some dancing and then ring in the New Year.”
“Sounds fun.” I puffed as I lugged my increasingly heavy suitcase up the maple-stained stairs. I mentally added “working out more” to my ever-growing list of resolutions, even though the “more” part was technically a lie. I also added, “stop lying to self.” We finally reached the top landing. Gleaming white bead board ran along the lower half of the hallway walls. The upper half was painted a misty blue. Aunt Winnie flung open a white paneled door to the left of the stairs.
“This is you,” she said, as she gave the room a final once-over. “There are ten bedrooms. They are all pretty much the same, although I think this is the nicest.” I had to smile my thanks. I was sadly out of breath. The room’s furnishings were simple but inviting—a large gray-and-white braided rug, a tall wooden bureau, a wingback chair upholstered in a pattern of faded pink and green cabbage roses, a standing floor mirror, and an antique nightstand. The only luxurious item was the large mahogany four-poster bed, its white down comforter floating like a soft layer of meringue.
“What a lovely room!” I cried. “It’s perfect!” As Aunt Winnie peered at her reflection in the mirror, patting an errant curl into place, I opened the closet to hang up my coat. Teasingly, I stood back and said, “What? No shelves in the closet? I’m all astonishment!” Laughing, Aunt Winnie turned away from the mirror. “Don’t be a smart-ass. But I am glad you like it. And thanks again for coming, sweetheart.” She gave me a quick hug. “I really appreciate it. Now, why don’t you freshen up and meet me in the dining room in about half an hour? On Friday nights, some of the locals come in for a drink. It’s our version of happy hour. You can meet everyone … and see Peter again.” Giving me a wink, she moved out into the hall, shutting the heavy door behind her.
I sank into the wingback chair and frowned at the cabbage roses. What had I gotten myself into? I loved Aunt Winnie and wanted to help her with the weekend, but I wondered if I’d made a mistake in coming. The last thing my battered ego needed was Peter McGowan. Repeatedly telling myself that I was a mature woman now, not some insecure kid, seemed to be of little avail.
I added new resolutions for the weekend and repeated them over and over as a mantra:
• I will have inner poise.
• I will not let Peter McGowan get under my skin.
• I will not allow myself to be locked in a dark basement.
• I will have a calm and relaxing New Year’s.
I couldn’t have been more off the mark if I had tried.