Элизабет Чандлер: The Deep End of Fear

Robyn quickly cut her off. "We don't need to go into that, Hoppy. The point is, Emily, this girl will bring back bad memories and upset Daddy and Trent. I can't allow it."

"Well, you talk to Daddy when he gets home," Emily replied, "and I will talk to my husband, and we will see if he chooses to listen to his daughter, his housekeeper, or his wife concerning the welfare of his son." The strength of Emily's words were betrayed by the high pitch of her voice. I guessed that she was intimidated by Mrs. Hopewell and Robyn.

But I wasn't.

"Who are they talking about?" Patrick whispered to me as I took his hand and started down the main stairs.

"Your new tutor."

I can't remember the last time I did something so impulsively. Curiosity about why my family had left and sheer defiance made up my mind. I had no idea how long I would stay, or rather, how long they would keep me. It worried me that I would be one more person in Patrick's life who didn't stay around, but I didn't know what I could do about that.

The scene at the bottom of the stairway had been brief and tense, Mrs. Hopewell responding to my introduction with one sentence: I know who you are."

Mrs. Caulfield-Robyn-had informed me that the final decision on my hiring would be made by Mr. Westbrook.

Amelia had been bursting with curiosity when the door of the library reopened. The ladies had closed it in order to have their argument, but she had heard bits and pieces. I told her several times that the two older women had confused me with someone else, which, not surprisingly, she didn't believe.

That evening I stole away from Amelia's questions, taking a walk through town.

The fog, which had rendered the afternoon so dismal, now made the night seem brighter, the mist holding the apricot light of streetlamps and shimmering on the brick sidewalks. Though it was only seven o'clock, most of the shops were closed. Lights shone in the rooms above them and through the fanlights and windows of the old homes that fronted the eighteenth-century street. Somewhere ahead of me, at the end of High Street, was the river, but fog blotted out everything more than a block away. Peering in a shop window, pressing my face close to the glass, was like looking in a crystal ball, the objects inside magically clear.

I stared at a painting of a cat. I knew the artist at once, recognizing his attentiveness to the cat's ears, the expression in the animal's tail, and the tone of the background, carefully chosen to bring out the colors in the cat's coat. It was an early work by my father. I took a step back to read the shop's sign: OUVIA'S ANTIQUES.That's what you get for dying, Dad, I thought; your paintings are antiques now.

A man was working inside the shop, staring down at his clipboard, a pen hanging out of one side of his mouth like a cigarette-ex-smoker, I thought, recognizing my father's habit. I pushed open the front door, unloosing a flurry of bells.

"Shop's closed," the man said, pointing to a sign.

"I was hoping I might look at the painting of the cat.

"It's not for sale. Nothing here is for sale. I'm just taking inventory."

"It's a Venerelli, isn't it?"

He removed the pen from his mouth, perhaps surprised that a teenager would know something like that. "Unsigned," he replied.

"Even so, it is," I told the man, walking over to the painting to study it more closely.

He put down his clipboard and joined me in front of the painting. "How do you know that? It would be worth a lot more if I could be certain."

"He was my father. I'd recognize his work anywhere."

Now the man tipped forward on his toes to look at my face. "Katie!" he exclaimed softly.

I took a step back.

I never expected to see you in Wisteria, but still, I should have recognized you. You look exactly like your mother."

"Not exactly."

"You don't remember me, do you?" the man continued. "You were only a little girl the last time I saw you."

I waited to see if his face surfaced in my memory as Mrs. Hopewell's had. "No, I'm sorry, I don't."

"Joseph Oakley." He held out his hand. "I was Ashley's tutor."

"Mr. Joseph! I do remember you." Though I didn't recall him looking anything like he did now. Ashley's tutor, a college student, had been skinny, with a little knob of a chin. The person in front of me had the shape of a plump, middle-aged man, and sported a full beard flecked with gray. But he was younger than he appeared; the skin on his face was smooth, almost lineless.

"My condolences about your father," he said.

I nodded.

"I know how it is," he went on. "Mother died several months ago."

"I'm sorry.

"That's why I'm back in town, settling her affairs. This was her shop."

I glanced around at the odd collection of things-a beautiful oil lamp, a tacky ceramic of a fisherman, an elegant silver brush set, a purple teapot shaped like an elephant's head-his trunk was the spout. Next to my father's simple painting was a very large canvas: Several robust women with 1920 hairstyles bathed at a pink spring while odd-looking winged creatures darted about.

"Her taste was certainly… wide-ranging," I said.

"Her records are even more erratic than her taste," he replied with a grimace. "Of course, Mother was no spring chicken when she had me, and I think she was losing it mentally these last few years. I'm going to be forced to declare bankruptcy."

"Oh, no."

"But I want to hear about you and your mother, Katie. Is she here with you? How long will you be in Wisteria?"

"Well, actually-" A loud jingle of the bells on the door interrupted us. "Shop's closed," Joseph called out, then turned back to me. "You were saying-" "It can't be closed." A guy about my age had rushed into the store. "I got here as soon as I could." He looked at me as if I might plead his case for him.

"I've got to get a birthday present."

"Shop's closed," Joseph repeated.

"But I know what I want. It's right over there." He strode toward a glass case. "The bracelet with the blue stones."

"The lapis lazuli?" Joseph asked quietly. "It's three hundred dollars."

I think Joseph assumed the high price would immediately get rid of the shopper, but he miscalculated.

The guy cocked his head, as if he hadn't heard right, then bent over the case to get a closer look. "You've got to be kidding. It's not even sapphires."

"And this isn't Wal-Mart."

The guy straightened up. "Okay, okay," he said, rubbing his hands, then glancing at his watch.

I got the feeling he had a very short deadline.

"Let's see." He ran one hand through curly black hair. He was athletically built, a few inches taller than I, and very good-looking-if he would just stand still for a second. The room didn't seem big enough to contain his energy. I wanted to send him outside for a run.

"There must be something else here." He moved down the long jewelry case, playing it like a piano.

Joseph sighed. "Please don't put your fingerprints all over the glass."

"There, that plain silver one. You put tags on your cheaper stuff. Fifty dollars, I can swing it. Wait a minute, I like that one too. Forty-five."

He spun around, turning to Joseph, then me. I was glad there wasn't a shelf of glassware anywhere near him. "You're a woman-sort of," he said.

I frowned at him.

"I mean, a girl. A female. Could you help me out? I hate choosing this kind of stuff."

He had great eyes, eyes like the shiny black stones I collected from my favorite beach on the Channel. That's the only explanation I can offer for helping this last-minute lover in his gift selection.

"Which bracelet do you like best?" he asked. "That silver one, or the gold one with the green paint."

"Green enamel," Joseph corrected him.

I leaned over the case, studying them. "The green and gold."