The Witching Hour

  There he was, still trapped as he'd been for an hour by the overwhelming Beatrice, and the strikingly handsome Gifford, whose mother had been descended from Lestan Mayfair, and whose father had been descended from Clay Mayfair, and who had married, of course, Cortland's grandson, Ryan. Seems there were some other Mayfair lines tangled up in it, too, but Rowan had been drawn away from them at that point in the conversation, her blood simmering at the sight of Gifford's pale fingers wound--for no good reason--around Michael's arm.

  So what did they find so fascinating about her heartthrob that they wouldn't let him out of their clutches? And why was Gifford such a nervous woman, to begin with? Poor Michael. He didn't know what was going on. He sat there with his gloved hands shoved in his pockets, nodding and smiling at their little jokes. He didn't detect the flirtatious edge to their gestures, the flaming light in their eyes, the high seductive ring to their laughter.

  Get used to it. The son of a bitch is irresistible to refined women. They're all on to him now, that he's the bodyguard who reads Dickens.

  Yesterday, he'd climbed the long thin ladder up the side of the house like a pirate climbing the rope ladder of a ship. And then, the sight of him, bare-chested, with his foot on the parapet, his hair blowing, one hand raised to wave as if he had no idea in the world that this series of unself-conscious gestures was driving her slowly out of her mind. Cecilia had looked up and said, "My, but he is a good-looking man, you know."

  "Yes, I do," Rowan had mumbled.

  Her desire for him at such moments was excruciating. And he was all the more enticing in his new three-piece white linen suit ("You mean dress like an ice-cream man?"), which Beatrice had dragged him to Perlis to buy. "Darling, you're a southern gentleman now!"

  Porn, that's what he was. Walking porn. Take the times when he rolled up his sleeves and tucked his Camel cigarettes in the right-arm fold, and put a pencil behind his ear, and stood arguing with one of the carpenters or painters, and then put one foot forward and raised his hand sharply like he was, going to push the guy's chin through the top of his head.

  And then there were the skinny dips in the pool after everybody was off the property (no ghosts since the first time), and the one weekend they'd gotten away to Florida to claim the new house, and the sight of him sleeping naked on the deck, with nothing on but the gold wristwatch, and that little chain around his neck. Pure nakedness couldn't have been more enticing.

  And he was so supremely happy! He was the only one in this world perhaps who loved that house more than the Mayfairs did. He was obsessed with it. He took every opportunity to pitch in on the job with his men. And he was stuffing the gloves away more and more often. Seems he could drain an object of the images if he really tried, and after that he'd keep it out of other hands, and it would be safe, so to speak, and now he had a whole chest of such tools which he used, barehanded, with regularity.

  Thank God, the ghosts and the spooks were leaving them both alone. And she had to stop worrying about him over there with his harem.

  Better to concentrate on the group gathering around her--stately old Felice had just pulled up a chair, and the pretty garrulous Margaret Ann was settling on the grass, and the dour Magdalene, the one who looked young but wasn't, had been there for some time, watching the others in an unusual silence.

  Now and then a head would turn, one of them would look at her, and she would receive some vague shimmer of clandestine knowledge, and a question perhaps, and then it would fade. But it was always one of the older ones--Felice, who was Barclay's youngest daughter and seventy-five years old, or Lily, seventy-eight, they said, and the granddaughter of Vincent, or the elderly bald-headed Peter Mayfair, with the wet shining eyes and the thick neck though his body was very straight and strong--Garland's youngest son, surely a wary and knowing elder.

  And then there was Randall, older perhaps than his uncle Peter, saggy-eyed and seemingly wise, slouched on an iron bench in the far corner, gazing at her steadily, no matter how many blocked his view from time to time, as if he wanted to tell her something of great importance but did not know how to begin it.

  I want to know. I want to know everything.

  Pierce now looked at her with undisguised awe, utterly won over to the dream of Mayfair Medical, and almost as eager as she was to make it a reality. Too bad he'd lost some of the easy warmth he'd shown before, and was almost apologetic as he brought a succession of young men to be introduced, briefly explaining the lineage and present occupation of each one. ("We're a family of lawyers, or What does a gentleman do when he doesn't have to do anything?") There was something utterly lovable about Pierce as far as she was concerned. She wanted to put him at ease again. His was a friendliness behind which there was not a single shadow of self-centeredness.

  She noted with pleasure as well that after each introduction, he presented the very same person to Michael with a simple, unexplained cordiality. In fact, all of them were being gracious to Michael. Gifford kept pouring the bourbon in his glass. And Anne Marie had now settled beside him and was talking intently to him, her shoulder brushing his shoulder.

  Turn it off, Rowan. You can't lock up the beautiful beast in the attic.

  In clusters they surrounded her, then broke away so that a new cluster might form. And all the while they talked about the house on First Street, above all about the house.

  For the ongoing restoration of First Street brought them undisguised joy.

  First Street was their landmark, all right, and how they had hated to see it falling down, how they had hated Carlotta. Rowan caught it behind their congratulatory words. She tasted it when she looked into their eyes. The house was free at last from despicable bondage. And it was amazing how much they knew about the very latest changes and discoveries. They even knew the colors Rowan had chosen for rooms they hadn't yet seen.

  So splendid that Rowan had kept all the old bedroom furniture. Did she know that Stella had once slept in Carlotta's bed? And the bed in Millie's room had belonged to Grandmere Katherine, and Great Oncle Julien had been born in the bed in the front room, which was to be Rowan and Michael's bed.

  What did they think about her plan for the great hospital? In her few brief conversations outside the firm, she'd found them amazingly receptive. The name, Mayfair Medical, delighted them.

  It was crucial to her that the center break new ground, she'd explained last week to Bea and Cecilia, that it fulfill needs which others had not addressed. The ideal environment for research, yes, that was mandatory, but this was to be no ivory tower institute. It was to be a true hospital with a large proportion of its beds committed to nonpaying patients. If it could draw together the top neurologists and neurosurgeons in the nation and become the most innovative, effective, and complete center for the treatment of neurological problems, in unparalleled comfort and with the very latest equipment, it would be her dream come true.

  "Sounds quite terrific if you ask me," Cecilia had said.

  "It's about time, I think," said Carmen Mayfair over lunch, "You know, Mayfair and Mayfair has always given away millions, but this is the first time anyone has shown this sort of initiative."

  And of course that was only the beginning. No need to explain yet that she foresaw experiments in the structure and arrangement of intensive care units, and critical care wards, that she wanted to devise revolutionary housing for the families of patients, with special educational programs for spouses and children who must participate in the ongoing rehabilitation of those with incurable diseases or disabilities.

  But each day her vision gained new momentum. She dreamed of a humanizing teaching program designed to correct all the horrors and abuses which had become the cliches of modern medicine; she planned a nursing school in which a new type of supernurse, capable of a whole range of new responsibilities, could be created.

  The words "Mayfair Medical" could become synonymous with the finest and most humane and sensitive practitioners in the profession.

  Yes, they would all be
proud. How could they not be?

  "Another drink?"

  "Yes, thank you. Bourbon will be fine. Too fine."

  Laughter.

  She took another sip as she nodded now to young Timmy Mayfair, who had come to shake hands. Yes, and hello again to Bernardette Mayfair, whom she'd met briefly at the funeral, and to the beautiful little red-haired girl with the hair ribbon, who was named Mona Mayfair, daughter of CeeCee, yes, and the tomboyish Jennifer Mayfair, Mona's best friend and fourth cousin, yes, met you before, of course. Jenn had a voice like her own, she thought, deep and husky.

  Bourbon was better when it was very cold. But it was also sneaky when it was cold. And she knew she was drinking just a little too much of it. She took another sip, acknowledging a little toast from across the garden. One toast after another was being made to the house, and to the marriage. Was anybody here talking about anything else?

  "Rowan, I have photographs that go all the way back--"

  " ... and my mother saved all the articles from the papers ... "

  "You know, it's in the books on New Orleans, oh, yes, I have some of the very old books, I can drop them off for you at the hotel ... "

  " ... you understand, we are not going to be knocking on the door day and night, but just to know! ... "

  "Rowan, our great-grandfathers were born in that house ... all the people you see here were ... "

  "Oh, poor Millie Dear never lived to see the day ... "

  " ... a package of daguerreotypes ... Katherine and Darcy, and Julien. You know Julien was always photographed at the front door. I have seven different pictures of him at the front door."

  The front door?

  More and more Mayfairs streamed in. And there at last was the elderly Fielding--Clay's son--utterly bald, and with his fine, translucent skin and red-rimmed eyes--and they were bringing him here, to sit beside her.

  No sooner had he eased down in the chair than the young ones began to appear to pay court to him as they had to her.

  Hercules, the Haitian servant, put the tumbler of bourbon in the old man's hand.

  "You got that now, Mr. Fielding?"

  "Yes, Hercules, no food! I'm sick of food. I've eaten enough food for a lifetime."

  His voice was deep, and ageless the way the old woman's voice had been.

  "And so no more Carlotta," he said grimly to Beatrice, who had come to kiss him. "And I'm the only old one left."

  "Don't talk about it, you're going to be with us forever," said Bea, her perfume swirling about them, sweet and floral, and expensive like her brilliant red silk dress.

  "I don't know that you're all that much older than I am," declared Lily Mayfair, sitting beside him, and indeed for a moment she did seem as old as he was, with her wispy luminous white hair and sunken cheeks, and the bony hand she laid on his arm.

  Fielding turned to Rowan. "So you're restoring First Street. You and that man of yours are going to live there. And so far things have gone well?"

  "Why shouldn't they?" Rowan asked with a gentle smile.

  But she was warmed suddenly by the blessing Fielding gave her as he rested his hand on her own.

  "Splendid news, Rowan," he said, his low voice gaining resonance now that he had caught his breath after the long odyssey from the front door. "Splendid news." The whites of his eyes were yellowed, though his false teeth were shining white. "All those years, she wouldn't let anyone touch it," he said with a touch of anger. "Old witch, that's what she was."

  Little gasps rose from the women gathered to the left. Ah, but this was what Rowan wanted. Let the polished surface be broken.

  "Granddaddy, for heaven's sakes." It was Gifford at his elbow. She picked up his fallen cane from the grass and hooked it over the back of the chair. He ignored her.

  "Well, it's the truth," he said. "She let it fall to ruin! It's a wonder it can be restored at all."

  "Granddaddy," said Gifford, almost desperately.

  "Oh, let him talk, darling," said Lily, with a little palsy to her small head, eyes flickering over Rowan, her thin hand knotted around her drink.

  "You think anyone could shut me up," said the old man. "She said he was the one who wouldn't let her, she blamed it all on him. She believed in him and used him when she had her reasons."

  A hush was falling over those around them. It seemed the light died a little as the others pressed in. Rowan was vaguely aware that the dark gray figure of Randall was moving in the corner of her eye.

  "Granddaddy, I wish you wouldn't ... " said Gifford.

  Oh, but I wish you would!

  "She was the one," Fielding said. "She wanted it to fall down around her. I wonder sometimes why she didn't burn it, like that wicked housekeeper in Rebecca. I used to worry that she'd do it. That she'd burn all the old pictures. You see the pictures? You see Julien and his sons standing in front of the doorway?"

  "The doorway. You mean the keyhole door at the front of the house?"

  Had Michael heard him? Yes, he was coming towards them, obviously trying to silence Cecilia who whispered nonstop in his ear, oblivious to the dazed expression on his face, and Aaron stood not very far away, under the magnolia, unnoticed, eyes fixed on the group. If only she could put a spell on them so that they didn't see Aaron.

  But they weren't noticing anything except each other, Fielding nodding, and Felice speaking up, her silver bracelets jangling as she pointed at Fielding.

  "Tell her about it," said Felice, "I say you should. You want my opinion? Carlotta wanted that house. She wanted to rule in that house. She was mistress of it till the day she died, wasn't she?"

  "She didn't want anything," grumbled Fielding, with a flopping dismissive gesture of his left hand. "That was her curse. She only wanted to destroy."

  "What about the doorway?" asked Rowan.

  "Granddaddy, I'm going to take you ... "

  "You're not going to take me anywhere, Gifford," he said, his voice almost youthful in its determination. "Rowan's moving back into that house. I have things to say to Rowan."

  "In private!" Gifford declared.

  "Let him talk, darling, what's the harm?" said Lily. "And this is private. We're all Mayfairs here."

  "It's a beautiful house, she'll love it!" said Magdalene sharply. "What are you all trying to do, scare her?"

  Randall stood behind Magdalene, eyebrows raised, lips slightly pursed, all the wrinkles of his saggy old face drawn long and deep, as he looked down at Fielding.

  "But what were you going to say?" asked Rowan.

  "It's just a package of old legends," said Ryan, with a faint touch of irritation, though he spoke more slowly, obviously trying to hold it in. "Stupid old legends about a doorway and they don't mean anything."

  Michael drew up behind Fielding, and Aaron came a little closer. Still they took no notice.

  "I want to know, actually," said Pierce. He was standing to the left behind Felice and beside Randall. Felice stared intently at Fielding, her head wagging ever so slightly because she was drunk. "My great-grandfather was painted in front of the doorway," said Pierce. "That portrait's inside. They were always in front of that doorway."

  "And why shouldn't they stand on the front porch of the house in these pictures?" asked Ryan. "They lived there. We have to remember, before Carlotta it was our great-great-grandfather's house."

  "That's it," Michael murmured. "That's where I saw the door. In the pictures. God, I should have taken a closer look at those pictures ... "

  Ryan glanced at him. Rowan reached out for him, gestured for him to come to her, and Ryan's eyes followed as Michael came around to the back of Rowan's chair. Pierce was talking again as Michael slipped down on the grass beside Rowan, so that she could rest her hand on his shoulder. Aaron now stood quite close by.

  "But even in the old photos," Pierce was saying, "they're in front of the door. Always a keyhole door. Either the front door or one of the doors ... "

  "Yes, the door," said Lily. "And the door's on the grave. The same keyhole d
oorway carved right above the crypts. And nobody even knows who had it done."

  "Well, it was Julien, of course," said Randall in a low stentorian voice. They all paid a quick heed to him. "And Julien knew what he was doing, because the doorway had a special meaning for him, and for all of them back then."

  "If you tell her all this craziness," said Anne Marie, "she isn't going to ... "

  "Oh, but I want to know," said Rowan. "And besides, nothing could prevent us from moving into the house."

  "Don't be so sure of that," said Randall solemnly.

  Lauren threw him a cold disapproving glance. "This is no time for scary tales," she whispered.

  "Do we have to drag up all this dirt!" cried Gifford. The woman was clearly upset. Rowan could see Pierce's concern. But he was on the very opposite side of the little gathering from his mother. Ryan was close to her. Ryan took her arm, and whispered something in her ear.

  She's going to try to break this up, Rowan thought. "What does the doorway mean?" Rowan asked. "Why did they always stand in front of it?"

  "I don't like to talk about it," Gifford cried. "I don't see why we have to dig up the past every time we get together. We ought to be thinking about the future."

  "We are talking about the future," said Randall. "The young woman ought to know certain things."

  "I'd like to know about the door," said Rowan.

  "Well, go on, all of you, old mossbacks," said Felice. "If you mean to tell something finally after all these years of acting like the kitten who got the cream ... "

  "The doorway had to do with the pact and the promise," said Fielding. "And it was a secret handed down in each generation all the way from the very earliest times."

  Rowan glanced down at Michael, who sat with knees up and his arms resting on them, merely looking up at Fielding. But even from above, she could see the expression of dread and confusion in his face, the same damned expression that came over him every time he talked of the visions. The expression was so uncharacteristic that he looked like someone else.

  "I never heard them speak of any promise," said Cecilia. "Or pact, or any doorway, for that matter."

  Peter Mayfair now joined them, bald as Fielding, and with the same sharp eyes. In fact, all of them were gathering in a circle, three and four deep. Isaac and Wheatfield crowded in behind Pierce.