I heard nothing more from him until later that evening. I’d just kissed Maddy good night and was shutting her bedroom door quietly behind me when he approached me from the other end of the hall. In his jeans and rumpled T-shirt, he looked like many of the fathers for whom I’d babysat, except maybe for the tattoo on his forearm.
“Maddy’s almost asleep,” I told him. “But if you slip in and give her a good-night kiss, I don’t think it would disturb her.”
“I said good night to her already,” he replied, somewhat gruffly. “It’s you I’d like to talk to.”
I followed him downstairs to the living room; he motioned for me to have a seat in the armchair opposite him. Though the night was warm and the air-conditioning on, someone had lit a fire. I sat.
For a while he sat in silence, feet up on an overstuffed hassock. I waited for him to begin the conversation, and when he didn’t, I considered what he might want me to do or say. Copilot stretched out in his usual spot before the fire and looked up at me with mournful liquid-brown eyes. A moment passed and he stood, walked over, and dropped his heavy head in my lap. I scratched him between the ears, glad to have something to do. Just as I was about to ask Mr. Rathburn if he had something particular in mind, he straightened in his chair. “I don’t need to call you Miss Jane, do I? I’d rather just call you Jane, if you don’t mind.”
I tried not to smile. “You’re the employer, Mr. Rathburn,” I reminded him. “You can call me anything you want. Well, almost anything.”
The sides of his mouth twitched. “Yes, well. There’s something very formal about you.” His eyes were dark and piercing as they searched my face. “You say you’re from Philadelphia?”
“From the suburbs. The Main Line.”
“Are your parents rich, then? Are you some kind of debutante?” I continued to meet his gaze, expecting his eyes to glance away at any moment, but they didn’t. “I know that’s a rude question. I don’t believe in wasting time. I’m not good at small talk. Are you?”
“I’ve never liked small talk. And I’m not a debutante.” It seemed such a strange question. “My father was a dentist, and my mother was a homemaker. We had enough money, but I don’t think we were rich by your standards, Mr. Rathburn.”
“Was?” He signaled for Copilot to lie down. “You say your father was a dentist. Is he retired?”
“My parents died in an accident.” By now I could make this statement with an unbroken voice. “About six months ago.”
His expression remained unchanged. “Don’t you have any family?”
“A sister in Manhattan, but we’re not close. And I have a brother, at least I used to, but he isn’t very stable. He disappeared last winter, and I don’t have any idea where to find him. I don’t think he would want to be found.”
“What about friends?”
“I had a close friend at Sarah Lawrence, but she moved back to Iowa.”
He thought for a moment, then continued. “Why did you drop out?”
“I couldn’t pay my tuition.”
“Your parents didn’t leave you any money?”
“The stocks my parents left me turned out not to be worth much. My sister did a little bit better; she inherited some money market accounts, I think. And my brother was named executor of the will. He sold the house and kept the money.”
He leaned in a bit closer. “You don’t seem bitter.”
“Should I be?”
“Most people would be. In your shoes.” He got to his feet. “I don’t imagine you drink?”
I shook my head.
“Stay here.” A minute later, he was back with two glasses of ice and a bottle of mineral water. “Bottoms up.”
I took a sip. I had been thirsty without realizing it. He sat back down. “Do you mind my asking so many personal questions?”
I thought a moment. “No. I don’t mind.” I wasn’t just being polite. It was a relief to speak plainly and not have to hide my situation, as though it were something to be ashamed of.
“Are you lonely?” he continued. “The most personal question yet.”
“I used to be. But I’ve gotten used to spending time by myself. And I haven’t felt alone since I’ve been here.” As I uttered the words, I realized they were true.
“I guess you’ve bonded with Maddy,” he said without a trace of sentimentality in his voice, at least none that I could detect. “I can tell she’s become attached to you.”
I nodded. It was nearly impossible to reconcile this serious man in front of me with the persona in his songs, music videos, and news clippings.
“I’ve been watching the two of you. You’ve done her some good. She listens to you, and that wasn’t true of the nanny before you. Or the one before that.”
“She’s not the easiest or the most difficult child I’ve taken care of.” Then it dawned on me that he had paid me a compliment. I allowed myself a small smile. “But thank you.”
“For what?” He poured himself another glass. “More?”
I held my glass out. “Thank you for the praise. It’s always nice to feel… I don’t know… useful. Capable.”
“Huh.” Mr. Rathburn tossed the empty glass bottle across the room into a waste can. It rang without breaking. “I’ve never seen you smile before. I didn’t know you could.”
I could feel the smile fade from my lips.
“No, no. That wasn’t meant as a criticism. I wasn’t laughing at you. It was just… the truth. From what you tell me about your life, it hasn’t been a pleasure cruise.”
“I guess not.”
“I’ve got one more question for you, Jane.” He eased his slippered feet back up on the hassock. “I’ve noticed that when you bring Maddy to preschool, you stay out instead of coming back here. Where do you go?”
I hesitated.
“You don’t have to tell me. You’re free to go wherever you want. I’m just curious. You’re not off walking on the main road, are you? The way you were when I almost squashed you flat?”
“Not usually,” I said. “Most days I drive around looking for a subject. I do watercolors when I’m not looking after Maddy.”
“Watercolors?” He sounded intrigued. “Can I see some of them?”
I was so startled by the request that my reply came out ruder than I intended. “But why would you want to?”
Mr. Rathburn raised an eyebrow in reply.
“They’re not that good,” I said. “I’m just a beginner.”
“Bring them out anyway,” he said. “You’re too modest.”
“I’m too honest,” I corrected him, but I complied. Back in my room, I quickly rifled through my portfolio, looking for the best of the paintings I’d done at Thornfield Park. I brought them downstairs and spread them on the living room’s wide coffee table while Mr. Rathburn looked on with appraising eyes.
“These are interesting,” he said finally. “You’ve got a graceful line and a fresh approach to color. Don’t look so surprised, Jane.” Now he sounded annoyed. “You shouldn’t underestimate me. I may not have gone to Sarah Lawrence” — he drew the name out mockingly — “but I’ve had a lot of time over the past few years to study the things that interest me. Art interests me.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rathburn.” I set out the last of my paintings. “I shouldn’t have been surprised.”
“Or at least you should have hidden it better. Every thought that passes through your mind is written in neon on that face of yours.” Then he picked up my painting of a family picnicking on a yellow blanket near the Sound; I’d worked quickly, hoping to finish it before they noticed me but really hoping they wouldn’t notice me at all. “You’ve captured that woman’s gesture very nicely, the way she leans in toward the man but also keeps herself separate.” He set the painting down and picked up another, of a lighthouse at twilight. “And this one — the colors are a little muddy, but the composition’s really striking. Were you happy while you painted these?”
This seemed like a strange question. ??
?Yes.”
“Were you looking for something to paint the day you ran my car off the road?”
“You were speeding,” I reminded him.
He picked up another watercolor and scanned it. “These are good,” he said, “but they’re not worth dying over. I know I said it’s none of my business where you go on your time off, but I want you to do me a favor. For the time being, do your painting at Thornfield Park.”
I must have looked startled.
“There are plenty of interesting things to paint around the estate. I bet you haven’t seen nine-tenths of the grounds,” he said.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “Probably not.”
“Have you checked out the path behind the pool house? If you follow it into the woods and bear right, you’ll come to a stable. I don’t keep horses,” he added, anticipating my next question. “It was there when I bought the place. The building’s run-down, a little haunted-looking, and there are these wild twisted trees around it. Would you try painting there instead of wandering all over the county? Not forever, just for a while?”
“I’ll go there tomorrow if it doesn’t rain,” I promised him.
And I did. I spread out my supplies on a low, flat boulder and painted three landscapes — one of the stable’s warping boards and deep, shadowy interior, and the other two of the gnarled tree trunks that looked, when I squinted, like figures in black caught in a ghostly dance. I got so involved in painting that I forgot to check my watch and was almost late for Maddy’s pickup time. I hurried to the house and raced in through the back door and up to my bedroom to drop off my paints. Just as I was about to turn the corner into the hallway, I heard voices — Amber and Linda — and could tell by their tone that they were gossiping again.
“Nico pays her well, right? Benjamin mentioned something about her being rich. Not that you’d ever know it to look at her,” Amber said.
“A lot better than he pays us,” Linda replied. “I’m not complaining. I know I make more than most housekeepers, but she makes five times as much. She told me once that she’s saving up to buy her own bed-and-breakfast someday.”
Amber said something I couldn’t quite catch.
“I know, she looks almost sixty with that bun of hers, but she’s much younger. Fortysomething, maybe. So she’s a long way from retiring.”
They were describing Brenda.
“Why do you suppose she’s worth that much money to him? What makes her so special?”
I could hear the creak of the laundry cart. Any moment now they would turn the corner and find me there. And wouldn’t I be embarrassed to be caught listening to their private conversation? I forced myself forward, around the corner.
“If she were younger and prettier, I’d wonder if Nico…,” Linda was saying, but Amber gave her a nudge, then both of them looked my way. I saw Amber shake her head emphatically, and seconds later, they were gone. I fumbled for the key to my room and dropped my portfolio and my tackle box of art supplies on the bed. Then I sat down to catch my breath and to give the blood burning in my cheeks a moment to cool down.
What I’d heard did little to answer my questions about Brenda. All it did was confirm for me that there was something mysterious going on at Thornfield Park and that it somehow involved her.
CHAPTER 6
Mr. Rathburn was in the breakfast room at eight the next morning, earlier than I had ever seen him there. Before she left for school, Maddy popped in to the kitchen to kiss him good-bye; from the hallway, I could see he had been drinking coffee at the table, the business section of the New York Times spread open before him. When we returned at lunchtime, the door to the music room was shut; the sound of electric guitar seeped through the walls. As Maddy carried her plate to the dishwasher, she announced that she would be spending the afternoon with her father.
“He’s working,” I reminded her. “You’ll see him later.”
While she was napping, I stayed in my room. I hadn’t yet figured out how visible I should be to Mr. Rathburn. I needed to stick close to Maddy, of course; I had to stay within the range of her voice when she spent time with her father. But while she was off at school or asleep, I imagined I should keep out from underfoot. I thought about asking Lucia what was appropriate, but when I saw her in the hall she was gesticulating wildly with one hand, the other pressing a cordless phone to her ear. “Not Friday! I could be dead by Friday. Tomorrow. We need delivery tomorrow.”
I read while Maddy slept, bedspread pulled up to my chin. The scent of baking bread wafted upstairs from the kitchen. I was feeling around the bed for the bookmark I’d dropped, thinking about closing my eyes for a brief nap of my own, when the intercom crackled, and Mr. Rathburn’s voice startled me. “Jane? Are you there?”
I jumped to my feet. “I’m here,” I told the intercom.
“Could you come here a second? I’m in my dressing room.”
It seemed an odd request. I considered it for a moment, wondering if maybe it would be unwise to join him in such an isolated part of the house. But then I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door and realized how silly I was being. I looked completely unlike the women he had dated. Maybe he wanted to discuss Maddy? “I’ll be right there.”
I had to think hard to remember the location of his dressing room, just off his bedroom in the wing opposite mine. I hurried first to Maddy’s bedroom and peeked in. She was still asleep, clutching her pink pillow. When I reached the dressing room, I found him standing there, piles of clothes flung on various surfaces. He was holding a shiny, black button-down in front of his T-shirted chest.
“You’re the demographic I’m trying to impress,” he said. “Or one of them, anyway. What do you think?”
This was an interesting turn of events. I thought for a second. “It depends. What’s the occasion?”
“We’re doing a photo shoot for the tour program this afternoon. Javier is home with a migraine; usually I would ask him. I don’t want to be at the mercy of the photographer and Mitch. I want to go in there with a set idea, so I don’t get sidetracked into some ridiculous, trendy…” He tossed the black shirt on the chair and reached for a plaid flannel one. “How about this?”
“It’s not very flashy.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Well, right,” he said. “I’m not going for flashy. I haven’t been flashy since my first album.” I’d been standing in the doorway; he beckoned me closer.
“What are you going for?” There must have been ten piles of shirts, pants, and scarves strewn around the room.
“What am I going for?” he asked the ceiling. “What should I be going for?”
“What does your new album sound like?”
“More acoustic than the others.” He reached for a candy-orange silk shirt. “More folky. Lyric intensive, if you know what I mean. Less dynamic, more reflective. Intimate. My fan base is going to hate it; it will remind them they’re not teenagers anymore.”
I thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t dress too formally, but I wouldn’t go too far in the other direction and wear a ripped T-shirt or a lumberjack shirt or anything like that.” I looked around; a crisp burgundy-colored shirt slung over a chair in the corner caught my eye. “That one would be nice — with blue jeans.”
“That one?” he asked. “Why that one?”
“I think that color will suit you,” I said. He waited, as though expecting a more persuasive rationale. “But maybe you should get somebody else’s opinion,” I added. “I’m no expert on clothes, as you can see” — I gestured to my denim skirt and oxford shirt — “and I don’t know anything about rock music.”
“You don’t?” He sounded shocked. “What do you listen to?”
“Classical music, sometimes.”
“Do you listen to my music?” he asked in a somewhat quieter voice.
“I’ve heard it. My brother played your third album all the time, so I know it very well. And I’ve listened through all the others.”
“Li
stened through all the others?” He massaged his temples. “You mean only once?”
I nodded, and he looked at me oddly for a moment, as though I were a bird who had flown in through the window and he was trying to figure out how to get me back outside.
“I believe the agency picked me for that reason,” I reminded him.
“Oh. That’s right. I told them not to send me any more fans.” He made a snorting sound, a laugh devoid of humor, and picked up the shirt I had chosen. “You wouldn’t believe the kinds of trouble it causes.” His tone was grudging. He held the shirt up in front of him. “But couldn’t you humor me for a moment? Pretend you like my work. Imagine you could be won over by something as frivolous as a tour program or a poster. Would this shirt do the trick?”
I considered the question for a second. It would be a nice color on him; it made his gray eyes seem darker and moodier, and it brought out the color in his lips, softening his rough features just a bit. “I think it would.”
“I’ll put it on.” He grabbed a pair of jeans from the pile. “Don’t go anywhere.”
A minute later, he was back, standing in front of his three-way mirror, striking a pose, holding an imaginary guitar. “So?” he asked me.
“I’d go with that one. It’s flattering. And it’s not too formal, but it looks grown-up.”
“Grown-up. That’s me. Earrings?”
“Yes. You don’t want to look too much like a soccer dad.”
“Soccer dad? Ouch.”
“And maybe roll up your sleeves to show your tattoo.” He rolled them up, revealing the serpent that coiled through the sparse hair of his left forearm.
“Motorcycle boots?” he asked me, and when I nodded, “Black or brown? Maybe you’ve just found yourself a new career — stylist.” He ruffled his hair, making it stand up. “Don’t go yet. You’re not done here.” And he disappeared again into the bedroom.
When he came back out, the transformation was complete; I could half imagine what the cover of the tour program might look like. “What do you think?” he asked.