Page 18 of Jane Deyre
Pushing away that memory, Grace and I arrive at a weathered wooden gate, the white paint all but gone, that’s built into a crumbling, ivy-covered brick wall. I see the gabled roof of a building behind it. Arthritic Grace struggles to open the latch; I do it for her and swing the creaky gate open.
My eyes grow wide. The manicured rose-lined path has come to an end. What lies before me is a yard overrun with knee-high grass, spiky weeds, and untended shrubs. Easily twenty years of overgrowth. And neglect. There’s not a rose in sight. Architecturally, the guesthouse seems a lot different from the main house, but the truth is, I can barely make it out. Tentacles of ivy spread across it, camouflaging the structure beneath it. I only know it’s planked and has a pitched roof because the derelict vines conform to the shape of the structure. The ivy has spared only the windows flanking the blood-red front door. Edwina’s words,it’ll be nice to have life in that house again,whir in my head. It’s as though nature has reclaimed the house. Swallowed it whole. It belongs with the dead. While I don’t believe in ghosts, I can almost imagine one occupying the house. No wonder Grace looked so spooked.
The best thing about the house is that it sits at the very edge of the property and offers an unobstructed, panoramic view of Los Angeles. From downtown to the Valley and all the way to the ocean. Not fenced in, there is nothing between the house and the dark ravine below. A shiver ripples through me. Thank goodness I don’t sleepwalk because the drop off the bluff is hundreds of feet. A dizzying sense of vertigo comes over me. Rambunctious little Adele will certainly not be playing around my yard unless I can get Ms. Fairfax to spring for a fence and a gardener. Which, reader, is very unlikely.
I take a steeling breath and trek to the front door. Beneath my feet, I can see the trace of a paved path, but it, too, has been overrun by nature. And years of neglect. Coming to the end, I have to climb three steps to the portico shrouding the door. Trailing behind me, Grace meets me on the landing.
The blood-red door seems to be in good shape with a brass knocker and peephole. Fingers crossed I won’t be walking into a quagmire of cobwebs, cockroaches, and termite-eaten walls. Or a pack of rats.
My heart in my throat, I watch as Grace turns the knob and the door squeaks open.
I’m surprised it’s not locked. Maybe she deliberately left it open after tidying up the inside.
“Grace, do you have the key?” It’s probably in the pocket of her apron.
She shakes her head.
“Oh, did you leave it inside?”
She shakes her head again.No.
“Do you know where it is?” While Thornhill is secluded and gated, the thought of having no key to lock the front door of the guesthouse makes me uneasy. What if John Reed finds his way here? The tyrant is capable of anything. Including murder. I shudder at that thought. Today was bad enough. Who knows how far he would have gone had not Mr. Rochester intervened? He’s got a score to settle. He wears revenge on his face; it’ll be his scar forever.
For the third time, Grace shakes her head, adding in a shrug. I make a mental note to ask Ms. Fairfax if she has the key. If she doesn’t, I’ll ask her to get a locksmith to make one. And if she refuses, I’ll do it myself. I need to feel safe. A feeling that’s eluded me my entire life.
I push the door further open. “Grace, would you like to come in?”
Her face blanches, that same look of terror I saw earlier falling upon her. Acting like there is a ghost inside. She leaves me with my guitar and scurries off.
Bravely, I cross the threshold. A lot of things in life scare me, but I’m not afraid of ghosts. John Reed is real, but ghosts only exist in books, TV shows, and movies. And on Halloween. They’re make-believe.
To my great surprise and relief, the guesthouse is livable inside.
The walls are painted a dingy white, and though a bit tatty, the furnishings are an eclectic blend of mid-century and ’80s-something. Definitely more utilitarian than decorative. The vibe masculine. The scent of that lemony polish I smelled earlier wafts in the air, mixing with that of air freshener. Anchored by a worn Persian rug, there’s an old Chesterfield couch (the red leather cracking), a walnut coffee table, a couple of armchairs, and a boarded-up fireplace. In the corner by another window, sits a secretary-style desk displaying a vintage manual typewriter and an old-fashioned black rotary phone. The bookshelf above it is filled top to bottom with books. Most of which look old... leather tomes, hardbacks, and some paperbacks. From my vantage point, I can make out some of the titles. The majority are classics written by famous authors like Dickens, Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Faulkner. Some of which I read in high school. I can also discern an old thesaurus and Webster’s dictionary. I want to explore the room more, especially the bookshelf, but more importantly, I need to settle in and get back to the main house in time for lunch. I eye an archway that must lead to the bedroom. Hauling my stuff, I make my way to it.
From outside the house, I wasn’t sure if it was one story or two. Though the pitched roof licked the sky, I didn’t see a window below it. As I amble down a narrow hallway with my possessions, no staircase comes into view. My bedroom must be along this hall.
I pass a bathroom and peek inside. Pink and blue tiles. So typical of the fifties. A porcelain sink with separate hot and cold spigots, and a stall shower with a frosted-glass door. All, however, spotlessly clean thanks to Grace. I can smell a trace of disinfectant.
Next to it, I find the bedroom. The door wide open. It’s quadruple the size of my former closet-size one. Again the vibe is masculine. A blue bedspread, blue carpeting, blue curtains. Brown furnishings. I drop my things on the floor and head to the window. I pull the curtains apart and break into a smile. The famous Hollywood sign shines in my face. Nine soaring white letters.Lights! Camera! Action!My destiny awaits me.
I unpack my duffle, neatly folding my clothes inside the drawers of the bureau. It doesn’t take long as I have so little. A few pairs of jeans, a couple of hoodies, some T-shirts, a bunch of hole-ridden underwear, and a worn velour robe. Nothing fancy. I glance down at my cheap watch. It’s just past noon, so I have time for a quick shower before lunch. I feel grubby. And want to wash away any remnants of perspiration and the memory of my encounter with John Reed. I gather some toiletries—a bar of soap, my shampoo, and conditioner.
Stripping off my clothes, I turn on the water before I step into the shower stall. The water blasts out of the showerhead, at first rust colored to my dismay, but then it clears and goes to normal. I get inside the shower and adjust the water to the hottest I can tolerate. Almost scalding.
Blessedly, the water pressure is excellent, and the hot, pounding water feels good. I can feel my muscles relax. I scrub my body and then shampoo my hair, throwing my head back to let the water wash away the lather. Once squeaky clean, I apply a dollop of the conditioner, massage it into my scalp, and then rinse it off. Turning the water off, I step out of the shower, feeling refreshed and happy that clean fluffy white towels await me. I towel dry myself off, including my hair, and return to the bedroom. I get dressed quickly, putting on some new underwear that’s as plain as I am along with a fresh pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt. I notice a small wicker hamper in the corner and throw my dirty clothes inside it. I wonder if there’s a washer and dryer somewhere. Maybe behind the house or adjacent to the kitchen?
Dressed, I find the latter. It’s small but efficient though the all-white appliances look dated. The kind I’m used to. None of the foster homes I moved around in had state-of-the-art stainless-steel kitchens with granite counters and laminate floors. There’s a stove and fridge, and on the Formica counter an old Mr. Coffee coffee maker. Opening a door, expecting to find a pantry, I’m pleased to discover a stacked washer and dryer. That means I can do my own laundry. My mouth dry as a desert, I pad over to the fridge in hope of finding a bottle of water inside it. Edwina said Grace stocked it with some basics.
Taped to the door is a folded sheet of paper with my name printed on it in red marker. I bet Grace left me some instructions. I pull it off and unfold it. Before my eyes is a single word typed in black caps.
BCAFUL!
I try to make sense of the word. I say it aloud and then it comes to me. BE CAREFUL! An unsettling feeling courses through me. Who wrote this note and what does it mean? I set the note down on the kitchen counter and decide it must be eccentric Grace’s way of welcoming me. Without further thought, I toss it into the trash bin and make my way back to Thornhill.
CHAPTER 9
Jane