Page 92 of Jane Deyre
Ms. Fairfax smirks. “Did you find him?”
I don’t answer. My eyes scoot to the closet. “Can I look inside the closet?”
Ms. Fairfax folds her arms again. “Be my guest.”
She waits in one spot while I tread over to it. I turn the knob and swing the creaky door open. I peer inside. It’s not what you’d call a walk-in closet. It’s small and narrow, with racks of men’s clothing on either side. Meticulously arranged by suits, slacks, and shirts. The suits and slacks mostly solid gray or tan, the button-down shirts mostly white or light blue. There’s a single shelf above each rack, both lined with shoeboxes. All from Brooks Brothers, marked size 10 D. Some with brown-laced leather oxfords sitting on the lids. There is also a floor-to-ceiling shelf along the back wall, with stacks of neatly folded dark-colored cardigan sweaters and jacquard ties. Plus blue-and-white-striped boxers and pajamas. I have to admit, reader, that it’s kind of creepy being in a dead person’s closet. I shudder, half-expecting his body to fall out from nowhere like in a horror movie. My eyes ping-pong between the two racks of clothing before I cast my gaze down. I don’t see any feet on the floor. Or dead bodies. Just for good measure, I yank the string that’s hanging from the single, naked light bulb screwed into the ceiling.Click.It doesn’t turn on. The bulb must have burned out.
“Are we done yet?” I hear Ms. Fairfax call out, the tone of her voice impatient and impertinent.
After one more once-over, I exit the closet. Ms. Fairfax faces me. “Did you find anything? Some dangling skeletons? Or maybe a ghost flew out from the walls?”
More sarcasm. I shake my head. She looks at me with contempt.
“I didn’t think you would. It’s all in your wicked imagination. You’re delusional!”
I know I haven’t been imagining things. I’ve heard the weird noises too many times. I don’t feel safe here at night. Actually, at all.
“Ms. Fairfax, could you possibly call the locksmith again to install a new lock so I can lock my bedroom door from the outside as well?” I suppose I could ask handy Mr. Rochester to install one, but I don’t want to trouble him. And I surely don’t want him to think I’m some kind of scaredy cat. Or delusional nutjob.
She huffs. “I wish you’d asked me earlier. The locksmith has been on and off the premises all month and was just here to put a latch on your bedroom door. And now, I have to call him yet again. Another time suck.” She glances down at her watch. “I have more important things to attend to. Thank you once again, Miss Deyre, for wasting my precious time. Please be back at the house by half past twelve for lunch.”
With brutal finality, she stomps out of the room, me close behind her. She locks the door and heads to the entrance of the guesthouse while I stop into my room. I hear the front door slam closed while I find my bathing suit. A swim in the pool is just what I need to chill.
CHAPTER 48
Jane
As promised, I take Adele to the pool after lunch. Dressed in a conservative one-piece swim suit, a straw hat, and sunglasses, all of which I ordered online, and bathed in lots of sunscreen, I’m seated on one of the lounge chairs and keep an eagle eye on her as she frolics in the water. Though she can now swim, well at least do a doggy paddle, I’ve made her wear her floaties and stay in the shallow end. I’m not a strong enough swimmer to rescue her should she flounder.
“Jane!”
A familiar voice diverts my attention. I take my eyes off Adele for a second and see Ward jogging my way. Dressed in khaki shorts, a white linen shirt, Topsiders, and his Wayfarers. Holding a padded envelope in one hand, he sits down on the edge of my lounger. His face is brimming with excitement.
Reaching inside the envelope, he slips out a hardcover book and hands it to me. My eyes widening, I gaze at the glossy cover jacket. It’s a photo of young Edwina in her red gown, identical to the portrait above the fireplace. The title:The Queen of Thornhill:A Memoir...By Edwina Rochester and W.W. Rochester.
“Oh my God!”
“It’s an advanced copy... a bound galley... hot off the press. Open it.”
“I’m afraid to. I have sunscreen all over my fingers.”
He opens it for me and flips the pages until he gets to the title page. On the opposite page, there’s a handwritten inscription. I read it.
To my beautiful Jane Deyre~
Who inspires me, makes me feel alive, every minute of the day.
My next book will be dedicated to you. And the next and the next and the next.
Yours~ WWR
My hand flies to my thudding heart as my mouth falls open. My eyes mist and meet his.
“You want me to have this book?” My voice quivers. No one’s ever given me a book before. Let alone a signed first edition. From the author himself.
He chuckles. “Well, it does have your name on it. In ink. So I can’t quite give it to someone else unless you happen to know another Jane Deyre.”
Overwhelmed with emotion, I utter only two little words. “I don’t.”