Legacy of Lies Page 2
I knew I was chattering.
“And your brothers?”
“They’re great. Pete, who’s twelve, is into music. Dave’s ten and lives for sports.”
“And your trip here?”
“My father’s doing great, too,” I said, though she hadn’t asked about him. “He was honored by the Sonoran Desert Museum for his work with mammals.”
“Please answer only the questions I ask,” Grandmother told me.
“Just filling in the details,” I responded cheerfully, though we both knew otherwise. I wasn’t about to let Dad be cut out of the family.
“How was your trip here?”
“Fine.”
She waited a moment, perhaps to see if I’d fill in the details. I didn’t.
“I had expected you to come here in the summer, Megan.”
“As Mom explained to you, I go to a year-round school and had already committed myself to working at a camp for my three-week summer break. October was the next free time.”
“What is your parentage?”
The sudden question took me aback. I stared at her for a long moment. “My mother is Carolyn Barnes, my father, Kent Tilby,” I said, as if that were news.
“You know what I mean, girl.”
I pressed my lips together.
“Your coloring is. . unusual,” she observed.
I decided not to reply. I have straight black hair, which I keep shoulder length, gray eyes, and skin that refuses to tan. In the bronze land of Arizona, I stand out like a white mushroom, but I didn’t think that was the point of her comment.
Correctly deducing that she wasn’t going to get any information about my birth parents, Helen Barnes rose from her chair. “1 will show you your room.”
I followed her into the hall, fuming. I don’t know what I had hoped for from her. An effort to get to know me, a conversation that lasted longer than three minutes and revealed some interest in me, other than genetic? Some shyness or awkwardness that told me that she, too, had intense feelings about this first meeting? There was no such sign. Her eyes could have iced over the Gulf of Mexico.
“You will see the downstairs first,” she said.
I nodded. Apparently, “Would you like to?” wasn’t part of her vocabulary.
She showed me the three other rooms that opened off the center hall. Like the library, each had a high ceiling and corner fireplace, but their walls were painted in bolder colors: peacock blue in the front parlor, bright mustard in the music room. The dining room, which was at the back of the main house and across the hall from the library, was blood red. All of the rooms had paintings with heavy gilt frames; the theme in the gory-colored dining room was animals and hunting. I hoped we ate in the kitchen.
“When was this house built?” I asked, abruptly turning away from an impaled deer.
“In 1720,” my grandmother answered, “by a family named Winchester.”
“When did our family move in?”
“The Scarboroughs bought the house, the land, and the mill in the mid-1800s.”
“Is that when our family came over from England?”
“The Scarboroughs”-she said the name clearly, as if to make a distinction between that family and what I called our family-“have been in Maryland since the 1600s. This land was purchased by the seventh generation as a wedding gift for a son.” She led the way back into the hall. “Carry whatever luggage you can,” she told me, resting a thin hand on the curved banister. “Matt will bring up the rest when he gets home from his study session.”
Study session? I thought. Better not mention that my cousin had come close to hitting Ginny’s car when he was supposed to be hitting the books. I carried all of my luggage.
The trim in the upstairs hall was the same blue as the parlor’s, but the walls were softened by faded wallpaper. A mirror, darkened with age, hung on one wall; on another were several photographs, old tintypes. My grandmother grew impatient as I looked at them.
“Megan.” She waited by the door at the top of the stairs, the only one open in the hall.
I entered and set down my bags. The square room had a fireplace in one corner and a four-poster bed in the center.
Though the inside shutters had been pulled back and the windows opened, there was a musty smell, reminding me that a river was near.
“Where’s the water?” I asked, quickly crossing to a window. “On the map it looked close to the house. Oh, my gosh, the trees!” I couldn’t hide my enthusiasm. “I’ve never seen so much green, not in Tucson. Look, their tops are just turning gold.”
My grandmother, not interested in looking, remained in the doorway, “You can see the creek and river when the leaves have fallen. These old homes were not built directly on the water because of the insects. Now they spray.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll leave you to unpack,” she said. “Your bathroom is through that door. Dinner is at six. If there is anything you need-”
“What am I supposed to call you?”
She hesitated.
“What does my cousin call you?” I asked.
“Grandmother.”
“That’s cool.”
I don’t think she thought so, but she didn’t object. She reached back for the door handle to pull it closed behind her. “Just so we understand each other, Megan. I will respect your privacy and assume you will respect mine.”
I gazed after her as she shut the door. What was that supposed to mean? I had been respecting her privacy for the last sixteen years. If she didn’t want to open the door between us now, why had she bothered to invite me?
I glanced around the bedroom. The rooms in this house were big-formal downstairs, and simple, almost stark, upstairs. To my relief, they were nothing like the cozy room where I often played in my dream. That would have been a little too weird. There were explanations for the outward resemblance of the two houses. Mom might have described her home to me long ago, when I was too young to know I shouldn’t ask about it. Or maybe I’d seen a picture of a colonial house that resembled this one. Now and then Mom subscribed to East Coast magazines that had photos of old homes. There were probably just a few basic styles.
I unpacked my clothes, then lifted out several smallframed pictures and set them on the bureau, smiling at the menagerie of people and critters. Dad’s a veterinarian and Mom volunteers at an animal shelter. Our home is a small zoo, and I’m not just referring to my brothers.
I put on a clean shirt and took out a comb, running it through my hair, then looked around the room for a mirror.
Above a dressing table, where a mirror usually would hang, was a framed piece of embroidery: the Ten Commandments. Well, that’s nice, I thought, a friendly reminder to guests to behave themselves! I used the mirror on the medicine cabinet in the small bath attached to my room.
As I emerged from the bathroom, I heard my cousin’s Jeep circling the house. I quickly finished putting away my things and headed downstairs. At last I had someone my age to hang out with. When I reached the landing with the clock, I could hear his voice.
“She shouldn’t have come. I told you before, Grandmother, it was a bad idea to invite her.”
Surprised, I leaned forward to hear Grandmother’s response, but she spoke too softly.
“It’s just a gut feeling,” my cousin said. “No, it’s more than that. You haven’t been acting like yourself since you first got this crazy idea.”
I walked noiselessly down the steps, straining to hear Grandmother’s answer, but the library door was partially closed and her voice muffled.
“I really don’t care,” Matt insisted loudly. “She’s not my cousin-she’s adopted-and you’ve always been the first to point that out. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me she was coming today. I don’t know what you’re up to.”
This time I was close enough to hear Grandmother.
“Worried?” she asked.
It was tempting to sneak up on them. But two long weeks loomed ahead and embarrassing Matt
wouldn’t make things easier. Give him a chance to change his mind, I told myself. I pounded down the last few steps, so they would hear me and have time to switch topics.
Grandmother was sitting at her desk again. Matt’s backpack was on the floor, his back turned to me.
“Hello, Megan,” Grandmother said, then glanced in Matt’s direction.
“Hello,” I replied, and followed her glance. Matt reached for a book high up on a shelf and began to page through it, keeping his back to me. I doubted he was as interested in the book as he pretended.
Well, okay. I could play this game. I sat down with my back to him.
“Grandmother,” I said, “I was hoping you’d have some family pictures hanging up.”
“There are three in the upstairs hall,” she replied.
“The ones from the 1800s? They’re cool. I was hoping you might have some of my grandfather and you. I’d love to see pictures of Mom and Uncle Paul when they were growing up.” I glanced around the room. Despite the space available on the desk, the long fireplace mantel, and walls of shelves, there wasn’t a family photograph in sight.
“I don’t like to display photographs,” she said.
“Oh. Well, do you have some picture albums?”
“No.”
“How come?” I asked.
“I don’t approve of taking pictures of ourselves. It’s vain. It glorifies our own image.”
I frowned. “It also allows us to remember the people we loved.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Matt turn his head slightly.
“You mentioned my cousin,” I said. “Does he visit Wisteria often?”
Her eyes flicked sideways, watching Matt. “He lives here.”
“Oh, good! Will he be here for dinner?”
I caught the look of amusement in her eyes. “Yes.”
“What’s he like?”
A sly smile lit the corners of her mouth, as if she were enjoying the game. “You’ll have to decide for yourself, Megan.”
“Good point. It’s not fair to judge people before you actually meet them.”
The pleasure she took in our rude standoff convinced me to put an end to it. I rose and walked over to my cousin. “Just so I don’t misinterpret things,” I said, “I want to know, are you shy or a snob?”
He carefully closed the book and set it back on its shelf, so I got a good look at his profile, a tanned face that was too strongly cut to be described as “cute.” His hair was brown and thick.
When he finally turned to me, I was ready to glare back and treat him to what my brothers call “the hot coals.” But his eyes took me by surprise. They were dark and beautiful, fathoms deep, like a river on a moonless night. Now I knew why three girls were riding around with him in his Jeep.
We both took a step back. His intense gaze made me unsteady. “I’m Megan,” I said, anchoring my hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t twist my hair.
“Matt.”
He kept staring at me. I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. I wished he was either less good-looking or less of a jerk. I’d rather not be drawn to rude and arrogant guys. Until now, I hadn’t been.
“Nice to meet you,” I told him.
He nodded, then turned and walked past me to pick up his backpack. “Are we eating at six, Grandmother?”
“As always,” she replied.
Apparently our little family reunion was over. “May I go for a walk before dinner?” I asked. “I’d like to look around.”
“Keep the house in view,” Grandmother warned. “We don’t want to have to search for you.”
“Would anybody like to come with me?” I added, giving friendliness another try. Maybe Matt would behave better when Grandmother wasn’t around.
“No.” Her reply was blunt, but it was more of a response than I got from my cousin, who left the room silently.
“Sorry, Matt,” I called. “I didn’t hear your answer.”
He turned back in the hall, a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “No. No, thank you.”
I shrugged, wishing it was as easy to toss off the strange attraction I felt toward him.
After promising Grandmother I wouldn’t get lost, I headed outside. I made a circle of the house, awed by the expanse of lawn and even more, the tall trees. I found the herb garden, which fit neatly into the L-shape created by the main house and back wing. The brush of my fingers against the plants shook loose a dozen delicious smells. When I exited through the picket gate, I saw what appeared to be another garden, surrounded by a red brick wall with creamy roses tumbling over it. I hadn’t noticed it when Ginny drove in, for it was on the far side of the circular drive and I had been focusing on the house. Curious, I strode toward it.
As I got closer, I could see that it was a cemetery, probably a family burial plot. I opened the wrought-iron gate and stepped inside. Some of the gravestones were extremely old, round-shouldered, and leaning forward as if they were tired, their names and dates no longer readable.
There were new markers made of shiny granite and I walked over to look at them.
Thomas Barnes, I read. My mother’s father. I touched his stone lightly, then turned to the marker next to his. It was fancier, with roses carved into it. Avril Scarborough. The name echoed in my mind, as if someone had spoken it from the end of a very long hall. I read her dates, then drew back. I did the math again: She was just sixteen when she died-she was my age.
The grave gave me an eerie feeling. I didn’t want to touch her stone. I turned, suddenly compelled to get out of there.
As I left I glanced toward the house. The lowering sun flared off the panes of glass; still, I noticed it, the movement of someone stepping back from a second-floor window, as if trying not to be seen. After a moment I realized the person had been watching me from my bedroom. I walked quickly toward the house, but the reflected light made it impossible to see in.
A vague uneasiness seeped into me. Since my arrival, neither Grandmother nor Matt seemed interested in getting to know me. But obviously, someone was interested enough to keep an eye on me.
three
I returned to the house forty minutes later, feeling a million times better, full of the clear blue and gold light of the river and setting sun. I entered by way of the herb garden, walking up onto a covered porch and opening a door that led into the back hall. The small hall, which ran under the stairs, connected the back wing with the center hall of the main house. It had service doors to the dining room and library, and steps leading down to the back wing.
There I found Grandmother in a kitchen with a huge open hearth. An old stove sat halfway inside the blackened fireplace. She stood next to it, stirring something in a pot.
“So you found your way back,” she said.
“Yes. I saw the river. It’s awesome.”
“Then you must not have kept the house in sight,” Grandmother observed shrewdly. “You cannot see it from any place along the riverbank, not this time of year.
“I, uh, guess I did lose sight of the chimneys. But I have a pretty good sense of direction.”
She didn’t reply.
“Shall I set the table?” I offered.
“It’s set.”
So we were eating in the dining room with all those appetizing paintings of dying deer and fox.
“You may carry out the meat and biscuits. The rest will get cold if Matt- Well, it’s about time,” she told him as he came through the door.
“It’s three minutes to six,” he replied mildly, then joined her at the stove and began dishing out the greens. I may as well have been a kitchen stool he walked past.
I carried out the platter of meat, then biscuits. He and Grandmother brought the soup and green beans.
Grandmother sat at the head of the table with Matt at her right, which left me the seat across from him. As luck would have it, I was also across from the goriest deer of the hunting series.
“We always pray first,” Grandmother said as I pulled up my chair.
“Dear Lord,” Grandmother began, “forgive us our trespasses this day. Though we lie with our lips and our hearts, call us back to your truth, and grant us mercy rather than the justice we deserve. Amen.”
It was the gloomiest dinner prayer I’d ever heard. “Maybe we should give thanks, too,” I suggested, “as long as we’re praying before a meal.”
Matt glanced up.
“You may pray however you like on your own,” Grandmother replied, then handed me the ham. “I am relieved to see your parents didn’t bring you up to be a complete heathen, though, no doubt, they’ve passed on some kooky ideas.”
“No doubt,” I said cheerfully. She wasn’t going to drag me and them down. I took a little of the meat, more of the green beans, and one very hard biscuit. A bowl of thick soup was dished out for me.
What appeared to be ham was so salty I could hardly swallow it. It was as if someone had glued fake bacon bits together, then sliced them ultra thin. “What do you call this kind of meat?” I asked.
“Smithfield ham,” said Grandmother. “It’s a tradition.”
I took a long drink of water, ate another mouthful, then bit into a rock-hard biscuit.
“Those are beaten biscuits,” Grandmother told me.
“Another tradition.”
Some of that traditional airplane food I’d turned down was looking pretty good now. I sampled the green beans, then gobbled them up.
“Try your stew,” Grandmother ordered.
I pulled the bowl closer and spooned lumps of grayishwhite stuff.
“They’re not raw,” Matt said, “not when they’re in the stew.”
“What’s not raw?” I asked, setting down my spoon.
“The oysters.”
I ate one mouthful. It was the slimiest seafood I’d ever tasted, swimming in heavy cream. “May I have the green beans, please?”
“You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” Grandmother asked. “I refuse to feed you if you are.”
“I’m trying a little of everything, Grandmother,” I replied patiently, “but I have always liked green beans.” I used to like biscuits, I thought, taking another bite of the hard, flat thing.