hollow that lay south of the mansion. I said, “You’re not always a bitch. And I don’t dislike your father. I hate his guts.”
“Good for you. He feels the same way about you.”
“Excellent.”
We continued our walk into the wooded hollow, Susan’s arm still thrown over my shoulders. I’m not usually into self-pity or self-analysis, but sometimes you have to stop and think about things. Not only for yourself, but also so you don’t hurt other people.
I said, “By the way, the Bishop stopped by last Saturday. George told him I wasn’t receiving.”
“George said that to Bishop Eberly?”
“No, to Bishop Frank.”
“Oh. . . .’’ She laughed. “
That
Bishop.’’ She thought a moment. “He’ll be back.”
“You think so?’’ I added, “I wonder what he wanted.”
Susan replied, “You’ll find out.”
“Don’t sound so ominous, Susan. I think he just wants to be a friendly neighbor.”
“For your information, I’ve called the Eltons and the DePauws, and they haven’t heard from him or seen him.”
The Eltons own Windham, the estate that borders Alhambra to the north, and the DePauws have a big colonial and ten acres, not actually an estate, directly across from Alhambra’s gates. I said, “Then it appears as if Mr. Bellarosa has singled us out for neighborly attention.”
“Well, you met him. Maybe you said something encouraging.”
“Hardly.’’ And I still wondered how he knew who I was and what I looked like. That was upsetting.
We came out of the trees at a place where there was a small footpath, paved with moss-covered stone. I steered Susan toward the path and felt her resist for a moment, then yield. We walked up the stone path, which was covered by an old rose trellis, and at the end of the path was the charred ruin of the gingerbread playhouse. The remaining beams and rafters supported climbing ivy that had crept up from the stone fireplace chimney. The fireplace itself was intact with a mantel and a large black kettle still hanging from a wrought-iron arm. In true fairy-tale fashion, there was, and had been as I recalled before the fire, something sinister about the cute little cottage.
Susan asked, “Why did you want to walk here?”
“I thought since you were analyzing
my
head,
I’d
like to know why you never come here.”
“How do you know I don’t?”
“Because I’ve never seen you walk here, and I’ve never seen a hoofprint near this place.”
“It’s sad to see it this way.”
“But we never came here
before
the fire, never played our games here.”
She didn’t reply.
“I suppose I can understand not wanting to have sex in a playhouse with childhood memories.”
Susan said nothing.
I walked up to what had been the front door, but Susan didn’t follow. I could make out a flower box that had fallen from a window ledge, pieces of stained glass and melted lead, and the burned skeleton of a bed and mattress that had fallen through from the second floor. I asked, “Well, are the memories good or bad?”
“Both.”
“Tell me the good ones.”
She took a few steps toward the house, knelt, and picked up a shard of pottery. She said, “I had sleepovers here in the summer. A dozen girls, up all night, giggling, laughing, singing, and deliciously terrified at every noise outside.”
I smiled.
She approached the house and surveyed the blackened timbers, which still emitted an odor ten years after the fire. “Lots of good memories.”
“I’m glad. Let’s go.’’ I took her arm.
“Do you want to know about the bad things?”
“Not really.”
“The servants used to come here sometimes and have parties. And sex.’’ She added, “I realized it was sex when I was about thirteen. They used to lock the door. I wouldn’t sleep in that bed again.”
I didn’t respond.
“I mean, it was
my
house. A place that I thought belonged to me.”
“I understand.”
“And . . . one day . . . I was about fifteen, I came here and
“Good for you. He feels the same way about you.”
“Excellent.”
We continued our walk into the wooded hollow, Susan’s arm still thrown over my shoulders. I’m not usually into self-pity or self-analysis, but sometimes you have to stop and think about things. Not only for yourself, but also so you don’t hurt other people.
I said, “By the way, the Bishop stopped by last Saturday. George told him I wasn’t receiving.”
“George said that to Bishop Eberly?”
“No, to Bishop Frank.”
“Oh. . . .’’ She laughed. “
That
Bishop.’’ She thought a moment. “He’ll be back.”
“You think so?’’ I added, “I wonder what he wanted.”
Susan replied, “You’ll find out.”
“Don’t sound so ominous, Susan. I think he just wants to be a friendly neighbor.”
“For your information, I’ve called the Eltons and the DePauws, and they haven’t heard from him or seen him.”
The Eltons own Windham, the estate that borders Alhambra to the north, and the DePauws have a big colonial and ten acres, not actually an estate, directly across from Alhambra’s gates. I said, “Then it appears as if Mr. Bellarosa has singled us out for neighborly attention.”
“Well, you met him. Maybe you said something encouraging.”
“Hardly.’’ And I still wondered how he knew who I was and what I looked like. That was upsetting.
We came out of the trees at a place where there was a small footpath, paved with moss-covered stone. I steered Susan toward the path and felt her resist for a moment, then yield. We walked up the stone path, which was covered by an old rose trellis, and at the end of the path was the charred ruin of the gingerbread playhouse. The remaining beams and rafters supported climbing ivy that had crept up from the stone fireplace chimney. The fireplace itself was intact with a mantel and a large black kettle still hanging from a wrought-iron arm. In true fairy-tale fashion, there was, and had been as I recalled before the fire, something sinister about the cute little cottage.
Susan asked, “Why did you want to walk here?”
“I thought since you were analyzing
my
head,
I’d
like to know why you never come here.”
“How do you know I don’t?”
“Because I’ve never seen you walk here, and I’ve never seen a hoofprint near this place.”
“It’s sad to see it this way.”
“But we never came here
before
the fire, never played our games here.”
She didn’t reply.
“I suppose I can understand not wanting to have sex in a playhouse with childhood memories.”
Susan said nothing.
I walked up to what had been the front door, but Susan didn’t follow. I could make out a flower box that had fallen from a window ledge, pieces of stained glass and melted lead, and the burned skeleton of a bed and mattress that had fallen through from the second floor. I asked, “Well, are the memories good or bad?”
“Both.”
“Tell me the good ones.”
She took a few steps toward the house, knelt, and picked up a shard of pottery. She said, “I had sleepovers here in the summer. A dozen girls, up all night, giggling, laughing, singing, and deliciously terrified at every noise outside.”
I smiled.
She approached the house and surveyed the blackened timbers, which still emitted an odor ten years after the fire. “Lots of good memories.”
“I’m glad. Let’s go.’’ I took her arm.
“Do you want to know about the bad things?”
“Not really.”
“The servants used to come here sometimes and have parties. And sex.’’ She added, “I realized it was sex when I was about thirteen. They used to lock the door. I wouldn’t sleep in that bed again.”
I didn’t respond.
“I mean, it was
my
house. A place that I thought belonged to me.”
“I understand.”
“And . . . one day . . . I was about fifteen, I came here and
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