“Oooh,” answered Gabbie, a raw sound of pure aggravation, “I don’t know why you had to drag me out here to this farm! I could have spent the summer with Ducky Summers. Her parents said it was all right.”
“Stop whining,” Phil snapped, his expression showing at once he regretted his tone. Like her mother, Gabbie instinctively knew how to nettle him with hardly an effort. The difference was that Gabbie rarely did, while Corinne had with regularity. “Look, honey, I’m sorry. But I don’t like Ducky and her fancy friends. They’re kids with too much money and time on their hands, and not an ounce of common sense in the whole lot. And Ducky’s mom and dad are off somewhere in Europe.” He cast a knowing glance at his wife. “I doubt they have a hint who’s sleeping at their house these days.”
“Look, I know Ducky’s an airhead and has a new boyfriend every twenty minutes, but I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can, hon,” answered Phil, “but until you’ve graduated, you’ll have to put up with a father’s prerogatives.” He reached out and touched her cheek.
“All too soon some young guy’s going to steal you away, Gabbie. We’ve never had a lot of time together. I thought we could make it a family summer.”
Gabbie sighed in resignation and allowed her father a slight hug, but it was clear she wasn’t pleased. Gloria decided to change the subject. “I could use a hand, you guys. The moving elves are out on strike and those boxes aren’t going to unload themselves.”
Phil smiled at his wife and nodded as Gabbie gave out a beleaguered sound and plodded toward the house. When she was up the steps to the porch, Phil said, “I’m probably selling her short, but I had visions of having to fly back to bail her out of jail on a drug bust.”
“Or to arrange for her first abortion?” queried Gloria.
“That too, I suppose. I mean, she’s old enough.”
Gloria shrugged. “For several years, sport. I hadn’t when I was her age, but I was raised with the fear of God put in me by the nuns at St. Genevieve’s.”
“Well, I just hope she has some sense about it. I expect it’s too late for a father-daughter talk.”
“From the way she fills her jeans, I’d say it was about six or seven years too late. Besides, it’s none of our business, unless she asks for advice.”
Phil laughed, a not altogether comfortable sound. “Yes, I’d guess so.”
“Sympathies, old son. Instant parent of teenager was tough. But you’ve done a good job the last two years.”
“It’s no easier for you,” he countered.
She grinned up at him. “Bets? I’m not her mother, and I remember what it was to be a teenage girl. Look, Gabble’s not going to be the only one around here throwing temper tantrums if I don’t get some help with those boxes. After combative twins, that clown in a dog suit, and a smug alley cat, it comes down to you, me, and Miss Equestrian of Encino.”
Phil’s face clouded over a little. His dark brown eyes showed a flicker of concern as he said, “Having second thoughts about the move?”
Gloria hesitated, wondering if she should share her doubts with Phil. She decided the homesickness would pass once they settled in and made new friends, so she said, “No, not really. Just about unpacking.” She changed the subject. “I had a call from Tommy about an hour ago.”
“And what does Superagent allow? Another movie offer?” he asked jokingly.
“No.” She poked him in the ribs. Tommy Raymond had been her agent when Gloria worked off-Broadway and in Hollywood. She had quit acting when she and Phil married, but over the years Tommy had stayed in touch, and she counted him among her few close friends in the business. “He called to say Janet White is opening a play on Broadway in the fall. They’re reviving Long Day’s Journey.”
“Getting the itch again?”
She smiled. “Not since the last play I was in bombed in Hartford.” Phil laughed. She had never caught on in New York or Hollywood, where she and Phil had met. Phil had taken to calling her “the Oscar winner,” and it had become a family joke. She didn’t regret her choice, as she had little desire for fame, but she did occasionally miss the theater, the challenge of the work and the camaraderie of other actors. “Anyway, we’re invited to the opening.”
“Rented tux and all, I suppose.”
She laughed. “I suppose. Assuming Janet can survive the out-of-town run.” Tugging on her husband’s arm, she said, “Come along, handsome. Give me a hand, and once we get things under control, you can run out to McDonald’s or the Colonel’s for dinner, and when the kids are in bed, I’ll scrub your back, then show you a few things I didn’t learn from the good sisters of St. Genevieve’s.”
Kissing her cheek, Phil said, “Just as I suspected. Scratch a good Irish-Catholic schoolgirl and underneath you’ll find a dirty old woman.”
“Complaints?”
“Never,” he said as he kissed her on the neck. Giving him a hug, Gloria put her arm through his and they walked toward the old house that was their new home.
2
Sean and Patrick marched along the little stream, wending their way among the rocks as they followed the tiny rivulets of water. The gully deepened and Sean, the more cautious of the two, said, “We’d better go up there.” He pointed to where the bank began to rise on the right.
Just then Bad Luck came galloping down the creek bed, red tongue lolling and tail wagging a furious greeting. He circled around the boys, then began sniffing at the ground.
“Why?” asked Patrick, contemptuous of anything resembling caution.
“’Cause we could get caught down there,” Sean answered, pointing to where the gully dropped rapidly into a dell, his voice sounding thin and frail over the water’s merry gurgle. “Besides, Mom said not to go too far.”
“That’s dumb; she always says stuff like that,” was Patrick’s answer as he tugged on Bad Luck’s ear and set off to follow the water. His catcher’s mitt hung by a thong from his belt and his Angels cap sat upon his head at an aggressive angle. He carried his Louisville Slugger over his shoulder as a soldier carries his rifle. Sean hesitated a moment, then set out after his brother, struggling to keep his beat-up old Padres cap on his head. Twins they might be, but Sean just didn’t seem to have Patrick’s natural confidence, and his timidity seemed to rob him of grace, causing him to slip often on the loose gravel and rocks.
Sean stumbled and landed hard on his rear. He pulled himself upright, all his anger at the tumble directed at his brother. He dusted himself off and began to negotiate the steep drop of the gully. He half scrambled, half slid down the incline, his baseball glove and ball held tightly in his left hand. Reaching the bottom, he could see no sign of Patrick. The gully made a sharp bend, vanishing off to the right. “Patrick?” Sean yelled.
“Over here,” came the reply. Sean hurried along, rounding the bend to halt next to his brother.
In one of those moments the boys shared, they communicated without words. Silently they voiced agreement, This is a scary place.
Before them squatted an ancient grey stone bridge, spanning the gully so a trail barely more than a path could continue uninterrupted as it rambled through the woods. The very stones seemed beaten and battered as if they had resisted being placed in this arrangement and had yielded only to brutish force. Each stone was covered in some sort of black-green moss, evidence of the presence of some evil so pernicious it infected the very rocks around it with foul ooze. Overgrown with brush on both sides above the high-water line on the banks, the opening under the bridge yawned at the boys like a deep, black maw. Nothing could be seen in the darkness under the span except the smaller circle of light on the other side. It was as if illumination stopped on one side of the bridge and began again only after having passed beyond its boundaries.
The boys knew the darkness was a lair. Something waited in the gloom under the bridge. Something evil.
Bad Luck tensed and began to growl, his hackles coming up. Patrick reached down and grabbed his collar as he was
about to charge under the bridge. “No!” he shouted as the dog pulled him along, and Bad Luck stopped, though he whined to be let loose.
“We better get back,” said Sean. “It’ll be dinner soon.”
“Yeah, dinner,” agreed Patrick, finding it difficult to drag his eyes from the blackness under the bridge. Step by step they backed away, Bad Luck reluctantly obeying Patrick’s command to come with them, whining with his tail between his legs, then barking.
“Hey!” came a shout from behind, and both boys jumped at the sound, their chests constricting with fright. Patrick hung on to Bad Luck’s collar and the Labrador snarled and spun around to protect the boys, pulling Patrick off balance.
Patrick stumbled forward and Sean fell upon the dog’s neck, helping to hold him back from attacking the man who had come up behind them.
The man held out his hands to show he meant no harm. Bad Luck struggled to be free. “Stop it,” shouted Sean and the dog backed away, growling at the stranger.
Both boys looked the man over. He was young, though not recognized as such by the boys, for anyone over the age of eighteen was a grown-up.
The stranger examined the two boys. Both had curly brown hair protruding from under baseball caps, deep-set large blue eyes, and round faces. Had they been girls, they would have been considered pretty. When older, they would likely be counted handsome. The stranger smiled, and said, “Sorry to have scared you boys and your dog. It’s my own damn fault. I shouldn’t have shouted. I should’ve known the dog’d be jumpy.” He spoke with a soft, musical voice, different from what the boys were used to hearing.
Seeing no immediate threat to the boys, Bad Luck stopped his growling and reserved judgment on this stranger. The boys exchanged glances.
“Look, I’m sorry I startled you guys, okay?”
The boys nodded as one. Patrick said, “What did you mean about Bad Luck being jumpy, mister?”
The man laughed, and the boys relaxed. “Bad Luck, huh?”
Hearing his name, the dog gave a tentative wag of his tail. The man slowly reached out and let the Labrador sniff his hand, then patted him on the head. After a moment the tail wagging became emphatic. “Going to be friends, right, boy?” said the man. Leaning forward, with hands on knees, he said, “Who are you guys? I didn’t know there were any big leaguers around here.”
Sean grinned at the reference to their caps and equipment. “We just moved here from California. We live on a farm.”
“Philip Hastings your father?” Both brothers nodded. “I heard he’d be moving in at the Old Kessler Place. I didn’t know he was here already. Well, I guess I’d better introduce myself. I’m Jack Cole.” He held out his hand, not in the manner of a grown-up making fun of kids but as if they were just like anyone else he’d met. The boys said their names in turn, shook hands, and silently judged Jack Cole an acceptable human being, even if he was old.
“What’d you mean about Bad Luck being jumpy?” Patrick repeated.
“There’s this bull raccoon that’s been hanging around this part of the woods for the last month, and likely as not that’s what your dog smelled under the bridge. If so, it’s a good thing he didn’t get loose. That coon has torn up most of the cats and half the dogs in the area.”
The boys looked unconvinced. Jack Cole laughed. “Look, take my word for it. This isn’t some little critter from a cartoon show. This coon is almost as big as your hound and he’s old, tough, and mean. And this is his turf, clear?”
The boys exchanged glances and nodded. Jack faced back up the gully. “This isn’t a good place to play, anyway. We get some pretty sudden showers in the hills near the lake, and if we get a big one, this gully could flood pretty fast. I mean, it can hit you without warning. I’d stay clear of this creek in future, okay?” They nodded. “Come on, I’ll walk back to your house with you. Must be close to your dinnertime. Besides, I’d like to meet your dad.”
The boys tugged at Bad Luck’s collar and began to hike back up the gully. As they rounded the corner, Sean cast a backward look toward the bridge and for an instant felt as if he was being watched by someone … or something … deep within the gloom beneath the rocky arch.
3
Gloria regarded the grotesque carvings cut into the roof lintel over the front porch and shook her head in dismay. She gazed at the odd-looking creatures who squatted below the eaves of the roof and muttered, “Just what every girl dreams of, living in Notre Dame.” Upon first seeing the house, she had inquired into her husband’s mental health, only partially joking. It was all the good things he saw, sturdy turn-of-the-century construction, hardwoods used throughout, and every joint dovetailed and pegged, with nails only an afterthought. It was made of materials a modern builder could only dream of: ash, oak, and spruce now rock-hard with age, marble and slate, teak floors, and copper wires and pipes throughout. But Phil couldn’t see that it was also a living exercise in graceless-ness, a testimony to Herman Kessler’s father’s knowing what he liked without the benefit of taste. The first Kessler had built an architectural hodgepodge. A gazebo, stripped from some antebellum plantation and shipped north to this gentleman’s farm, sat off to the left of the house, under the sightless gaze of Gothic windows. Regency furniture clashed headlong with Colonial, while a stuffed tiger’s head hung upon the wall of what was going to be Phil’s study, looking balefully down upon the ugliest Persian rug Gloria had ever seen. All in all, Gloria decided it would be a good year’s work fixing up Old Man Kessler’s place.
She entered the house and moved quickly toward the back door, expecting to have to shout for the boys for ten minutes before they’d put in an appearance. But just as she was about to open the screen door Patrick’s voice cut through the late afternoon air. “Maaa!”
She pushed open the door, a half-smile on her lips as she watched her twins approach from the woods behind the house. Bad Luck loped alongside the boys and a young man walked behind. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and practical-looking boots.
When the boys were within shouting distance, Patrick yelled, “This is Jack, Mom. What’s for dinner?”
Gloria glanced at her watch and realized it was getting on toward five. “Hamburgers or chicken. Whatever your father brings back from town. Hello, Jack.”
“Hello, Mrs. Hastings,” answered the young man with a grin and a decidedly southern lilt to his voice.
“How did you manage to cross paths with Heckle and Jeckle here?”
“I noticed the boys were wandering down a gully. Spring floods can come quickly if you don’t know the signs.” Seeing a tightening around Gloria’s eyes, he quickly added, “Nothing to fret about, Mrs. Hastings. There’s been no rain in the hills for a couple of weeks, so there’s no chance of a flash flood. But it’s not a good place for the boys to play. Thought I’d mention it to them.” Gloria fixed a disapproving eye upon her boys, who decided it was time to vanish into the house in a clatter of sneaker-clad feet on the porch steps, punctuated by a slamming screen door.
Looking briefly heavenward, Gloria turned her attention to Jack. “Thanks, Mr.…”
“Cole, Jack Cole. And it’s no trouble, ma’am. I hope you don’t mind my being in your woods?”
“My woods?” asked Gloria.
“Your family’s, I mean. Your property line runs back a half mile beyond the creek bridge.”
“A half mile. We own property for a half mile from the house?”
“More than that. The bridge is almost a quarter mile from here, ma’am.”
“Gloria.”
For a moment he looked embarrassed, then he said, “Excuse my discomfort, ma’am, but I haven’t met a lot of actresses.”
Gloria laughed. “God! What are you? A fan, out here in the wilderness, after all these years?”
“Well, I’ve never seen you onstage, ma’am, but I’ve read about your husband, and they mentioned your career in passing.”
“Fame, so fleeting,” Gloria said with mock s
orrow. “Anyway, just the fact you knew of my humble career calls for a drink, assuming the refrigerator is still working and you’d like a beer?”
“With deep appreciation,” he answered with a smile. “I’d been hoping to meet you and your husband.”
“Then come inside and I’ll scare up a beer for you. Phil should be back with the food shortly.”
Leading the young man into the kitchen, Gloria pulled the kerchief from her head, letting her ash-blond hair fall freely. Suddenly she was aware of a desire to primp, feeling both amused and alarmed by it. She hadn’t been in front of the cameras since before the twins were born, and had lost a lot of the automatic checking of appearance that was almost second nature to young actresses in the film jungles. Now this young man, little older than Gabbie from his appearance, made her wish for a mirror and a washcloth. Feeling suddenly silly, she told herself she wasn’t going to apologize for her appearance. Still, he was handsome in a way Gloria liked: unselfconscious, dark good looks, athletic but not overly muscular. Gloria smiled inwardly in anticipation of Gabbie’s reaction to the young man. He really was cute. Turning toward Jack, she said, “We’re still uncrating around here.”
Jack looked concerned. “I’m sorry if this is an inopportune time, ma’am. I can visit another day.”
She shook her head as she opened the refrigerator. “No, I just mean pardon the mess.” She handed him a beer. “And it’s Gloria,’ not ‘ma’am.’”
Jack’s eyebrows went up as he regarded the white bottle. “Royal Holland Brand,” he said approvingly.
“Phil is that rarest of all birds, a well-paid writer. He buys it by the case.”
Jack sipped the beer and made an expression of satisfaction. “I can imagine, considering the success of his films. Still, I’ve often wondered why he hasn’t written another book.”
“You’ve read one of Phil’s books?” Gloria asked, suddenly interested in the young man.
“All of them. And all the short stories he’s published. They should be put in an anthology.”