The Last Keeper's Daughter Page 2

  She’d never explained this to anyone. Long before she could form words, she’d known that she was different, that she didn’t belong. Articulating why she did or did not react a certain way would only make it worse. She’d sensed that people were afraid of her, and it had turned her inward. Maybe that was a family trait? She didn’t know, and after so many years with no answers, she’d stopped asking.

  The man turned and walked towards the road. She watched him until he was out of her line of sight. Careful of her arm, she slid out of the truck and walked up the back steps. She knew the door was unlocked, because it was Thursday, and like clockwork she would arrive at the same time every week. She paused to stare at the door. The cow bell attached would ring when she opened it. Bells were the worst; she’d always hated them, no matter how delicate. The sound would cut through her mind like a knife. She took a few deep breaths, plunged forward, and closed her eyes as she walked onto the wooden floor boards. She waited until the bells quieted and their echo abated before opening her eyes and looking down. As she walked towards Jo’s office, she counted each board. The twentieth board would creak, so she lengthened her stride to avoid it.

  Jo, the owner of Delune’s, leaned against her office door. This was Lily’s oldest friend, her only friend.

  She waited patiently until Lily looked up at her. “Finally, you’re a minute late,” she teased.

  Lily smiled but avoided eye contact and walked into the office, deliberately sitting on the far right side of the leather sofa. This placed her in the corner of the room where she could see everything, including the entrance.

  “Shouldn’t that have healed by now?” Jo asked.

  Lily cradled her left arm, adjusted the sling, and shrugged.

  “I’m sorry about Snooty. I wanted to stop by, but Martha said you weren’t up to it.” Jo didn’t wait for her to respond before plunging into another question. “Did you really bury him in the family plot?”

  Lily nodded.

  “I guess its official, then; you’re as crazy as your Uncle Buck. Wasn’t he fond of planting his fox hounds up there?”

  Lily laughed without making a sound. Jo plopped down on her office chair.

  They had been friends a long time, and apart from Martha, this was the one person’s company Lily truly enjoyed. A few years ago, Walter had left a note with Jo to pass along to Lily. He always seemed to leave on his trips in the middle of the night. It had become a ritual – Walter would push an envelope or note under the back door of Delune’s for Lily. She was self-aware enough to realize how sad and disconnected her relationship with Walter was, and how she played a role in the ever growing distance between them. Smiling a sad smile, she listened while Jo filled her in on the area gossip.

  “He left a message this time, regarding that.” Jo tossed the letter-sized manila envelope on the table. “Walter said for you to open it, and I was not to let you get sidetracked.”

  Lily met Jo’s eyes. She hated that people thought she was forgetful. She wasn’t.

  “I’m not saying you’re forgetful. Yeah, I know that look. So, open it already.”

  She rarely read Walter’s notes; they never contained anything personal. Lily was tempted to ball up the envelope and toss it into the trash, but it was Jo’s face, tense with anxiety, that changed her mind. She hated that her affliction caused others distress.

  Shrugging, she reached for the envelope and heard the sigh of relief escape Jo’s lips. Inside was a sheet of vellum paper painted with the image of a man. It reminded her of a Victorian keepsake of a loved one.

  Lily studied the man’s face. There was something important here. Something she should be able to remember, but couldn’t. It was right at the edge of her mind. She concentrated harder, forcing the neurons of her brain to connect, willing herself to remember. She could remember everything, why was this different? She strained harder, pressing deeper, and then, in a searing flash of recognition she remembered everything.

  “Who is he?” Jo sat down next to Lily.

  Lily flinched at the nearness. She hated to be touched, and even through Jo was her dearest friend, she couldn’t help but move closer to the arm of the couch as she handed Jo the picture.

  Jo turned the picture from side to side. “Handsome,” she said and turned it over. “Ah, his name must be Krieger. See, it’s written on the back. There aren’t any dates, though. He must have died a long time ago. His clothes are eighteen hundreds or so.”

  Yes, that was his name. Lily remembered every detail. The way she didn’t struggle or protest when he touched her, but slipped her hand into his. His voice, cool as a mountain stream, had washed over her as he’d explained what he was and the role of her family.

  Jo’s voice jolted her back. “Lily. Are you okay?”

  Her breathing grew short and shallow, and she willed herself to calm down before she hyperventilated. She had to escape and think this over. Snatching the picture back from Jo, she got up and bolted for the back door. She didn’t stop to count the floor boards, or to anticipate the bell above the door, or to scan who was in the parking lot.

  Without thought she reached with her bad arm, the one confined to the sling that helped immobilize her shoulder, to open the truck door. A shot of pain caused her hand to shake as she worked the latch. With her good arm she grabbed the steering wheel and swung up and onto the driver’s seat.

  Jo, who had run after her, closed the door for her. “What is it, Lil?”

  Surprising both of them, Lily said, “Nothing, I’m fine.”

  “Why is it that I’m always wanting you to talk, but when you do it scares the crap out of me?”

  Lily smiled and turned the ignition key.

  “I’ll see you tonight, right?”

  She looked at Jo. What was she talking about?

  “The charity event.” Jo turned her head to the side. “Just show up for a minute or two. You promised.”

  How could she have forgotten? Lily reluctantly nodded. She laboriously maneuvered out of the parking lot. She needed to get away to clear her head. Looking in the rearview mirror, she waved goodbye to Jo’s reflection.

  She went west on Route 50, eventually turning onto a bumpy, gravel road. It ran along the back part of the Ayres property, like a crease line where the mountain and valley met. Before the accident, she would ride here on horseback. Now she maneuvered the old truck onto the grass by the back gate. Since this was a private road she didn’t worry about leaving the truck here. The mountain was not Ayres property. She didn’t know who owned it. Martha always warned her about walking up here, she said it was cursed. Generations of locals whispered about the ghosts of Indians stalking anyone who trespassed. Lily was glad no one else came here. She liked how nature was left undisturbed, how the old trees stretched their long arms up to the sky and a soft carpet of leaves cushioned the forest floor. Reaching into the glove compartment, she grabbed a bottle of aspirin and shook out two tablets, tossed them into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. Sometimes, the headaches could be incapacitating, but she told no one. Best not alarm them with another abnormality of hers. Really, she felt like an alien from another planet sometimes.

  Luckily, she’d worn shorts and sneakers; unfortunately, she hadn’t brought any insect repellant. She pulled out her backpack and carefully placed the manila envelope inside. Closing the old truck door with her foot, she trudged towards the trail. It was one of the hottest summers on record, and everyone was complaining about the heat. Walking in the old-growth forest with its layers of leaf canopies filtering out the searing rays of the sun made the temperature more bearable. The deer path was easy for her to follow; she’d been walking up this same exact path since she was little. Her feet slid from underneath her a couple of times, but she kept going.

  Halfway up, the sound of footfalls made her pause. She wondered who it could be. She’d never seen anyone else up here. After a few moments of listening, she didn’t hear the noise again. Probably just a squirrel moving along the ground, lookin
g for acorns.

  She continued along the path. An hour or so later, she was stretched out on the highest, most precarious rock ledge. This was her secret place where she went to escape.

  Carefully, she pulled the manila folder out of her backpack and placed it underneath her foot to keep the breeze from carrying it away. Digging down to the bottom of the pack, she pulled out an energy bar and bottled water. When she’d finished both, she spread the picture over her thigh, smoothing out the creases with her hands. There was a ragged edge where it had been ripped from a book, and her father’s precise cursive script on the back. She stared for a long time at the image of Krieger. His hair was different now, longer and more unruly than it had been in the painting. Everything else about him was the same. The painter had even managed to capture the ambiguous color of his eyes. Even with her ability to recall everything, she still wasn’t sure if they were the color of blue-gray slate or gray like a winter sky.

  A shadow passed over the painting. Looking up, she watched a hawk lazily glide by on an updraft. It never ceased to amaze her how such a powerful force could be so totally invisible.

  Last night, she’d been reading when Walter knocked on her door. The bedside clock glowed one a.m. She’d almost ignored the intrusion, and when she saw Walter standing there, looking tired and gray, she wished she had. It was on her fourteenth birthday that she’d scanned through all of her memories vainly searching for one, no matter how brief, where Walter had at least pretended to be interested in her. She could recall nothing then or now and had ceased to seek his approval, had let go of feeling any sort of guilt for avoiding him.

  “Would you come downstairs?” he asked.

  Something about the way his shoulders hunched caused her to follow without question. Halfway down the sweeping front stairway she saw a stranger standing on the landing. She stopped.

  Walter, his hand holding the banister, turned back to her. “Please, for me.”

  Walter’s plea was unnecessary as she had no intention of going back to her room. The stranger was the largest man she’d ever seen, tall and broad with muscles defining his immense frame. His body language screamed impatience. Hands jammed into his pockets, weight rocked back on his heels, eyes squarely fixed on her.

  Lily walked down the steps, tracking behind Walter so that she was mostly hidden from view. At the bottom, she remained behind Walter until he moved to the side. Krieger was very still. His only movement was to tilt his head back slightly while taking in a deep breath. It struck her as a very animalistic gesture.

  Then the unimaginable happened. He slowly reached out his hand to her, and without thought she placed her hand in his.

  “Lily,” he said. He looked down at her hand in his for a long moment. She felt like he was making a decision. When he looked up, his eyes had softened, and he walked with her to Walter’s library. She didn’t like his library, cold and closed and reeking of cigar smoke. Animals hung on the walls from Grandfather Randolph’s safaris. As a young boy Walter had taken up taxidermy and prepared them to please his father.

  Krieger let go of her hand and went to stand in front of the stone fireplace, resuming his earlier posture except now his hands were behind his back. She felt the awkwardness of the situation without herself feeling awkward.

  “Lily, why don’t you have a seat?” Walter gestured towards the sofa.

  She scanned the room, deciding instead on the chair at the far side, not well illuminated by the fire or the floor lamps. Curling her legs underneath her, cradling her sore arm, she sat down and looked at the visitor’s feet. Krieger was watching her, just like a young horse would, curious to see what she would do.

  Walter paced around the room. He’d stop. He’d start again. It was annoying. She would have left but for the stranger whose calm composure interested her. Without looking him in the eyes, she watched him.

  “I’m dying,” Walter blurted out. “Cancer.”

  Walter and Lily had not made eye contact until that moment. That small second, when their eyes met, revealed the total encapsulation of their relationship. She knew her father had never loved her. Not that he mistreated her. Or maybe not loving a child was mistreatment. She didn’t know.

  “I want you to know how much I re...”

  She cut him off before he could finish the word. “Stop!” Her voice sounded high and shrill.

  With her good arm wrapped tight around her small frame, she willed herself to disappear. Her father had never told her he loved her, or that he was proud of her, or any of the other things parents were supposed to say to their children. She knew what he would say, that he regretted her mother’s death. What he meant was how he regretted Lily’s existence.

  “Leave us,” Krieger commanded.

  “But I haven’t explained,” Walter protested. It was false. The sound of relief was clear in his voice. He didn’t want to be here. After so many years, Lily was amazed it could still hurt her.

  “I will take care of this,” Krieger said.

  She watched as her father exited the room without looking back. When the pocket doors thudded closed, she exhaled a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The visitor picked up a lap blanket from the chair by the fire. He walked towards her and carefully draped it over her without touching her. He then stepped back to the fireplace.

  Lily came back to the present. She looked out at the valley below. She could see the lines of fencing that marked the different pastures of Waverly. The sun was high, probably two o’clock. The breeze caught the edges of the picture and her fingers clenched tight.

  How was any of this possible? Krieger’s words had totally dislodged and shattered her view of the world. How alone and isolated she’d felt in her old view, and now… Well, now she felt like there was a place for her. Shouldn’t she be in denial? Isn’t that what a sane person would feel? Maybe she wasn’t sane. Maybe it hadn’t happened at all.

  Her eyes closed while she brought up the image of his face. She remembered the sound of his voice, it soothed her even now. She liked how he spoke to her, matter-of-factly, like an adult.

  She remembered telling him that she could take care of herself. That she wasn’t an orphan to be passed off to a relative. She hadn’t meant the words. She wanted to see him again, but she was afraid he wouldn’t come. Too many hopes and dreams had been crushed in her short lifespan for her to be optimistic.

  He had laughed. The sound of it was deep and rich and filled the room.

  “Look me in the eyes when speaking to me,” his mesmerizing voice commanded.

  Minutes passed, and she defiantly continued to stare at his shirt pocket. And then, in an instant, he was directly in front of her. His quick movement caused a breeze to rustle through her thick hair. How could anything move so fast?

  “Lily,” he said, “that was an order.”

  The way he said her name caused her to shiver. Slowly, she let her gaze flow up his neck, taking in the line of his jaw, and settling on his blue-gray eyes.

  He inhaled again as he looked down at her. “How very extraordinary you are,” he said.

  Lily could not have agreed more. There were no erratic movements with him, no sudden shifts of mood, or conflicting body language. He was in total control of himself in a way she’d never experienced in another person. She felt almost languid as he turned and went back to stand by the fireplace. He continued to weave the intricate tale of his world, and her place within it. Never once did she doubt the validity of what he said.

  There was guilt mixed in with her emotions about this newfound knowledge. She should feel more at Walter’s announcement of his impending death. Thinking back over the last few days, she realized that he had been more distant than usual. Martha had been worried for him. He had spent hours locked away in her mother’s suite or staring up at the portrait of her. The painting had been commissioned two years after they were married. Her mother had been beautiful in the classical way. Tall, toned, and thin, with cascades of brunette hair fra
ming her porcelain skin.

  As a child, Lily had wished to hear her mother’s voice, to see how she moved, to understand this woman who had died because of her. She’d spent hours looking up at the portrait hoping to sense something, but there was nothing but cold comfort to be had there.

  A dry twig snapped, followed by what sounded like footfalls. Lily’s heart instantly revved. Something was very close to her. She had been so consumed with her memories of last night that she hadn’t paid attention to her surroundings. Willing herself to remain perfectly still, she focused her attention to the right. There, about three feet off the ground, almost completely hidden in the dense brush, were two yellow eyes staring back at her.

  Her first thought was that it was dog. But what dog had eyes like that? There was something predatory about the way it stayed motionless and cloaked behind the dense brush, almost as if she were its prey. A domesticated dog would have barked or run out to see her. This animal purposely remained concealed, watching her, with an intelligent look in its eyes.

  She had to force herself to look away. It wasn’t smart to stare a wild animal in the eyes, unless you wanted to challenge them, which she didn’t. Looking down, she tried to focus on its fur, but the leaves obscured the coloring. Sweat formed tiny rivulets down her neck and soaked into the cotton of her shirt. Trapped on the rocks between the vastness of the sky and the animal in the forest, she could only wait as seconds turned into minutes.

  The quiet was splintered by the mournful sound of a howl deep in the woods that raised the small hairs on the back of her neck. Quickly glancing upwards, she saw that the eyes had vanished. Had it retreated further into the shadows? Was it responding to the call and moving away from her, down the path? Slowly, she turned her head, but there was nothing. It was gone.

  It could have been an hour, or two, or twenty minutes, when she felt able to move again. Her legs, wobbly from the rush of adrenaline, were slow to respond, and it took what seemed an eternity for her to stand up. A wave of nausea overcame her. Pitching over, she dry heaved.