Chapter Three

The Past
October, 1861

Kirstin was enjoying the autumn afternoon. All Hallow’s Eve was a week away and there was still work to do to get ready. Each year, she and Geoffrey had hosted a party at their home – a tradition that started after their wedding. Their children especially were excited this time of year, and Kirstin and Geoffrey were not going to let a little fighting get in the way of their children’s happiness. Fort Sumter was attacked just a month after their new president was inaugurated, and the country was torn. Of course, the South would emerge victorious, any day now in fact, so there was no reason to curtail plans for the party.

The elaborate costumes had been planned for the last several months. Her daughters had helped her decide on the party games, and James had helped his father in decorating the barn. She still needed to finalize the menu for the evening and complete her own costume, but most of the preparations were complete. It had been a harried several weeks, but the end result would be well worth the work.

Needing a moment of solitude, Kirstin left her third-floor office, slipped down the servants’ staircase and out the kitchen door to the garden. She meandered through the topiary maze, trailing her hand along the soft evergreen hedge and releasing a light but potent honeysuckle aroma into the air. Once at the center, she sat at the fountain, listening to the water – a rare commodity and absurd extravagance – as it cascaded down its nested bowls to the basin at her back. She tipped her head back to catch the rays of the autumn sun, still strong at this time of the year.

Rolling her shoulders, Kirstin sighed. She loved her family more than her own life, and even in these few minutes alone, she missed them terribly. Her children were her light; her husband, her life. She considered herself the luckiest woman she knew, and knew there were those that envied what she had.

Kirstin stood, dusted off the seat of her dress, and wound out the back end of the maze, intending to visit the lakeshore before heading back up to the house. The trees made beautiful reflections in the mirror-flat surface, and the rays of sun playing across the water always made her smile. She had a small crust of bread in her pocket, in case there were fish or birds looking for a treat.

As she wound down the path toward the lake, she heard a noise behind her; a rustling in the bushes. She judged the sound too large for the rabbits or squirrels that sometimes slipped down to the lake. Her pulse quickened. Smiling to herself as she realized who must be behind her, she hastened her step. The further away from the house she was, the less likely she and Geoffrey would be interrupted. She skipped a bit, and hurried down the flagstone path.

The Present

By the end of the day, Richie had all the paperwork signed, and keys in hand. The town rolled up its sidewalks promptly at five, so nothing but the diner was open as he drove home from Marty’s office. Home. That had a nice ring to it.

It took him all of five minutes to bring his things in from the truck. He had brought with him a single beat-up duffel bag containing some of his clothes and toiletries, a camper’s bedroll, a fan, and his favorite guitar. He had been staying in local inns while he visited various prospects, but now that the place was his, he wanted to settle in as much as he could. He’d need to be sure he had running water before he canceled his reservation, though.

Richie set the fan up in the great room, intending to get the almost stifling air circulating, but he was worried about the old wiring. Shrugging, he unplugged it and left it in the corner. Looking around the empty room, he spread his arms wide, grinned, and spun like a child. There was so much space! He would have to arrange for a moving van to bring the rest of his personal stuff in the next few days, but he decided he didn’t want to transport any of his furniture; he wanted things that would fit this house, and his stuff was too modern.

Smiling happily, Richie took his time exploring many of the rooms on the upper floors of living space in the house. He wanted to get a sense of what he’d need for furniture, and he had to make sure that at least part of the house was inhabitable while the renovations he wanted were taking place. As he strolled through the second-floor rooms, he found that most of the lights worked, though they flickered, and he was able to get the water in one of the bathrooms to run clear. That made him happy; he wouldn’t have to go back to the hotel. One by one he examined the rooms but they were all empty. He was hoping to find little treasures like end tables or old chairs, but everything was gone. Maybe when he got to the attic he’d find something.

When he got to the third floor he found a door that wouldn’t open. At first he thought it was just stuck, but the knob wouldn’t even turn. Richie tried every key he could find, and finally gave up, went downstairs to fish his cell phone out of his duffel, and called Marty.

“Hey Marty, it’s Rich,” he said into his phone, as he sat down in one of the window seats in the great room.

“Good evening!” Marty replied, surprised. “Is there a problem already?”

“Not really,” he said. “I just had a question: do I have all the keys for this place?” Richie gazed out over the grass – it couldn’t really be called a lawn yet. A truckload of fertilizer and a good watering would start to remedy that.

Marty sounded puzzled. “Yes, I believe so. Why, is there a problem?”

“Well,” Richie said, “There’s one room upstairs that I cannot open – one of the front rooms; the first door at the top of the stairs on the third floor.”

“The door is probably just stuck due to the humidity,” Marty said, unconcerned. “I’m sure it’ll sort itself out.” Marty didn’t want to get into what the problem most likely was with that door – just like didn’t give his opinion on that cold draft earlier.

Richie shrugged, and after thanking the man, he hung up. There’d be time enough to explore that door. Noting the time and realizing his stomach was growling, Richie decided to head out to check out the Blues Festival advertised on roadside signs all over town. He didn’t have any way to keep perishable food from, well, perishing here at the house, and his mouth watered at the thought of true Southern barbecue. He looked at his guitar, then back at the door. “Nah, I’ll just listen,” he said, and left; locking the door behind him.

The young woman sat and watched him go; staring at red lights fading in the distance. She could sense his affinity for the house; could tell that if he stayed, this man would make it a home again. She hoped and prayed that she was right this time. Taking in his meager possessions, she fervently hoped there were more bags and boxes coming; that he planned to live here.

Looking longingly at his guitar, the young woman sighed. How she hoped to hear music again! She crossed the room to kneel by the gorgeous instrument. The rich mahogany color contrasted beautifully against the light tones of the maple floor, and the guitar seemed to shine like a beacon. She reached out to touch it, and concentrating hard, was able to strum her fingers across the strings. The perfect tone resonated through the room, and she laughed with pleasure. Music was something she really missed – that and the laughter of her children.

Sighing, she rose and went upstairs to the room the Yankee wasn’t able to get into earlier – HER room. Though it was on the servant’s floor, this room had been her place to go to when she needed to think or plan a surprise. Her husband had his study, she had hers. It had been furnished simply; with a roll-top desk and matching high-backed chair, a deep soft couch by a window, and high-backed leather chairs flanking a modest fireplace. The wall coverings were a floral fabric, and the hardwood floors a honey-streaked brown. A rocking chair, brought up here when her son moved from the nursery to his own room, sat by the other window.

Few rooms in the house had a lock on the door. She had rarely used the lock on this one – really there was nothing to safeguard. Though on her last day in the house, she did turn the key; she had secreted small gifts in her room for the All Hallow’s Eve celebration that she didn’t want her children coming across.

The gifts were long gone, but the room remained locked. Her husband had locked it and slid his copy of the key under the door on his last day in the house. She looked at the key. It had sat there for years. Whenever one of the new owners would “find” the key and come into the room, she would make herself seen. The person would either back out the door, shaking his head and holding out his hands as if to stave off an attacker, or else run screaming from the place and not return. In either case, the room would get locked again, and the key returned to its place on the floor. She knew if she tried hard enough, she could slide it under the door for the Yankee to find, but she wasn’t yet convinced that he would understand or welcome her presence.

Many hours later, she heard the front door open. He was back.

Richie had spent longer than he had intended in Leland, but there were so many good bands at the Blues Festival, he was reluctant to leave. He chatted up some of the performers; old men with grizzled beards and battered guitars, and talked music until he was one of the few people left on the fairgrounds. God, he loved the South. The music all but dripped with history, and more than once during the evening, his mind wandered back to the room under the stairs. He had wondered how many of the old men he spoke with were descended from slaves that may have taken refuge in the very house he now owned.

By the time he had arrived back in town, even the diner was closed up. He drove the dark streets back to the house and parked by the front door. Once inside, he kicked off his boots, stripped off his socks, and padded barefoot to the French doors, which he threw open to the night. He grabbed his guitar, settled in on the top step of the porch, and turned sideways to rest his back against a post. He strummed absently, a slight grin on his lips. He closed his eyes and lost himself for a little while, playing whatever came to mind.

The young woman stood at the doorway, transfixed by the music. She didn’t recognize any of the songs, but she did recognize the pure, clean sound of a well-played instrument. She watched the Yankee’s fingers dance up and down the neck, and swayed along with the beat. After a while, she glided over to the edge of the porch, and sat on the step against the opposite post to watch and listen.

Richie felt eyes on him. Abruptly, he stopped playing and sat up straight, looking around. “Who’s there?” he called.

The young woman was startled by the Yankee’s perception. She almost reached out to him then, but didn’t want to spook him any more than she already had. She sat, silent and still, and waited.

After a minute or two, Richie chuckled to himself. “Probably just raccoons or something.” He shook his head at his own silliness. “I must be tired.” He stood and stretched before going back into the house.

The young woman followed.

After stowing the instrument back in its case, Richie went about setting up his bedroll. He considered sleeping on the porch, but only for a moment. If there were animals out there, he’d just as soon they not find a nice warm body to investigate. That was a bit more roughing it than he was prepared for. No, he would lie on his back in the great room and gaze up at the pressed tin ceiling and let his mind wander – after he studied the fireplace more closely. Richie rubbed his hands together with glee. He felt so happy with himself. He was taking control of his life, and doing what he felt he needed to do.

The past few years had been a whirlwind of activity. Between studio time, promotions, travel and touring and all the bullshit that went with it, not to mention the business side of things which Jon usually handled himself in the background, but had started to bleed into the forefront, there was barely enough time to blink, never mind relax. It was emotionally draining as well as physically -- especially the shit with Doc. He still couldn’t believe all that had happened. The guys were all living in each others’ pockets and getting on each others’ nerves. Too much togetherness was definitely not a good thing.

He was glad when Jon had decided he needed to unwind and hopped a bike for a destination yet to be determined. Honestly, all of them were. They had made their piles of money, managed to keep bunches of it, and had a good run. Richie knew they’d always be friends, and he’d always have his music, but if the two never came together again, well, maybe it was for the best. Exhausted, Richie had spent most of the first week home asleep, practically comatose in his bed. The next few weeks were spent catching up with his parents and friends and doing just about as little as possible. Then he started getting itchy fingers.

Of course, the first thought he was to call Jon and see what was going on, maybe get together and dick around in Jon’s studio. The second thought was, “why not use this time to do something for myself?” and he did. He had worked with a great team, enlisted help from Teek and Dave, and put together what he thought was a good solo record. He’d done some interviews and promotion for the record, which was due out in the fall, and had lined up a few tour dates, just to test the waters. Richie had to admit, he was never happier than when he was playing to a crowd, and was looking forward to this adventure. He had his music, and now he had a place that spoke to his soul rather than his sense of image. The music was taken care of, and his house now needed his full attention.

He thought about what he’d do first. There was a small store in town; it would have to have local papers. He’d get one of everything, and scour them for estate sales. Not really being one for antiquing – he was more of the ‘hire a decorator’ kind – he’d decided to make an exception and furnish this place himself. If he was lucky, he thought, there might be an original piece or two in the attic he could use. He’d check that out after he finally got into that locked room. And called the electricians, the plumbers, the bank, the post office to get his mail forwarded... Richie laughed to himself.

“Better make a list,” he chuckled to himself. Richie sat cross-legged on his bedroll and spent the better part of the next hour doing just that, and soon, he had quite an inventory of things that needed doing. He stretched and grimaced as his back popped a little.

The young woman watched as the newest inhabitant of her house readied himself for sleep. He zipped the bedroll open and spread it wide, fishing a small pillow from his duffel to finish the makeshift bed. He circled the room, opening windows to let in the night air and sounds, and hoped to hell the mosquitoes had forgotten about this place. He looked longingly at the fan again, but really didn’t want to burn the place down his first night. Shrugging, he stripped his t-shirt over his head.

The woman gasped at his half-nakedness. He was certainly quite a specimen; tall and broad shouldered, with a mostly smooth chest that was ripped with muscles. When the Yankee started to unfasten his pants, she squeaked and turned away quickly, rushing upstairs to her room.

Richie thought he had seen something out of the corner of his eye –a flash of something pale, almost like a dress flapping around a woman’s legs. It was just for a heartbeat, and when he whirled around to get a better look, it was gone. Laying on his blanket in just his briefs, he thought about the strange occurrences that had been going on all day. The drafts, the condensation on the window, the mysterious locked door, and now the strange flash of something – either he was more stressed out than he realized, or something else was going on.

Shaking his head, he chalked everything up to being exhausted and burned out, and went to sleep. After a short time, he began to dream.