A strong breeze chilled what was left of the bright afternoon. Rita Taggart shivered. She was a long way from home and the hot lethargic days that marked late summer in Fort Worth, Texas. She parked her Chevy four by four, then dialed the phone and waited for someone to answer. A two hundred-year-old oak spread its branches over the end of the paved road, the leaves chattering against the rushing wind. She rolled up the window and listened to the faraway telephone ring again and again....
On the fourth ring, the recorder kicked in. "You have reached 555-2710. Leave your name and number and a short message at the beep and someone will return your call."
The slightly insolent drawl finished and Rita cleared her throat in an attempt to sound confident.
"Hi. It's just me. Guess you're up to your neck in a bubble bath or I'd be talking to you by now and not the machine. Just wanted you to know the Jimmy acted like a perfect gentleman and we both arrived intact. The local chapter of the Historical Preservation Society has arranged for me to stay at Hartley House and I have a new phone-" the miracle of modern electronic wizardry cut off in mid-word, leaving Rita speaking to the dial tone "-number." She stared at the tiny digital handset, continuing the conversation in a less officious tone. "Well, it's been nice chatting with you, Mother. And by the way, happy birthday to you, too."
Rita liked some distance between her and her mother when it came to the one thing they had in common but the thought of being nearly two thousand miles from family and friends today left her feeling a little lonely.
A shower of leaves pelted the windshield as she gazed straight ahead down the rough roadway, and thoughts of her mother disappeared in her eagerness to see Hartley House. An educated guess said at least forty acres of unkempt ground sprawled between her and the pre-Civil War mansion. Caught within the dark prison of the woods, lanky shrubs stretched skyward in search of the sun, their pale leaves fluttering in the fading light as they beckoned her forward. Rita put the Jimmy in gear and eased around a pothole roughly the shape and size of Indiana. The rest of the drive was hardly better.
It was apparent from the hot house architecture planted sporadically down the road behind her that the cream of Maryland, Virginia-and possibly Washington, DC's-elite had spent the past one hundred years migrating into the countryside. But none of the modern mansions could match the tattered splendor of the house at the end of the gravel road. The truck moved slowly along under a high roof of thatched tree limbs and emerged to climb a slight rise.
Twilight softened the ravages of time across the face of Hartley House but nothing could disguise the harsh scars of bricked up windows on the first floor.
As Rita got out and walked toward the porch, gravel crunched underfoot and the wind whipped hair across her mouth and eyes. Recently acquired knowledge of the southernmost tip of the Delmarva Peninsula reminded her they could have stormy weather here anytime, either from Chesapeake Bay to the West or the North Atlantic. Right now neither idea appealed.
Rita glanced at her watch. She was late.
And no one was there to meet her.
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