Why had Elaine found it necessary to bring up the subject of Ginny Keller, when she knew that it could have only an adverse affect on Gwyn's mood? Why couldn't she have just let the subject lie undiscussed once she saw that Gwyn was not bothered by the ocean?
She hugged herself.
She was filled with a confusion of sadness and happiness, and she did not know for sure anymore whether or not this whole endeavor was a good idea. In the library, when they had talked of so many things, she was sure she had made the right decision by coming here; the summer would be full of joy. But now, she realized that the past could be forgiven — but that it could never be entirely forgotten.
As she stood watching the sea, her thoughts drifted, and in a while the face of Ginny Keller rose up before her, almost as if it were etched on the windowglass… It was a pale face, tongue lolling between purpled lips, eyes bulging obscenely, skin a vaguely bluish color, quite dead and quite hideous…
THREE
Gwyn was still standing before the window when the knock came at her door less than ten minutes later. She was watching both the sea and the vision of the long-dead girl, repelled and yet mesmerized by the superimposed spectacle provided by her own over-active imagination. The sound of knuckles meeting wood jerked her out of her unpleasant reverie, brought her back to the reality of Barnaby Manor.
She crossed the room and opened the door, expecting to see either Fritz Helman or her Uncle William. Instead, she was greeted by a tall, rather well-built young man no more than three or four years her senior, a handsome man with a thick growth of unruly brown hair and eyes as black as chips of polished coal. He was wearing casual slacks and a floppy collared blue shirt, and he carried two of her suitcases.
“I'm Ben Groves,” he said. “I didn't realize there were suitcases in the back seat of the car when I took the others out of the trunk. Fritz just told me. I hope I haven't inconvenienced you at all.”
“Of course not,” she said. “Bring them in.”
She stepped back from the door and ushered him in.
He placed the suitcases beside the other two, at the foot of the bed, and he said, “I could help you unpack, if you like.”
“That's okay,” she said. “I don't mind. If I don't do it all myself, I'll not know where everything's been put.”
He smiled. He had a perfect smile, all full of white, even teeth; his evident good humor was infectious. Gradually, Gwyn began to forget about the sea, about the boating accident, about Ginny…
He said, “I'm the handyman, as you probably know. If anything needs fixed — and something usually needs to be fixed in a place so old as Barnaby Manor: a dripping faucet, a sticking window, a loose stair tread — just leave word for me with Fritz or with Grace, his wife. I'll take care of it as soon as I know about it.”
She promised not to be shy about calling him.
“And I'm also the chauffeur,” he said. “The Barnabys own two cars — a rather ancient but excellently preserved Rolls Royce, and a brand new Thunderbird. I know you've got your own car, but if you should ever want to go into town, and you don't feel like driving yourself, you've just got to let me know.”
“I wouldn't want to interfere with your duties to Uncle Will,” she told him.
“He rarely needs a chauffeur. He manages the family estate from here, in the Manor, and he really doesn't go out very much. Except for his meetings with local real estate people, and even then the meetings are generally held here.” He looked around the huge room, nodding approval, and he said, “Do you like the place?”
“Very much,” she said. “There's more room than I'll need.”
“Not just your room,” he said. “Do you like the entire house?”
“I haven't seen much of it yet.”
“I'll give you a tour after supper,” he said.
“I'd appreciate it.”
He said, “Old houses fascinate me, and this one fascinates me more than most. It's nearly a century old, did you know?”
“I didn't.”
He nodded. “Houses were built so much better then than they are built today. The carpenters cared about what they did; they looked upon a house as their own private work of art, even if they were never to live in it. They added so many nice touches that contractors bypass for the sake of economy today.” He shook himself, as if he was beginning to forget where he was. “I can run on about Barnaby Manor,” he apologized. “But I'll save it all for the tour this evening.”
“I'll be looking forward to it,” she said.
He said, “Well, you're much different than I thought you'd be.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. For one thing, you're prettier.”
She blushed, wishing he hadn't said that — yet glad that he had. His candor was surprisingly refreshing, and her ego had needed boosting for a good, long while.
He said, “And you aren't at all stuck-up.”
“Why should I be?”
“You're a rich young woman,” he said.
“Are all rich young women stuck-up?”
“Most of them.”
She laughed. “Money isn't anything to get snobbish about.”
“You're an exception to the rule,” he said, smiling.
“I've never worked for a penny of my money,” she said. “Maybe that's why I can't be a snob about it.”
“No,” he said. “That's usually when people get snobbish, when it's inherited wealth. If they had to work for it, they'd always remember what it had once been like to be poor, and they'd not be able to take on a superior attitude.” His voice had grown much more serious, and the smile had slid away from his face. He turned from her, as if he didn't want her to see him in anything but the best of humor, and his gaze fell upon the window through which she had been watching the sea. He said, subdued for the first time, “I hope that hasn't bothered you.”
“What?” she asked.
“The view from that window.”
“No,” she said.
He turned and looked at her now, concerned. “This is the best of the guest rooms, the airiest. But if the view bothers you—”
“Please, believe me, I love the view,” she said, trying to smile and not managing it very well. Why did everyone have to bring up the view from the window? Why must she be repeatedly reminded of her dead sister, and by association, the deaths of her parents as well?
“Good,” he said. “But if you want to change rooms, just leave word with Fritz. Some of the other guest rooms face the woods on the other side of the house. Smaller than this, but nice anyway.”
“I'm fine,” she insisted.
She didn't feel fine at all.
“When you're finished with dinner,” he said, “don't forget to come and get me for a tour of the house. I'm most likely to be in the kitchen about that time.”
“I won't forget,” she promised.
When he was almost through the door, pulling it shut after him, she said, “Ben?”
He paused, looked back at her, smiling still, a lock of brown hair having fallen across one eye. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
He grinned even more broadly and said, “There's nothing to thank me for. I'm more than happy to have an excuse to spend time in your company.” He closed the door softly behind him.
