had been formed by big biscuit cutters. The house lay straight ahead.
Like many homes built in the American Colonial period, it was brick and impressive in its simplicity. The house rose three stories, the third being a steep roof with five dormer windows across. A wing extended from each side of the main house. Structurally, the wings were smaller versions of the house, turned sideways and attached to it by small brick sections that had roofs with dormers as their second story. There were no outside shutters, which made the house's paned windows seem to stare like unblinking eyes. Its red brick was stained dark with moisture.
Amelia stopped the car and craned her head to see the house. 'I've changed my mind. I don't want to live here after all,' she said, as if she had been seriously considering it. 'If I owned this place, I'd sell it and buy myself three cozier homes.'
'I think it has a view of the bay from the other side.'
'I'd never see it,' she replied. 'I'd always be glancing over my shoulder. I didn't realize there was a graveyard here.'
'Most old estates have them.'
'I'd dig it up.'
I laughed. 'Then you certainly would have something ghastly standing at your shoulder, looking for a new place to rest,' I said as we climbed out of the car.
Fortunately, an older gentleman, an employee I didn't know, answered the door. Mrs. Hopewell might have recognized me, at least, recognized a young 'Victoria.' During the last year I had cut my hair several times, starting with it well below my shoulder, shortening it to shoulder-length, chin-length, and finally having it snipped to wisps of gold that barely made it to the tips of my ears. I told Dad it was 'sympathetic hair,' for he was bald from the cancer treatments. But actually, it was my resemblance to the woman I remembered from twelve years back, her green eyes and cascade of blond hair, that had motivated me.
Amelia was asked to wait in the library on the left side of the spacious entrance hall, and I was escorted to an office on the right. A few moments later, Emily Westbrook entered. She was a slender woman with strawberry blond hair-probably tinted, for her eyebrows were much redder. She moved quickly, elegantly, as if she had been raised on ballet lessons.
We sat in chairs placed by a large, mahogany desk. While she studied my hastily created resume, I studied the family pictures displayed on the fireplace mantel, curious to see the people whom I knew only through a child's eyes. I spotted Adrian's children, who were close to my parents' age, now early to mid-forties: Robyn in her horse- show gear, and Trent on a sailboat. Emily Westbrook and a baby-perhaps the little boy in need of a tutor-were in a large photo at the center of the mantel. Brook Caulfield, Robyn's son, who I thought was the same age as his cousin Ashley-two years older than l-sulked in a photo taken during those 'wonderful' years of early adolescence. We all have those photos-l burned mine. Adrian, handsome, physically fit, looked nearly the same in all of his pictures, except his hair had turned from black to silver-streaked to pure white.
I checked the pictures on the desk and those placed on shelves, disappointed that there were none of Ashley. Perhaps the family had found it too painful to display her photos. It occurred to me that the woman interviewing me might not know who I was or that I had lived here once. If her son was seven, she would have been part of the household for at least eight years, but it was possible that what had occurred four years before that was never talked about.
'So, you were educated in England,' she said, looking up.
'Yes, ma'am, and sometimes, because of my father's work, we lived on the Continent, but I was born here and am an American citizen. As you can see from my resume, I completed my A levels and will be applying for university next year. Because I learned through correspondence when we traveled, I was able to finish up a year early,' I added as an explanation for my age.
'We have a number of paintings in this house done by a Luciano Venerelli,' she said.
'He was my father. He died three months ago.'
'Really! Are you an artist? Can you teach art?'
'I–I could teach some of the basic things my father taught me when I was a child.'
'Do you play a musical instrument?'
'A little bit of piano.'
'So you could teach it?'
'The basics,' I replied, with the uncomfortable feeling that she was getting too interested in hiring me. 'Of course, I have no experience in tutoring children.'
'You say here that you have baby-sat quite a bit.'
Yes, I thought, but that was to get me inside your front door, not fetch myself a job.
She picked up a desk phone. 'Mrs. Hopewell, please send in Patrick.'
I had to act fast. 'Mrs. Westbrook, I need to explain why-' 'Let me tell you what we are looking for,' she interrupted, with the air of someone who expected others to listen to her. 'We call it a tutoring job because we want a nanny who is educated and can teach Patrick in a manner that is appropriate to his position in life. We want an employee who speaks English well and can correct Patrick's mistakes, someone who can assist in his studies, and introduce him to other things a well-bred person should know.'
There was a light knock, and the door opened. The little boy who entered was definitely a Westbrook-dark hair, blue eyes, fair skin, with a child's smattering of freckles. For a moment I felt like little Katie gazing at Brook. Clearly, Patrick had already been bred in a manner 'appropriate to his position in life': His walk and raised chin indicated that he believed he owned the place. I almost laughed.
'Patrick, darling, this is Kate Venerelli.'
Patrick surveyed me, not like a curious seven-year-old, but like an adult who was deciding whether I would do. I surveyed him with the same measuring eyes, as if deciding whether he would do. He suddenly turned into a little boy, backing up and moving closer to his mother.
'Kate is going to be your tutor.'
I swallowed my gasp. 'I'm sorry?'
'I've made up my mind,' Mrs. Westbrook told me. 'You are educated, you are familiar with the arts, and you speak very well.'
'But-but don't you think you should have references?' I asked.
'Do you have any?' No.
'It doesn't matter,' Mrs. Westbrook said. 'No one supplies bad references. Recommendations don't prove anything about a person.'
'But I'm sure Mr. Westbrook would like to interview me too,' I suggested. I considered explaining my ruse, but if she grew angry and sent me off, I'd have no excuse to return.
'Patrick's father has been ill. He will be returning Friday from Hopkins, where he has been receiving cancer treatments.'
'Oh.' I still winced when someone mentioned cancer. I glanced at Patrick, but his expression didn't change. Either he didn't understand, or he was already proficient at wearing a public face.
'When he arrives, Mr. Westbrook will have many other things to tend to,' she went on.
I need some time to think about this,' I said, hoping to keep the masquerade going for one more day and hand deliver the ring.
'Perhaps you would like to get to know Patrick a little better,' she suggested. 'Darling, be a good boy and show Kate your room and the rooms on the third floor. Would you do that for Mommy?'
Darling didn't answer right away. Perhaps he was thinking about refusing or, better still, driving a bargain with Mommy.
I wanted this chance to see the places in which I had once played. 'I'm sure you have some smashing toys in your room,' I said encouragingly.
Patrick looked at me with new interest. 'I'm not supposed to smash them.'
His mother laughed. 'That's an expression, Patrick. She means wonderful toys, exciting toys.'
I think he would have preferred that I meant smash able toys, but he nodded and started toward the door, calling to me over his shoulder, 'Come on, Kate.'
