scanning both sides of the street for a parking spot. But not surprisingly, there was none to be found.
She swore under her breath and considered making a U-turn right there in the center of town but thought better of it when she saw a police car in her rearview mirror. So, with no other options, she decided she’d just have to circle back around on the Loop and make another pass along Main Street. Maybe, with luck, she’d find an open spot.
At the bottom of Ocean Avenue she dutifully put on her turn signal and, after pausing an appropriate amount of time at the stop sign, made a right turn onto the Loop, which took her southward along the coastline. A moist warm breeze blew in the window, bringing with it the heady, comforting smells of the sea.
She couldn’t help glancing off to her left, out over at the ocean, as she drove. It was a magnificent shade of deep blue today, rich and lively, a color that reminded her of nothing less than cool, ripe blueberries. The sea tossed restlessly. A sail or two could be seen on the hazy horizon. Flocks of gulls, cawing raucously, swarmed after whatever tidbits their dark questing eyes could find.
Candy loved being by the ocean. Despite the fact that she drove past it several times a week, she still marveled at it every time she saw it. There was something magical about the sea-perhaps, she thought, because it was constantly moving, always changing yet always the same, unending, unstoppable. It could be graceful and generous, yet dangerous and sometimes deadly, demanding respect.
But there was more to it than that. The sea had become almost spiritual to her. It had a way of flowing into her,
Whenever she was feeling down, or stressed, or overwhelmed by the constant jabs and distractions of the world, or when she felt she had lost her way, she had only to stand here upon these jutting black rocks that lined the coast and look out to the sea, and she would feel at peace again.
But she had no time to gaze too long at the sea today. The troubles of the world were pressing in, poking at her, like thorns on a rosebush.
Speaking of thorns…
As she angled southwestward along the Loop, the pointed rooftops of Pruitt Manor came into view above the tops of a few thick-trunked pines that had made a bold stand on Kimball Point. The place seemed to beckon to her, and she felt compelled to respond.
Before she knew what she was doing, Candy had flicked on her left-turn blinker and steered the Jeep sharply onto a private driveway that led between two five-foot-tall stone pillars. The iron gate stood open, so she drove on through, still not quite sure what she was doing. A small, tasteful sign alongside the road announced PRUITT MANOR-PRIVATE PROPERTY.
She had been here only once before that she could recall, when Mrs. Pruitt had opened the place to the Cape Willington Garden Society. Candy and Maggie were only occasional Society members, but they had made sure they were there that day, dressed in cool summer frocks like the other ladies, wearing broad-brimmed straw hats as they strolled the grounds under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Pruitt and her staff. They had even been invited into certain sections of the house-the foyer, the formal sitting room, the music room, and a few other rooms on the main level, plus the conservatory, a magnificent gabled glass-and-mahogany structure at the back of the house, from which double doors and a bluestone staircase led down to a wide lawn that stopped at a jumble of rocks perched above the roiling sea.
The place had taken Candy’s breath away. Mrs. Pruitt had even been reasonably hospitable that day, offering the ladies of the Society tea and trays full of finger foods as she pointed out her herb, rose, and perennial gardens abloom with pulmonarias, primulas, nepetas, and verbascums. That had been the first time Candy had noticed Hopkins (or whatever his name was), the pug-faced butler /chauffeur who never seemed to be too far from Mrs. Pruitt’s side.
Even now, as she followed the winding gravel driveway toward Pruitt Manor and pulled into the wide paved courtyard that fronted the house, Candy half expected the butler to dash suddenly from the mansion’s front door, arms flailing wildly in protest of her appearance here.
And, in truth, she did feel like a pauper in a princess’s court as she shut off the Jeep’s engine and leaned forward to gaze through the windshield, up at the imposing English Tudor facade of Pruitt Manor.
“Oh man,” she said softly to herself.
It took all the will she could muster to open the door and step out of the vehicle. She wished then that she had worn something more presentable, instead of her regular faded jeans and sleeveless cotton blouse. But no matter-she was here now. She might as well do what she had come here to do.
And what exactly is that? she wondered to herself.
“Girl, you’ve been doing some mighty strange things lately,” she muttered to herself with a shake of her head as she followed a flagstone walkway past impeccably manicured lawns and neatly clipped bushes to the manor’s recessed entryway. Taking a breath, she rang the doorbell. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were in way over your head.”
She waited, trying to quickly sort out what she was going to say. Then, as she heard footsteps approaching inside, saw the door handle twist and the door inch open, she pasted her most pleasant smile on her face.
The door opened fully, and there, naturally, stood Hopkins (or whatever his name was).
He gazed at her without expression. “Yes?”
“Oh, hello, I’m, ah, I’m Candy Holliday. I was wondering if Mrs. Pruitt or Haley is here today?”
The butler was silent a moment, eyeing her up and down. “Yes?”
“Well, I was wondering if I might see them. I’m, um, I’m writing a story for the
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.” Candy swallowed. “No, I don’t.”
The butler bowed his head slightly. “I shall inquire as to whether Mrs. Pruitt is available.” He held the door open a little further. “Won’t you come in?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She followed the butler into the Italian-tiled foyer, where he turned to face her. “If you would wait here, please, I’ll be back momentarily.”
“Of course. Thank you,” Candy said again.
He nodded obliquely at her and disappeared through a side archway, into the room beyond.
“Well,” Candy said to herself as her gaze wandered up the grand staircase and to the ceiling high above, “at least you made it this far.”
The place was elegantly decorated in the English Tudor style, reflecting the exterior of the manor. Queen Anne-style chairs, ornate wood paneling, heraldic designs, and stylish floor tile featuring an oak leaf and acorn design gave the foyer a warm yet aristocratic feel. A chandelier suspended over her head-a hefty wood-beam and brass affair with lights that resembled thick candles-looked like something from a medieval hunting lodge. Portraits of austere, rich-looking folk, probably long dead, adorned the walls. They peered down their long noses at Candy, as if to inquire, quite snobbishly, about her presence here. She sneered back at them, hoping belatedly that some hidden security camera hadn’t captured the face she had just made.
She was debating whether to sit in one of the Queen Anne chairs when she heard approaching steps. It was the butler again, looking as stiff and disapproving as the people in the portraits.
“Madame will see you now,” he announced formally with a slight nod of his head. His elbows were held back against his sides as if he were pinioned. “If you will follow me, she will see you in the tea room.”
Ohh, the tea room! Candy thought excitedly, though to the butler she said, trying to match his formality, “That will be fine. Thank you.”
He turned abruptly and led her back through a hallway and past a series of rooms, each more ornate and stylish than the one before-a formal sitting room, a music room with a grand piano, an elegant dining room with a mahogany table large enough for a dozen or more dinner guests. Toward the rear of the house the roar of the ocean became louder, and as she entered the tea room she saw why.
It was a small sitting area that opened onto the conservatory and the gardens and ocean beyond. Mrs. Pruitt, perched nonchalantly in a wicker armchair, perusing a home and garden magazine, looked up as Candy and the
