Forecast

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

June 28, 2010

Late Afternoon

“You wanted to see me, Randolf?” Natalie leaned against the doorway.

Randolf’s bedroom was a shrine to metal and technology. A single electric-blue lamp glowed on his computer desk as the man paced in a pool of artificial twilight with a large coffee mug in hand. His face muscles bunched tense around his mouth, and his white hair hung shaggy around his ears.

“Sleep well?” he asked her without a trace of interest.

“Drug-induced coma against my will is my favorite. So,” Natalie tilted her head, as if considering, “yes, it was lovely.” She flashed him a false smile.

His eyes darted behind her to where the guards stood in position, ready at a moment’s notice to restrain her.

“Well?” she smirked, “Who dares disturb my slumber? to quote Aladdin’s Cave of Wonders.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Randolf cleared his throat and stopped pacing. “There’s a pair of siblings I need you to visit. They’re Percy Humboldt’s grandchildren and just arrived at the family manor in New Jersey. You know, I’d almost lost hope. Thought they’d never come.” He cleared his throat. “With Percy’s blood in their veins, we have high hopes for—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted. “We don’t say the word. We can only pray.” Natalie clasped her hands in mock reverence. “When should I be ready?”

“As soon as possible.” The excitement in Randolf’s voice made it crack. “I want you near, helping pique interest in the family legacy of the door.” He turned to face her. “As you know, I’m mainly interested in the boy. If the lost key is indeed lost, we’ll find a way to get another copy made. One way or another, when the boy does use the door, you’ll be the helping hand who explains his confusing feelings to him. He’ll cling to you like a baby to his mother’s breast.”

“No references to breasts, please and thank you.”

“Go to your room and pack. Your flight leaves late tonight.”

She bowed. “With pleasure.” She let several seconds fall, then added, “sir,” before exiting.

Natalie felt his fear trailing her like a skittish mouse. She tightened the silk belt on her kimono as she glided down the hall. Luckily for her, she knew that Randolf knew his mission would fail without her help.

Still, he’d grown more desperate and controlling over the past year, especially after his experiments underwent five failed pregnancies in a row. He’d created a serum injection that sent her into a nightmare-plagued sleep for up to seven days at a time and had already employed it on three occasions, each of those times she’d pushed him too far. Natalie knew he rejoiced to have at last found something with which to threaten her, or maybe it was his twisted way of punishing her for the failed experiments.

Natalie pulled a bottle of pills from her kimono pocket, shook five into her palm, and swallowed them dry. Randolf had made so many things, just for her. He’d invented Clairvoynix when she was nine years old. By then, she’d already given him plenty to worry about.

Her headache receded, and she relished the buzz spreading through her veins. The pills heightened her senses, accentuated her sight, shrank her need for sleep to a few hours a week, and were powerfully addictive. Of course, Randolf hadn’t told her the last part until after she couldn’t live without them.

The guards followed close behind Natalie to ensure she returned to her room. Once inside, she roused her laptop from hibernation and fired up the monitor grid of the door network. She highlighted the Humboldt Manor door and zoomed in until its glowing blue rectangle dominated her screen.

The door’s border blinked on and off contentedly, displaying its status in white numerals as last used on a date forty years prior.

June 28, 2010

Evening

“I assume you’ve told the housekeeper you were coming?” the cabbie inquired good-naturedly, his shoulders swinging with the potholed road.

“Our mom told her,” Cleo answered.

The wet wind emulated one of those haunted house upsweeps that wait for a car to climb a steep hill before starting to blow. A few green leaves splattered against Cleo’s side of the car like tomatoes hurled by rioters.

The cabbie chattered over the whistling wind, “Your grandfather left provisions to support all family visits. That’s what they said on the Humboldt Manor tours, anyhow. Looks like someone is fixing you a welcome dinner.” He nodded at a smoke stream from a chimney up ahead.

Calvin’s stomach growled as the cab’s wheels ground to a halt. A trophy-shaped stone fountain in the middle of the round drive spurted ferns and blue flowers. As they climbed out, Cleo picked a flower and tucked it behind her ear.

A small VW bug with peeling red paint squatted beside the house near an old animal feeding trough crowded by hollyhocks.

Cleo will call Mom as soon as we get settled, Calvin predicted. She’d want to report a safe arrival. Always the good child.

He reached into his bag for their allowance money, paid the cabbie, and pulled their bags onto the porch steps. Calvin squeezed the diminished envelope of funds and congratulated himself on his new extra reserves. Cleo stared at the house.

It was built in the colonial style, painted slate gray and black with lighter gray accents along the windows and eaves. It rose three stories, but the upper floor windows were shut in with lace curtains. A rooster-shaped weathervane creaked haphazardly above them, spinning in a lopsided flop.

The front door opened, and a round-cheeked, chubby woman with silver-streaked, dark hair greeted them. She wore a faded black dress and a white crocheted apron. Her forehead lines communicated service and sacrifice.

“About time! The bird’s almost done. Only a little pink to go! Come in!”

She nodded to the cabbie, who tipped his chin respectfully and wished her a good evening as she ushered Calvin and Cleo inside. She closed the door and instructed them to leave their luggage in the entry. Calvin noticed a huge oblong photo of a well-built man with thick dark hair.

There was a second photo, black and white, of a fashionable couple standing arm-in-arm in a garden. The man was the same one in the large portrait photo. The woman on his arm seemed to be a wife, and she reminded Calvin of someone. Another woman stood to the side, but still in the frame, wearing a plain frock. A handwritten plaque under the photo read,

Percy, Ingrid, Mable, 2nd Wedding Anniversary, Colonial Park Gardens.

That was it. He’d recognized his Grandma Ingrid. Before Calvin could compare Percy’s facial features to his own, he heard a throat clear.

The aproned woman pointed at his and Cleo’s feet, snapped her fingers twice, then bundled their shoes together and tossed them into a closet.

They trailed her past a massive rosewood staircase and into a dark dining room with tall glass windows and the shapes of trees and tall grasses beyond. The woman disappeared through another door, and the scent of broth and spices wafted in her wake. The table could have accommodated twenty-four large men with plenty of elbow room. Three chandeliers, gilded and adorned with cream-colored feathers, loomed above but offered no illumination. Two silk placemats had been topped with china plates, crystal glasses, and extra spoons and forks, as would have been appropriate if the president were coming to dinner.

“Out of place. That’s how I feel right now,” Calvin whispered as he ran his hand along the wood wainscoting. This dining room was more like a greenhouse. Tall windows looked onto the back yard, side yard, and hall. The only windowless wall bore the kitchen door through which the woman had disappeared.

He added, “Do you think they even have a microwave in this place?”

“There’s a lot we don’t know about our grandfather,” Cleo said, diplomatically.

A match flared, and the woman reappeared with a candle in a silver base. Calvin pointed at the chandeliers overhead, but the woman didn’t notice, or maybe she just wanted to spook them. The flame flickered on the gold rimmed plates.

“Sit,” the woman ordered. “I’ll be back.”

Cleo made Calvin put his napkin in his lap. The woman appeared with a large pot clasped between two mitts.

“Careful, now. It’s hot.” She lifted the lid to reveal a small roasted hen with crackling brown skin that smelled of butter and spices on a bed of golden rice.

She’d turned to leave when Calvin called, “What’s your name?”

She seemed surprised. “I’m Mrs. Mable Seabrook, the housekeeper here. You may call me ‘Mrs. Seabrook.’ I’ll take care of you and the house during the days you remain here.”

“Oh,” Calvin said. “I guess we just thought you came by once a week and left food in the fridge.” The idea of constant supervision wasn’t exactly thrilling to him.

Mrs. Seabrook’s face fell slightly, but she pulled her smile up again so quickly, Calvin couldn’t be sure he’d seen it disappear.

He said, “We’re here because I wanted a break from the place Cleo likes to call ‘home.’ Soon we’ll have to think about college, and the idea of staying all summer in Chicago with a crazy mom—” here Cleo elbowed him hard in the ribs “—isn’t the most liberating.”

Mrs. Seabrook drew her hands into her apron pockets and swept out.

“This house feels sad,” Cleo whispered as she lifted her fork. “Oh! I need to call Mom!” She pulled out her cell phone, then frowned. “No service.”

Calvin stared at the woods through the back windows. He’d imagined Humboldt Manor as somewhere accessible by public transportation, somewhere in the city where he could easily walk to half a dozen places, not an isolated tower on a forested hill. If the place really was as ancient as it looked, was electricity the most modern addition? The prospect of unforeseen boredom made his feet itch.

Once they’d finished eating, the food sticking in awkward lumps in Calvin’s throat, Mrs. Seabrook cleared their dishes and said, “I suppose you’ll want to know how this house works. It’s been kept as close as possible to how your grandfather left it. There are three telephones. One in the living room, to the right of the entry, the other you can see through these doors, in the hall. The third is on the second floor landing. They’re connected to one line, and ring as one. Place whatever calls on these you like. You may have noticed cellular phones don’t work here.”

Cleo nodded.

“Down the hill, service returns, but the isolation of the house itself blocks the signal. Town is a healthy three mile walk. Internet was never installed here. Long distance calls are acceptable on the landlines. All of your expenses will be covered, of course. Your grandfather’s will stipulated as such.”

“That’s great,” Calvin said.

Mrs. Seabrook grunted, as if she thought he could use remedial gratitude lessons, then returned with two bowls of chocolate pudding. Calvin tried to glimpse more of the house through the hall windows, but the candle hindered his efforts, casting a bright net that he couldn’t probe beyond. He was just scraping the last pudding from his bowl when the phone rang.

Cleo didn’t look up. Sweets were an almost religious thing, and eating them was its own ceremony for her. Calvin stared at the hall phone. It wasn’t ringing. A phone in the house was ringing, but it wasn’t on the line that Mrs. Seabrook had just described, and she’d just said they all rang as one.

Mrs. Seabrook appeared again with her tray, ready for their dessert bowls.

“What phone is that?” Calvin asked.

“What?” She c****d her head. “Oh that. It almost never rings, actually. It goes to your grandfather’s study. He ordered the room locked before he passed. His will’s instructions detailed that nothing was to be closed or disconnected after his death. No phone lines, no accounts, doors, nothing. This house and property are never to be sold. Money from his trust earns interest and pays my wages and all house bills.”

“So no one has been inside our grandfather’s study since…he died?” Calvin asked.

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Curious one, aren’t you?”

Calvin tried to make his voice polite. “I just want to know the rules.”

“So he can break them,” Cleo added.

He shot his sister a nasty look as Mrs. Seabrook snorted like a horse. “I’m hired to fill your bellies, not your minds. If what you want is answers and snooping, it’s something you’d best do on your own. I’m here from seven in the morning until seven at night. You will have me at your culinary and domestic disposal. There’s a chalkboard in the kitchen where you can leave me messages and meal preferences if I’m away.” She lifted the tray with their bowls.

“I like Chinese food,” Cleo piped up, smiling like an angel.

Mrs. Seabrook nodded. “Preference noted. Let me set these in the kitchen, and then I’ll give you a tour. Do you want to light your way with flashlights or candles?”

“Candles!” Cleo answered immediately.

Calvin smirked. Leave it to his sister to choose the romantic option.

Mrs. Seabrook returned with two more glowing candles in silver holders. She took the candle from the table and waved them to follow her. Shadows clustered in the house’s corners but retreated from the windows where large pools of cornflower blue light washed the floors with quiet.

“You’ll want to know your way around so you don’t get lost in a linen closet,” Mrs. Seabrook said. “I’ll show you to your rooms, but I won’t be able to do much question answering till tomorrow. I’m already staying late as it is, but since it’s your first day here, it can’t be helped.” Her feet snapped across the hall to a glossy black door under the stairway. “Up until last year, I gave a weekly tour of the house. I canceled it due to my own fatigue. The trust doesn’t need the extra money, which is lucky for you. This is a resort town, and the summer crowds would have crushed you two. Anyway,” she opened the door, “this was the most popular stop on the tour: your grand-father’s office.” She flipped on the first light switch of the evening.

They looked into a windowless room with dark wainscoting and forest green walls. A massive desk stood halfway back, and gold-threaded mandala hung on the walls at regular intervals. A pair of lamps with spring green and dandelion-colored panes dangled from copper chains over the desk.

“This is where he worked?” Calvin asked, poking his head further inside.

He saw a tree mural painted on the right-hand wall, but Mrs. Seabrook pulled the door shut so quickly, it clipped Calvin’s nose. “It’s where he met with his clients.”

“What line of work was he in?” Cleo asked.

It was meant to be a polite question—obviously, since it came from Cleo—but Mrs. Seabrook ignored it as if it were an insult. She broke the silence a few seconds later. “He told people what they wanted to hear, if you’re asking for my opinion.” She jabbed her candle toward the foyer, as though fencing with a ghost, and charged. She stopped at the glass doors to the living room.

A majestic fireplace stood at the far end and, above this, a gild-framed watercolor of a ship caught in a storm. Armchairs, a checkered couch, and an upright piano filled the room. Calvin switched on the light. In the back left corner stood another door the color of a polished hazelnut shell.

“Where does that one go to?” he pointed, but Mrs. Seabrook turned the lights off and was closing the doors to the living room with the same guillotine precision.

Calvin flashed out his hand to intercept, the same gesture he used when snatching a wallet. She glared over her spectacles at him, then sighed. “That is your grandfather’s study. It’s where you heard the phone during dinner.”

“Did he meet with clients here, too?” Cleo asked.

“Nobody knows exactly what he did in there. It’s kept locked, and for a good reason, if you ask me.” Mrs. Seabrook closed the glass doors and turned to the staircase. Each bend of her knee produced a series of crackles and pops, but she climbed it easily enough. Calvin decided she acted older than she actually was.

As they followed her, Calvin amended his assumptions of utter boredom. There were plenty of things to investigate around here.

Smaller windows on the second floor made the dark patches of shadow thicken. A green door opened into a spacious room with a window spanning the head of a king size four-poster bed.

“No one’s slept there since Mr. Humboldt himself,” Mrs. Seabrook announced. “He died in that bed. The tour loved this place. You won’t be sleeping here.”

Cleo shuddered, probably with gratitude. The intricately carved wood of the posts seemed to ripple in this light. Through the window, Calvin saw the forest and an outcropping of rock that peeked out above the canopy.

“I change the sheets every season,” Mrs. Seabrook said.

Calvin looked sharply at her but decided to swallow his question: Why wash the sheets for a bed that’s never slept in? It sounded like a weird ritual.

Mrs. Seabrook explained that the property of Humboldt Manor extended into a section of the forest and was demarcated by a stone dividing wall that bordered the national park beyond.

“There’s a heavy fine for trespassing here, but some people still try it on occasion. The bathroom is here.” She indicated outside in the hall. “Several years ago, Mrs. Humboldt, your grandmother, took the twins, your mother and uncle, to visit and settle some affairs a few days after Mr. Humboldt passed. She persuaded the house maintenance crew to install a shower for future use. Enjoy it. This is currently the only working bathroom of the house.”

On the wall between the master bedroom and the bathroom hung a cross stitch. Cleo stopped to read it out loud.

Therefore do not worry about tomorrow,

for tomorrow will worry about itself.

Each day has enough trouble of its own.

“Mrs. Humboldt made that,” Mrs. Seabrook told them. “A gifted woman.”

They passed around the stairwell and stood in front of a white door. Black office door, brown study, green master bedroom, and this one was white.

“Open it,” Mrs. Seabrook told Cleo. “It’s where you’ll be staying.” The housekeeper’s eyes softened as Cleo touched the crystal doorknob.

The room had a tall sweeping window at the far end hung with gauzy white curtains like the nursery in film productions of Peter Pan. A pale pink blanket covered a single bed draped in gossamer mosquito netting.

“Was this for Percy’s daughter?” Cleo murmured.

“You mean your mother?” Mrs. Seabrook laughed kindly, surprising Calvin with her warmth. “No. This was where I lived when I was his maid.” The housekeeper’s brow darkened a moment, and she left to open the blue door to the next room. “This is where you’ll stay, young man. It was intended as the nursery, but no children were born in Humboldt Manor.” She shook her head. “Your grandmother left your grandfather when she was pregnant with the twins.”

Cleo made another sad face at Calvin. Calvin examined his room. A mobile with paper moons and stars still hung there, suspended and waiting. The sky blue paint breathed gentle hopes of a male child. A white crib huddled beneath the square window. A single bed awkwardly hugged the left wall. It looked like a recent addition.

“I thought you two would want to sleep near each other in such a large house,” Mrs. Seabrook explained. “I had the cot brought here.”

Calvin bounced twice on the mattress to make sure it was soft enough. “Great.”

“Come see the rest of the house.” Mrs. Seabrook’s quick steps betrayed her eagerness to leave. There was a nook on the landing with a cushioned window seat and shelves of novels. Calvin recognized Rebecca and Jane Eyre, two of Cleo’s all-time favorites. Cleo tugged on the spine of Jane Eyre with a smile.

“Help yourself,” said Mrs. Seabrook as she turned up another staircase. “Those were my books, but my daughters watch television instead of reading novels, and I don’t reread anything. I’ve no need of them now.”

“This place feels kind of like a grave,” Calvin muttered. He thought he’d been quiet enough to escape notice, but Mrs. Seabrook turned on him with a glare.

“Calvin, don’t!” Cleo groaned. Her aim to weasel onto Mrs. Seabrook’s good side was already making him sick.

The housekeeper held her candle close to Calvin’s face, and his cheek felt hot. “You’re just like Mr. Humboldt, aren’t you? Death holds no fear.”

He shrugged. That wasn’t exactly true, but it sounded good. Calvin asked, “How long have you worked here, Mrs. Seabrook?”

She stared for a few more moments, and for the first time, her face softened for him, instead of just for his sister.

“I was a sixteen-year-old runaway when your grandfather found me begging for charity on a street corner in my best church dress. He and your grandmother took pity and hired me as a housekeeper. With the exception of my childbearing years, I’ve worked here ever since then.”

Calvin tried to drop his raised eyebrows.

Mrs. Seabrook reached out and squeezed his shoulder like a baker might knead dough. “You have your own secrets. I see that. This house is big enough to hold them.”

“What secre—” Calvin began, but she shook her head.

“Some things will reward you most when they’re left alone.”

The rooms she showed them on the third floor were musty. Most of the furniture was cloaked with sheets.

“I don’t maintain these parts of the house anymore.” Mrs. Seabrook barely paused by the doorways. “Mr. Humboldt built this house to hold his children and his children’s children, but the only kids to play here were my two little daughters, before they got their noses stuck in the ‘up’ position. Apparently a mother who cares for an empty house and gives tours was too embarrassing.”

Cleo reached for Calvin’s hand, then pulled back when he flinched. “I told you this place was sad,” she whispered.

He thought, This place was happy once, before it was empty, before the chandeliers got dusty, before the doors were locked, before the telephones rang with no one to answer them.

He shuddered. He was getting overexcited.

Why had Mrs. Seabrook said the house was big enough to hold his secrets? What did it already hold?