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  Jim’s interest in Roger Brandt had been sparked by the fact that he was my grandfather, but it had quickly grown to be more. He had watched his films and read hundreds of books written by Hollywood insiders, and those invariably made some mention of Roger Brandt. When Jim decided to travel here to get footage of his film’s subject, I had refused to accompany him.

  As a film writer, I had worked on some of Jim’s past efforts, but I’d wanted nothing to do with this one. I was still resisting destiny. When he died on that trip, I’d suffered a good deal of guilt, perhaps because our marriage was no longer close. I kept thinking if I’d come here with him, Jim would still be alive.

  The startling letter that finally had brought me here was nearly anonymous. I knew the few lines by heart, and as I looked out over the water toward that great crouching mountain, they ran through my mind:

  Lauren Castle:

  Your husband’s death was not an accident, as I have only just learned. If you want to know what happened to him, you must come to Lake Lure as soon as possible. Stay at Rumbling Mountain Lodge, and I will find you.

  N.

  The note had forced my hand. I had comforted myself knowing I could come as Jim Castle’s wife, so that my connection to Roger Brandt would remain a secret, except to one person. Gordon Heath, who had been working with Jim and who was an old friend of his, still lived here. But Gordon’s presence in these parts and his knowledge of my family history was something I wasn’t ready to deal with yet. I had written to Gordon to say I was coming—though not why or when. I didn’t want him to know more than that for now, but I was aware I would need his help. So where was I to find cool logic to guide me now?

  Gordon had sent me a letter at the time of Jim’s death—a letter that had been kind but impersonal. Clearly, what had happened between us eleven years ago in San Francisco was to be ignored. He wrote that Jim had been filming a scene for his documentary on an abandoned movie set—an Indian village on the mountain above Hickory Nut Gorge. A heavy beam had fallen, killing him instantly.

  Gordon had returned Jim’s possessions to me—everything, that is, except the work he’d been doing on the documentary. After I received his letter, I had written to him, but there had been no further communication between us. His silence had spelled disapproval of me. Yet here I was and the first person I would need to find was Gordon Heath.

  As I stood at the rail, someone turned on a light in the house near the water’s edge and my attention returned to the present. I wondered who lived there and why they were up so late. Someone else must also be sleepless.

  However, I had no patience for idle speculation at this hour. Tomorrow—today!—I must find Gordon Heath and talk to him, whether I liked the idea or not. I hoped he could identify the N who had written to me. I also wanted him to show me the place where Jim had died and tell me more about the accident.

  A door opened in the house below and someone came out to stand on a walkway that led down to a boathouse. The figure was tall and wore a long robe, but I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman. When the person looked up in my direction, I realized that I was visible against the lights of the lodge.

  “So you’re not sleeping, either?” a woman’s husky voice called up to me. “If you want to come on down, I’ll fix us tea and a snack. Don’t bother to dress—I’m in my pajamas.”

  Her manner seemed so assured that I didn’t feel I could refuse. Intrigued by her informal invitation, I stopped only to put on shoes before starting down steep wooden steps to the walkway. When I reached the landing that passed her door, the woman held out her hand in a clasp that seemed as assured as her words.

  “You’re Lauren Castle, the guest who came last evening, aren’t you? I knew your husband. Mrs. Adrian, at the desk, told me you’d arrived. Come on in and we’ll get acquainted. I’m Gretchen Frazer.”

  I’d known, of course, from the lodge stationery that Victoria Frazer’s sister owned and managed Rumbling Mountain Lodge, but I wasn’t prepared for this sudden impromptu meeting with the woman who was my great-aunt. I didn’t intend to reveal myself to her, or to anyone else. Not yet. I would play everything by ear for a time until I began to get a feeling for the place and the people. First I must know what had really happened to Jim—assuming, of course, that there was more to the story than I knew.

  She led me into a big room that was clearly the main living space of the house—both kitchen and dining area. Following a wave of her hand, I sat down at a round oak table and watched her prepare tea. Blue pajama legs showed beneath a comfortable-looking plaid robe that she had tied around her waist with a frayed cord. She was tall and bony—a bit gaunt—but her body gave the impression of great strength. Her face—a somber, life-worn face—wore a map of deep lines. It seemed a little forbidding in its cast—or at least that was my first impression.

  By now, Victoria Frazer would have been in her early seventies—a few years younger than Roger Brandt. This woman must have been a younger sister to Victoria, for she seemed active and ageless. When her sister died, she could have been no older than seventeen or eighteen. I counted myself lucky to meet her informally as Jim Castle’s wife, since she might be a source of much that I wanted to know about my mother’s family.

  When Gretchen Frazer had set down a tray with two blue glazed mugs, into which she had poured a dark brew, accompanied by a plate of brown cookies, she joined me at the table.

  “Tell me what you think,” she said, and when I looked at her blankly, she smiled. All the lines of her face lifted, so she now seemed less formidable and austere. “I mean the tea. It’s made from kudzu. And so are the cookies—from kudzu flour, that is. I don’t imagine you’ve tasted kudzu before?”

  Of course I hadn’t, though I knew the reputation of the voracious vine from Japan that was devouring the South. “I don’t think we have kudzu in California,” I said. “I didn’t know it could be eaten.”

  “It’s time people found out instead of just sitting around cursing it,” she said pleasantly.

  The aroma of the tea was inviting, and I flavored it with a little honey and sipped. “It’s quite good.”

  “And not full of caffeine. It will help you sleep.”

  I realized suddenly that she was staring at me. Her eyes were a deep, dark brown and for a moment they held me. Then she blinked and relaxed, releasing me.

  “Your eyes are an unusual color, Mrs. Castle. I’ve seen eyes like that in only one other person in my life.”

  I knew she meant her sister, Victoria, so I leaned forward to take a cookie, avoiding a reply.

  “Your husband told me that you are a film writer, Mrs. Castle. I hope you don’t plan to continue his work on the Brandt story.”

  I wasn’t sure why she would oppose this, but I tried to reassure her. “Those aren’t my skills. I write mostly for television, and I like to get away now and then and find fresh settings to write about. Jim’s description of Lake Lure in his letters made me think I might find something for my own work here.”

  “You waited long enough to come,” she said, sounding tart.

  I had planned my story, my excuses. “It would have been too painful to come sooner.”

  She seemed to accept this. “In the old days, when I was young, this area attracted a number of film companies. We were quite famous before World War Π. Then everything fell apart.”

  “It seems remarkable that Roger Brandt still lives here.” I hoped that I sounded casual.

  She shook her head as if puzzling. “I expect you know the local stories about Roger and my sister, Victoria?”

  “I’ve heard some of them,” I said, and changed the subject slightly. “Since Jim got to know Roger Brandt through his work and admired him, I’d like to meet him sometime.”

  “I don’t know if you’ll succeed. He doesn’t take much to visitors. He and I are not exactly friends, as you might expect. Though his wife, Camilla, is all right. Sometimes I feel sorry for her.”

  I let this talk abo
ut the Brandts pass and finished my tea. “Thank you,” I said. “I’d better get back to bed now.”

  She rose and came with me to the door. “If you’re looking for a good setting for a story, you’ve come to the right place. You must be sure to take one of the boat tours around the lake.”

  I followed her onto a long, open porch that ran across the front of the house. From there we descended steps to the big flat roof that covered the boathouse. Metal railings protected us from the water and outdoor chairs and benches had been set about invitingly. The night was less than quiet, with water sucking rhythmically against pilings beneath us, while the orchestra of insects on the shore seemed to herald the end of summer.

  A cloud covered the moon, making me aware of a sudden enveloping darkness in which the even darker mountain shapes around the lake were visible.

  Gretchen Frazer pointed. “You can’t see the place from here, but way down there across the water is a building that was used in the movie Dirty Dancing. Several scenes were shot here—so Hollywood has discovered us again. And of course some of the mountain scenes around Chimney Rock were used for The Last of the Mohicans. They even built a village of longhouses up there. Huron Indians in North Carolina! But it’s all good for business.”

  Reference to the village caught my attention. “Miss Frazer, can you tell me anything about my husband’s death?”

  Her shoulders seemed to droop a little. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have reminded you of such sadness. I only know that he died in that very village. I’ve never wanted to go there myself. I liked this place better in the old days. In the twenties, everyone came to Lake Lure—Franklin Roosevelt, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Emily Post, Frances Hodgson Burnett. The list goes on and on. You must be sure to visit the Lake Lure Inn—you’ll find a lot of history there. Of course we enjoyed a long, peaceful time without visitors, but we need the money outsiders bring in, and it’s good to see everything opening up again.”

  A wave of tiredness swept through me and I turned toward the walk leading back to my room. Gretchen came with me as far as her house, where we were stopped by a large animal that came through the screen door it had apparently managed to open. It trotted over to snuffle around my ankles, startling me.

  “Behave, Siggy,” Gretchen told the creature. “Don’t mind him, Mrs. Castle. He’d like to sit on your lap, if you’d let him—he’s very friendly. Spoiled.”

  Since the fat bronze-colored animal seemed to weigh a hundred pounds at least, I didn’t mean to offer him a lap. Siggy looked up at me hopefully with bright little eyes and I could have sworn he was smiling.

  “He’s a miniature pig,” Gretchen explained, “and full-grown. Meet Sigmund von Hogg, Mrs. Castle. He’s housebroken, of course, but very mischievous, and smarter than most people.”

  Gretchen’s manner had softened, grown affectionate, and I liked her a little better because of the pig. I ventured to pat his head and felt stiff bristles that were definitely piglike. Siggy wriggled with pleasure when I scratched, and showed signs of becoming even friendlier.

  “That’s enough now,” Gretchen told him. She opened the door and pushed him inside with her foot. “Thanks for coming down, Mrs. Castle. I was glad to have company and meet you. I’d better get back to bed now myself, since I have a patient coming early this morning.”

  “Patient? You’re a doctor?”

  “Hardly. But people come to me and I try to help.”

  She explained no further, so I said good night and climbed back to my room. When I got into bed again, I was no longer as aware of the rippling water reflections on the ceiling. It was interesting to have met my grandmother’s sister so quickly. There were doors to be opened there, but Jim was my first concern and upon waking I must find Gordon Heath.

  I went to sleep almost at once, and I was still sleeping soundly when a maid knocked at my door with breakfast rolls, fruit, and coffee. I sat up in bed to thank the young black woman as she set her tray on a drop-leaf table.

  When I’d showered, I sat down hungrily to enjoy my breakfast. Then I dressed in jeans, tucked in a white shirt, and put on sturdy walking shoes; ready or not, it was time to start looking for Gordon.

  In the lobby, I found Mrs. Adrian again on duty at the front desk. I asked her whether she knew Gordon Heath and she smiled.

  “Everyone knows Gordon. But I think he’s on vacation now, so I’m not sure where you’ll find him. His mother runs a gift shop down the road a piece, just opposite the landing. You might talk to her. She’ll know where he is. Her name is Finella Heath, and she calls her shop Finella’s.”

  I thanked her, but before I started on my way, I asked a question that had been puzzling me. “I had a cup of tea with Miss Frazer late last night and she mentioned seeing a patient this morning, though she told me she isn’t a doctor. What did she mean?”

  Mrs. Adrian’s face lighted. “Isn’t she wonderful! At her age, she can outdo most of us. She can put her hands on you and make you feel better instantly. It’s a gift. And she knows all the right herbal remedies. She’s taught herself. I suppose you’d call her a healer.”

  I had wondered what it might have been like to be the younger sister of a woman as famous and beautiful as Victoria Frazer, and I was glad Gretchen had her own remarkable talents.

  I thanked Mrs. Adrian and went out to the parking area, where I’d left my rented Ford. When I’d backed into the drive, I followed a narrow road that wound down through thick woods that showed a few splashes of brilliant color where oak and maple had begun to turn. I felt an exhilaration about waking up in a new place and discovering wonders I hadn’t been able to see on my arrival the night before. I didn’t want to think that part of this feeling might be the anticipation of seeing Gordon again. What had been between us was over long ago, and our last meeting had hardly been amicable. But since he had been Jim’s friend, I knew he would see me. I wondered whether he, too, had suffered guilt because of what had happened in San Francisco.

  At the level of the water, the highway led past open spaces that formed a parklike area on the lake. Several large willow trees with drooping branches added to the beauty of the scene. Moored to the landing was a long pontoon boat that bore the name Showboat, and the flowing water knew nothing of old tragedy.

  I drove along slowly until I saw a rustic building on my left. It had probably been a barn at one time and was still painted bright red, with a sign above the door that announced FINELLA’S in large white letters. A smaller sign on the screen door told me the shop was open. I parked at the side of the building and sat for a moment considering. It was unlikely that Gordon had ever told his mother about knowing me eleven years ago in San Francisco. Yet, for me, that episode of my life had changed my destiny. Jim had promised a more certain life and we had the film industry in common. A life with Gordon had seemed riskier, a question mark, and I hadn’t been brave enough to take a chance with him. It was a few years before I realized I’d made the wrong choice. Not that I was sure Gordon would have been right—but Jim was wrong for me and I for him.

  I left the car and climbed several wooden steps to a small landing. As I opened the screen door, a bell chimed musically.

  2

  The shop’s interior was spacious—indeed a barn, with plenty of room for well-spaced tables and counters filled with enticing treasures. At once I was enveloped in light and color. A golden radiance shone from pine floors and walls, and I looked up into shadowy reaches where oak beams crossed empty space. Color glowed all about me, in woven hangings on the walls, in scatter rugs of Indian design, and, of course, in all the rich contents of cabinets, counters, and display tables. Yet there was no sense of crowding—just an overall effect of cheerful, open light.

  I was prepared to like Finella even before I stumbled over her. With my gaze fixed high and wide, I didn’t notice the woman kneeling on the floor beside a pine counter until I almost stepped on the painting that lay before her.

  She raised a hand to stop me and looked up, smiling�
��a warm, friendly smile for a stranger.

  “Hello. Come in and browse, if you like. I’ll be with you as soon as I’ve finished mounting this watercolor.”

  Finella’s hair was vividly red and cut in what used to be called a page boy. When she moved her head, her hair swirled thickly and settled in its own shining pattern. Her mouth, touched with a soft red, was generous in size and the dimple her smile encouraged deepened as she looked up at me. I remembered just such an indentation near her son’s mouth and for a moment I was distracted. Her look and manner were so vibrantly young that it would be difficult to guess her age without knowing that she had a son a little older than my thirty years.

  I returned her smile, but instead of moving to look around the shop, as she suggested, my attention was caught by the watercolor she was about to frame. Clearly, the mountain the artist had depicted was Rumbling Bald, its long, uneven top and rock-scarred flank easily recognizable even in the storm that appeared to be crashing over its summit. The lighting was strange—almost too vivid, as though the artist had caught what must have been a momentary flash of lightning as it illuminated the scene. I could sense a wind that bent the trees at the mountain’s foot, where lake waters were whipped into white-frothed waves. The painting possessed a wild power that made me shiver—as though it threatened me in some way.

  “Does the mountain really look like that in a storm?” I asked.

  Finella nodded. “Her work is strong, isn’t it? Do you see what’s happening on top?”

  I looked more closely and saw that an elliptical lighted shape appeared to be tilted dangerously toward the mountain.

  “It looks as though a plane is about to crash in the middle of a storm.”

  “Mm,” said Finella, sounding enigmatic.

  She was still on her hands and knees, and I knelt beside her to get a better look and to search for the artist’s name in the right-hand corner. The painting had been signed with a first name only: Natalie. I was startled but decided it would be too coincidental if the first name I came across that began with N happened to be the person I was looking for. Still—there was the matter of serendipity that was forever fortuitous and unexplainable.