Beach Thriller(42)
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The sight of Maeve Carmichael’s bedroom takes my breath away. It’s large enough to be two—maybe three—rooms. It’s more like her “chambers.” Contrary to her demeanor, it’s also the warmest and most inviting room I’ve seen yet. Wall-to-wall carpeting, the color of faded rose petals, feels springy under my feet. I still have my shoes on, and that seems wrong. Sid doesn’t tell me to remove them, but I take them off by her door.
Rich antique furniture fills the space. A sitting area includes an ornate desk with intricate carvings. Velvet-upholstered chairs are scattered about, and the glossy mahogany dressers boast brass handles polished to a shine.
At the far end of the room stands a majestic canopy bed, the likes of which I’ve never seen before. An elephant could stretch out and still have plenty of space. Lush burgundy bedding covers a plush mattress that begs you to get lost in its satin underworld. Luxurious draperies frame the windows, cascading in rich folds over sheer curtains in a delicate cream color. The ivory wallpaper boasts an intricate design I could imagine adorning the robes of royalty.
Maeve sits at her vanity, applying makeup. Again, she’s dressed for success in a tailored silk blouse the color of champagne. A cashmere shawl in a delicate blush tone falls over her shoulders. Her wide-leg trousers match the blouse. Although her clothes are elegant, they convey no warmth.
She glances at her gold watch, speckled with diamonds. “You’re early,” she says, without a pleasant smile or cheerful hello.
Two seconds into our first full day together, and on a scale of 1 to 10, I put the Suck Factor at a solid 4. Judging by Maeve’s deep frown and knitted eyebrows, I’m confident that we will exceed that by the end of the day.
“This is such a terrible idea,” she mutters, loud enough to ensure that I hear.
“Good morning, Mrs. Carmichael. In case you forgot, my name is Jade,” I say.
Her gaze narrows. “Yes, I remember,” she frowns. “I have a heart condition, not dementia.”
“Right.” I avert my eyes. I need to watch my words, or they’ll cost me my job. A smart girl would have already applied to scoop ice cream in town.
Sid turns to Maeve. “It’s almost time for tea. Would you like it brought to your room?” His voice is fuzzy and buzzy, the way it sounds over the intercom.
“I’ll have it in the drawing room today. Thank you, Sidney.”
“Oh, cool, you have a drawing room?” I blurt. “Just like in a Victorian novel. I’d love to see it.”
Old Sid winces. Maeve’s eyes fill with contempt.
In his quiet, raspy voice, Sid clarifies: “You saw it on your tour. The drawing room is what you would think of as a living room.”
“Oh yeah, I remember, that room is sweet,” I say—and I mean it. It’s actually bright and cheery—no dark furniture in sight. Everything’s been refinished in soft, sun-bleached tones, like pieces of driftwood. The stained-glass windows reminded me of looking through sea glass. Instead of tapestries, the walls are adorned with large-scale coastal landscapes. The whole room smells faintly of salt and citrus.
“I like the telescope that’s in there,” I say. “I thought I saw a whale, but it was just a rock. I didn’t see any paper and pencils, though.” I’m expecting everyone to laugh, but I’m the only one who does. Maeve looks confused. Sid skews more toward horrified.
“You know, drawing room … pencils…” I explain, my voice soft and uncertain. Still no smile from Maeve.
Sid clears his throat. “Jade, around here, we view humor like a weapon. Wield it carefully,” he advises.
At last Maeve finds her grin. “Leave us be, Sidney. I’ll be down in a minute. I want to get Jade started on her big job.” She doesn’t roll her eyes, but the implication is clear: She thinks I don’t belong here.
In my head, I hear an imaginary train conductor: Next stop, Condescensionville.
Sid bows slightly before turning to go. An uncountable number of shuffling steps carry him out the door.
Once he’s beyond earshot (which doesn’t need to be far), Maeve explains my duties for today.
“We have two closets.” She directs my attention to the large oak doors, each positioned on either side of the massive canopy bed. “The one on the left is mine, and the other is Baxter’s.”
I’m expecting Maeve to show some emotion when she utters his name—a window opening to her soul, if only a crack. She’s talking about her dead husband’s belongings. It’s only been a few months since his passing. But her eyes are as lifeless as his.
I don’t know much about Baxter Ward, but going through his personal belongings will tell me a lot more than an online obituary.
Meanwhile, Maeve projects the sorrow of a wax figure. Perhaps her upbringing demands that she repress her deeper feelings. I’m determined to coax them out of her. I have the crazy notion that Maeve and I could possibly connect on a meaningful—dare I say, life-altering—level.
Throughout this emotional journey, as we sort through item after item and layer after layer of Baxter’s life, we’ll simultaneously discover things about each other. Together, our bond will strengthen, helping us rise above our challenges and overcome petty differences to become better people. I see a future book about our experience: In Baxter’s Closet, or The Closet Connection, or maybe simply The Closet. It’ll be a New York Times bestseller.