Amber House: Neverwas (16 page)

baptisms, even funerals — was an opportunity to schmooze

with members of the community and further one or another of

her charitable causes. Consequently, most of the old-money

crowd between the Potomac and Baltimore, and plenty of the

new-money folks as well, were accustomed to gathering at

Amber House each winter for a solstice celebration and dessert

buffet.

This year’s official raison d‘être was to preview a small por-

tion of the items that had been selected for the Metropolitan

Museum exhibit in New York. It included period fashions, tex-

tile art, paintings and photographs, framed poetry and samplers,

furniture, folk art, portraits — and more. Mom had spread

small displays of the items throughout the ground-floor rooms

and halls of the main wing so that people could meander.

The rest of the celebration followed all of Gramma’s rituals

for the event. Guests trickled in a little after eight. Each carload of arrivals was greeted at the door, where my mom accepted

gifts as she handed off packages of her own — a Christmas

ornament and a dozen beeswax candles hand-dipped in the colo-

nial manner, to invoke (in solstice tradition) the return of the

light. Desserts weighed down the trestle table in the dining

room, second door to the left, with champagne and eggnog set

on the sideboards.

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I stood out of the way on the staircase and watched this year’s

receiving line — Mom, Dad, and Maggie, and Senator and Mrs.

Hathaway. Beyond them, the sweep of car lights through the

glass on either side of the front door foretold a constantly renewed stream of guests.

I had another one of those moments — a slipping-sideways

moment of déjà vu — as I stood there with my hand on the ban-

ister. I thought helplessly and disconnectedly that I should have

been wearing a long gold dress instead of a short black one, and

that I should have been standing next to my mother. And then

the moment was gone, and the smiling face of Richard Hathaway

rose into my line of view.

He stopped on the step below mine. Which put me pretty

much on a level with him. “Still adjusting to the time change,

Parsons?” he teased me. “Or have you been sampling too much

eggnog?”

Evidently I’d let my face go too slack. I chased away the rem-

nants of the confusion I’d felt a moment before and lifted all my

features with a small smile. “That depends, Hathaway,” I said,

raising my eyebrows innocently. “How much is too much?”

He grinned. “You watching my old man work?” he asked.

“He’s pretty good with people.”

“No,” I said. “He’s pretty
amazing
with people.” Which was

the absolute truth. It helped that Robert Hathaway was being

pegged as the next president, but his charisma had more to do

with the way he seemed to make people feel. Like he was

charmed to see each and every one of them. Like they all, to a

man and woman,
mattered
to him. He
needed
them on his team.

Together, he and they could accomplish
great things
. It also didn’t hurt that he was really handsome and athletic — qualities he

wore with shrugging modesty. It was all pitch-perfect; people

adored him. “Really. Amazing.”

“Yeah,” Richard said. “Wish I’d inherited some of that.” He

o75

stood there in his golden perfection, his head tipped a little rue-

fully, shaking his head with aw-shucks humility, and I just started

to laugh. “What?” he said.

“I think you got your share, Hathaway.” His eyes narrowed

with pleased calculation, so I excused myself before he could

run with the compliment. “I gotta save Sammy,” I said. “A couple

old ladies have him trapped.” Then I scooted.

I pulled Sam away from the two elderly women who were

listening to him with some befuddlement. Probably a mono-

logue about dinosaurs, I thought. “Hey, bud,” I coaxed him,

“how about we get you a few of the best-looking desserts to sam-

ple and set you up in front of the TV?”

“That would be good, Sarah,” he said gratefully. “Talking to

these people is pretty hard work.”

I loaded up a plate with a half-dozen desserts — fruit tarts,

little cheesecakes, Christmas cookies, a scoop of trifle.

“Too much,” Sam protested.

I leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Save half for me. I’ll

sneak away and join you as soon as I can.”

When I returned from the west wing, I wandered the crowd,

listening. My dad always told me that eavesdropping was a bad

habit of mine, but it was really more like an instinct. Maybe it

wasn’t entirely ethical, but I wouldn’t have learned half of what

I knew about the important stuff in life if I hadn’t eavesdropped

every once in a while.

Our guests seemed slightly adrift at a celebration that was, for

the first time ever, occurring without its original hostess. Very

few paid attention to the displays Mom had put out; mostly

people grouped and regrouped to gossip and speculate. Some of

the guests remembered Gramma; some talked about the house

and its reputation for ghosts. Most people were wondering about

Robert’s candidacy and when he would announce. I liked that I

had that piece of insider’s knowledge.

76 O

A couple raps from the door knocker signaled a late arrival.

Maggie was closest and went to greet the newcomers. But when

she opened the door, she stepped back, away.

An older couple entered, smiling, followed by a mid-thirties

blond man in a black wool overcoat that had two small silver figures on its collar points. I stared, confused. The man looked like —

Claire Hathaway rushed over to hug and air-kiss the couple:

“Agatha, Harold, so good to see you.” She extended her hand

to the third member of their party. “Reichsleiter, a pleasure to

meet you.”

— a Nazi.

My mother trailed in Claire’s wake. “Mr. and Mrs. Wexler,

welcome. And —” She paused awkwardly, waiting for someone

to fill in the blank.

The Nazi held out his hand, with a little bow of his head.

“Karl Jaeger, Mrs. Parsons. Attaché from the German Socialist

Republic. Please forgive me for intruding on your festivities. I

have been staying with the Wexlers, and they insisted you would

not mind an extra guest.” All in perfectly accented English,

accompanied by a humble smile.

My mother’s voice was tightly cheerful. “Of course not, Mr. —”

Mr. Wexler interrupted: “Reichsleiter Jaeg —”

But the Nazi interrupted him in turn. “Karl,” he said, bowing

slightly again, “please. It is easiest.”

I realized my jaw was locked, my back teeth clenched together.

I was incensed —
incensed
— to have him in my grandmother’s house. In seventy-five years, the Nazis had wiped out all the

Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, and disabled people in Europe,

except those who had escaped to the Americas. They’d taken

over every country on the continent but a small remnant of

Russia. Just twenty-five years ago, they’d bombed London to a

hole in the ground, finally forcing the rest of the nation to sur-

render. For the past two decades, they’d been working hard to

o77

put a human face on the “new” German Socialist Republic, but

no one I knew was ready to forgive and forget.

Except, evidently, the Wexlers.

My mother excused herself, and I could see by the tightness of

her mouth that she was not happy with this addition to her party

either. I wondered why she hadn’t asked him to leave — perhaps

it would have been just too rude. Claire continued to chat with

the Wexlers’ guest, and then led him to her husband for an

introduction.

I surveyed the rest of the room. Some people looked disap-

proving, but most were indifferent or even nodding a hello.

Senator Hathaway was all polite formality but did not show him-

self especially friendly to the Nazi. I supposed as a government

official, he had taken the proper route. I didn’t know if I could

be so polite.

It was time I went to join Sammy.

The little hall that led past the kitchen held a small display of

mounted insects — butterflies and iridescent beetles, arachnids

and moths. I had seen some of these bug collections around

Amber House before but had never wondered where they’d

come from or who had made them. I paused to read the white

card pinned beside them. “From the extensive work of the early

entomologist Sarah-Louise Foster Tate.”

Sarah-Louise
, I thought,
and her twin brother, Matthew
. I wondered where I’d learned those names.

The gallery was hung with quilts, including one I didn’t rec-

ognize, detailed and edged with green appliqué shaping a

symmetrical maze — I guessed in honor of the real one.
Treasure
in its heart
, I thought, reaching out a hand to touch it.

Richard walked up behind me. “Talented line of women you

come from.”

I was startled and a little pleased.
He followed me.
“Too bad none of it filtered down to my generation.”

78 O

“I’m sure one or two gifts found their way into your chromo-

somes. You just have to wait and see what they turn out to be.”

He gestured with his head toward the front hall. “Come on.

We’re supposed to be in there.”

Oh
, I thought, disappointed.
Didn’t follow. Came to fetch.
I trailed after him, wondering what surprise was coming next.

The entry brimmed with people who’d filtered in from the adja-

cent rooms. Richard caught my hand and tugged me up the stairs

a little to stand with his parents and mine. Speech time — and

Richard and I were part of Senator Hathaway’s backdrop.

The senator talked about the Amber House exhibit that would

open in New York City on New Year’s Eve. He kept his spiel

short, punctuating it with some decently funny jokes. I felt hid-

eously uncomfortable being part of the official grouping, but I

fixed a smile on my face and tried not to focus on anything or

anyone in particular.

He came to a close: “I know you all were hoping for an

announcement tonight of my ‘plans’ for the coming year, but

we’ve decided to save that news for the unveiling in New York.”

The crowd groaned and booed. The senator laughed. “Well, y’all

should come on up and join the party — it promises to be a

good one.”

A wall of hands reached out to the senator once he finished —

everyone wanted to wish him good luck. I faded back up the

stairs to the first landing to wait it out. I took a seat on the bench beneath the mirror there. I longed to be sitting with Sam and the

desserts and the TV but couldn’t imagine how I’d get through

that block of people.
I could go around — take the stairs in the conservatory
, I thought, rising, turning away.

“You must be the young Miss Parsons I’ve heard spoken of.”

This was said in that perfectly clipped English I’d heard ear-

lier. I looked back into the face of our uninvited guest, smiling at me with easy friendliness. He was maybe thirty-five or -six, and

o79

a poster child for the Aryan ideal — strong jaw, long nose, tou-

sled blond hair. He wore the black woolen jodhpur trousers of

the SS uniform tucked into glossy boots, coupled with a black

tie and a white silk button-up shirt stretched over muscular

shoulders.

“Why ‘must’ I be the young Miss Parsons?” I realized my

entire face was tight with dislike and outrage, but I did nothing

to change that.

He continued to smile, as if my revulsion were entirely appro-

priate. Or entirely unimportant. He ticked his logic off on his

long fingers. “A member of the senator’s group, but not his child,

for he has only one son. While, on the other hand, the owners of

the famous Amber House, Dr. and Mrs. Parsons, have one

daughter about the age you appear to be.
Ergo
: Miss Parsons.”

“Famous?” I said.

“Oh, yes,” he said, leaning forward confidentially. “Tell me,

are the things people say about this place true?”

I noticed that my nose was actively working to breathe in his

odor — a complicated mix of leather, smoke, and bay rum. It

made me even angrier. “I don’t know,” I grated. “Why don’t you

tell me what you’ve heard?”

That amused him. “Amber House has a certain —
reputation
,

shall we say? You may be aware German science is interested in

some of the more
esoteric
branches of knowledge. Etheric energies. Temporal anomalies. It has been hypothesized that this

house is located on a confluence of several ley lines and that it

therefore has the potential for enormous amplification of ener-

getic abilities.”

I smiled in incredulity. “
Who
hypothesized that?”

He shrugged. “Someone in a position to have an authoritative

opinion. Can you not feel it?” he said, holding out his hands.

“The electricity in the air? It is intoxicating.” I shook my head

dismissively. He dropped his hands, clasped them behind his

80 O

back. “I take it, then, that
you
have not experienced any amplification of abilities?” He smiled, as if complicit in my disbelief, but he looked — hungry. Predatory.