The House on Seventh Street (16 page)

1999

ON A
WOODEN DECK
hanging from a sandstone cliff three steps down from his living room sliders, John Hodell balanced a tray of hors d'oeuvres on one hand and with the other offered Winna a martini studded with four olives.

She laughed. “I can't drink these anymore,” she said, accepting the drink anyway.

“Sure you can.” He smiled, bending low, offering her a choice of hors d'oeuvres. “Here we have several old favorites, prepared by my own loving hands, delicious tidbits from the past. Little repasts wrapped in fond memories—like this onion dip with chips
pomme de terre
, these bologna cornucopias filled with julienne of carrots and sweet pickles, or this—my favorite—crunchy celery stuffed with real cheese food.”

Laughing, she reached for one of the little cornucopias and sipped gingerly from the rim of the martini glass, surprised by how much she enjoyed the sting of gin on her lips and tongue.

“You are talented, John. You've gone to a great deal of trouble to take us back to the fifties.” She nibbled on the cold bologna spiced with hot dog mustard. With the martini, it tasted surprisingly delicious. “How did you ever find the time?”

“I took the afternoon off to do these—and sweep the dirt under the carpets,” he said, resting the tray in front of her on the patio table. “Unfortunately, there's lots left to do.” He sat down beside her. “But a good host must stop and visit during cocktails.”

“Yes he must,” she said, patting his hand. “I'll help you in the kitchen after cocktails—if I can still stand.”

The evening was warm and Winna settled back in her chair to relax, glad that she had worn comfortable sandals and a white linen tunic and slacks. Sips of martini went down easily.

“Your view is just as lovely as Emily's and Hugh's,” she said. “My goodness, this view two nights in a row. Lucky me.” She felt warm and tingly and decided to put the martini down. “Just look at that sun setting—and the lights of the city coming on.”

“Did you lock your kitchen door, Winna?”

“Yes, John. Twice—no three times—even while I took a bath. I figured I should lock myself in.”

“What did you find at the library?”

“Oh, my goodness, I almost forgot,” she said, surprised that she had neglected to mention her exciting discovery. John's presence, the martini, and the funny hors d'oeuvres had been a distraction. “Gramma's lover died on that train trip on August 27, 1915, which means that she lied to me. She didn't have a son to abandon until late April of the next year. I may be the granddaughter of a poet not a department store magnate.”

John leaned back in his chair, letting his muscular legs stretch full length across the deck floor. “Have you counted the months?” he asked as he ticked off the fingers on both hands. “Fascinating. So maybe Whitaker knocked up Grandma.”

Winna laughed at the image John had created in her mind. She changed the subject. “The old newspapers were totally fascinating. What with World War I and Grand Junction still a cow town with Indian troubles of sorts.”

John's eyes narrowed in the light of the setting sun. “I've been thinking about your unexpected visitor, Winna,” he said, crunching on a stalk of celery. “Who's read the story about the jewels hidden in the trunk?”

“Just family, Emily and Hugh. I told Chloe the gist of it, but she hasn't read it yet. They all know I found nothing when I searched the trunk. I told you what I found while Emily and I were looking through an old box of marbles—the ring. And it's valuable. I sent it to be appraised in Denver and it's a real canary yellow diamond.”

“Someone else must know about the trunk in the attic.”

“Just you.”

“I don't count,” he said. Then, sounding like he wanted to get to the bottom of this business, he said, “Tell me again about the recreation of your childhood bedroom in the attic.”

“I already told you all there is to tell, John. It's not something I want to talk about now—here on this lovely evening,” she said, feeling her throat tighten and a hot flash coming on. “The more I think about it—there's something very scary about that.”

“All right, lady. I can tell when it's time to feed you,” he said, taking her hand, helping her up from her chair. “You said you'd help me fix dinner.”

“Yes,” she said, relieved. “I'd like that. Where's the kitchen?”

Winna made a tossed salad while John fired up the grill and fried up an iron skillet full of onions, chili peppers, potatoes, and chorizo that he seasoned with cumin. She was starving by the time the steaks were ready and they sat down to eat outside at the patio table.

As flames from two hurricane candles flickered softly, John looked at Winna and raised a glass of wine for a toast. “Here's to Winna, the girl I couldn't forget.”

“I'll drink to that,” she said, blushing, trying to make light of his touching compliment, of the affection that shone in his eyes.

After dinner, they moved inside. John sipped from a snifter of cognac, she from a cup of hot herbal tea. They sat side by side in two handsome leather club chairs separated by a low wooden table, its warm patina lit by an ornate tin lamp studded with brightly colored bits of glass. Furnished largely in the mission style, the rest of the living room held several interesting antiques; a modern Kulim rug covered the terra cotta tile floor. One of the white walls, lined with glass shelves, held John's collection of Indian pottery, glowing colorfully under the track lighting. The north-facing wall, built entirely of glass, glittered with the lights of the city below.

For a long time they talked easily and laughed about the old days. “You know, Winna,” John said, shaking his head in disbelief, “in those days, as often as I saw your father, I never guessed he was an alcoholic.”

“That didn't register with me either—until after Ruth left. Of course, he got worse then. Anyway, once I realized his problem, I had to admit that all the signs had been there for years. He was always respectable, hard working. He never let us down that way.”

“Tell me about him,” John said, his expression sympathetic, even ponderous. “What was he like as a father?”

“Oh, John, I don't know,” she said, not anxious to stir up bitter memories. “In the late eighties he did get sober—went to AA meetings for years. We were proud of him for that.”

As if it were a crystal ball, John turned his gaze to his drink, a pool of warm cognac. “You know, Winna, I had no idea you were so private—I remember you being just the opposite.”

He turned to look her way and their eyes met. “Do you really want to hear all about how frightened I was of my father? How, as a child, he scolded and hit me. How, as an adult, he distanced himself from me and showed no interest in my life. You know, when Walt left me and I called to tell Dad that my marriage was over, his only reply was, ‘How's the weather out there?'”

John sat up straight in his chair. “What?” He reached out to touch her shoulder.

“Thanks,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “Maybe that's why I'm so interested in Juliana's marriage. I'd like to know what happened when Dad was a child. What were his parents like? There's a picture of him with his mother holding him when he was a baby. His face is so happy—alight with joy. What happened between the time that picture was taken and when I was a girl? I never saw joy on that face, only alcohol-fueled mania or a withdrawn quiet. What did they do to him?”

John shook his head. “You know, it isn't always the parents—”

The door chime interrupted. John went to answer and Winna wondered who it could be so late. She heard laughter and loud voices coming from the front hall, then Chloe and Todd appeared through the shadows with John at their side.

“We've come to celebrate!” Chloe called from across the room. “We have good news.” She was flushed with excitement and looked a bit tipsy.

Surprised, Winna got to her feet. “How did you find me?”

From the way they were dressed, their good news seemed obvious. Chloe wore tight white satin jeans hitched around her tiny waist with a silver concho belt, a white satin and lace blouse. A tulle train fell to her waist from a white felt cowboy hat studded at the crown with sequins and pearls.

“I called Emily,” Chloe said, rushing to throw her arms around her big sister. “We got married this afternoon!”

“Congratulations, Buddy,” John said, clasping Todd's shoulders. The groom wore an astonishing wedding shirt with a black-banded collar and a white front-pleated bib.

“Don't look so shocked, Winna,” Chloe said, her smile bright as a neon sign. “We have to celebrate.” She spun around holding a huge bottle of champagne aloft. “We had an amazing dinner at La Petite Rue—but you, above all others, must celebrate with us—the night is still young.”

“My goodness, Chloe,” Winna said, bewildered. Trying to look happy, she kissed her cheek and reached for Todd's hand. “Todd, you are full of surprises.”

“Chloe wants your blessing,” Todd said.

John took Winna's hand. “The time for a blessing is before a wedding, Chloe.”

Winna felt tears rush to her eyes. “I wish I could have been there—it would have meant so much to me.”

“You know us, Winna,” Chloe said, hugging Todd around the waist, “We're kinda private. It's not that we got married on a whim, or anything. Last week Juno told me this afternoon would be the perfect time—so we just did it.”

John and Winna looked at one another. He stepped behind her and gently pulled her close against him. “Winna's ok. Aren't you, kid?”

“Of course, just surprised,” she said, warmed by his embrace. “You know how I am—a sap for engraved invitations, the church, the loving family gathered around.”

Over champagne and toasts into the wee hours of the morning, Chloe gushed and sighed with happiness. Todd did his “aw shucks” kind of blushes. John played the host and Winna suffered hot flashes.

Chloe and Todd said their goodbyes at about one thirty and were gone. Winna grabbed her purse and turned to say good night to John. As Todd's headlights went on in the driveway, John took her hand and pulled her into his arms.

“After all that champagne—I don't want you to drive home alone.”

“I'm fine, John. I hardly had a drop.” His lips held her like a magnet and they stood a long time in the foyer locked together.

“Don't go,” he whispered between kisses.

She lifted his face in both hands. “I'm tempted,” she said, “but I'm going.”

She gave him a peck on the cheek and, heaving a big sigh, opened the door.

“You don't know what you're missing,” John said.

“Yes I do,” she called as she hurried to her car.

Winna was halfway down the mountain with no memory of the drive down the first leg of Little Park Road. Her head swam with visions of John: his face, his eyes, his sweet grin. After Walt, she had not expected this. “That part of my life is over,” she had told herself. “Now is the time to focus on my career.”

John is so different from Walt. He actually talks with me not at me. He hasn't put on the TV once in my presence. He was a jerk in high school, but he's changed. Is this too good to be true?

As she neared the foothills, she caught a last glimpse of city lights and wondered if John had gone to bed. Was he sitting alone beside the window? Did he walk out to the deck and watch her car lights move down off the mesa? That's what she would do. Do men do things like that, moon over a woman? She doubted it.

Approaching a sharp, steep curve, she applied her brakes. Nothing happened. She pumped the brakes again. Still nothing. Terrified, she thought of shifting into second. The car swerved violently and she knew she was going too fast to down shift. She grabbed at the emergency brake and gave it a tug.

In shadows cast by a bright full moon, she could not see what lay below the road. Knowing there were several deep ravines along the way, she pumped the brakes hoping they would respond this time. Her headlights splashed on another tight curve just ahead. She turned the wheel sharply, pulling at the emergency brake again. The weight of the car tipped to the outside. As the car careened around the curve, the tires squealed. Winna gave up a terrified scream. Keeping control, her high beams flashed on the landscape. She was nearing the bottom of the foothills where the road flattened out. Her heart pounded violently as the car began to slow. She shifted into second, then first gear. The car staggered and she pulled the emergency break, bringing the car to a stop. Breathless, her whole body trembling, she sat a moment in the dark, trying to calm her shaking and the rapid beating of her heart.

AFTER A
CAUTIOUS
early morning drive—emergency break in hand—with Emily following, Winna dropped her car off for repair. With Isabelle strapped in her car seat behind them, they headed down North Avenue toward First Street intent on a look at Adolph Whitaker's boyhood home.

What a pretty woman, Winna thought, looking at Emily in a rayon print skirt and a bright red sleeveless blouse tied in a knot at the waist. A row of silver bracelets jangled on her arm as she turned the wheel.

“When will your car be ready?” Emily asked, tucking a stray strand of dark hair behind one ear.

“He thought this afternoon—said he'd leave a message on my answering machine.” Winna laughed. “You know, maybe I should look into getting one of those mobile phones.”

“You can't have one until I get one. But you can afford a new car, Mom,” she scolded. “How old is that car anyway?”

“Only six years—I love ‘that car.'”

“What on earth for?” She gave her the look. “Why don't you let Hugh help you find a new car. After last night—”

“It was only the brakes.”

Emily heaved a sigh of defeat and rolled her eyes.

North Avenue evoked memories for Winna: Johnny's red hot convertible, nights parked under the flashing neon lights at the Top Hat Drive In, Johnny's face cast in alternating blue and pink light as uniformed car-hops slid trays of burgers, fries, and frosty mugs of root beer through the window.

She looked at Emily, fresh and cool at the wheel of her air-conditioned car. She wanted to tell her about those days, how different things were. But would she be interested? She doubted it.

Emily suggested they stop for coffee and pulled into the parking lot of a diner. They got out, retrieved the baby from her car seat, and went inside. Almost immediately after they sat down in an empty booth, Isabelle began to fuss and Emily opened her blouse to nurse. They ordered coffee.

“Well, Mom?” Emily said, giving her mother a sideways glance. “You haven't said a word about your dinner with John.”

“I haven't?”

“No.”

“Then I must have a reason.” She patted her daughter's hand to soften the blow. “Did Chloe tell you she planned to crash our party?”

“Chloe told me nothing—just wanted to know where you were.”

“Then you don't know,” she said. “They got married yesterday by a justice of the peace.”

“No kidding. You two are so different—polar opposites. She's so off the cuff, so New Age, and you're so traditional. I have to say that you are much more tolerant of her weird beliefs than she is of your weird beliefs.”

“I am? What do you mean?”

“Well, you politely listen to stuff about Juno, but she can't stand to hear a word about Jesus.”

“Juno and Jesus—do I go around talking about Jesus?”

“No, but—”

“Look, honey, I'm not that tolerant.”

“I think you're both nuts,” Emily said with a smile.

“Just wait till you are old and life has done a number on you. You'll want a place of peace, a belief in something larger than you and your little life.”

Emily shrugged, removed the sleeping baby from her breast, and rebuttoned her blouse. With Isabelle settled on the booth beside her, Emily's expression darkened.

“You know, it's just sinking in.” Emily slapped the flat of her hand against her forehead just like Walt used to do. “I don't believe it!”

“What don't you believe?”

“Am I crazy or paranoid? Is it a coincidence that Chloe got married just days after your lawyer finalized the paper work on her inheritance and everything is settled except the sale of the house?”

“Shame on you,” Winna said.

“I mean it. I don't like this. Todd is in line to inherit millions if anything happens to you—like driving off a mountain because your brakes don't work.”

“So are you. I can't believe you think I need to worry about this,” she said, surprised that she felt hurt.

“Mom,” Emily said, looking concerned, “please. I'm sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me. But ever since you found those letters—and told me the story about Whitaker's death on a train—I've had death on my mind.”

“Well, darling girl, just get it off your mind—at least where it concerns me.”

EMILY'S MINI-VAN headed west on North Avenue and turned left on First Street. First Street was exactly that: the first street running north and south on the west end of town. In her youth, nothing much lay beyond First Street except for a flat alkali encrusted wasteland and the road traveling west to the river and the Utah border. Now the city had spread beyond First Street to include industrial development and a new shopping district.

“What's the number of the house?” Emily asked.

Winna reached for her glasses and the notebook in her lap. “357.”

They passed a gas station and a string of small stores and businesses. “Here's 353—and 355—and 359,” Winna said, scanning the left side of the street as they passed. “Where's 357?”

“It's gone,” Emily said, slowing to a crawl. “It must have been where that construction site we passed was.”

As Winna's heart sank, Emily drove to the end of the block and doubled back. She pulled to a stop in front of a vacant lot where shirtless construction workers lolled in the shade of a dump truck. The frame for a new building sat in the burning sun.

“Look at the sign, Mom.”

Opening Soon!

Spudnuts

Coffee & Donuts

Western Slope Construction Company

Emily looked confused. “That's John Hodell's company, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Winna said, disappointed that the missing house would never add to her growing picture of Adolph Whitaker's life. “John is partners with my friend Kate's husband, Jim Cross.”

Emily stared past her mother as the dump truck, loaded with debris, slowly lumbered off the lot onto First Street. “Doesn't Todd work for them?”

They drove home without speaking. Emily had the wisdom to keep her thoughts to herself. Winna knew what she was thinking because she was thinking it too. Trembling inside she began to wonder—it couldn't be true, though, this was real life, not a TV drama. No one had tampered with her brakes.