A Secret Rage Read Online Free PDF Page B

he had planted them as a combination public service/tourist attraction. Photographs of the camellias and roses in bloom were always prominently featured in Houghton publicity material. It was easy to see why Houghton was a popular site for outdoor weddings. The sidewalk I now followed led through the heart of the gardens and emerged to one side of the library, crisscrossing other paths.
    The foliage was dusty but lush, and the grass had been trimmed to a carpet texture. The day lilies were blooming, their rich orange flaring brilliantly against the dark green. It was good to see so much flora after New York. I bent to run my finger lightly over the curve of a petal. I felt a sort of grateful relaxation deep inside me. I knew the name of almost every plant; my mother had been an avid gardener before she turned to drinking.
    I recalled all the times Mimi and I had sauntered through these gardens as teenagers, pretending we were real college coeds. At least that part of Mimi’s dream had come true, though she’d been unfortunate in other ways. Now I was going to make it happen for myself. A real Houghton College coed. How young those kids were going to seem to me.
    Thinking of the young faces that would soon surround me reminded me again of one Houghton student I would never meet: Heidi Edmonds, achiever, whose adventure had ended in getting raped and going back home defeated. As I strolled around a curve and arrived face to face with the library, I realized I was on the path where she’d been attacked. I turned to scan the camellias, the sidewalk; and then snorted at my own stupidity. But it did seem such agony should have left some mark. I saw only the lazy charm of the gardens, and heard only the whir of a bee touring the day lilies. Somehow that was more unnerving than a commemorative plaque would have been.
    For the benefit of the bee, I suppose, I glanced down at my watch and stepped out a little faster.
    * * * *
    The immense double doors set in the center of the ground floor led into a vaulted central cloister, cool and very dark after the glare outside. As I peered through the dimness, searching for some sign of stairs to the second floor, I wondered if the original Houghton architect had toured medieval monasteries right before he’d been commissioned for the job.
    There were halls leading off to the right and left; they were empty. After some fruitless searching, I became absurdly frantic. Where the hell had they hidden the stairs? I wasn’t going to impress Dr Barbara Tucker if I turned up late. I took a few tentative steps forward, peering from side to side. My wooden heels made little tap! tap! echoes on the stone floor. The building was quite silent otherwise.
    To my heartfelt relief, one of the enigmatic doors in the corridor to my right opened. A man came out and walked in my direction. (I’d been quite prepared to bellow for help if he’d turned the opposite way.) As he drew nearer, I saw he was about thirty-eight, with a slight belly preceding his legs and a tonsure fringed by blond curly hair.
    ‘Excuse me,’ I said, louder than I’d intended.
    He jumped. I felt embarrassed.
    ‘Can I help you?’ he asked politely, after he’d located me in the gloom.
    ‘You’re going to think I’m awfully stupid, but I just can’t find the stairs.’ I winced. I was simpering. I hadn’t simpered for years.
    He laughed and came closer. I could make out a patrician nose and the slight suggestion of a double chin. I mentally prescribed laying off the sweets and starches for a few months.
    ‘I think the architect wanted to hide something as mundane as stairs,’ he said. ‘I’m Theo Cochran, the registrar. Don’t feel stupid. I tell an average of twenty people a year where the stairs are. There, see?’ He pointed to the right. After a second, I was just able to discern the balustrade. It was composed of the same stone as the wall, and blended into it perfectly in the pervasive gloom.
    ‘Oh,’ I said flatly.