gone . . .”
He stopped examining baseboard and looked over his shoulder as if expecting to see someone standing behind him. Where had that come from? he wondered. The tune, the lyrics. With a shake of his head, he straightened.
“From the ballroom, idiot,” he mumbled. “Ballroom on the mind, so you start singing about a ball. Weird, but not crazy. Talking to yourself isn’t crazy, either. Lots of people do it.”
The door to the room across the hall was closed. Though he expected the creak of hinges, the sound still danced a chill up his spine.
That sensation was immediately followed by bafflement. He could have sworn he smelled perfume. Flowers. Lilies. Weddings and funerals. And for an instant he imagined them, pure and white and somehow feral in a tall crystal vase.
His next feeling was irritation. He’d only sent a few pieces ahead, including his bedroom furniture. The movers had dumped it in the wrong room, and he’d been very specific. His room would be the master at the corner, overlooking the garden and pond at the rear, and the avenue of oaks from the side.
Now he’d have to settle for this room, or haul the damn stuff himself.
The scent of lilies was overpowering when he shoved the door all the way open. Almost dizzying. Confused, he realized it wasn’t even his furniture. The bed was a full tester draped in deep blue silk. There was a carved chifforobe, a tall chest of drawers, all gleaming. He caught the scent of beeswax under the floral. Saw the lilies in that tall, crystal vase on a woman’s vanity table, its legs curved like the necks of swans. The chair was delicate, its seat an intricate needlepoint pattern of blue and rose.
Silver-backed brushes, a brooch of gold wings with an enameled watch. Long blue draperies, ornate gaslight sconces set on a low, shimmering light. A woman’s white robe tossed over the back of a blue chaise.
Candlesticks on the mantel, and a picture in a silver frame.
He saw it all, snapshot clear. Before his brain could process the how of it, he was staring into an empty room where rain streamed outside uncurtained windows.
“Jesus Christ.” He gripped the doorjamb for balance. “What the hell?”
He drew in a breath. There was nothing in the air but must and dust.
Projecting, he told himself. Just projecting what the room might have looked like. He hadn’t seen anything, or smelled anything. He’d just gotten caught up in the charm of the place, in the spirit of it.
But he couldn’t make himself step over the threshold.
He closed the door again, walked directly down to the corner room. His furniture was there, as ordered, and the sight of it both relieved and steadied him.
The good, solid Chippendale bed with its headboard and footboard unadorned. The one point of agreement he’d had, always, with his mother was a love of antiques, the respect for the workmanship, the history.
He’d bought the bed after he and Jessica had called off the wedding. Okay, after he’d called it off, he admitted with the usual tug of guilt. He’d wanted to start fresh, and had searched out and purchased the pieces for his bedroom.
He’d chosen the bachelor’s chest not only because it appeared he was going to remain one, but also because he’d liked the style of it, the double herringbone inlay, the secret compartments, the short, turned legs. He’d selected the armoire to conceal his television and stereo, and the sleek Deco lamps because he’d liked the mix of styles.
Seeing his things here in the spacious room with its handsome granite fireplace in dark green, the arched gallery doors, the gently faded wallpaper, the pitifully scarred floors, clicked him back into place again.
The adjoining dressing area made him smile. All he needed was a valet, and white tie and tails. The connecting bath, modernized from the look of it sometime in the woeful seventies, had him wincing at the avocado-green decor and yearning for a hot shower.
He’d take a quick walk
He stopped examining baseboard and looked over his shoulder as if expecting to see someone standing behind him. Where had that come from? he wondered. The tune, the lyrics. With a shake of his head, he straightened.
“From the ballroom, idiot,” he mumbled. “Ballroom on the mind, so you start singing about a ball. Weird, but not crazy. Talking to yourself isn’t crazy, either. Lots of people do it.”
The door to the room across the hall was closed. Though he expected the creak of hinges, the sound still danced a chill up his spine.
That sensation was immediately followed by bafflement. He could have sworn he smelled perfume. Flowers. Lilies. Weddings and funerals. And for an instant he imagined them, pure and white and somehow feral in a tall crystal vase.
His next feeling was irritation. He’d only sent a few pieces ahead, including his bedroom furniture. The movers had dumped it in the wrong room, and he’d been very specific. His room would be the master at the corner, overlooking the garden and pond at the rear, and the avenue of oaks from the side.
Now he’d have to settle for this room, or haul the damn stuff himself.
The scent of lilies was overpowering when he shoved the door all the way open. Almost dizzying. Confused, he realized it wasn’t even his furniture. The bed was a full tester draped in deep blue silk. There was a carved chifforobe, a tall chest of drawers, all gleaming. He caught the scent of beeswax under the floral. Saw the lilies in that tall, crystal vase on a woman’s vanity table, its legs curved like the necks of swans. The chair was delicate, its seat an intricate needlepoint pattern of blue and rose.
Silver-backed brushes, a brooch of gold wings with an enameled watch. Long blue draperies, ornate gaslight sconces set on a low, shimmering light. A woman’s white robe tossed over the back of a blue chaise.
Candlesticks on the mantel, and a picture in a silver frame.
He saw it all, snapshot clear. Before his brain could process the how of it, he was staring into an empty room where rain streamed outside uncurtained windows.
“Jesus Christ.” He gripped the doorjamb for balance. “What the hell?”
He drew in a breath. There was nothing in the air but must and dust.
Projecting, he told himself. Just projecting what the room might have looked like. He hadn’t seen anything, or smelled anything. He’d just gotten caught up in the charm of the place, in the spirit of it.
But he couldn’t make himself step over the threshold.
He closed the door again, walked directly down to the corner room. His furniture was there, as ordered, and the sight of it both relieved and steadied him.
The good, solid Chippendale bed with its headboard and footboard unadorned. The one point of agreement he’d had, always, with his mother was a love of antiques, the respect for the workmanship, the history.
He’d bought the bed after he and Jessica had called off the wedding. Okay, after he’d called it off, he admitted with the usual tug of guilt. He’d wanted to start fresh, and had searched out and purchased the pieces for his bedroom.
He’d chosen the bachelor’s chest not only because it appeared he was going to remain one, but also because he’d liked the style of it, the double herringbone inlay, the secret compartments, the short, turned legs. He’d selected the armoire to conceal his television and stereo, and the sleek Deco lamps because he’d liked the mix of styles.
Seeing his things here in the spacious room with its handsome granite fireplace in dark green, the arched gallery doors, the gently faded wallpaper, the pitifully scarred floors, clicked him back into place again.
The adjoining dressing area made him smile. All he needed was a valet, and white tie and tails. The connecting bath, modernized from the look of it sometime in the woeful seventies, had him wincing at the avocado-green decor and yearning for a hot shower.
He’d take a quick walk
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