find the house she had rented
before night fell.
As soon as she left the main streets of the little town the houses became
scattered and sparse. The few she passed seemed to crouch in the wind,
gazing broodingly down at the crashing surf far below. The area was
perfect for what she had in mind. If a woman couldn't discover her true
creative potential amid all this desolate splendor, where could she discover
it? Cassie began watching for the house pictured in the photograph that
lay on her lap. She slowed the car a little more, peering through the
gnarled, windswept trees that lined the narrow road. In another twenty
minutes it was going to be quite dark.
A few fat drops of rain hit the windshield and Cassie automatically
switched on the wipers. Predictably enough they refused to function at
first, but after Cassie punched the mechanism with her hand a couple of
times they ground into action.
Everything around her began to look gray in color. The stormclouds
rolling in off the ocean had picked up no tints of orange or red from the
sun that had disappeared a few minutes earlier. The twisted pines on the
cliffs couldn't really be described as green. They, too, were gray. The
occasional weather-beaten house was also part of the monochromatic
color scheme. The rain was obviously settling in for a long stay and soon it
obscured most of the scenery. The candy-red hood of the Ferrari was the
only bright spot in Cassie's field of vision.
She slowed the exotic car even further, anxiously watching for the
turnoff that had been described by the real estate agent. She had climbed
a good distance above the sea now and the road became even narrower
and more convoluted. The headlights picked up no more than a few feet of
roadway as the rain closed in more thickly. Perhaps she should turn back
toward town, Cassie thought, and find a motel for the night.
The Ferrari's heater seemed to be malfunctioning. She kept setting it
higher and higher in an effort to ward off the chill that lay over the
landscape.
"Damn heater," she muttered feelingly. "Spend a fortune on a car and
the heater doesn't work. Ah-hah!" The last exclamation was elicited by a
brief glimpse of a towerlike structure off to the left. It disappeared back
into the fog as quickly as it had appeared, but the sight of it was enough
for Cassie. She'd found the house in the photograph. Hastily she began
searching for a road that would lead toward the place.
In the end she almost overlooked it. The twin stone pillars that had
originally marked the driveway entrance were almost entirely concealed by
a clump of scraggly vines. The drive itself was unpaved, and shortly after
she'd turned onto it Cassie realized that if the rain persisted throughout
the night, it would be a quagmire by morning. Good thing she hadn't
decided to stop at a motel.
From what little she could see of the three-story structure perched on
the cliff, the house was as promised: a huge, eccentrically ornamented
Gothic mansion complete with a tower, a porte cochere and a heavy,
brooding atmosphere. According to the real estate agent, it had been built
by a nineteenth-century lumber baron for his wife and daughter. The
lumber baron had died at the turn of the century. The wife had lived a
reclusive existence in the rambling structure until the early 1900s. After
her death the place had apparently gone through a series of owners, none
of whom ever retained the mansion for long. A few recent ones had
modernized the plumbing and added electricity.
"Costs a lot to heat an old place like that," the agent had explained,
"and there are always a lot of repairs that need doing. People get tired of
trying to keep up with the demands of an old Victorian mansion. It's really
not in very good shape, from what I understand. Third floor was designed
as a ballroom and is unfurnished."
"Should make a good place for painting," Cassie had said happily,
picturing herself in a lofty,
before night fell.
As soon as she left the main streets of the little town the houses became
scattered and sparse. The few she passed seemed to crouch in the wind,
gazing broodingly down at the crashing surf far below. The area was
perfect for what she had in mind. If a woman couldn't discover her true
creative potential amid all this desolate splendor, where could she discover
it? Cassie began watching for the house pictured in the photograph that
lay on her lap. She slowed the car a little more, peering through the
gnarled, windswept trees that lined the narrow road. In another twenty
minutes it was going to be quite dark.
A few fat drops of rain hit the windshield and Cassie automatically
switched on the wipers. Predictably enough they refused to function at
first, but after Cassie punched the mechanism with her hand a couple of
times they ground into action.
Everything around her began to look gray in color. The stormclouds
rolling in off the ocean had picked up no tints of orange or red from the
sun that had disappeared a few minutes earlier. The twisted pines on the
cliffs couldn't really be described as green. They, too, were gray. The
occasional weather-beaten house was also part of the monochromatic
color scheme. The rain was obviously settling in for a long stay and soon it
obscured most of the scenery. The candy-red hood of the Ferrari was the
only bright spot in Cassie's field of vision.
She slowed the exotic car even further, anxiously watching for the
turnoff that had been described by the real estate agent. She had climbed
a good distance above the sea now and the road became even narrower
and more convoluted. The headlights picked up no more than a few feet of
roadway as the rain closed in more thickly. Perhaps she should turn back
toward town, Cassie thought, and find a motel for the night.
The Ferrari's heater seemed to be malfunctioning. She kept setting it
higher and higher in an effort to ward off the chill that lay over the
landscape.
"Damn heater," she muttered feelingly. "Spend a fortune on a car and
the heater doesn't work. Ah-hah!" The last exclamation was elicited by a
brief glimpse of a towerlike structure off to the left. It disappeared back
into the fog as quickly as it had appeared, but the sight of it was enough
for Cassie. She'd found the house in the photograph. Hastily she began
searching for a road that would lead toward the place.
In the end she almost overlooked it. The twin stone pillars that had
originally marked the driveway entrance were almost entirely concealed by
a clump of scraggly vines. The drive itself was unpaved, and shortly after
she'd turned onto it Cassie realized that if the rain persisted throughout
the night, it would be a quagmire by morning. Good thing she hadn't
decided to stop at a motel.
From what little she could see of the three-story structure perched on
the cliff, the house was as promised: a huge, eccentrically ornamented
Gothic mansion complete with a tower, a porte cochere and a heavy,
brooding atmosphere. According to the real estate agent, it had been built
by a nineteenth-century lumber baron for his wife and daughter. The
lumber baron had died at the turn of the century. The wife had lived a
reclusive existence in the rambling structure until the early 1900s. After
her death the place had apparently gone through a series of owners, none
of whom ever retained the mansion for long. A few recent ones had
modernized the plumbing and added electricity.
"Costs a lot to heat an old place like that," the agent had explained,
"and there are always a lot of repairs that need doing. People get tired of
trying to keep up with the demands of an old Victorian mansion. It's really
not in very good shape, from what I understand. Third floor was designed
as a ballroom and is unfurnished."
"Should make a good place for painting," Cassie had said happily,
picturing herself in a lofty,
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