Houses of Stone, KATHY [classic literature books TXT] 📗

"He's in for a shock then," Hayes said coolly. "Lisa may look like a cuddly little Southern gal, but I'd as soon bargain with a shark."

At his suggestion Karen followed him in her own car. "I'll be there all day," he explained. "You'll probably want to leave before I do."

His vehicle was an aged pickup that looked as if it were held together by wire and hope. As he preceded her along the rutted driveway, the truck shook so violently she feared one of the flapping fenders might fly off. Muddy puddles filled the sunken tracks, but the trees lining the way were gilded by sunlight; white blossoms of dogwood and pink sprays of redbud showed through the dark green of the pines. It was a far cry from the ominous landscape of the previous day.

She got out of the car before Hayes could open the door for her. He stepped back with a faint smile and a slight shrug and she knew he was thinking, "Another of those damned feminists." He took a set of keys from his pocket and led the way to the front door.

Though freshly painted and repaired, it gave the impression it ought to creak as it opened. There was no creak, but as it swung silently back, a wave of cold air poured from the opening and enveloped Karen like icy water. She let out a gasp of surprise. Cameron, beside her, hunched his shoulders and put his hands in his pockets. Neither of them moved for a moment. Then he said calmly, "The walls are two feet thick. Cool in summer, but you can imagine how much it costs to heat in winter. After you."

Sunlight did little to soften the stark emptiness of the entrance hall. At least it was clean. The walls had been freshly plastered and painted a pale cool cream. Doors on right and left, and at the back, were closed. A flight of stairs led up to a narrow landing. The only thing that satisfied an eye searching for beauty was the floor—wide boards of golden-brown wood, freshly sanded and varnished.

"Chestnut," Hayes said, following Karen inside. "One of the few attractive features the house can boast. Hideous, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't say," Karen began.

"Don't bother being polite." He shivered involuntarily. "I've always loathed the place. When I was a kid my mother used to drag me out here on duty visits. I'd pretend to be sick, but it didn't work; mothers catch on to those stunts, I suppose. As an adult I had to force myself to come here."

"Why did you?"

"Someone had to. He was old and increasingly helpless, and so bad-tempered he couldn't keep help even if he'd been willing to pay for it. I used to think it was his disgusting personal habits and foul mouth that made me dislike the house, but it still sets my teeth on edge."

Karen's teeth were on edge too. She had to clench them to keep them from chattering. The cold was pervasive, as palpable as a shroud of solid ice. "Maybe it's haunted," she suggested. "That might be a selling point; some people dote on ghosts."

The light touch didn't succeed. Hayes gave her a hostile look. "Most people don't," he said. "Do me a favor and don't suggest such a thing."

"I didn't mean it."

"I know. I'm sorry." His stiff shoulders relaxed. "It'll be hard enough to sell the place anyhow. Not even a sentimental Yankee looking for Tara would fall for this monstrosity. It's not just ugly, it's . . . unpleasant. I don't know why—but I don't believe in ghosts. No doubt there's something slightly off-balance about the proportions of the rooms—the reverse of the classic architectural golden section. Oh, well. Maybe I'll get lucky and find a buyer with no artistic perception whatever."

He opened the door on the right. The room was large and high-ceilinged, and, like the hall, oddly graceless. Dark paneling covered the walls. The narrow windows admitted little light.

"You don't have to show me the whole house," Karen said, as her host started toward the door across the hall. "You must be anxious to get to work."

"I always check after I've been away for a few days, for broken windows or signs of unauthorized entry. Anyhow, you'd better have an overall tour before you start wandering on your own. The place is an absolute maze, no plan, no coherence."

He wasn't exaggerating. The main block was simple enough, just a three-story square divided into square rooms, four on each level. From that point on, chaos intervened. The builders hadn't even attempted to keep the same floor levels; steps went up and down, corridors led into seemingly dead ends. Staircases had been inserted apparently at random; Karen saw at least four sets of them.

Hayes led her down the last set into the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it was impeccably clean; she was beginning to understand why her companion's hands were those of a laborer. He must have done most of the work himself, and a formidable job it had been, to judge from his description of its condition. Every room packed to the rafters with crumbling newspapers, rotting cartons, filthy clothes . . .

"Well, that's it," he said. "Want to make me an offer?"

His tone made it a joke, but she wasn't deceived. Of course he hoped to sell her the house. He had watched her intently; he must have observed that her initial antipathy had faded as they went on. The most unpleasant part of the house was the central block; the rooms in the outspread wings were almost cozy by contrast, low-ceilinged and sunny, with big fireplaces.

All the same, it wouldn't be easy to find a buyer. The house was too big, too isolated, and still in need of extensive repairs. But if it was Ismene's house ... If she could prove it, if the book turned out to be a critical success . . .

"There are the cellars, of course," Hayes